Garman And Worse A Norwegian Novel by Alexander Lange Kielland (best ereader for pdf and epub txt) 📕

Particular Instance It Was Most Fortunate,  And The Lesson To Be Learnt

From It All Was--If,  Indeed,  There Was Any One Who Did Not Know It

Already--That It Is As Well To Be On Good Terms With Grand Folks,  Even

If It Does Cost Something.

But No One Would Have Anything To Do With Martin. He Had Escaped

Scot-Free From Those Common Enemies Of Mankind,  The Law And The Police,

But He Was A Marked Man,  Even Among His Own Friends,  And They Did Not

Scruple To Let Him Know Plainly,  That The Sooner He Packed Himself Off

Out Of The Country The Better.

There Was No Hope Of The Young Consul'S Recovery. For A Fortnight He Had

Been Wavering To And Fro. Sometimes It Appeared As If The Right Side

Would Prevail,  But Then The Left Got The Upper Hand Again; And Each Time

The Paralysis Seemed To Get A Firmer Hold.

Miss Cordsen Heard The Doctor Say To Richard,  "He May Perhaps Linger For

A Few Hours,  But He Cannot Live Through The Night." The Old Lady

Remained For A Few Minutes In The Sick-Room,  And Then Went Upstairs. Her

Own Apartment Was A Picture Of Old-Fashioned Neatness. Carpets And

Chairs Carefully Covered,  Boxes Locked,  Nothing Lying About; Everything

Trim,  Well Cared For,  And Shielded From Prying Eyes.

There Arose An Odour Of Clean Linen And Lavender She Opened The Press,

And In a Little Secret Drawer Behind A Bundle Of Well-Starched

Nightcaps,  There Lay Carefully Wrapped Up,  A Miniature Portrait In a

Black Frame. It Represented A Young Man Dressed In a Green Frock-Coat,

With A Broad Velvet Collar. The Hair Was Slightly Red,  And Brushed Back

In The Fashion Of The Time,  In Two Locks In Front Of The Ears. The Eyes

Were Blue And Clear,  And The Under Jaw Was Slightly Projecting. Miss

Cordsen Sat A Long Time Gazing At The Portrait,  And Tear After Tear

Dropped Down Among The Other Secrets Which Lay Cherished In The Old

Press Among The Linen And Dry Lavender.

Uncle Richard Sat Gazing At His Brother. The Doctor'S Words Had Deprived

Him Of All Hope,  But Even Yet He Could Not Bring Himself To Believe That

The End Could Be So Near.

"It Will Soon Be All Over,  Richard," Said The Invalid,  In a Feeble

Voice.

The _Attache_ Sat Down By The Side Of The Bed,  And After A Short

Struggle Broke Into Tears,  And Laid His Head On The Coverlid.

"Here Am I,  So Strong And Well," He Sobbed,  "And Can'T Do Even The

Smallest Thing To Help You! I Have Never Been Anything To You But A

Trouble And A Burden."

"Nonsense,  Dick!" Answered The Consul; "You Have Been Everything To

Me--You And The Business. But I Have Something For Which To Ask Your

Forgiveness Before I Die."

"My Forgiveness?" Uncle Richard Thought He Was Wandering,  And Looked Up.

"Yes," Said The Consul,  As What Was Almost A Smile Passed Over The

Half-Stiffened Features. "I Have Made A Fool Of You. Your Account Does

Not Exist. It Was Only A Joke. Are You Angry With Me?"

How Could He Possibly Be Angry? He Laid His Face Down Again On The

Withered Hand,  And As He Lay There In His Sorrow,  With His Curly Head

Buried In The Pillows,  He Looked Almost Like A Great Shaggy

Newfoundland.

The Doctor Came Into The Room.

"I Really Cannot Permit Your Brother To Lie So Close To You--It Will

Interfere With Your Breathing; And If You Don'T Wish--"

"My Brother," Said The Young Consul,  Interrupting Him In a Voice Which

Bore Some Resemblance To His Business Voice. "I Wish My Brother,  Mr.

Richard Garman,  To Remain Exactly Where He Is." He Then Added With An

Effort,  "Will You Summon My Family?"

The Doctor Left The Room,  And A Few Minutes Afterwards The Invalid Drew

A Long Breath,  And Said,  "Good-Bye,  Dick! How Many Happy Days We Have

Had Together Since Our Childhood! You Shall Have All The Burgundy. I

Have Arranged It All. I Should Have Wished To Have Left You Better Off,

But--" A Movement Came Over The Features,  Which Feebly Reminded Richard

Of The Gesture He Used When Adjusting His Chin In His Neckcloth,  And He

Said Slowly And Almost Noiselessly,  "The House Is No Longer What It Has

Been."

These Were The Last Words He Spoke,  For Before The Doctor Had Got The

Family Assembled In The Sick-Chamber,  The Young Consul Was Dead; Calm

And Precise As He Had Lived.

The Same Morning Torpander Was Seen,  Going Along The Road Which Led To

Sandsgaard. Contrary To His Usual Custom,  He Had Taken A Holiday That

Monday. On His Head He Wore A Grey Felt Hat Of The Particular Shape

Which Was Called In The Trade "The Mercantile." The Hatter Had Assured

Him That It Had Been Originally Made For Mr. Morten Garman,  But That It

Was Unfortunately Just A Trifle Too Small. The Hat,  However,  Exactly

Fitted Torpander,  And Dear As It Was,  He Bought It; And He Could Not

Help Noticing The Coincidence,  That He Was That Day Wearing A Hat Which

Morten Garman Had Rejected. He Had Also Bought A Coat For The Occasion,

Not Quite New,  It Is True,  But Of A Most Unusual Light-Brown Hue. The

Trousers Were The Worst Part Of The Costume,  But The Coat Was Long

Enough,  In a Great Measure,  To Hide Them. Torpander Could Well Enough

Have Bought Trousers As Well,  But He Did Not Wish To Trench Too Deeply

On His Savings,  Before He Saw How It Fared With Him That Day. If All

Went Well She Should Have Everything He Possessed,  And If It Went Badly

He Would Return At Once To Sweden,  For He Could Bear The Suspense No

Longer. He Had Not,  Truth To Say,  Great Hopes As To His Ultimate

Success. He Had Heard A Report That Marianne Was Unwell,  But Perhaps She

Was Upset By The Disgrace Which Martin Had Brought Upon The Family. The

Fact That He Was Making His Proposal At That Particular Time Might Be A

Point In His Favour; But No,  He Could Not Help Feeling That Such

Happiness Was Almost Bewildering.

It Was A Lovely Sunshiny Day,  And The Tall Light-Brown Form Went Briskly

On Its Way,  Moving Its Arms Unconsciously,  As If Rehearsing The Scene

Which Was Shortly To Follow. In The Left-Hand Pocket Of His Coat He Had

A Silk Handkerchief,  Which Had Long Been His Dream,  Of A Bright Orange

Colour With A Light-Blue Border,  And Of Which The Corner Was Seen

Protruding From His Pocket. It Was Not At All His Intention To Put The

Handkerchief To Its Legitimate Use; For That Purpose He Had A Red Cotton

One,  Adorned With Abraham Lincoln'S Portrait. The Silk Handkerchief Was

To Be Used Only For Effect,  And Every Time He Met Any One In The Avenue

Before Whom He Thought It Worth While To Show Off,  And That Was Nearly

Every Passer-By,  He Drew The Brilliant Handkerchief From His Pocket,

Raised It Carefully To His Face,  And Let It Fall Again. He Derived The

Greatest Satisfaction From Feeling The Rough Surface Of The Silk Cling

To The Hard Skin On The Inside Of His Hands.

At The Building-Yard He Met Martin,  Who Was Coming Hastily Along In The

Opposite Direction.

"Is Your Sister At Home?" Asked Torpander.

"Yes,  You Will Find Her At Home," Answered Martin,  With An Ominous

Smile.

In The Yard Close To The House At Sandsgaard,  Martin Met Pastor Martens,

Who Was On His Way From The Town,  Dressed In cassock And Ruff.

Martin Touched His Cap. "Will You Come And See My Sister,  Sir? She Is At

The Point Of Death."

"Who Is Your Sister?" Asked The Pastor.

"Marianne,  Sir; Anders Begmand'S Granddaughter."

"Oh Yes,  I Remember Now," Answered The Pastor,  Who Knew Her History

Perfectly Well. "But I Cannot Come Just Now; I Have To Go In Here First.

Consul Garman Is Also On His Death-Bed. But I Will Come Afterwards."

"Oh Yes,  This Is Just What I Might Have Expected," Muttered Martin,

Turning To Go Away.

"Wait A Moment,  Young Man," Cried The Pastor. "If You Think That Time

Presses,  I Will Go And See Your Sister. It'S The Last House,  Is It Not?"

Upon Which He Went On Past Sandsgaard,  And On Towards West End.

Martin Was Astonished,  If Not Almost Disappointed. The Pastor Meanwhile

Continued His Way,  Which He Did Not Find Very