Dry Fish and Wet Part 47

"You."

"I?" The Admiral chuckled.

"Yes," said the parson, lowering his voice a little; he was beginning to feel a trifle uncomfortable.

"Oh, in the tropics, you know, there are no such formalities."

"But surely that's immoral?"

"We don't know the word in those parts." And the Admiral rose to his feet.

The parson plucked up courage and said quietly: "But you yourself were a Christian, Admiral, were you not?"

"Mind your own business, please," answered the Admiral, at the same time opening the door politely, that the parson might slip out. The latter also availed himself of the chance; he was not without a certain uneasy feeling that if he failed to do so now, his exit might take a less peaceable form.

How the question was finally settled the writer cannot say; the fact remains that the town was no wiser than before.

The Princess was confirmed, and received into the best society of the town, as one of themselves. She was slender and finely built, with a pretty face and charming eyes. The only thing that marked her as different from the other girls was the yellowish-brown of her skin, and even this seemed to be growing fainter as the years went by.

As to her antecedents, she herself never referred to the subject, and no one was ever indelicate enough to ask her.

Altogether, then, matters were going very well indeed, both for the Admiral and the Princess. He began to feel at home in his old town, and did not regret having settled down there.

And the townsfolk, for the most part, gradually got used to the rough old fellow and his ways, though there were still a few who declared they could not "abide" him.

Consul Endresen, for instance, and Henry B. Karsten the ship-chandler were not accustomed to be treated with such utter disregard by a so-called "Admiral."

Admiral indeed! Ha, ha! The whole thing was a farce. The old humbug; he was no more an admiral than Ferryman Arne. They turned up their noses at him, but kept their distance all the same, with an instinctive feeling that he might literally go so far as to take them by the scruff of the neck if he felt like it.

The two firms were old-established and respected in the place, having occupied a leading position in the commercial life of the town for generations, by reason of their wealth, superior education and incontestable ability. And in consequence neither felt at home elsewhere than in their native place, where they were used to play first fiddle generally. There was no compet.i.tion between the two; they were wise enough to realise that any such conflicting element might easily destroy the lead their fathers had established.

But they would not suffer any outsider to intrude on their domains, whether in business or in social life; here they shared in common an undisputed supremacy.

The young Karstens and Endresens were brought up according to the principles of their respective dynasties, and were sent abroad for their commercial education, that they might be properly fitted for the distinguished position they would be called to fill.

Skipper Hansen and Blacksmith Olsen's offspring found it was no easy matter to compete with them.

Wealth, however, was the only thing they really respected at heart, the old as well as the younger generation.

They would devote themselves several times a week to calculating how much the other notables might be worth, and were ill pleased that anyone should be better off than themselves.

It was even said that old Karsten took to his bed out of sheer envy on hearing that someone else had made a heap of money.

Endresen was wilier and rarely showed his feelings, but it was a well-known fact that he would be irritable and unreasonable when he heard of others making a successful deal. The clerks in his office said so.

Then came the sudden appearance of the Admiral in their midst. At first they did not understand this brutal and domineering force. The old Karstens themselves had been accounted proud and haughty enough--though perhaps not exactly brutal; but they were, as we have said, of a privileged caste. But this so-called Admiral, what was he?

A scion of the town, it is true, inasmuch as he was a son of the old shipbroker who had formerly occupied the house now purchased by the newcomer. But he, the father, that is, had been no more than a "measly broker," who had just managed to sc.r.a.pe some sort of a livelihood together by fixing contracts for the vessels owned by Endresens and selling coal to the Karstens' factories.

The Admiral himself, however, was evidently rich, a man of unbounded wealth, indeed, and enough to buy up Endresen's and Karsten's together. His Income Tax Return spoke plainly in plain figures; no farce about that! The fact was there, and could not be ignored; an abominable thing, but none the less true. There was nothing for it but to give him his t.i.tle of Admiral, and with a serious face. Had it been some poor devil without means, they would have jeered him out of the place.

When the Admiral came striding up the main street, a stout, imposing figure, even Henry B. Karsten himself had to make way. He would wave one hand in salutation and say "Morning!" in English, using the same form of greeting to all, with the sole exception of Arne the Ferryman, who was always honoured with a shake of the hand.

But the Princess fluttered about the place like a dainty little b.u.t.terfly. Old Missa looked after her as well as she could, and never lost sight of her if she could help it. But the Princess seemed to have wings! She would manage somehow or other to vanish in a moment: _presto!_ gone! And there was Missa left behind in despair.

She would soon come fluttering back again, however, smiling and irresistible as ever, and throw her arms round Missa's neck and beg to be forgiven.

The Admiral grumbled and swore he would "put the youngster in irons"

if she did not keep to the house; but the youngster only laughed, perched herself on the Admiral's knee, and pulled his long white whiskers; and then he might fall to dreaming ... dreaming of distant lands, of moonlight nights beneath the palms and agaves, long and long ago.

He fussed and grumbled and stamped about the house, calling Missa a lumbering old mud-barge that couldn't keep a proper look-out; but the Princess fluttered on as before, entirely undismayed.

There was to be a grand festival in the town, a charity entertainment in aid of the Children's Home.

All the young people of the town were to a.s.sist. There was to be a theatrical performance, and an exhibition of dancing on the stage.

Young Endresen and Karsten junior, of course, took a leading part in the arrangements; "for a charitable object," they could do no less.

It was generally understood, however, that the real object of both young gentlemen was to see something of the Princess.

The two heirs-apparent waged a violent struggle for the Princess's favour. True, they had been duly instructed by their respective fathers, as these by their respective fathers before them, in the principle that "the house of Endresen" or "the house of Karsten"

expected every son to do his duty--_i.e._ not to marry beneath his rank, and also, to "consolidate the standing of the firm," as it was conveniently put. As regards the question of rank, this was, in the present instance, a somewhat debatable one, but the question of consolidation was plain as could be wished. Here was a considerable fortune to be gained for the town, and thus for one of the two firms.

It was certainly worth a struggle.

The Admiral had grumbled and stormed for a whole week before consenting to the Princess partic.i.p.ating in the affair.

The Princess was to dance--a dance she had composed herself.

There was great excitement; the local theatre was crammed. The leading notabilities of the place had booked up all the stalls at more than twice the usual prices. Everyone who could get about at all was present. Even old Endresen, who generally affected to despise all such theatrical tomfoolery, had found a seat in the front row, and confided to his next-door neighbour that he had seen "Pepita" dance in Paris--had even thrown her a bouquet--"but I was very young, then, I must say," he added, with a smile.

Old folk in the town still told the story of how Endresen, as a young man, had led a gay life in Paris; a life so gay, and so expensive, that the Endresen senior of the period had promptly ordered him to come back home at once. "And he's turned out a real good man for all that," they would hasten to add.

The theatrical performance went off quite successfully, but without arousing any great amount of enthusiasm. There was applause, of course, and the princ.i.p.al actors had to appear before the curtain; the leading lady was duly praised for her interpretation. But it was the Princess all were waiting for.

At last the curtain rose. The scenery was ordinary enough: a "woodland scene," with the usual trees and a pale moon painted on the background. It was the standard setting, as used for cla.s.sical tragedy, vaudeville and, in fact, almost anything.

Enter the Princess, daintily as if on wings. She wore a long white robe, that moved in graceful waves about her slender figure; diamonds shone and glittered in her hair. No one present had ever seen such stones, and young Endresen swore they were genuine. She wore a row of pearls too round her neck, and heavy gold rings about her bare ankles.

The spectators seemed literally to hold their breath with every nerve on the strain. The little figure up there was like a vision; her feet hardly touched the floor.

First, she glided softly across the stage, her white robe rising and falling like the gentle swell of the sea on a summer's day, then faster and faster. She whirled round, bent right down to the ground, and fell in a heap, only to spring up again in a moment and whirl round again at a furious pace.

The public was simply spell-bound. No one had ever seen, ever dreamed of such a sight.

Her great black eyes shone towards them, while that queer smile played about her mouth; she seemed to move in a world of her own. The dusty old scenery faded into nothingness; they saw but the girl herself, and sat staring, enchanted, hypnotised.

Gone! It was over. The curtain fell, and a silence as in church reigned for some seconds after; the spectators were getting their breath again, so to speak. Then something unusual happened. Old Endresen rose to his feet, clapped his hands and cried: "Encore, encore!"

Forgotten were his seventy years, his dignity, everything; he was young again, young and infatuated as he had been in Paris half a century before, when he joined in the cry of the thousands shouting, "_Vive Pepita, vive l'Espagne!_"

At last the general enthusiasm found vent in shouts of applause like the roar of a bursting dam. Handkerchiefs were waved; all rose to their feet.