What was the morning occupation of Lota and her other bridesmaids was a mystery,—not one of them was visible; that it was something of an entertaining character was evident from the tittering, and gay laughter, and occasional little screams that proceeded from a large square-headed window wide open on the upper-floor, and on the farthest extremity of the building. The only anxious and unhappy-looking countenance was that of the happy bridegroom himself, who having nothing whatever to do, wandered up and down the terrace with his hands in his pockets, the only idle man, and consequently in the way of every one. Conscious that he was the object of every body’s attention, and the butt of those jokes which are common on such occasions, and no where more common or less delicate than in Norway, he laboured hard to be at his ease and succeeded but very ill. Indeed, his new jacket, which did not come down to his shoulder blades, and was a little too tight for him into the bargain, and his stiff glossy trousers would alone have been sufficient to disturb any man’s self-possession, to say nothing of the chain of filagree silver balls, each as large as a grape-shot, which were called shirt buttons, and hung down from his neck; while a stout broad hat twice as broad in the crown as in the rim, and stiffly turned up on each side, weighed on his brows like a helmet,—so very new that it still exhibited the creases of the paper in which it had been packed.
Jan Torgensen, Lota’s brother, who was his other bridesman, was doing his best to keep him in countenance, for they had always been great allies, and in fact, Torkel had been Jan’s preceptor in wood-craft, and, so Lota declared, in every sort of mischief besides. At this present moment any one who had seen them both, would have taken Jan for the preceptor and Torkel for the pupil; and Jan for the happy bridegroom, and Torkel for the disappointed swain,—so happy looked Jan and so sheepish looked Torkel. But, in truth, Jan had his own particular pride and happiness, connected, though in a remote manner, with that of his friend. He had just received his appointment as skipper of the Haabet, vice Svensen, superseded in Lota’s affections by Torkel, and in the command of the brig by Jan; for the poor fellow, when he found how things were going with him, resigned the command, settled accounts with old Torgensen, and, much to the regret of the latter,—for Svensen was a first-rate sailor,—betook himself to Copenhagen, out of the sight of his rival’s happiness.
Jan, who was a thorough partizan, and had never liked poor Svensen, not so much on account of any of his demerits as out of affection for his friend Torkel (for Lota it is to be feared, had coquetted between her admirers much more than was altogether proper), was singing, or rather roaring, at the full pitch of a sailor’s voice, the popular ballad of Sir John and Sir Lavé:—
“To an island green Sir Lavé went;
He wooed a maiden with fair intent;—
‘I will ride with you,’ quoth John;
‘Put on helmets of gold, to follow Sir John.’
He wooed the maiden and took her home,
And knights and serving-men are come;—
‘Here am I!’ quoth John.