The Pilot and His Wife

by Jonas Lie

"That must have been the lover!" he whispered over to the other, as he set to work with his adze upon the pencilled plank. Shortly after he muttered in a tone of compunction—

"If I saw that physiognomy aright, some one had better take care of himself when he gets leave ashore."

Salvé had sprung to his feet in a fury when he heard about young Beck, but the desire to hear more had kept him spellbound. What further had been hinted of his relations with Elizabeth, and that the latter had even taken refuge in his house, seemed all only too probable. He knew both the men who had been speaking; they were respectable folks, and the one besides had had the news from the aunt herself.

There was hard work that day on board, but his hands were as if they had been benumbed. It was impossible for him to give any assistance, except in appearance, when any hauling was to be done;—he did everything mechanically.

"Are you sick, lad, or longing after your sweetheart?" said the mate to him in the course of the afternoon. He saw that there was something wrong with him.

That last, "after your sweetheart," had a wonderfully rousing influence. He felt himself all at once relieved of his heavy feeling of exhaustion, and worked now so hard that the perspiration poured down his face, joining in the hauling song from time to time with a wild, unnatural energy: he was afraid to leave himself a moment for thought. When the day was over, however, he took the anchor watch for a comrade, who was overjoyed at the unexpected prospect of getting a quiet night in his hammock, and at escaping from his turn of "ship's dog"—that watch consisting of one man only, whose business it is to keep the ship from harbour-thieves.

He paced up and down the deck alone in the pitchy darkness, that was only relieved by a lantern or two out in the harbour, and a light here and there up in the town—sometimes standing for long minutes together, with his cheek on his hand, leaning on the railing. He could, without the slightest scruple, murder young Beck—that he felt.

At two o'clock he crossed over to the boards that were sloped against the vessel's side, slid down them in the dark to the slip, and from there made his way ashore. Elizabeth's aunt lived in one of the small houses above; and he had determined to wake her and have a talk with her.

Widow Kirstine was a portly, somewhat worn perhaps, but otherwise strong-looking, old woman, with a good broad face, and thin grey hair drawn down behind her ears. She was not unused to being disturbed at night, one of her occupations being to nurse sick people; but she always grumbled whenever she was. When she held up the candle she had lit, and recognised Salvé Kristiansen, she thought, from his paleness and general appearance, that he was drunk.

"Is that you, Salvé?—and a pretty state to be in at this time of night!" she began, severely, in the doorway, not caring to let him in at first. "Is that the way you spend your wages?"