“But what’s wrong with Petersen—is he going to resign?” asked Stolpe.
“He is ill,” replied Pelle. “But I wasn’t there last night, so I don’t know anything about it.” Stolpe gazed at him, astonished.
Madam Stolpe came in and drew Pelle into the bedroom, where Ellen stood like a snow-white revelation, with a long veil and a myrtle-wreath in her hair. “Really you two are supposed not to see one another, but I think that’s wrong,” she said, and with a loving glance she pushed them into each other’s arms.
Frederik, who was leaning out of the window, in order to watch for the carriage, came and thundered on the door. “The carriage is there, children!” he roared, in quite a needlessly loud voice. “The carriage is there!”
And they drove away in it, although the church was only a few steps distant. Pelle scarcely knew what happened to him after that, until he found himself back in the carriage; they had to nudge him every time he had to do anything. He saw no one but Ellen.
She was his sun; the rest meant nothing to him. At the altar he had seized her hand and held it in his during the whole service.
Frederik had remained at home, in order to admit, receive messages and people who came to offer their congratulations. As they returned he leaned out of the window and threw crackers and detonating pellets under the horses’ feet, as a salute to the bridal pair.
People drank wine, touched glasses with the young couple, and examined the wedding-presents. Stolpe looked to see the time; it was still quite early. “You must go for a bit of a stroll, father,” said Madam Stolpe. “We can’t eat anything for a couple of hours yet.” So the men went across to Ventegodt’s beer-garden, in order to play a game of skittles, while the women prepared the food.
Pelle would rather have stopped in the house with Ellen, but he must not; he and Lasse went together. Lasse had not yet properly wished Pelle happiness; he had waited until they should be alone.
“Well, happiness and all blessings, my boy,” he said, much moved, as he pressed Pelle’s hand. “Now you, too, are a man with a family and responsibilities. Now don’t you forget that the women are like children. In serious matters you mustn’t be too ceremonious with them, but tell them, short and plain. This is to be so! It goes down best with them. If once a man begins discussing too much with them, then they don’t know which way they want to go. Otherwise they are quite all right, and it’s easy to get on with them—if one only treats them well. I never found it any trouble, for they like a firm hand over them. You’ve reason to be proud of your parents-in-law; they are capital people, even if they are a bit proud of their calling. And Ellen will make you a good wife—if I know anything of women. She’ll attend to her own affairs and she’ll understand how to save what’s left over. Long in the body she is, like a fruitful cow—she won’t fail you in the matter of children.”