Читать книгу A Hardy Norseman - Lyall Edna - Страница 5

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Balholm, the loveliest of all the places on the Sogne Fjord, is perhaps the quietest place on earth. There is a hotel, kept by two most delightful Norwegian brothers; there is a bathing-house, a minute landing-stage, and a sprinkling of little wooden cottages with red-tiled roofs. The only approach is by water; no dusty high-road is to be found, no carts and carriages rumble past; if you want rest and quiet, you have only to seek it on the mountains or by the shore; if you want amusement, you have only to join the merry Norwegians in the salon, who are always ready to sing or to play, to dance or to talk, or, if weather-bound, to play games with the zest and animation of children. Even so limp a specimen of humanity as Cyril Morgan found that, after all, existence in this primitive region had its charms, while Blanche said, quite truthfully, that she had never enjoyed herself so much in her life. There was to her a charming piquancy about both place and people; and although she was well accustomed to love and admiration, she found that Frithiof was altogether unlike the men she had hitherto met in society; there was about him something strangely fresh—he seemed to harmonize well with the place, and he made all the other men of whom she could think seem ordinary and prosaic. As for Frithiof he made no secret of his love for her, it was apparent to all the world—to the light-hearted Norwegians, who looked on approvingly; to Cyril Morgan, who wondered what on earth Blanche could see in such an unsophisticated boy; to Mr. Morgan, who, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, remarked that there was no help for it—it was Blanche’s way; to Roy Boniface, who thought the two were well matched, and gave them his good wishes; and to Cecil, who, as she watched the two a little wistfully, said in her secret heart what could on no account have been said to any living being, “I hope, oh, I hope she cares for him enough!”

One morning, a little tired with the previous day’s excursion to the Suphelle Brae, they idled away the sunny hours on the fjord, Frithiof rowing, Swanhild lying at full length in the bow with Lillo mounting guard over her, and Blanche, Sigrid, and Cecil in the stern.

“You have been all this time at Balholm and yet have not seen King Bele’s grave!” Frithiof had exclaimed in answer to Blanche’s inquiry. “Look, here it is, just a green mound by that tree.”

“Isn’t it odd,” said Sigrid dreamily, “to think that we are just in the very place where the Frithiof Saga was really lived?”

“But I thought it was only a legend,” said Cecil.

“Oh, no,” said Frithiof, “the Sagas are not legends, but true stories handed down by word of mouth.”

“Then I wish you would hand down your saga to us by word of mouth,” said Blanche, raising her sweet eyes to his. “I shall never take the trouble to read it for myself in some dry, tiresome book. Tell us the story of Frithiof now as we drift along in the boat with his old home Framnaes in sight.”

“I do not think I can tell it really well,” he said: “but I can just give you the outline of it:

“Frithiof was the only son of a wealthy yeoman who owned land at Framnaes. His father was a great friend of King Bele, and the king wished that his only daughter Ingeborg should be educated by the same wise man who taught Frithiof, so you see it happened that as children Frithiof and Ingeborg were always together, and by and by was it not quite natural that they should learn to love each other? It happened just so, and Frithiof vowed that, although he was only the son of a yeoman, nothing should separate them or make him give her up. It then happened that King Bele died, and Frithiof’s father, his great friend, died at the same time. Then Frithiof went to live at Framnaes over yonder; he had great possessions, but the most useful were just these three; a wonderful sword, a wonderful bracelet, and a wonderful ship called the ‘Ellida,’ which had been given to one of his Viking ancestors by the sea-god. But though he had all these things, and was the most powerful man in the kingdom, yet he was always sad, for he could not forget the old days with Ingeborg. So one day he crossed this fjord to Bele’s grave, close to Balholm, where Ingeborg’s two brothers Helge and Halfdan were holding an assembly of the people, and he boldly asked for Ingeborg’s hand. Helge the King was furious, and rejected him with scorn, and Frithiof, who would not allow even a king to insult him, drew his sword and with one blow smote the King’s shield, which hung on a tree, in two pieces. Soon after this good King Ring of the far North, who had lost his wife, became a suitor for Ingeborg’s hand; but Helge and Halfdan insulted his messengers and a war was the consequence. When Frithiof heard the news of the war he was sitting with his friend at a game of chess; he refused to help Helge and Halfdan, but knowing that Ingeborg had been sent for safety to the sacred grove of Balder, he went to see her in the ‘Ellida,’ though there was a law that whoever ventured to approach the grove by water should be put to death. Now Ingeborg had always loved him and she agreed to be betrothed to him, and taking leave of her, Frithiof went with all haste to tell her brothers. This time also there was a great assembly at Bele’s grave, and again Frithiof asked for the hand of Ingeborg, and promised that, if Helge would consent to their betrothal, he would fight for him. But Helge, instead of answering him, asked if he had not been to the sacred grove of Balder contrary to the law? Then all the people shouted to him, ‘Say no, Frithiof! Say no, and Ingeborg is yours.’ But Frithiof said that though his happiness hung on that one word he would not tell a lie, that in truth he had been to Balder’s Temple, but that his presence had not defiled it, that he and Ingeborg had prayed together and had planned this offer of peace. But the people forsook him, and King Helge banished him until he should bring back the tribute due from Angantyr of the Western Isles; and every one knew that if he escaped with his life on such an errand it would be a wonder. Once again Frithiof saw Ingeborg, and he begged her to come with him in his ship the ‘Ellida,’ but Ingeborg, though she loved him, thought that she owed obedience to her brothers, and they bade each other farewell; but before he went Frithiof clasped on her arm the wonderful bracelet. So then they parted, and Frithiof sailed away and had more adventures than I can tell you, but at last he returned with the tribute money, and now he thought Ingeborg would indeed be his. But when he came in sight of Framnaes, he found that his house and everything belonging to him had been burned to the ground.”

“No, no, Frithiof; there was his horse and his dog left,” corrected Sigrid. “Don’t you remember how they came up to him?”

“So they did, but all else was gone; and, worst of all, Ingeborg, they told him, had been forced by her brothers to marry King Ring, who, if she had not become his wife, would have taken the kingdom from Helge and Halfdan. Then Frithiof was in despair, and cried out, ‘Who dare speak to me of the fidelity of women?’ And it so happened that that very day was Midsummer-day, and he knew that King Helge, Ingeborg’s brother, would be in the Temple of Balder. He sought him out, and went straight up to him and said, ‘You sent me for the lost tribute and I have gained it, but either you or I must die. Come, fight me! Think of Framnaes that you burned. Think of Ingeborg whose life you have spoiled!’ And then in great wrath he flung the tribute-money at Helge’s head, and Helge fell down senseless. Just then Frithiof caught sight of the bracelet he had given Ingeborg on the image of Balder, and he tore it off, but in so doing upset the image, which fell into the flames on the altar. The fire spread, and spread so that at last the whole temple was burned, and all the trees of the grove. Next day King Helge gave chase to Frithiof, but luckily in the night Frithiof’s friend had scuttled all the King’s ships, and so his effort failed, and Frithiof sailed out to sea in the ‘Ellida.’ Then he became a Viking, and lived a hard life, and won many victories. At last he came home to Norway and went to King Ring’s court at Yule-tide, disguised as an old man; but they soon found out that he was young and beautiful, and he doffed his disguise, and Ingeborg trembled as she recognized him. Ring knew him not, but liked him well, and made him his guest. One day he saved Ring when his horse and sledge had fallen into the water. But another day it so happened that they went out hunting together, and Ring being tired fell asleep, while Frithiof kept guard over him. As he watched, a raven came and sung to him, urging him to kill the King; but a white bird urged him to flee from temptation, and Frithiof drew his sword and flung it far away out of reach. Then the King opened his eyes, and told Frithiof that for some time he had known him, and that he honored him for resisting temptation. Frithiof, however, felt that he could no longer bear to be near Ingeborg, since she belonged not to him, and soon he came to take leave of her and her husband. But good King Ring said that the time of his own death was come, and he asked Frithiof to take his kingdom and Ingeborg, and to be good to his son. Then he plunged his sword in his breast, and so died. Before long the people met to elect a new king, and would have chosen Frithiof, but he would only be regent till Ring’s son should be of age. Then Frithiof went away to his father’s grave, and prayed to Balder, and he built a wonderful new temple for the god, but still peace did not come to him. And the priest told him that the reason of this was because he still kept anger and hatred in his heart toward Ingeborg’s brothers. Helge was dead, but the priest prayed him to be reconciled to Halfdan. They were standing thus talking in the new temple when Halfdan unexpectedly appeared, and when he caught sight of his foe, he turned pale and trembled. But Frithiof, who for the first time saw that forgiveness is greater than vengeance, walked up to the altar, placed upon it his sword and shield, and returning, held out his hand to Halfdan, and the two were reconciled. At that moment there entered the temple one dressed as a bride, and Frithiof lifted up his eyes and saw that it was Ingeborg herself. And Halfdan, his pride of birth forgotten and his anger conquered by his foe’s forgiveness, led his sister to Frithiof and gave her to be his wife, and in the new Temple of Balder the Good the lovers received the blessing of the priest.”

“How well you tell it! It is a wonderful story,” said Blanche; and there was real, genuine pleasure in her dark eyes as she looked across at him.

It was such a contrast to her ordinary life, this quiet Norway, where all was so simple and true and trustworthy, where no one seemed to strain after effects. And there was something in Frithiof’s strength, and spirit, and animation which appealed to her greatly. “My Viking is adorable!” she used to say to herself; and gradually there stole into her manner toward him a sort of tender reverence. She no longer teased him playfully, and their talks together in those long summer days became less full of mirth and laughter, but more earnest and absorbing.

Cecil saw all this, and she breathed more freely. “Certainly she loves him,” was her reflection.

Sigrid, too, no longer doubted; indeed, Blanche had altogether won her heart, and somehow, whenever they were together, the talk always drifted round to Frithiof’s past, or Frithiof’s future, or Frithiof’s opinions. She was very happy about it, for she felt sure that Blanche would be a charming sister-in-law, and love and hope seemed to have developed Frithiof in a wonderful way; he had suddenly grown manly and considerate, nor did Sigrid feel, as she had feared, that his new love interfered with his love for her.

They were bright days for every one, those days at Balholm, with their merry excursions to the priest’s garden and the fir-woods, to the saeter on the mountain-side, and to grand old Munkeggen, whose heights towered above the little wooden hotel. Herr Falck, who had joined them toward the end of the week, and who climbed Munkeggen as energetically as any one, was well pleased to see the turn affairs had taken; and every one was kind, and discreetly left Frithiof and Blanche to themselves as they toiled up the mountain-side; indeed, Knut, the landlord’s brother, who as usual had courteously offered his services as guide, was so thoughtful for the two lovers who were lingering behind, that he remorselessly hurried up a stout old American lady, who panted after him, to that “Better resting-place,” which he always insisted was a little further on.

“Will there be church to-morrow?” asked Blanche, as they rested half-way. “I should so like to go to a Norwegian service.”

“There will be service at some church within reach,” said Frithiof; “but I do not much advise you to go; it will be very hot, and the place will be packed.”

“Why? Are you such a religious people?”

“The peasants are,” he replied. “And of course the women. Church-going and religion, that is for women; we men do not need that sort of thing.”

She was a little startled by his matter-of-fact, unabashed tone.

“What, are you an agnostic? an atheist?” she exclaimed.

“No, no, not at all,” he said composedly. “I believe in a good Providence but with so much I am quite satisfied, you see. What does one need with more? To us men religion, church-going, is—is—how do you call it in English? I think you say ‘An awful bore,’ Is it not so?”

The slang in foreign accent was irresistible. She was a little shocked, but she could not help laughing.

“How you Norwegians speak out!” she exclaimed. “Many Englishmen feel that, but few would say it so plainly.”

“So! I thought an Englishman was nothing if not candid. But for me I feel no shame. What more would one have than to make the most of life? That is my religion. I hear that in England there is a book to ask whether life is worth living? For me I can’t understand that sort of thing. It is a question that would never have occurred to me. Only to live is happiness enough. Life is such a very good thing. Do you not agree?”

“Sometimes,” she said, rather wistfully.

“Only sometimes? No, no, always—to the last breath!” cried Frithiof.

“You say that because things are as you like; because you are happy,” said Blanche.

“It is true, I am very happy,” he replied. “Who would not be happy walking with you?”

Something in his manner frightened her a little. She went on breathlessly and incoherently.

“You wouldn’t say that life is a very good thing if you were like our poor people in East London, for instance.”

“Indeed, no,” he said gravely. “That must be a great blot on English life. Here in Norway we have no extremes. No one is very poor, and our richest men have only what would be counted in England a moderate income.”

“Perhaps that is why you are such a happy people.”

“Perhaps,” said Frithiof, but he felt little inclined to consider the problem of the distribution of wealth just then, and the talk drifted round once more to that absorbing personal talk which was much more familiar to them.

At length the top of the mountain was reached, and a merry little picnic ensued. Frithiof was the life of the party, and there was much drinking of healths and clinking of glasses, and though the cold was intense every one seemed to enjoy it, and to make fun of any sort of discomfort.

“Come!” said Sigrid to Cecil Boniface, “you and I must add a stone to the cairn. Let us drag up this great one and put it on the top together in memory of our friendship.”

They stood laughing and panting under the shelter of the cairn when the stone was deposited, the merry voices of the rest of the party floating back to them.

“Do you not think we are dreadful chatterers, we Norwegians?” said Sigrid.

“I think you are delightful,” said Cecil simply.

Something in her manner touched and pleased Sigrid. She had grown to like this quiet English girl. They were silent for some minutes, looking over that wonderful expanse of blue fjords and hoary mountains, flecked here and there on their somber heights by snow-drifts. Far down below them a row-boat could be seen on the water, looking scarcely bigger than the head of a pin: and as Cecil watched the lovely country steeped in the golden sunshine of that summer afternoon, thoughts of the Frithiof Saga came thronging through her mind, till it almost seemed to her that in another moment she should see the dragon ship the “Ellida,” winging her way over the smooth blue waters.

Knut suggested before long that if they were to be home in time for supper it might be best to start at once, and the merry party broke up into little groups. Herr Falck was deep in conversation with Mr. Morgan, Cyril and Florence as usual kept to themselves, Knut piloted the American lady in advance of the others, while Roy Boniface joined his sister and Sigrid, pausing on the way for a little snow-balling in a great snowdrift just below the summit. Little Swanhild hesitated for a moment, longing to walk with Blanche, for whom she had formed the sort of adoring attachment with which children of her age often honor some grown-up girl; but she was laughingly carried off by some good-natured friends from Bergen, who divined her intentions, and once more Frithiof and Blanche were left alone.

“And you must really go on Monday?” asked Frithiof, with a sigh.

“Well,” she said, glancing up at him quickly, “I have been very troublesome to you, I’m sure—always needing help in climbing! You will be glad to get rid of me, though you are too polite to tell me so.”

“How can you say such things?” he exclaimed, and again something in his manner alarmed her a little. “You know—you must know what these days have been to me.”

The lovely color flooded her cheeks, and she spoke almost at random.

“After all, I believe I should do better if I trusted to my alpenstock!” And laughingly she began to spring down the rough descent, a little proud of her own grace and agility, and a little glad to baffle and tease him for a few minutes.

“Take care! take care!” cried Frithiof, hurrying after her. Then, with a stifled cry, he sprang forward to rescue her, for the alpenstock had slipped on a stone, and she was rolling down the steep incline. Even in the terrible moment itself he had time to think of two distinct dangers—she might strike her head against one of the bowlders, or, worse thought still, might be unchecked, and fall over that side of Munkeggen which was almost precipitous. How he managed it he never realized, but love seemed to lend him wings, and the next thing he knew was that he was kneeling on the grass only two or three feet from the sheer cliff-like side, with Blanche in his arms.

“Are you hurt?” he questioned breathlessly.

“No,” she replied, trembling with excitement. “Not hurt at all, only shaken and startled.”

He lifted her a little further from the edge. For a minute she lay passively, then she looked up into his eyes.

“How strong you are,” she said, “and how cleverly you caught me! Yet now that it is over you look quite haggard and white. I am really not hurt at all. It punished me well for thinking I could get on without you. You see I couldn’t!” and a lovely, tender smile dawned in her eyes.

She sat up and took off her hat, smoothing back her disordered hair. A sort of terror seized Frithiof that in another minute she would propose going on, and, urged by this fear, he spoke rapidly and impetuously.

“If only I might always serve you!” he cried. “Oh, Blanche, I love you! I love you! Will you not trust yourself to me?”

Blanche had received already several offers of marriage; they had been couched in much better terms, but they had lacked the passionate ardor of Frithiof’s manner. All in a moment she was conquered; she could not even make a feint of resistance, but just put her hand in his.

“I will always trust you,” she faltered.

Then, as she felt his strong arm round her and his kisses on her cheek, there flashed through her mind a description she had once read of—

“a strong man from the North,

Light-locked, with eyes of dangerous gray.”

It was a love worth having, she thought to herself; a love to be proud of!

“But Frithiof,” she began, after a timeless pause, “we must keep our secret just for a little while. You see my father is not here, and—”

“Let me write to him and ask his consent,” exclaimed Frithiof.

“No, no, do not write. Come over to England in October and see him yourself, that will be so much better.”

“Must we wait so long?” said Frithiof, his face clouding.

“It is only a few weeks; papa will not be at home till then. Every one is away from London, you know. Don’t look so anxious; I do not know your face when it isn’t happy—you were never meant to be grave. As for papa, I can make him do exactly what I like, you need not be afraid that he will not consent. Come! I have promised to trust to you, and yet you doubt me.”

“Doubt you!” he cried. “Never! I trust you, before all the world; and if you tell me to wait—why then—I must obey.”

“How I love you for saying that,” cried Blanche, clinging to him. “To think that you who are so strong should say that to me! It seems wonderful. But indeed, indeed, you need not doubt me. I love you with my whole heart. I love you as I never thought it possible to love.”

Frithiof again clasped her in his arms, and there came to his mind the sweet words of Uhland:

“Gestorben war ich

Vor Liebeswonn,

Begraben lag ich

In Ihren Armen;

Erwechet ward ich

Von Ihren Küssen,

Den Himmel sah ich

In Ihren Augen.”