Читать книгу A Hardy Norseman - Lyall Edna - Страница 6

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“We were beginning to think some accident had happened to you,” said Sigrid, who stood waiting at the door of the hotel.

“And so it did,” said Blanche, laughing, “I think I should have broken my neck if it hadn’t been for your brother. It was all the fault of this treacherous alpenstock which played me false.”

And then, with a sympathetic little group of listeners, Blanche gave a full account of her narrow escape.

“And you are really not hurt at all? Not too much shaken to care to dance to-night?”

“Not a bit,” said Blanche merrily. “And you promised to put on your peasant costume and show us the spring dans, you know.”

“So I did. I must make haste and dress, then,” and Sigrid ran upstairs, appearing again before long in a simply made dark skirt, white sleeves and chemisette, and red bodice, richly embroidered in gold. Her beautiful hair was worn in two long plaits down her back, and the costume suited her to perfection. There followed a merry supper in the dépendence where all meals were served; then every one adjourned to the hotel salon, the tables and chairs were hastily pushed aside, and dancing began.

Herr Falck’s eyes rested contentedly on the slim little figure in the maize-colored dress who so often danced with his son; and, indeed, Blanche looked more lovely than ever that evening, for happiness and excitement had brightened her dark eyes, and deepened the glow of color in her cheeks. The father felt proud, too, of his children, when, in response to the general entreaty, Frithiof and Sigrid danced the spring dans together with its graceful evolutions and quaint gestures. Then nothing would do but Frithiof must play to them on the violin, after which Blanche volunteered to teach every one Sir Roger de Coverly, and old and young joined merrily in the country dance, and so the evening passed on all too rapidly to its close. It was a scene which somehow lived on in Cecil’s memory; the merry dancers, the kindly landlord, Ole Kvikne, sitting near the door and watching them, the expression of content visible in Herr Falck’s face as he sat beside him, the pretty faces and picturesque attire of Sigrid and Swanhild, the radiant beauty of Blanche Morgan, the unclouded happiness of Frithiof.

The evening had done her good; its informality, its hearty unaffected happiness and merriment made it a strange contrast to any other dance she could recollect; yet even here there was a slight shadow. She could not forget those words which she had overheard on board the steamer, could not get rid of the feeling that some trouble hung over the Falck family, and that hidden away, even in this Norwegian paradise, there lurked somewhere the inevitable serpent. Even as she mused over it, Frithiof crossed the room and made his bow before her, and in another minute had whirled her off. Happiness shone in his eyes, lurked in the tones of his voice, added fresh spirit to his dancing; she thought she had never before seen such an incarnation of perfect content. They talked of Norwegian books, and her interest in his country seemed to please him.

“You can easily get English translations of our best novelists,” he said. “You should read Alexander Kielland’s books, and Bjornsen’s. I have had a poem of Bjornsen’s ringing all day in my head; we will make Sigrid say it to us, for I only know the chorus.”

Then as the waltz came to an end he led her toward his sister, who was standing with Roy near the piano.

“We want you to say us Bjornsen’s poem, Sigrid, in which the refrain is, ‘To-day is just a day to my mind.’ I can’t remember anything but the chorus.”

“But it is rather a horrid little poem,” said Sigrid, hesitating.

“Oh, let us have it, please let us have it,” said Blanche, joining them. “You have made me curious now.”

So Sigrid, not liking to refuse, repeated first the poem itself and then the English translation:

“The fox lay under the birch-tree’s root

Beside the heather;

And the hare bounded with lightsome foot

Over the heather;

‘To-day is just a day to my mind,

All sunny before and sunny behind

Over the heather!’

And the fox laughed under the birch-tree’s root

Beside the heather;

And the hare frolicked with heedless foot

Over the heather;

‘I am so glad about everything!’

‘So that is the way you dance and spring

Over the heather!’

And the fox lay in wait by the birch-tree’s root

Beside the heather;

And the hare soon tumbled close to his foot

Over the heather;

‘Why, bless me! is that you, my dear!

However did you come dancing here

Over the heather?’ ”

“I had forgotten that it ended so tragically,” said Frithiof, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “Well, never mind, it is only a poem; let us leave melancholy to poets and novelists, and enjoy real life.”

Just then a polka was struck up and he hastily made his bow to Blanche.

“And yet one needs a touch of tragedy in real life,” she observed, “or it becomes so dreadfully prosaic.”

“Oh,” said Frithiof, laughing, as he bore her off; “then for Heaven’s sake let us be prosaic to the end of the chapter.”

Cecil heard the words, they seemed to her to fit in uncannily with the words of the poem; she could not have explained, and she did not try to analyze the little thrill of pain that shot through her heart at the idea. Neither could she have justified to herself the shuddering repulsion she felt when Cyril Morgan drew near, intercepting her view of Frithiof and Blanche.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance?” he said, in his condescending tone.

“Thank you, but I am so tired,” she replied. “Too tired for any more to-night.”

“Yes,” said Sigrid, glancing at her. “You look worn out. Munkeggen is a tiring climb. Let us come upstairs, it is high time that naughty little sister of mine was in bed.”

“The reward of virtue,” said Cyril Morgan, rejoining his cousin Florence. “I have been polite to the little bourgeoise and it has cost me nothing. It is always best in a place like this to be on good terms with every one. We shall never be likely to come across these people again, the acquaintance is not likely to bore us.”

His words were perfectly true. That curiously assorted gathering of different nationalities would never again meet, and yet those days of close intimacy were destined to influence forever, either for good or for evil, the lives of each one.

All through the Sunday Blanche had kept in bed, for though the excitement had kept her up, on the previous night, she inevitably suffered from the effects of her fall. It was not till the Monday morning, just before the arrival of the steamer, that Frithiof could find the opportunity for which he had impatiently waited. They walked through the little garden, ostensibly to watch for the steamer from the mound by the flagstaff, but they only lingered there for a minute, glancing anxiously down the fjord where in the distance could be seen the unwelcome black speck. On the further side of the mound, down among the trees and bushes, was a little sheltered seat. It was there that they spent their last moments, there that Blanche listened to his eager words of love, there that she again bade him wait till October, at the same time giving him such hope and encouragement as must surely have satisfied the most exigeant lover.

All too soon the bustle of departure reached them, and the steam-whistle—most hateful and discordant of sounds—rang and resounded among the mountains.

“I must go,” she exclaimed, “or they will be coming to look for me. This is our real good-by. On the steamer it will be just a hand-shake, but now—”

And she lifted a lovely, glowing face to his.

Then, presently, as they walked down to the little pier, she talked fast and gayly of all they would do when he came to England; she talked because, for once, he was absolutely silent, and because she was afraid that her uncle would guess their secret; perhaps it was a relief to her that Frithiof volunteered to run back to the hotel for Mr. Morgan’s opera-glass, which had been left by mistake in the salon, so that, literally, there was only time for the briefest of farewells on the steamer. He went through it all in a business-like fashion, smiling mechanically in response to the good wishes, then, with a heavy heart, stepping on shore. Herr Falck, who was returning to Bergen by the same boat, which took the other travelers only as far as Vadheim, was not ill pleased to see his son’s evident dejection; he stood by the bulwarks watching him and saying a word or two now and then to Blanche, who was close by him.

“Why see!” he exclaimed, “the fellow is actually coming on board again. We shall be carrying him away with us if he doesn’t take care.”

“A thousand pardons!” Frithiof had exclaimed, shaking hands with Cecil and Roy Boniface. “I did not see you before. A pleasant journey to you. You must come again to Norway some day, and let us all meet once more.”

“Vaer saa god!” exclaimed one of the sailors; and Frithiof had to spring down the gangway.

“To our next merry meeting,” said Roy, lifting his hat; and then there was a general waving of handkerchiefs from the kindly little crowd on the pier and from the parting guests, and, in all the babel and confusion, Frithiof was conscious only of Blanche’s clear “Auf wiedersehen!” and saw nothing but the sweet dark eyes, which to the very last dwelt on him.

“Well, that is over!” he said to Sigrid, pulling himself together, and stifling a sigh.

“Perhaps they will come here next year,” suggested Sigrid consolingly.

“Perhaps I shall go to England next autumn,” said Frithiof with a smile.

“So soon!” she exclaimed involuntarily.

He laughed, for the words were such a curious contradiction to the ones which lurked in his own mind.

“Oh! you call two months a short time!” he exclaimed; “and to me it seems an eternity. You will have to be very forbearing, for I warn you such a waiting time is very little to my taste.”

“Then why did you not speak now, before she went away?”

“You wisest of advisers!” he said, with a smile: “I did speak yesterday.”

“Yesterday!” she cried eagerly. “Yesterday, on Munkeggen?”

“Yes; all that now remains is to get Mr. Morgan’s consent to our betrothal.”

“Oh, Frithiof, I am so glad! so very glad! How pleased father will be! I think you must write and let him know.”

“If he will keep it quite secret,” said Frithiof; “but of course not a word must be breathed until her father has consented. There is no engagement as yet, only we know that we love each other.”

“That ought to be enough to satisfy you till the autumn. And it was so nice of you to tell me, Frithiof. Oh, I don’t think I could have borne it if you had chosen to marry some girl I didn’t like. As for Blanche, there never was any one more sweet and lovely.”

It seemed that Frithiof’s happiness was to bring happiness to the whole family. Even little Swanhild guessed the true state of things, and began to frame visions of the happy future when the beautiful English girl should become her own sister; while as to Herr Falck, the news seemed to banish entirely the heavy depression which for some time had preyed upon him. And so, in spite of the waiting, the time slipped by quickly to Frithiof, the mere thought of Blanche’s love kept him rapturously happy, and at the pretty villa in Kalvedalen there was much laughter and mirth, and music and singing—much eager expectation and hope, and much planning of a future life which should be even more full and happy.

At length, when the afternoons closed in early, and the long winter was beginning to give signs of its approach, Frithiof took leave of his home, and, on one October Saturday, started on his voyage to England. It was, in a sense, the great event of his life, and they all instinctively knew that it was a crisis, so that Sigrid drew aside little Swanhild at the last, and left the father and son to have their parting words alone.

“I look to you, Frithiof,” the father said eagerly, “I look to you to carry out the aims in which I myself have failed—to live the life I could wish to have lived. May God grant you the wife who will best help you in the struggle! I sometimes think, Frithiof, that things might have gone very differently with me had your mother been spared.”

“Do you not let this depression influence you too much, father?” said Frithiof. “Why take such a dark view of your own life? I shall only be too happy if I make as much of the world as you have done. I wish you could have come to England too. I think you want change and rest.”

“Ah!” said Herr Falck, laughing, “once over there you will not echo that wish. No, no, you are best by yourself when you go a-wooing, my son. Besides, I could not possibly leave home just now; we shall have the herring-fleet back from Iceland before many days.”

Then, as the signal was given that all friends of the passengers must leave the steamer, he took Frithiof’s hand and held it fast in his.

“God bless you, my boy—I think you will bring honor to our name, sooner or later. Now, Sigrid, wish him well, and let us be off.”

He called little Swanhild to him, and walked briskly down the gangway, then stood on the quay, talking very cheerfully, his momentary depression quite past. Before long the steamer began to glide off, and Frithiof, even in the midst of his bright expectations, felt a pang as he waved a farewell to those he left behind him.

“A happy return to Gamle Norge!” shouted Herr Falck.

And Sigrid and Swanhild stood waving their handkerchiefs till the steamer could no longer be seen.

“I am a fool to mind going away!” reflected Frithiof. “In three weeks’ time I shall be at home again. And the next time I leave Bergen, why, who knows, perhaps it will be to attend my own wedding!”

And with that he began to pace the deck, whistling, as he walked, “The Bridal Song of the Hardanger.”