Читать книгу A Hardy Norseman - Lyall Edna - Страница 7

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The event to which we have long eagerly looked forward is seldom all that we have expected, and Frithiof, who for the last two months had been almost hourly rehearsing his arrival in England, felt somewhat depressed and disillusioned when, one chilly Monday morning, he first set foot on English soil. The Southerner, arriving at Folkestone or Dover, with their white cliffs and sunny aspect, gains a cheerful impression as he steps ashore; but the Norwegian leaving behind him his mountains and fjords, and coming straight to that most dingy and unattractive town, Hull, is at great disadvantage.

A fine, drizzling rain was falling; in the early morning the shabby, dirty houses looked their very worst. Swarms of grimy little children had been turned out of their homes, and were making their way to morning school, and hundreds of busy men and women were hurrying through the streets, all with worn, anxious-looking faces. As he walked to the railway station Frithiof felt almost overpowered by the desolateness of the place. To be a mere unit in this unthinking, unheeding crowd, to be pushed and jostled by the hurrying passengers, who all walked as if their very lives depended on their speed, to hear around him the rapidly spoken foreign language, with its strange north-country accent, all made him feel very keenly that he was indeed a foreigner in a strange land. He was glad to be once more in a familiar-looking train, and actually on his way to London; and soon all these outer impressions faded away in the absorbing consciousness that he was actually on his way to Blanche—that on the very next day he might hope to see her again.

Fortunately the Tuesday proved to be a lovely, still, autumn day. He did not like to call upon Mr. Morgan till the afternoon, and, indeed, thought that he should scarcely find him at home earlier, so he roamed about London, and looked at his watch about four times an hour, till at length the time came when he could call a hansom and drive to Lancaster Gate.

There are some houses which the moment you enter them suggest to you the idea of money. The Morgans’ house was one of these; everything was faultlessly arranged; your feet sank into the softest of carpets, you were served by the most obsequious of servants, all that was cheap or common or ordinary was banished from view, and you felt that the chair you sat on was a very superior chair, that all the pictures and ornaments were the very best that could be bought, and that ordinary people who could not boast of a very large income were only admitted into this aggressively superior dwelling on sufferance. With all its grandeur, it was not a house which tempted you to break the tenth commandment; it inspired you with a kind of wonder, and if the guests had truly spoken the thought which most frequently occurred to them, it would have been: “I wonder now what he gave for this? It must have cost a perfect fortune!”

As to Frithiof, when he was shown into the great empty drawing-room with its luxurious couches and divans and its wonderful collection of the very best upholstery and the most telling works of art, he felt, as strongly as he had felt in the dirty streets of Hull, that he was a stranger and a foreigner. In the whole room there was nothing which suggested to him the presence of Blanche; on the contrary, there was everything which combated the vision of those days at Balholm and of their sweet freedom. He felt stifled, and involuntarily crossed the room and looked from the window at the green grass in Kensington Gardens, and the tall elm-trees with their varying autumn tints.

Before many minutes had passed, however, his host came into the room, greeting him politely but somewhat stiffly. “Glad to make your acquaintance,” he said, scanning him a little curiously as he spoke. “I heard of you, of course, from my brother. I am sure they are all very much indebted to you for planning their Norwegian tour for them so well.”

Had he also heard of him from Blanche? Had she indeed prepared the way for him? Or would his request come as a surprise? These were the thoughts which rushed through Frithiof’s mind as he sat opposite the Englishman and noted his regular features, short, neat-looking, gray beard, closely cropped hair, and rather cold eyes.

Any one watching the two could scarcely have conceived a greater contrast: the young Norwegian, eager, hopeful, bearing in his face the look of one who has all the world before him; the middle-aged Englishman who had bought his experience, and in whose heart enthusiasm, and eager enjoyment of life, and confident belief in those he encountered, had long ceased to exist. Nevertheless, though Mr. Morgan was a hard-headed and a somewhat cold-blooded man, he felt a little sorry for his guest, and reflected to himself that such a fine looking fellow was far more fit for the post at Stavanger than his own son Cyril.

“It is curious that you should have come to-day,” he remarked, after they had exchanged the usual platitudes about the weather and the voyage and the first impressions of England. “Only to-day the final decision was arrived at about this long-mooted idea of the new branch of our firm at Stavanger. Perhaps you have heard rumors of it?”

“I have heard nothing at all,” said Frithiof. “My father did not even mention it.”

“It is scarcely possible that he has heard nothing of the idea,” said Mr. Morgan. “When I saw you I had thought he had sent you over on that very account. However, you have not as yet gone into the business, I understand?”

“I am to be taken into partnership this autumn,” said Frithiof. “I was of age the other day, and have only waited for that.”

“Strange,” said Mr. Morgan, “that only this very morning the telegram should have been sent to your father. Had I known you were in England, I would have waited. One can say things better face to face. And yet I don’t know how that could have been either, for there was a sudden chance of getting good promises at Stavanger, and delay was impossible. I shall, of course, write fully to your father by the next mail, and I will tell him that it is with great regret we sever our connection with him.”

Frithiof was so staggered by this unexpected piece of news that for a minute all else was driven from his mind.

“He will be very sorry to be no longer your agent,” he said.

“And I shall be sorry to lose him. Herr Falck has always been most honorable. I have the greatest respect for him. Still, business is business; one can’t afford to sentimentalize in life over old connections. It is certainly best in the interest of our firm to set up a branch of our own with its headquarters at Stavanger. My son will go there very shortly.”

“The telegram is only just sent, you say?” asked Frithiof.

“The first thing this morning,” replied Mr. Morgan. “It was decided on last night. By this time your father knows all about it; indeed, I almost wonder we have had no reply from him. You must not let the affair make any breach between us; it is after all, a mere business necessity. I must find out from Mrs. Morgan what free nights we have, and you must come and dine with us. I will write and let you know. Have you any particular business in London? or have you only come for the sake of traveling?”

“I came to see you, sir,” said Frithiof, his heart beating quickly, though he spoke with his usual directness. “I came to ask your consent to my betrothal with your daughter.”

“With my daughter!” exclaimed Mr. Morgan. “Betrothal! What, in Heaven’s name, can you be thinking of?”

“I do not, of course, mean that there was a definite engagement between us,” said Frithiof, speaking all the more steadily because of this repulse. “Of course we could not have thought of that until we had asked your consent. We agreed that I should come over this autumn and speak to you about it; nothing passed at Balholm but just the assurance that we loved each other.”

“Loved each other!” ejaculated Mr. Morgan, beginning to pace the room with a look of perplexity and annoyance. “What folly will the girl commit next?”

At this Frithiof also rose to his feet, the angry color rising to his face. “I should never have spoken of my love to your daughter had I not been in a position to support her,” he said hotly. “By your English standards I may not, perhaps, be very rich, but our firm is one of the leading firms in Bergen. We come of a good old Norwegian family. Why should it be a folly for your daughter to love me?”

“You misunderstand me,” said Mr. Morgan. “I don’t wish to say one word against yourself. However, as you have alluded to the matter I must tell you plainly that I expect my daughter to make a very different marriage. Money I can provide her with. Her husband will supply her with a title.”

“What!” cried Frithiof furiously, “you will force her to marry some wretched aristocrat whom she can’t possibly love? For the sake of a mere title you ruin her happiness.”

“I shall certainly do nothing of the kind,” said the Englishman, with a touch of dignity. “Sit down, Herr Falck, and listen to me. I would have spared you this had it been possible. You are very young, and you have taken things for granted too much. You believed that the first pretty girl that flirted with you was your future wife. I can quite fancy that Blanche was well pleased to have you dancing attendance on her in Norway, but it was on her part nothing but a flirtation, she does not care for you in the least.”

“I do not believe it,” said Frithiof hotly.

“Don’t think that I wish to excuse her,” said Mr. Morgan. “She is very much to be blamed. But, she is pretty and winsome, she knows her own power, and it pleases her to use it; women are all of them vain and selfish. What do they care for the suffering they cause?”

“You shall not say such things of her,” cried Frithiof desperately. “It is not true. It can’t be true!”

His face had grown deathly pale, and he was trembling with excitement. Mr. Morgan felt sorry for him.

“My poor fellow,” he said kindly, “don’t take it so hard. You are not the first man who has been deceived. I am heartily sorry that my child’s foolish thoughtlessness should have given you this to bear. But, after all, it’s a lesson every one has to learn; you were inexperienced and young.”

“It is not possible!” repeated Frithiof in terrible agitation, remembering vividly her promises, her words of love, her kisses, the expression of her eyes, as she had yielded to his eager declaration of love. “I will never believe it possible till I hear it from her own lips.”

With a gesture of annoyance, Mr. Morgan crossed the room and rang the bell. “Well, let it be so, then,” he said coldly. “Blanche has treated you ill; I don’t doubt it for a moment, and you will have every right to hear the explanation from herself.” Then, as the servant appeared, “Tell Miss Morgan that I want her in the drawing-room. Desire her to come at once.”

The minutes of waiting which followed were the worst Frithiof had ever lived through. Doubt, fear, indignation, and passionate love strove together in his heart, while mingled with all was the oppressive consciousness of his host’s presence, and of the aggressive superiority of the room and its contents.

Perhaps the waiting was not altogether pleasant to Mr. Morgan; he poked the fire and moved about restlessly. When, at last, light footsteps were heard on the stairs, and Blanche entered the room, he turned toward her with evident displeasure in his face.

She wore a dress of reddish brown with a great deal of plush about it, and something in the way it was made suggested the greatest possible contrast to the little simple traveling-dress she had worn in Norway. Her eyes were bright and eager, her loveliness as great as ever.

“You wanted me, papa?” she began; then, as she came forward and recognized Frithiof, she gave a little start of dismay and the color burned in her cheeks.

“Yes, I wanted you,” said Mr. Morgan gravely. “Herr Falck’s son has just arrived.”

She struggled hard to recover herself.

“I am very glad to see you again,” she said, forcing up a little artificial laugh and holding out her hand.

But Frithiof had seen her first expression of dismay and it had turned him into ice; he would not take her proffered hand, but only bowed formally. There was a painful silence.

“This is not the first time, Blanche, that you have learned what comes of playing with edged tools,” said Mr. Morgan sternly. “I heard from others that you had flirted with Herr Falck’s son in Norway; I now learn that it was by your own suggestion that he came to England to ask my consent to an engagement, and that you allowed him to believe that you loved him. What have you to say for yourself?”

While her father spoke, Blanche had stood by with bent head and downcast eyes; at this direct question she looked up for a moment.

“I thought I did care for him just at the time,” she faltered. “It—it was a mistake.”

“Why, then, did you not write and tell him so? It was the least you could have done,” said her father.

“It was such a difficult letter to write,” she faltered. “I kept on putting it off, and hoping that he, too, would find out his mistake. And then sometimes I thought I could explain it all better to him if he came.”

Frithiof made a step or two forward; his face was pale and rigid; the blue seemed to have died out of his eyes—they looked like steel. “I wait for your explanation,” he said, in a voice which, in spite of its firmness, betrayed intense agitation.

Mr. Morgan without a word quitted the room, and the two were left alone. Again there was a long, expressive silence. Then, with a sob, Blanche turned away, sinking down on an ottoman and covering her face with her hands. Her tears instantly melted Frithiof; his indignation and wounded pride gave pace to love and tenderness; a sort of wild hope rose in his mind.

“Blanche! Blanche!” he cried. “It isn’t true! It can’t be all over! Others have been urging you to make some grand marriage—to be the wife perhaps of some rich nobleman. But he can not love you as I love you. Oh! have you forgotten how you told me I might trust to you? There is not a moment since then that you have not been in my thoughts.”

“I hoped so you would forget,” she sobbed.

“How could I forget? What man could help remembering you day and night? Oh, Blanche, don’t you understand that I love you? I love you!”

“I understand only too well,” she said, glancing at him, her dark eyes brimming over with tears.

He drew nearer.

“And you will love me once more,” he said passionately. “You will not choose rank and wealth; you will—”

“Oh, hush! hush!” she cried. “It has all been a dreadful mistake. I never really loved you. Oh, don’t look like that! I was very dull in Norway—there was no one else but you. I am sorry; very sorry.”

He started back from her as if she had dealt him some mortal blow, but Blanche went on, speaking quickly and incoherently, never looking in his face.

“After we went away I began to see all the difficulties so plainly—our belonging to different countries, and being accustomed to different things; but still I did really think I liked you till we got to Christiania. There, on the steamer coming home, I found that it had all been a mistake.”

She paused. All this time she had carefully kept the fingers of her left hand out of view; the position was too constrained not to attract Frithiof’s notice.

He remembered that, in the wearing of betrothal or wedding-rings, English custom reversed the Norwegian, and turned upon her almost fiercely.

“Why do you try to hide that from me?” he cried. “Are you already betrothed to this other man?”

“It was only last Sunday,” she sobbed. “And I meant to write to you; I did indeed.”

Once more she covered her face with her hands, this time not attempting to hide from Frithiof the beautiful circlet of brilliants on her third finger.

It seemed to him that giant hands seized on him then and crushed out of him his very life. Yet the pain of living went on remorselessly, and as if from a very great distance he heard Blanche’s voice.

“I am engaged to Lord Romiaux,” she said. “He had been in Norway on a fishing tour, but it was on the steamer that we first met. And then almost directly I knew that at Munkeggen it had all been quite a mistake, and that I had never really loved you. We met again at one of the watering-places in September, but it was only settled the day before yesterday. I wish—oh, how I wish—that I had written to tell you!”

She stood up impulsively and drew nearer to him.

“Is there nothing I can do to make up for my mistake?” she said, lifting pathetic eyes to his.

“Nothing.” he said bitterly.

“Oh, don’t think badly of me for it,” she pleaded. “Don’t hate me.”

“Hate you?” he exclaimed. “It will be the curse of my life that I love you—that you have made me love you.”

He turned as though to go away.

“Don’t go without saying good-by,” she exclaimed; and her eyes said more plainly than words, “I do not mind if you kiss me just once more.”

He paused, ice one minute, fire the next, yet through it all aware that his conscience was urging him to go without delay.

Blanche watched him tremulously; she drew yet nearer.

“Could we not still be friends?” she said, with a pathetic little quiver in her voice.

“No,” he cried vehemently, yet with a certain dignity in his manner; “no, we could not.”

Then, before Blanche could recover enough from her sense of humiliation at this rebuff to speak, he bowed to her and left the room.

She threw herself down on the sofa and buried her face in the cushions. “Oh, what must he think of me? what must he think of me?” she sobbed. “How I wish I had written to him at once and saved myself this dreadful scene! How could I have been so silly! so dreadfully silly! To be afraid of writing a few words in a letter! My poor Viking! he looked so grand as he turned away. I wish we could have been friends still; it used to be so pleasant in Norway; he was so unlike other people; he interested me. And now it is all over, and I shall never be able to meet him again. Oh, I have managed very badly. If I had not been so imprudent on Munkeggen he might have been my cavalier all his life, and I should have liked to show him over here to people. I should have liked to initiate him in everything.”

The clock on the mantel-piece struck five. She started up and ran across to one of the mirrors, looking anxiously at her eyes. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall I do?” she thought. “Algernon will be here directly, and I have made a perfect object of myself with crying.” Then, as the door-bell rang, she caught up a couvrette, sunk down on the sofa, and covered herself up picturesquely. “There is nothing for it but a bad headache,” she said to herself.