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Transcriber’s note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
A HARDY NORSEMAN
by
EDNA LYALL
Author of “Donovan,” “Knight Errant,” Etc.
[Illustration]
Chicago
Donohue, Henneberry & Co.
Publishers
[Illustration:
PRINTED
AND BOUND BY
DONOHUE &
HENNEBERRY
CHICAGO]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.
CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHAPTER XXX.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CHAPTER XXXII.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
CHAPTER XXXV.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
CHAPTER XL.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A HARDY NORSEMAN.
CHAPTER I.
“You say your things are all ready, Cecil? Then I’ll just go below and
do up my Gladstone, and put it in your cabin. We shall be at Bergen
before long, they say.”
The speaker was a young Englishman of three-or-four-and-twenty, and the
sister addressed by him was still in the first flush of girlhood, having
but a few days before celebrated her nineteenth birthday.
“Let me see to your bag, Roy,” she exclaimed. “It is a shame that you
should miss this lovely bit of the fjord, and I shall do it in half the
time.”
“The conceit of women!” he exclaimed, with a smile in which brotherly
love and the spirit of teasing were about equally blended. “No, no, Cis,
I’m not going to let you spoil me. I shall be up again in ten minutes.
Have you not made any friends here? Is there no one on deck you can talk
to?”
“I don’t want to talk,” said Cecil. “Truth to tell, I am longing to get
away from all these English people. Very unsociable of me, isn’t it?”
Roy Boniface turned away with a smile, understanding her feeling well
enough, and Cecil, with her back to the chattering tourist throng, let
her eyes roam over the shining waters of the fjord to the craggy
mountains on the further shore, whose ever-varying forms had been
delighting her since the early morning.
She herself made a fair picture, though her beauty was not of the order
which quickly draws attention. There was nothing very striking in her
regular features, fair complexion, and light-brown hair; to a casual
observer she would have seemed merely an average English girl, gentle,
well-mannered, and nice-looking. It was only to those who took pains to
study her that her true nature was revealed; only at times that her
quiet gray eyes would flash into sudden beauty with the pleasure of
meeting with some rare and unexpected sympathy; only in some special
need that the force of her naturally retiring nature made itself felt as
a great influence.
Cecil had passed a year of emancipated girlhood, she had for a whole
year been her own mistress, had had time and money at her disposal and
no special duties to take the place of her school-work. It was the time
she had been looking forward to all her life, the blissful time of
grown-up freedom, and now that it had come it had proved a disappointing
illusion. Whether the fault was in herself or in her circumstances she
did not know; but like so many girls of her age she was looking out on
life with puzzled eyes, hardly knowing what it was that had gone amiss,
yet conscious of a great want, of a great unrest, of a vague
dissatisfaction which would not be reasoned down.
“Cecil is looking poorly,” had been the home verdict; and the mother,
not fully understanding the cause, but with a true instinct as to the
remedy, had suggested that the brother and sister should spend a month
abroad, grieving to lose Cecil from the usual family visit to the
seaside, but perceiving with a mother’s wisdom and unselfishness that it
was time, as she expressed it, for her young one to try its wings.
So the big steamer plied its way up the fjord bearing Cecil Boniface and
her small troubles and perplexities to healthy old Norway, to gain there
fresh physical strength, and fresh insights into that puzzling thing
called life; to make friendships, spite of her avowed unsociableness, to
learn something more of the beauty of beauty, the joy of joy, and the
pain of pain.
She was no student of human nature; at present with girlish impatience
she turned away from the tourists, frankly avowing her conviction that
they were a bore. She was willing to let her fancy roam to the fortunes
of some imaginary Rolf and Erica living, perhaps, in some one or other
of the solitary red-roofed cottages to be seen now and then on the
mountain-side; but the average English life displayed on the deck did
not in the least awaken her sympathies, she merely classified the
passengers into rough groups and dismissed them from her mind. There was
the photographic group, fraternizing over the cameras set up all in a
little encampment at the forecastle end. There was the clerical group,
which had for its center no fewer than five gaitered bishops. There was
the sporting group, distinguished by light-brown checked suits, and
comfortable traveling-caps. There was the usual sprinkling of pale,
weary, overworked men and women come for a much-needed rest. And there
was the flirting group—a notably small one, however, for Norwegian
traveling is rough work and is ill-suited to this genus.
“Look, here, Blanche,” exclaimed a gray-bearded Englishman, approaching
a pretty little brunette who had a most sweet and winsome expression,
and who was standing so near to the camp-stool on which Cecil had
ensconced herself that the conversation was quite audible to her. “Just
see if you can’t make out this writing; your eyes are better than mine.
It is from Herr Falck, the Norwegian agent for our firm. I dare say your
father told you about him.”
“Yes, papa said he was one of the leading merchants out here and would
advise us what to see, and where to go.”
“Quite so. This letter reached me just as I was leaving home, and is to
say that Herr Falck has taken rooms for us at some hotel. I can read it
all well enough except the names, but the fellow makes such outrageous
flourishes. What do you make of this sentence, beginning with ‘My son
Frithiof’?”
“Uncle! uncle! what shocking pronunciation! You must not put in an
English ‘th.’ Did you never hear of the Frithiof Saga? You must say it
quickly like this—Freet-Yoff.”
“A most romantic name,” said Mr. Morgan. “Now I see why you have been so
industrious over your Norwegian lessons. You mean to carry on a
desperate flirtation with Herr Frithiof. Oh! that is quite clear—I shall
be on the lookout!”
Blanche laughed, not at all resenting the remark, though she bent her
pretty face over the letter, and pretended to have great difficulty in
reading Herr Falck’s very excellent English.
“Do you want to hear this sentence?” she said, “because if you do I’ll
read it.”
“‘My son Frithiof will do himself the honor to await your arrival at
Bergen on the landing-quay, and will drive you to Holdt’s Hotel, where
we have procured the rooms you desired. My daughter Sigrid (See-gree) is
eager to make the acquaintance of your daughter and your niece, and if
you will all dine with us at two o’clock on Friday at my villa in
Kalvedalen we shall esteem it a great pleasure.’”
“Two-o’clock dinner!” exclaimed Florence Morgan, for the first time
joining in the general conversation. “What an unheard-of hour!”
“Oh! everything is primitive simplicity out here,” said Mr. Morgan. “You
needn’t expect London fashions.”
“I suppose Frithiof Falck will be a sort of young Viking, large-boned
and dignified, with a kind of good-natured fierceness about him,” said
Blanche, folding the letter.
“No, no,” said Florence, “he’ll be a shy, stupid country bumpkin, afraid
of airing his bad English, and you will step valiantly into the breach
with your fluent Norwegian, and your kindness will win his heart. Then
presently he will come up in his artless and primitive way with a _Vaer
saa god_ (if you please) and will take your hand. You will reply _Mange
tak_ (many thanks), and we shall all joyfully dance at your wedding.”
There was general laughter, and some trifling bets were made upon the
vexed question of Frithiof Falck’s appearance.
“Well,” said Mr. Morgan, “it’s all very well to laugh now, but I hope
you’ll be civil to the Falcks when we really meet. And as to you,
Cyril,” he continued, turning to his nephew, a limp-looking young man of
one-and-twenty, “get all the information you can out of young Falck, but
on no account allow him to know that your father is seriously thinking
of setting you at the head of the proposed branch at Stavanger. When
that does come about, of course Herr Falck will lose our custom, and no
doubt it will be a blow to him; so mind you don’t breathe a word about
it, nor you either, girls. We don’t want to spoil our holiday with
business matters, and besides, one should always consider other people’s
feelings.”
Cecil set her teeth and the color rose to her cheeks; she moved away to
the other side of the deck that she might not hear any more.
“What hateful people! they don’t care a bit for the kindness and
hospitality of these Norwegians. They only mean just to use them as a
convenience.” Then as her brother rejoined her she exclaimed, “Roy, who
are those vulgar people over on the other side?”
“With two pretty girls in blue ulsters? I think the name is Morgan, rich
city people. The old man’s not bad, but the young one’s a born snob.
What do you think I heard him say as he was writing his name in the book
and caught sight of ours. ‘Why, Robert Boniface—that must be the
music-shop in Regent Street. Norway will soon be spoiled if all the cads
take to coming over.’ And there was I within two yards of him.”
“Oh, Roy! he couldn’t have known or he would never have said it.”
“Oh, yes, he knew it well enough. It was meant for a snub, richly
deserved by the presuming tradesman who dared to come to Norway for his
holiday instead of eating shrimps at Margate, as such cattle should, you
know!” and Roy laughed good-humoredly. Snubs had a way of gliding off
him like water off a duck’s back.
“I should have hated it,” said Cecil. “What did you do?”
“Nothing; studied Baedeker with an imperturbable face, and reflected
sapiently with William of Wykeham that neither birth nor calling but
‘manners makyth man.’ But look! this must be Bergen. What a glorious
view! If only you had time to sketch it just from here!”
Cecil, after one quick exclamation of delight, was quite silent, for
indeed few people can see unmoved that exquisite view which is unfolded
before them as they round the fjord and catch the first glimpse of the
most beautiful town in Norway. Had she been alone she would have allowed
the tears of happiness to come into her eyes, but being on a crowded
steamer she fought down her emotion and watched in a sort of dream of
delight the picturesque wooden houses, the red-tiled roofs, the quaint
towers and spires, the clear still fjord, with its forest of masts and
rigging, and the mountains rising steep and sheer, encircling Bergen
like so many hoary old giants who had vowed to protect the town.
Meanwhile, the deck resounded with those comments which are so very
irritating to most lovers of scenery; one long-haired æsthete gave vent
to a fresh adjective of admiration about once a minute, till Roy and
Cecil were forced to flee from him and to take refuge among the sporting
fraternity, who occasionally admitted frankly that it was “a fine view,”
but who obtruded their personality far less upon their companions.
“Oh, Roy, how we shall enjoy it all!” said Cecil, as they drew near to
the crowded landing-quay.
“I think we shall fit in, Cis,” he said, smiling. “Thank Heaven, you
don’t take your pleasure after the manner of that fellow. If I were his
traveling companion I should throttle him in a week.”
“Or suggest a muzzle,” said Cecil, laughing; “that would save both his
neck and your feelings.”
“Let me have your key,” he said, as they approached the wooden pier;
“the custom-house people will be coming on board, and I will try to get
our things looked over quickly. Wait here and then I shall not miss
you.”
He hastened away and Cecil scanned with curious eyes the faces of the
little crowd gathered on the landing-quay, till her attention was
arrested by a young Norwegian in a light-gray suit who stood laughing
and talking to an acquaintance on the wooden wharf. He was tall and
broad-shouldered, with something unusually erect and energetic in his
bearing; his features were of the pure Greek type not unfrequently to be
met with in Norway; while his northern birth was attested by a fair skin
and light hair and mustache, as well as by a pair of honest, well-opened
blue eyes which looked out on the world with a boyish content and
happiness.
“I believe that is Frithiof Falck,” thought Cecil. And the next moment
her idea was confirmed, for as the connecting gangway was raised from
the quay, one of the steamer officials greeted him by name, and the
young Norwegian, replying in very good English, stepped on board and
began looking about as if in search of some one. Involuntarily Cecil’s
eyes followed him; she had a strange feeling that in some way she knew
him, knew him far better than the people he had come to meet. He, too,
seemed affected in the same way, for he came straight up to her, and,
raising his hat and bowing, said, with frank courtesy:
“Pardon me, but am I speaking to Miss Morgan?”
“I think the Miss Morgans are at the other side of the gangway; I saw
them a minute ago,” she said, coloring a little.
“A thousand pardons for my mistake,” said Frithiof Falck. “I came to
meet this English family, you understand, but I have never seen them.”
“There is Miss Morgan,” exclaimed Cecil; “that lady in a blue ulster;
and there is her uncle just joining her.”
“Many thanks for your kind help,” said Frithiof, and with a second bow,
and a smile from his frank eyes, he passed on and approached Mr. Morgan.
“Welcome to Norway, sir,” he exclaimed, greeting the traveler with the
easy, courteous manner peculiar to Norwegians. “I hope you have made a
good voyage.”
“Oh, how do you do, Mr. Falck?” said the Englishman, scanning him from
head to foot as he shook hands, and speaking very loud, as if the
foreigner were deaf. “Very good of you to meet us, I’m sure. My niece,
Miss Blanche Morgan.”
Frithiof bowed, and his heart began to beat fast as a pair of most
lovely dark-gray eyes gave him such a glance as he had never before
received.
“My sister is much looking forward to the pleasure of making your
acquaintance,” he said.
“Ah!” exclaimed Blanche, “how beautifully you speak English! And how you
will laugh at me when I tell you that I have been learning Norwegian for
fear there should be dead silence between us.”
“Indeed, there is nothing which pleases us so much as that you should
learn our tongue,” he said, smiling. “My English is just now in its
zenith, for I passed the winter with an English clergyman at Hanover for
the sake of improving it.”
“But why not have come to England?” said Blanche.
“Well, I had before that been with a German family at Hanover to perfect
myself in German, and I liked the place well, and this Englishman was
very pleasant, so I thought if I stayed there it would be ‘to kill two
flies with one dash,’ as we say in Norway. When I come to England that
will be for a holiday, for nothing at all but pleasure.”
“Let me introduce my nephew,” said Mr. Morgan, as Cyril strolled up.
“And this is my daughter. How now, Florence, have you found your boxes?”
“Allow me,” said Frithiof; “if you will tell me what to look for I will
see that the hotel porter takes it all.”
There was a general adjournment to the region of pushing and confusion
and luggage, and before long Frithiof had taken the travelers to his
father’s carriage, and they were driving through the long, picturesque
Strand-gaden. Very few vehicles passed through this main street, but
throngs of pedestrians walked leisurely along or stood in groups talking
and laughing, the women chiefly wearing full skirts of dark-blue serge,
short jackets to match, and little round blue serge hoods surmounting
their clean white caps; the men also in dark-blue with broad felt hats.
To English visitors there is an indescribable charm in the primitive
simplicity, the easy informality of the place: and Frithiof was well
content with the delighted exclamations of the new-comers.
“What charming ponies!” cried Blanche. “Look how oddly their manes are
cut—short manes and long tails! How funny! we do just the opposite. And
they all seem cream colored.”
“This side, Blanche, quick! A lot of peasants in sabots! and oh! just
look at those lovely red gables!”
“How nice the people look, too, so different to people in an English
street. What makes you all so happy over here?”
“Why, what should make us unhappy?” said Frithiof. “We love our country
and our town, we are the freest people in the world, and life is a great
pleasure in itself, don’t you think? But away in the mountains our
people are much more grave. Life is too lonely there. Here in Bergen it
is perfection.”
Cyril Morgan regarded the speaker with a pitying eye, and perhaps would
have enlightened his absurd ignorance and discoursed of Pall Mall and
Piccadilly, had not they just then arrived at Holdt’s Hotel. Frithiof
merely waited to see that they approved of their rooms, gave them the
necessary information as to bankers and lionizing, received Mr. Morgan’s
assurance that the whole party would dine at Herr Falck’s the next day,
and then, having previously dismissed the carriage, set out at a brisker
pace than usual on his walk home.
Blanche Morgan’s surprise at the happy-looking people somehow amused
him. Was it then an out-of-the-way thing for people to enjoy life? For
his own part mere existence satisfied him. But then he was as yet quite
unacquainted with trouble. The death of his mother when he was only
eleven years old had been at the time a great grief, but it had in no
way clouded his after-life, he had been scarcely old enough to realize
the greatness of his loss. Its effect had been to make him cling more
closely to those who were left to him—to his father, to his twin-sister
Sigrid, and to the little baby Swanhild (Svarnheel), whose birth had
cost so much. The home life was an extremely happy one to look back on,
and now that his year of absence was over and his education finished it
seemed to him that all was exactly as he would have it. Faintly in the
distance he looked forward to further success and happiness; being a
fervent patriot he hoped some day to be a king’s minister—the summit of
a Norwegian’s ambition; and being human he had visions of an ideal wife
and an ideal home of his own. But the political career could very well
wait, and the wife too for the matter of that. And yet, as he walked
rapidly along Kong Oscars Gade, through the Stadsport, and past the
picturesque cemeteries which lie on either side of the road, he saw
nothing at all but a vision of the beautiful dark gray eyes which had
glanced up at him so often that afternoon, and in his mind there echoed
the words of one of Bjornson’s poems:
“To-day is just a day to my mind,
All sunny before and sunny behind,
Over the heather.”
But the ending of the poem he had quite forgotten.