“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.”