On the stairs Frithiof was waylaid by Mr. Morgan; it was with a sort of
surprise that he heard his own calm replies to the Englishman’s polite
speeches, and regrets, and inquiries as to when he returned to Norway,
for all the time his head was swimming, and it was astonishing that he
could frame a correct English phrase. The thought occurred to him that
Mr. Morgan would be glad enough to get rid of him and to put an end to
so uncomfortable a visit; he could well imagine the shrug of relief with
which the Englishman would return to his fireside, with its aggressively
grand fenders and fire-irons, and would say to himself, “Well, poor
devil, I am glad he is gone! A most provoking business from first to
last.” For to the Morgans the affair would probably end as soon as the
door had closed behind him, but for himself it would drag on and on
indefinitely. He walked on mechanically past the great houses which, to
his unaccustomed eyes, looked so palatial; every little trivial thing
seemed to obtrude itself upon him; he noticed the wan, haggard-looking
crossing sweeper, who tried his best to find something to sweep on that
dry, still day when even autumn leaves seldom fell; he noticed the
pretty spire of the church, and heard the clock strike five, reflecting
that one brief half-hour had been enough to change his whole life—to
bring him from the highest point of hope and eager anticipation to this
lowest depth of wretchedness. The endless succession of great,
monotonous houses grew intolerable to him; he crossed the road and
turned into Kensington Gardens, aware, as the first wild excitement died
down in his heart, of a cold, desolate blankness, the misery of which
appalled him. What was the meaning of it all? How could it possibly be
borne? Only by degrees did it dawn upon his overwrought brain that
Blanche’s faithlessness had robbed him of much more than her love. It
had left him stripped and wounded on the highway of life; it had taken
from him all belief in woman; it had made forever impossible for him his
old creed of the joy of mere existence; it had killed his youth. Was he
now to get up, and crawl on, and drag through the rest of his life as
best might be? Why, what was life worth to him now? He had been a fool
ever to believe in it; it was as she herself had once told him, he had
believed that it was all-sufficient merely because he had never known
unhappiness—never known the agony that follows when, for—
“The first time Nature says plain ‘No’
To some ‘Yes’ in you, and walks over you
In gorgeous sweeps of scorn.”
His heart was so utterly dead that he could not even think of his home;
neither his father nor Sigrid rose before him as he looked down that
long, dreary vista of life that lay beyond. He could only see that
Blanche was no longer his; that the Blanche he had loved and believed in
had never really existed; that he had been utterly deceived, cheated,
defrauded; and that something had been taken from him which could never
return.
“I will not live a day longer,” he said to himself; “not an hour
longer.” And in the relief of having some attainable thing to desire
ardently, were it only death and annihilation, he quickened his pace and
felt a sort of renewal of energy and life within him, urging him on,
holding before him the one aim which he thought was worth pursuing. He
would end it all quickly, he would not linger on, weakly bemoaning his
fate, or railing at life for having failed him and disappointed his
hopes; he would just put an end to everything without more ado. As to
arguing with himself about the right or wrong of the matter, such a
notion never occurred to him, he just walked blindly on, certain that
some opportunity would present itself, buoyed up by an unreasoning hope
that death would bring him relief.
By this time he had reached Hyde Park, and a vague memory came back to
him; he remembered that, as he drove to Lancaster Gate, that afternoon,
he had crossed a bridge. There was water over there. It should be that
way. And he walked on more rapidly than before, still with an almost
dazzling perception of all the trifling little details, the color of the
dry, dusty road, the green of the turf, the dresses of those who passed
by him, the sound of their voices, the strange incongruity of their
perfectly unconcerned, contented faces. He would get away from all
this—would wait till it was dusk, when he could steal down unnoticed to
the water. Buoyed up by this last hope of relief, he walked along the
north shore of the Serpentine, passed the Receiving House of the Royal
Humane Society, with an unconcerned thought that his lifeless body would
probably be taken there, passed the boat-house with a fervent hope that
no one there would try a rescue, and at length, finding a seat under a
tree close to the water’s edge, sat down to wait for the darkness. It
need not be for long, for already the sun was setting, and over toward
the west he could see that behind the glowing orange and russet of the
autumn trees was a background of crimson sky. The pretty little wooded
island and the round green boat-house on the shore stood out in strong
relief; swans and ducks swam about contentedly; on the further bank was
a dark fringe of trees; away to the left the three arches of a
gray-stone bridge. In the evening light it made a fair picture, but the
beauty of it seemed only to harden him, for it reminded him of past
happiness; he turned with sore-hearted relief to the nearer view of the
Serpentine gleaming coldly as its waters washed the shore, and to the
dull monotony of the path in front of him with its heaps of brown
leaves. A bird sat singing in the beech-tree above him; its song jarred
on him just as much as the beauty of the sunset, it seemed to urge him
to leave the place where he was not needed, to take himself out of a
world which was meant for beauty and brightness and success, a world
which had no sympathy for failure or misery. He longed for the song to
cease, and he longed for the sunset glory to fade, he was impatient for
the end; the mere waiting for that brief interval became to him almost
intolerable; only the dread of being rescued held him back.
Presently footsteps on the path made him look up; a shabbily dressed
girl walked slowly by, she was absorbed in a newspaper story and did not
notice him; neither did she notice her charge, a pale-faced, dark-eyed
little girl of about six years old who followed her at some distance,
chanting a pretty, monotonous little tune as she dragged a toy-cart
along the gravel. Frithiof, with the preternatural powers of observation
which seemed his that day, noticed in an instant every tiniest detail of
the child’s face and dress and bearing, the curious anatomy of the
wooden horse, the heap of golden leaves in the little cart. As the child
drew nearer, the words of the song became perfectly audible to him. She
sang very slowly, and in a sort of unconscious way, as if she couldn’t
help it:
“Comfort every sufferer,
Watching late in pain—”
She paused to put another handful of leaves into the cart, arranged them
with great care, patted the wooden steed, and resumed her song as if
there had been no interruption—
“Those who plan some evil,
From their sin restrain.”
Frithiof felt as if a knife had been suddenly plunged into him; he tried
to hear more, but the words died away, he could only follow the
monotonous little tune in the clear voice, and the rattling of the toy
cart on the pathway. And so the child passed on out of sight, and he saw
her no more.
He was alone again, and the twilight for which he had longed was fast
closing in upon him; a sort of blue haze seemed gathering over the park;
night was coming on. What was this horrible new struggle which was
beginning within him? “Evil,” “sin”; could he not at least do what he
would with his own life? Where was the harm in ending that which was
hopelessly spoiled and ruined? Was not suicide a perfectly legitimate
ending to a life?
A voice within him answered his question plainly:
“To the man with a diseased brain—the man who doesn’t know what he is
about—it is no worse an end than to die in bed of a fever. But to
you—you who are afraid of the suffering of life, you who know quite well
what you are doing—to you it is sin.”
Fight against it as he would, he could not stifle this new consciousness
which had arisen within him. What had led him, he angrily wondered, to
choose that particular place to wait in? What had made that child walk
past? What had induced her to sing those particular words? Did that
vague First Cause, in whom after a fashion he believed, take any heed of
trifles such as those? He would never believe that. Only women or
children could hold such a creed: only those who led sheltered,
innocent, ignorant lives. But a man—a man who had just learned what the
world really was, who saw that the weakest went to the wall, and might
triumphed over right—a man who had once believed in the beauty of life
and had been bitterly disillusioned—could never believe in a God who
ordered all things for good. It was a chance, a mere unlucky chance, yet
the child’s words had made it impossible for him to die in peace.
As a matter of fact the sunset sky and fading light had suggested to the
little one’s untroubled mind the familiar evening hymn with its graphic
description of scenery, its beautiful word-painting, its wide human
sympathies; and that great mystery of life which links us together,
whether we know it or not, gave to the child the power to counteract the
influence of Blanche Morgan’s faithlessness, and to appeal to one to
whom the sight of that same sunset had suggested only thoughts of
despair.
A wild confusion of memories seemed to rush through his mind, and
blended with them always were the welcome words and the quiet little
chant. He was back at home again talking with the old pastor who had
prepared him for confirmation; he was a mere boy once more,
unhesitatingly accepting all that he was taught; he was standing in the
great crowded Bergen church and declaring his belief in Christ, and his
entire willingness to give up everything wrong; he was climbing a
mountain with Blanche and arguing with her that life—mere existence—was
beautiful and desirable.
Looking back afterward on the frightful struggle, it seemed to him that
for ages he had tossed to and fro in that horrible hesitation. In
reality all must have been over within a quarter of an hour. There rose
before him the recollection of his father as he had last seen him
standing on the deck of the steamer, and he remembered the tone of his
voice as he had said:
“I look to you, Frithiof, to carry out the aims in which I myself have
failed, to live the life that I could wish to have lived.”
He saw once again the wistful look in his father’s eyes, the mingled
love, pride, and anxiety with which he had turned to him, loath to let
him go, and yet eager to speed him on his way. Should he now disappoint
all his hopes? Should he, deliberately and in the full possession of all
his faculties, take a step which must bring terrible suffering to his
home people? And then he remembered for the first time that already
trouble and vexation and loss had overtaken his father; he knew well how
greatly he would regret the connection with the English firm, and he
pictured to himself the familiar house in Kalvedalen with a new and
unfamiliar cloud upon it, till instead of the longing for death there
came to him a nobler longing—a longing to go back and help, a longing to
make up to his father for the loss and vexation and the slight which had
been put upon him. He began to feel ashamed of the other wish, he began
to realize that there was still something to be lived for, though indeed
life looked to him as dim and uninviting as the twilight park with its
wreaths of gray mists, and its unpeopled solitude.
Yet still he would live; the other thought no longer allured him, his
strength and manliness were returning; with bitter resolution he tore
himself from the vision of Blanche which rose mockingly before him, and
getting up, made his way out of the park.
Emerging once more into the busy world of traffic at Hyde Park corner,
the perception of his forlorn desolateness came to him with far more
force than in the quiet path by the Serpentine. For the first time he
felt keenly that he was in an unknown city, and there came over him a
sick longing for Norway, for dear old Bergen, for the familiar
mountains, the familiar faces, the friendly greetings of passers-by. For
a few minutes he stood still, uncertain which road to take, wondering
how in the world he should get through the weary hours of his solitary
evening. Close by him a young man stood talking to the occupants of a
brougham which had drawn up by the pavement; he heard a word or two of
their talk, dimly, almost unconsciously.
“Is the result of the trial known yet?”
“Yes, five years’ penal servitude, and no more than he deserves.”
“The poor children! what will become of them?”
“Shall you be home by ten? We wont hinder you, then.”
“Quite by ten. Tell father that Sardoni is free for the night he wanted
him; I met him just now. Good-by.” Then to the coachman “Home!”
The word startled Frithiof back to the recollection of his own affairs;
he had utterly lost his bearings and must ask for direction. He would
accost this man who seemed a little less in a hurry than the rest of the
world.
“Will you kindly tell me the way to the Arundel Hotel?” he asked.
The young man turned at the sound of his voice, looked keenly at him for
an instant, then held out his hand in cordial welcome.
“How are you?” he exclaimed. “What a lucky chance that we should have
run across each other in the dark like this! Have you been long in
England?”
Frithiof, at the first word of hearty greeting, looked up with startled
eyes, and in the dim gas-light he saw the honest English face and kindly
eyes of Roy Boniface.