By the time he reached Brixton it was quite dusk. Roy had never actually
given him his address; but he made inquiries at a shop in the
neighborhood, was offered the loan of a directory, and having found what
he needed was soon making his way up the well-swept carriage-drive which
led to Rowan Tree House. He was tired with the walk and with his lonely
day of wasted work and disappointment. When he saw the outlines of the
big, substantial house looming out of the twilight he began to wish that
he had never come, for he thought to himself that it would be within
just such another house as the Morgans’, with its hateful air of money,
like the house of Miss Kilmansegg in the poem:
“Gold, and gold, and everywhere gold.”
To his surprise the door was suddenly flung open as he approached, and a
little boy in a velvet tunic came dancing out on to the steps to meet
him.
“Roy! Roy!” shouted the little fellow merrily, “I’ve come to meet you!”
Then speedily discovering his mistake, he darted back into the doorway,
hiding his face in Cecil’s skirt.
She stood there with a little curly-headed child in her arms, and her
soft gray eyes and the deep blue baby eyes looked searching out into the
semi-darkness. Frithiof thought the little group looked like a picture
of the Holy Family. Somehow he no longer dreaded the inside of the
house. For the first time for weeks he felt the sort of rest which is
akin to happiness as Cecil recognized him, and came forward with a
pretty eagerness of manner to greet him, too much astonished at his
sudden appearance for any thought of shyness to intervene.
“We thought you must have gone back to Norway,” she exclaimed. “I am so
glad you have come to see us. The children thought it was Roy who opened
the gate. He will be home directly. He will be so glad to see you.”
“I should have called before,” said Frithiof, “but my days have been
very full, and then, too, I was not quite sure of your address.”
He followed her into the brightly lighted hall, and with a sort of
satisfaction shut out the damp November twilight.
“We have so often spoken of you and your sisters,” said Cecil, “but when
Roy called at the Arundel and found that you had left without giving any
address, we thought you must have gone back to Bergen.”
“Did he call on me again there?” said Frithiof. “I remember now he
promised that he would come, I ought to have thought of it; but somehow
all was confusion that night, and afterward I was too ill.”
“It must have been terrible for you all alone among strangers in a
foreign country,” said Cecil, the ready tears starting to her eyes.
“Come in and see my mother; she has often heard how good you all were to
us in Norway.”
She opened a door on the left of the entrance hall and took him into one
of the prettiest rooms he had ever seen: the soft crimson carpet, the
inlaid rosewood furniture, the bookshelves with their rows of well-bound
books, all seemed to belong to each other, and a delightfully home-like
feeling came over him as he sat by the fire, answering Mrs. Boniface’s
friendly inquiries; he could almost have fancied himself once more in
his father’s study at Bergen—the room where so many of their long winter
evenings had been passed.
They sat there talking for a good half-hour before Roy and his father
returned, but to Frithiof the time seemed short enough. He scarcely knew
what it was that had such a charm for him; their talk was not
particularly brilliant, and yet it somehow interested him.
Mrs. Boniface was one of those very natural, homely people whose
commonplace remarks have a sort of flavor of their own, and Cecil had
something of the same gift. She never tried to make an impression, but
went on her way so quietly, that it was often not until she was gone
that people realized what she had been to them. Perhaps what really
chased away Frithiof’s gloom, and banished the look of the Ishmaelite
from his face, was the perception that these people really cared for
him, that their kindness was not labored formality but a genuine thing.
Tossed about for so long among hard-headed money-makers, forced every
day to confront glaring contrasts of poverty and wealth, familiarized
with the sight of every kind of evil, it was this sort of thing that he
needed.
And surely it is strange that in these days when people are willing to
devote so much time and trouble to good works, so few are willing to
make their own homes the havens of refuge they might be. A home is apt
to become either a mere place of general entertainment, or else a
selfishly guarded spot where we may take our ease without a thought of
those who are alone in the world. Many will ask a man in Frithiof’s
position to an at-home or a dance, but very few care to take such a one
into their real home and make him one of themselves. They will talk
sadly about the temptations of town life, but they will not in this
matter stir an inch to counteract them.
Mrs. Boniface’s natural hospitality and goodness of heart fitted her
admirably for this particular form of kindness; moreover, she knew that
her daughter would prove a help and not a hindrance, for she could in
all things trust Cecil, who was the sort of girl who can be friends with
men without flirting with them. At last the front door opened and
footsteps sounded in the hall; little Lance ran out to greet Mr.
Boniface and Roy, and Frithiof felt a sudden shame as he remembered the
purse-proud tradesman that foolish prejudice had conjured up in his
brain—a being wholly unlike the kindly, pleasant-looking man who now
shook hands with him, seeming in a moment to know who he was and all
about him.
“And so you have been in London all this time!” exclaimed Roy.
“Whereabouts are you staying?”
“Close to Vauxhall Station,” replied Frithiof. “Two or three times I
thought of looking you up, but there was always so much to do.”
“You have found work here, then?”
“No, indeed; I wish I had. It seems to me one may starve in this place
before finding anything to do.”
“Gwen wishes to say good-night to you, Herr Falck,” said Cecil, leading
the little girl up to him; and the bitter look died out of Frithiof’s
face for a minute as he stooped to kiss the baby mouth that was
temptingly offered to him.
“It will be hard if in all London we can not find you something,” said
Mr. Boniface. “What sort of work do you want?”
“I would do anything,” said Frithiof. “Sweep a crossing if necessary.”
They all laughed.
“Many people say that vaguely,” said Mr. Boniface. “But when one comes
to practical details they draw back. The mud and the broom look all very
well in the distance, you see.” Then as a bell was rung in the hall:
“Let us have tea first, and afterward, if you will come into my study we
will talk the matter over. We are old-fashioned people in this house,
and keep to the old custom of tea and supper. I don’t know how you
manage such things in Norway, but to my mind it seems that the middle of
the day is the time for the square meal, as they say in America.”
If the meal that awaited them in the dining-room was not “square,” it
was at any rate very tempting; from the fine damask table cloth to the
silver gypsy kettle, from the delicately arranged chrysanthemums to the
Crown Derby cups and saucers, all bespoke a good taste and the personal
supervision of one who really cared for beauty and order. The very food
looked unlike ordinary food, the horseshoes of fancy bread, the butter
swan in its parsley-bordered lake, the honeycomb, the cakes hot and
cold, and the beautiful bunches of grapes from the greenhouse, all
seemed to have a sort of character of their own. For the first time for
weeks Frithiof felt hungry. No more was said of the unappetizing subject
of the dearth of work, nor did they speak much of their Norwegian
recollections, because they knew it would be a sore subject with him
just now.
“By the way, Cecil,” remarked Mr. Boniface, when presently a pause came
in the general talk, “I saw one of your heroes this morning. Do you go
in for hero-worship in Norway, Herr Falck? My daughter here is a pupil
after Carlyle’s own heart.”
“We at any rate read Carlyle,” said Frithiof.
“But who can it have been?” exclaimed Cecil. “Not Signor Donati?”
“The very same,” said Mr. Boniface.
“But I thought he was singing at Paris?”
“So he is; he only ran over for a day or two on business, and he
happened to look in this morning with Sardoni, who came to arrange about
a song of his which we are going to publish.”
“Sardoni seems to me the last sort of man one would expect to write
songs,” said Roy.
“But in spite of it he has written a very taking one,” said Mr.
Boniface, “and I am much mistaken if it does not make a great hit. If so
his fortune is made, for you see he can write tenor songs for himself
and contralto songs for his wife, and they’ll get double royalties that
way.”
“But Signor Donati, father, what did he say? What is he like?”
“Well, he is so unassuming and quiet that you would never think it
possible he’s the man every one is raving about. And, except for that,
he’s really very much like other people, talked business very sensibly,
and seemed as much interested about this song of Sardoni’s as if there
had never been anything out of the way in his own life at all. I took to
him very much.”
“Can’t you get him to sing next summer?”
“I tried, but it is out of the question. He has signed an agreement only
to sing for Carrington. But he has promised me to sing at one of our
concerts the year after next.”
“Fancy having to make one’s arrangements so long beforehand!” exclaimed
Cecil. “You must certainly hear him, Herr Falck, when you have a chance;
they say he is the finest baritone in Europe.”
“He made us all laugh this morning,” said Mr. Boniface. “I forget now
what started it, something in the words of the song, I fancy, but he
began to tell us how yesterday he had been down at some country place
with a friend of his, and as they were walking through the grounds they
met a most comical old fellow in a tall hat.
“‘Halloo!’ exclaimed his friend, ‘here’s old Sykes the mole-catcher, and
I do declare he’s got another beaver! Where on earth does he get them?’
“‘In England,’ said Donati to his friend, ‘it would hardly do to inquire
after his hatter, I suppose.’
“At which the other laughed of course, and they agreed together that
just for a joke they would find out. So they began to talk to the old
man, and presently the friend remarked:
“‘I say, Sykes, my good fellow, I wish you’d tell me how you manage to
get such a succession of hats. Why, you are rigged out quite fresh since
I saw you on Monday.’
“The old mole-catcher gave a knowing wink, and after a little humming
and hawing he said:
“‘Well, sir, yer see I changed clothes yesterday with a gentleman in the
middle of a field.’
“‘Changed clothes with a gentleman!’ they exclaimed. ‘What do you mean?’
“And the mole-catcher began to laugh outright, and leading them to a gap
in the hedge, pointed away into the distance.
“‘There he be, sir; there he be,’ he said, laughing till he almost
choked. ‘It be naught but a scarecrow; but the scarecrows they’ve kep’
me in clothes for many a year.’”
Frithiof broke out into a ringing boyish laugh; it was the first time he
had laughed for weeks. Cecil guessed as much, and blessed Signor Donati
for having been the cause; but as she remembered what the young
Norwegian had been only a few months before, she could not help feeling
sad—could not help wondering what sorrow had changed him so terribly.
Had Blanche Morgan been faithful to him? she wondered. Or had his change
of fortune put an end to everything between them? In any case he must
greatly resent the way in which his father had been treated by the
English firm, and that alone must make matters very difficult for the
two lovers.
Musing over it all, she became silent and abstracted, and on returning
to the drawing-room took up a newspaper, glancing aimlessly down the
columns, and wondering what her father and Roy would advise Frithiof to
do, and how the discussion in the study was prospering.
All at once her heart began to beat wildly, for she had caught sight of
some lines which threw a startling light on Frithiof’s changed manner,
lines which also revealed to her the innermost recesses of her own
heart.
“The marriage arranged between Lord Romiaux and Miss Blanche Morgan,
only daughter of Austin Morgan, Esq., will take place on the 30th
instant, at Christ Church, Lancaster Gate.”
She was half-frightened at the sudden rage which took possession of her,
at the bitterness of the indignation which burned in her heart. What
right had Blanche Morgan to play with men? to degrade love to a mere
pastime? to make the most sacred thing in the world the sport of a
summer holiday? to ruin men’s lives for her own amusement? to lure on a
mere boy and flatter and deceive him; then quietly to throw him over?
“And how about yourself?” said a voice in her heart. “Are you quite free
from what you blame in Blanche Morgan? Will you not be tempted to hope
that he may like you? Will you not try to please him? Will it not be a
pleasure to you if he cares for your singing?”
“All that is quite true,” she admitted. “I do care to please him; I
can’t help it; but oh, God! let me die rather than do him harm!”
Her quiet life with the vague feeling of something wanting in it had
indeed been changed by the Norwegian holiday. Now, for the first time,
she realized that her uneventful girlhood was over; she had become a
woman, and, woman-like, she bravely accepted the pain which love had
brought into her life, and looked sadly, perhaps, yet unshrinkingly into
the future, where it was little likely that anything but grief and
anxiety awaited her. For she loved a man who was absolutely indifferent
to her, and her love had given her clear insight. She saw that he was a
man whose faith in love, both human and divine, had been crushed out of
him by a great wrong; a man whose whole nature had deteriorated and
would continue to deteriorate, unless some unforeseen thing should
interfere to change his whole view of life.
But the scalding tears which rose to her eyes were not tears of
self-pity; they were tears of sorrow for Frithiof, of disappointment
about his ruined life, of a sad humility as she thought to herself: “Oh!
if only I were fit to help him! If only!”
Meanwhile in the study a very matter-of-fact conversation was being
held.
“What I want to find out,” said Mr. Boniface, “is whether you are really
in earnest in what you say about work. There are thousands of young men
saying exactly the same thing, but when you take the trouble to go into
their complaint you find that the real cry is not ‘Give me work by which
I can get an honest living!’ but ‘Give me work that does not clash with
my tastes—work that I thoroughly like.’”
“I have no particular tastes,” said Frithiof coldly. “The sort of work
is quite indifferent to me as long as it will bring in money.”
“You are really willing to begin at the bottom of the ladder and work
your way up? You are not above taking a step which would place you much
lower in the social scale.”
“A fellow living on the charity of a relation who grudges every
farthing, as taking something away from his own children, is not likely
to trouble much about the social scale,” said Frithiof bitterly.
“Very well. Then I will, at any rate, suggest my plan for you, and see
what you think of it. If you care to accept it until something better
turns up, I can give you a situation in my house of business. Your
salary to begin with would be but small; the man who leaves me next
Monday has had only five and-twenty shillings a week, and I could not,
without unfair favoritism, give you more at first. But every man has a
chance of rising, and I am quite sure that you, with your advantages,
would do so. You understand that, as I said, it is mere work that I am
offering you. Doubtless standing behind a counter will not be very
congenial work to one brought up as you have been; but you might do
infinitely worse, and I can at least promise you that you will be
treated as a man—not, as in many places you would find it, as a mere
‘hand.’”
Possibly, when he first arrived in London, Frithiof might have scouted
such a notion if it had been proposed to him, but now his first question
was whether he was really qualified for the situation. Those hard words
which had so often confronted him—“Experienced only”—flashed into his
mind.
“I have had a good education,” he said, “and, of course, understand
book-keeping and so forth, but I have had no experience.”
“I quite understand that,” said Mr. Boniface. “But you would soon get
into the way of things. My son would show you exactly what your work
would be.”
“Of course I would,” said Roy. “Think it over, Falck, for at any rate it
would keep you going for a time while you look round for a better
opening.”
“Yes, there is no need to make up your mind to-night. Sleep upon it, and
let me know how you decide to-morrow. If you think of accepting the
situation, then come and see me in Regent Street between half-past one
and two o’clock. We close at two on Saturdays. And in any case, whether
you accept or refuse this situation, I hope you will come and spend
Saturday to Monday with us here.”
“You are very good,” said Frithiof, thinking to himself how unlike these
people were to any others he had come across in London. Miss Charlotte
Turnour had tried to do him good; it was part of her creed to try to do
good to people. The Bonifaces, on the other hand, had simply been
friendly and hospitable to him, had shown him that they really cared for
him, that they were sorry for his sorrow, and anxious over his
anxieties. But from Rowan Tree House he went away with a sense of warmth
about the heart, and from Miss Charlotte he invariably turned away
hardened and disgusted. Perhaps it was that she began at the wrong end,
and, like so many people in the world, offered the hard crust of
dogmatic utterances to one who was as yet only capable of being
nourished on the real substance of the loaf—a man who was dying for want
of love, and who no more needed elaborate theological schemes than the
starving man in the desert needs the elaborate courses of a
dinner-party.
It is God’s way to reveal Himself through man, though we are forever
trying to improve upon His way, and endeavoring to convert others by
articles of religion instead of the beauty of holiness.
As Frithiof walked home to Vauxhall he felt more at rest than he had
done for many days. They had not preached at him; they had not given him
unasked-for advice; they had merely given one of the best gifts that can
be given in this world, the sight of one of those homes where the
kingdom of heaven has begun—a home, that is, where “righteousness and
peace and joy” are the rule, and whatever contradicts this reign of love
the rare exception.