As Preston Askevold had feared, Frithiof bore the troubles much less
easily. He was without Sigrid’s sweetness of nature, without her
patience, and the little touch of philosophic matter-of-factness which
helped her to endure. He was far more sensitive too, and was terribly
handicapped by the bitterness which was the almost inevitable result of
his treatment by Blanche Morgan, a bitterness which stirred him up into
a sort of contemptuous hatred of both God and man. Sigrid, with her
quiet common sense, her rarely expressed but very real faith, struggled
on through the winter and the spring, and in the process managed to grow
and develop; but Frithiof, in his desolate London lodgings, with his
sore heart and rebellious intellect, grew daily more hard and morose.
Had it not been for the Bonifaces he must have gone altogether to the
bad, but the days which he spent every now and then in that quiet,
simple household, where kindness reigned supreme, saved him from utter
ruin. For always through the darkest part of every life there runs,
though we may sometimes fail to see it, this “golden thread of love,” so
that even the worst man on earth is not wholly cut off from God, since
He will, by some means or other, eternally try to draw him out of death
into life. We are astounded now and then to read that some cold-blooded
murderer, some man guilty of a hideous crime, will ask in his last
moments to see a child who loved him devotedly, and whom he also loved.
We are astonished just because we do not understand the untiring heart
of the All-Father who in His goodness often gives to the vilest sinner
the love of a pure-hearted woman or child. So true is the beautiful old
Latin saying, long in the world but little believed, “Mergere nos
patitur, sed non submergere, Christus” (Christ lets us sink may be, but
not drown).
Just at this time there was only one thing on which Frithiof found any
satisfaction, and that was in the little store of money which by slow
degrees he was able to place in the savings bank. In what way it could
ever grow into a sum large enough to pay his father’s creditors he did
not trouble himself to think, but week by week it did increase, and with
this one aim in life he struggled on, working early and late, and living
on an amount of food which could have horrified an Englishman. Luckily
he had discovered a place in Oxford Street where he could get a good
dinner every day for sixpence, but this was practically his only meal,
and after some months the scanty fare began to tell upon him, so that
even the Miss Turnours noticed that something was wrong.
“That young man looks to me underfed,” said Miss Caroline one day. “I
met him on the stairs just now, and he seems to me to have grown paler
and thinner. What does he have for breakfast, Charlotte? Does he eat as
well as the other lodgers?”
“Dear me, no,” said Miss Charlotte. “It’s my belief that he eats nothing
at all but ship’s biscuits. There’s a tin of them up in his room, and a
tin of cocoa, which he makes for himself. All I ever take him is a jug
of boiling water night and morning!”
“Poor fellow!” said Miss Caroline, sighing a little as she plaited some
lace which must have been washed a hundred times into her dress.
A delicate carefulness in these little details of dress distinguished
the three ladies—they had inherited it with the spelling of their name
and other tokens of good breeding.
“I feel sorry for him,” she added. “He always bows very politely when I
meet him, and he is remarkably good-looking, though with a disagreeable
expression.”
“When one is hungry one seldom looks agreeable,” said Miss Charlotte. “I
wish I had noticed him before,” and she remembered, with a little pang
of remorse, that she had more than once preached to him about his soul,
while all the time she had been too dreamy and unobservant to see what
was really wrong with him.
“Suppose,” she said timidly, “suppose I were to take him a little of the
stewed American beef we shall have for supper.”
“Send it up by the girl,” said Miss Turnour, “she is still in the
kitchen. Don’t take it yourself—it would be awkward for both of you.”
So Miss Charlotte meekly obeyed, and sent up by the shabby servant-girl
a most savory little supper. Unluckily the girl was a pert cockney, and
her loud, abrupt knock at the door in itself irritated Frithiof.
“Come in,” he said, in a surly tone.
“Look here,” said the girl, “here’s something to put you in a better
temper. Missus’s compliments, and she begs you’ll accept it,” and she
thrust the tray at him with a derisive grin.
“Have the goodness to take that down again,” said Frithiof, in a fit of
unreasoning anger. “I’ll not be treated like your mistress’ pet dog.”
Something in his manner cowed the girl. She beat a hasty retreat, and
was planning how she could manage to eat the despised supper herself,
when at the foot of the stairs she met Miss Charlotte, and her project
was nipped in the bud.
“It aint no use, miss, ’e wont touch it,” she explained; “’e was as
angry as could be, and says ’e, ‘Take it away. I’ll not be treated like
your mistress’ pet dog,’ says ’e. So, bein’ frightened, I ran downstairs
agen.”
Miss Charlotte looked troubled, and later on, when as usual she took up
the jug of hot water, she felt nervous and uncomfortable, and her knock
was more timid than ever. However, she had scarcely set down the jug on
the floor when there came sounds of hasty footsteps in the room, and
Frithiof flung open the door.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “You meant to be kind, I’m sure, but the
girl was rude, and I lost my temper. I ask your forgiveness.”
There were both pathetic and comic elements in the little scene; the
meek Miss Charlotte stood trembling as if she had seen a ghost, gazing
up at the tall Norseman who, in the hurry of the moment, had forgotten
to remove the wet towel which, in common with most night-workers, he was
in the habit of tying round his forehead.
Miss Charlotte stooped to pick up the jug.
“I am so sorry the girl was rude,” she said. “I wish I had brought it
myself. You see, it was in this way; we all thought you looking so
poorly, and we were having the beef for supper and we thought perhaps
you might fancy some, and—and—”
“It was very good of you,” he said, touched, in spite of himself, by the
kindness. “I regret what I said, but you must make allowance for a
bad-tempered man with a splitting headache.”
“Is that the reason you tie it up?” asked Miss Charlotte.
He laughed and pulled off the towel, passing his hand over the mass of
thick light hair which it had disordered.
“It keeps it cooler,” he said, “and I can get through more work.”
She glanced at the table, and saw that it was covered with papers and
books.
“Are you wise to do so much work after being busy all day?” she said.
“It seems to me that you are not looking well.”
“It is nothing but headache,” he said. “And the work is the only
pleasure I have in the world.”
“I was afraid from your looks that you had a hard life,” she said
hesitatingly.
“It is not hard outwardly. As far as work goes it is easy enough, but
there is a deadly monotony about it.”
“Ah! if only”—she began.
He interrupted her.
“I know quite well what you are going to say—you are going to recommend
me to attend one of those religious meetings where people get so full of
a delightful excitement. Believe me, they would not have the slightest
effect on me. And yet, if you wish it, I will go. It shall be my sign of
penitence for my rudeness just now.”
Miss Charlotte could not make out whether his smile was sarcastic or
genuine. However, she took him at his word, and the next evening carried
him off to a big brightly lighted hall, to a revivalist meeting, from
which she hoped great things.
It was a hot June evening. He came there tired with the long day’s work,
and his head felt dull and heavy. Merely out of politeness to his
companion he tried to take some sort of interest in what went on,
stifled his inclination to laugh now and then, and watched the
proceedings attentively, though wearily enough. In front of him rose a
large platform with tiers of seats one above the other. The men and
women seated there had bright-looking faces. Some looked self-conscious
and self-satisfied, several of the women seemed overwrought and
hysterical, but others had a genuine look of content which impressed
him. Down below was a curiously heterogeneous collection of
instruments—cornets, drums, tambourines, trumpets, and pipes. A hymn was
given out, followed by a chorus; the words were solemn, but the tune was
the reverse; still it seemed to please the audience, who sung three
choruses to each verse, the first loud, the second louder, the third a
perfect frenzy of sound, the drums thundering, the tambourines dashing
about wildly, the pipes and cornets at their shrillest, and every one
present singing or shouting with all his might. It took him some time to
recover from the appalling noise, and meantime a woman was praying. He
did not much attend to what she said, but the audience seemed to agree
with her, for every minute or two there was a chorus of fervent “Amens,”
which rolled through the hall like distant thunder. After that the young
man who conducted the meeting read a story out of the Bible, and spoke
well and with a sort of simple directness. There was very little in what
he said, but he meant every word of it. It might have been summed up in
three sentences: “There is only one way of being happy. I have tried it
and have found it answer. All you who haven’t tried it begin at once.”
But the words which meant much to him conveyed nothing to Frithiof. He
listened, and wondered how a man of his own age could possibly get up
and say such things. What was it he had found? How had he found it? If
the speaker had shown the least sign of vanity his words would have been
utterly powerless; but his quiet positiveness impressed people, and it
was apparent to every one that he believed in a strength which was not
his own. There followed much that seemed to Frithiof monotonous and
undesirable; about thirty people on the platform, one after another, got
up and spoke a few words, which invariably began with “I thank the Lord
I was saved on such and such a night.” He wondered and wondered what the
phrase meant to them, and revolved in his mind all the theological
dogmas he had ever heard of. Suddenly he was startled to find that some
one was addressing him, a hymn was being sung, and there was a good deal
of movement in the hall; people went and came, and an elderly woman had
stepped forward and taken a place beside him.
“Brother,” she said to him, “are you saved?”
“Madame,” he replied coldly, “I have not the slightest idea.”
“Oh, then,” she said, with a little gesture that reminded him of Miss
Charlotte, “let me beg you to come at once to Christ.”
“Madame,” he said, still in his coldly polite voice, “you must really
excuse me, but I do not know what you mean.”
She was so much surprised and puzzled by both words and manner that she
hesitated what to reply; and Frithiof, who hated being questioned, took
his hat from the bench, and bowing formally to her, left the hall. In
the street he was joined by Miss Charlotte.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “I am so sorry you said that. You will have made
that poor woman so terribly unhappy.”
“It is all her own fault,” said Frithiof. “Why did she come meddling
with my private affairs? If her belief was real she would have been able
to explain it in a rational way, instead of using phrases which are just
empty words.”
“You didn’t leave her time to explain. And as to her belief being real,
do you think, if it were not real, that little, frail woman would have
had courage to go twice to prison for speaking in the streets? Do you
think she would have been able to convert the most abandoned thieves,
and induce them to make restitution, paying in week by week what they
could earn to replace what they had stolen?”
“Does she do that? Then I respect her. When you see her again please
apologize for my abruptness, and tell her that her form of religion is
too noisy for my head and too illogical for my mind.”
They walked home in silence, Miss Charlotte grieving over the hopeless
failure of the meeting to achieve what she desired. She had not yet
learned that different natures need different kinds of food, and that to
expect Frithiof to swallow the teachings which exactly suited certain
minds was about as sensible as to feed a baby with Thorley’s Food for
Cattle. However, there never yet was an honest attempt to do good which
really failed, though the vast majority fail apparently. It was
impossible that the revivalists’ teaching could ever be accepted by the
Norseman; but their ardent devotion, their practical, aggressive lives,
impressed him not a little, and threw a somewhat disagreeable light over
his own selfishness. Partly owing to this, partly from physical causes,
he felt bitterly out of heart with himself for the next few weeks. In
truth he was thoroughly out of health, and he had not the only power
which can hold irritability in check—the strong restraint of love.
Except a genuine liking for the Bonifaces, he had nothing to take him
out of himself, and he was quite ready to return with interest the
dislike which the other men in the shop felt for him, first on account
of his foreign birth, but chiefly because of his proud manner and hasty
temper. Sometimes he felt that he could bear the life no longer; and at
times, out of his very wretchedness, there sprung up in him a vague pity
for those who were in his own position. As he stood there behind the
counter he would say to himself, “There are thousands and thousands in
this city alone who have day after day to endure this horrible monotony,
to serve the customers who are rude, and the customers who are civil,
the hurried ones who are all impatience, the tiresome ones who dawdle,
the bores, who give you as much trouble as they can, often for nothing.
One day follows another eternally in the same dull round. I am a hundred
times better off than most—there are no hurried meals here, no fines, no
unfairness—and yet what drudgery it is!”
And as he glanced out at the sunny street and heard the sound of horses’
hoofs in the road, a wild longing used to seize him for the freedom and
variety of his life in Norway, and the old fierce rebellion against his
fate woke once more in his heart, and made him ready to fly into a rage
on the smallest provocation.
One day he was sent for to Mr. Boniface’s private room; he was quite
well aware that his manner, even to Roy himself, whom he liked, had been
disagreeable in the extreme, and the thought crossed his mind that he
was going to receive notice to leave.
Mr. Boniface was sitting at his writing-table, the sunlight fell on his
quiet, refined face, lighted up his white hair and trim beard, and made
his kindly gray eyes brighter than ever. “I wanted a few words with you,
Falck,” he said. “Sit down. It seems to me that you have not been
looking well lately, and I thought perhaps you had better take your
holiday at once instead of the third week in August. I have spoken to
Darnell, and he would be willing to give you his turn and take the later
time. What do you think?”
“You are very good, sir,” said Frithiof, “but I shall do very well with
the August holiday, and, as a matter of fact, it will only mean that I
shall do more translating.”
“Would you not do well to go home? Come, think of it, I would give you
three weeks if you want to go to Bergen.”
Frithiof felt a choking sensation in his throat, because it was of the
old life that he had been dreaming all the morning with a restless,
miserable craving.
“Thank you,” he said, with an effort, “but I can not go back to Norway.”
“Now, tell me candidly, Falck, is it the question of expense that
hinders you?” said Mr. Boniface. “Because if it is merely that, I would
gladly lend you the money. You must remember that you have had a great
deal to bear lately, and I think you ought to give yourself a good
rest.”
“Thank you,” replied Frithiof, “but it is not exactly the expense. I
have money enough in hand to pay for my passage, but I have made up my
mind not to go back till I can clear off the last of the debts of—of our
firm,” he concluded, with a slight quiver in his voice.
“It is a noble resolution,” said Mr. Boniface, “and I would not for a
moment discourage you. Still you must remember that it is a great
undertaking, and that without good health you can never hope for
success. I don’t think you get enough exercise. Now, why don’t you join
our cricket club?”
“I don’t play,” said Frithiof. “In Norway we are not great at those
games, or indeed at any kind of exercise for the mere sake of exercise.
That is an idea that one only finds among Englishmen.”
“Possibly; but living in our climate you would do well to follow our
habits. Come, let me persuade you to join the club. You look to me as if
you needed greater variety.”
“I will think about it for next year; but just now I have work for Herr
Sivertsen on hand which I can’t put aside,” said Frithiof.
“Well, then, things must go on as they are for the present,” said Mr.
Boniface; “but at least you can bring your translating down to Rowan
Tree House, and spend your holiday with us.”
“You are very kind,” said Frithiof, the boyish expression returning to
his face just for a minute. “I shall be only too delighted.”
And the interview seemed somehow to have done him good, for during the
next few days he was less irritable, and found his work in consequence
less irksome.