It seemed to Sigrid that she had hardly gone to bed before it was time
to get up again; she sleepily wished that Londoners would give dances at
more reasonable hours, then, remembering all that had happened, she
forgot her own weariness and turned with an eager question to Swanhild.
It was the little sister’s daily duty to go in and wake Frithiof up, a
task of some difficulty, for either his bad habit of working at night
during his lonely year in town, or else his illness, had left him with a
tendency to be wide awake between twelve and two and sound asleep
between six and seven.
“You haven’t called him yet, have you?” asked Sigrid, rubbing her eyes.
“No, but it is quite time,” said Swanhild, shutting up her atlas and
rearing up in the bed where she had been luxuriously learning geography.
“Oh, leave him a little longer,” said Sigrid. “We were so late last
night, and his head was so bad, that I don’t suppose he has had much
sleep. And, Swanhild, whatever you do, don’t speak of the dance to him
or ask him any questions. As ill luck would have it Lady Romiaux was
there.”
Now Swanhild was a very imaginative child, and she was just at the age
when girls form extravagant adorations for women. At Balholm she had
worshiped Blanche; even when told afterward how badly Frithiof had been
treated her love had not faltered, she had invented every possible
excuse for her idol, and though never able to speak of her, still
cherished a little hoard of souvenirs of Balholm. There is something
laughable and yet touching in these girlish adorations, and as
safeguards against premature thoughts of real love they are certainly
worthy of all encouragement. Men were at present nothing at all to her
but a set of big brothers, who did well enough as playfellows. All the
romance of her nature was spent on an ideal Blanche—how unlike the real
Lady Romiaux innocent Swanhild never guessed. While the world talked
hard things, this little Norwegian girl was secretly kissing a fir-cone,
which Blanche had once picked up on their way to the priest’s _saeter_,
or furtively unwrapping a withered rose which had been fastened in
Blanche’s hair at the merry dance on that Saturday night. Her heart beat
so fast that she felt almost choked when Sigrid suddenly mentioned Lady
Romiaux’s name.
“How was she looking?” she asked, turning away her blushing face with
the most comical parody of a woman’s innate tendency to hide her love.
“Oh, she was looking just as usual, as pretty, and as siren-like as
ever, wretched woman!” Then, remembering that Swanhild was too young to
hear all the truth, she suddenly drew up. “But there, don’t speak of her
any more. I never wish to hear her name again.”
Poor Swanhild sighed; she thought Sigrid very hard and unforgiving, and
this made her cling all the more to her beloved ideal; it was true she
had been faithless to Frithiof, but no doubt she was very sorry by this
time, and as the child knelt down to say her morning prayers she paused
long over the petition for “Blanche,” which for all this time had never
been omitted once.
Frithiof came to breakfast only a few minutes before the time when he
had to start for business. His eyes looked very heavy, and his face had
the pale, set look which Sigrid had learnt to interpret only too well.
She knew that while they had been sleeping he had been awake, struggling
with those old memories which at times would return to him; he had
conquered, but the conquest had left him weary, and exhausted and
depressed.
“If only she had been true to him!” thought Swanhild. “Poor Blanche! if
he looked at all like this last night how terribly sorry she must have
felt.”
After all, the child with her warm-hearted forgiveness, and her scanty
knowledge of facts, was perhaps a good deal nearer the truth than
Sigrid. Certainly Blanche was not the ideal of her dreams, but she was
very far from being the hopelessly depraved character that Sigrid deemed
her; she was a woman who had sinned very deeply, but she was not utterly
devoid of heart, and there were gleams of good in her to which the
Norwegian girl, in her hot indignation, was altogether blind. Sigrid was
not faultless, and as with Frithiof, so there lingered too with her a
touch of the fierce, unforgiving spirit which had governed their Viking
ancestors.
More than once that morning as she moved about her household tasks she
said under her breath—“I wish that woman were dead!—I wish she were
dead!”
“You don’t look well this morning, Mr. Falck,” said the foreman, a
cheerful, bright-eyed, good-hearted old man, who had managed to bring up
a large family on his salary, and to whom Frithiof had often applied for
advice on the subject of domestic economy. The two liked each other now
cordially, and worked well together, Foster having altogether lost the
slight prejudice he had at first felt against the foreigner.
“We were up late last night,” said Frithiof, by way of explanation. But
the old man was shrewd and quick-sighted, and happening later on to be
in Mr. Boniface’s private room, he seized the opportunity to remark:
“We shall have Mr. Falck knocking up again, sir, if I’m not mistaken: he
is looking very ill to-day.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Boniface. “You were quite right to
tell me, Foster. We will see what can be done.”
And the foreman knew that there was no favoritism in this speech, for
Mr. Boniface considered the health of his employees as a matter of the
very highest importance, and being a Christian first and a tradesman
afterward, did not consider money-making to be the great object of life.
Many a time good old Foster himself had been sent down for a few days at
the seaside with his family, and it was perhaps a vivid remembrance of
the delights of West Codrington that made him add as he left the room:
“He looks to me, sir, as if he needed bracing up.”
Mr. Boniface was much of the same opinion when he noticed Frithiof later
on in the day. A thoroughly good salesman the Norwegian had always
been—clear-headed, courteous, and accurate; but now the look of effort
which he had borne for some time before his illness was clearly visible,
and Mr. Boniface seized the first chance he could get of speaking to him
alone. About five o’clock there came a lull in the tide of customers;
Darnell, the man at the opposite counter, had gone to tea, and Frithiof
had gone back to his desk to enter some songs in the order-list.
“Frithiof,” said Mr. Boniface, coming over to him and dropping the
somewhat more formal style of address which he generally used toward him
during business hours, “you have got one of your bad headaches.”
“Yes,” replied the Norwegian candidly, “but it is not a disabling one. I
shall get through all right.”
“What plans have you made for your Whitsuntide holiday?”
“I don’t think we had made any plan at all.”
“Then I want you all to come away with us for a few days,” said the
shop-owner. “You look to me as if you wanted rest. Come to us for a
week; I will arrange for your absence.”
“You are very good,” said Frithiof warmly. “But indeed I would rather
only take the general holiday of Saturday to Tuesday. I am not in the
least ill, and would rather not take extra days when there is no need.”
“Independent as ever,” said Mr. Boniface, with a smile. “Well, it must
be as you like. We will see what the three days will do for you.”
Where and how this holiday was to be spent only Mr. and Mrs. Boniface
knew, and Cecil and Roy were as much astonished as any one when, at two
o’clock on Saturday afternoon, a coach and four stopped at the gate of
Rowan Tree House.
“What! are we to drive there?” asked Cecil. “Oh, father, how delightful!
Will it be very far?”
“Yes, a long drive; so keep out plenty of wraps, in case the evening is
chilly. We can tuck away the children inside if they get tired. Now, are
we all ready? Then we will drive to the model lodgings.”
So off they started, a very merry party, but still merrier when the
three Norwegians had joined them, the girls, as usual, dressed in black,
for economy’s sake, but wearing very dainty little white sailor hats,
which Sigrid had sat up on the previous night to trim. She enjoyed her
new hat amazingly; she enjoyed locking up the lodgings and handing the
key to the caretaker; she enjoyed the delicious prospect of three days’
immunity from cooking, and cleaning, and anxious planning of food and
money; and she enjoyed Roy’s presence, with the frank, free happiness of
a girl who is as yet quite heart-whole.
“I feel like the ‘linen-draper bold,’ in the ballad,” said Mr. Boniface,
with his hearty laugh. “But I have taken precautions, you see, against a
similar catastrophe. We have had more than the ‘twice ten tedious years’
together, have we not, Loveday?”
“Yes,” she said, with her sweet, expressive smile, “we are just
beginning the twenty-seventh, Robin, and have had many holidays, unlike
Mr. and Mrs. Gilpin.”
They were still like lovers, this husband and wife of twenty-six years’
standing; and it was with a sort of consciousness that they would be
happier if left to themselves, that Frithiof, who sat between Mrs.
Boniface and Cecil, turned toward the latter, and began to talk to her.
Cecil was looking her very best that day. The sun lighted up her fair
hair, the fresh wind brought a glow of healthy color to her cheeks, her
honest gray eyes had lost the grave look which they usually wore, and
were bright and happy-looking; for she was not at all the sort of girl,
who, because she could not get her own wish, refused to enjoy life. She
took all that came to her brightly enough, and, with a presentiment that
such a treat as this drive with Frithiof would not often fall to her
lot, she gave herself up to present happiness, and put far from her all
anxieties and fears for the future. From the back seat, peals of
laughter from Lance, and Gwen, and Swanhild reached them. In front, by
the side of the driver, they could see Roy and Sigrid absorbed in their
own talk; and with such surroundings it would have been hard indeed if
these two, the Norwegian, with his sad story, and Cecil, with her life
overshadowed by his trouble, had not been able for a time to throw off
everything that weighed them down, and enjoy themselves like the rest.
“This is a thousand times better than a cariole or a stolkjaerre,” said
Frithiof. “What a splendid pace we are going at, and how well you see
the country! It is the perfection of traveling.”
“So I think,” said Cecil. “At any rate, on such a day as this. In rain,
or snow, or burning heat, it might be rather trying. And then, of
course, in the old days we should not have had it all snugly to
ourselves like this; which makes such a difference.”
He thought over those last words for a minute, and reflected how among
“ourselves” Cecil included the little children of a criminal, and the
foreigners who had scarcely been known to them for two years. Her warm,
generous heart had for him a very genuine attraction. Possibly, if it
had not been for that chance meeting with Blanche, which had caused an
old wound to break out anew, some thought of love might have stirred in
his breast. As it was, he was merely grateful to her for chasing away
the gloom that for the last few days had hung about him like a fog. She
was to him a cheering ray of sunshine; a healthy breeze that dispersed
the mist; a friend—but nothing more.
On they drove, free of houses at last, or passing only isolated farms,
little villages, and sleepy country towns. The trees were in all the
exquisite beauty of early June, and the Norwegians, accustomed to less
varied foliage, were enthusiastic in their admiration. They had never
known before what it was to drive along a road bordered by picturesque
hedges, with stately elms here and there, and with oaks and beeches,
sycamores and birches, poplars and chestnuts scattered in such lavish
profusion throughout the landscape.
“If we can beat you in mountains, you can certainly beat us in trees!”
cried Sigrid, her blue eyes bright with happiness.
She was enjoying it all as only those who have been toiling in a great
town can enjoy the sights and sounds of the country. The most humdrum
things had an attraction for her, and when they stopped by and by for
tea, at a little roadside inn, she almost wished their drive at an end,
such a longing came over her to run out into the fields and just gather
flowers to her heart’s content.
At last, after a great deal of tea and bread and butter had been
consumed, they mounted the coach again, leaving a sort of reflection of
their happiness in the hearts of the people of the inn.
“There’s merry-makers and merry-makers,” remarked the landlord, glancing
after them; “yon’s the right sort, and no mistake.”
And now Mr. Boniface began to enjoy to the full his surprise. How he
laughed when they implored him to say where they were going! How
triumphant he was when the driver, who was as deaf as a post, utterly
declined to answer leading questions put to him by Roy!
“I believe we are going to Helmstone, or some great watering-place,
where we shall have to be proper and wear gloves,” said Cecil.
This was received with groans.
“But to get a sight of the sea one would put up with glove-wearing,”
said Sigrid. “And we could, at any rate, walk out into the country, I
suppose, for flowers.”
Mr. Boniface only smiled, however, and looked inscrutable. And finding
that they could not guess their destination in the least, they took to
singing rounds, which made the time pass by very quickly. At length
Frithiof started to his feet with an eager exclamation.
“The sea!” he cried.
And sure enough, there, in the distance, was the first glimpse of a long
blue line, which made the hearts of the Norwegians throb with eager
delight.
“It seems like being at home again,” said Swanhild, while Frithiof
seemed to drink in new life as the fresh salt wind blew once more upon
him, bringing back to his mind the memory of many a perilous adventure
in his free, careless boyhood.
“A big watering-place,” groaned Roy. “I told you so. Houses, churches, a
parade, and a pier; I can see them all.”
“Where? where?” cried every one, while Mr. Boniface laughed quietly and
rubbed his hands.
“Over there, to the left,” said Roy.
“You prophet of evil!” cried Cecil merrily; “we are turning quite away
to the right.”
And on they went between the green downs, till they came to a tiny
village, far removed from railways, and leaving even that behind them,
paused at length before a solitary farm-house, standing a little back
from the road, with downs on either side of it, and barely a quarter of
a mile from the sea.
“How did you hear of this delightful place, father?” cried Cecil; “it is
just perfect.”
“Well, I saw it when you and Roy were in Norway two summers ago,” said
Mr. Boniface. “Mother and I drove out here from Southborne, and took
such a fancy to this farm that, like Captain Cuttle, we made a note of
it, and kept it for a surprise party.”
Mr. Horner, in his suburban villa, was at that very moment lamenting his
cousin’s absurd extravagance.
“He was always wanting in common-sense, poor fellow,” observed Mrs.
Horner. “But to hire a coach-and-four just to take into the country his
own family and that criminal’s children, and those precious Norwegians,
who apparently think themselves on a level with the highest in the
land—that beats everything! I suppose he’ll be wanting to hire a palace
for them next bank holiday!”
As a matter of fact, the farm-house accommodation was rather limited,
but no one cared about that. Though the rooms were small, they had a
most delicious smell of the country about them, and every one, moreover,
was in a humor to be as much out of doors as possible.
The time seemed to all of them a little like that summer holiday at
Balholm in its freedom and brightness and good-fellowship. The
delightful rambles over the breezy downs, the visit to the lighthouse,
the friendly chats with the coast-guardsmen, the boating excursions, and
the quiet country Sunday—all remained in their memories for long after.
To Roy those days were idyllic; and Sigrid, too, began to understand for
the first time that he was something more to her than Frithiof’s friend.
The two were much together, and on the Monday afternoon, when the rest
of the party had gone off again to the lighthouse for Lance’s special
benefit, they wandered away along the shore, nominally searching among
the rocks for anemones, but far too much absorbed in each other to prove
good collectors.
It took a long time really to know Roy, for he was silent and reserved;
but by this time Sigrid had begun to realize how much there was in him
that was well worth knowing, and her bright, easy manner had always been
able to thaw his taciturn moods. He had, she perceived, his father’s
large-mindedness; he studied the various problems of the day in the same
spirit; to money he was comparatively indifferent; and he was wholly
without that spirit of calculation, that sordid ambition which is very
unjustly supposed to animate most of those engaged in retail trade.
Sigrid had liked him ever since their first meeting in Norway, but only
within the last two days had any thought of love occurred to her. Even
now that thought was scarcely formed; she was only conscious of being
unusually happy, and of feeling a sort of additional happiness, and a
funny sense of relief when the rest of the party climbed the hill to the
lighthouse, leaving her alone with Roy. Of what they talked she scarcely
knew, but as they wandered on over low rocks and pools and shingle, hand
in hand, because the way was slippery and treacherous, it seemed to her
that she was walking in some new paradise. The fresh air and beauty
after the smoke and the wilderness of streets; the sense of protection,
after the anxieties of being manager-in-chief to a very poor household;
above all, the joyous brightness after a sad past, made her heart dance
within her; and in her happiness she looked so lovely that all thought
of obstacles and difficulties left Roy’s mind.
They sat down to rest in a little sheltered nook under the high chalk
cliffs, and it was there that he poured out to her the confession of his
love, being so completely carried away that for once words came readily
to his lips, so that Sigrid was almost frightened by his eagerness. How
different was this from Torvald Lundgren’s proposal! How utterly changed
was her whole life since that wintry day when she had walked back from
the Bergen cemetery!
What was it that had made everything so bright to her since then? Was it
not the goodness of the man beside her—the man who had saved her
brother’s life—who had brought them together once more—who now loved her
and asked for her love?
When at last he paused, waiting for her reply, she was for a minute or
two quite silent; still her face reassured Roy, and he was not without
hope, so that the waiting-time was not intolerable to him.
“If it were only myself to be thought about,” she said at length, “I
might perhaps give you an answer more readily. But, you see, there are
other people to be considered.”
The admission she had made sent a throb of delight to Roy’s heart. Once
sure of her love he dreaded no obstacles.
“You are thinking of Frithiof,” he said. “And of course I would never
ask you to leave him; but there would be no need. If you could love
me—if you will be my wife—you would be much freer than you now are to
help him.”
The thought of his wealth suddenly flashed into Sigrid’s mind, giving
her a momentary pang; yet, since she really loved him, it was impossible
that this should be a lasting barrier between them. She looked out over
the sea, and the thought of her old home, and of the debts, and the slow
struggle to pay them, came to her; yet all the time she knew that these
could not separate her from Roy. She loved him, and the world’s praise
or blame were just nothing to her. She could not care in the least about
the way in which such a marriage would be regarded by outsiders. She
loved him; and when once sure that her marriage would be right—that it
would not be selfish, or in any way bad in its effects on either
Frithiof or Swanhild—it was impossible that she should hesitate any
longer.
But of this she was not yet quite sure. All had come upon her so
suddenly that she felt as if she must have time to think it out quietly
before making a definite promise.
“Give me a fortnight,” she said, “and then I will let you have my
answer. It would not be fair to either of us if I spoke hastily when so
much is at stake.”
Roy could not complain of this suggestion: it was much that he was able
at last to plead his own cause with Sigrid, and in her frank blue eyes
there lurked something which told him that he need fear no more.
Meanwhile time sped on, and, unheeded by these two, the tide was coming
in. They were so absorbed in their own affairs that it was not until a
wave swept right into the little bay, leaving a foam-wreath almost at
their feet, that they realized their danger. With a quick exclamation
Roy started up.
“What have I been thinking of?” he cried in dismay. “Why, we are cut
off!”
Sigrid sprang forward and glanced toward Britling Gap. It was too true.
Return was absolutely impossible.
“We could never swim such a distance,” she said. And turning, she
glanced toward the steep white cliff above.
“And that too is utterly impossible,” said Roy. “Our only hope is in
some pleasure-boat passing. Stay, I have an idea.”
Hastily opening his knife he began to scoop out footholds in the chalk.
He saw that their sole chance lay in making a standing-place out of
reach of the water, and he worked with all his might, first securing a
place for the feet, then, higher up, scooping holes for the hands to
cling to; he spoke little, his mind was too full of a torturing sense of
blame, a bitter indignation with himself for allowing his very love to
blind him to such a danger.
As for Sigrid, she picked up a pointed stone and began to work too with
desperate energy. She was naturally brave, and as long as she could do
anything her heart scarcely beat faster than usual. It was the
waiting-time that tried her, the clinging to that uncompromising white
cliff, while below the waves surged to and fro with the noise that only
that morning she had thought musical, but which now seemed to her almost
intolerable. If it had not been that Roy’s arm was round her, holding
her closely, she could never have borne up so long; she would have
turned giddy and fallen back into the water. But his strength seemed to
her equal to anything, and her perfect confidence in him filled her with
a wonderful energy of endurance.
In their terrible position all sense of time left them; they could not
tell whether it was for minutes or for hours that they had clung to
their frail refuge, when at length a shout from above reached their
ears.
“Courage!” cried a voice. “A boat is coming to your help. Hold on!”
Hope renewed their strength in a wonderful way; they were indeed less to
be pitied than those who had the fearful anxiety of rescuing them, or
watching the rescue.
It was Frithiof who had first discovered them; the rest of the party,
after seeing over the lighthouse, had wandered along the cliffs talking
to an old sailor, and, Lance being seized with a desire to see over the
edge, Frithiof had set Cecil’s mind at rest by lying down with the
little fellow and holding him securely while he glanced down the sheer
descent to the sea. A little farther on, to the left, he suddenly
perceived, to his horror, the two clinging figures, and at once
recognized them. Dragging the child back, he sprang up and seized the
old sailor’s arm, interrupting a long-winded story to which Mr. Boniface
was listening.
“There are two people down there, cut off by the tide,” he said. “What
is the quickest way to reach them?”
“Good Lord!” cried the old man; “why, there’ll be nought quicker than a
boat at Britling Gap, or ropes brought from there and let down.”
“Tell them help is coming,” said Frithiof “I will row round.”
And without another word he set off running like the wind toward the
coast-guard station. On and on he rushed over the green downs, past the
little white chalk-heaps that marked the coast-guard’s nightly walk,
past the lighthouse and down the hill to the little sheltered cove.
Though a good runner, he was sadly out of training; his breath came now
in gasps, his throat felt as though it were on fire, and all the time a
terrible dread filled his heart. Supposing he were too late!
At Britling Gap not a soul was in sight, and he dared not waste time in
seeking help. The boat was in its usual place on the beach. He shoved it
out to sea, sprang into it, paused only to fling off his coat, then with
desperate energy pulled toward the place where Roy and Sigrid awaited
their rescuer with fast-failing strength.
And yet in all Frithiof’s anxiety there came to him a strange sense of
satisfaction, an excitement which banished from his mind all the
specters of the past, a consciousness of power that in itself was
invigorating. Danger seemed to be his native element, daring his
strongest characteristic, and while straining every nerve and making the
little boat bound through the water, he was more at rest than he had
been for months, just because everything personal had faded into entire
insignificance before the absorbing need of those whom he loved.
How his pulses throbbed when at length he caught sight of Sigrid’s
figure! and with what skill he guided his boat toward the cliff,
shouting out encouragement and warning! The two were both so stiff and
exhausted that it was no easy task to get them down into the boat, but
he managed it somehow, and a glad cheer from above showed that the
watchers were following their every movement with eager sympathy.
“Let us walk back quickly,” said Mr. Boniface, “that we may be ready to
meet them,” and with an intensity of relief they hurried back to
Britling Gap, arriving just in time to greet the three as they walked up
the beach. Sigrid, though rather pale and exhausted, seemed little the
worse for the adventure, and a glad color flooded her cheeks when Mr.
Boniface turned to Frithiof and grasping his hand, thanked him warmly
for what he had done. Cecil said scarcely anything; she could hardly
trust herself to speak, but her heart beat fast as, glancing at
Frithiof, she saw on his face the bright look which made him once more
like the Frithiof she had met long ago at Bergen.