As he walked down the sort of avenue of pianos and harmoniums in the
inner shop, there came to his mind, why, he could not have told, words
spoken to him long before by that customer who had left on his mind so
lasting an impression, “Courage! the worst will pass.” Though he could
not exactly believe the words, yet he clung to them with a sort of
desperation. Also he happened to notice the clock, and practically
adopted Sydney Smith’s wise maxim, “Take short views.” There were
exactly two hours and a quarter before closing time; he could at any
rate endure as long as that, and of the future he would not think. There
were no customers in the shop, but he could hear voices in eager
discussion, and he knew quite well what was the subject of their talk.
Of course the instant he came into sight a dead silence ensued, and the
little group, consisting of Foster, Darnell, one of the tuners, and the
boy who made himself generally useful, dispersed at once, while in the
ominous quiet Frithiof went to his usual place. The first few minutes
were terrible; he sat down at his desk, took up his pen, and opened the
order-book, making a feint of being actually employed, but conscious
only of the dreadful silence and of the eyes that glanced curiously at
him; again a burning flush passed over his face, just from the horror
and shame of even being suspected of dishonesty. It was a relief to him
when a customer entered, a man entirely ignorant of all that had passed,
and only bent on securing the best seats to be had for Mr. Boniface’s
concert on the following day. Carlo Donati, the celebrated baritone, was
to sing, and as he had only appeared once before that season, except in
opera, there was a great demand for tickets, which kept them pretty busy
until at length the longed-for closing came; the other men lingered a
little to discuss afresh the great event of the day, but Frithiof, who
had been watching the hands of the clock with longing eyes, felt as if
he could not have borne the atmosphere of the shop for another minute,
and snatching up his hat made for the door. None of them said good-night
to him; they were not intentionally unkind, but they were awkward, and
they felt that the strange affair of the afternoon had made a great gulf
between them and the culprit. However, Frithiof was past caring much for
trifles, for after the first moment of intense relief, as he felt the
cool evening air blowing on him, the sense of another trouble to be met
had overpowered all else. He had got somehow to tell Sigrid of his
disgrace, to bring the cloud which shadowed him into the peaceful home
that had become so dear to him. Very slowly he walked through the noisy
streets, very reluctantly crossed the great courtyard, and mounted
flight after flight of stairs. At the threshold he hesitated, wondering
whether it would be possible to shield them from the knowledge. He could
hear Sigrid singing in the kitchen as she prepared the supper, and
something told him that it would be impossible to conceal his trouble
from her. With a sigh he opened the door into the sitting-room; it
looked very bright and cheerful; Swanhild stood at the open window
watering the flowers in the window-box, red and white geraniums and
southernwood, grown from cuttings given by Cecil. She gave him her usual
merry greeting.
“Come and look at my garden, Frithiof,” she said. “Doesn’t it look
lovely?”
“Why, you are late,” said Sigrid, coming in with the cocoa, her face a
little flushed with the fire, which was trying on that summer-day. Then,
glancing at him, “How tired you look! Come, sit down and eat. I have got
a German sausage that even Herr Sivertsen would not grumble at. The heat
has tired you, and you will feel better after you have had something.”
He ate obediently, though the food almost choked him; Swanhild, fancying
that he had one of his bad headaches, grew quiet, and afterwards was not
surprised to find that he did not as usual get out his writing
materials, but asked Sigrid to go out with him for a turn.
“You are too tired to try the translating?” she asked.
“Yes, I’ll try it later,” he said; “but let us have half an hour’s walk
together now.”
She consented at once and went to put on her hat, well knowing that
Frithiof never shirked his work without good reason; then leaving strict
orders with Swanhild not to sit up after nine, they left her absorbed in
English history, and went down into the cool, clear twilight. Some
children were playing quietly in the courtyard; Sigrid stopped for a
minute to speak to one of them.
“Is your father better this evening?” she asked.
“Yes, miss, and he’s a-goin’ back to work to-morrow,” replied the child,
lifting a beaming face up to the friendly Norwegian lady, who had become
a general favorite among her neighbors.
“That is one of the little Hallifields,” explained Sigrid, as they
passed on. “The father, you know, is a tram-car conductor, and the work
is just killing him by inches; some day you really must have a talk with
him and just hear what terrible hours he has to keep. It makes me sick
to think of it. How I wish you were in Parliament, Frithiof, and could
do something to put down all the grievances that we are forever coming
across!”
“There was once a time when at home we used to dream that I might even
be a king’s minister,” said Frithiof.
Something in his voice made her sorry for her last speech; she knew that
one of his fits of depression had seized him.
“So we did, and perhaps after all you may be. It was always, you know,
through something very disagreeable that in the old stories the highest
wish was attained. Remember the ‘Wild Swans.’ And even ‘Cinderella’ has
that thought running through it. We are taught the same thing from our
nursery days upward. And, you know, though there are some drawbacks, I
think living like this, right among the people, is a splendid training.
One can understand their troubles so much better.”
“I should have thought you had troubles enough of your own,” he said
moodily, “without bothering yourself with other people’s.”
“But since our own troubles I have somehow cared more about them; I
don’t feel afraid as I used to do of sick people, and people who have
lost those belonging to them. I want always to get nearer to them.”
“Sigrid,” he said desperately, “can you bear a fresh trouble for
yourself? I have bad news for you to-night.”
Her heart seemed to stop beating.
“Roy?” she asked breathlessly, her mind instinctively turning first to
fears for his safety.
At any other time Frithiof would have guessed the truth through that
tremulous, unguarded question, which had escaped her involuntarily. But
he was too miserable to notice it then.
“Oh, no, Roy is still at Paris. They heard to-day that he could not be
back in time for the concert. It is I who have brought this trouble on
you. Though how it came about God only knows. Listen, and I’ll tell you
exactly how everything happened.”
By this time they had reached one of the parks, and they sat down on a
bench under the shade of a great elm-tree. Frithiof could not bear to
look at Sigrid, could not endure to watch the effect of his words; he
fixed his eyes on the smutty sheep that were feeding on the grass
opposite him. Then very quietly and minutely he told exactly what had
passed that afternoon.
“I am glad,” she exclaimed when he paused, “that Mr. Boniface was so
kind. And yet, how can he think that of you?”
“You do not think it, then?” he asked, looking her full in the face.
“What! think that you took it in absence of mind? Think that it would be
possible for you deliberately to take it out of the till and pin it in
your own pocket! Why, of course not! In actual delirium, I suppose, a
man might do anything, but you are as strong and well as any one else.
Of course, you had nothing whatever to do with it, either consciously or
unconsciously.”
“Yet the thing was somehow there, and the logical inference is, that I
must have put it there,” he said, scanning her face with keen attention.
“I don’t care a fig for logical inference,” she cried, with a little
vehement motion of her foot. “All I know is that you had nothing
whatever to do with it. If I had to die for maintaining that, I would
say it with my last breath.”
He caught her hand in his and held it fast.
“If you still believe in me, the worst is over,” he said. “With the rest
of the world, of course, my character is gone, but there is no help for
that.”
“But there must be help,” said Sigrid. “Some one else must be guilty.
The other man in the shop must certainly have put it there.”
“For what purpose?” said Frithiof sadly. “Besides, how could he have
done it without my knowledge?”
“I don’t know,” said Sigrid, beginning to perceive the difficulties of
the case. “What sort of a man is he?”
“I used to dislike him at first, and he naturally disliked me because I
was a foreigner. But latterly we have got on well enough. He is a very
decent sort of fellow, and I don’t for a moment believe that he would
steal.”
“One of you must have done it,” said Sigrid. “And as I certainly never
could believe that you did it, I am forced to think the other man
guilty.”
Frithiof was silent. If he did not agree with her, was he not bound to
accept Mr. Boniface’s theory? The horrible mystery of the affair was
almost more than he could endure; his past had been miserable enough,
but he had never known anything equal to the misery of being innocent
yet absolutely unable to prove this innocence. Sigrid, glancing at him
anxiously, could see even in the dim twilight what a heavy look of
trouble clouded his face, and resolutely turning from the puzzling
question of how the mystery could be explained, she set herself to make
as light of the whole affair as was possible.
“Look, Frithiof,” she said; “why should we waste time and strength in
worrying over this? After all, what difference does it make to us in
ourselves? Business hours must, of course, be disagreeable enough to
you, but at home you must forget the disagreeables; at home you are my
hero, unjustly accused and bearing the penalty of another’s crime.”
He smiled a little, touched by her eagerness of tone, and cheered, in
spite of himself, by her perfect faith in him. Yet all through the night
he tossed to and fro in sleepless misery, trying to find some possible
explanation of the afternoon’s mystery, racking his brain to think of
all that he had done or said since that unlucky hour when Sardoni had
asked for change.
The next morning, as a natural consequence, he began the day with a
dull, miserable headache; at breakfast he hardly spoke, and he set off
for business looking so ill that Sigrid wondered whether he could
possibly get through his work. It was certainly strange, she could not
help thinking, that fate seemed so utterly against him, and that when at
last his life was beginning to look brighter, he should again be the
victim of another’s fault. And then, with a sort of comfort, there
flashed into her mind an idea which almost reconciled her to his lot.
What if these obstacles so hard to be surmounted, these difficulties
that hemmed him in so persistently, were after all only the equivalent
to the physical dangers and difficulties of the life of the old Vikings?
Did it not, in truth, need greater courage and endurance for the
nineteenth-century Frithiof to curb all his natural desires and
instincts and toil at uncongenial work in order to pay off his father’s
debts, than for the Frithiof of olden times to face all the dangers of
the sea, and of foes spiritual and temporal who beset him when he went
to win back the lost tribute money? It was, after all, a keen pleasure
to the old Frithiof to fight with winds and waves; but it was a hard
struggle to the modern Frithiof to stand behind a counter day after day.
And then again, was it not less bitter for the Frithiof of the Saga to
be suspected of sacrilege, than for Frithiof Falck to be suspected of
the most petty and contemptible act of dishonesty?
She was right. Anything, however painful and difficult, would have been
gladly encountered by poor Frithiof if it could have spared him that
miserable return to his old place in Mr. Boniface’s shop. And that day’s
prosaic work needed greater moral courage than any previous day of his
life.
About half-past nine there arrived a telegram which did not mend
matters. Mr. Boniface was seriously unwell, would not be in town that
day, and could not be at St. James’s Hall that evening for the concert.
Mr. Horner would take his place. Frithiof’s heart sank at this news; and
when presently the fussy, bumptious, little man entered the shop the
climax of his misery was reached. Mr. Horner read the telegram with a
disturbed air.
“Dear! dear! seriously ill, I’m afraid, or he would at least make an
effort to come to-night. But after all the annoyance of yesterday I am
not surprised—no, not at all. Such a thing has never happened in his
business before, ay, Mr. Foster?”
“Oh, no, sir,” said the foreman in a low voice, sorry in his heart for
the young Norwegian, who could not avoid hearing every word.
“It was quite enough to make him ill. Such a disgraceful affair in a
house of this class. For his own sake he does well to hush it up, though
I intend to see that all proper precautions are taken; upon that, at any
rate, I insist. If I had my own way there should have been none of this
misplaced leniency. Here, William!” and he beckoned to the boy, who was
irreverently flicking the bust of Mozart with a duster.
“Yes, sir,” said William, who, being out of the trouble himself,
secretly rather enjoyed the commotion it had caused.
“Go at once to Smith, the ironmonger, and order him to send some one
round to fix a spring bell on a till. Do you understand?”
“Quite, sir,” replied William, unable to resist glancing across the
counter.
Frithiof went on arranging some music that had just arrived, but he
flushed deeply, and Mr. Horner, glad to have found a vulnerable point of
attack, did not scruple to make the most of his opportunity. Never,
surely, did ironmonger do his work so slowly! Never, surely, did an
employer give so much of his valuable time to directing exactly what was
to be done, and superintending an affair about which he knew nothing.
But the fixing of that detestable bell gave Mr. Horner a capitol excuse
for being in the shop at Frithiof’s elbow, and every word and look
conveyed such insulting suspicion of the Norwegian that honest old
Foster began to feel angry.
“Why should I mind this vulgar brute?” thought Frithiof, as he forced
himself to go on with his work with the air of quiet determination which
Mr. Horner detested. But all the same he did care, and it was the very
vulgarity of the attack that made him inwardly wince. His headache grew
worse and worse, while in maddening monotony came the sounds of piano
tuning from the inner shop, hammering and bell-ringing at the till close
by, and covert insults and innuendoes from the grating voice of James
Horner. How much an employer can do for those in his shop, how close and
cordial the relation may be, he had learnt from his intercourse with Mr.
Boniface. He now learnt the opposite truth, that no position affords
such constant opportunities for petty tyranny if the head of the firm
happens to be mean or prejudiced. The miserable hours dragged on
somehow, and at last, late in the afternoon, Foster came up to him with
a message.
“Mr. Horner wishes to speak to you,” he said; “I will take your place
here.” Then, lowering his voice cautiously, “It’s my opinion, Mr. Falck,
that he is trying to goad you into resigning, or into an impertinent
answer which would be sufficient to cause your dismissal.”
“Thank you for the warning,” said Frithiof gratefully, and a little
encouraged by the mere fact that the foreman cared enough for him to
speak in such a way, he went to the private room, determined to be on
his guard and not to let pride or anger get the better of his dignity.
Mr. Horner replied to his knock, but did not glance round as he entered
the room.
“You wished to speak to me, sir?” asked Frithiof.
“Yes, when I have finished this letter. You can wait,” said Mr. Horner
ungraciously.
He waited quietly, thinking to himself how different was the manner both
of Mr. Boniface and of his son, who were always as courteous to their
employees as to their customers, and would have thought themselves as
little justified in using such a tone to one of the men as of employing
the slave-whip.
Mr. Horner, flattering himself that he was producing an impression and
emphasizing the difference between their respective positions, finished
his letter, signed his name with a flourish characteristic of his
opinion of himself, then swung round his chair and glanced at Frithiof.
“Mr. Boniface left no instructions as to whether you were to attend as
usual at St. James’s Hall to-night,” he began. “But since no one else is
used to the work I suppose there is no help for it.”
He paused, apparently expecting some rejoinder, but Frithiof merely
stood there politely attentive.
“Since you know the work, and are used to it, you had better attend as
usual, for I should be vexed if any hitch should occur in the
arrangements. But understand, pray, that I strongly disapprove of your
remaining in our employ at all, and that it is only out of necessity
that I submit to it, for I consider you unfit to mix with respectable
people.”
Whatever the Norwegian felt, he managed to preserve a perfectly unmoved
aspect. Mr. Horner, who wanted to stir him into indignant expostulation,
was sorely disappointed that his remarks fell so flat.
“I see you intend to brazen it out,” he said crushingly. “But you don’t
deceive me. You may leave the room, and take good care that all the
arrangements to-night are properly carried out.”
“Yes, sir,” said Frithiof, with the quietness of one who knows that he
remains master of the situation. But afterward, when he was once more in
the shop, the insults returned to his mind with full force, and lay
rankling there for many a day to come. Owing to the concert, his release
came a little sooner than usual, and it was not much after seven when
Sigrid heard him at the door. His face frightened her; it looked so worn
and harassed.
“You will have time for some supper?” she asked pleadingly.
“No,” he said, passing by her quickly, “I am not hungry, and must change
my clothes and be off again.”
“He might fancy some coffee,” said Sigrid to herself. “Quick, Swanhild,
run and get it ready while I boil the water. There is nothing like
strong _café noir_ when one is tired out.”
Perhaps it did him some good; and the glimpse of his home certainly
cheered him; yet, nevertheless, he was almost ready that night to give
up everything in despair.
Physical exhaustion had dulled the glow of inner comfort that had come
to him on the previous day. In his miserable depression all his old
doubts assailed him once more. Was there any rule of justice after all?
Was there anything in heaven above, or in the earth beneath, but cruel
lust of power, and an absolute indifference to suffering? His old hatred
against those who succeeded once more filled his heart, and though at
one time he had felt curious to see Donati, and had heard all that Cecil
had to say in favor of the Italian’s courage and unselfishness, yet now,
in his bitterness of soul, he began to hate the man merely because of
his popularity.
“I detest these conceited, set-up idols of the public,” he thought to
himself. “When all men speak well of a fellow it is time to suspect him.
His goodness and all the rest of it is probably all calculation—a sort
of advertisement!”
The architects of most English music-halls have scant regard for the
comfort of the _artistes_. It often used to strike Frithiof as a strange
thing that in the Albert Hall, singers, whose health and strength were
of priceless value, had to wait about in draughty, sloping passages, on
uncomfortable chairs, while at St. James’s Hall they had only the option
of marching up and down a cold, stone staircase to the cloak-room
between every song, or of sitting in the dingy little den opening on to
the platform steps—a den which resembles a family pew in a meetinghouse.
Here, sitting face to face on hard benches, were ranged to-night many of
the first singers of the day. There was Sardoni, the good-natured
English tenor and composer. There was Mme. Sardoni-Borelli, with her
noble and striking face and manner; besides a host of other celebrities,
all the more dear to the audience because for years and years they had
been giving their very best to the nation. But Carlo Donati had not yet
arrived, and Mr. Horner kept glancing anxiously through the glass doors
on to the staircase in hopes of catching sight of the great baritone.
Frithiof lived through it all like a man in a dream, watched a young
English tenor who was to make his first appearance that night, saw him
walking to and fro in a tremendous state of nervousness, heard the poor
fellow sing badly enough, and watched him plunge down the steps again
amid the very faint applause of the audience. Next came the turn of Mme.
Sardoni-Borelli. Her husband handed her the song she was to sing, she
gave some directions to the accompanist as to the key in which she
wanted it played, and mounted the platform with a composed dignity that
contrasted curiously with the manner of the _débutant_ who had preceded
her. Mr. Horner turned to Frithiof at that moment.
“Go and see whether Signor Donati has come,” he said. “His song is next
on the programme.”
“Ah,” said Sardoni, with a smile, “he is such a tremendous fellow for
home, he never comes a moment too soon, and at the theater often runs it
even closer than this. He is the quickest dresser I ever knew, though,
and is never behind time.”
Frithiof made his way to the cloak room, and, as he walked through the
narrow room leading to it, he could distinctly hear the words of some
one within. The voice seemed familiar to him.
“Badly received? Well, you only failed because of nervousness. In your
second song you will be more used to things, and you will see, it will
go much better.”
“But _you_ surely can never have had the same difficulty to struggle
with?” said the young tenor, who, with a very downcast face, stood
talking to the newly arrived baritone.
“Never!” exclaimed the other, with a laugh which rang through the room,
“Ask Sardoni! He’ll tell you of my first appearance.”
Then, as Frithiof gave his message, the speaker turned round and
revealed to the Norwegian that face which had fascinated him so
strangely just before his illness—a face not only beautiful in outline
and coloring, but full of an undefined charm, which made all theories as
to the conceit and objectionableness of successful men fall to the
ground.
“Thank you,” he said, bowing in reply; “I will come down at once.” Then,
turning again to the _débutant_ with a smile, “You see, through failing
to get that _encore_ that you ought to have deserved, you have nearly
made me behind time. Never mind, you will get a very hearty one in the
second part to make up. Come down with me, wont you. It is far better
fun in that family pew below than up here. Clinton Cleve is here, isn’t
he? Have you been introduced to him?”
The young man replied in the negative; Frithiof perceived that the idea
had cheered him up wonderfully, and knew that a word from the veteran
tenor might be of great use to a beginner.
“I’ll introduce you,” said Donati as they went down the stairs. Frithiof
held open the swing-doors for them and watched with no small curiosity
the greeting between Donati and the other _artistes_. His manner was so
very simple that it was hard to realize that he was indeed the man about
whom all Europe was raving; but nevertheless he had somehow brought a
sort of new atmosphere into the place, and even Mr. Horner seemed
conscious of this, for he was less fidgety and fussy than usual, and
even seemed willing to keep in the background. There was a hearty
greeting to Madame Sardoni as she came down the steps and a brisk little
conversation in the interval; then, having wrapped her shawl about her
again, talking brightly all the while, Donati picked up his music and
stepped on to the platform. It was only then that Frithiof realized how
great was his popularity, for he was greeted rapturously, and certainly
he well merited the thunder of applause which broke forth again at the
close of a song which had been given with unrivaled delicacy of
expression and with all the charm of his wonderful voice. For the time
Frithiof forgot everything; he was carried far away from all
consciousness of disgrace and wretchedness, far away from all
recollection of Mr. Horner’s presence; he could only look in
astonishment and admiration at the singer, who stood laughing and
talking with Sardoni, periodically mounting the platform to bow his
acknowledgments to the audience, who still kept up their storm of
applause. When at length he had convinced them that he did not intend to
sing again, he began to talk to Clinton Cleve, and soon had won for the
young _débutant_ a few minutes’ kindly talk with the good-natured old
singer who, though he had been the idol of the British public for many
years, had not forgotten the severe ordeal of a first appearance. The
young tenor brightened visibly, and when he sang again acquitted himself
so well that he won the _encore_ which Donati had prophesied.
All went smoothly until, early in the second part, the Italian baritone
was to sing a song with violin obligato. By some unlucky accident
Frithiof forgot to place the music-stand for the violinist; and
perceiving this as soon as they were on the platform, Donati himself
brought it forward and put it in position. It was but a trifling
occurrence, but quite sufficient to rouse Mr. Horner. When the singer
returned he apologized to him profusely, and turned upon Frithiof with a
rebuke, the tone of which made Donati’s eyes flash.
“Pray do not make so much of it,” he said, with a touch of dignity in
his manner. Then returning again from one of his journeys to the
platform, and noticing the expression of Frithiof’s face, he paused to
speak to him for a moment before returning to give the _encore_ that was
emphatically demanded. It was not so much what he said as his manner of
saying it that caused Frithiof’s face to brighten, and brought a frown
to James Horner’s brow.
“It is merely my duty to enlighten Signor Donati,” said the little man
to himself—“merely my duty!”