A Hardy Norseman. Lyall Edna

look worn out. Munkeggen is a tiring climb. Let us come upstairs, it is high time that naughty little sister of mine was in bed.”

      “The reward of virtue,” said Cyril Morgan, rejoining his cousin Florence. “I have been polite to the little bourgeoise and it has cost me nothing. It is always best in a place like this to be on good terms with every one. We shall never be likely to come across these people again, the acquaintance is not likely to bore us.”

      His words were perfectly true. That curiously assorted gathering of different nationalities would never again meet, and yet those days of close intimacy were destined to influence forever, either for good or for evil, the lives of each one.

      All through the Sunday Blanche had kept in bed, for though the excitement had kept her up, on the previous night, she inevitably suffered from the effects of her fall. It was not till the Monday morning, just before the arrival of the steamer, that Frithiof could find the opportunity for which he had impatiently waited. They walked through the little garden, ostensibly to watch for the steamer from the mound by the flagstaff, but they only lingered there for a minute, glancing anxiously down the fjord where in the distance could be seen the unwelcome black speck. On the further side of the mound, down among the trees and bushes, was a little sheltered seat. It was there that they spent their last moments, there that Blanche listened to his eager words of love, there that she again bade him wait till October, at the same time giving him such hope and encouragement as must surely have satisfied the most exigeant lover.

      All too soon the bustle of departure reached them, and the steam-whistle—most hateful and discordant of sounds—rang and resounded among the mountains.

      “I must go,” she exclaimed, “or they will be coming to look for me. This is our real good-by. On the steamer it will be just a hand-shake, but now—”

      And she lifted a lovely, glowing face to his.

      Then, presently, as they walked down to the little pier, she talked fast and gayly of all they would do when he came to England; she talked because, for once, he was absolutely silent, and because she was afraid that her uncle would guess their secret; perhaps it was a relief to her that Frithiof volunteered to run back to the hotel for Mr. Morgan’s opera-glass, which had been left by mistake in the salon, so that, literally, there was only time for the briefest of farewells on the steamer. He went through it all in a business-like fashion, smiling mechanically in response to the good wishes, then, with a heavy heart, stepping on shore. Herr Falck, who was returning to Bergen by the same boat, which took the other travelers only as far as Vadheim, was not ill pleased to see his son’s evident dejection; he stood by the bulwarks watching him and saying a word or two now and then to Blanche, who was close by him.

      “Why see!” he exclaimed, “the fellow is actually coming on board again. We shall be carrying him away with us if he doesn’t take care.”

      “A thousand pardons!” Frithiof had exclaimed, shaking hands with Cecil and Roy Boniface. “I did not see you before. A pleasant journey to you. You must come again to Norway some day, and let us all meet once more.”

      “Vaer saa god!” exclaimed one of the sailors; and Frithiof had to spring down the gangway.

      “To our next merry meeting,” said Roy, lifting his hat; and then there was a general waving of handkerchiefs from the kindly little crowd on the pier and from the parting guests, and, in all the babel and confusion, Frithiof was conscious only of Blanche’s clear “Auf wiedersehen!” and saw nothing but the sweet dark eyes, which to the very last dwelt on him.

      “Well, that is over!” he said to Sigrid, pulling himself together, and stifling a sigh.

      “Perhaps they will come here next year,” suggested Sigrid consolingly.

      “Perhaps I shall go to England next autumn,” said Frithiof with a smile.

      “So soon!” she exclaimed involuntarily.

      He laughed, for the words were such a curious contradiction to the ones which lurked in his own mind.

      “Oh! you call two months a short time!” he exclaimed; “and to me it seems an eternity. You will have to be very forbearing, for I warn you such a waiting time is very little to my taste.”

      “Then why did you not speak now, before she went away?”

      “You wisest of advisers!” he said, with a smile: “I did speak yesterday.”

      “Yesterday!” she cried eagerly. “Yesterday, on Munkeggen?”

      “Yes; all that now remains is to get Mr. Morgan’s consent to our betrothal.”

      “Oh, Frithiof, I am so glad! so very glad! How pleased father will be! I think you must write and let him know.”

      “If he will keep it quite secret,” said Frithiof; “but of course not a word must be breathed until her father has consented. There is no engagement as yet, only we know that we love each other.”

      “That ought to be enough to satisfy you till the autumn. And it was so nice of you to tell me, Frithiof. Oh, I don’t think I could have borne it if you had chosen to marry some girl I didn’t like. As for Blanche, there never was any one more sweet and lovely.”

      It seemed that Frithiof’s happiness was to bring happiness to the whole family. Even little Swanhild guessed the true state of things, and began to frame visions of the happy future when the beautiful English girl should become her own sister; while as to Herr Falck, the news seemed to banish entirely the heavy depression which for some time had preyed upon him. And so, in spite of the waiting, the time slipped by quickly to Frithiof, the mere thought of Blanche’s love kept him rapturously happy, and at the pretty villa in Kalvedalen there was much laughter and mirth, and music and singing—much eager expectation and hope, and much planning of a future life which should be even more full and happy.

      At length, when the afternoons closed in early, and the long winter was beginning to give signs of its approach, Frithiof took leave of his home, and, on one October Saturday, started on his voyage to England. It was, in a sense, the great event of his life, and they all instinctively knew that it was a crisis, so that Sigrid drew aside little Swanhild at the last, and left the father and son to have their parting words alone.

      “I look to you, Frithiof,” the father said eagerly, “I look to you to carry out the aims in which I myself have failed—to live the life I could wish to have lived. May God grant you the wife who will best help you in the struggle! I sometimes think, Frithiof, that things might have gone very differently with me had your mother been spared.”

      “Do you not let this depression influence you too much, father?” said Frithiof. “Why take such a dark view of your own life? I shall only be too happy if I make as much of the world as you have done. I wish you could have come to England too. I think you want change and rest.”

      “Ah!” said Herr Falck, laughing, “once over there you will not echo that wish. No, no, you are best by yourself when you go a-wooing, my son. Besides, I could not possibly leave home just now; we shall have the herring-fleet back from Iceland before many days.”

      Then, as the signal was given that all friends of the passengers must leave the steamer, he took Frithiof’s hand and held it fast in his.

      “God bless you, my boy—I think you will bring honor to our name, sooner or later. Now, Sigrid, wish him well, and let us be off.”

      He called little Swanhild to him, and walked briskly down the gangway, then stood on the quay, talking very cheerfully, his momentary depression quite past. Before long the steamer began to glide off, and Frithiof, even in the midst of his bright expectations, felt a pang as he waved a farewell to those he left behind him.

      “A happy return to Gamle Norge!” shouted Herr Falck.

      And Sigrid and Swanhild stood waving their handkerchiefs till the steamer could no longer be seen.

      “I am a fool to mind going away!” reflected Frithiof. “In three weeks’