A Hardy Norseman. Lyall Edna

telegram! What do you mean?” exclaimed Frithiof. Then as full recollection came back to him, he turned his face from the light with a groan.

      “The gentleman had, perhaps, better see a doctor,” suggested the waiter to Roy. But Frithiof turned upon him sharply.

      “I am better. You can go away. All I want is to be alone.”

      The man retired, but Roy still lingered. He could not make up his mind to leave any one in such a plight, so he crossed the room and stood by the open window looking out gravely at the dark river with its double row of lights and their long shining reflections. Presently a sound in the room made him turn. Frithiof had dragged himself up to his feet, with an impatient gesture he blew out the flickering candle, then walked with unsteady steps to the window and dropped into a chair.

      “So you are here still?” he said, with something of relief in his tone.

      “I couldn’t bear to leave till you were all right again,” said Roy. “Wont you tell me what is the matter, Falck?”

      “My father is dead,” said Frithiof, in an unnaturally calm voice.

      “Dead!” exclaimed Roy, and his tone had in it much more of awe and regret. He could hardly believe that the genial, kindly Norwegian who had climbed Munkeggen with them only a few weeks before was actually no longer in the world.

      “He is dead,” repeated Frithiof quietly.

      “But how was it?” asked Roy. “It must have been so sudden. You left him well only three days ago. How was it?”

      “His Iceland expedition had failed,” said Frithiof; “that meant a fatal blow to his business; then, this morning, there came to him Morgan’s telegram about the agency. It was that that killed him.”

      “Good God!” exclaimed Roy, with indignation in his voice.

      “Leave out the adjective,” said Frithiof bitterly. “If there’s a God at all He is hard and merciless. Business is business, you see—one can’t sentimentalize over old connections. God allows men like Morgan to succeed, they always do succeed, and He lets men like my father be dragged down into shame and dishonor and ruin.”

      Roy was silent; he had no glib, conventional sentences ready to hand. In his own mind he frankly admitted that the problem was beyond him. He knew quite well that far too often in business life it was the pushing, unscrupulous, selfish man who made his fortune, and the man of Herr Falck’s type, sensitive, conscientious, altogether honorable, who had to content himself with small means, or who, goaded at last to rashness, staked all on a desperate last throw and failed. It was a problem that perplexed him every day of his life, the old, old problem which Job dashed his heart against, and for which only Job’s answer will suffice. Vaguely he felt that there must be some other standard of success than that of the world; he believed that it was but the first act of the drama which we could at present see; but he honestly owned that the first act was often perplexing enough.

      Nevertheless, it was his very silence which attracted Frithiof; had he spoken, had he argued, had he put forth the usual platitudes, the two would have been forever separated. But he just leaned against the window-frame, looking out at the dark river, musing over the story he had just heard, and wondering what the meaning of it could be. The “Why?” which had been the last broken ejaculation of the dead man echoed in the hearts of these two who had been brought together so strangely. Into Roy’s mind there came the line, “ ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise.” But he had a strong feeling that in Frithiof’s case sorrow would harden and imbitter; indeed, it seemed to him already that his companion’s whole nature was changed. It was almost difficult to believe that he was the same high-spirited boy who had been the life of the party at Balholm, who had done the honors of the villa in Kalvedalen so pleasantly. And then as he contrasted that bright, homely room at Bergen with this dark, forlorn hotel room in London, a feeling that he must get his companion away into some less dreary atmosphere took possession of him.

      “Don’t stay all alone in this place,” he said abruptly. “Come home with me to-night.”

      “You are very good,” said Frithiof, “but I don’t think I can do that. I am better alone, and indeed must make up my mind to-night as to the future.”

      “You will go back to Norway, I suppose?” asked Roy.

      “Yes, I suppose so; as soon as possible. To-morrow I must see if there is any possibility of getting back in fair time. Unluckily, it is too late for the Wilson Line steamer, which must be starting at this minute from Hull.”

      “I will come in to-morrow, then, and see what you have decided on,” said Roy. “Is there nothing I can do for you now?”

      “Nothing, thank you,” said Frithiof. And Roy, feeling that he could be of no more use, and that his presence was perhaps a strain on his friend, wished him good-night and went out.

      The next day he was detained by business and could not manage to call at the Arundel till late in the afternoon. Noticing the same waiter in the hall who had been present on the previous evening, he inquired if Frithiof were in.

      “Herr Falck has gone, sir,” said the man; “he went off about an hour ago.”

      “Gone!” exclaimed Roy, in some surprise. “Did he leave any message?”

      “No, sir; none at all. He was looking very ill when he came down this morning, but went out as soon as he had had breakfast, and didn’t come back till four o’clock. Then he called for his bill and ordered his portmanteau to be brought down and put on a hansom, and as he passed out he gave me a trifle, and said he had spoken a bit sharp to me last night, he was afraid, and thanked me for what I had done for him. And so he drove off, sir.”

      “You didn’t hear where he was going to?”

      “No, sir; I can’t say as I did. The cab, if I remember right, turned along the Embankment, toward Charing Cross.”

      “Thank you,” said Roy. “Very possibly he may have gone back to Norway by the Continent.”

      And with a feeling of vague disappointment he turned away.