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.