After this of course nothing more could be said. Frithiof left the room feeling years older than when he had entered it, and with a heavy heart took that first miserable plunge into the outer world—the world where he must now expect to meet with suspicious looks and cold dislike.
CHAPTER XXV.
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.