“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.
CHAPTER X.
When Roy Boniface had gone Frithiof sat for a long time without stirring. He had longed to be alone, and yet the moment he had got his wish the most crushing sense of desolation overwhelmed him. He, too, was keenly conscious of that change in his own nature which had been quite apparent to Roy. It seemed to him that everything had been taken from him in one blow—love, hope, his father, his home, his stainless name, his occupation, his fortune, and even his old self. It was an entirely different character with which he now had to reckon, and an entirely new life which he had to live. Both character and surroundings had been suddenly changed very much for the worse. He had got to put up with them, and somehow to endure life. That was the only thing clear to him. The little child by the Serpentine had given him so much standing-ground, but he had not an inch more at present; all around him was a miserable, cheerless, gray mist. Presently, becoming aware that the cold wind from the river was no longer reviving him but chilling him to the bone, he roused himself to close the window. Mechanically he drew down the blind, struck a light, and noticing that on the disordered bed there lay the crumpled pink paper which had brought him the bad news, he picked it up, smoothed it out, and read it once more.
There was still something which he had not seen in the first horrible shock of realizing his father’s death. With darkening brow he read the words which Herr Grönvold had weighed so carefully and counted so often.
“I will provide for your sisters till you can. Impossible for you to return in time for funeral. My advice is try for work in London. No opening here for you, as feeling will be strong against family.”
It was only then that he actually took in the fact that he was penniless—indeed, far worse than penniless—weighed down by a load of debts which, if not legally his, were his burden none the less. There were, as he well knew, many who failed with a light heart, who were bankrupt one week and starting afresh with perfect unconcern the next, but he was too much his father’s son to take the disaster that way. The disgrace and the perception of being to blame which had killed Herr Falck now fell upon him with crushing force; he paced the room like one distracted, always with the picture before him of what was now going on in Bergen, always with the thought of the suffering and misery which would result from the failure of a firm so old and so much respected as his father’s.
And yet it was out of this very torture of realization that his comfort at last sprung—such comfort at least as he was at present capable of receiving. We must all have some sort of future to look to, some sort of aim before us, or life would be intolerable. The veriest beggar in the street concentrates his thought on the money to be made, or the shelter to be gained for the coming night. And there came, fortunately, to Frithiof, jilted, ruined, bereaved as he was, one strong desire—one firm resolve. He would pay off his father’s debts to the last farthing; he would work, he would slave, he would deny himself all but the bare necessities of life. The name of Falck should yet be redeemed; and a glow of returning hope rose in his heart as he remembered his father’s parting words, “I look to you, Frithiof, to carry out the aims in which I myself have failed, to live the life I could wish to have lived.” Yet how different all had been when those words had been spoken! The recollection of them did him good—brought him, as it were, back to life again—but at the same time they were the most cruel pain.
He saw again the harbor at Bergen, the ships, the mountains, the busy quay; he saw his father so vividly that it seemed to him as if he must actually be before him at that very moment, the tone of his voice rang in his ears, the pressure of his hand seemed yet to linger with him.
What wonder that it should still be so fresh in his memory? It was only three days ago. Only three days! Yet the time to look back on now seemed more like three years. With amazement he dwelt on the fact, thinking, as we mostly do in sudden trouble, how little time it takes for things to happen. It is a perception that does not come to us in the full swing of life, when all seems safe and full of bright promise, any more than in yachting it troubles us to reflect that there is only a plank between ourselves and the unfathomed depths of the sea. We expect all to go well, we feel no fear, we enjoy life easily, and when disaster comes its rude haste astounds us—so much is changed in one sudden, crushing blow.