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.

He remembered how he had whistled the “Bridal Song of the Hardanger,” as he cheerfully paced the deck full of thoughts of Blanche and of the bright future that was opening before him. The tune rang in his ears now with a mournful persistence. He buried his face in his hands, letting the flood of grief sweep over him, opposing to it no thought of comfort, no recollection of what was still left to him. If Blanche had been faithful to him all might have been different; her father would never have taken away the agency if she had told him the truth when she first got home; the Iceland expedition might have failed, but his father could have got voluntary agreement with his creditors, he himself might perhaps have been put at the head of the branch at Stavanger, all would have been well.

In bitter contrast he called up a picture of the desolate house in Kalvedalen, thought of Herr GrÖnvold making the final arrangements, and alternately pitying and blaming his brother-in-law; thought of Sigrid and Swanhild in their sorrow and loneliness; thought of his father lying cold and still. Choking sobs rose in his throat as more and more clearly he realized that all was indeed over, that he should never see his father again. But his eyes were dry and tearless, the iron had entered into his soul, and all the relief that was then possible for him lay in a prompt endeavor to carry out the resolve which he had just made.

Perhaps he perceived this, for he raised himself, banished the mind pictures which had absorbed him so long, and began to think what his first practical step must be. He would lose no time, he would begin that very moment. The first thing must of course be retrenchment; he must leave the Arundel on the morrow and must seek out the cheapest rooms to be had. Lying on the table was that invaluable book “Dickens’ Dictionary of London.” He had bought it at Hull on the previous day, and had already got out of it much amusement and much information. Now, in grim earnest, he turned over its well-arranged pages till he came to the heading “Lodgings,” running his eye hurriedly over the paragraph, and pausing over the following sentence: “Those who desire still cheaper accommodation must go further afield, the lowest priced of all being in the northeast and southeast districts, in either of which a bed and sitting-room may be had at rents varying from ten shillings, and even less, to thirty shillings.”

He turned to the maps at the beginning, and decided to try the neighborhood of Vauxhall and Lambeth.

Next came the question of work. And here the vastness of the field perplexed him, where to turn he had not the slightest idea. Possibly Dickens might suggest something. He turned over the pages, and his eye happened to light on the words, “Americans in distress, Society for the relief of.” He scanned the columns closely, there seemed to be help for every one on earth except a Norwegian. There was a home for French strangers; a Hungarian aid society; an Italian benevolent; sixteen charities for Jews; an association of Poles; a Hibernian society; a Netherlands benevolent; a Portuguese and Spanish aid; and a society for distressed Belgians. The only chance for him lay in the “Universal Beneficence Society,” a title which called up a bitter smile to his lips, or the “Society of Friends of Foreigners in Distress.”

He made up his mind to leave these as a last resource, and turning to the heading of Sweden and Norway looked out the address of the consulate. He must go there the first thing the next day, and get what advice and help he could. There was also in Fleet Street a Scandinavian club; he would go there and get a list of the members; it was possible that he might meet with some familiar name, and at any rate he should hear his own language spoken, which in itself would be a relief. This arranged, he tried to sleep, but with little success; his brain was too much overwrought with the terrible reversals of fortune he had met with that day, with the sorrows that had come to him, not as

Whenever he did for a few minutes sink into a doze, it was only to be haunted by the most horrible dreams, and when morning came he was ill and feverish, yet as determined as before to go through with the programme he had marked out.

The Swedish minister received him very kindly, and listened to as much of his story as would bear telling, with great patience. “It is a very hard case,” he said. “The English firm perhaps consulted their own pockets in making this new arrangement, but to break off an old connection so suddenly, and as it chanced at such a trying moment, was hard lines. What sort of people are they, these Morgans? You have met them?”

“Oh, yes,” said Frithiof, coloring. “One of the brothers was in Norway this summer, came to our house, dined with us, professed the greatest friendliness, while all the time he must have known what the firm was meditating.”

“Doubtless came to see how the land lay,” said the minister. “And what of the other brother?”

“I saw him yesterday,” replied Frithiof. “He was very civil; told me the telegram had been sent off that morning about the affair, as it would not bear delay, and spoke very highly of my father. Words cost nothing, you see.”

The consul noted the extreme bitterness of the tone, and looked searchingly into the face of his visitor. “Poor fellow!” he reflected; “he starts in life with a grievance, and there is nothing so bad for a man as that. A fine, handsome boy, too. If he stays eating his heart out in London he will go to the dogs in no time.”

“See,” he said, “these Morgans, though they may be keen business men, yet they are after all human. When they learn at what an unlucky time their telegram arrived, it is but natural that they should regret it. Their impulse will be to help you. I should advise you to go to them at once and talk the affair over with them. If they have any proper feeling they will offer you some sort of employment in this new Stavanger branch, or they might, perhaps, have some opening for you in their London house.”

“I can not go to them,” said Frithiof, in a choked voice. “I would rather die first.”

“I can understand,” said the consul, “that you feel very bitter, and that you resent the way in which they have behaved. But still I think you should try to get over that. After all, they knew nothing of your father’s affairs; they did not intentionally kill him. That the two disasters followed so closely on each other was but an accident.”

“Still I could never accept anything from them; it is out of the question,” said Frithiof.

“Excuse me if I speak plainly,” said the consul. “You are very young, and you know but little of the world. If you allow yourself to be governed by pride of this sort you can not hope to get on. Now turn it over in your mind, and if you do not feel that you can see these people, at any rate write to them.”

“I cannot explain it all to you, sir,” said Frithiof. “But there are private reasons which make that altogether impossible.”

The blood had mounted to his forehead, his lips had closed in a straight line; perhaps it was because they quivered that he compressed them so.

“A woman in the question,” reflected the consul. “That complicates matters. All the more reason that he should leave London.” Then, aloud: “If you feel unable to apply to them, I should recommend you strongly to try America. Every one flocks to London for work, but as a matter of fact London streets just now are not paved with gold; everything is at a standstill; go where you will, you will hear that trade is bad, that employment is scarce, and that living is dear.”

“If I could hear of any opening in America, I would go at once,” said Frithiof. “But at Bergen we have heard of late that it is no such easy thing even over there to meet with work. I will not pay the expenses of the voyage merely to be in my present state, and hundreds of miles further from home.”

“What can you do?” asked the consul. “Is your English pretty good?”

“I can write and speak it easily. And, of course, German too. I understand book-keeping.”

“Any taste for teaching?” asked the consul.

“None,” said Frithiof decidedly.

“Then the only thing that seems open to you is the work of a secretary, or a clerkship, or perhaps you could manage translating, but that is not easy work to get. Everything now is overcrowded, so dreadfully overcrowded. However, of course I shall bear you in mind, and you yourself will leave no stone unturned. Stay, I might give you a letter of introduction to Herr Sivertsen: he might possibly find you temporary work. He is the author of that well-known book on Norway, you know. Do you know your way about yet?”

“Pretty well,” said Frithiof.

“Then there is his address—Museum Street. You had better take an omnibus at the Bank. Any of the Oxford Street ones will put you down at the corner, by Mudie’s. Let me know how you get on: I shall be interested to hear.”

Then, with a kindly shake of the hand, Frithiof found himself dismissed; and somewhat cheered by the interview, he made his way to the address which had been given him.

Herr Sivertsen’s rooms were of the gloomiest: they reeked of tobacco, they were ill-lighted, and it seemed to Frithiof that the window could not have been opened for a week. An oblique view of Mudie’s library was the only object of interest to be seen without, though, by craning one’s neck, one could get just a glimpse of the traffic in Oxford Street. He waited for some minutes, wondering to himself how a successful author could tolerate such a den, and trying to imagine from the room what sort of being was the inhabiter thereof. At length the door opened, and a gray-haired man of five and fifty, with a huge forehead and somewhat stern, square-jawed face, entered.

“I have read the consul’s letter,” he said, greeting Frithiof, and motioning him to a chair. “You want what is very hard to get. Are you aware that thousands of men are seeking employment and are unable to meet with it?”

“I know it is hard,” said Frithiof. “Still I have more chance here than in Norway, and anyhow I mean to get it.” The emphatic way in which he uttered these last words made the author look at him more attentively.

“I am tired to death of young men coming to me and wanting help,” he remarked frankly. “You are an altogether degenerate race, you young men of this generation; in my opinion you don’t know what work means. It’s money that you want, not work.”

“Yes,” said Frithiof dryly, “you are perfectly right. It is money that I want.”

Now Herr Sivertsen had never before met with this honest avowal. In reply to the speech which he had made to many other applicants he had always received an eager protestation that the speaker was devoted to work, that he was deeply interested in languages, that Herr Sivertsen’s greatest hobbies were his hobbies too. He liked this bold avowal in his secret heart, though he had no intention of letting this be seen. “Just what I said!” he exclaimed. “A pleasure-seeking, money-grubbing generation. What is the result? I give work to be done, and as long as you can get gold you don’t care how the thing is scamped. Look here!” He took up a manuscript from the table. “I have paid the fellow who did this. He is not only behind time, but when at last the work is sent in it’s a miserable performance, bungled, patched, scamped, even the handwriting a disgrace to civilization. It’s because the man takes no pride in the work itself, because he has not a spark of interest in his subject. It just means to him so many shillings, that is all.”

“I can at least write a clear hand,” said Frithiof.

“That may be; but will you put any heart into your work? Do you care for culture? for literature? Do you interest yourself in progress? do you desire to help on your generation?”

“As far as I am concerned,” said Frithiof bitterly, “the generation will have to take care of itself. As for literature, I know little of it and care less; all I want is to make money.”

“Did I not tell you so?” roared Herr Sivertsen. “It is the accursed gold which you are all seeking after. You care only for money to spend on your own selfish indulgences. You are all alike! All! A worthless generation!”

Frithiof rose.

“However worthless, we unluckily have to live,” he said coldly. “And as I can’t pretend to be interested in ‘culture,’ I must waste no more time in discussion.”

He bowed and made for the door.

“Stay,” said Herr Sivertsen: “it will do no harm if you leave your address.”

“Thank you, but at present I have none to give,” said Frithiof. “Good-morning.”

He felt very angry and very sore-hearted as he made his way down Museum Street. To have met with such a rebuff from a fellow-countryman seemed to him hard, specially in this time of his trouble. He had not enough insight into character to understand the eccentric old author, and he forgot that Herr Sivertsen knew nothing of his circumstances. He was too abrupt, too independent, perhaps also too refined to push his way as an unknown foreigner in a huge metropolis. He was utterly unable to draw a picturesque description of the plight he was in, he could only rely on a sort of dogged perseverance, a fixed resolve that he must and would find work; and in spite of constant failures this never left him.

He tramped down to Vauxhall and began to search for lodgings, looked at some half-dozen sets, and finally lighted on a clean little house in a new-looking street a few hundred yards from Vauxhall Station. There was a card up in the window advertising rooms to let. He rang the bell and was a little surprised to find the door opened to him by a middle-aged woman who was unmistakably a lady, though her deeply lined face told of privation and care, possibly also of ill-temper. He asked the price of the rooms.

“A sitting-room and bedroom at fifteen shillings a week,” was the reply.

“It is too much, and besides I only need one room,” he said.

“I am afraid we can not divide them.”

He looked disappointed. An idea seemed to strike the landlady.

“There is a little room at the top you might have,” she said; “but it would not be very comfortable. It would be only five shillings a week, including attendance.”

“Allow me to see it,” said Frithiof.

He felt so tired and ill that if she had shown him a pig-sty he would probably have taken it merely for the sake of settling matters. As it was, the room, though bare and comfortless, was spotlessly clean, and, spite of her severe face, he rather took to his landlady.

“My things are at the Arundel Hotel,” he explained. “I should want to come in at once. Does that suit you?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, scanning him closely. “Can you give us any references?”

“You can, if you wish, refer to the Swedish consul at 24 Great Winchester Street.”

“Oh, you are a Swede,” she said.

“No; I am a Norwegian, and have only been in London since yesterday.”

The landlady seemed satisfied, and having paid his five shillings in advance, Frithiof went off to secure his portmanteau, and by five o’clock was installed in his new home.

It was well that he had lost no time in leaving his hotel, for during the next two days he was unable to quit his bed, and could only console himself with the reflection that at any rate he had a cheap roof over his head and that his rent would not ruin him.

Perhaps the cold night air from the river had given him a chill on the previous night, or perhaps the strain of the excitement and suffering had been too much for him. At any rate he lay in feverish wretchedness, tossing through the long days and weary nights, a misery to himself and an anxiety to the people of the house.

He discovered that his first impression had been correct. Miss Turnour, the landlady, was well born; she and her two sisters—all of them now middle-aged women—were the daughters of a country gentleman, who had either wasted his substance in speculation or on the turf. He was long since dead, and had left behind him the fruits of his selfishness, three helpless women, with no particular aptitudes and brought up to no particular profession. They had sunk down and down in the social scale, till it seemed that there was nothing left them but a certain refinement of taste, which only enabled them to suffer more keenly, and the family pedigree, of which they were proud, clinging very much to the peculiar spelling of their name, and struggling on in their little London house, quarreling much among themselves, and yet firmly determined that nothing on earth should part them. Frithiof dubbed them the three Fates. He wondered sometimes whether, after long years of poverty, he and Sigrid and Swanhild should come to the same miserable condition, the same hopeless, cold, hard spirit, the same pinched, worn faces, the same dreary, monotonous lives.

The three Fates did not take much notice of their lodger. Miss Turnour often wished she had had the sense to see that he was ill before admitting him. Miss Caroline, the youngest, flatly declined waiting on him, as it was quite against her feelings of propriety. Miss Charlotte, the middle one of the three, who had more heart than the rest, tried to persuade him to see a doctor.

“No,” he replied, “I shall be all right in a day or two. It is nothing but a feverish attack. I can’t afford doctor’s bills.”

She looked at him a little compassionately; his poverty touched a chord in her own life.

“Perhaps the illness has come in order that you may have time to think,” she said timidly.

She was a very small little woman, like a white mouse, but Frithiof had speedily found that she was the only one of the three from whom he could expect any help. She was the snubbed one of the family, partly because she was timid and gentle, partly because she had lately adopted certain religious views upon which the other two looked down with the most supreme contempt.

Frithiof was in no mood to respond to her well-meant efforts to convert him, and used to listen to her discourses about the last day with a stolid indifference which altogether baffled her. It seemed as if nothing could possibly rouse him.

“Ah,” she would say, as she left the room with a sad little shake of the head, “I shall be caught up at the second advent. I’m not at all sure that you will be.”

The eldest Miss Turnour did not trouble herself at all about his spiritual state; she thought only of the risk they were running and the possible loss of money.

“I hope he is not sickening with any infectious disease,” she used to remark a dozen times a day.

And Miss Charlotte said nothing, but silently thanked Heaven that she had not been the one to accept the new lodger.