Complete works of hall c.., p.385
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 385
Those intervals in the harmony were always the dearest part of the evenings to Magnus, for then he could talk to Thora. The big silent fellow who rarely spoke to anybody else would sometimes talk to her with a force and eloquence which made Aunt Margret’s closing eyes wink and open wide. It was only about business, what he had done to-day or was going to do to-morrow, but his face would light up, his eyes would flash, his tongue would flow, and he would become another being.
As time went on and Magnus passed out of his apprenticeship, he began to develop great schemes and ideas, and he always tried them on Thora first. The barter business would go to the dogs some day, and the fortunes of the future would be made in the fishing. He was the richest man in the world whose estate was in the sea, and if Icelanders had the sense to see where their wealth was waiting for them they would build luggers to replace their open boats, and buy quick steamers to run their fish to England. That required money, but Parliament ought to provide it, and some day — who could know what might not happen? — Magnus himself would enter Althing, and tell those talking automatons what they ought to do.
The Factor heard of this project through Aunt Margret, and he was much impressed by its foresight and practical wisdom. One day, after smoking various pipes while turning the leaves of his ledger, he went over to the Governor and said —
“Upon my soul, Stephen, that son of yours is no fool. He has notions, and if he had capital as well, I don’t know that something mightn’t come of him. But broad thighs want broad breeches, and the question is what are we going to do?”
“Lend the lad some money, and give him a chance,” said the Governor.
“And create a rival to crush me? No, no! Near is my shirt, but nearer is my skin! But look here, old friend — why shouldn’t Magnus marry Thora?”
“Splendid! It has been the dream of my life to cement our friendship in the second generation by a still closer bond.”
“Let’s come down to facts and figures, then,” said the Factor, and within half-an-hour the marriage of Magnus and Thora was a settled matter.
Magnus heard of it from the Governor. “I’ve been talking with the Factor about you, Magnus, and we think it would be a good thing if you and Thora made a match. He will make you his partner immediately, and in due time the heir to half he leaves behind. So if you agree—”
“But Thora?” Magnus’s eyes had lit up with a deep glow of delight. “Does Thora agree?”
“I must leave you to find that out for yourself,” said the Governor.
Thora in her turn heard of the arrangement from Aunt Margret.
“Your father is growing old, my precious, and it’s time he took a partner. Pity he hasn’t a son for a place like that, but the next best thing is a son-in-law, and if you or Helga would marry somebody who could carry on the business — somebody like Magnus—”
“But Magnus is like my brother, Aunt Margret.”
“So much the easier to make him your husband, my honey.”
“But surely it’s necessary to love one’s husband, Auntie.”
“Certainly it is necessary to love him, but that’s easy enough with Magnus — such an old friend and so devoted to the family.”
There seemed to be nothing left except that Magnus should speak to Thora for himself, but that was a task of graver difficulty. The great creature who had broken the back of the swaggering bully began to tremble in the mere presence of the soft-voiced little lady, who dropped her blue eyes whenever he entered the room. The music lasted longer of an evening now, and the intervals were fewer and more brief.
But one day Magnus, who had been to Thingvellir on the business of the sheep-gathering, came back with a young pony and called Thora into the yard of her father’s house to look at it. The four-year-old colt, which was prancing about for sheer joy of being alive, had faultless limbs, a glossy chestnut coat, and a silvery mane and tail.
“Is it a good one?” said Magnus.
“It’s a beauty!” said Thora. “It’s perfect! It’s the loveliest thing that ever stepped! Whomever does it belong to?”
“It belongs to you,” said Magnus, and when Thora gave him her hand to thank him he held it for a moment while he looked into her face, and then drew her to his side and kissed her.
“Is it to be so, Thora?” he whispered, and from somewhere in the depths of his breast Thora answered “Yes.”
The world was going round him in a wild dance of joy when somebody touched him on the shoulder. It was the Factor, who had seen everything from the house.
“That’s the best day’s work you ever did in your life, my lad, and I’ll take care you never rue it. But what’s this they tell me — that you are mountain-king at Thingvellir this year?”
“That is so,” said Magnus.
“Well, well, I’m willing! Take ten days at your sheepgathering, and while you are away I’ll have the contract written out and ready. Then we’ll sign it the day after you come back, and the wedding can be when you please.”
Thora and Magnus went into the house hand in hand like children, and Aunt Margret, who had been crying behind the kitchen door, fell on them and kissed them. Magnus thought he had never been so happy in his life, and though the sun had set it shone for him all night long. Next day he went back to Thingvellir, and scarcely two hours after he had gone word ran through the town that the steamer Laura had arrived in the fiord, and his brother Oscar had arrived in her.
VI
OSCAR STEPHENSSON carried everything before him. During the six years of his absence in England he had grown as straight as a poplar and as handsome as a young god. Both his dress and his manners seemed faultless in Iceland eyes, and each had a touch of individuality that was irresistible. His spirits were as buoyant and boyish as before, and his gaiety captivated everybody.
It counted for nothing that his career abroad had been something like a failure; that his infirmities of character had followed him; that his father had forbidden him to return before in order to fix him at his studies; that he had left Oxford, nevertheless, without taking his degree, and that, removing to London at his own earnest entreaty, he had hitherto done nothing at the Academy of Music. He “could an’ he would” was all that anybody thought of this; and when he once began he would take the world by storm.
On landing from the steamer he ran up the street as light of foot as a reindeer, shouting salutations on every side, plunged into Government House, hugged his mother at intervals for five minutes, spoke so fast that she could not follow him, dashed into the Governor’s bureau, kissed his father, just as he used to do when he was a boy, talked for ten minutes, explained that he had not written to say that he was coming because he wanted to take everybody unawares; then said, “Now I must slip off to see my godfather,” and vanished like a shaft of April sunshine, leaving the air of the room tingling like a candelabra, and the old people smiling into each other’s faces with delighted astonishment.
“Well! Oscar was always a master of surprise,” said the Governor, and he took up his hat and followed him.
When Oscar reached the Factor’s house he came first upon Aunt Margret, and throwing his arms about her neck, he held her so long that to recover her breath and to save her ringlets she had to beat him off with her fists. And then there stood Thora in her laced bodice and turned-down collar, her hufa and tassel, and plaited hair, looking sideways out of her soft, blue eyes, and smiling with her rows of pure white teeth. He thought she was a picture of charming simplicity, and took both her hands in both of his, and so they stood for some moments, while she grew redder and redder every instant, and tried to get away.
“Can it be possible?” he said. “And this is Thora!
When we were children she used to kiss me, but now—”
“Now she’s going to be married, Oscar. Haven’t you heard the news? Thora is to be married to Magnus.”
“Then she belongs to the family, and I may kiss her in any case,” said Oscar.
Thora escaped at last, and then the Factor came in, and Oscar had to turn round and round like a tee-totum, that his godfather might see what changes the world had made in him. He laughed and laughed again, inquiring about the business and the crops, and then tramped about the house asking what had become of this piece of furniture and what they had done with that.
“Everything seems to speak to me,” he said, “and in my den at Oxford I used to hear that old Bornholme clock ticking away as plainly as I hear it now.”
Then the Governor arrived, and Anna followed him, and while the old men smoked and Aunt Margret did the honours, Oscar poured out the foreign news in a stream of galloping words, and then asked what was going on at home. They told him of Magnus’s ideas and schemes, but he did not approve them.
“Iceland will be Iceland no longer if you turn it into a little America,” he said. “It is the country of song and story, of fire, frost, volcano, glacier, and of patriarchal methods of government and trade.”
“Oscar is right,” said the Factor. “Keep up the old order, I say.”
And when Oscar had shot away like a meteor the Factor said, “That young fellow has made me feel fifteen years younger. I must keep an eye on Magnus, though. He is no fool, but he can’t reach with his hands where Oscar has his feet. Oscar’s a boy!”
“He’s a darling,” said Aunt Margret, straightening her ringlets.
Thora hardly knew what she thought of him, except that he had left her very unhappy. When she went to bed that night she could not help comparing Magnus unfavourably with his brother — recalling little things like his hands and his nails and the discoloured patches on his cheeks when he neglected to shave.
Next day Oscar distributed the presents he had brought from England — a brooch for Anna containing a place for his own portrait, a pin for Aunt Margret, a silver belt for Thora, and something for nearly everybody. His unselfishness was a subject of general eulogy, and nobody remembered for the moment that the Governor had paid for everything.
In the afternoon he came again to the Factor’s, and talked for an hour to Thora and Aunt Margret about London, and the glory of its sights and scenes. “You must see them for yourself some day, Thora,” he said. “But then I suppose old Magnus will never leave Iceland whatever happens.”
Thora was more unhappy than ever when she went to bed that second night, thinking what a difference it made in a man if he had “sailed,” and what a wondrous life the girl must live who was to marry Oscar. She was looking at her new belt in the glass, and standing off from it to admire her glorified waist when Silvertop whinnied in the stable, and then she felt a little ashamed.
Oscar came the next day also, and, Aunt Margret being out on an errand of charity, he sat with Thora alone until it was quite dark, telling of the plays he had seen in England. There was a good deal about love in them, and one was of a girl beloved by two brothers. Her father had married her to the elder brother while she was still a child, but as soon as her heart awoke she loved the younger one, and her husband killed both of them. Thora cried for the two children who tried to be true but could not, and she dreamt that night that she was Francesca, and Oscar was Paolo, and Magnus was Giovanni. The dream was painful, but the awakening was more painful still.
Oscar came again the next day also, and then he played a number of songs he had composed on subjects in the Sagas. Thora thought she had never heard such playing; and do what she would she could not help laughing a little at the thought of Magnus’s performances on the flute. “I’m sure he’ll become a great composer,” she said when Oscar had gone.
“Perhaps so, but no one can feed on honour,” said Aunt Margret.
By this time Thora had begun to look for Oscar every day, and the next time he came he persuaded her to fetch out her guitar. She played some Iceland love-songs, and sang them in a sweet voice. Thora was like a flower that had grown under the snow, and was opening its eyes to the sun.
“I wonder whom Oscar will marry?” she said, and Aunt Margret answered —
“Some English miss with plenty of this world’s goods and none of the next.” And then Thora felt a tingling pain in her breast.
One day there came a note from Oscar, saying, “Glorious morning! What do you say to a few hours on the fiord? Will call for you immediately.”
They took a boat belonging to the Factor and turned her head towards Engey, an island inhabited by ten thousand eider duck. Both were rowing when they left the jetty, and the water foamed under their oars, but as soon as they were out of sight and hearing they dipped softly and drifted. The sea and sky were blue and quiet, like two mirrors face to face, each reflecting the other, and with the boat like a great bumblebee humming between.
Oscar was like a boy. He laughed and talked continually, telling stories of what they used to do when they were children. He was not very chivalrous then, he remembered, but when she pleaded pitifully he used to allow her to sit on his sledge and they went cracking and crashing through the crisp snow. They had tiffs, too, in those days, and people used to say, “Children who make a quarrel often live to make a match.” Wise folks, were they not?
They landed on Engey and rambled about in search of the eider duck, but all the birds were gone, and there was nothing left in their empty nests but a few discoloured eggs, and these were addled.
“We’ve come too late,” said Oscar. “Haven’t we come here too late, Thora?” he said again, stooping to look sideways into her face. And then Thora, who had been humming a tune, suddenly flushed as red as fire. Their eyes were sparkling, and they were quivering with excitement.
“How I wish we could be children again!” said Oscar. “Don’t you, Thora?”
Before she was aware Thora answered “Yes,” and then, becoming embarrassed, she turned back towards the boat. The ground was scored with narrow ruts which had been riven out of the grass by the frosts of winter, and Oscar said —
“We can’t both walk in one rut, you know.”
“You can catch me, then,” said Thora, and she ran away laughing.
Oscar ran after her and caught her and held her by the belt, and then she became serious. After a moment she covered her face and began to cry.
“Have I hurt you?” asked Oscar.
“No, no! It’s nothing. I’m silly! Catch me again!” said Thora, and snatching his cap off his head she flew over the ruts and had leapt back into the boat before he came up with her.
When they returned to the Factor’s, Aunt Margret, who looked cool and thoughtful, gave Oscar a letter which his mother had left for him. It was from Magnus, and it ran: —
“DEAR OSCAR, — I am glad to hear you have come home, and I wish I had been there to welcome you. You come in a good hour, for you must have heard of my good fortune about Thora. It was long before I could bring myself to grasp my happiness, because she was such a happy little girl, and it seemed selfish to take her from her father’s house and everybody there so fond of her. But now that I have got her I feel new strength and am doing the work of three. I am so happy that nothing goes wrong with me, and I am like the anvil that could not be made angry though it were to have the heaviest blow. But I am longing to see you, and I write to ask if you will come to the sheep-gathering and bring Thora with you. Now I must conclude, for we are camping in the mountains, and it will take this letter all its work to reach you in time. — Your affectionate brother, “MAGNUS STEPHENSSON.”
Oscar read the letter aloud, and when he had finished it Thora could not see him distinctly for the vapour which floated before her eyes — like the chilling thaw-cloud that comes down the valley on a bright winter’s day and hides the shining fells. But after a moment Oscar laughed — a little nervously — and said —
“Let us go by all means. I’ll have Silvertop ready and bring him round at five in the morning.”
VII
NEXT day Magnus awoke on the mountains in the paling light of the moon and the early glimmering of the dawn, and thought of Thora. He always thought of Thora first on waking in the morning, and her face was the last he saw at night when he had closed his eyes under the stars. Seven days before, when he had set his face towards the fells, with his forty shepherds and eighty ponies, he had found it hard to turn his back on the lowlands, because Thora was there. But when by daybreak the following morning they reached the ridge of the mountains which divides the north district from the south, and in the grey light and the running mist they met the shepherds who had come up from the other side, and hailed and saluted them, and exchanged snuff and drunk healths with them, and then turned about and parted, and begun to descend the way they came, his spirits rose rapidly, because every step was taking him back to Thora.
Five days thereafter Magnus and his men scoured the mountains, gathering up the sheep that had strayed during the summer; and every night when they pitched their tents in some sheltered place where there was water and grass among the lava and screes, and every morning when they rose at the first glimpse of daylight, he told himself he was one day and one night nearer to Thora.
When he was midway down some one had brought him news of Oscar’s return to Iceland, and after he had written his letter and despatched it, he was happy in the prospect of seeing his young brother after a long separation, but happier still in the thought of seeing Thora one day sooner than he had expected, because Oscar would bring her to meet him.
And now it was the last day of his duty, and as he and his shepherds came down the mountains, driving five thousand head of sheep before them, and the men began to talk of their wives and sweethearts, he thought surely nobody had ever loved anybody as he loved Thora, because there was only one Thora in the world.
The morning was bright and calm, and there was no sound in the clear air except the bleating of sheep, the barking of dogs, and the voices of shepherds calling to each other as they raced across the fells to keep their flocks together, but Magnus felt as if everything on earth and in heaven were talking to him of Thora.
