Complete works of hall c.., p.394
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 394
But Helga’s crying stopped suddenly, and throwing back her head she said fiercely, “Very well, if you are satisfied so am I!”
Then she leapt to her feet, wiped her eyes vigorously and laughed — a short, hard, bitter laugh — and after that Oscar recovered control of himself.
“Let us be off,” she said.
Going back by the road that skirts the lake, side by side, but neither touching the other, and both silent, Oscar thought, “Good heavens, what an escape! Another moment and what might not have happened! What a fool I was to expose myself to this temptation! Marriage is my only safeguard. It must be soon. Thora and I must go away. When we return Helga may be back in Denmark, and then a scene like this will never occur again!”
When they reached the house at last he felt like an adulterer coming home after his first offence, but Thora looked happy and unsuspicious.
“I knew you couldn’t tear yourselves away from your skating, so I put the tea away, and now supper is nearly ready,” she said.
After supper Oscar said, “Godfather, I wish you would permit me to alter the arrangement of last evening.”
“You want to go back to Easter, eh?” said the Factor.
“No, sir, to come on to Christmas,” said Oscar, and then he gave his reasons. Thora was looking pale — everybody thought so — she wanted a change — he would like to take her to England, perhaps to France, and even to Italy. They might stay away during the months of spring and come back for the first of summer, when Althing would open its session, and by that time Thora would be well, and he himself would be ready to set to work in earnest.
“But Christmas, my gracious!” cried Aunt Margret, “hardly time for the banns! And what about Thora’s wedding-dress?”
But Thora herself was in raptures, and Aunt Margret’s objections were borne down.
“Christmas let it be, then,” said the Factor, whereupon Thora gave a cry of joy, and Helga, whose eyes had passed with a quick glance from face to face, while her own grew paler and paler, leapt up, saying —
“And now let us have a dance to celebrate the happy event!”
“No, no, no,” said Oscar.
“Yes, yes,” said Helga, and sitting down to the piano she played a dance tune with a rapid and passionate touch.
“Make him dance, Thora,” she cried, an awful brightness coming into her eyes. —
Thora took hold of Oscar and dragged him to his feet, saying laughingly, “Why not, Oscar?”
Tables and chairs were pulled aside, the Factor went off to smoke, and Oscar and Thora danced while Helga played, laughing loudly, and calling to them again and again.
“Helga! Helga! Not so fast! You’ll kill us,” cried Thora.
But Helga only laughed the louder and played the faster, with a fierceness that seemed to consume her like a fire. Oscar returned home that night with an aching heart, but Thora went to bed happy.
“How wrong I was about dear Helga, also!” she thought, and then drawing a deep breath she fell asleep.
VIII
To think yourself happy is to be happy, and Thora thought herself the happiest little woman in the world. The weeks before her wedding were the brightest period of her heart’s existence. She counted the days backwards from the day she was living in to the day of all days that was to come, and every morning, the moment she awoke, she said to herself, “Only nineteen now,” and then eighteen, seventeen, and sixteen, until it became three, two, and one. “Our Thora is like a white mouse in a revolving cage — she can’t make the world go round quickly enough,” said Aunt Margret.
Hers was not the happiness that makes the heart afraid, and she had not a moment’s misgiving about Oscar now. She never once saw him alone for more than two minutes together, but that did not trouble her at all. He came and went every day, always in a hurry, and always breathless, and she gave him the benevolence of a smile, and occasionally the charity of a kiss, when it could be done decently behind the dining-room door. But usually he had to be content to see her seated among her dressmakers and sewing-maids, and that suited him better than she knew.
There was nothing to tarnish the white simplicity of her happiness, and when Oscar could come with maps and tour lists to arrange about their journey she would say —
“Why don’t you talk it over with Helga — she knows more about travelling?”
And then Oscar would stammer a little and say, “Well, if you are willing to be guided by Helga’s judgment, and Helga herself will—”
“Certainly I am, so be off to my bedroom and settle everything.”
Whereupon Oscar would cry, “No, no, we’re right enough here,” and then Helga and he — the one trembling lest a word should betray him, the other going through the bitterness of looking at happiness through another’s eyes — would discuss routes and railway journeys to the click of scissors and the buzz of the sewing-machine.
“We’ll go by the Mont Cenis, eh?”
“No, by the St. Gothard.”
“We’ll come back by San Remo and Nice.”
“And Monte Carlo?”
“Yes, of course — Monte Carlo.”
“My gracious! it might be Helga who was going on her honeymoon,” Aunt Margret would say.
“Mightn’t it?” Thora would answer, and then she would laugh like a child.
In the Holy Land of her innocent heart she had only one thought about her sister — that she had done her the wrong of suspecting her. Helga might know nothing about that, but she knew, and she could never be quite satisfied until she had made amends. Time and again she thought of a way to do this, and at length an artful scheme occurred to her. It was a daring design, and asking herself when she could bring it to pass, she concluded that it must be on her wedding-day, because she would be the queen of her own little kingdom then and nobody could deny her anything. Meantime it was to be her secret, and Helga was to hear nothing about it, and even Oscar himself was not to know.
There was only one other streak of alloy in Thora’s happiness, and that was her memory of Magnus. The brave heart did not break and Magnus’s despair might be dumb, but the thought of his suffering was the tang of iron in the sweet wine of Thora’s life. To complete her happiness everybody had to share it, so when Oscar came one day she took him into the hall and said —
“Oscar, who is to be best man?” And Oscar stammered.
“Well, really, to tell you the truth, I hadn’t — that is to say — —”
“Why not Magnus?” said Thora.
“Magnus? I thought of that, but—” and then came the old difficulty — he had not yet set Magnus right on the subject of the betrothal, and until that could be done the old people would object to him.
“But why shouldn’t you do it now, Oscar? Such a splendid moment to heal every sore and let bygones be bygones.”
“Yes, certainly, that’s so,” said Oscar, but he went off with a troubled face, and Thora heard no more from him on the subject until the day before the wedding, when he said —
“Oh, by the way, about the best man, that splendid scheme of yours was impossible, Thora.”
“Impossible?”
“Mother tells me Magnus has gone to the Northlands — went away about a week ago, it seems.”
“In the winter and on the eve of the wedding?”
“She thinks he’ll be back for that, but, of course, we can’t take risks, so Neils — you remember Neils Finsen, the Sheriff’s son? — Neils came back in the last steamer, and he’ll be best man, so that’s settled.”
“What a pity,” said Thora, and then Oscar, who had opened the door, cried —
“Helloa! Snowing! We’re going to have a white wedding, Thora!” and with a nervous laugh he buttoned up his coat collar and went off without kissing her.
She remembered this again when she was going to bed, and, sitting on the great chair before the cheerful stove, with the curtains drawn and all so sweet and cosy, she reflected that it was the last time she was to sleep in her father’s house. The three weeks were almost gone at last, and so was her girlhood; and now that both were nearly over, they seemed to have vanished like a dream. She was happy still, but it would have taken very little to turn her happiness into pain. It was a pity Oscar had forgotten to kiss her, and it was a pity Magnus would not be present at the wedding.
Towards the mirk of night she went to bed, and then the snow was still falling. She thought of Magnus travelling over the desert, and wondered why he had gone away just then. Perhaps it was because he could not bear to look upon their happiness — hers and Oscar’s. Poor Magnus! But the memory of Magnus was whirled away in a cloud of other thoughts — the wedding, the wedding presents, the wedding feast, and Oscar, always Oscar — and then the tired eyelids of her mind closed in peace and goodwill with all the world, and she slept the last sleep of her maidenhood.
IX
“THORA! Thora! Well, I declare! The girl is still sleeping!”
“On her wedding-day, too. Thora! Thora!”
Thora awoke with a start at the calling and knocking at her door. Leaping out of bed she ran to the window and parted the curtains. It was broad morning, the sun was shining brightly over the snow, and all the world was white.
She opened the door, the sewing-maids and dressmakers trooped into the room, and from that moment onward for several hours the universe was a chaos without form and void, in which all talked at once and everybody ran up against everybody else, and Thora ate her breakfast while walking about or being “fitted on.”
But the dress and the dressing were finished at length, and Aunt Margret was called up to look. Nobody in Iceland had ever seen such a bridal costume — the silk kirtle, the silver-gilt crown, the faldur, the veil, and the blue plush cloak.
“Isn’t she beautiful, Margret?” said the maids, whereupon Aunt Margret, whose eyes were glistening behind her spectacles, said —
“Talk about Helga — tut!”
Then the cathedral bells began to ring and a hush fell on everybody. Thora went slowly downstairs and found her father (looking taller than ever in a new silk hat) waiting for her in the hall, and Silvertop standing ready in the street, with a side-saddle of red plush and gilt. There were a few jests, a few laughs, a few furtive tears, and then they started off. The snow underfoot was as dry and soft as flour, and it was with difficulty that the pony could be made to walk sedately.
From the moment they reached the cathedral it was all like a dream to Thora, a beautiful day-dream, such as she had dreamt sometimes when she thought she was dead and her happy soul was entering heaven.
The bridesmaids were waiting in the porch — Helga looking wondrously beautiful in an English dress, and two former school-fellows in Iceland costume.
Thora, who was moving as in a vision, felt somebody taking off her plush cloak, and then the bells stopped and the organ began. At the next moment the choir were singing a hymn — the usual hymn, “When God the Father led the first of brides” — and then she was going up the aisle, leaning on her father’s arm.
She had never seen so many faces since the day she was confirmed. They seemed to move past her, and they made her almost dizzy. She remembered how at other weddings the congregation had watched for the bride and looked at her as if she had been a supernatural thing. “She’s coming!”
“Here she comes!” She herself was the bride now, and the people were craning their necks to see her.
Thora could feel their smiling faces, and she knew that her own face was smiling. She could hear what the people were saying as she passed them: “Dear Thora!”— “How lovely she looks!”— “I’m satisfied now, and I don’t care if I go — I only wanted to see how Thora looked in the kirtle.” And meanwhile the voices of the choir were coming down from the gallery as from the sky and floating round and round her.
At the top of the nave Oscar was waiting — so perfectly dressed, so handsome, so noble-looking — with a fair young man on his right hand, and on his left the Governor, very solemn and stately, with his iron-grey hair and beard.
The hymn came to an end, the organ died down, and Thora found herself standing by Oscar’s side at the foot of the chancel steps, with the old Bishop in his pleated black gown and white ruff at the top of them. There was a rustle behind her, then there was silence, and the Bishop began to speak.
“My children,” he said, “when long ago God the Father led the first of brides to the first of men in the beautiful garden of Eden He linked their hands together in love, and that was the first marriage. Since then He has carried on the human story by the same sweet means, and love is still the bond that binds man to woman, and woman to man.”
“My children,” said the Bishop again — he was speaking to her and Oscar—” you come here to be made man and wife, and because you love one another God is willing to join your hands in holy wedlock, for He blesses and sanctifices no other union, whether of wealth or worldly advantage or any other interest whatsoever.
“We know you both, my children; we who are gathered here have watched the flower of your affection bud and bloom, and now we pray to God that you may be true to the vows you are to make to-day, always bearing each other’s burdens, forgiving each other’s faults, and cherishing the human love that is a symbol of the love divine.
“My daughter, love him who is to be your husband: let him find on your breast his solace for every sorrow, whatever the world may do to him, and whatever the world may say.
“My son, love her who is to be your wife. There is nothing nobler in this imperfect existence, no sight more sweet and heavenly, than when a good girl leaves the father who loves her, and the home where she has been happy, and says to him who is to be her husband: ‘The past was beautiful, but I trust the future all to you.’ Be worthy of that trust, my son, be strong, be brave, be faithful, and He who knows our weaknesses, having trodden the earth before us, will bear you up if your feet should falter.
“Be companions to each other in the journey of this world, my dear ones, and if it should please God to give you children let them be bonds to bind you closer together. Above all, love one another, for that is the first commandment, and may He who gave it guard and guide you through all the thorny paths of life.”
The Bishop’s voice became tremulous towards the end, and when he finished there was some coughing and blowing of noses among the congregation. Oscar, too, was breathing heavily by Thora’s side, and Helga was trampling on her train, but Thora herself was as calm as a trustful child.
At the next moment she was kneeling by Oscar’s side on the communion steps — just where they had knelt as children to be confirmed — and the Bishop was administering the vows. There was a breathless hush in the crowded cathedral during this solemn and beautiful ceremony — a ceremony for ever new, for ever old, for ever awful — the consecration of the man to the woman, the woman to the man, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, “until death us do part.”
Oscar was still breathing heavily, but Thora felt too happy to be agitated, too sure to be afraid. When the Bishop put their hands together, and laid his own hand on the top of them, she felt Oscar’s hand tremble and his pulse throb, and she wanted to calm and comfort him. But it was all over in a moment, for they had risen to their feet, and one of the assistant clergy was giving out a hymn.
“Guide Thy children, Father, guide them,
Through the thorny paths of life.”
The choir began it but the congregation joined in, and all the voices seemed to quiver with emotion. Thora felt herself carried away, far away, but still she was holding Oscar’s hand. She thought she could hear Magnus’s voice among the voices behind her — the deep voice she used to hear on those evenings so long ago. Poor Magnus! But then he would have had no joy of her, so it was better even for him.
It was something of a descent when the hymn ended and the Bishop shook hands with her, and the Governor followed his example, and the bridesmaids came up and kissed her in the presence of the whole congregation. But Oscar gave her his arm, and as they moved down the nave the organ and choir began again.
“O Perfect Love, all human thought transcending,
Lowly we kneel in prayer before Thy throne.”
She was now sure she could hear Magnus, and looking up at the organ-loft, she saw him. Yes, he was there; he was in the choir; he had come back from the Northlands to sing at her wedding.
“That theirs may be the joy that knows no ending,
Whom Thou for evermore dost join in one—”
She had only one glance at his face, but she saw it plainly. She had never seen it like that before — so broken up and so soft, yet so strong and brave. His eyes were steadfastly fixed on his music-book, and he was swaying a little and singing as with all his might.
“Grant them the joy which brightens earthly sorrow,
Grant them the peace which calms all earthly strife—”
But Magnus was whirled away from her in a moment, for the people whispered as she was going past, “Dear Thora! God bless our Thora!”
Oscar was bowing on both sides of the aisle, and the people were talking to him also. “How handsome he looks!”
“He looks as if he could take care of her, too!”
“Take good care of her, Oscar!”
They were back in the porch at length, and somebody was putting her plush cloak over her shoulders. Silvertop was standing outside, and Hans the sailor (in his new sleeve-waistcoat) was giving him water out of his pail.
Oscar lifted her to the saddle, and they turned their faces homeward. The bells began to ring again — a merry peal — and then, at last, Thora’s tears began to flow. How good everybody had been to her! It was all for Oscar’s sake! How sweet to think they were good to her for the sake of Oscar! Thank God for Oscar!
