Complete works of hall c.., p.402
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 402
But Oscar was long in coming, and when he came he said nothing about the doctor. He only talked about their little Elin, and said he had just returned from seeing her. She was so rosy and well, and she was beginning to “notice.” If you held out your finger she looked at it as if it were the bough of a great tree, and then held it tight as if her little body hung by it.
“I couldn’t tear myself away from her, Thora,” he said. “It’s wonderful what a lot of pleasure you can get out of a baby.”
It was strange that Oscar did not see that he was hurting her every minute, but she only thought, “I know what it is — he is going to take me by surprise. He doesn’t want to tell me that baby is coming until she comes. He will bring her back as he took her away, in the night, while I am asleep; and when I awake in the morning she will be there.”
In this sweet hope Thora closed her eyes early that evening, before the red glow of the sunset had quite gone from the walls of her room, saying a little prayer for Oscar, and another little prayer fox Elin, that she might be as lovely as ever when she saw her in the morning, and then she fell asleep.
When she awoke next day she listened for the baby’s breathing, and thinking she heard it she stretched out a gentle hand to the place where the child should lie, and then with a smile she opened her eyes. But her baby was not there, and the sun in the room died out.
When the doctor came to see her that morning, he looked grave and anxious. “I’m afraid my little patient is worrying over much,” he said. “The head is hot and there is some fever. She must lie quiet, perfectly quiet for the next few days, or I won’t answer for what may happen.”
Only this, not a word about baby, and even when the doctor took Anna into the nursery to give the usual instructions, Thora listened intently but there was not a syllable about the child.
The Governor came next, with the odour of snuff on his gold-laced coat, and he stroked Thora’s arm as it lay on the counterpane and said she was not to worry about anything.
“My dear little daughter must get better as fast as ever she can,” he said. “She must eat more, and if she wants anything she must ask for it and she shall have it, whatever it is.”
She tried to say that all she wanted was her little baby, and if they would give her that she would soon be well, but her throat was hurting and she could not speak.
Her own father came last, smelling of breakfast and strong tobacco, and he rallied her in a loud voice.
“Tut! tut! This will never do! We’ll have to send you away again, with Helga to look after you. And look here, young lady, you’ve got to get better soon and come and carry away that baby. She’s turning our house upside down. Nobody over there can see the sun for that little mite, and Aunt Margret and Auntie Helga haven’t a thought for anybody else.” By this time the conviction had forced itself upon Thora’s mind that the family had agreed that the child was not to be returned to her, and that Helga was responsible for this cruel resolution. Then a fierce passion took possession of her such as she had never known before. She hated her sister with a terrible hatred. Helga, who had first robbed her of her husband, had now robbed her of her child, and throwing dust in her people’s eyes had used her weakness as an excuse and a blind. But she would defeat her, she would defeat everybody, she would get back her child whatever the consequences, and not all the powers of earth or heaven or hell should take it away from her again.
The intensity of her feeling, if it could have been realised by those about her, would have made her sweet and gentle soul unrecognisable. She was like a feline animal robbed of its young and going out to recover it. All the other passions and emotions that had ever possessed her — love of her husband, affection for Anna and Aunt Margret and her father and the Governor, pity for Magnus and tenderness towards all living things — were burnt up by the one consuming desire — the desire for her child. It made her terrible, it made her cruel, it made her cunning.
Thora determined to steal back her own child.
The following day — the day of the Proclamation — would give her an opportunity of doing so. Nearly everybody would then be at Thingvellir, therefore her path would be more clear. Only Anna would stay at home to attend to herself, and Aunt Margret to attend to the child. Her one feverish anxiety was that Oscar should not stay behind as well, for if Oscar were to remain Helga would remain also, and then her scheme would come to nought.
Thora lay awake the whole night through. Before daybreak she heard the people shouting in the darkness; at dawn she heard the departure of the Governor, and when Oscar called up at her window she knew that Helga was with him, for she heard the hoofs of two horses.
When everybody had gone she lay back on her pillow with a sigh of immense relief.
“How soon will they be back, mother?” she asked.
“Not much before midnight, I’m afraid. But you must not fret after anybody, my child, for everything shall be done for you,” said Anna.
Then the transparent young soul, in the fierce fire of its temptation, began to lay plans for deceiving Anna and for getting her out of the way. At one moment she said —
“Haven’t you any errands to do this morning, dear — in the town, I mean — being left alone, you know, and even the servants gone?”
“Errands? Bless your dear heart, it’s like Sunday in town to-day, and not a shop open anywhere,” said Anna.
At another moment Thora said —
“Mother, if you wish to go down into the kitchen to cook you needn’t think of me.”
“The cooking is all done, dear,” said Anna. “Maria did it yesterday, and I’ve nothing to do now but warm up the dishes on the nursery stove. So I needn’t leave you for a minute, you see.”
Thora was beginning to be restless in her perplexity, but presently she thought, “I know! I’ll tell her to lie down after dinner, and then I’ll get up and dress and go.”
That suggested thoughts about her clothes, which had been taken off on the night of her attack an d packed away somewhere. There would be drawers to open and search, and that would take time and make noises. So she said —
“Mother dear, don’t you think my clothes must be getting damp, lying so long unused?”
“Damp? In five days, and the middle of summer too!” cried Anna.
“Still, it would be nice to see them airing — it would make me think of getting up, you know.”
“Then you shall, sweetheart, certainly you shall,” said Anna, and with the playfulness of one who indulges a child the good soul took Thora’s clothes out of a wardrobe, held them up to her one by one, and then hung them on the chairs in front of the stove in the nursery, clucking and crowing of the day when Thora would put them on and go downstairs, with wraps and scarves, and Oscar helping her. Thora watched intently and then said —
“I haven’t seen my cloak yet, mother.”
“Your cloak! Your outdoor cloak! Bless me, what a heart she has to be sure! But no, no! We’ll all be dancing with delight if you need that for the next three weeks, Thora.
The hours lagged cruelly before dinner, and after it the sun’s line on the wall was long in leaving the bed; but at last three o’clock struck on the Bornholme clock below-stairs, and then Thora said —
“Mother, I’m sure you are very tired — I wish you would go to your room and rest.”
“And leave my honey alone? Not I,” said Anna.
“But I want to rest myself, and I can’t rest unless you are resting.”
“If you really think you’ll sleep better—”
“I’m sure I shall,” said Thora.
“Well — seeing you slept so little last night,” said Anna, and Thora began to yawn and sigh.
“I’ll leave both doors open then. And see, Thora — I’ll put this little hand-bell on the table, and if you awake and want me — I sleep like a cat, you know, the least noise wakens me —
“Good night, mother,” said Thora in a drowsy tone, and Anna, smiling and nodding to herself over Thora’s ‘error,’ stole on tiptoe out of the room.
Thora listened for the last footfall in the corridor and then raised herself in bed. She was alone at last, and the time had come to defeat the conspiracy of love and kindness, prompted by jealousy and envy, that had robbed her of her child. Her child, her child! She must get back her child, whatever it might cost her!
She dropped to the floor, and in doing so she brushed the hand-bell off the table. It fell to the carpet with a deadened clang, and for a moment she held her breath and listened. But there was no sound from Anna’s room, so she clutched at the bedclothes and stood erect. Then the walls went round, and she knew for the first time how weak she was. But her heart was strong if her limbs were feeble, and she found her way to the nursery, where her clothes still hung over the backs of chairs. It was a weary task to put them on, but her purpose never flagged. At last she was dressed and looking at herself in the glass. Her eyes were red, her lips were pale, and her cheeks were sucked in and white.
Nobody would know her who met her in the street, yet still if she could find her cloak —
The Bornholme clock chimed half-past three, and Thora began to steal down the corridor. She had to go by Anna’s bedroom, and the door was standing open. Anna’s shawl lay on a chair within, and she snatched it up and wrapped it over her shoulders and her head. Then she went downstairs. Her limbs trembled under her, but not from fear, and if anybody had tried to stop her now she would have fought like a fiend.
“My child is mine!” she thought “What right have they to keep her from me?”
The next moment she was in the street.
III
THE Bornholme clock struck four. Anna awoke, and hearing no sound from Thora’s room she went back to the nursery and busied herself noiselessly at the stove.
Presently the lace curtains in the bedroom were rustled by the wind from an open window, and Anna cried through the door —
“Lie quiet, Thora — I’m making tea,” and then she began to sing to herself in the voice of her youth.
A few minutes later she said, “That sleep must have made me stupid — I’ve actually put in the hot water before the tea-leaves.”
Soon afterwards she sailed into Thora’s room with the tea-tray in both hands and a smile on her face, saying, “Here it is, but you’ll thank your stars when Maria comes back in the morning.”
She was setting down the tray on the round table by the bedside where the hand-bell should have been when her eyes fell on the empty bed. Her breath jumped in her throat, and she turned her head slowly over her shoulder, calling, “Thora!”
There was no answer; the room was empty. Anna remembered the clothes which she had laid out on the chairs in the nursery. They were gone. “Thora! Thora!” she cried in an agitated whisper.
Then the smile came back to her face. “ I know,” she thought. “Thora has dressed herself and gone down to the drawing-room, just to show me what she can do.”
At that thought the smile was chased away by a mighty frown. “But I’ll give it her,” she thought, and downstairs she went with a determined step and banged the drawing-room door back, saying, “Really, Thora, it is very naughty—”
But the protest died in her throat, for Thora was not there. Then her heart shook like a leaf stiffened by hoar-frost, and she ran through the house, from room to room, crying in a voice shrill with fear and thickened by sobs, “Thora, where are you? Thora! Honey! Don’t hide yourself from me! Thora! Thora!”
At that moment Golden-Mane came tolting up to the green and Magnus entered the house. Hearing his mother’s voice he ran upstairs, and came face to face with Anna in the corridor.
“What has happened?” he asked.
“Thora’s lost,” said Anna.
“Lost?”’
“She coaxed me to lie down this afternoon, and while I was asleep she got up and dressed herself, and she is gone.”
“Let us be sure first,” said Magnus, and the slow fellow shot through the house like a torpedo, while Anna sat on the chair by the door of her own room and wrung her hands and reproached herself.
“Oh dear! Oh dear! What have I done? How can I ever forgive myself? The poor child was not herself — she didn’t know what she was doing.”
Magnus returned with a slow step, saying, “Be quiet, mother! Can’t you see what has happened? Thora has gone to the child.”
“The child? The Factor’s? God grant you may be right, Magnus. But she hasn’t mentioned the baby for two days.”
“Nevertheless,” said Magnus, “her poor heart has been torn to pieces by this accursed scheme of separating her from her child, and she has gone to join it.”
“Let us go and see,” said Anna. “But, oh dear, what a thing to do! And she so ill and weak! It will kill her! Oh why did I leave her for an instant? What will Oscar say?”
“If Oscar’s wise he will say nothing,” said Magnus. “And if anything happens, and he has any conscience, he’ll damn himself to the last day of his life!”
“Don’t say that, Magnus,” said Anna. “If there was anything wrong we were all to blame for it. It wasn’t Oscar’s fault—”
“Certainly it was Oscar’s fault,” said Magnus. “It was Oscar’s fault that he allowed Helga to twist him round her finger and make you all her miserable slaves.”
“Where is my shawl? I laid it down somewhere, and now I cannot find it. But let us go. And don’t be hard on your mother, Magnus. She was trying to do her best—”
“It’s not you I’m blaming, mother,” said Magnus, “but if,” he added, and his words came through his clenched teeth, “if there were a law in this infernal land to punish people like Oscar, as sure as I live I should be the first to use it.” They were going out of the house when three men came up to the door — the Sheriff and two strangers.
“Good evening, Mrs. Anna,” said the Sheriff. “These gentlemen are officials from Copenhagen, just arrived by the Laura. They wish to see the Governor on an important matter, and I thought perhaps you could tell them when he will be back from Thingvellir.”
“I can’t say — I don’t know — I am in a great hurry,” said Anna.
“This young man,” said the Sheriff to the strangers, “is the elder son of the Governor, and if you would like to speak to him—”
“We should,” answered the men.
“Is it so very important? My son is going out with me. Can’t the matter wait until to-morrow?” said Anna.
“Go on ahead, mother — I’ll follow you presently,” said Magnus, and while Anna hurried away, he led the strangers into the Governor’s office. One of the two men took a paper from an inner breast-pocket and said —
“Naturally, you know your father’s handwriting?”
“I do,” said Magnus.
“And of course you are familiar with his signature?”
“I am.”
“Will you be good enough to say if this is your father’s signature?” said the man, opening his paper and handing it to Magnus.
It was a Note of Hand in favour of Oscar Stephensson for an advance of one hundred thousand crowns, signed in the name of the Governor and witnessed by the Factor.
The world reeled round Magnus, for he saw in a moment what the paper meant. It was almost as if his prayer to punish Oscar had been answered on the instant. The paper rustled in his hand, and for some seconds he did not speak. Then he lifted his face and said —
“You ask me if this is my father’s signature — don’t you think it would be more proper to ask my father himself?”
“No doubt — certainly — you are right,” said the stranger, “but to protect your father — not to say yourself, perhaps—”
“Perhaps,” said Magnus, and he handed the paper back.
“Magnus,” said the Sheriff, “I was told to watch you if you came to town to-day, but it seems to me that somebody else in your family needs watching a good deal more. Will you not give us your assistance?”
Magnus shuddered in the toils of his temptation. A voice within cried, “Speak! Denounce him! Now’s your time!” His lower lip quivered, his eyelids trembled, and he answered in a hoarse voice —
“The Governor will not be back until midnight — let me come to you to-morrow morning.”
“Good!” said the Sheriff, whereupon Magnus showed them out of the house and then fled away to the Factor’s.
“That big fellow will speak when he wants to,” said one of the strangers as the three men walked down the street, “and when he doesn’t the devil himself won’t make him do so.”
IV
OF two ways to the Factor’s Thora had taken the shortest and most frequented, yet she had gone through the streets unobserved. Coming near the house she had passed the Sheriff and the two strangers, but they were immersed in their conversation and did not see her as she stumbled by them with her head covered up in Anna’s shawl.
Twice she had stopped to take breath, and once she had steadied herself by a lamp-post, for she was dizzy and her ankles ached. The little distance which had hitherto seemed so short, was now a great journey, but it came to an end at length, and she approached her father’s house from the front.
She had intended to creep up softly, enter by stealth, listen until she learned where the child was kept, watch until Aunt Margret left the little one alone for a moment, and then steal into the room and take it.
With this purpose she ascended the stone steps to the front entrance and gently turned the handle, but as soon as she had given the door a noiseless push there was the loud ringing of a bell which had not been there before.
At the next moment there was a sound of slippered feet coming hurriedly downstairs, and before her dizzy brain could tell what to do Aunt Margret was peering into her face.
“Mercy me! is it you?” cried Aunt Margret, and she looked as if she were ready to drop.
With a crushing sense of failure, Thora stood silent and her heart fluttered like a captured bird.
“Good Lord! How did you get here alone? And what on earth was Anna doing to let you come?” said Aunt Margret.
