Read Ebook: Love of the Wild by McKishnie Archie P

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Ebook has 446 lines and 36995 words, and 9 pages

Tora had not refused before Milla had said good-bye, but afterwards she felt dreadfully embarrassed about it. Nevertheless at six o'clock she was there.

Tora had a great wish to get up in the world--she would not be chained to a home such as hers was, to such a fate as threatened her.

Consul Engel's house was almost the only one in the town where the door was kept closed all day. When one rang, either a man-servant or a maid opened the door, and one entered a house where there was Brussels carpet in the passages and on the stairs, as well as in the rooms, and where, to begin with, one found oneself between two mirrors where one could see oneself from head to foot.

Tora was shown upstairs. "Fr?ken Engel's" room was there. She was heartily welcomed. The rooms were those which Fru Engel had occupied during the last years of her life; she had very rarely left them.

She had died here, and it was for that reason that the family had gone so late into the country this year, and had only just returned to the house.

Every comfort which a room can possess was there; the chairs and couches were all as soft as the cushions of an invalid, you seemed to sink into them; they were upholstered in moss-green silk, and the curtains and porti?res were of the same material and colour, the walls were a dark indefinite colour. There was an old-fashioned rosewood cabinet in inlaid work, with a number of small pigeon-holes and receptacles in it. Tora never wearied of looking at it. An Erard piano with carved heads and emblems, a bookcase in the same style. Pictures, especially landscapes, which made one long for the evening sun, with its hazy light and almost sultry heat.

There was only one piece of furniture which did not please Tora; at last she could no longer contain herself, it assorted so ill with its surroundings. "What is there in that press, dear? Why is it here?" Milla replied, smiling, that it was very incongruous, she knew; it had not been there before--in fact, it was her own; she had had it ever since she was a child.

"But can't it stand in another place?"

"No, not very well."

There was something of reserve in this answer, she could not inquire further. As Tora was leaving Milla asked her to come again soon, but she had better let her know beforehand, so that they might be alone--that would be the pleasantest. Tora understood that this was meant for Anna Rogne, but that was no affair of hers.

It so chanced that the next time she sat telling stories in the twilight to Nora and her friends, who for convenience had settled themselves on the floor on some carpets and eider-downs, she let fall the remark, that "Of all the people I know, the one who is most like Gulnare is Milla Engel." This, to her audience, was much like saying before the king that he was not the wisest man in the kingdom. Nora was amazed, her friends almost broke out into open anger. Tora felt that she had done a foolish thing; she tried to explain herself by ascribing that "passive" beauty to Milla which was here implied. The expressions active and passive were at that time war cries in the senior class; there were "active" people and "passive" people, "active" eyes and "passive" eyes, "active" and "passive" colours.

"But, good gracious," said one of the girls, "Milla has not dark hair; she is fair."

"So is Nora," answered the thoughtless Tora.

"That was sheer nonsense," the others declared, and pressed Tora so hard that she declared, with tears in her eyes, that Milla was the most refined and the prettiest girl in the school. She was only too happy to know any one who was so considerate, so full of tact; it was more than could be said of every one.

This was too much. Gina Krog herself, who was always forbearing, did not now scruple to announce that she had known for two days, but had not wished to tell, that Tora went to see Milla, and that they were bosom friends. There was a dead silence. Soon afterwards Nora left, and the others dispersed. Tora tried to explain, but they would not listen to her.

None of the boarders belonged to Milla's party; not a girl there had set her foot inside Milla Engel's door--for the reason that they had never been asked.

However much Tora tossed about and turned herself and her pillow that night, she could not sleep; it vexed and hurt her that she could not be friends with one without losing the friendship of the other. Now the whole school would look on her as a faithless wretch. Heaven knew that she was not, yet she might be sent to Coventry for it, it might always be remembered against her. It was a question of the future for her. She had been so tossed about, she felt so insecure; she was always stretching out her arms for something solid to cling to, which as constantly eluded her grasp. She cried bitterly; she liked them both so much, each in her own way, though they were so different. Why should she not if she liked? What could she do? She did not wish to sacrifice either of them.

The next day was Sunday; she had to go to church, but she would not wait for the others, who were going as well--so she went straight off to Milla. Milla was dressed for church; they met in the hall, but she was surprised when Tora asked if she might speak to her. She took her into her room and locked the door. Tora began to cry and told her everything exactly as it had happened; she did not conceal that she was fond of them both and why she was so, nor how lonely she felt, and what an effect this might have on her future. Nora had so much influence both among the boarders and the day girls.

In the midst of the story, just as Tora had paused for a moment to cry, Milla heard someone at the door; there was a knock, she opened it just wide enough to step through; in a little time she returned and said that she and Anna Rogne had made an engagement to go to church together, but that she had excused herself on the score of a headache; it was certainly the second Sunday that she had done so, but it could not be helped. Milla was sorry for Tora; she really was fond of her, it showed itself now. She promised not to take anything in bad part which Tora might devise, so as to keep on good terms with Nora and her numerous friends. Milla really was very sweet.

Tora had only time to put her arms round her and kiss her for this, for she must show herself in church. But might she come again in the afternoon? She was very much consoled, but she longed for more; she was so frightened, she must manage to talk everything over with her. Milla asked her to come again as early as ever she could.

"Once it held my dolls."

"Your dolls!"

Tora shrieked; she was down on her knees and up on tiptoe; she did not at first lay a finger on them, but devoured them with her eyes, unable to take in the whole--it could not be grasped all at once; there was too much, too great a variety, it was too wonderfully minute. She had not even counted the dolls yet. "One, two, three, four--five--six! seven!! eight!!!"

She had begun softly, but her voice rose at every number, so that Milla hastened to say, "Twelve, twelve, there are twelve."

"Twelve! actually twelve! Oh dear! oh dear! Have you kept all the dolls you have ever had in your life, never spoilt a single one?"

Well, yes she had, but never one since she was seven.

"Wait a minute." And solemnly, as though she were afraid they might disappear, Tora carefully put in her hand and took up the very, very sweetest doll in light red silk, with shoes and hat of the same colour, a dark red parasol, and a little fan stuck into her belt; her underclothes were made like a real person's, with lace and embroidery, a pocket in her dress with a pocket-handkerchief in it, and elegant French gloves which fitted her hands; as well a little brooch shaped like a forget-me-not, and bracelets and watch in the same style. Tora stood dumb with admiration, while she turned the doll round, inspected the cut and make of the dress, the underclothes; held it away from her, then close to her. At that moment there was a knock at the door. Some one had come right upstairs without the preoccupied girls having heard the least sound. They were startled. Milla held up her finger. She turned red and white. Of course it was Anna. But Anna had never seen the dolls, she would not understand.

There were, she explained later, two more dolls in mourning, but Anna had been with her so much lately that she had not been able to dress many of them, otherwise her plan had been to have them all in mourning, that would have been charming. Another knock, low and hesitating. They held their breaths; Milla was quite unnerved. They heard her go; they listened so intently that they could hear her step on the stairs. It was a most unlucky chance. Milla had given orders that if any one besides Tora came they were to say that she had gone out for a walk on account of her headache. But the maid who had received the order, Milla's own maid, could not have answered the door, although it was her time for doing so. What should Milla do? But from this consideration she was swept away by a whirlwind.

Nora lay on the bed in Tinka Hansen's room; a little wainscoted, blue-painted attic in shoemaker Hansen's new house in the market-place. As well as the bed there was an open bookshelf painted brown, one or two chairs, a large washstand intended for two, but for which no other place could be found; a high short sofa on which Tinka now sat, looking across at the bed, her right arm resting on her little desk which stood on the table before her.

Nora lay sobbing loudly, and Tinka sat calmly by and looked at her; Nora knew now what faithlessness was, how it tasted to be deserted for the sake of another.

But it was more than being forsaken--she was abandoned, deposed, made nothing of. Tora had lifted her up to the skies; she was "all mind," "could not make a mistake." And now this very Tora had dropped her--for Milla Engel! The world was nothing but lies and delusions. "Oh dear! Tinka, why cannot you be kind to me? You do not know how unhappy I am." But Tinka was silent. "I cannot do without you, Tinka--no, I cannot. I have discovered since this morning that I made nothing but mistakes. I have no stability--no, not a bit."

"No, that is it," said Tinka soothingly.

"Not a bit; oh dear, what shall I do? Won't you talk to me?" She cried dreadfully now.

"You only care for adoration, Nora."

"Not 'only,' Tinka; don't say 'only.'"

"No, no; but you are never happy unless you are adored, and one tires of that."

"What shall I do, Tinka? Goodness knows I am tired of it myself. Ah, you do not believe it, but it's true, especially now since Milla is adored as well. Ugh! it is disgusting to think of."

"That is merely because it is Milla, and not you."

"No indeed, Tinka," and she raised herself on her elbow. "Tora has given me so much of it that I am tired of it; yes, I am; and to think that she is with Milla now." She flung herself down again and cried, with anger and vexation. She raised herself again suddenly: "But I must get rid of all this; it is disgusting; I despise myself; you do not know what I have been thinking since this morning. Help me, Tinka; you are the only one of them all who speaks the truth to me."

Tinka was unmoved: Nora flung herself down again, turned away and cried.

"Well, well, I will not say 'rave.'"

"No, don't."

"Yes, I could, Tinka; I believe I could do that; ah, how nice it is to hear something good again, and especially from you; I feel quite astray."

"Yes, but now I am coming to what I want to say--do you understand? Is it not a shame that any one so excellent should all the same be such a peacock?"

"A peacock, Tinka?"

"Yes, a peacock; you are just like a peacock!"

"It was not I who said so."

"I thought as much."

"It was Tora who said so."

"Yes, but Tora is right; you are dreadfully like a peacock, Nora; that thin little face of yours, and then you are so slender."

"Come, I say, Tinka."

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