“Don’t stay all alone in this place,” he said abruptly. “Come home with me to-night.”
“You are very good,” said Frithiof, “but I don’t think I can do that. I am better alone, and indeed must make up my mind to-night as to the future.”
“You will go back to Norway, I suppose?” asked Roy.
“Yes, I suppose so; as soon as possible. To-morrow I must see if there is any possibility of getting back in fair time. Unluckily, it is too late for the Wilson Line steamer, which must be starting at this minute from Hull.”
“I will come in to-morrow, then, and see what you have decided on,” said Roy. “Is there nothing I can do for you now?”
“Nothing, thank you,” said Frithiof. And Roy, feeling that he could be of no more use, and that his presence was perhaps a strain on his friend, wished him good-night and went out.
The next day he was detained by business and could not manage to call at the Arundel till late in the afternoon. Noticing the same waiter in the hall who had been present on the previous evening, he inquired if Frithiof were in.
“Herr Falck has gone, sir,” said the man; “he went off about an hour ago.”
“Gone!” exclaimed Roy, in some surprise. “Did he leave any message?”
“No, sir; none at all. He was looking very ill when he came down this morning, but went out as soon as he had had breakfast, and didn’t come back till four o’clock. Then he called for his bill and ordered his portmanteau to be brought down and put on a hansom, and as he passed out he gave me a trifle, and said he had spoken a bit sharp to me last night, he was afraid, and thanked me for what I had done for him. And so he drove off, sir.”
“No, sir; I can’t say as I did. The cab, if I remember right, turned along the Embankment, toward Charing Cross.”
“Thank you,” said Roy. “Very possibly he may have gone back to Norway by the Continent.”
And with a feeling of vague disappointment he turned away.
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.