What the Heart Keeps (36 page)

Such
was her stunned and unhappy state that when the sound of a horse approaching from the settlement reached her ears she thought, on a flash of hope, that Peter was taking a detour by way of the sawmill to catch sight of her once more. Swiftly she ran out onto the path and saw it was Alan in the saddle of his own horse, his face and clothes as smudged with ashes and black dust as her own, his expression haggard and wrenched by despair.

“
Alan!”

He
stared at her almost in disbelief. Then he gave a great shout and flung himself from the saddle to snatch her into his arms, crushing her to him with such force that she was breathless and could not speak. To her sorrow she realised he had thought her lost in the fire and it was as if she had come back from the dead.

When
he drew back from her it was to shake his head as if the miracle of her being safe and sound was still beyond his comprehension. “When I was unable to trace you at any farm or more distant neighbour, I began to fear you had been caught by the fire along one of the isolated skid-roads before reaching your destination.” The strain of all he had been through continued to give his face a taut, stretched look, his eyes showing that he had had no sleep for twenty-four hours. “I’ve been with the search parties. I was returning home to see if any word had been left there.”

“
I drove to the lake.”

“
So far?” He was surprised.

“
That’s where I left the automobile and it’s a burned wreck now. I survived in a boat on the water. Mr. Mcpherson found me and brought me back on a horse. There’s more to tell. Much more. But I want to get home first, only the neighbours are outside there.”

“
Everybody has been anxious about you. Don’t worry. I’ll keep them at bay.”

With
his arm around her and leading the horse, he brought her from the path. Risto, sighting them going past, ran out of his parents’ house to oblige Alan by taking the horse to lead it to the sawmill stables.

“
Great to see you safe, Mrs. Fernley,” he said to her.

She
managed a smile. Alan gave Risto instructions that the sawmill whistle should be sounded in a long, single blast to let the search parties know that Lisa had been found — seven blasts being the signal for disaster. Then he hurried her along, staving off with a hand held up the women who came running from all directions.

“
If you please, ladies. My wife has had a narrow escape from the fire and I’d be grateful if you’d let me get her home to rest.”

Minnie,
sighting Lisa’s return from an upper window, came flying down the staircase as the front door opened. “Lisa! There’s a burn on your cheek! Your hair is singed! Oh, oh, oh!”

Later,
when Lisa was alone in the bedroom, she looked in the mirror at her reflection and studied the line of the burn which had been treated with some salve. The burn was not severe and would heal quickly, but with her fair skin it was almost certain that a faint discoloration would always remain there and she would need a little paint and powder to hide it. Only she would ever know what had preceded it, for Alan had drawn his own conclusions about her disappearance and had asked for no explanations. He had simply assumed that, upset about his news of a return to England, she had made the excuse of visiting to Minnie in order to have some time to herself in the open air. He actually said that he quite understood how she would have wanted to escape the house to think things out and come to terms with the change in their lives that leaving the States would mean to them. After all, Minnie had quoted to him her remark of having a problem to sort out.

She
felt no shame in failing to contradict his conclusions. Since she and Peter had parted forever, she saw no reason to condemn Alan to unnecessary misery and jealousy by a heartless confession that would do no good at all. If circumstances had demanded it, she would not have shirked the issue, but she had been spared that by Alan himself. He would not lose by it. She had made her choice. After the respite that would be allowed her for the shock of the fire, she would continue to be the wife and partner he had always expected her to be. That was her debt and she would settle it.

Turning
from the mirror, her carapace of calm resolution cracked without warning. “Peter!” she screamed out on an agonised note, throwing herself across the bed.

Afterwards
she believed it to have been the moment when Peter had ridden out of Dekova’s Place, never to return. The stables were up for rent again the next day. There were no means of checking the hour of his departure, but the conviction remained. Certainly she never again gave way to a similar lapse. Work was her antidote for not letting love thoughts take hold. She packed china and bed-linen into trunks and boxes, threw out unnecessary items that had been hoarded without purpose, and made sure that none of Harry’s favourite toys would be overlooked when the day came to close and lock the lids.

Minnie
also occupied her attention. The girl was pining already at the prospect of being parted from Risto, who was similarly downcast. They were making promises to write, and Alan had taken photographs of them for each to exchange with the other as a keepsake. There had been no more movie shows since the night of the forest fire, which had coincided within a matter of days with the last of the film bookings she had made. At the time she had expected Alan to make his own arrangements, never realising that all would be at an end. With no cinematograph duties to perform, Risto saw less of Minnie, being kept busy in the saloon or waiting at table. This reduction of their time together, coming when every minute counted, was an additional hardship for them. More than once Lisa came across them kissing and cuddling and whispering together and she was full of compassion for them. Minnie became a little more distrait with every passing day, but when the eve of departure finally arrived she spent it alone with Risto, who had managed to get the time off from the hotel. She was pale and courageous when she re-entered the house. Lisa regarded her sympathetically.

“
What time are we to be up in the morning?” the girl asked tremulously.

Alan
answered her. “Early, I’m afraid. We catch the train at eight o’clock.”

Lisa
went across to her. “I’ll give you a call at six.”

Minnie
nodded and flung her arms about Lisa to hug her emotionally. Then she tore away up to her room, her head bowed in weeping. Her door slammed and the locking of it showed that she wished to be quite alone after the poignant parting that had taken place that evening.

Lisa
was up at dawn and Alan came down soon afterwards. At six o’clock, with breakfast on the table, she went upstairs to tap on Minnie’s door. “Time to get up,” she called. There was no reply. She tapped harder and there was still no response. Then she tried the handle and the door swung open. The bed had not been slept in and the valise, previously packed in readiness for the long transcontinental train journey from Seattle to New York, was gone. On the chest of drawers an envelope stood propped against a candlestick. Lisa picked it up and saw it was addressed to her. She read it through. Slowly she went downstairs to break the news to Alan.

“
Minnie and Risto have eloped,” she said quietly, sitting down and handing him the letter.

His
reaction was as she had expected. “Good God! I must go after her. She’s too young to know her own mind! We’ll postpone everything.”

“
No.” Lisa spoke firmly. “What does her age matter if she’s truly in love as I believe her to be. Risto will look after her.”

“But she says they’re going to California to try their luck in the movies!”

“
They’re both talented. I think they stand a good chance of getting work.”

He
frowned at her incredulously. “Are you prepared to leave here today without lifting a finger to bring her back?”

“
Yes.” She stood up. “I’ll waken Harry now. We mustn’t miss that train into Seattle.”

As
she went upstairs again, she recalled that she had been only seventeen when she and Peter had fallen in love. Not for anything in the world would she attempt to separate Minnie from Risto. In her heart she wished them joy.

Eleven

Three months later Peter received an urgent telegram from his brother to meet him at an appointed hour. The place selected was the lobby of a Seattle hotel that faced the giant totem pole in Pioneer Square. Contrary to Peter’s expectations, Jon arrived sober, clean-shaven and well clad in new clothes. He wore, somewhat surprisingly, a dashing hard-topped hat, which Lisa in her English way would have called a bowler. Peter almost sighed aloud as yet again she slipped unbidden into his thoughts when he least expected it. At times of low spirits, an almost permanent condition since she had made her terrible decision to end everything with him, he doubted that he would ever be free of her. Neither drink nor other female company had had any effect. In the past, when she had haunted him, there had always been a grain of hope. Now there was none. He considered it ironic that it should be he himself and not his brother who was somewhat the worse for drink at this hotel meeting.

“
How are you, Jon?” he asked.

“
Never better.” Jon set down a spanking new suitcase to remove a glove of good quality leather to shake his hand firmly. “It’s not so with our father, I’m sorry to say. I’ve heard from Ingrid that he’s dying. I’m leaving for Norway on the eastbound train to New York in two hours’ time. I’m going home.”

The
news of his parent’s imminent demise hit Peter hard. At the time of his emigration he and his father had accepted that their farewells to each other were final. But now that the hour had come, his inner grief was as acute as if those words of goodbye had never been spoken. Already in a state of deep depression, the look of strain on his taut features became more acute as Jon filled in the details for him.

“
Shall you be in time to see Father?” he probed.

“
There’s just a chance, I’d say.” Jon did not appear unduly concerned either way. He took a large gold watch from his pocket to check the time. It appeared he had spared no expense in rigging himself out for his home-coming. “Let’s eat. Here at the hotel if you like. At the same time you can think up whatever messages you’d like me to give those back home.”

Peter,
sobered completely by the prospect of bereavement, felt clearer in the head than he had been for quite a while. “There’ll be no messages. I’ve a mind to see Father once more myself. I’ll travel with you and stay for a couple of weeks in the old country.”

Jon
stared at him. “But we may arrive home too late.” “Then I’ll still be able to pay my last respects. I’ll meet you at the train.”

He
left Jon without further delay and went to call on a fellow dealer who was willing enough to handle his next shipment of horses, for the quality he dealt in was well known in the trade. Prices were soon settled and arrangements made. His own riding horse was also to be entrusted to the dealer’s care.

“
What if you don’t come back?” the man asked as he and Peter came out of the office where they had conducted their dealings. “Accidents happen, y’know.”

Peter
regarded him cynically, able to follow his line of thought. “Not to me. That shipment line is mine by contract and unless I decide otherwise, it remains mine. Understand?”

The
dealer shrugged and grinned slyly. “You can’t blame a fellow for having an eye to extra business. Good luck on your trip.”

In
the last quarter of an hour before getting to the station, Peter bought a silk shawl for his sister-in-law and a train set for her son, Erik. The cardboard box for the latter was cumbersome, but it fitted into his wooden travelling box, which he shouldered as easily as he had done when he had left home first.

It
was a strange feeling to be on vacation as the train rattled eastwards. He doubted if he would ever have seen Norway again if it had not been for his brother bearing the news of their father at that particular phase of his life. Normally nobody could afford the time or the expense to travel such great distances, and Lisa’s dream of herself and then her stepson travelling to and fro across the Atlantic would have been laughable if the circumstances had not been so tragic. On the thought of her he passed a hand across his forehead as if he could brush her physically from his memory.

There
was no difficulty in getting a berth on the same ship as Jon when they reached New York. It was a Norwegian merchantman bound for Bergen. Quarters were simple and quite cramped, but in comparison with the steerage quarters of the previous voyage that they had both made in turn, it was like a luxury liner. They found it satisfactory to be served huge platefuls of
lapskaus
and
fiskepudding
and
kjottballer
such as they had not tasted since leaving their homeland.

Peter
was not prepared for the sense of exultation that filled him at the sight of Norway’s grandeur once again. The Rockies paled into insignificance beside these rugged snow-covered mountains, threaded with frozen waterfalls that dipped into fjords as deep as the peaks were high. On board the coastal steamer carrying him and his brother on the final stage of their journey from Bergen to Molde, he stayed at the rails, defying the bitter winter weather, to gaze shorewards for hours at vistas of incomparable beauty that he had taken for granted in his callow youth.

As
it was Christmas time, every fishing vessel had a Christmas tree tied to its mast, as did the coastal steamer. When Peter and Jon stepped ashore at Molde, the windows of the houses and shops twinkled with festive lights in a warm welcome. Jon had sent a telegram from Bergen, the first indication that Ingrid would have had that the husband she had not seen for nearly a decade had returned at last.

On
the quayside Jon was recognised immediately by a neighbouring farmer who had come to collect a crate of goods from the coastal steamer. “It’s Jon Hagen, isn’t it?” he exclaimed heartily, shaking Jon’s hand vigorously. “Home from America, are you? And Peter! It’s been a long time. Wait until I’ve loaded my goods and I’ll drive you home to the farm.”

“
What news of our father?” Peter inquired, at once.

“
Still holding on to life when I left the valley this morning.”

It
seemed as if they were to be in time after all. Darkness was gathering in as the town was left behind them and they were swept along by sleigh into the silent countryside, their driver plying Jon with questions that were answered with a good deal of bragging. Peter said nothing. When they came level with the farmhouse, they alighted and thanked the farmer who drove off into the darkness.

The
sleigh-bells had been heard inside the house. The door opened, letting a stream of golden light fall across the two brothers as they approached the steps leaving footprints in the snow behind them. Ingrid stood silhouetted in the doorway. She had put on weight and looked older and more severe. Peter stood aside to let Jon precede him. There was no emotional greeting between husband and wife. They shook hands formally like strangers. It was Peter who put his arms about her and hugged her, she responding almost with relief. As she drew back, both men realised she was dressed entirely in black.

“
You’ve come too late,” she said sadly. “Your father died a few hours ago.”

The
funeral took place a week later. The snowy road was spread with juniper all the way to the octagonal wooden church at the edge of the fjord, and a long procession of mourners followed the coffin. Jon and Ingrid walked with their son between them. Erik was stricken with grief for his late grandfather, who had filled with love and kindness the gap left by the stranger now home from America. He did not like the intruder with the boastful tales who made out that everything was so much better over there. Why had his father come home in that case? He and his mother had managed the farm between them to date and they could have gone on doing it alone. Uncle Peter made no such boasts. Just talked normally about everything, his talk all the more interesting for being frank and unbiased. He thought his mother preferred Uncle Peter to Papa. There was a softer look in her eyes whenever she spoke to him.

After
the funeral, Peter’s remaining days at the farm drew quickly towards a close. He made final skiing expeditions to places in the valley with which he had become reacquainted. He had forty-eight hours left before his departure when he returned to the farmhouse at noon one day to be told by Ingrid that he had a visitor waiting to see him.

“
I don’t know her,” Ingrid said as he stuck his skis in the snow and stooped to remove his boots before entering the house. “But I know
of
her. Her name is Astrid Dahl. Her father is a widower and a drunkard. They live in Molde near the quayside.”

Peter
went into the parlour with its white wooden walls and the tapestries that his great-grandmother had woven. The visitor was studying one of them and turned at the sound of the door opening. Her likeness to Lisa washed over him and ebbed again. There was really no true resemblance beyond a delicate articulation of features and eyes large and expressive and full of soft lights. Her hair beneath the fur hat was fair but curly, whereas Lisa’s was silky straight. It struck him that Astrid had dressed with care for this call on him. She had loosened her coat as a concession to the heat from the crackling stove, and the blouse she wore with her ankle-length skirt of dark serge was crisp with starched white frills that formed a flattering collar.

“
I’m Peter Hagen, Fröken Dahl,” he said to her. “You wished to see me?”

At
his invitation she sat down and he took a chair opposite her. “I’ll come straight to the point,” she said. “I’m here on my father’s behalf to put a business proposition to you.”

He
supposed it would be a matter of selling something, probably a locally made product, in the States upon his return there, which was not in his line at all, and decided to make that clear immediately. “I’m a horse-dealer, that’s my trade. I specialise in supplying teams of work-horses where they are most needed.”

She
nodded. “I know. That’s why I’ve come to you. I’m giving you the chance to buy my father’s hackney carriage business, which would simply be a natural follow-up to what you have been doing in America. I don’t want our horses to fall into the hands of someone who would dispose of them in order to use the premises for other purposes.”

He
raised his eyebrows and released a breath, surprised at all she had said. “I regret having to disappoint you, but I’m sailing back to Bergen the day after tomorrow to take ship back to the States. You must be confusing me with my brother. He is the one who has come home to stay.”

“
No, I’m not. I know Jon is the farmer and you’re the youngest in the Hagen family. I made sure of all the facts before paying this call. You’re not married. You have no one dependent upon you. And you’re rich.”

He
burst out laughing, throwing back his head. “You’re wrong on the last point. I’ve yet to make my fortune.”

She
had flushed angrily, seeming to imagine that she and not the conclusion she had drawn was the object of his mirth. “You must be rich. Nobody comes home from America unless he has made a lot of money. It’s financially impossible otherwise, unless they are people like your brother who have saved the fare out of their first year’s wages and never touched it afterwards. I had it on good authority that when you emigrated from Norway it was to be forever. Therefore it stands to reason that you have made money.”

He
became serious, seeing she was upset. “I came home in the hope of seeing my father once more before he died. Nothing else would have brought me. It is because I’m a bachelor and my own master, with no responsibilities towards anyone else, that I was able to leave everything to make the journey. No employer would have allowed me the great length of time it takes for the round trip. But I’m not wealthy. Far from it. Neither have I come home to stay. There is nothing further from my mind.”

“
But why go back?” she retorted. “Surely you must know by now that there is no country in the world like ours. We have a new freedom since you left. Danish and Swedish domination has gone forever. King Haakon was voted overwhelmingly to the throne by a national referendum. We have a sweet liberty that none shall ever take from us again.”

Her
vehemence intrigued him. Again he was reminded of Lisa in this girl’s determination to hold on to a purpose, which in her case was to make him the purchaser of her father’s business. In his opinion, she had the character and the forcefulness to run it herself. He voiced the observation.

“
Do you think I don’t want to?” she cried, springing to her feet and pacing up and down, almost wringing her hands in frustration. “I could make the business successful. More and more the grand private yachts and the cruising ships call in at Molde. Once, when the Kaiser and his party came ashore, I took our prettiest horse and wagonette down to the quayside for hire, and afterwards drove two gentlemen and their ladies to the best views. If I’d had a fleet of wagonettes I’d have made as much money as if I’d been to America!”

“
We’re back to finances again,” he remarked easily. “I think it would be best if we dropped the subject. I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.” He stood up from his chair to show that the interview was at an end.