The Great Hunger

Chapter XI

One evening in the late autumn Merle was sitting at home waiting for her husband. He had been away for several weeks, so it was only natural that she should make a little festivity of his return. The lamps were lit in all the rooms, wood fires were crackling in all the stoves, the cook was busy with his favourite dishes, and little Louise, now five years old, had on her blue velvet frock. She was sitting on the floor, nursing two dolls, and chattering to them. “Mind you’re a good girl now, Josephine. Your grandpa will be here directly.” Merle looked in through the kitchen door: “Have you brought up the claret, Bertha? That’s right. You’d better put it near the stove to warm.” Then she went round all the rooms again. The two youngest children were in bed—was there anything more to be done?

It would be an hour at least before he could be here, yet she could not help listening all the time for the sound of wheels. But she had not finished yet. She hurried up to the bathroom, turned on the hot water, undressed, and put on an oilskin cap to keep her hair dry, and soon she was splashing about with soap and sponge. Why not make herself as attractive as she could, even if things did look dark for them just now?

A little stream of talk went on in her brain. Strange that one’s body could be so great a pleasure to another. Here he kissed you—and here—and here—and often he seemed beside himself with joy. And do you remember—that time? You held back and were cold often—perhaps too often—is it too late now? Ah! he has other things to think of now. The time is gone by when you could be comfort enough to him in all troubles. But is it quite gone by? Oh yes; last time he came home, he hardly seemed to notice that we had a new little girl, that he had never seen before. Well, no doubt it must be so. He did not complain, and he was calm and quiet, but his mind was full of a whole world of serious things, a world where there was no room for wife and children. Will it be the same this evening again? Will he notice that you have dressed so carefully to please him? Will it be a joy to him any more to feel his arms around you?

She stood in front of the big, white-framed mirror, and looked critically at herself. No, she was no longer young as she had been. The red in her cheeks had faded a little these last few years, and there were one or two wrinkles that could not be hidden. But her eyebrows—he had loved to kiss them once—they were surely much as before. And involuntarily she bent towards the glass, and stroked the dark growth above her eyes as if it were his hand caressing her.

She came down at last, dressed in a loose blue dress with a broad lace collar and blond lace in the wide sleeves. And not to seem too much dressed, she had put on a red-flowered apron to give herself a housewifely look.

It was past seven now. Louise came whimpering to her, and Merle sank down in a chair by the window, and took the child on her lap, and waited.

The sound of wheels in the night may mean the approach of fate itself. Some decision, some final word that casts us down in a moment from wealth to ruin—who knows? Peer had been to England now, trying to come to some arrangement with the Company. Sh!—was that not wheels? She rose, trembling, and listened.

No, it had passed on.

It was eight o’clock now, time for Louise to go to bed; and Merle began undressing her. Soon the child was lying in her little white bed, with a doll on either side. “Give Papa a tiss,” she babbled, “and give him my love. And Mama, do you think he’ll let me come into his bed for a bit tomorrow morning?”

“Oh yes, I’m sure he will. And now lie down and go to sleep, there’s a good girl.”

Merle sat down again in the room and waited. But at last she rose, put on a cloak and went out.

The town lay down there in the autumn darkness under a milk-white mist of light. And over the black hills all around rose a world of stars. Somewhere out there was Peer, far out maybe upon some country road, the horse plodding on through the dark at its own will, its master sitting with bowed head, brooding.

“Help us, Thou above—and help him most, he has had so much adversity in these last days.”

But the starry vault seems icy cold—it has heard the prayers of millions and millions before—the hearts of men are nothing to the universe.

Merle drooped her head and went in again to the house.

It was midnight when Peer drove up the hill towards his home. The sight of the great house with its brilliantly lighted windows jarred so cruelly on his wearied mind that he involuntarily gave the horse a cut with his whip.

He flung the reins to the stable-boy who had come out with a lantern, and walked up the steps, moving almost with a feeling of awe in this great house, as if it already belonged to someone else.

He opened the door of the drawing-room—no one there, but light, light and comfort. He passed through into the next room, and there sat Merle, alone, in an armchair, with her head resting on the arm, asleep.

Had she been waiting so long?

A wave of warmth passed through him; he stood still, looking at her; and presently her bowed figure slowly straightened; her pale face relaxed into a smile. Without waking her, he went on into the nursery, where the lights were still burning. But here the lights shone only on three little ones, lying in their clean night-clothes, asleep.

He went back to the dining-room; more lights, and a table laid for two, a snowy cloth and flowers, and a single carnation stuck into his napkin—that must be from Louise—little Louise.

At last Merle was awakened by the touch of his hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, are you there?”

“Good-evening, Merle!” They embraced, and he kissed her forehead. But she could see that his mind was busy with other things.

They sat down to table, and began their meal. She could read the expression of his face, his voice, his calm air—she knew they meant bad news.

But she would not question him. She would only try to show him that all things else could be endured, if only they two loved each other.

But the time had passed when an unexpected caress from her was enough to send him wild with joy. She sat there now trembling inwardly with suspense, wondering if he would notice her—if he could find any comfort in having her with him, still young and with something of her beauty left.

He looked over to her with a far-away smile. “Merle,” he asked, “what do you think your father is worth altogether?” The words came like a quiet order from a captain standing on the bridge, while his ship goes down.

“Oh, Peer, don’t think about all that to-night. Welcome home!” And she smiled and took his hand.

“Thanks,” he said, and pressed her fingers; but his thoughts were still far off. And he went on eating without knowing what he ate.

“And what do you think? Louise has begun the violin. You’ve no idea how the little thing takes to it.”

“Oh?”

“And Asta’s got another tooth—she had a wretched time, poor thing, while it was coming through.”

It was as if she were drawing the children up to him, to show him that at least he still had them.

He looked at her for a moment. “Merle, you ought never to have married me. It would have been better for you and for your people too.”

“Oh, nonsense, Peer—you know you’ll be able to make it all right again.”

They went up to bed, and undressed slowly. “He hasn’t noticed me yet,” thought Merle.

And she laughed a little, and said, “I was sitting thinking this evening of the first day we met. I suppose you never think of it now?”

He turned round, half undressed, and looked at her. Her lively tone fell strangely on his ears. “She does not ask how I have got on, or how things are going,” he thought. But as he went on looking at her he began at last to see through her smile to the anxious heart beneath.

Ah, yes; he remembered well that far-off summer when life had been a holiday in the hills, and a girl making coffee over a fire had smiled at him for the first time. And he remembered the first sun-red night of his love on the shining lake-mirror, when his heart was filled with the rush of a great anthem to heaven and earth.

She stood there still. He had her yet. But for the first time in their lives she came to him now humbly, begging him to make the best of her as she was.

An unspeakable warmth began to flow through his heavy heart. But he did not rush to embrace her and whirl her off in a storm of passionate delight. He stood still, staring before him, and, drawing himself up, swore to himself with fast-closed lips that he would, he WOULD trample a way through, and save things for them both, even yet.

The lights were put out, and soon they lay in their separate beds, breathing heavily in the dark. Peer stretched himself out, with his face up, thinking, with closed eyes. He was hunting in the dark for some way to save his dear ones. And Merle lay so long waiting for one caress from him that at last she had to draw out her handkerchief and press it over her eyes, while her body shook with a noiseless sobbing.