What the Heart Keeps

by Rosalind Laker

  “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 h
er 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.

  She flung out her hands to him. “Can’t you see what I’m offering you? The business is a bargain! You could build it up as I would have done if my father’s debts hadn’t dragged us down and down.”

  “And the nature of those debts?”

  She drew her lower lip under her teeth and frowned unhappily. “My father likes to drink. It’s as simple as that. When I was a child it was a prosperous little business, but after my mother died he simply gave way completely to his predilection for alcohol. I’m afraid that these days we owe money everywhere. He has borrowed on everything we own. All his promises and his attempts to keep sober have come to naught. Now the bank is to foreclose. Unless I can find a purchaser willing to pay a price to get us out of our financial difficulties we shall be left penniless and without a roof over our heads.”

  He was deeply dismayed. It had not been his intention to draw painful domestic details out of her. He had thought to show by her own answer that the business had foundered on its own and was not the bargain she had purported it to be. He recalled too late that Ingrid had mentioned the father was an alcoholic, and realised that he might have guessed there was some connection.

  “What price are you asking?” he heard himself say.

  She raised eyes so ashine with sudden hope that he was further dismayed, feeling that he was being caught in a whirlpool. The price she gave was one he could have managed with a loan if he had been looking for investment in a business, which he was not.

  “Come with me now and see the premises,” she urged, refastening the buttons of her coat as if he had already agreed to accompany her. When he shook his head and raised his hand in a gesture to emphasise the futility of her request, she pretended not to notice, seemingly absorbed in pulling on her gloves. “I have the sleigh outside. I will drive you back again afterwards. Don’t feel you have to decide at once either way. I do want you to see the horses. If you love horses as I do you will appreciate the drive into town for that alone.”

  Maybe if she had not displayed an affection for horses that was similar to his own, he would not have found himself putting on an overcoat to face the winter weather with her. Perhaps if she had not continued to remind him of Lisa in a will-o’-the-wisp way he would have bluntly refused the whole preposterous proposition she had put to him. Whatever the reason, he went to take a seat in the sleigh beside her, she talking all the time as if even now she feared that if she paused for breath he might utter too soon the dreaded negative answer that would bring her own existence to destruction.

  It was a marvellous ride. The bells on the sleigh jingled merrily and all around them the snow lay soft and sparkling over tree and roof and mountain slope. When they came within sight of the town, with the fjord lying like molten silver beyond, she drew the horse to a halt, its breath and theirs hanging mistily in the cold air.

  “Look!” she said, pointing across the wide fjord to the panorama of eighty-seven peaks of the Romsdal Mountains on the farside. “Where else in the world could you wake to such a view each morning? You’ve come home to Norway, Peter Hagen.”

  He smothered a grin at her exuberance and her persuasiveness. They drove on into town and came to the premises she was offering for sale which were located close to the quayside and faced the fjord. There was a three-storeyed house in need of paint and repair, and the stables and a coach-house on the side were in a similar state of neglect. Nevertheless, it was a prime site and he could see at once why she had feared the premises’ being purchased for some other line of business to the cost of her horses’ well-being.

  “I know the house is large,” she said quickly as if to forestall any comment, “but my father and I could have the ground floor and you could have the rest. In lieu of rent I’d be willing to keep house and book keep and drive a wagonette when needed. My father would help tend the horses and look after the garden.”

  She seemed to have thought of everything. He followed her into the stables. There were four horses, including the one in the sleigh-shafts, and all were the Westland breed—small, sturdy animals of the characteristic cream colour, with a clearl
y defined black streak running through the pale manes and tails. Gentle-eyed, patient, hard workers and sure-footed as any goat on mountain slopes, they had been dear to his heart since childhood. He clapped their necks and gave them the apples that Astrid had taken from a box on the shelf to hand to him on the way in.

  “They’re fine animals,” he commented, “and in good condition.”

  “I’ve made sure they’ve never gone without anything they have needed,” she answered quietly.

  He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was stroking the head of one of the horses, unaware of being observed, and her whole face reflected her affection for them all. He was certain that although she had kept the horses in good bran and mash, she herself had known what it was to go hungry.

  He wandered on into the coach-house and examined the vehicles there. Half a dozen ancient wagonettes and a carriole that would have been more at home in a museum, were all there was to be seen, except for something under an enormous dust-sheet. He lifted a corner and then gasped, pulling the sheet away. It was a comparatively new automobile, its gleaming black paintwork badly damaged where it must have suffered a collision on the right side, the mudguard and running-board badly twisted, the front wheel at a curious angle.

  Behind him Astrid heaved a heavy sigh. “That was our last effort to put the business back on its feet. It was my idea that we should start a motorised taxi service, and I practically went down on my knees to the bank manager for a final loan. Then, in spite of my father’s resolution to turn over a new leaf, he smashed it up while drunk.”