The Swing Of The Pendulum - Part 14

"The Swing of The Pendulum" is a novel from English author Frances Mary Peard, published in 1893. It follows the adventures of a group of English travellers to Norway and explores what life was really like for young women in Victorian Britain. Set against the backdrop of the Industrial Revolution, this book offers a fascinating insight into the massive societal shifts that were at play back then!

Transcript

Hello there.

Thank you so much for joining me for this continued reading of The Swing of the Pendulum,

The charming novel from 1893 by English author Frances Mary Peard.

We have actually reached the middle of the book.

This will be chapter 14.

If you haven't heard the preceding parts of this story,

And you would like to,

You can certainly look for the playlist for The Swing of the Pendulum,

And all of the parts are there in order.

But for now,

Let's just take a moment here to have a nice deep exhale.

Letting go of the day,

Letting go of whichever baggage might be coming along with us into this moment.

For right now,

There's nowhere else that we have to go,

Nothing else that we have to be doing.

So we can just relax,

Get ourselves comfortable,

And enjoy the ongoing story of The Swing of the Pendulum.

Chapter 14.

Over the water,

We're Anne.

As the fjord widens into open sea,

The hills sink into insignificance,

And the steamer makes her way between clustering islands,

Rocky and barren.

But on nearing Bergen,

The scenery again gains dignity,

And Bergen itself,

Lying on a promontory between two harbours,

And overshadowed by fine mountains,

Is strikingly picturesque.

There is an air of vigorous life about it.

Oddly rigged and brightly painted vessels scud along before a wind which catches the waves and tears them into foam.

Against the beautiful,

Shadowy hills stands a jumble of red-roofed houses,

Pierced,

As it were,

By a forest of masts.

Mrs Ravenhill,

Sitting on the upper deck,

Swept the scene with what Millie called her air of hungry enjoyment.

She sees points,

Effects,

And is perfectly happy.

What I foresee,

Added the girl,

Laughing,

Is a struggling crowd,

From which I shall have to defend her.

Norwegians are never rude,

Announced Mrs Ravenhill.

Not often,

But what of that girl at Stalheim,

Who demanded money because you had sketched her cottage?

Oh,

Stalheim.

Stalheim is a spoiled place.

I do not count Stalheim.

You will find points enough and to spare,

Said Wareham,

And if you can get on board a steamer,

You may have peace also.

I suppose Smebby's will do as well as any other hotel?

So,

It was settled.

Only,

As Smebby's was full,

Mrs Ravenhill and Millie went across the street and had rooms at the house of a kindly,

Funny little woman,

Who told them long Norwegian stories,

Which she found it impossible to conceive were not understood.

The days were bright,

But chilly,

With a spirited wind blowing in from the sea and ruffling the harbour.

The Ravenhills attempted no demands upon Wareham's hours.

He was free to come and go,

Join them or leave them alone,

Whether Mrs Ravenhill sketched or made regulation purchases of spoons,

Furs or photographs at the shops.

This liberty pleased him.

It allowed him to live with Anne in thought and to be miserable over the combinations he foresaw.

When two and two must drive together,

Would not Hugh contrive to be with Anne?

No one would prevent it,

If Anne suffered the arrangement,

And to be near her,

To look into her eyes.

Now that the victory was won,

He gave himself the luxury of imagining what a defeat would have brought him.

He might have been in Hugh's place.

And his heart leaped with the conviction that he would have been preferred.

He walked hurriedly,

Urged,

Goaded by this thought.

Over his head clouds were flying,

Gulls screamed to each other,

Flashing white wings against the grey.

He walked long,

Seeing nothing.

When he wheeled round at last,

It was more from instinct than intention,

And after supper he went out again.

Mrs Ravenhill was not quite pleased.

No one invited Mr Wareham,

She said to Millie that night.

If he chose to come with us,

He might take more trouble to be entertaining.

Millie stood at the window,

Her back to her mother.

Never mind,

She said at last.

You have earned his gratitude.

Why?

He is not very happy,

So he likes to be alone.

Mrs Ravenhill laid down the photographs she was examining,

And stared.

Not happy?

Millie,

You catch up absurd fancies.

The man eats,

Drinks,

Talks as usual.

He has not been confiding in you?

Quickly,

The no came with a sigh.

Her mother heard the no and not the sigh,

And took up the photographs again.

Then I wouldn't waste my pity.

I will tell you what I think.

Mr Wareham has lived in his own interests till he has grown selfish.

The large party and the little rubs did not please him,

And he came away.

He is welcome to go where he likes.

All that I complain of is that he seems to think he owes nothing to us.

You see what I mean?

Yes.

And don't you think he was glad to break away?

Perhaps,

Said Millie untruthfully.

Oh,

He was.

The mother was persuaded that Millie never flung a thought in the direction of Wareham.

Yet,

Mother-like,

Would not believe that he could have been attracted to another when her girl was there.

Dissent such as that ranks with the incredible.

Yet,

If Millie were not so entirely heart-hole as she believed,

She yearned to offer comfort.

She said,

With a smile,

Miss Dalrymple has too much of the bearing of a conqueror to please a man not easily subdued.

Yet,

The girl's heart was trembling,

Lest the secret it held should escape.

She praised Anne on purpose to be quit of all suspicion of jealousy.

She is one of the women who has a right to such a bearing.

If I were a man,

I should fall in love with her a dozen times over.

Mrs Ravenhill's momentary suspicion fled.

He could have stayed if he had wished it,

I suppose,

She said cheerfully,

And slipped into other talk.

A newspaper had given them moderately late news of their country,

And when they met at breakfast,

Wareham alluded to it.

At home,

If you miss the times for a day,

You become a hopeless laggard in the world.

It is amazing how soon the feeling wears off.

By the way,

I see the Professor mentioned for an appointment,

Said Mrs Ravenhill.

Ah,

Professor?

Mrs Martins,

They laughed.

Whatever it may be,

Said Wareham,

He will not be troubled by the misgiving that a worthier man might have been found.

Millie remarked that he had a very accurate mind,

From which he shoots out poor Mrs Martins' facts as rubbish.

But in Miss Dalrymple's hands,

He is a lamb,

Said Mrs Ravenhill.

I think she might even venture on a statistic unquestioned.

Wareham made no answer.

He turned to ask something of the long landlord.

Millie spoke to a pale-faced girl who was still shuddering from the crossing she had just gone through,

And unwilling to Norway could be worth its preliminary horrors.

Mrs Ravenhill got up.

Which is the way to the fish market?

She asked.

I will go with you if you will allow me,

Wareham answered.

Don't let us trouble you.

Millie was conscious of a touch of stiffness in her mother's manner,

But he showed no signs of noticing it.

You should have gone earlier,

He said.

Seven or eight o'clock is a better time.

However,

You will gain some idea of its picturesqueness even now,

And from there you can have a look at the Hanseatic house.

There is a general museum too,

And a good one.

The one important street in Bergen runs directly through the town.

Here and there,

Desolate open spaces break away,

The safeguards from the ever-dreaded enemy fire.

Here and there,

Cellars yawn,

Heaped with gaily painted tinne.

Here and there again,

You catch sight of the dancing waters of the harbour,

And a jumble of shipping.

It is at the end of the harbour that the fish market is held.

The boats are jammed together.

The buyers stand and lean over the railings.

Women in thickly plaited black dresses,

With close black caps,

A rim of white round the face,

And one spot of white behind,

Are sprinkled among the more ordinary costumes.

More remarkable were the fishermen in the boats.

Old and young,

The hardy faces caught and held attention.

You looked at men.

As Werham had said,

The great throng was over,

But even yet there were plenty of purchases,

And a penny would gain a plateful of little fish.

And here,

In the heart of old Bergen,

Is the house of the Hanseatic League,

Unchanged since the time of the traders.

It is the past,

Fossilised for some.

For others,

It is the means by which to drift back themselves into the past and join the ghosts.

Away with the crowd of laughing sightseers.

Here sits the merchant in fur cap and gown,

His account book before him.

Check the entries if you will,

It lies open.

Here is the eating room for the apprentices,

Lads who,

Taught to sweep and cook,

Should make good husbands by and by.

But as their dignities were not put up with bed-making,

And woman was not admitted,

All the beds are provided with a sliding panel,

Whereby that useful but dangerous appendage standing outside could insert her arms and head,

No more,

And arrange for masculine comfort.

And here is the great lantern which,

Fixed on a pole,

The trader carried in the funeral processions of his guild.

From youth to old age,

It is all here.

The outer circumstances of life,

Out-living life,

Said Wareham as they emerged.

Now,

Will you come to the other museum,

And plunge still farther back,

Into the age of flint implements?

Mrs Ravenhill shook her head.

Any stone would do as well for me.

My mind refuses to leap those distances,

And I look at them foolishly unimpressed.

Is it only flint implements?

Millie asked.

I don't object to them,

But I believe it is because I am so ignorant that I can't gauge my own ignorance.

It appeared that,

With many other collections,

There were old Norwegian curiosities,

And a fine set out of wooden bowls which attracted Mrs Ravenhill,

Bent on taking home trophies of that description.

Passing the fish market again,

Millie bought a basket full of cherries from a boat laden with nothing else.

The small events of this day came back to her afterwards with a curious distinctness,

And yet there was nothing especially to market to her,

Nor at the time did it seem blessed,

Certainly not deserving the golden oriole which set it apart.

She said little.

But let her thirsty heart drink in what tasted like delicious draughts,

And thrust aside the consciousness that soon thirst would be on her again.

Whatever Wareham had done the day before,

Today he was all kindness.

Mrs Ravenhill never,

Indeed,

Exacting,

Had no reason to utter a complaint.

Five o'clock saw them in the launch of the Ceylon,

Red-roofed Bergen curving behind them,

And it was not long before they steamed out of the harbour.

The wind was fresh,

But for a long time they were under the lee of the shore,

And even through the next day,

Most of the passengers kept fairly on deck.

But by Sunday,

The vessel was rolling heavily,

And Millie appeared alone.

The usual service could not be held,

And only one or two ladies left their cabins.

It was natural that Wareham should be much with the girl.

They talked of Norway.

From that they fell to talking of those who had been their companions.

Of all,

At least,

Except Anne.

But a question was so close to Millie's lips that,

At last,

It flew out.

Was it Mr Forbes,

Of whom you once spoke?

Did I speak?

At Stavanger,

She said reproachfully,

He had forgotten the confidence.

Before you knew Miss Dalrymple?

Ah,

Yes,

It was before I knew,

He acquiesced and went off in a dream.

She supposed the yes was intended for an answer to her question,

But it was not clear enough for her burning longing to be certain.

They were once engaged?

Yes,

He forced himself to add with a smile.

The Sphinx was a woman.

To have followed shows that he must love her,

Said Millie thoughtfully.

Why not?

She hugged her pain.

Why not,

Indeed?

But if she is as unchanged as he,

Will he not suffer?

Fortunes of War returned Wareham briefly and dropped the conversation.

From which,

However,

He drew the consolation that Millie's pity showed what she thought was in store for the young man.

For this,

He forgave her the questioning which he might otherwise have resented.

He had not a suspicion that she saw any further than her words told him.

The childish dimple in her cheek belying such a thought.

What he read was as much curiosity as belongs to a daughter of Eve,

Joined to a kindly sympathy for the young fellow whose perseverance perhaps touched kindly romance.

If adverse fate could have flung these two together,

It would have.

He talked to her,

Reaching further into her mind than ever before.

And the more he probed its innocent depths,

The more he blamed fate for its dilatoriness.

And Millie,

All unconscious of this dream,

Suffered a lurking fancy of possible contingencies to brighten her eyes and deepen the pretty colour in her cheek.

The sun shone,

But the wind was cold.

Wareham felt that he was responsible for her comfort,

And saw that her deck chair was placed at a right angle,

And moved when necessary.

He helped her when she moved,

And sat next her at meals.

On his own account,

He was glad of the companionship,

For to be alone was to think.

Not of Anne,

But of Anne and Hugh.

By the next morning,

They were in smooth water,

And Mrs Ravenhill came on deck.

She thanked Wareham for his care of her daughter.

I was helpless myself,

And I couldn't condemn her to the cabin,

But I am glad to be up again.

If only to see the mouth of the Thames.

A yawning mudbank.

Our coast doesn't compare well with Norway.

Mrs Ravenhill's patriotism led her to declare that one looked for something beyond beauty in the Thames,

And Wareham owned,

In spite of his speech,

To ardent Cockneyism.

Which means that you will soon be out of London in a few days.

And you?

We shall stay.

This has been our holiday.

When you come back,

I hope you will find us out.

I shall come,

And ask you to show me your sketches,

So as to be carried back again.

He said it warmly,

And Millie's heart beat.

Afterwards came landing,

Train,

And a grimy plunge into London.

At the station,

They parted.

End of Volume One