Thelma Part 12

Errington said nothing; he recognized the tune as that which Thelma had sung at her spinning-wheel, and his bold bright eyes grew pensive and soft, as the picture of the fair face and form rose up again before his mind. Absorbed in a reverie, he almost started when Lorimer ceased playing, and said lightly--

"By-bye, boys! I'm off to bed! Phil, don't wake me so abominably early as you did this morning. If you do, friends.h.i.+p can hold out no longer--we must part!"

"All right!" laughed Errington good-humoredly, watching his friend as he sauntered out of the saloon; then seeing Duprez and Macfarlane rise from the table, he added courteously, "Don't hurry away on Lorimer's account, you two. I'm not in the least sleepy,--I'll sit up with you to any hour."

"It is droll to go to bed in broad daylight," said Duprez. "But it must be done. _Cher Philippe_, your eyes are heavy. 'To bed, to bed,' as the excellent Madame Macbeth says. Ah! _quelle femme!_ What an exciting wife she was for a man? Come, let us follow our dear Lorimer,--his music was delicious. Good night or good morning? . . . I know not which it is in this strange land where the sun s.h.i.+nes always! It is confusing!"

They shook hands and separated. Errington, however, unable to compose his mind to rest, went into his cabin merely to come out of it again and betake himself to the deck, where he decided to walk up and down till he felt sleepy. He wished to be alone with his own thoughts for awhile--to try and resolve the meaning of this strange new emotion that possessed him,--a feeling that was half pleasing, half painful, and that certainly moved him to a sort of shame. A man, if he be strong and healthy, is always more or less ashamed when Love, with a single effort, proves him to be weaker than a blade of gra.s.s swaying in the wind. What! all his dignity, all his resoluteness, all his authority swept down by the light touch of a mere willow wand? for the very sake of his own manhood and self-respect, he cannot help but be ashamed! It is as though a little nude, laughing child mocked at a lion's strength, and made him a helpless prisoner with a fragile daisy chain. So the G.o.d Eros begins his battles, which end in perpetual victory,--first fear and shame,--then desire and pa.s.sion,--then conquest and possession. And afterwards? ah!

. . . afterwards the pagan deity is powerless,--a higher G.o.d, a grander force, a n.o.bler creed must carry Love to its supreme and best fulfillment.

CHAPTER VIII.

"Le vent qui vient a travers la montagne M'a rendu fou!"

VICTOR HUGO.

It was half an hour past midnight. Sir Philip was left in absolute solitude to enjoy his meditative stroll on deck, for the full radiance of light that streamed over the sea and land was too clear and brilliant to necessitate the attendance of any of the sailors for the purpose of guarding the _Eulalie_. She was safely anch.o.r.ed and distinctly visible to all boats or fis.h.i.+ng craft crossing the Fjord, so that unless a sudden gale should blow, which did not seem probable in the present state of the weather, there was nothing for the men to do that need deprive them of their lawful repose. Errington paced up and down slowly, his yachting shoes making no noise, even as they left no scratch on the spotless white deck, that shone in the night suns.h.i.+ne like polished silver. The Fjord was very calm,--on one side it gleamed like a pool of golden oil in which the outline of the _Eulalie_ was precisely traced, her delicate masts and spars and drooping flag being drawn in black lines on the yellow water as though with a finely pointed pencil. There was a curious light in the western sky; a thick bank of clouds, dusky brown in color, were swept together and piled one above the other in mountainous ridges, that rose up perpendicularly from the very edge of the sea-line, while over their dark summits a glimpse of the sun, like a giant's eye, looked forth, darting dazzling descending rays through the sullen smoke-like ma.s.ses, tinging them with metallic green and copper hues as brilliant and s.h.i.+fting as the bristling points of lifted spears.

Away to the south, a solitary wreath of purple vapor floated slowly as though lost from some great mountain height; and through its faint, half disguising veil the pale moon peered sorrowfully, like a dying prisoner lamenting joy long past, but unforgotten.

A solemn silence reigned; and Errington, watching sea and sky, grew more and more absorbed and serious. The scornful words of the proud old Olaf Guldmar rankled in his mind and stung him. "An idle trifler with time--an aimless wanderer!" Bitter, but, after all, true! He looked back on his life with a feeling kin to contempt. What had he done that was at all worth doing? He had seen to the proper management of his estates,--well! any one with a grain of self-respect and love of independence would do the same. He had travelled and amused himself,--he had studied languages and literature,--he had made many friends; but after all said and done, the _bonde's_ cutting observations had described him correctly enough. The do-nothing, care-nothing tendency, common to the very wealthy in this age, had crept upon him unconsciously; the easy, cool, indifferent nonchalance common to men of his cla.s.s and breeding was habitual with him, and he had never thought it worth while to exert his dormant abilities. Why then, should he now begin to think it was time to reform all this,--to rouse himself to an effort,--to gain for himself some honor, some distinction, some renown that should mark him out as different to other men? why was he suddenly seized with an insatiate desire to be something more than a mere "mushroom knight, a fungus of n.o.bility"--why? if not to make himself worthy of--ah! There he had struck a suggestive key-note! Worthy of what? of whom? There was no one in all the world, excepting perhaps Lorimer, who cared what became of Sir Philip Errington, Baronet, in the future, so long as he would, for the present, entertain and feast his numerous acquaintances and give them all the advantages, social and political, his wealth could so easily obtain. Then why, in the name of well-bred indolence, should he muse with such persistent gloom, on his general unworthiness at this particular moment? Was it because this Norwegian maiden's grand blue eyes had met his with such beautiful trust and candor?

He had known many women, queens of society, t.i.tled beauties, brilliant actresses, sirens of the world with all their witcheries in full play, and he had never lost his self-possession or his heart; with the loveliest of them he had always felt himself master of the situation, knowing that, in their opinion he was always "a catch," "an eligible,"

and, therefore, well worth winning. Now, for the first time, he became aware of his utter insignificance,--this tall, fair G.o.ddess knew none of the social slang--and her fair, pure face, the mirror of a fair, pure soul, showed that the "eligibility" of a man from a pecuniary point of view was a consideration that would never present itself to her mind.

What she would look at would be the man himself,--not his pocket. And, studied from such an exceptional height,--a height seldom climbed by modern marrying women,--Philip felt himself unworthy. It was a good sign; there are great hopes of any man who is honestly dissatisfied with himself. Folding his arms, he leaned idly on the deck-rails, and looked gravely and musingly down into the motionless water where the varied lines of the sky were clearly mirrored,--when a slight creaking, cracking sound was heard, as of some obstacle grazing against or b.u.mping the side of the yacht. He looked, and saw, to his surprise, a small rowing boat close under the gunwale, so close indeed that the slow motion of the tide heaved it every now and then into a jerky collision with the lower framework of the _Eulalie_--a circ.u.mstance which explained the sound which had attracted his attention. The boat was not unoccupied--there was some one in it lying straight across the seats, with face turned upwards to the sky--and, walking noiselessly to a better post of observation, Errington's heart beat with some excitement as he recognized the long, fair, unkempt locks, and eccentric attire of the strange personage who had confronted him in the cave--the crazy little man who had called himself "Sigurd." There he was, beyond a doubt, lying flat on his back with his eyes closed. Asleep or dead? He might have been the latter,--his thin face was so pale and drawn,--his lips were so set and colorless. Errington, astonished to see him there, called softly--

"Sigurd! Sigurd!" There was no answer; Sigurd's form seemed inanimate--his eyes remained fast shut.

"Is he in a trance?" thought Sir Philip wonderingly; "or has he fainted from some physical exhaustion?"

He called again, but again received no reply. He now observed in the stem of the boat a large bunch of pansies, dark as velvet, and evidently freshly gathered,--proving that Sigurd had been wandering in the deep valleys and on the sloping sides of the hills, where these flowers may be frequently found in Norway during the summer. He began to feel rather uncomfortable, as he watched that straight stiff figure in the boat, and was just about to swing down the companion-ladder for the purpose of closer inspection, when a glorious burst of light streamed radiantly over the Fjord,--the sun conquered the ma.s.ses of dark cloud that had striven to conceal his beauty, and now,--like a warrior clad in golden armor, surmounted and trod down his enemies, s.h.i.+ning forth in all his splendor. With that rush of brilliant effulgence, the apparently lifeless Sigurd stirred,--he opened his eyes, and as they were turned upwards, he naturally, from his close vicinity to the side of the _Eulalie_, met Errington's gaze fixed inquiringly and somewhat anxiously upon him. He sprang up with such sudden and fierce haste that his frail boat rocked dangerously and Philip involuntarily cried out--

"Take care!"

Sigurd stood upright in his swaying skiff and laughed scornfully.

"Take care!" he echoed derisively. "It is you who should take care!

You,--poor miserable moth on the edge of a mad storm! It is you to fear--not I! See how the light rains over the broad sky. All for me!

Yes, all the light, all the glory for me; all the darkness, all the shame for you!"

Errington listened to these ravings with an air of patience and pitying gentleness, then he said with perfect coolness--

"You are quite right, Sigurd! You are always right, I am sure. Come up here and see me; I won't hurt you! Come along!"

The friendly tone and gentle manner appeared to soothe the unhappy dwarf, for he stared doubtfully, then smiled,--and finally, as though acting under a spell, he took up an oar and propelled himself skillfully enough to the gangway, where Errington let down the ladder and with his own hand a.s.sisted his visitor to mount, not forgetting to fasten the boat safely to the steps as he did so. Once on deck, Sigurd gazed about him perplexedly. He had brought his bunch of pansies with him, and he fingered their soft leaves thoughtfully. Suddenly his eyes flashed.

"You are alone here?" he asked abruptly.

Fearing to scare his strange guest by the mention of his companions, Errington answered simply--"Yes, quite alone just now, Sigurd."

Sigurd took a step closer towards him. "Are you not afraid?" he said in an awe-struck, solemn voice.

Sir Philip smiled. "I never was afraid of anything in my life!" he answered.

The dwarf eyed him keenly. "You are not afraid," he went on, "that I shall kill you?"

"Not in the least," returned Errington calmly. "You would not do anything so foolish, my friend."

Sigurd laughed. "Ha ha! You call me 'friend.' You think that word a safeguard! I tell you, no! There are no friends now; the world is a great field of battle,--each man fights the other. There is no peace,--none anywhere! The wind fights with the forests; you can hear them slas.h.i.+ng and slaying all night long--when it _is_ night--the long, long night! The sun fights with the sky, the light with the dark, and life with death. It is all a bitter quarrel; none are satisfied, none shall know friends.h.i.+p any more; it is too late! We cannot be friends!"

"Well, have it your own way," said Philip good-naturedly, wis.h.i.+ng that Lorimer were awake to interview this strange specimen of human wit gone astray; "we'll fight if you like. Anything to please you!"

"We _are_ fighting," said Sigurd with intense pa.s.sion in his voice. "You may not know it; but I know it! I have felt the thrust of your sword; it has crossed mine. Stay!" and his eyes grew vague and dreamy. "Why was I sent to seek you out--let me think--let me think!"

And he seated himself forlornly on one of the deck chairs and seemed painfully endeavoring to put his scattered ideas in order. Errington studied him with a gentle forbearance; inwardly he was very curious to know whether this Sigurd had any connection with the Guldmars, but he refrained from asking too many questions. He simply said in a cheery tone--

"Yes, Sigurd,--why did you come to see me? I'm glad you did; it's very kind of you, but I don't think you even know my name."

To his surprise, Sigurd looked up with a more settled and resolved expression of face, and answered almost as connectedly as any sane man could have done.

"I know your name very well," he said in a low composed manner. "You are Sir Philip Errington, a rich English n.o.bleman. Fate led you to _her_ grave--a grave that no strange feet have ever pa.s.sed, save yours--and so I know you are the man for whom her spirit has waited,--she has brought you hither. How foolish to think she sleeps under the stone, when she is always awake and busy,--always at work opposing me! Yes, though I pray her to lie still, she will not!"

His voice grew wild again, and Philip asked quietly--

"Of whom are you speaking, Sigurd?"

His steady tone seemed to have some compelling influence on the confused mind of the half-witted creature, who answered readily and at once--

"Of whom should I speak but Thelma? Thelma, the beautiful rose of the northern forest--Thelma--"

He broke off abruptly with a long shuddering sigh, and rocking himself drearily to and fro, gazed wistfully out to the sea. Errington hazarded a guess as to the purpose of that coffin hidden in the sh.e.l.l cavern.

"Do you mean Thelma living? . . . or Thelma dead?"

"Both," answered Sigurd promptly. "They are one and the same,--you cannot part them. Mother and child,--rose and rosebud! One walks the earth with the step of a queen, the other floats in the air like a silvery cloud; but I see them join and embrace and melt into each other's arms till they unite in one form, fairer than the beauty of angels! And you--you know this as well as I do--you have seen Thelma, you have kissed the cup of friends.h.i.+p with her; but remember!--not with me--not with me!"

He started from his seat, and, running close up to Errington, laid one meagre hand on his chest.

"How strong you are, how broad and brave," he exclaimed with a sort of childish admiration. "And can you not be generous too?"

Errington looked down upon him compa.s.sionately. He had learned enough from his incoherent talk to clear up what had seemed a mystery. The scandalous reports concerning Olaf Guldmar were incorrect,--he had evidently laid the remains of his wife in the sh.e.l.l-cavern, for some reason connected with his religious belief, and Thelma's visits to the sacred spot were now easy of comprehension. No doubt it was she who placed fresh flowers there every day, and kept the little lamp burning before the crucifix as a sign of the faith her departed mother had professed, and which she herself followed. But who was Sigurd, and what was he to the Guldmars? Thinking this, he replied to the dwarf's question by a counter-inquiry.

"How shall I be generous, Sigurd? Tell me! What can I do to please you?"

Sigurd's wild blue eyes sparkled with pleasure.

"Do!" he cried. "You can go away, swiftly, swiftly, over the seas, and the Altenfjord need know you no more! Spread your white sails!" and he pointed excitedly up to the tall tapering masts of the _Eulalie_. "You are king here. Command and you are obeyed! Go from us, go! What is there here to delay you? Our mountains are dark and gloomy,--the fields are wild and desolate,--there are rocks, glaciers and shrieking torrents that hiss like serpents gliding into the sea! Oh, there must be fairer lands than this one,--lands where oceans and sky are like twin jewels set in one ring,--where there are sweet flowers and fruits and bright eyes to smile on you all day--yes! for you are as a G.o.d in your strength and beauty--no woman will be cruel to _you_! Ah! say you will go away!"