Thelma
melancholy reverie the voice of the unknown maiden had startled him, and
now,--now she had left him to resume it if he chose,--left him, in chill
displeasure, with a cold yet brilliant flash of something like scorn in
her wonderful eyes.
Since her departure the scenery, in some unaccountable way, seemed less
attractive to him, the songs of the birds, who were all awake, fell on
inattentive ears; he was haunted by her face and voice, and he was,
moreover, a little out of humor with himself for having been such a
blunderer as to give her offense and thus leave an unfavorable
impression on her mind.
"I suppose I _was_ rude," he considered after a while. "She seemed to
think so, at any rate. By Jove! what a crushing look she gave me! A
peasant? Not she! If she had said she was an empress I shouldn't have
been much surprised. But a mere common peasant, with that regal figure
and those white hands! I don't believe it. Perhaps our pilot, Valdemar,
knows who she is; I must ask him."
All at once he bethought himself of the cave whence she had emerged. It
was close at hand--a natural grotto, arched and apparently lofty. He
resolved to explore it. Glancing at his watch he saw it was not yet one
o'clock in the morning, yet the voice of the cuckoo called shrilly from
the neighboring hills, and a circling group of swallows flitted around
him, their lovely wings glistening like jewels in the warm light of the
ever-wakeful sun. Going to the entrance of the cave, he looked in. It
was formed of rough rock, hewn out by the silent work of the water, and
its floor was strewn thick with loose pebbles and polished stones.
Entering it, he was able to walk upright for some few paces, then
suddenly it seemed to shrink in size and to become darker. The light
from the opening gradually narrowed into a slender stream too small for
him to see clearly where he was going, thereupon he struck a fusee. At
first he could observe no sign of human habitation, not even a rope, or
chain, or hook, to intimate that it was a customary shelter for a boat.
The fusee went out quickly, and he lit another. Looking more carefully
and closely about him, he perceived on a projecting shelf of rock, a
small antique lamp, Etruscan in shape, made of iron and wrought with
curious letters. There was oil in it, and a half-burnt wick; it had
evidently been recently used. He availed himself at once of this useful
adjunct to his explorations, and lighting it, was able by the clear and
steady flame it emitted, to see everything very distinctly. Right before
him was an uneven flight of steps leading down to a closed door.
He paused and listened attentively. There was no sound but the slow
lapping of the water near the entrance; within, the thickness of the
cavern walls shut out the gay carolling of the birds, and all the
cheerful noises of awakening nature. Silence, chillness, and partial
obscurity are depressing influences, and the warm blood flowing through
his veins, ran a trifle more slowly and coldly as he felt the sort of
uncomfortable eerie sensation which is experienced by the jolliest and
most careless traveller, when he first goes down to the catacombs in
Rome. A sort of damp, earthy shudder creeps through the system, and a
dreary feeling of general hopelessness benumbs the faculties; a morbid
state of body and mind which is only to be remedied by a speedy return
to the warm sunlight, and a draught of generous wine.
Sir Philip, however, held the antique lamp aloft, and descended the
clumsy steps cautiously, counting twenty steps in all, at the bottom of
which he found himself face to face with the closed door. It was made of
hard wood, so hard as to be almost like iron. It was black with age, and
covered with quaint carvings and inscriptions; but in the middle,
standing out in bold relief among the numberless Runic figures and
devices, was written in large well-cut letters the word--
THELMA
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I have it! The girl's name, of course! This is
some private retreat of hers, I suppose,--a kind of boudoir like my Lady
Winsleigh's, only with rather a difference."
And he laughed aloud, thinking of the dainty gold-satin hangings of a
certain room in a certain great mansion in Park Lane, where an
aristocratic and handsome lady-leader of fashion had as nearly made love
to him as it was possible for her to do without losing her social
dignity. His laugh was echoed back with a weird and hollow sound, as
though a hidden demon of the cave were mocking him, a demon whose
merriment was intense but also horrible. He heard the unpleasant jeering
repetition with a kind of careless admiration.
"That echo would make a fortune in _Faust_, if it could be persuaded to
back up Mephistopheles with that truly fiendish, '_Ha Ha_!'" he said,
resuming his examination of the name on the door. Then an odd fancy
seized him, and he called loudly--
"Thelma!"
"Thelma!" shouted the echo.
"Is that her name?"
"Her name!" replied the echo.
"I thought so!" And Philip laughed again, while the echo laughed wildly
in answer. "Just the sort of name to suit a Norwegian nymph or goddess.
_Thelma_ is quaint and appropriate, and as far as I can remember there's
no rhyme to it in the English language. _Thelma_!" And he lingered on
the pronunciation of the strange word with a curious sensation of
pleasure. "There is something mysteriously suggestive about the sound of
it; like a chord of music played softly in the distance. Now, can I get
through this door, I wonder?"
He pushed it gently. It yielded very slightly, and he tried again and
yet again. Finally, he put down the lamp and set his shoulder against
the wooden barrier with all his force. A dull creaking sound rewarded
his efforts, and inch by inch the huge door opened into what at first
appeared immeasurable darkness. Holding up the light he looked in, and
uttered a smothered exclamation. A sudden gust of wind rushed from the
sea through the passage and extinguished the lamp, leaving him in
profound gloom. Nothing daunted he sought his fusee case; there was just
one left in it. This he hastily struck, and shielding the glow carefully
with one hand, relit his lamp, and stepped boldly into the mysterious
grotto.
The murmur of the wind and waves, like spirit-voices in unison, followed
him as he entered. He found himself in a spacious winding corridor, that
had evidently been hollowed out in the rocks and fashioned by human
hands. Its construction was after the ancient Gothic method; but the
wonder of the place consisted in the walls, which were entirely covered
with shells,--shells of every shape and hue,--some delicate as
rose-leaves, some rough and prickly, others polished as ivory, some
gleaming with a thousand irridescent colors, others pure white as the
foam on high billows. Many of them were turned artistically in such a
position as to show their inner sides glistening with soft tints like
the shades of fine silk or satin,--others glittered with the opaline
sheen of mother-o'-pearl. All were arranged in exquisite patterns,
evidently copied from fixed mathematical designs,--there were stars,
crescents, roses, sunflowers, hearts, crossed daggers, ships and
implements of war, all faithfully depicted with extraordinary neatness
and care, as though each particular emblem had served some special
purpose.
Sir Philip walked along very slowly, delighted with his discovery,
and,--pausing to examine each panel as he passed,--amused himself with
speculations as to the meaning of this beautiful cavern, so fancifully
yet skillfully decorated.
"Some old place of worship, I suppose," he thought. "There must be many
such hidden in different parts of Norway. It has nothing to do with the
Christian faith, for among all these devices I don't perceive a single
cross."
He was right. There were no crosses; but there were many designs of the
sun--the sun rising, the sun setting, the sun in full glory, with all
his rays embroidered round him in tiny shells, some of them no bigger
than a pin's head. "What a waste of time and labor," he mused. "Who
would undertake such a thing nowadays? Fancy the patience and delicacy
of finger required to fit all these shells in their places! and they are
embedded in strong mortar too, as if the work were meant to be
indestructible."
Full of pleased interest, he pursued his way, winding in and out through
different arches, all more or less richly ornamented, till he came to a
tall, round column, which seemingly supported the whole gallery, for all
the arches converged towards it. It was garlanded from top to bottom
with their roses and their leaves, all worked in pink and lilac shells,
interspersed with small pieces of shining amber and polished malachite.
The flicker of the lamp he carried, made it glisten like a mass of
jewel-work, and, absorbed in his close examination of this unique
specimen of ancient art, Sir Philip did not at once perceive that
another light beside his own glimmered from out the furthest archway a
little beyond him,--an opening that led into some recess he had not as
yet explored. A peculiar lustre sparkling on one side of the shell-work
however, at last attracted his attention, and, glancing up quickly, he
saw, to his surprise, the reflection of a strange radiance, rosily
tinted and brilliant.
Turning in its direction, he paused, irresolute. Could there be some one
living in that furthest chamber to which the long passage he had
followed evidently led? some one who would perhaps resent his intrusion
as an impertinence? some eccentric artist or hermit who had made the
cave his home? Or was it perhaps a refuge for smugglers? He listened
anxiously. There was no sound. He waited a minute or two, then boldly
advanced, determined to solve the mystery.
This last archway was lower than any of those he had passed through, and
he was forced to take off his hat and stoop as he went under it. When he
raised his head he remained uncovered, for he saw at a glance that the
place was sacred. He was in the presence, not of Life, but Death. The
chamber in which he stood was square in form, and more richly ornamented
with shell-designs than any other portion of the grotto he had seen, and
facing the east was an altar hewn out of the solid rock and studded
thickly with amber, malachite and mother-o'-pearl. It was covered with
the incomprehensible emblems of a bygone creed worked in most exquisite
shell-patterns, but on it,--as though in solemn protest against the
past,--stood a crucifix of ebony and carved ivory, before which burned
steadily a red lamp.
The meaning of the mysterious light was thus explained, but what chiefly
interested Errington was the central object of the place,--a coffin,--of
rather a plain granite sarcophagus which was placed on the floor lying
from north to south. Upon it,--in strange contrast to the sombre
coldness of the stone,--reposed a large wreath of poppies freshly
gathered. The vivid scarlet of the flowers, the gleam of the shining
shells on the walls, the mournful figure of the ivory Christ stretched
on the cross among all those pagan emblems,--the intense silence broken
only by the slow drip, drip of water trickling somewhere behind the
cavern,--and more than these outward things,--his own impressive
conviction that he was with the imperial Dead--imperial because past the
sway of empire--all made a powerful impression on his mind. Overcoming
by degrees his first sensations of awe, he approached the sarcophagus
and examined it. It was solidly closed and mortared all round, so that
it might have been one compact coffin-shaped block of stone so far as
its outward appearance testified. Stooping more closely, however, to
look at the brilliant poppy-wreath, he started back with a slight