Thelma
with a sort of eldritch shriek. "The strong pine rafters of Olaf
Gueldmar's dwelling shall be kindled into flame to light the hills with
crimson, far and near! Not a plank shall be spared!--not a vestige of
his pride be left--"
"Stop!" said Thelma quietly. "What do you mean? You must both be very
mad or very wicked! You want us to go away--you threaten to set fire to
our home--why? We have done you no harm. Tell me, poor soul!" and she
turned with queenly forbearance to Lovisa, "is it for Britta's sake that
you would burn the house she lives in? That is not wise! You cursed me
the other day,--and why? What have I done that you should hate me?"
The old woman regarded her with steadfast, cruel eyes.
"You are your mother's child!" she said. "I hated her--I hate you! You
are a witch!--the village knows it--Mr. Dyceworthy knows it! Mr.
Dyceworthy says we shall be justified in the Lord's sight for wreaking
evil upon you! Evil, evil be on those of evil deeds!"
"Then shall the evil fall on Mr. Dyceworthy," said the girl calmly. "He
is wicked in himself,--and doubly wicked to encourage _you_ in
wickedness. He is ignorant and false--why do you believe in such a man?"
"He is a saint--a saint!" cried Lovisa wildly. "And shall the daughter
of Satan withstand his power?" And she clapped her hands in a sort of
fierce ecstasy.
Thelma glanced at her pityingly and smiled. "A saint! Poor thing, how
little you know him!" she said. "And it is a pity you should hate me,
for I have done you no wrong. I would do good to all if I knew
how,--tell me can I comfort you, or make your life more cheerful? It
must be hard to be so old and all alone!"
"Your death would comfort me!" returned Lovisa grimly. "Why do you keep
Britta from me?"
"I do not keep her," Thelma answered. "She stays with me because she is
happy. Why do you grudge her, her happiness? And as for burning my
father's house, surely you would not do so wicked and foolish a
thing!--but still, you must do as you choose, for it is not possible
that we shall leave the Altenfjord to please you."
Here Ulrika started forward angrily. "You defy us!" she cried. "You will
not go?" And in her excitement she seized Thelma's arm roughly.
This action was too much for Sigurd; he considered it an attack on the
person of his beloved mistress and he resented it at once in his own
fashion. Throwing himself on Ulrika with sudden ferocity, he pushed and
beat her back as though he were a wolf-hound struggling with refractory
prey; and though the ancient Lovisa rushed to the rescue, and Thelma
imploringly called upon her zealous champion to desist,--all
remonstrances were unavailing, till Sigurd had reduced his enemy to the
most abject and whimpering terror.
"A demon--a demon!" she sobbed and moaned, as the valiant dwarf at last
released her from his clutches; and, tossing his long, fair locks over
his misshapen shoulders, laughed loudly and triumphantly with delight at
his victory. "Lovisa! Lovisa Elsland! this is your doing; you brought
this upon me! I may die now, and you will not care! O Lord, Lord, have
mercy--"
Suddenly she stopped; her eyes dilated,--her face grew grey with the
sickening pallor of fear. Slowly she raised her hand and pointed to
Sigurd--his fantastic dress had become disordered in the affray, and his
jacket was torn open,--and on his bare chest a long red scar in the
shape of a cross was distinctly visible. "That scar!" she muttered. "How
did he get that scar?"
Lovisa stared at her in impatient derision. Thelma was too surprised to
answer immediately, and Sigurd took it upon himself to furnish what he
considered a crushing reply.
"Odin's mark!" he said, patting the scar with much elation. "No wonder
you are afraid of it! Everybody knows it--birds, flowers, trees, and
stars! Even you--you are afraid!"
And he laughed again, and snapped his fingers in her face. The woman
shuddered violently. Step by step she drew near to the wondering Thelma,
and spoke in low and trembling accents, without a trace of her former
anger.
"They say you are wicked," she said slowly, "and that the devil has your
soul ready, before you are dead! But I am not afraid of you. No; I will
forgive you, and pray for you, if you will tell me, . . ." She paused,
and then continued, as with a strong effort. "Yes--tell me _who_ is this
Sigurd?"
"Sigurd is a foundling," answered Thelma simply. "He was floating about
in the Fjord in a basket, and my father saved him. He was quite a baby.
He had this scar on his chest then. He has lived with us ever since."
Ulrika looked at her searchingly,--then bent her head,--whether in
gratitude or despair it was difficult to say.
"Lovisa Elsland," she said monotonously, "I am going home. I cannot help
you any longer! I am tired--ill." Here she suddenly broke down, and,
throwing up her arms with a wild gesture, she cried, "O God, God! O
God!" and burst into a stormy passion of sobs and tears.
Thelma, touched by her utter misery, would have offered consolation, but
Lovisa repelled her with a fierce gesture.
"Go!" said the old woman harshly. "You have cast your spells upon her--I
am witness of your work! And shall you escape just punishment? No; not
while there is a God in heaven, and I, Lovisa Elsland, live to perform
His bidding! Go,--white devil that you are!--go and carry misfortune
upon misfortune to your fine gentleman-lover! Ah!" and she chuckled
maliciously as the girl recoiled from her, her proud face growing
suddenly paler, "have I touched you there? Lie in his breast, and it
shall be as though a serpent stung him,--kiss his lips, and your touch
shall be poison,--live in doubt, and die in misery! Go! and may all evil
follow you!"
She raised her staff and waved it majestically, as though she drew a
circle in the air,--Thelma smiled pityingly, but deigned no answer to
her wild ravings.
"Come, Sigurd!" she said simply, "let us return home. It is growing
late--father will wonder where we are."
"Yes, yes," agreed Sigurd, seizing the basket full of the pansies he had
plucked. "The sunshine is slipping away, and we cannot live with
shadows! These are not real women, mistress; they are dreams--black
dreams,--I have often fought with dreams, and I know how to make them
afraid! See how the one weeps because she knows me,--and the other is
just going to fall into a grave. I can hear the clods thrown on her
head--thump--thump! It does not take long to bury a dream! Come,
mistress, let us follow the sunshine!"
And, taking the hand she extended towards him, he turned away, looking
back once, however, to call out loudly--
"Good-bye, bad dreams!"
As they disappeared behind the trees, Lovisa turned angrily to the
still-sobbing Ulrika.
"What is this folly?" she exclaimed, striking her staff fiercely into
the ground. "Art mad or bewitched?"
Ulrika looked up,--her plain face swollen and stained with weeping.
"O Lord, have mercy upon me! O Lord, forgive me!" she moaned. "I did not
know it--how _could_ I know?"
Lovisa grew so impatient that she seized her by the shoulder and shook
her violently.
"Know what?" she cried; "know what?"
"Sigurd is my son!" said Ulrika, with a sort of solemn
resignation,--then, with a sudden gesture, she threw her hands above her
head, crying, "My son, my son! The child I thought I had killed! The
Lord be praised I did not murder him!"
Lovisa Elsland seemed stupefied with surprise. "Is this the truth?" she
asked at last, slowly and incredulously.
"The truth, the truth!" cried Ulrika passionately. "It is always the
truth that comes to light! He is my child, I tell you! . . . I gave him
that scar!" She paused, shuddering, and continued in a lower tone, "I
tried to kill him with a knife, but when the blood flowed, it sickened
me, and I could not! He was an infant abortion--the evil fruit of an
evil deed--and I threw him out to the waves,--as I told you, long ago.
You have had good use of my confession, Lovisa Elsland; you have held me
in your power by means of my secret, but now--"
The old woman interrupted her with a low laugh of contempt and malice.
"As the parents are, so are the children!" she said scornfully. "Your
lover must have been a fine man, Ulrika, if the son is like his father!"
Ulrika glared at her vengefully, then drew herself up with an air of
defiance.
"I care nothing for your taunts, Lovisa Elsland!" she said. "You can do
me no harm! All is over between us! I will help in no mischief against
the Gueldmars. Whatever their faults, they saved--my child!"
"Is that so great a blessing?" asked Lovisa ironically.
"It makes your threats useless," answered Ulrika. "You cannot call me
_murderess_ again!"
"Coward and fool!" shrieked Lovisa. "Was it _your_ intent that the child
should live? Were you not glad to think it dead? And cannot I spread the
story of your infamy through all the villages where you are known? Is
not the wretched boy himself a living witness of the attempt you made to
kill him? Does not that scar speak against you? Would not Olaf Gueldmar
relate the story of the child's rescue to any one that asked him? Would
you like all Bosekop to know of your intrigue with an escaped criminal,
who was afterwards caught and hung! The virtuous Ulrika--the zealous
servant of the Gospel--the pious, praying Ulrika!" and the old woman
trembled with rage and excitement. "Out of my power? Never, never! As
long as there is breath in my body I will hold you down! _Not_ a
murderess, you say--?"
"No," said Ulrika very calmly, with a keen look, "I am _not_--but you
_are_!"
CHAPTER XVI.
"Il n'y a personne qui ait eu autant a souffrir a votre sujet que
moi depuis ma naissance! aussi je vous supplie a deux genoux et
au nom de Dien, d'avoir pitie de moi!"--_Old Breton Ballad_.
In a few more days Thelma's engagement to Sir Philip Bruce-Errington was
the talk of the neighborhood. The news spread gradually, having been, in
the first place, started by Britta, whose triumph in her mistress's
happiness was charming to witness. It reached the astonished and
reluctant ears of the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy, whose rage was so great
that it destroyed his appetite for twenty-four hours. But the general
impression in the neighborhood, where superstition maintained so strong
a hold on the primitive and prejudiced minds of the people, was that the
reckless young Englishman would rue the day on which he wedded "the
white witch of the Altenfjord."
Gueldmar was regarded with more suspicion than ever, as having used some
secret and diabolical influence to promote the match; and the whole
party were, as it seemed, tabooed, and looked upon as given up to the
most unholy practices.
Needless to say, the opinions of the villagers had no effect whatever on
the good spirits of those who were thus unfavorably criticised, and it
would have been difficult to find a merrier group than that assembled
one fine morning in front of Gueldmar's house, all equipped from top to
toe for some evidently unusually lengthy and arduous mountain excursion.
Each man carried a long, stout stick, portable flask, knapsack, and
rug--the latter two articles strapped together and slung across the
shoulder--and they all presented an eminently picturesque appearance,
particularly Sigurd, who stood at a little distance from the others,
leaning on his tall staff and gazing at Thelma with an air of peculiar
pensiveness and abstraction.
She was at that moment busied in adjusting Errington's knapsack more
comfortably, her fair, laughing face turned up to his, and her bright
eyes alight with love and tender solicitude.
"I've a good mind not to go at all," he whispered in her ear. "I'll come
back and stay with you all day."
"You foolish boy!" she answered merrily. "You would miss seeing the