Thelma
Britta laughed delightedly. "Yes! she will not find her way to England
without some trouble!" she exclaimed. "Oh, how happy I shall be! And
you"--she looked pleadingly at her mistress--"you do not dislike me for
your servant?"
"Dislike!" and Thelma gave her a glance of mingled reproach and
tenderness. "You know how fond I am of you, Britta! It will be like
having a little bit of my old home always with me."
Silently Britta kissed her hand, and then resumed her work. The
monotonous murmur of the two wheels recommenced,--this time pleasantly
accompanied by the rippling chatter of the two girls, who, after the
fashion of girls all the world over, indulged in many speculations as to
the new and strange life that lay before them.
Their ideas were of the most primitive character,--Britta had never been
out of Norway, and Thelma's experiences, apart from her home life,
extended merely to the narrow and restricted bounds of simple and severe
convent discipline, where she had been taught that the pomps and
vanities of the world were foolish and transient shows, and that nothing
could please God more than purity and rectitude of soul. Her character
was formed, and set upon a firm basis--firmer than she herself was
conscious of. The nuns who had been entrusted with her education had
fulfilled their task with more than their customary zeal--they were
interested in the beautiful Norwegian child for the sake of her mother,
who had also been their charge. One venerable nun in particular had
bestowed a deep and lasting benefit on her, for, seeing her
extraordinary beauty, and forestalling the dangers and temptations into
which the possession of such exceptional charms might lead her, she
adopted a wise preventive course, that cased her as it were in armor,
proof against all the assailments of flattery. She told the girl quite
plainly that she was beautiful,--but at the same time made her aware
that beauty was common,--that she shared it alike with birds, flowers,
trees, and all the wonderful objects of nature--moreover, that it was
nothing to boast of, being so perishable.
"Suppose a rose foolish enough to boast of its pretty leaves," said the
gentle _religieuse_ on one occasion. "They all fall to the ground in a
short time, and become decayed and yellow--it is only the fragrance, or
the _soul_ of the rose that lasts." Such precepts, that might have been
wasted on a less sensitive and thoughtful nature, sank deeply into
Thelma's mind--she accepted them not only in theory but in practice, and
the result was that she accepted her beauty as she accepted her
health,--as a mere natural occurrence--no more. She was taught that the
three principal virtues of a woman were chastity, humility, and
obedience,--these were the laws of God, fixed and immutable, which no
one dared break without committing grievous and unpardonable sin. So she
thought, and according to her thoughts she lived. What a strange world,
then, lay before her in the contemplated change that was about to take
place in the even tenor of her existence! A world of intrigue and
folly--a world of infidelity and falsehood!--how would she meet it? It
was a question she never asked herself--she thought London a sort of
magnified Christiania, or at best, the Provencal town of Arles on a
larger scale. She had heard her father speak of it, but only in a vague
way, and she had been able to form no just idea even to herself of the
enormous metropolis crowded to excess with its glad and sorrowful, busy
and idle, rich and poor millions. England itself floated before her
fancy as a green, fertile, embowered island where Shakespeare had
lived--and it delighted her to know that her future home, Errington
Manor, was situated in Warwickshire, Shakespeare's county. Of the
society that awaited her she had no notion,--she was prepared to "keep
house" for her husband in a very simple way--to spin his household
linen, to spare him all trouble and expense, and to devote herself body
and soul to his service. As may be well imagined, the pictures she drew
of her future married life, as she sat and span with Britta on that
peaceful afternoon, were widely different to the destined reality that
every day approached her more nearly.
Meantime, while the two girls were at home and undisturbed in the quiet
farm house, the mountaineering party, headed by Sigurd, were well on
their way towards the great Fall of Njedegorze. They had made a toilsome
ascent of the hills by the side of the Alten river--they had climbed
over craggy boulders and slippery rocks, sometimes wading knee-deep in
the stream, or pausing to rest and watch the salmon leap and turn
glittering somersaults in the air close above the diamond-clear
water,--and they had beguiled their fatigue with songs and laughter, and
the telling of fantastic legends and stories in which Sigurd had shone
at his best--indeed, this unhappy being was in a singularly clear and
rational frame of mind, disposed, too, to be agreeable even towards
Errington. Lorimer, who for reasons of his own, had kept a close watch
on Sigurd ever since his friend's engagement to Thelma, was surprised
and gratified at this change in his former behavior, and encouraged him
in it, while Errington himself responded to the dwarf's proffered
friendship, and walked beside him, chatting cheerfully, during the most
part of the excursion to the Fall. It was a long and exceedingly
difficult journey--and in some parts dangerous--but Sigurd proved
himself worthy of the commendations bestowed on him by the _bonde_, and
guided them by the easiest and most secure paths, till at last, about
seven o'clock in the evening, they heard the rush and roar of the rapids
below the Fall, and with half an hour's more exertion, came in sight of
them, though not as yet of the Fall itself. Yet the rapids were grand
enough to merit attention--and the whole party stopped to gaze on the
whirling wonders of water that, hissing furiously, circled round and
round giddily in wheels of white foam, and then, as though enraged,
leaped high over obstructing stones and branches, and rushed onward and
downward to the smoother length of the river.
The noise was deafening,--they could not hear each other speak unless by
shouting at the top of their voices, and even then the sounds were
rendered almost indistinct by the riotous uproar. Sigurd, however, who
knew all the ins and outs of the place, sprang lightly on a jutting
crag, and, putting both hands to his mouth, uttered a peculiar, shrill,
and far-reaching cry. Clear above the turmoil of the restless waters,
that cry was echoed back eight distinct times from the surrounding rocks
and hills. Sigurd laughed triumphantly.
"You see!" he exclaimed, as he resumed his leadership of the party,
"they all know me! They are obliged to answer me when I call--they dare
not disobey!" And his blue eyes flashed with that sudden wild fire that
generally foretold some access of his particular mania.
Errington saw this and said soothingly, "Of course not, Sigurd! No one
would dream of disobeying you! See how we follow you to-day--we all do
exactly what you tell us."
"We are sheep, Sigurd," added Lorimer lazily; "and you are the
shepherd!"
Sigurd looked from one to the other half doubtingly, half cunningly. He
smiled.
"Yes!" he said. "You will follow me, will you not? Up to the very top of
the Fall?"
"By all means!" answered Sir Philip gaily. "Anywhere you choose to go!"
Sigurd seemed satisfied, and lapsing into the calm, composed manner
which had distinguished him all day, he led the way as before, and they
resumed their march, this time in silence, for conversation was
well-nigh impossible. The nearer they came to the yet invisible Fall,
the more thunderous grew the din--it was as though they approached some
vast battle-field, where opposing armies were in full action, with all
the tumult of cannonade and musketry. The ascent grew steeper and more
difficult--at times the high barriers of rocks seemed almost
impassable,--often they were compelled to climb over confused heaps of
huge stones, through which the eddying water pushed its way with speed
and fury,--but Sigurd's precision was never at fault,--he leaped crag
after crag swiftly and skillfully, always lighting on a sure foothold,
and guiding the others to do the same. At last, at a sharp turn of one
of these rocky eminences, they perceived an enormous cloud of white
vapor rising up like smoke from the earth, and twisting itself as it
rose, in swaying, serpentine folds, as though some giant spirit-hand
were shaking it to and fro like a long flowing veil in the air. Sigurd
paused and pointed forward.
"Njedegorze!" he cried.
They all pressed on with some excitement. The ground vibrated beneath
their feet with the shock of the falling torrent, and the clash and
uproar of the disputing waters rolled in their ears like the grand,
sustained bass of some huge cathedral organ. Almost blinded by the spray
that dashed its disdainful drops in their faces, deafened by the
majestic, loud, and ceaseless eloquence that poured its persuasive force
into the splitting hearts of the rocks around them,--breathless with
climbing, and well-nigh tread out, they struggled on, and broke into one
unanimous shout of delight and triumph when they at last reached the
small hut that had been erected for the convenience of travellers who
might choose that way to journey to the Altenfjord,--and stood face to
face with the magnificent cascade, one of the grandest in Norway. What a
sublime spectacle it was!--that tempest of water sweeping sheer down the
towering rocks in one straight, broad, unbroken sheet of foam! A myriad
rainbows flashed in the torrent and vanished, to reappear again
instantly with redoubled lustre,--while the glory of the evening
sunlight glittering on one side of the fall made it gleam like a
sparkling shower of molten gold.
"Njedegorze!" cried Sigurd again, giving a singularly musical
pronunciation to the apparently uncouth name. "Come! still a little
further,--to the top of the Fall!"
Olaf Gueldmar, however, paid no attention to this invitation. He was
already beginning to busy himself with preparations for passing the
night comfortably in the hut before mentioned. Stout old Norseman as he
was, there were limits to his endurance, and the arduous exertions of
the long day had brought fatigue to him as well as to the rest of the
party.
Macfarlane was particularly exhausted. His frequent pulls at the whiskey
flask had been of little or no avail as a support to his aching limbs,
and, now he had reached his destination, he threw himself full length on
the turf in front of the hut and groaned most dismally.
Lorimer surveyed him amusedly, and stood beside him, the very picture of
a cool young Briton whom nothing could possibly discompose.
"Done up--eh, Sandy?" he inquired.
"Done up!" growled Macfarlane. "D'ye think I'm a Norseman or a jumping
Frenchy?" This with a look of positive indignation at the lively Duprez,
who, if tired, was probably too vain to admit it, for he was strutting
about, giving vent to his genuine admiration of the scene before him
with the utmost freshness and enthusiasm. "I'm just a plain Scotchman,
an' no such a fule at climbin' either! Why, man, I've been up Goatfell
in Arran, an' Ben Lomond an' Ben Nevis--there's a mountain for ye, if ye
like! But a brae like this, wi' a' the stanes lyin' helter-skelter, an'
crags that ye can barely hold on to--and a mad chap guidin' ye on at the
speed o' a leapin' goat--I tell ye, I havena been used to't." Here he
drew out his flask and took another extensive pull at it. Then he added
suddenly, "Just look at Errington! He'll be in a fair way to break his
neck if he follows yon wee crazy loon any further."