Thelma
superstition,--concerning witches, devils, and spirits both good and
evil, who are still believed to have their abode on the Norwegian
hills,--for, as the _bonde_ remarked with a smile, "when civilization
has driven these unearthly beings from every other refuge in the world,
they will always be sure of a welcome in Norway."
It was eleven o'clock when they at last retired within the hut to rest
for the night, and the errant Sigurd had not returned. The sun shone
brilliantly, but there was no window to the small shed, and light and
air came only through the door, which was left wide open. The tired
travellers lay down on their spread-out rugs and blankets, and wishing
each other a cheerful "good night," were soon fast asleep. Errington was
rather restless, and lay awake for some little time, listening to the
stormy discourse of the Fall; but at last his eyelids yielded to the
heaviness that oppressed them, and he sank into a light slumber.
Meanwhile the imperial sun rode majestically downwards to the edge of
the horizon,--and the sky blushed into the pale tint of a wild rose,
that deepened softly and steadily with an ever-increasing fiery
brilliance as the minutes glided noiselessly on to the enchanted midnight
hour. A wind began to rustle mysteriously among the pines--then
gradually growing wrathful, strove to whistle a loud defiance to the
roar of the tumbling waters. Through the little nooks and crannies of
the roughly constructed cabin, where the travellers slept, it uttered
small wild shrieks of warning or dismay--and, suddenly, as though
touched by an invisible hand, Sir Philip awoke. A crimson glare
streaming through the open door dazzled his drowsy eyes--was it a forest
on fire? He started up in dreamy alarm,--then remembered where he was.
Realizing that there must be an exceptionally fine sky to cast so ruddy
a reflection on the ground, he threw on his cloak and went outside.
What a wondrous, almost unearthly scene greeted him! His first impulse
was to shout aloud in sheer ecstasy--his next to stand silent in
reverential awe. The great Fall was no longer a sweeping flow of white
foam--it had changed to a sparkling shower of rubies, as though some
great genie, tired of his treasures, were flinging them away by giant
handfuls, in the most reckless haste and lavish abundance. From the
bottom of the cascade a crimson vapor arose, like smoke from flame, and
the whirling rapids, deeply red for the most part, darkened here and
there into an olive-green flecked with gold, while the spray, tossed
high over interrupting rocks and boulders, glittered as it fell like,
small fragments of broken opal. The sky was of one dense uniform
rose-color from west to east,--soft and shimmering as a broad satin
pavilion freshly unrolled,--the sun was invisible, hidden behind the
adjacent mountains, but his rays touched some peaks in the distance, on
which white wreaths of snow lay, bringing them into near and sparkling
prominence.
The whole landscape was transformed--the tall trees, rustling and
swaying in the now boisterous wind, took all flickering tints of color
on their trunks and leaves,--the grey stones and pebbles turned to lumps
of gold and heaps of diamonds, and on the other side of the rapids, a
large tuft of heather in a cleft of the rocks glowed with extraordinary
vividness and warmth, like a suddenly kindled fire. A troop of witches
dancing wildly on the sward,--a ring of fairies,--kelpies tripping from
crag to crag,--a sudden chorus of sweet-voiced water-nymphs--nothing
unreal or fantastical would have surprised Errington at that moment.
Indeed, he almost expected something of the kind--the scene was so
eminently fitted for it.
"Positively, I must wake Lorimer," he thought to himself. "He oughtn't
to miss such a gorgeous spectacle as this."
He moved a little more in position to view the Fall. What was that small
dark object running swiftly yet steadily along on the highest summit of
those jutting crags? He rubbed his eyes amazedly--was it--could it be
_Sigurd_? He watched it for a moment,--then uttered a loud cry as he saw
it pause on the very ledge of rock from which but a short while since,
he himself had been so nearly precipitated. The figure was now
distinctly visible, outlined in black against the flaming crimson of the
sky,--it stood upright and waved its arms with a frantic gesture. There
was no mistaking it--it _was_ Sigurd!
Without another second's hesitation Errington rushed back to the hut and
awoke, with clamorous alarm, the rest of the party. His brief
explanation sufficed--they all hurried forth in startled excitement.
Sigurd still occupied his hazardous position, and as they looked at him
he seemed to dance wildly nearer the extreme edge of the rocky platform.
Old Gueldmar turned pale. "The gods preserve him!" he muttered in his
beard--then turning he began resolutely to make the ascent of the rocks
with long, rapid strides--the young men followed him eager and almost
breathless, each and all bent upon saving Sigurd from the danger in
which he stood, and trying by different ways to get more quickly near
the unfortunate lad and call, or draw him back by force from his point
of imminent deadly peril. They were more than half-way up, when a
piercing cry rang clearly above the thunderous din of the fall--a cry
that made them pause for a moment.
Sigurd had caught sight of the figures advancing to his rescue, and was
waving them back with eloquent gesture of anger and defiance. His small
misshapen body was alive with wrath,--it seemed as though he were some
dwarf king ruling over the glittering crimson torrent, and grimly
forbidding strangers to enter on the boundaries of his magic territory.
They, however, pressed on with renewed haste,--and they had nearly
reached the summit when another shrill cry echoed over the
sunset-colored foam.
Once more they paused--they were in full view of the distraught Sigurd,
and he turned his head towards them, shaking back his long fair hair
with his old favorite gesture and laughing in apparent glee. Then he
suddenly raised his arms, and, clasping his hands together, poised
himself as though he were some winged thing about to fly.
"Sigurd! Sigurd!" shouted Gueldmar, his strong voice tremulous with
anguish. "Come back! come back to Thelma!"
At the sound of that beloved name, the unhappy creature seemed to
hesitate, and, profiting by that instant of irresolution, Errington and
Lorimer rushed forward--Too late! Sigurd saw them coming, and glided
with stealthy caution to the very brink of the torrent, where there was
scarcely any foothold--there he looked back at his would-be rescuers
with an air of mystery and cunning, and broke into a loud derisive
laugh.
Then--still with clasped hands and smiling face--unheeding the shout of
horror that broke from those who beheld him--he leaped, and fell! Down,
down into the roaring abyss! For one half-second--one lightning
flash--his twisted figure, like a slight black speck was seen against
the wide roseate glory of the tumbling cascade--then it disappeared,
engulfed and lost for ever! Gone,--with all his wild poet fancies and
wandering dreams--gone, with his unspoken love and unguessed
sorrows--gone where dark things shall be made light,--and where the
broken or tangled chain of the soul's intelligence shall be mended and
made perfect by the tender hands of the All-Wise and the All-Loving One,
whose ways are too gloriously vast for our finite comprehension.
"Gone, mistress!" as he would have said to the innocent cause of his
heart's anguish. "Gone where I shall grow straight and strong and brave!
Mistress, if you meet me in Valhalla, you will love me!"
CHAPTER XVII.
"Do not, I pray you, think evilly of so holy a man! He has a sore
combat against the flesh and the devil!"--_The Maid of Honor_.
The horror-stricken spectators of the catastrophe stood for a minute
inert and speechless,--stupefied by its suddenness and awful rapidity.
Then with one accord they hurried down to the level shore of the
torrent, moved by the unanimous idea that they might possibly succeed in
rescuing Sigurd's frail corpse from the sharp teeth of the jagged rocks,
that, piercing upwards through the foam of the roaring rapids, were
certain to bruise, tear, and disfigure it beyond all recognition. But
even this small satisfaction was denied them. There was no sign of a
floating or struggling body anywhere visible. And while they kept an
eager look-out, the light in the heavens slowly changed. From burning
crimson it softened to a tender amethyst hue, as smooth and delicate as
the glossy pale tint of the purple clematis,--and with it the rosy foam
of the Fall graduated to varying tints of pink, from pink to tender
green, and lastly, it became as a shower of amber wine. Gueldmar spoke
first in a voice broken by deep emotion.
"'Tis all over with him, poor lad!" he said, and tears glittered thickly
in his keen old eyes. "And--though the gods, of a surety, know
best--this is an end I looked not for! A mournful home-returning shall
we have--for how to break the news to Thelma is more than I can tell!"
And he shook his head sorrowfully while returning the warm and
sympathizing pressure of Errington's hand.
"You see," he went on, with a wistful look at the grave and
compassionate face of his accepted son-in-law--"the boy was no boy of
mine, 'tis true--and the winds had more than their share of his
wits--yet--we knew him from a baby--and my wife loved him for his sad
estate, which he was not to blame for. Thelma, too--he was her first
playmate--"
The _bonde_ could trust himself to say no more, but turned abruptly
away, brushing one hand across his eyes, and was silent for many
minutes. The young men, too, were silent,--Sigurd's determined suicide
had chilled and sickened them. Slowly they returned to the hut to pass
the remaining hours of the night--though sleep was, of course, after
what they had witnessed, impossible. They remained awake, therefore,
talking in low tones of the fatal event, and listening to the solemn
_sough_ of the wind through the pines, that sounded to Errington's ears
like a monotonous forest dirge. He thought of the first time he had ever
seen the unhappy creature whose wandering days had just ended,--of that
scene in the mysterious shell cavern,--of the wild words he had then
uttered--how strangely they came back to Philip's memory now!
"You have come as a thief in the golden midnight, and the thing you seek
is the life of Sigurd! Yes--yes! it is true--the spirit cannot lie! You
must kill, you must steal--see how the blood drips, drop by drop, from
the heart of Sigurd! and the jewel you steal,--ah! what a jewel! You
shall not find such another in Norway!" Was not the hidden meaning of
these incoherent phrases rendered somewhat clear now? though how the
poor lad's disordered imagination had been able thus promptly to conjure
up with such correctness, an idea of Errington's future relations with
Thelma, was a riddle impossible of explanation. He thought, too, with a
sort of generous remorse, of that occasion when Sigurd had visited him
on board the yacht to implore him to leave the Altenfjord. He realized
everything,--the inchoate desires of the desolate being, who, though
intensely capable of loving, felt himself in a dim, sad way, unworthy of
love,--the struggling passions in him that clamored for utterance--the
instinctive dread and jealousy of a rival, while knowing that he was
both physically and mentally unfitted to compete with one,--all these
things passed through Philip's mind, and filled him with a most profound
pity for the hidden sufferings, the tortures and inexplicable emotions
which had racked Sigurd's darkened soul. And, still busy with these