Thelma
Mr. Dyceworthy coughed, and resumed an air of outraged dignity.
"Truly, I am aware of it!" he said; "and it surpriseth me not at all
that the number of the ungodly outweigheth that of the righteous! Alas!
'why do the heathen rage so furiously together?' Why, indeed! Except
that 'in their hearts they imagine a vain thing!' I pardon you, Sir
Philip, I freely pardon you! And you also, sir," turning gravely to
Duprez, who received his forgiveness with a cheerful and delighted bow.
"You can indeed injure--and you _have_ injured this poor body of
mine--but you cannot touch the _soul_! No, nor can you hinder that
freedom of speech"--here his malignant smile was truly diabolical--"which
is my glory, and which shall forever be uplifted against all manner of
evil-doers, whether they be fair women and witches, or misguided
pagans--"
Again he paused, rather astonished at Errington's scornful laugh.
"You low fellow!" said the baronet. "From Yorkshire, are you? Well, I
happen to know a good many people in that part of the world--and I have
some influence there, too. Now, understand me--I'll have you hounded out
of the place! You shall find it too hot to hold you--that I swear!
Remember! I'm a man of my word! And if you dare to mention the name of
Miss Gueldmar disrespectfully, I'll thrash you within an inch of your
life!"
Mr. Dyceworthy blinked feebly, and drew out his handkerchief.
"I trust, Sir Philip," he said mildly, "you will reconsider your words!
It would ill beseem you to strive to do me harm in the parish were my
ministrations are welcome, as appealing to that portion of the people
who follow the godly Luther. Oh yes,"--and he smiled cheerfully--"you
will reconsider your words. In the meantime--I--I"--he stammered
slightly--"I apologize! I meant naught but good to the maiden--but I
have been misunderstood, as is ever the case with the servants of the
Lord. Let us say no more about it! I forgive!--let us all forgive! I
will even extend my pardon to the pagan yonder--"
But the "pagan" at that moment broke loose from the friendly grasp in
which he had been hitherto held, and strode up to the minister, who
recoiled like a beaten cur from the look of that fine old face flushed
with just indignation, and those clear blue eyes fiery as the flash of
steel.
"Pagan, you call me!" he cried. "I thank the gods for it--I am proud of
the title! I would rather be the veriest savage that ever knelt in
untutored worship to the great forces of Nature, than such a _thing_ as
you--a slinking, unclean animal, crawling coward-like between earth and
sky, and daring to call itself a _Christian_! Faugh! Were I the Christ,
I should sicken at sight of you!"
Dyceworthy made no reply, but his little eyes glittered evilly.
Errington, not desiring any further prolongation of the scene, managed
to draw the irate _bonde_ away, saying in a low tone--
"We've had enough of this, sir! Let us get home to Thelma."
"I was about to suggest a move," added Lorimer. "We are only wasting
time here."
"Ah!" exclaimed Duprez radiantly--"and Monsieur Dyceworthy will be glad
to be in bed! He will be very stiff to-morrow, I am sure! Here is a lady
who will attend him."
This with a courteous salute to the wooden-faced Ulrika, who suddenly
confronted them in the little passage. She seemed surprised to see them,
and spoke in a monotonous dreamy tone, as though she walked in her
sleep.
"The girl has gone?" she added slowly.
Duprez nodded briskly. "She has gone! And let me tell you, madame, that
if it had not been for you, she would not have come here at all. You
took that card to her?"
Ulrika frowned. "I was compelled," she said. "_She_ made me take it. I
promised." She turned her dull eyes slowly on Gueldmar. "It was Lovisa's
fault. Ask Lovisa about it." She paused, and moistened her dry lips with
her tongue. "Where is your crazy lad?" she asked, almost anxiously. "Did
he come with you?"
"He is dead!" answered Gueldmar, with grave coldness.
"Dead!" And to their utter amazement, she threw up her arms and burst
into a fit of wild laughter. "Dead! Thank God! Thank God! Dead! And
through no fault of mine! The Lord be praised! He was only fit for
death--never mind how he died--it is enough that he is dead--dead! I
shall see him no more--he cannot curse me again!--the Lord be thankful
for all His mercies!"
And her laughter ceased--she threw her apron over her head and broke
into a passion of weeping.
"The woman must be crazy!" exclaimed the _bonde_, thoroughly
mystified,--then placing his arm through Errington's, he said
impatiently, "You're right, my lad! We've had enough of this. Let us
shake the dust of this accursed place off our feet and get home. I'm
tired out!"
They left the minister's dwelling and made straight for the shore, and
were soon well on their journey back to the farm across the Fjord. This
time the tide was with them--the evening was magnificent, and the
coolness of the breeze, the fresh lapping of the water against the boat,
and the brilliant tranquility of the landscape, soon calmed their
over-excited feelings. Thelma was waiting for them under the porch as
usual, looking a trifle paler than her wont, after all the worry and
fright and suspense she had undergone,--but the caresses of her father
and lover soon brought back the rosy warmth on her fair face, and
restored the lustre to her eyes. Nothing was said about Sigurd's fate
just then,--when she asked for her faithful servitor, she was told he
had "gone wandering as usual," and it was not till Errington and his
friends returned to their yacht that old Gueldmar, left alone with his
daughter, broke the sad news to her very gently. But the shock, so
unexpected and terrible, was almost too much for her already overwrought
nerves,--and such tears were shed for Sigurd as Sigurd himself might
have noted with gratitude. Sigurd--the loving, devoted Sigurd--gone for
ever! Sigurd,--her playmate,--her servant,--her worshiper,--dead! Ah,
how tenderly she mourned him!--how regretfully she thought of his wild
words! "Mistress, you are killing poor Sigurd!" Wistfully she wondered
if, in her absorbing love for Philip, she had neglected the poor crazed
lad,--his face, in all its pale, piteous appeal, haunted her, and her
grief for his loss was the greatest she had ever known since the day on
which she had seen her mother sink into the last long sleep. Britta,
too, wept and would not be comforted--she had been fond of Sigurd in her
own impetuous little way,--and it was some time before either she or her
mistress, could calm themselves sufficiently to retire to rest. And long
after Thelma was sleeping, with tears still wet on her cheeks, her
father sat alone under his porch, lost in melancholy meditation. Now and
then he ruffled his white hair impatiently with his hand,--his
daughter's adventure in Mr. Dyceworthy's house had vexed his proud
spirit. He knew well enough that the minister's apology meant
nothing--that the whole village would be set talking against Thelma
more, even than before,--that there was no possibility of preventing
scandal so long as Dyceworthy was there to start it. He thought and
thought and puzzled himself with probabilities--till at last, when he
finally rose to enter his dwelling for the night, he muttered
half-aloud. "If it must be, it must! And the sooner the better now, I
think, for the child's sake."
The next morning Sir Philip arrived unusually early,--and remained shut
up with the _bonde_, in private conversation for more than an hour. At
the expiration of that time, Thelma was called, and taken into their
confidence. The result of their mysterious discussion was not
immediately evident,--though for the next few days, the farm-house lost
its former tranquility and became a scene of bustle and excitement.
Moreover, to the astonishment of the Bosekop folk, the sailing-brig
known as the _Valkyrie_, belonging to Olaf Gueldmar, which had been
hauled up high and dry on the shore for many months, was suddenly seen
afloat on the Fjord, and Valdemar Svensen, Errington's pilot, appeared
to be busily engaged upon her decks, putting everything in ship-shape
order. It was no use asking _him_ any questions--he was not the man to
gratify impertinent curiosity. By-and-by a rumor got about in the
village--Lovisa had gained her point in one particular,--the Gueldmars
were going away--going to leave the Altenfjord!
At first, the report was received with incredulity--but gained ground,
as people began to notice that several packages were being taken in
boats from the farm-house to both the _Eulalie_ and the _Valkyrie_.
These preparations excited a great deal of interest and
inquisitiveness,--but no one dared ask for information as to what was
about to happen. The Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy was confined to his bed
"from a severe cold"--as he said, and therefore was unable to perform
his favorite mission of spy;--so that when, one brilliant morning,
Bosekop was startled by the steam-whistle of the _Eulalie_ blowing
furiously, and echoing far and wide across the surrounding rocky
islands, several of the lounging inhabitants paused on the shore, or
sauntered down to the rickety pier, to see what was the cause of the
clamor. Even the long-suffering minister crawled out of bed and applied
his fat, meek visage to his window, from whence he could command an
almost uninterrupted view of the glittering water. Great was his
amazement, and discomfiture to see the magnificent yacht moving
majestically out of the Fjord, with Gueldmar's brig in tow behind her,
and the English flag fluttering gaily from her middle-mast, as she
curtsied her farewell to the dark mountains, and glided swiftly over the
little hissing waves. Had Mr. Dyceworthy been possessed of a
field-glass, he might have been able to discern on her deck, the figure
of a tall, fair girl, who, drawing her crimson hood over her rich hair,
stood gazing with wistful, dreamy blue eyes, at the last receding shores
of the Altenfjord--eyes that smiled and yet were tearful.
"Are you sorry, Thelma?" asked Errington gently, as he passed one arm
tenderly round her. "Sorry to trust your life to me?"
She laid her little hand in playful reproach against his lips.
"Sorry! you foolish boy! I am glad and grateful! But it is saying
good-bye to one's old life, is it not? The dear old home!--and poor
Sigurd!"
Her voice trembled, and bright tears fell.
"Sigurd is happy,"--said Errington gravely, taking the hand that
caressed him, and reverently kissing it. "Believe me, love,--if he had
lived some cruel misery might have befallen him--it is better as it is!"
Thelma did not answer for a minute or two--then she said
suddenly--"Philip,--do you remember where I saw you first?"
"Perfectly!" he answered, looking fondly into the sweet upturned face.
"Outside a wonderful cavern, which I afterwards explored."
She started and seemed surprised. "You went inside?--you saw--?"
"Everything!"--and Philip related his adventure of that morning, and his
first interview with Sigurd. She listened attentively--then she
whispered softly--
"My mother sleeps there, you know,--yesterday I went to take her some
flowers for the last time. Father came with me--we asked her blessing.
And I think she will give it, Philip--she must know how good you are and
how happy I am."
He stroked her silky hair tenderly and was silent. The _Eulalie_ had
reached the outward bend of the Altenfjord, and the station of Bosekop
was rapidly disappearing. Olaf Gueldmar and the others came on deck to
take their last look of it.
"I shall see the old place again, I doubt not, long before you do,
Thelma, child," said the stout old _bonde_, viewing, with a keen, fond
glance, the stretch of the vanishing scenery. "Though when once you are