Thelma
safe married at Christiania, Valdemar Svensen and I will have a fine
toss on the seas in the _Valkyrie_,--and I shall grow young again in the
storm and drift of the foam and the dark wild waves! Yes--a wandering
life suits me--and I am not sorry to have a taste of it once more.
There's nothing like it--nothing like a broad ocean and a sweeping
wind!"
And he lifted his cap and drew himself erect, inhaling the air like an
old warrior scenting battle. The others listened, amused at his
enthusiasm,--and, meanwhile, the Altenfjord altogether disappeared, and
the _Eulalie_ was soon plunging in a rougher sea. They were bound for
Christiania, where it was decided Thelma's marriage should at once take
place--after which Sir Philip would leave his yacht at the disposal of
his friends, for them to return in it to England. He himself intended to
start directly for Germany with his bride, a trip in which Britta was to
accompany them as Thelma's maid. Olaf Gueldmar, as he had just stated,
purposed making a voyage in the _Valkyrie_, as soon as he should get her
properly manned and fitted, which he meant to do at Christiania.
Such were their plans,--and, meanwhile, they were all together on the
_Eulalie_,--a happy and sociable party,--Errington having resigned his
cabin to the use of his fair betrothed, and her little maid, whose
delight at the novel change in her life, and her escape from the
persecution of her grandmother, was extreme. Onward they sailed,--past
the grand Lofoden Islands and all the magnificent scenery extending
thence to Christiansund, while the inhabitants of Bosekop looked in vain
for their return to the Altenfjord.
The short summer there was beginning to draw to a close,--some of the
birds took their departure from the coast,--the dull routine of the
place went on as usual, rendered even duller by the absence of the
"witch" element of discord,--a circumstance that had kept the
superstitious villagers, more or less on a lively tension of religious
and resentful excitement--and by-and-by, the rightful minister of
Bosekop came back to his duties and released the Reverend Charles
Dyceworthy, who straightway returned to his loving flock in Yorkshire.
It was difficult to ascertain whether the aged Lovisa was satisfied or
wrathful, at the departure of the Gueldmars with her granddaughter Britta
in their company--she kept herself almost buried in her hut at Talvig,
and saw no one but Ulrika, who seemed to grow more respectably staid
than ever, and who, as a prominent member of the Lutheran congregation,
distinguished herself greatly by her godly bearing and uncompromising
gloom.
Little by little, the gossips ceased to talk about the disappearance of
the "white witch" and her father--little by little they ceased to
speculate as to whether the rich Englishman, Sir Philip Errington,
really meant to marry her--a consummation of things which none of them
seemed to think likely--the absence of their hated neighbors, was felt
by them as a relief, while the rumored fate of the crazy Sigurd was of
course looked upon as evidence of fresh crime on the part of the
"pagan," who was accused of having, in some way or other, caused the
unfortunate lad's death. And the old farm-house on the pine-covered
knoll was shut up and silent,--its doors and windows safely barred
against wind and rain,--and only the doves, left to forage for
themselves, crooned upon its roof, all day, or strutting on the deserted
paths, ruffled their plumage in melancholy meditation, as though
wondering at the absence of the fair ruling spirit of the place, whose
smile had been brighter than the sunshine. The villagers avoided it as
though it were haunted--the roses drooped and died untended,--and by
degrees the old homestead grew to look like a quaint little picture of
forgotten joys, with its deserted porch and fading flowers.
Meanwhile, a thrill of amazement, incredulity, disappointment,
indignation, and horror, rushed like a violent electric shock through
the upper circles of London society, arousing the deepest disgust in the
breasts of match-making matrons, and seriously ruffling the pretty
feathers of certain bird-like beauties who had just began to try their
wings, and who "had expectations." The cause of the sensation was very
simple. It was an announcement in the _Times_--under the head of
"Marriages"--and ran as follows:
"At the English Consulate, Christiania, Sir Philip Bruce-Errington,
Bart., to Thelma, only daughter of Olaf Gueldmar, _bonde_, of the
Altenfjord, Norway. No cards."
BOOK II.
THE LAND OF MOCKERY
CHAPTER XVIII.
"There's nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys."
MACBETH.
"I think," said Mrs. Rush-Marvelle deliberately, laying down the
_Morning Post_ beside her breakfast-cup, "I think his conduct is
perfectly disgraceful!"
Mr. Rush-Marvelle, a lean gentleman with a sallow, clean-shaven face and
an apologetic, almost frightened manner, looked up hastily.
"Of whom are you speaking, my dear?" he inquired.
"Why, of that wretched young man Bruce-Errington! He ought to be ashamed
of himself!"
And Mrs. Marvelle fixed her glasses more firmly on her small nose, and
regarded her husband almost reproachfully. "Don't tell me, Montague,
that you've forgotten that scandal about him! He went off last year, in
the middle of the season, to Norway, in his yacht, with three of the
very fastest fellows he could pick out from his acquaintance--regular
reprobates, so I'm told--and after leading the most awful life out
there, making love to all the peasant girls in the place, he married one
of them,--a common farmer's daughter. Don't you remember? We saw the
announcement of his marriage in the _Times_."
"Ah yes, yes!" And Mr. Rush-Marvelle smiled a propitiatory smile,
intended to soothe the evidently irritated feelings of his better-half,
of whom he stood always in awe. "Of course, of course! A very sad
_mesalliance_. Yes, yes! Poor fellow! And is there fresh news of him?"
"Read _that_,"--and the lady handed the _Morning Post_ across the table,
indicating by a dent of her polished finger-nail, the paragraph that had
offended her sense of social dignity. Mr. Marvelle read it with almost
laborious care--though it was remarkably short and easy of
comprehension.
"Sir Philip and Lady Bruce-Errington have arrived at their house in
Prince's Gate from Errington Manor."
"Well, my dear?" he inquired, with a furtive and anxious glance at his
wife. "I suppose--er--it--er--it was to be expected?"
"No, it was _not_ to be expected," said Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, rearing her
head, and heaving her ample bosom to and fro in rather a tumultuous
manner. "Of course it was to be expected that Bruce-Errington would
behave like a fool--his father was a fool before him. But I say it was
not to be expected that he would outrage society by bringing that common
wife of his to London, and expecting _us_ to receive her! The thing is
perfectly scandalous! He has had the decency to keep away from town ever
since his marriage--part of the time he has staid abroad, and since
January he has been at his place in Warwickshire,--and this
time--observe this!" and Mrs. Marvelle looked most impressive--"not a
soul has been invited to the Manor--not a living soul! The house used to
be full of people during the winter season--of course, now, he dare not
ask anybody lest they should be shocked at his wife's ignorance. That's
as clear as daylight! And now he has the impudence to actually bring her
here,--into _society_! Good Heavens! He must be mad! He will be laughed
at wherever he goes!"
Mr. Rush-Marvelle scratched his bony chin perplexedly.
"It makes it a little awkward for--for you," he remarked feelingly.
"Awkward! It is abominable!" And Mrs. Marvelle rose from her chair, and
shook out the voluminous train of her silken breakfast-gown, an
elaborate combination of crimson with grey chinchilla fur. "I shall have
to call on the creature--just imagine it! It is most unfortunate for me
that I happen to be one of Bruce-Errington's oldest friends--otherwise I
might have passed him over in some way--as it is I can't. But fancy
having to meet a great coarse peasant woman, who, I'm certain, will only
be able to talk about fish and whale-oil! It is really _quite_
dreadful!"
Mr. Rush-Marvelle permitted himself to smile faintly.
"Let us hope she will not turn out so badly," he said soothingly,--"but,
you know, if she proves to be--er--a common person of,--er--a very
uneducated type--you can always let her drop gently--quite gently!"
And he waved his skinny hand with an explanatory flourish.
But Mrs. Marvelle did not accept his suggestion in good part.
"You know nothing about it," she said somewhat testily. "Keep to your
own business, Montague, such as it is. The law suits your particular
form of brain--society does not. You would never be in society at all if
it were not for me--now you know you wouldn't!"
"My love," said Mr. Marvelle, with a look of meek admiration at his
wife's majestic proportions. "I am aware of it! I always do you justice.
You are a remarkable woman!"
Mrs. Marvelle smiled, somewhat mollified. "You see," she then
condescended to explain--"the whole thing is so extremely disappointing
to me. I wanted Marcia Van Clupp to go in for the Errington stakes,--it
would have been such an excellent match,--money on both sides. And
Marcia would have been just the girl to look after that place down in
Warwickshire--the house is going to rack and ruin, in _my_ opinion."
"Ah, yes!" agreed her husband mildly. "Van Clupp is a fine girl--a
_very_ fine girl! No end of 'go' in her. And so Errington Manor needs a
good deal of repairing, perhaps?" This query was put by Mr. Marvelle,
with his head very much on one side, and his bilious eyes blinking
drowsily.
"I don't know about repairs," replied Mrs. Marvelle. "It is a
magnificent place, and certainly the grounds are ravishing. But one of
the best rooms in the house, is the former Lady Errington's boudoir--it
is full of old-fashioned dirty furniture, and Bruce-Errington won't have
it touched,--he will insist on keeping it as his mother left it. Now
that is ridiculous--perfectly morbid! It's just the same thing with his
father's library--he won't have that touched either--and the ceiling
wants fresh paint, and the windows want new curtains--and all sorts of
things ought to be done. Marcia would have managed all that
splendidly--she'd have had everything new throughout--Americans are so
quick, and there's no nonsensical antiquated sentiment about Marcia."
"She might even have had new pictures and done away with the old ones,"
observed Mr. Marvelle, with a feeble attempt at satire. His wife darted
a keen look at him, but smiled a little too. She was not without a sense
of humor.
"Nonsense, Montague! She knows the value of works of art better than
many a so-called connoisseur. I won't have you make fun of her. Poor
girl! She _did_ speculate on Bruce-Errington,--you know he was very
attentive to her, at that ball I gave just before he went off to
Norway."
"He certainly seemed rather amused by her," said Mr. Marvelle. "Did she
take it to heart when she heard he was married?"
"I should think not," replied Mrs. Marvelle loftily. "She has too much
sense. She merely said, 'All right! I must stick to Masherville!'"
Mr. Marvelle nodded blandly. "Admirable,--admirable!" he murmured, with
a soft little laugh, "A _very_ clever girl--a very bright creature! And
really there are worse fellows than Masherville! The title is old."
"Yes, the title is all very well," retorted his wife--"but there's no
money--or at least very little."
"Marcia has sufficient to cover any deficit?" suggested Mr. Marvelle, in