Thelma
beauty,--chivalrous desire to pursue it and catch it and call it your
own,--I understand it all, my dear boy! But my prophetic soul tells me
you will have to strangle the excellent Olaf Gueldmar--heavens! what a
name!--before you will be allowed to make love to his fair _chee-ild_.
Then don't forget the madman with the torch,--he may turn up in the most
unexpected fashion and give you no end of trouble. But, by Jove, it _is_
a romantic affair, positively quite stagey! Something will come of it,
serious or comic. I wonder which?"
Errington laughed, but said nothing in reply, as their two companions
ascended from the cabin at that moment, in full attire for the fishing
expedition, followed by the steward bearing a large basket of provisions
for luncheon,--and all private conversation came to an end. Hastening
the rest of their preparations, within twenty minutes they were skimming
across the Fjord in a long boat manned by four sailors, who rowed with a
will and sent the light craft scudding through the water with the
swiftness of an arrow. Landing, they climbed the dewy hills spangled
thick with forget-me-nots and late violets, till they reached a shady
and secluded part of the river, where, surrounded by the songs of
hundreds of sweet-throated birds, they commenced their sport, which kept
them, well employed till a late hour in the afternoon.
CHAPTER IV.
"Thou art violently carried away from grace; there is a devil
haunts thee in the likeness of a fat old man,--a tun of man is
thy companion."
SHAKESPEARE.
The Reverend Charles Dyceworthy sat alone in the small dining-room of
his house at Bosekop, finishing a late tea, and disposing of round after
round of hot buttered toast with that suave alacrity he always displayed
in the consumption of succulent eatables. He was a largely made man,
very much on the wrong side of fifty, with accumulations of unwholesome
fat on every available portion of his body. His round face was cleanly
shaven and shiny, as though its flabby surface were frequently polished
with some sort of luminous grease instead of the customary soap. His
mouth was absurdly small and pursy for so broad a countenance,--his nose
seemed endeavoring to retreat behind his puffy cheeks as though
painfully aware of its own insignificance,--and he had little, sharp,
ferret-like eyes of a dull mahogany brown, which were utterly destitute
of even the faintest attempt at any actual expression. They were more
like glass beads than eyes, and glittered under their scanty fringe of
pale-colored lashes with a sort of shallow cunning which might mean
malice or good-humor,--no one looking at them could precisely determine
which. His hair was of an indefinite shade, neither light nor dark,
somewhat of the tinge of a dusty potato before it is washed clean. It
was neatly brushed and parted in the middle with mathematical precision,
while from the back of his head it was brought forward in two
projections, one on each side, like budding wings behind his ears. It
was impossible for the most fastidious critic to find fault with the
Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy's hands. He had beautiful hands, white, soft,
plump and well-shaped,--his delicate filbert nails were trimmed with
punctilious care, and shone with a pink lustre that was positively
charming. He was evidently an amiable man, for he smiled to himself over
his tea,--he had a trick of smiling,--ill-natured people said he did it
on purpose, in order to widen his mouth and make it more in pro-portion
to the size of his face. Such remarks, however, emanated only from the
spiteful and envious who could not succeed in winning the social
popularity that everywhere attended Mr. Dyceworthy's movements. For he
was undoubtedly popular,--no one could deny that. In the small Yorkshire
town where he usually had his abode, he came little short of being
adored by the women of his own particular sect, who crowded to listen to
his fervent discourses, and came away from them on the verge of
hysteria, so profoundly moved were their sensitive souls by his
damnatory doctrines. The men were more reluctant in their admiration,
yet even they were always ready to admit "that he was an excellent
fellow, with his heart in the right place."
He had a convenient way of getting ill at the proper seasons, and of
requiring immediate change of air, whereupon his grateful flock were
ready and willing to subscribe the money necessary for their beloved
preacher to take repose and relaxation in any part of the world he
chose. This year, however, they had not been asked to furnish the usual
funds for travelling expenses, for the resident minister of Bosekop, a
frail, gentle old man, had been seriously prostrated during the past
winter with an affection of the lungs, which necessitated his going to a
different climate for change and rest. Knowing Dyceworthy as a zealous
member of the Lutheran persuasion, and, moreover, as one who had in his
youth lived for some years in Christiania,--thereby gaining a knowledge
of the Norwegian tongue,--he invited him to take his place for his
enforced time of absence, offering him his house, his servants, his
pony-carriage and an agreeable pecuniary _douceur_ in exchange for his
services,--proposals which the Reverend Charles eagerly accepted. Though
Norway was not exactly new to him, the region of the Alten Fjord was,
and he at once felt, though he knew not why, that the air there would be
the very thing to benefit his delicate constitution. Besides, it looked
well for at least _one_ occasion, to go away for the summer without
asking his congregation to pay for his trip. It was generous on his
part, almost noble.
The ladies of his flock wept at his departure and made him socks,
comforters, slippers, and other consoling gear of the like description
to recall their sweet memories to his saintly mind during his absence
from their society. But, truth to tell, Mr. Dyceworthy gave little
thought to these fond and regretful fair ones; he was much too
comfortable at Bosekop to look back with any emotional yearning to the
ugly, precise little provincial town he had left behind him. The
minister's quaint, pretty house suited him perfectly; the minister's
servants were most punctual in their services: the minister's phaeton
conveniently held his cumbrous person, and the minister's pony was a
quiet beast, that trotted good-temperedly wherever it was guided, and
shied at nothing. Yes, he was thoroughly comfortable,--as comfortable as
a truly pious fat man deserves to be, and all the work he had to do was
to preach twice on Sundays, to a quiet, primitive, decently ordered
congregation, who listened to his words respectfully though without
displaying any emotional rapture. Their stolidity, however, did not
affect him,--he preached to please himself,--loving above all things to
hear the sound of his own voice, and never so happy as when thundering
fierce denunciations against the Church of Rome. His thoughts seemed
tending in that direction now, as he poured himself out his third cup of
tea and smilingly shook his head over it, while he stirred the cream and
sugar in,--for he took from his waistcoat pocket a small glittering
object and laid it before him on the table, still shaking his head and
smiling with a patient, yet reproachful air of superior wisdom. It was a
crucifix of mother-o'-pearl and silver, the symbol of the Christian
faith. But it seemed to carry no sacred suggestions to the soul of Mr.
Dyceworthy. On the contrary, he looked at it with an expression of meek
ridicule,--ridicule that bordered on contempt.
"A Roman," he murmured placidly to himself, between two large bites of
toast. "The girl is a Roman, and thereby hopelessly damned."
And he smiled again,--more sweetly than before, as though the idea of
hopeless damnation suggested some peculiarly agreeable reflections.
Unfolding his fine cologne-scented cambric handkerchief, he carefully
wiped his fat white fingers free from the greasy marks of the toast,
and, taking up the objectionable cross gingerly, as though it were
red-hot, he examined it closely on all sides. There were some words
engraved on the back of it, and after some trouble Mr. Dyceworthy spelt
them out. They were "_Passio Christi, conforta me. Thelma._"
He shook his head with a sort of resigned cheerfulness.
"Hopelessly damned," he murmured again gently, "unless--"
What alternative suggested itself to his mind was not precisely
apparent, for his thoughts suddenly turned in a more frivolous
direction. Rising from the now exhausted tea-table, he drew out a small
pocket-mirror and surveyed himself therein with a mild approval. With
the extreme end of his handkerchief he tenderly removed two sacrilegious
crumbs that presumed to linger in the corners of his piously pursed
mouth. In the same way he detached a morsel of congealed butter that
clung pertinaciously to the end of his bashfully retreating nose. This
done, he again looked at himself with increased satisfaction, and,
putting by his pocket-mirror, rang the bell. It was answered at once by
a tall, strongly built woman, with a colorless, stolid countenance,--that
might have been carved out of wood for any expression it had in it.
"Ulrika," said Mr. Dyceworthy blandly, "you can clear the table."
Ulrika, without answering, began to pack the tea-things together in a
methodical way, without clattering so much as a plate or spoon, and,
piling them compactly on a tray, was about to leave the room, when Mr.
Dyceworthy called to her, "Ulrika!"
"Sir?"
"Did you ever see a thing like this before?" and he held up the crucifix
to her gaze.
The woman shuddered, and her dull eyes lit up with a sudden terror.
"It is the witch's charm!" she muttered thickly, while her pale face
grew yet paler. "Burn it, sir!--burn it, and the power will leave her."
Mr. Dyceworthy laughed indulgently. "My good woman, you mistake," he
said suavely. "Your zeal for the true gospel leads you into error. There
are thousands of misguided persons who worship such a thing as this. It
is often all of our dear Lord they know. Sad, very sad! But still,
though they, alas! are not of the elect, and are plainly doomed to
perdition,--they are not precisely what are termed witches, Ulrika."
"_She_ is," replied the woman with a sort of ferocity; "and, if I had my
way, I would tell her so to her face, and see what would happen to her
then!"
"Tut, tut!" remarked Mr. Dyceworthy amiably. "The days of witchcraft are
past. You show some little ignorance, Ulrika. You are not acquainted
with the great advancement of recent learning."
"Maybe, maybe," and Ulrika turned to go; but she muttered sullenly as
she went, "There be them that know and could tell, and them that will
have her yet."
She shut the door behind her with a sharp clang, and, left to himself,
Mr. Dyceworthy again smiled--such a benignant, fatherly smile! He then
walked to the window and looked out. It was past seven o'clock, an hour
that elsewhere would have been considered evening, but in Bosekop at
that season it still seemed afternoon.
The sun was shining brilliantly, and in the minister's front garden the
roses were all wide awake. A soft moisture glittered on every tiny leaf
and blade of grass. The penetrating and delicious odor of sweet violets
scented each puff of wind, and now and then the call of the cuckoo
pierced the air with a subdued, far-off shrillness.
From his position Mr. Dyceworthy could catch a glimpse through the trees
of the principal thoroughfare of Bosekop--a small, primitive street
enough, of little low houses, which, though unpretending from without,
were roomy and comfortable within. The distant, cool sparkle of the