Thelma
Thelma was there,--sitting at the lattice window which she had thrown
wide open to the icy blast,--she had taken off her cloak and hat, and
her hair, unbound, fell about her in a great, glittering tangle of
gold,--her hands were busy manipulating an imaginary spinning-wheel--her
eyes were brilliant as jewels, but full of pain, terror, and pathos. She
smiled a piteous smile as she became hazily conscious that there were
others in the room--but she went on with her song--a mournful, Norwegian
ditty,--till a sudden break in her voice caused her to put her hand to
her throat and look up perplexedly.
"That song pleases you?" she asked softly, "I am very glad! Has Sigurd
come home? He wanders so much, poor boy! Father, dear, you must tell him
how wrong it is not to love Philip. Every one loves Philip--and I--I
love him too, but he must never know that." She paused and sighed. "That
is my secret,--the only one I have!" And she drooped her fair head
forlornly.
Moved by intense pity, such as she had never felt in all her life
before, Ulrika went up and tried to draw her gently from the window.
"Poor thing, poor thing!" she said kindly. "Come away with me, and lie
down! You mustn't sit here,--let me shut the lattice,--it's quite late
at night, and too cold for you, my dear."
"Too cold?" and Thelma eyed her wonderingly. "Why, it is summer-time,
and the sun never sets! The roses are all about the walls--I gave one to
Philip yesterday--a little pale rose with a crimson heart. He wore it,
and seemed glad!"
She passed her hand across her forehead with a troubled air, and watched
Ulrika, who quietly closed the window against the darkness and
desolation of the night. "Are you a friend?" she asked presently in
anxious tones. "I know so many that say they are my friends--but I am
afraid of them all--and I have left them. Do you know why?" and she laid
her hand on Ulrika's rough arm. "Because they tell me my Philip does not
love me any more. They are very cruel to say so, and I think it cannot
be true. I want to tell my father what they say--because he will
know--and if it is true, then I wish to die,--I could not live! Will you
take me to my father?"
The plaintive, pleading gentleness of her voice and look brought more
tears into Ulrika's eyes than had ever been forced there by her
devotional exercises,--and the miserable Valdemar, already
broken-hearted by his master's death, turned away and sobbingly cursed
his gods for this new and undeserved affliction. As the Italian
peasantry fall to abusing their saints in time of trouble, even so will
the few remaining believers in Norse legendary lore, upbraid their
fierce divinities with the most reckless hardihood when things go wrong.
There were times when Valdemar Svensen secretly quailed at the mere
thought of the wrath of Odin,--there were others when he was ready to
pluck the great god by the beard and beat him with the flat of his own
drawn sword. This was his humor at the present moment, as he averted his
gaze from the pitiful sight of his "King's" fair daughter all desolate
and woe-begone, her lovely face pale with anguish,--her sweet wits
wandering, and her whole demeanor that of one who is lost in some dark
forest, and is weary unto death. She studied Ulrika's rough visage
attentively, and presently noticed the tears on her cheeks.
"You are crying!" she said in a tone of grave surprise. "Why? It is
foolish to cry even when the heart aches. I have found that,--no one in
the world ever pities you! But perhaps you do not know the world,--ah!
it is very hard and cold;--all the people hide their feelings, and
pretend to be what they are not. It is difficult to live so,--and I am
tired!"
She rose from her chair, and stood up unsteadily, stretching out her
little cold white hands to Ulrika, who folded them in her own strong
coarse palms. "Yes--I am very tired!" she went on dreamily. "There seems
to be nothing that is true--all is false and unreal--I cannot
understand! But you seem kind,"--here her swaying figure tottered, and
Ulrika drew her more closely to herself--"I think I know you--you came
with me in the train, did you not? Yes--and the little baby smiled and
slept in my arms nearly all the way." A violent shuddering seized her,
and a quiver of agony passed over her face.
"Forgive me," she murmured, "I feel ill--very ill--and cold--but do not
mind--I think--I am--dying!" She could scarcely articulate these last
words--she sank forward, fainting, on Ulrika's breast, and that devout
disciple of Luther, forgetting all her former dread of the "white witch
of the Altenfjord"--only remembered that she held in her arms a helpless
woman with all the sorrows and pangs of womanhood thick upon her,--and
in this act of warm heart-expansion and timely tenderness, it may be
that she cleansed her soiled soul in the sight of the God she
worshipped, and won a look of pardon from the ever-watchful eyes of
Christ.
As far as mundane matters were concerned, she showed herself a woman of
prompt energy and decision. Laying Thelma gently down upon the very
couch her dead father had so lately occupied, she sent the distracted
Valdemar out to gather fresh pine-logs for the fire, and then busied
herself in bringing down Thelma's own little bed from the upper floor,
airing it with methodical care, and making it as warm and cosy as a
bird's-nest. While she was engaged in these preparations, Thelma
regained her consciousness, and began to toss and tumble and talk
deliriously; but with it all she retained the innate gentleness and
patience, and submitted to be undressed, though she began to sob
pleadingly when Ulrika would have removed her husband's miniature from
where it lay pressed against her bosom,--and taking it in her own hand
she kissed and held it fast. One by one, the dainty articles of delicate
apparel she wore were loosened and laid aside, Ulrika wondering at the
embroidered linen and costly lace, the like of which was never seen in
that part of Norway,--but wondering still more at the dazzling skin she
thus unveiled, a skin as exquisitely soft and pure as the satiny cup of
a Nile lily.
Poor Thelma sat resignedly watching her own attire taken from her, and
allowing herself to be wrapped in a comfortable loose garment of white
wadmel, as warm as eider-down, which Ulrika had found in a cupboard
upstairs, and which, indeed, had once belonged to Thelma, she and Britta
having made it together. She examined its texture now with some faint
interest--then she asked plaintively--
"Are you going to bury me? You must put me to sleep with my mother--her
name was Thelma, too. I think it is an unlucky name."
"Why, my dear?" asked Ulrika kindly, as she swept the rich tumbled hair
from the girl's eyes, and began to braid it in one long loose plait, in
order to give her greater ease.
Thelma sighed. "There is an old song that says--" She broke off. "Shall
I sing it to you?" she asked with a wild look.
"No, no," said Ulrika. "Not now. By-and-by!" And she nodded her head
encouragingly. "By-and-by! There'll be plenty of time for singing
presently," and she laid her in bed, tucking her up warmly as though she
were a very little child, and feeling strongly inclined to kiss her.
"Ah, but I should like to tell you, even if I must not sing--" and
Thelma gazed up anxiously from her pillow--"only my head is so heavy,
and full of strange noises--I do not know whether I can remember it."
"Don't try to remember it," and Ulrika stroked the soft cheek, with a
curious yearning sensation of love tugging at her tough heartstrings.
"Try to sleep--that will be better for you!" And she took from the fire
a warm, nourishing drink she had prepared, and gave it to her. She was
surprised at the eagerness with which the poor girl seized it.
"Lord help us, I believe she is light-headed for want of food!" she
thought.
Such indeed was the fact,--Thelma had been several days on her journey
from Hull, and during that time had eaten so little that her strength
had entirely given way. The provisions on board the Black Polly were
extremely limited, and consisted of nothing but dried fish, hard bread,
and weak tea, without milk or sugar,--and in her condition of health,
her system had rebelled against this daily untempting bill of fare.
Ulrika's simple but sustaining beverage seemed more than delicious to
her palate,--she drained it to the last drop, and, as she returned the
cup, a feint color came back to her cheeks and lips.
"Thank you," she said feebly. "You are very good to me! And now I do
quite know what I wished to say. It was long ago--there was a queen,
named Thelma, and some one--a great warrior, loved her and found her
fair. But presently he grew tired of her face--and raised an army
against her, and took her throne by force, and crowned himself king of
all her land. And the song says that Queen Thelma wandered on the
mountains all alone till she died--it was a sad song--but I forget--the
end."
And her voice trailed off into broken murmurs, her eyes closed, and she
slept. Ulrika watched her musingly and tenderly--wondering what secret
trouble weighed on the girl's mind. When Valdemar Svensen presently
looked in, she made him a warning sign--and, hushing his footsteps, he
went away again. She followed him out into the kitchen, where he had
deposited his load of pine-wood, and began to talk to him in low tones.
He listened,--the expression of grief and fear deepened on his
countenance as he heard.
"Will she die?" he asked anxiously.
"Let us hope not," returned Ulrika, "But there is no doubt she is very
ill, and will be worse. What has brought her here, I wonder? Do you
know?"
Valdemar shook his head.
"Where is her husband?" went on Ulrika. "He ought to be here. How could
he have let her make such a journey at such a time! Why did he not come
with her? There must be something wrong!"
Svensen looked, as he felt, completely perplexed and despairing. He
could think of no reason for Thelma's unexpected appearance at the
Altenfjord--he had forgotten all about the letter that had come from her
to her father,--the letter which was still in the house, unopened.
"Well, well! It is very strange!" Ulrika sighed resignedly. "But it is
the Lord's will--and we must do our best for her, that's all." And she
began to enumerate a list of things she wanted from Bosekop for her
patient's sustenance and comfort. "You must fetch all these," she said,
"as soon as the day is fairly advanced." She glanced at the clock--it
was just four in the morning. "And at the same time, you had better call
at the doctor's house."
"He's away," interrupted Valdemar. "Gone to Christiania."
"Very well," said Ulrika composedly. "Then we must do without him.
Doctors are never much use, any way,--maybe the Lord will help me
instead."
And she returned to Thelma, who still slept, though her face was now
feverishly flushed and her breathing hurried and irregular.
The hours of the new day,--day, though seeming night, passed on and it
was verging towards ten o'clock when she woke, raving deliriously. Her
father, Sigurd, Philip, the events of her life in, London, the fatigues
of her journey, were all jumbled fantastically together in her
brain--she talked and sang incessantly, and, like some wild bird
suddenly caged, refused to be quieted. Ulrika was all alone with
her,--Valdemar having gone to execute his commissions in Bosekop,--and
she had enough to do to make her remain in bed. For she became suddenly
possessed by a strong desire to go sailing on the Fjord--and
occasionally it took all Ulrika's strength to hold and keep her from
springing to the window, whose white frosted panes seemed to have some
fatal attraction for her wandering eyes.