Thelma
mufflers, and crying heartily all the while. The stalwart Svensen stood
looking at her in perplexity, now and then uttering a word of vague
sympathy and consolation, to which she paid not the slightest heed. The
poor girl was tired out, and half-numb with the piercing cold,--the
excitement which had kept her up for days and days, had yielded to the
nervous exhaustion, which was its natural result,--and she kept on
weeping without exactly knowing why she wept. Throughout the long and
fatiguing journey she had maintained unflinching energy and
perseverance,--undaunted by storm, sleet, and darkness, she had driven
steadily over long miles of trackless snow--her instinct had guided her
by the shortest and quickest routes--she seemed to know every station
and village on the way,--she always managed to obtain relays of reindeer
just when they were needed,--in short, Errington would hardly have been
able to reach the Altenfjord without her.
He had never realized to its full extent her strong, indomitable,
devoted character, till he saw her hour after hour seated beside him in
the _pulkha_, her hands tightly gripping the reins of the horned
animals, whose ways she understood and perfectly controlled,--her
bright, bird-like eyes fixed with watchful eagerness on the bewildering
white landscape that opened out incessantly before her. Her common sense
was never at fault--she forgot nothing--and with gentle but respectful
firmness she would insist on Sir Philip's taking proper intervals of
rest and refreshment at the different farms they passed on their road,
though he, eager to press on, chafed and fretted at every little delay.
They were welcomed all along their route with true Norse hospitality,
though the good country-folk who entertained them could not refrain from
astonishment at the idea of their having undertaken such a journey at
such a season, and appeared to doubt the possibility of their reaching
their destination at all. And now that they had reached it in safety,
Britta's strength gave way. Valdemar Svensen had hastily blurted out the
news of the _bonde's_ death even while she and Sir Philip were alighting
from their sledge--and in the same breath had told them of Thelma's
dangerous illness. What wonder, then, that Britta sobbed hysterically,
and refused to be comforted,--what wonder that she turned upon Ulrika as
that personage approached, in a burst of unreasonable anger.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" she cried, "to think that the Froeken should be so
ill--almost dying! and have nobody but _you_ to attend to her!"
This, with a vindictive toss of the brown curls. Ulrika winced at her
words--she was hurt, but she answered gently--
"I have done my best," she said with a sort of grave pathos, "I have
been with her night and day--had she been a daughter of my own blood, I
know not how I could have served her with more tenderness. And, surely,
it has been a sore and anxious time with me also--for I, too, have
learned to love her!"
Her set mouth quivered,--and Britta, seeing her emotion, was ashamed of
her first hasty speech. She made an act of contrition at once by putting
her arms round Ulrika's neck and kissing her--a proceeding which so much
astonished that devout servant of Luther, that her dull eyes filled with
tears.
"Forgive me!" said the impetuous little maiden. "I was very rude and
very unkind! But if you love the Froeken, you will understand how I
feel--how I wish I could have helped to take care of her. And oh! the
_bonde_!"--here she gave way to a fresh burst of tears--"the dear, good,
kind, brave _bonde_! That he should be dead!--oh! it is too cruel--too
dreadful--I can hardly believe it!"
Ulrika patted her consolingly on the shoulder, but said nothing--and
Valdemar sighed. Britta sought for her handkerchief, and dried her
eyes--but, after a minute, began to cry again as recklessly as ever.
"And now"--she gasped--"if the Froeken--dies--I will die too. I will--you
see if I don't! I _w-w-won't_ live--without her!"
And such a big sob broke from her heaving bosom that it threatened to
burst her trimly laced little bodice.
"She will not die," said Ulrika decisively. "I have had my fears--but
the crisis is passed. Do not fret, Britta--there is no longer any
danger. Her husband's love will lift the trouble from her heart--and
strength will return more speedily than it left her."
And turning a little aside on the pretence of throwing more wood on the
fire, she muttered inaudibly, "O Lord, verily thou hast done well to
grant my just demand! Even for this will I remain Thy servant for ever!"
After this parenthesis, she resumed the conversation,--Valdemar Svensen
sitting silently apart,--and related all that had happened since
Thelma's arrival at the Altenfjord. She also gave an account of Lovisa
Elsland's death,--though Britta was not much affected by the loss of her
grandmother.
"Dreadful old thing!" she said with a shudder. "I'm glad I wasn't with
her! I remember how she cursed the Froeken,--perhaps her curse has
brought all the trouble--if so, it's a good thing she's dead, for now
everything will come right again. I used to fancy she had some crime to
confess,--did she say anything wicked when she was dying?"
Ulrika avoided a direct reply to this question. What was the good of
horrifying the girl by telling her that her deceased relative was to all
intents and purposes a murderess? She resolved to let the secret of old
Lovisa's life remain buried with her. Therefore she simply answered--
"Her mind wandered greatly,--it was difficult to hear her last words.
But it should satisfy you, Britta, to know that she passed away in the
fear of the Lord."
Britta gave a little half-dubious, half-scornful smile. She had not the
slightest belief in the sincerity of her late grandmother's religious
principles.
"I don't understand people who are so much _afraid_ of the Lord," she
said. "They must have done something wrong. If you always do your best,
and try to be good, you needn't fear anything. At least, that's my
opinion."
"There is the everlasting burning," began Ulrika solemnly.
"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Britta quite impatiently. "I don't believe
it!"
Ulrika started back in wonder and dismay. "You don't believe it!" she
said in awed accents. "Are you also a heathen?"
"I don't know what you mean by a heathen," replied Britta almost gaily.
"But I can't believe that God, who is so good, is going to everlastingly
burn anybody. He couldn't, you know! It would hurt Him so much to see
poor creatures writhing about in flames for ever--we would not be able
to bear it, and I'm quite sure it would make Him miserable even in
heaven. Because He is all Love--He says so,--He couldn't be cruel!"
This frank statement of Britta's views presented such a new form of
doctrine to Ulrika's heavy mind that she was almost appalled by it. God
_couldn't_ burn anybody for ever--He was too good! What a daring idea!
And yet so consoling--so wonderful in the infinite prospect of hope it
offered, that she smiled,--even while she trembled to contemplate it.
Poor soul! She talked of heathens--being herself the worst type of
heathen--namely, a Christian heathen. This sounds incongruous--yet it
may be taken for granted that those who profess to follow Christianity,
and yet make of God, a being malicious, revengeful, and of more evil
attributes than they possess themselves,--are as barbarous, as
unenlightened, as hopelessly sunken in slavish ignorance as the lowest
savage who adores his idols of mud and stone. Britta was quite
unconscious of having said anything out of the common--she was
addressing herself to Svensen.
"Where is the _bonde_ buried, Valdemar?" she asked in a low tone.
He looked at her with a strange, mysterious smile.
"Buried? Do you suppose his body could mix itself with common earth?
No!--he sailed away, Britta--away--yonder!"
And he pointed out through the window to the Fjord now, invisible in the
deep darkness.
Britta stared at him with roundly opened, frightened eyes--her face
paled.
"Sailed away? You must be dreaming! Sailed away! How could he--if he was
dead?"
Valdemar grew suddenly excited. "I tell you, he sailed away!" he
repeated in a low, hoarse whisper. "Where is his ship, the _Valkyrie_?
Try if you can find it anywhere--on sea or land! It has gone, and he has
gone with it--like a king and warrior--to glory, joy, and victory!
Glory--joy--victory!--those were his last words!"
Britta retreated, and caught Ulrika by the arm. "Is he mad?" she asked
fearfully.
Valdemar heard her, and rose from his chair, a pained smile on his face.
"I am not mad, Britta," he said gently. "Do not be afraid! If grief for
my master could have turned my brain, I had been mad ere this,--but I
have all my wits about me, and I have told you the truth." He
paused--then added, in a more ordinary tone, "You will need fresh logs
of pine--I will go and bring them in."
And he went out. Britta gazed after him in speechless wonder.
"What does he mean?" she asked.
"What he says," returned Ulrika composedly. "You, like others, must have
known that Olaf Gueldmar's creed was a strange one--his burial has been
strange--that is all!"
And she skillfully turned the conversation, and began to talk of Thelma,
her sorrows and sufferings. Britta was most impatient to see her beloved
"Froeken," and quite grudged Sir Philip the long time he remained alone
with his wife.
"He _might_ call me, if only for a moment," Britta thought plaintively.
"I do so want to look at her dear face again! But men are all alike--as
long as they've got what _they_ want, they never think of anybody else.
Dear me! I wonder how long I shall have to wait!" So she fumed and
fretted, and sat by the kitchen-fire, drinking hot tea and talking to
Ulrika--all the while straining her ears for the least sound or movement
from the adjoining room. But none came--there was the most perfect
silence. At last she could endure it no longer--and, regardless of
Ulrika's remonstrances, she stole on tip-toe to the closed door that
barred her from the sight of her heart's idol, and turning the handle
softly, opened it and looked in. Sir Philip saw her, and made a little
warning sign, though he smiled.
He was sitting by the bedside, and in his arms, nestled against his
shoulder, Thelma rested. She was fast asleep. The lines of pain had
disappeared from her sweet face--a smile was on her lips--her breath
came and went with peaceful regularity,--and the delicate hue of a pale
rose flushed her cheeks. Britta stood gazing on this fair sight till her
affectionate little heart overflowed, and the ready tears dropped like
diamonds from her curly lashes.
"Oh, my dear--my dear!" she whispered in a sort of rapture when there
was a gentle movement,--and two star-like eyes opened like blue flowers
outspreading to the sun.
"Is that you, Britta?" asked a tender, wondering voice--and with a
smothered cry of ecstacy, Britta sprang to seize the outstretched hand
of her beloved Froeken, and cover it with kisses. And while Thelma
laughed with pleasure to see her, and stroked her hair. Sir Philip
described their long drive through the snow, and so warmly praised
Britta's patience, endurance, and constant cheerfulness, that his voice
trembled with its own earnestness, while Britta grew rosily red in her
deep shyness and embarrassment, vehemently protesting that she had done
nothing,--nothing at all to deserve so much commendation. Then, after
much glad converse, Ulrika was called, and Sir Philip seizing her hand,
shook it with such force and fervor that she was quite overcome.
"I don't know how to thank you!" he said, his eyes sparkling with
gratitude. "It's impossible to repay such goodness as yours! My wife