Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “At last — at last?” he cried in fluent English. “Going now? Going, you say? Never! never! You will never go away any more. No, not without something stolen! The dead have summoned you here! Their white bony fingers have dragged you across the deep! Did you not hear their voices, cold and hollow as the winter wind, calling, calling you, and saying, ‘Come, come, proud robber, from over the far seas; come and gather the beautiful rose of the northern forest’? Yes, Yes! You have obeyed the dead — the dead who feign sleep, but are ever wakeful; — you have come as a thief in the golden midnight, and the thing you seek is the life of Sigurd! Yes — yes! it is true. The spirit cannot lie. You must kill, you must steal! See how the blood drips, drop by drop, from the heart of Sigurd! And the jewel you steal — ah, what a jewel! — you shall not find such another in Norway!”

  His excited voice sank by degrees to a plaintive and forlorn whisper, and dropping his torch with a gesture of despair on the ground, he looked at it burning, with an air of mournful and utter desolation. Profoundly touched, as he immediately understood the condition of his companion’s wandering wits, Errington spoke to him soothingly.

  “You mistake me,” he said in gentle accents; “I would not steal anything from you, nor have I come to kill you. See,” and he held out his hand, “I wouldn’t harm you for the world. I didn’t know this cave belonged to you. Forgive me for having entered it. I am going to rejoin my friends. Good-bye!”

  The strange, half-crazy creature touched his outstretched hand timidly, and with a sort of appeal.

  “Good-bye, good-bye!” he muttered. “That is what they all say, — even the dead, — good-bye; but they never go — never, never! You cannot be different to the rest. And you do not wish to hurt poor Sigurd?”

  “Certainly not, if you are Sigurd,” said Philip, half laughing; “I should be very sorry to hurt you.”

  “You are sure?” he persisted, with a sort of obstinate eagerness. “You have eyes which tell truths; but there are other things which are truer than eyes — things in the air, in the grass, in the waves, and they talk very strangely of you. I know you, of course! I knew you ages ago — long before I saw you dead on the field of battle, and the black-haired Valkyrie galloped with you to Valhalla! Yes; I knew you long before that, and you knew me; for I was your King, and you were my vassal, wild and rebellious — not the proud, rich Englishman you are to-day.”

  Errington startled. How could this Sigurd, as he called himself, be aware of either his wealth or nationality?

  The dwarf observed his movement of surprise with a cunning smile.

  “Sigurd is wise, — Sigurd is brave! Who shall deceive him? He knows you well; he will always know you. The old gods teach Sigurd all his wisdom — the gods of the sea and the wind — the sleepy gods that lie in the hearts of the flowers — the small spirits that sit in shells and sing all day and all night.” He paused, and his eyes filled with a wistful look of attention. He drew closer.

  “Come,” he said earnestly, “come, you must listen to my music; perhaps you can tell me what it means.”

  He picked up his smouldering torch and held it aloft again; then, beckoning Errington to follow him, he led the way to a small grotto, cut deeply into the wall of the cavern. Here there were no shell patterns. Little green ferns grew thickly out of the stone crevices, and a minute runlet of water trickled slowly down from above, freshening the delicate frondage as it fell. With quick, agile fingers he removed a loose stone from this aperture, and as he did so, a low shuddering wail resounded through the arches — a melancholy moan that rose and sank, and rose again in weird, sorrowful minor echoes.

  “Hear her,” murmured Sigurd plaintively. “She is always complaining; it is a pity she cannot rest! She is a spirit, you know. I have often asked her what troubles her, but she will not tell me; she only weeps!”

  His companion looked at him compassionately. The sound that so affected his disordered imagination was nothing but the wind blowing through the narrow hole formed by the removal of the stone; but it was useless to explain this simple fact to one in his condition.

  “Tell me,” and Sir Philip spoke very gently, “is this your home?”

  The dwarf surveyed him almost scornfully. “My home!” he echoed. “My home is everywhere — on the mountains, in the forests, on the black rocks and barren shores! My soul lives between the sun and the sea; my heart is with Thelma!”

  Thelma! Here was perhaps a clue to the mystery.

  “Who is Thelma?” asked Errington somewhat hurriedly.

  Sigurd broke into violent and derisive laughter. “Do you think I will tell you?” he cried loudly. “You, — one of that strong, cruel race who must conquer all they see; who covet everything fair under heaven, and will buy it, even at the cost of blood and tears! Do you think I will unlock the door of my treasure to you? No, no; besides,” and his voice sank lower, “what should you do with Thelma? She is dead!”

  And, as if possessed by a sudden access of frenzy, he brandished his pine-torch wildly above his head till it showered a rain of bright sparks above him, and exclaimed furiously— “Away, away, and trouble me not! The days are not yet fulfilled, — the time is not yet ripe. Why seek to hasten my end? Away, away, I tell you! Leave me in peace! I will die when Thelma bids me; but not till then!”

  And he rushed down the long gallery and disappeared in the furthest chamber, where he gave vent to a sort of long, sobbing cry, which rang dolefully through the cavern and then subsided into utter silence.

  Feeling as if he were in a chaotic dream, Errington pursued his interrupted course through the winding passages with a bewildered and wondering mind. What strange place had he inadvertently lighted on? and who were the still stranger beings in connection with it? First the beautiful girl herself; next the mysterious coffin, hidden in its fanciful shell temple; and now this deformed madman, with the pale face and fine eyes; whose utterances, though incoherent, savored somewhat of poesy and prophecy. And what spell was attached to that name of Thelma? The more he thought of his morning’s adventure, the more puzzled he became. As a rule, he believed more in the commonplace than in the romantic — most people do. But truth to tell, romance is far more common than the commonplace. There are few who have not, at one time or other of their lives, had some strange or tragic episode woven into the tissue of their every-day existence; and it would be difficult to find one person even among humdrum individuals, who, from birth to death, has experienced nothing out of the common.

  Errington generally dismissed all tales of adventure as mere exaggerations of heated fancy; and, had he read in some book, of a respectable nineteenth-century yachtsman having such an interview with a madman in a sea-cavern, he would have laughed at the affair as an utter improbability, though he could not have explained why he considered it improbable. But now it had occurred to himself, he was both surprised and amused at the whole circumstance; moreover, he was sufficiently interested and curious to be desirous of sifting the matter to its foundation.

  It was, however, somewhat of a relief to him when he again reached the outer cavern. He replaced the lamp on the shelf where he had found it, and stepped once more into the brilliant light of the very early dawn, which then had all the splendor of full morning. There was a deliciously balmy wind, the blue sky was musical with a chorus of larks, and every breath of air that waved aside the long grass sent forth a thousand odors from hidden beds of wild thyme and bog-myrtle.

  He perceived the Eulalie at anchor in her old place on the Fjord; she had returned while he was absent on his explorations. Gathering together his rug and painting materials, he blew a whistle sharply three times; he was answered from the yacht, and presently a boat, manned by a couple of sailors, came skimming over the water towards him. It soon reached the shore, and, entering it, he was speedily rowed away from the scene of his morning’s experience back to his floating palace, where, as yet, none of his friends were stirring.

  “How about Jedkè?” he inquired of one of his m
en. “Did they climb it?”

  A slow grin overspread the sailor’s brown face.

  “Lord bless you, no, sir! Mr. Lorimer, he just looked at it and sat down in the shade; the other gentleman played pitch-and-toss with pebbles. They was main hungry too, and ate a mighty sight of ‘am and pickles. Then they came on board and all turned in at once.”

  Errington laughed. He was amused at the utter failure of Lorimer’s recent sudden energy, but not surprised. His thoughts were, however, busied with something else, and he next asked— “Where’s our pilot?”

  “Valdemar Svensen, sir? He went down to his bunk as soon as we anchored, for a snooze, he said.”

  “All right. If he comes on deck before I do, just tell him not to go ashore for anything till I see him. I want to speak to him after breakfast.”

  “Ay, ay, sir.”

  Whereupon Sir Philip descended to his private cabin. He drew the blind at the port-hole to shut out the dazzling sunlight, for it was nearly three o’clock in the morning, and quickly undressing, he flung himself into his berth with a slight, not altogether unpleasant, feeling of exhaustion. To the last, as his eyes closed drowsily, he seemed to hear the slow drip, drip of the water behind the rocky cavern, and the desolate cry of the incomprehensible Sigurd, while through these sounds that mingled with the gurgle of little waves lapping against the sides of the Eulalie, the name of “Thelma” murmured itself in his ears till slumber drowned his senses in oblivion.

  CHAPTER III.

  “Hast any mortal name,

  Fit appellation for this dazzling frame,

  Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth?”

  KEATS.

  “This is positively absurd,” murmured Lorimer, in mildly injured tones, seven hours later, as he sat on the edge of his berth, surveying Errington, who, fully dressed, and in the highest spirits, had burst in to upbraid him for his laziness while he was yet but scantily attired. “I tell you, my good fellow, there are some things which the utmost stretch of friendship will not stand. Here am I in shirt and trousers with only one sock on, and you dare to say you have had an adventure! Why, if you had cut a piece out of the sun, you ought to wait till a man is shaved before mentioning it.”

  “Don’t be snappish, old boy!” laughed Errington gaily. “Put on that other sock and listen. I don’t want to tell those other fellows just yet, they might go making inquiries about her—”

  “Oh, there is a ‘her’ in the case, is there?” said Lorimer, opening his eyes rather widely. “Well, Phil! I thought you had had enough, and something too much, of women.”

  “This is not a woman!” declared Philip with heat and eagerness, “at least not the sort of woman I have ever known! This is a forest-empress, sea-goddess, or sun-angel! I don’t know what she is, upon my life!”

  Lorimer regarded him with an air of reproachful offense.

  “Don’t go on — please don’t!” he implored. “I can’t stand it — I really can’t! Incipient verse-mania is too much for me. Forest-empress, sea-goddess, sun-angel — by Jove! what next? You are evidently in a very bad way. If I remember rightly, you had a flask of that old green Chartreuse with you. Ah! that accounts for it! Nice stuff, but a little too strong.”

  Errington laughed, and, unabashed by his friend’s raillery, proceeded to relate with much vivacity and graphic fervor the occurrences of the morning. Lorimer listened patiently with a forbearing smile on his open, ruddy countenance. When he had heard everything he looked up and inquired calmly —

  “This is not a yarn, is it?”

  “A yarn!” exclaimed Philip. “Do you think I would invent such a thing?”

  “Can’t say,” returned Lorimer imperturbably. “You are quite capable of it. It’s a very creditable crammer, due to Chartreuse. Might have been designed by Victor Hugo; it’s in his style. Scene, Norway — midnight. Mysterious maiden steals out of a cave and glides away in a boat over the water; man, the hero, goes into cave, finds a stone coffin, says— ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est? Dieu! C’est la mort!’ Spectacle affreux! Staggers back perspiring; meets mad dwarf with torch; mad dwarf talks a good deal — mad people always do, — then yells and runs away. Man comes out of cave and — and — goes home to astonish his friends; one of them won’t be astonished, — that’s me!”

  “I don’t care,” said Errington. “It’s a true story for all that. Only, I say, don’t talk of it before the others; let’s keep our own counsel—”

  “No poachers allowed on the Sun-Angel Manor!” interrupted Lorimer gravely. Philip went on without heeding him.

  “I’ll question Valdemar Svensen after breakfast. He knows everybody about here. Come and have a smoke on deck when I give you the sign, and we’ll cross-examine him.”

  Lorimer still looked incredulous. “What’s the good of it?” he inquired languidly. “Even if it’s all true you had much better leave this goddess, or whatever you call her, alone, especially if she has any mad connections. What do you want with her?”

  “Nothing!” declared Errington, though hiss color heightened. “Nothing, I assure you! It’s just a matter of curiosity with me. I should like to know who she is — that’s all! The affair won’t go any further.”

  “How do you know?” and Lorimer began to brush his stiff curly hair with a sort of vicious vigor. “How can you tell? I’m not a spiritualist, nor any sort of a humbug at all, I hope, but I sometimes indulge in presentiments. Before we started on this cruise, I was haunted by that dismal old ballad of Sir Patrick Spens—”

  ‘The King’s daughter of Norroway

  ’Tis thou maun bring her hame!’

  “And here you have found her, or so it appears. What’s to come of it, I wonder?”

  “Nothing’s to come of it; nothing will come of it!” laughed Philip. “As I told you, she said she was a peasant. There’s the breakfast-bell! Make haste, old boy, I’m as hungry as a hunter!”

  And he left his friend to finish dressing, and entered the saloon, where he greeted his two other companions, Alec, or, as he was oftener called, Sandy Macfarlane, and Pierre Duprèz; the former an Oxford student, — the latter a young fellow whose acquaintance he had made in Paris, and with whom he had kept up a constant and friendly intercourse. A greater contrast than these two presented could scarcely be imagined. Macfarlane was tall and ungainly, with large loose joints that seemed to protrude angularly out of him in every direction, — Duprèz was short, slight and wiry, with a dapper and by no means ungraceful figure. The one had formal gauche manners, a never-to-be-eradicated Glasgow accent, and a slow, infinitely tedious method of expressing himself, — the other was full of restless movement and pantomimic gesture, and being proud of his English, plunged into that language recklessly, making it curiously light and flippant, though picturesque, as he went. Macfarlane was destined to become a shining light of the established Church of Scotland, and therefore took life very seriously, — Duprèz was the spoilt only child of an eminent French banker, and had very little to do but enjoy himself, and that he did most thoroughly, without any calculation or care for the future. On all points of taste and opinion they differed widely; but there was no doubt about their both being good-hearted fellows, without any affectation of abnormal vice or virtue.

  “So you did not climb Jedkè after all!” remarked Errington laughingly, as they seated themselves at the breakfast table.

  “My friend, what would you!” cried Duprèz. “I have not said that I will climb it; no! I never say that I will do anything, because I’m not sure of myself. How can I be? It is that cher enfant, Lorimer, that said such brave words! See! . . . we arrive; we behold the shore — all black, great, vast! . . . rocks like needles, and, higher than all, this most fierce Jedkè — bah! what a name! — straight as the spire of a cathedral. One must be a fly to crawl up it, and we, we are not flies — ma foi! no! Lorimer, he laugh, he yawn — so! He say, ‘not for me to-day; I very much thank you!’ And then, we watch the sun. Ah! that was grand, glorious, beautiful!” And Dupr�
�z kissed the tips of his fingers in ecstacy.

  “What did you think about it, Sandy?” asked Sir Philip.

  “I didna think much,” responded Macfarlane, shortly. “It’s no sae grand a sight as a sunset in Skye. And it’s an uncanny business to see the sun losin’ a’ his poonctooality, and remainin’ stock still, as it were, when it’s his plain duty to set below the horizon. Mysel’, I think it’s been fair over-rated. It’s unnatural an’ oot o’ the common, say what ye like.”

  “Of course it is,” agreed Lorimer, who just then sauntered in from his cabin. “Nature is most unnatural. I always thought so. Tea for me, Phil, please; coffee wakes me up too suddenly. I say, what’s the programme to-day?”

  “Fishing in the Alten,” answered Errington promptly.

  “That suits me perfectly,” said Lorimer, as he leisurely sipped his tea. “I’m an excellent fisher. I hold the line and generally forget to bait it. Then, — while it trails harmlessly in the water, I doze; thus both the fish and I are happy.”

  “And this evening,” went on Errington, “we must return the minister’s call. He’s been to the yacht twice. We’re bound to go out of common politeness.”

  “Spare us, good Lord!” groaned Lorimer.

  “What a delightfully fat man is that good religious!” cried Duprèz. “A living proof of the healthiness of Norway!”

  “He’s not a native,” put in Macfarlane; “he’s frae Yorkshire. He’s only been a matter of three months here, filling the place o’ the settled meenister who’s awa’ for a change of air.”

  “He’s a precious specimen of a humbug, anyhow,” sighed Lorimer drearily. “However, I’ll be civil to him as long as he doesn’t ask me to hear him preach. At that suggestion I’ll fight him. He’s soft enough to bruise easily.”

  “Ye’re just too lazy to fight onybody,” declared Macfarlane.

  Lorimer smiled sweetly. “Thanks, awfully! I dare say you’re right. I’ve never found it worth while as yet to exert myself in any particular direction. No one has asked me to exert myself; no one wants me to exert myself; therefore, why should I?”