“Wait!” cried Sigurd, springing to Thelma’s side. “I must say good-bye!” And he caught the girl’s hand and kissed it, — then plucking a rose, he left it between her fingers. “That will remind you of Sigurd, mistress! Think of him once to-day! — once again when the midnight glory shines. Good-bye, mistress! that is what the dead say, . . . Good-bye!”
And with a passionate gesture of farewell, he ran and placed himself at the head of the little group that waited for him, saying exultingly —
“Now follow me! Sigurd knows the way! Sigurd is the friend of all the wild waterfall! Up the hills, — across the leaping stream, — through the sparkling foam!” And he began chanting to himself a sort of wild mountain song.
Macfarlane looked at him dubiously. “Are ye sure?” he said to Güldmar. “Are ye sure that wee chap kens whaur he’s gaun? He’ll no lead us into a ditch an’ leave us there, mistakin’ it for the Fall?”
Güldmar laughed heartily. “Never fear! Sigurd’s the best guide you can have, in spite of his fancies. He knows all the safest and surest paths; and Njedegorze is no easy place to reach, I can tell you!”
“Pardon! How is it called?” asked Duprèz eagerly.
“Njedegorze.”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. “I give it up!” he said smilingly. “Mademoiselle Güldmar, if anything happens to me at this cascade with the name unpronounceable, you will again be my doctor, will you not?”
Thelma laughed as she shook hands with him. “Nothing will happen,” she rejoined; “unless, indeed, you catch cold by sleeping in a hut all night. Father, you must see that they do not catch cold!”
The bonde nodded, and motioned the party forward, Sigurd leading the way, — Errington, however, lingered behind on pretense of having forgotten something, and, drawing his betrothed in his arms, kissed her fondly.
“Take care of yourself, darling!” he murmured, — and then hurrying away he rejoined his friends, who had discreetly refrained from looking back, and therefore had not seen the lovers embrace.
Sigurd, however, had seen it, and the sight apparently gave fresh impetus to his movements, for he sprang up the adjacent hill with so much velocity that those who followed had some difficulty to keep up with him, — and it was not till they were out of sight of the farmhouse that he resumed anything like a reasonable pace.
As soon as they had disappeared, Thelma turned into the house and seated herself at her spinning-wheel. Britta soon entered the room, carrying the same graceful implement of industry, and the two maidens sat together for some time in a silence unbroken, save by the low melodious whirring of the two wheels, and the mellow complaints of the strutting doves on the window-sill.
“Fröken Thelma!” said Britta at last, timidly.
“Yes, Britta?” And her mistress looked up inquiringly.
“Of what use is it for you to spin now?” queried the little handmaid. “You will be a great lady, and great ladies do not work at all!”
Thelma’s wheel revolved more and more slowly, till at last it stopped altogether.
“Do they not?” she said half inquiringly and musingly. “I think you must be wrong, Britta. It is impossible that there should be people who are always idle. I do not know what great ladies are like.”
“I do!” And Britta nodded her curly head sagaciously. “There was a girl from Hammerfest who went to Christiania to seek service — she was handy at her needle, and a fine spinner, and a great lady took her right away from Norway to London. And the lady bought her spinning-wheel for a curiosity she said, — and put it in the corner of a large parlor, and used to show it to her friends, and they would all laugh and say, ‘How pretty!’ And Jansena, — that was the girl — never span again — she wore linen that she got from the shops, — and it was always falling into holes, and Jansena was always mending, mending, and it was no good!”
Thelma laughed. “Then it is better to spin, after all, Britta — is it not?”
Britta looked dubious. “I do not know,” she answered; “but I am sure great ladies do not spin. Because, as I said to you, Fröken, this Jansena’s mistress was a great lady, and she never did anything, — no! nothing at all, — but she put on wonderful dresses, and sat in her room, or was driven about in a carriage. And that is what you will do also, Fröken!”
“Oh no, Britta,” said Thelma decisively. “I could not be so idle. Is it not fortunate I have so much linen ready? I have quite enough for marriage.”
The little maid looked wistful. “Yes, dear Fröken,” she murmured hesitatingly; “but I was thinking if it is right for you to wear what you have spun. Because, you see, Jansena’s mistress had wonderful things all trimmed with lace, — and they would all come back from the washing torn and hanging in threads, and Jansena had to mend those as well as her own clothes. You see, they do not last at all — and they cost a large sum of money; but it is proper for great ladies to wear them.”
“I am not sure of that, Britta,” said Thelma, still musingly. “But still, it may be — my bridal things may not please Philip. If you know anything about it, you must tell me what is right.”
Britta was in a little perplexity. She had gathered some idea from her friend Jansena concerning life in London, — she had even a misty notion of what was meant by a “trousseau” with all its dainty, expensive, and often useless fripperies; but she did not know how to explain herself to her young mistress, whose simple, almost severe tastes would, she instinctively felt, recoil from anything like ostentation in dress, so she was discreetly silent.
“You know, Britta,” continued Thelma gently, “I shall be Philip’s wife, and I must not vex him in any little thing. But I do not quite understand. I have always dressed in the same way, — and he has never said that he thought me wrongly clothed.”
And she looked down with quite a touching pathos at her straight, white woolen gown, and smoothed its folds doubtfully. The impulsive Britta sprang to her side and kissed her with girlish and unaffected enthusiasm.
“My dear, my dear! You are more lovely and sweet than anybody in the world!” she cried. “And I am sure Sir Philip thinks so too!”
A beautiful roseate flush suffused Thelma’s cheeks, and she smiled.
“Yes, I know he does!” she replied softly. “And, after all, it does not matter what one wears.”
Britta was meditating, — she looked lovingly at her mistress’s rippling wealth of hair.
“Diamonds!” she murmured to herself in a sort of satisfied soliloquy. “Diamonds, like those you have on your finger, Fröken, — diamonds all scattered among your curls like dew-drops! And white satin, all shining, shining! — people would take you for an angel!”
Thelma laughed merrily. “Britta, Britta! You are talking such nonsense! Nobody dresses so grandly except queens in fairy-tales.”
“Do they not?” and the wise Britta looked more profound than ever. “Well, we shall see, dear Fröken — we shall see!”
“We?” queried Thelma with surprised emphasis.
Her little maid blushed vividly, and looked down demurely, twisting and untwisting the string of her apron.
“Yes, Fröken,” she said in a low tone. “I have asked Sir Philip to let me go with you when you leave Norway.”
“Britta!” Thelma’s astonishment was too great for more than this exclamation.
“Oh, my dear! don’t be angry with me!” implored Britta, with sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks, and excited tongue all pleading eloquently together, “I should die here without you! I told the bonde so; I did, indeed! And then I went to Sir Philip — he is such a grand gentleman, — so proud and yet so kind, — and I asked him to let me still be your servant. I said I knew all great ladies had a maid, and if I was not clever enough I could learn, and — and—” here Britta began to sob, “I said I did not want any wages — only to live in a little corner of the same house where you were, — to sew for you, and see you, and hear your voice sometimes—” Here the poor little maiden broke down altogeth
er and hid her face in her apron crying bitterly.
The tears were in Thelma’s eyes too, and she hastened to put her arm round Britta’s waist, and tried to soothe her by every loving word she could think of.
“Hush, Britta dear! you must not cry,” she said tenderly. “What did Philip say?”
“He said,” jerked out Britta convulsively, “that I was a g-good little g-girl, and that he was g-glad I wanted to g-go!” Here her two sparkling wet eyes peeped out of the apron inquiringly, and seeing nothing but the sweetest affection on Thelma’s attentive face, she went on more steadily. “He p-pinched my cheek, and he laughed — and he said he would rather have me for your maid than anybody — there!”
And this last exclamation was uttered with so much defiance that she dashed away the apron altogether, and stood erect in self-congratulatory glory, with a particularly red little nose and very trembling lips. Thelma smiled, and caressed the tumbled brown curls.
“I am very glad, Britta!” she said earnestly. “Nothing could have pleased me more! I must thank Philip. But it is of father I am thinking — what will father and Sigurd do?”
“Oh, that is all settled, Fröken,” said Britta, recovering herself rapidly from her outburst. “The bonde means to go for one of his long voyages in the Valkyrie — it is time she was used again, I’m sure, — and Sigurd will go with him. It will do them both good — and the tongues of Bosekop can waggle as much as they please, none of us will be here to mind them!”
“And you will escape your grandmother!” said Thelma amusedly, as she once more set her spinning-wheel in motion.
Britta laughed delightedly. “Yes! she will not find her way to England without some trouble!” she exclaimed. “Oh, how happy I shall be! And you” — she looked pleadingly at her mistress— “you do not dislike me for your servant?”
“Dislike!” and Thelma gave her a glance of mingled reproach and tenderness. “You know how fond I am of you, Britta! It will be like having a little bit of my old home always with me.”
Silently Britta kissed her hand, and then resumed her work. The monotonous murmur of the two wheels recommenced, — this time pleasantly accompanied by the rippling chatter of the two girls, who, after the fashion of girls all the world over, indulged in many speculations as to the new and strange life that lay before them.
Their ideas were of the most primitive character, — Britta had never been out of Norway, and Thelma’s experiences, apart from her home life, extended merely to the narrow and restricted bounds of simple and severe convent discipline, where she had been taught that the pomps and vanities of the world were foolish and transient shows, and that nothing could please God more than purity and rectitude of soul. Her character was formed, and set upon a firm basis — firmer than she herself was conscious of. The nuns who had been entrusted with her education had fulfilled their task with more than their customary zeal — they were interested in the beautiful Norwegian child for the sake of her mother, who had also been their charge. One venerable nun in particular had bestowed a deep and lasting benefit on her, for, seeing her extraordinary beauty, and forestalling the dangers and temptations into which the possession of such exceptional charms might lead her, she adopted a wise preventive course, that cased her as it were in armor, proof against all the assailments of flattery. She told the girl quite plainly that she was beautiful, — but at the same time made her aware that beauty was common, — that she shared it alike with birds, flowers, trees, and all the wonderful objects of nature — moreover, that it was nothing to boast of, being so perishable.
“Suppose a rose foolish enough to boast of its pretty leaves,” said the gentle religieuse on one occasion. “They all fall to the ground in a short time, and become decayed and yellow — it is only the fragrance, or the soul of the rose that lasts.” Such precepts, that might have been wasted on a less sensitive and thoughtful nature, sank deeply into Thelma’s mind — she accepted them not only in theory but in practice, and the result was that she accepted her beauty as she accepted her health, — as a mere natural occurrence — no more. She was taught that the three principal virtues of a woman were chastity, humility, and obedience, — these were the laws of God, fixed and immutable, which no one dared break without committing grievous and unpardonable sin. So she thought, and according to her thoughts she lived. What a strange world, then, lay before her in the contemplated change that was about to take place in the even tenor of her existence! A world of intrigue and folly — a world of infidelity and falsehood! — how would she meet it? It was a question she never asked herself — she thought London a sort of magnified Christiania, or at best, the Provencal town of Arles on a larger scale. She had heard her father speak of it, but only in a vague way, and she had been able to form no just idea even to herself of the enormous metropolis crowded to excess with its glad and sorrowful, busy and idle, rich and poor millions. England itself floated before her fancy as a green, fertile, embowered island where Shakespeare had lived — and it delighted her to know that her future home, Errington Manor, was situated in Warwickshire, Shakespeare’s county. Of the society that awaited her she had no notion, — she was prepared to “keep house” for her husband in a very simple way — to spin his household linen, to spare him all trouble and expense, and to devote herself body and soul to his service. As may be well imagined, the pictures she drew of her future married life, as she sat and span with Britta on that peaceful afternoon, were widely different to the destined reality that every day approached her more nearly.
Meantime, while the two girls were at home and undisturbed in the quiet farm house, the mountaineering party, headed by Sigurd, were well on their way towards the great Fall of Njedegorze. They had made a toilsome ascent of the hills by the side of the Alten river — they had climbed over craggy boulders and slippery rocks, sometimes wading knee-deep in the stream, or pausing to rest and watch the salmon leap and turn glittering somersaults in the air close above the diamond-clear water, — and they had beguiled their fatigue with songs and laughter, and the telling of fantastic legends and stories in which Sigurd had shone at his best — indeed, this unhappy being was in a singularly clear and rational frame of mind, disposed, too, to be agreeable even towards Errington. Lorimer, who for reasons of his own, had kept a close watch on Sigurd ever since his friend’s engagement to Thelma, was surprised and gratified at this change in his former behavior, and encouraged him in it, while Errington himself responded to the dwarf’s proffered friendship, and walked beside him, chatting cheerfully, during the most part of the excursion to the Fall. It was a long and exceedingly difficult journey — and in some parts dangerous — but Sigurd proved himself worthy of the commendations bestowed on him by the bonde, and guided them by the easiest and most secure paths, till at last, about seven o’clock in the evening, they heard the rush and roar of the rapids below the Fall, and with half an hour’s more exertion, came in sight of them, though not as yet of the Fall itself. Yet the rapids were grand enough to merit attention — and the whole party stopped to gaze on the whirling wonders of water that, hissing furiously, circled round and round giddily in wheels of white foam, and then, as though enraged, leaped high over obstructing stones and branches, and rushed onward and downward to the smoother length of the river.
The noise was deafening, — they could not hear each other speak unless by shouting at the top of their voices, and even then the sounds were rendered almost indistinct by the riotous uproar. Sigurd, however, who knew all the ins and outs of the place, sprang lightly on a jutting crag, and, putting both hands to his mouth, uttered a peculiar, shrill, and far-reaching cry. Clear above the turmoil of the restless waters, that cry was echoed back eight distinct times from the surrounding rocks and hills. Sigurd laughed triumphantly.
“You see!” he exclaimed, as he resumed his leadership of the party, “they all know me! They are obliged to answer me when I call — they dare not disobey!” And his blue eyes flashed with that sudden wild fire that generally foretold
some access of his particular mania.
Errington saw this and said soothingly, “Of course not, Sigurd! No one would dream of disobeying you! See how we follow you to-day — we all do exactly what you tell us.”
“We are sheep, Sigurd,” added Lorimer lazily; “and you are the shepherd!”
Sigurd looked from one to the other half doubtingly, half cunningly. He smiled.
“Yes!” he said. “You will follow me, will you not? Up to the very top of the Fall?”
“By all means!” answered Sir Philip gaily. “Anywhere you choose to go!”
Sigurd seemed satisfied, and lapsing into the calm, composed manner which had distinguished him all day, he led the way as before, and they resumed their march, this time in silence, for conversation was well-nigh impossible. The nearer they came to the yet invisible Fall, the more thunderous grew the din — it was as though they approached some vast battle-field, where opposing armies were in full action, with all the tumult of cannonade and musketry. The ascent grew steeper and more difficult — at times the high barriers of rocks seemed almost impassable, — often they were compelled to climb over confused heaps of huge stones, through which the eddying water pushed its way with speed and fury, — but Sigurd’s precision was never at fault, — he leaped crag after crag swiftly and skillfully, always lighting on a sure foothold, and guiding the others to do the same. At last, at a sharp turn of one of these rocky eminences, they perceived an enormous cloud of white vapor rising up like smoke from the earth, and twisting itself as it rose, in swaying, serpentine folds, as though some giant spirit-hand were shaking it to and fro like a long flowing veil in the air. Sigurd paused and pointed forward.
“Njedegorze!” he cried.
They all pressed on with some excitement. The ground vibrated beneath their feet with the shock of the falling torrent, and the clash and uproar of the disputing waters rolled in their ears like the grand, sustained bass of some huge cathedral organ. Almost blinded by the spray that dashed its disdainful drops in their faces, deafened by the majestic, loud, and ceaseless eloquence that poured its persuasive force into the splitting hearts of the rocks around them, — breathless with climbing, and well-nigh tread out, they struggled on, and broke into one unanimous shout of delight and triumph when they at last reached the small hut that had been erected for the convenience of travellers who might choose that way to journey to the Altenfjord, — and stood face to face with the magnificent cascade, one of the grandest in Norway. What a sublime spectacle it was! — that tempest of water sweeping sheer down the towering rocks in one straight, broad, unbroken sheet of foam! A myriad rainbows flashed in the torrent and vanished, to reappear again instantly with redoubled lustre, — while the glory of the evening sunlight glittering on one side of the fall made it gleam like a sparkling shower of molten gold.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 98
