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

by Marie Corelli

  The next morning Sir Philip arrived unusually early, — and remained shut up with the bonde, in private conversation for more than an hour. At the expiration of that time, Thelma was called, and taken into their confidence. The result of their mysterious discussion was not immediately evident, — though for the next few days, the farm-house lost its former tranquility and became a scene of bustle and excitement. Moreover, to the astonishment of the Bosekop folk, the sailing-brig known as the Valkyrie, belonging to Olaf Güldmar, which had been hauled up high and dry on the shore for many months, was suddenly seen afloat on the Fjord, and Valdemar Svensen, Errington’s pilot, appeared to be busily engaged upon her decks, putting everything in ship-shape order. It was no use asking him any questions — he was not the man to gratify impertinent curiosity. By-and-by a rumor got about in the village — Lovisa had gained her point in one particular, — the Güldmars were going away — going to leave the Altenfjord!

  At first, the report was received with incredulity — but gained ground, as people began to notice that several packages were being taken in boats from the farm-house to both the Eulalie and the Valkyrie. These preparations excited a great deal of interest and inquisitiveness, — but no one dared ask for information as to what was about to happen. The Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy was confined to his bed “from a severe cold” — as he said, and therefore was unable to perform his favorite mission of spy; — so that when, one brilliant morning, Bosekop was startled by the steam-whistle of the Eulalie blowing furiously, and echoing far and wide across the surrounding rocky islands, several of the lounging inhabitants paused on the shore, or sauntered down to the rickety pier, to see what was the cause of the clamor. Even the long-suffering minister crawled out of bed and applied his fat, meek visage to his window, from whence he could command an almost uninterrupted view of the glittering water. Great was his amazement, and discomfiture to see the magnificent yacht moving majestically out of the Fjord, with Güldmar’s brig in tow behind her, and the English flag fluttering gaily from her middle-mast, as she curtsied her farewell to the dark mountains, and glided swiftly over the little hissing waves. Had Mr. Dyceworthy been possessed of a field-glass, he might have been able to discern on her deck, the figure of a tall, fair girl, who, drawing her crimson hood over her rich hair, stood gazing with wistful, dreamy blue eyes, at the last receding shores of the Altenfjord — eyes that smiled and yet were tearful.

  “Are you sorry, Thelma?” asked Errington gently, as he passed one arm tenderly round her. “Sorry to trust your life to me?”

  She laid her little hand in playful reproach against his lips.

  “Sorry! you foolish boy! I am glad and grateful! But it is saying good-bye to one’s old life, is it not? The dear old home! — and poor Sigurd!”

  Her voice trembled, and bright tears fell.

  “Sigurd is happy,” — said Errington gravely, taking the hand that caressed him, and reverently kissing it. “Believe me, love, — if he had lived some cruel misery might have befallen him — it is better as it is!”

  Thelma did not answer for a minute or two — then she said suddenly— “Philip, — do you remember where I saw you first?”

  “Perfectly!” he answered, looking fondly into the sweet upturned face. “Outside a wonderful cavern, which I afterwards explored.”

  She started and seemed surprised. “You went inside? — you saw — ?”

  “Everything!” — and Philip related his adventure of that morning, and his first interview with Sigurd. She listened attentively — then she whispered softly —

  “My mother sleeps there, you know, — yesterday I went to take her some flowers for the last time. Father came with me — we asked her blessing. And I think she will give it, Philip — she must know how good you are and how happy I am.”

  He stroked her silky hair tenderly and was silent. The Eulalie had reached the outward bend of the Altenfjord, and the station of Bosekop was rapidly disappearing. Olaf Güldmar and the others came on deck to take their last look of it.

  “I shall see the old place again, I doubt not, long before you do, Thelma, child,” said the stout old bonde, viewing, with a keen, fond glance, the stretch of the vanishing scenery. “Though when once you are safe married at Christiania, Valdemar Svensen and I will have a fine toss on the seas in the Valkyrie, — and I shall grow young again in the storm and drift of the foam and the dark wild waves! Yes — a wandering life suits me — and I am not sorry to have a taste of it once more. There’s nothing like it — nothing like a broad ocean and a sweeping wind!”

  And he lifted his cap and drew himself erect, inhaling the air like an old warrior scenting battle. The others listened, amused at his enthusiasm, — and, meanwhile, the Altenfjord altogether disappeared, and the Eulalie was soon plunging in a rougher sea. They were bound for Christiania, where it was decided Thelma’s marriage should at once take place — after which Sir Philip would leave his yacht at the disposal of his friends, for them to return in it to England. He himself intended to start directly for Germany with his bride, a trip in which Britta was to accompany them as Thelma’s maid. Olaf Güldmar, as he had just stated, purposed making a voyage in the Valkyrie, as soon as he should get her properly manned and fitted, which he meant to do at Christiania.

  Such were their plans, — and, meanwhile, they were all together on the Eulalie, — a happy and sociable party, — Errington having resigned his cabin to the use of his fair betrothed, and her little maid, whose delight at the novel change in her life, and her escape from the persecution of her grandmother, was extreme. Onward they sailed, — past the grand Lofoden Islands and all the magnificent scenery extending thence to Christiansund, while the inhabitants of Bosekop looked in vain for their return to the Altenfjord.

  The short summer there was beginning to draw to a close, — some of the birds took their departure from the coast, — the dull routine of the place went on as usual, rendered even duller by the absence of the “witch” element of discord, — a circumstance that had kept the superstitious villagers, more or less on a lively tension of religious and resentful excitement — and by-and-by, the rightful minister of Bosekop came back to his duties and released the Reverend Charles Dyceworthy, who straightway returned to his loving flock in Yorkshire. It was difficult to ascertain whether the aged Lovisa was satisfied or wrathful, at the departure of the Güldmars with her granddaughter Britta in their company — she kept herself almost buried in her hut at Talvig, and saw no one but Ulrika, who seemed to grow more respectably staid than ever, and who, as a prominent member of the Lutheran congregation, distinguished herself greatly by her godly bearing and uncompromising gloom.

  Little by little, the gossips ceased to talk about the disappearance of the “white witch” and her father — little by little they ceased to speculate as to whether the rich Englishman, Sir Philip Errington, really meant to marry her — a consummation of things which none of them seemed to think likely — the absence of their hated neighbors, was felt by them as a relief, while the rumored fate of the crazy Sigurd was of course looked upon as evidence of fresh crime on the part of the “pagan,” who was accused of having, in some way or other, caused the unfortunate lad’s death. And the old farm-house on the pine-covered knoll was shut up and silent, — its doors and windows safely barred against wind and rain, — and only the doves, left to forage for themselves, crooned upon its roof, all day, or strutting on the deserted paths, ruffled their plumage in melancholy meditation, as though wondering at the absence of the fair ruling spirit of the place, whose smile had been brighter than the sunshine. The villagers avoided it as though it were haunted — the roses drooped and died untended, — and by degrees the old homestead grew to look like a quaint little picture of forgotten joys, with its deserted porch and fading flowers.

  Meanwhile, a thrill of amazement, incredulity, disappointment, indignation, and horror, rushed like a violent electric shock through the upper circles of London society, arousing the deepest disgust in the breas
ts of match-making matrons, and seriously ruffling the pretty feathers of certain bird-like beauties who had just began to try their wings, and who “had expectations.” The cause of the sensation was very simple. It was an announcement in the Times — under the head of “Marriages” — and ran as follows:

  “At the English Consulate, Christiania, Sir Philip Bruce-Errington, Bart., to Thelma, only daughter of Olaf Güldmar, bonde, of the Altenfjord, Norway. No cards.”

  BOOK II. THE LAND OF MOCKERY

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  “There’s nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys.”

  MACBETH.

  “I think,” said Mrs. Rush-Marvelle deliberately, laying down the Morning Post beside her breakfast-cup, “I think his conduct is perfectly disgraceful!”

  Mr. Rush-Marvelle, a lean gentleman with a sallow, clean-shaven face and an apologetic, almost frightened manner, looked up hastily.

  “Of whom are you speaking, my dear?” he inquired.

  “Why, of that wretched young man Bruce-Errington! He ought to be ashamed of himself!”

  And Mrs. Marvelle fixed her glasses more firmly on her small nose, and regarded her husband almost reproachfully. “Don’t tell me, Montague, that you’ve forgotten that scandal about him! He went off last year, in the middle of the season, to Norway, in his yacht, with three of the very fastest fellows he could pick out from his acquaintance — regular reprobates, so I’m told — and after leading the most awful life out there, making love to all the peasant girls in the place, he married one of them, — a common farmer’s daughter. Don’t you remember? We saw the announcement of his marriage in the Times.”

  “Ah yes, yes!” And Mr. Rush-Marvelle smiled a propitiatory smile, intended to soothe the evidently irritated feelings of his better-half, of whom he stood always in awe. “Of course, of course! A very sad mésalliance. Yes, yes! Poor fellow! And is there fresh news of him?”

  “Read that,” — and the lady handed the Morning Post across the table, indicating by a dent of her polished finger-nail, the paragraph that had offended her sense of social dignity. Mr. Marvelle read it with almost laborious care — though it was remarkably short and easy of comprehension.

  “Sir Philip and Lady Bruce-Errington have arrived at their house in Prince’s Gate from Errington Manor.”

  “Well, my dear?” he inquired, with a furtive and anxious glance at his wife. “I suppose — er — it — er — it was to be expected?”

  “No, it was not to be expected,” said Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, rearing her head, and heaving her ample bosom to and fro in rather a tumultuous manner. “Of course it was to be expected that Bruce-Errington would behave like a fool — his father was a fool before him. But I say it was not to be expected that he would outrage society by bringing that common wife of his to London, and expecting us to receive her! The thing is perfectly scandalous! He has had the decency to keep away from town ever since his marriage — part of the time he has staid abroad, and since January he has been at his place in Warwickshire, — and this time — observe this!” and Mrs. Marvelle looked most impressive— “not a soul has been invited to the Manor — not a living soul! The house used to be full of people during the winter season — of course, now, he dare not ask anybody lest they should be shocked at his wife’s ignorance. That’s as clear as daylight! And now he has the impudence to actually bring her here, — into society! Good Heavens! He must be mad! He will be laughed at wherever he goes!”

  Mr. Rush-Marvelle scratched his bony chin perplexedly.

  “It makes it a little awkward for — for you,” he remarked feelingly.

  “Awkward! It is abominable!” And Mrs. Marvelle rose from her chair, and shook out the voluminous train of her silken breakfast-gown, an elaborate combination of crimson with grey chinchilla fur. “I shall have to call on the creature — just imagine it! It is most unfortunate for me that I happen to be one of Bruce-Errington’s oldest friends — otherwise I might have passed him over in some way — as it is I can’t. But fancy having to meet a great coarse peasant woman, who, I’m certain, will only be able to talk about fish and whale-oil! It is really quite dreadful!”

  Mr. Rush-Marvelle permitted himself to smile faintly.

  “Let us hope she will not turn out so badly,” he said soothingly,— “but, you know, if she proves to be — er — a common person of, — er — a very uneducated type — you can always let her drop gently — quite gently!”

  And he waved his skinny hand with an explanatory flourish.

  But Mrs. Marvelle did not accept his suggestion in good part.

  “You know nothing about it,” she said somewhat testily. “Keep to your own business, Montague, such as it is. The law suits your particular form of brain — society does not. You would never be in society at all if it were not for me — now you know you wouldn’t!”

  “My love,” said Mr. Marvelle, with a look of meek admiration at his wife’s majestic proportions. “I am aware of it! I always do you justice. You are a remarkable woman!”

  Mrs. Marvelle smiled, somewhat mollified. “You see,” she then condescended to explain— “the whole thing is so extremely disappointing to me. I wanted Marcia Van Clupp to go in for the Errington stakes, — it would have been such an excellent match, — money on both sides. And Marcia would have been just the girl to look after that place down in Warwickshire — the house is going to rack and ruin, in my opinion.”

  “Ah, yes!” agreed her husband mildly. “Van Clupp is a fine girl — a very fine girl! No end of ‘go’ in her. And so Errington Manor needs a good deal of repairing, perhaps?” This query was put by Mr. Marvelle, with his head very much on one side, and his bilious eyes blinking drowsily.

  “I don’t know about repairs,” replied Mrs. Marvelle. “It is a magnificent place, and certainly the grounds are ravishing. But one of the best rooms in the house, is the former Lady Errington’s boudoir — it is full of old-fashioned dirty furniture, and Bruce-Errington won’t have it touched, — he will insist on keeping it as his mother left it. Now that is ridiculous — perfectly morbid! It’s just the same thing with his father’s library — he won’t have that touched either — and the ceiling wants fresh paint, and the windows want new curtains — and all sorts of things ought to be done. Marcia would have managed all that splendidly — she’d have had everything new throughout — Americans are so quick, and there’s no nonsensical antiquated sentiment about Marcia.”

  “She might even have had new pictures and done away with the old ones,” observed Mr. Marvelle, with a feeble attempt at satire. His wife darted a keen look at him, but smiled a little too. She was not without a sense of humor.

  “Nonsense, Montague! She knows the value of works of art better than many a so-called connoisseur. I won’t have you make fun of her. Poor girl! She did speculate on Bruce-Errington, — you know he was very attentive to her, at that ball I gave just before he went off to Norway.”

  “He certainly seemed rather amused by her,” said Mr. Marvelle. “Did she take it to heart when she heard he was married?”

  “I should think not,” replied Mrs. Marvelle loftily. “She has too much sense. She merely said, ‘All right! I must stick to Masherville!’”

  Mr. Marvelle nodded blandly. “Admirable, — admirable!” he murmured, with a soft little laugh, “A very clever girl — a very bright creature! And really there are worse fellows than Masherville! The title is old.”

  “Yes, the title is all very well,” retorted his wife— “but there’s no money — or at least very little.”

  “Marcia has sufficient to cover any deficit?” suggested Mr. Marvelle, in a tone of meek inquiry.

  “An American woman never has sufficient,” declared Mrs. Marvelle. “You know that as well as I do. And poor dear Mrs. Van Clupp has so set her heart on a really brilliant match for her girl — and I had positively promised she should have Bruce-Errington. It is really too bad!” And Mrs. Marvelle paced the room with a stately, sweeping movement, pausing ev
ery now and then to glance at herself approvingly in the mirror above the chimney-piece, while her husband resumed his perusal of the Times. By-and-by she said abruptly —

  “Montague!”

  Mr. Marvelle dropped his paper with an alarmed air.

  “My dear!”

  “I shall go to Clara Winsleigh this morning — and see what she means to do in the matter. Poor Clara! She must be disgusted at the whole affair!”