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

by Marie Corelli

  He was conscious of staggering blindly onward, weighted with a heavy, helpless burden, — he felt the slippery pier beneath his feet — the driving snow and the icy wind on his face, — but he was as one in a dream, realizing nothing plainly, till with a wild start, he seemed to awake — and lo! he stood on the glassy deck of the Valkyrie with the body of his “King” stretched senseless before him! Had he brought him there? He could not remember what he had done during the past few mad minutes, — the earth and sky whirled dizzily around him, — he could grasp nothing tangible in thought or memory. But there, most certainly, Olaf Güldmar lay, — his pallid face upturned, his hair and beard as white as the snow that clung to the masts of his vessel — his hand clenched on the fur garment that enwrapped him as with a robe of royalty.

  Dropping on his knees beside him, Valdemar felt his heart — it still throbbed fitfully and feebly. Watching the intense calm of the grand, rugged face, this stern, weather-worn sailor — this man of superstitious and heathen imaginations — gave way to womanish tears — tears that were the outcome of sincere and passionate grief. His love was of an exceptional type, — something like that of a faithful dog that refuses to leave the grave of its master, — he could contemplate death for himself with absolute indifference, — but not for the bonde, whose sturdy strength and splendid physique had seemed to defy all danger.

  As he knelt and wept unrestrainedly, a soft change, a delicate transparency, swept over the dark bosom of the sky. Pale pink streaks glittered on the dusky horizon — darts of light began to climb upward into the clouds, and to plunge downward into the water, — the radiance spread, and gradually formed into a broad band of deep crimson, which burned with a fixed and intense glow — topaz-like rays flickered and streamed about it, as though uncertain what fantastic shape they should take to best display their brilliancy. This tremulous hesitation of varying color did not last long; the whole jewel-like mass swept together, expanding and contracting with extraordinary swiftness for a few seconds — then, suddenly and clearly defined in the sky, a Kingly Crown blazed forth — a Crown of perfect shape, its five points distinctly and separately outlined and flashing as with a million rubies and diamonds. The red lustre warmly tinged the pale features of the dying man, and startled Valdemar, who sprang to his feet and gazed at that mystic aureola with a cry of wonder. At the same moment Olaf Güldmar stirred, and began to speak drowsily without opening his eyes.

  “Dawn on the sea!” he murmured— “The white waves gleam and sparkle beneath the prow, and the ship makes swift way through the water! It is dawn in my heart — the dawn of love for thee and me, my Thelma — fear not! The rose of passion is a hardy flower that can bloom in the north as well as in the south, believe me! Thelma — Thelma!”

  He suddenly opened his eyes, and realizing his surroundings, raised himself half-erect.

  “Set sail!” he cried, pointing with a majestic motion of his arm to the diadem glittering in the sky. “Why do we linger? The wind favors us, and the tide sweeps forward — forward! See how the lights beckon from the harbor!”

  He bent his brows and looked almost angrily at Svensen. “Do what thou hast to do!” and his tones were sharp and imperious. “I must press on!”

  An expression of terror, pain, and pity passed over the sailor’s countenance — for one instant he hesitated — the next, he descended into the hold of the vessel. He was absent for a very little space, — but when he returned his eyes were wild as though he had been engaged in some dark and criminal deed. Olaf Güldmar was still gazing at the brilliancy in the heavens, which seemed to increase in size and lustre as the wind rose higher. Svensen took his hand — it was icy cold, and damp with the dew of death.

  “Let me go with thee!” he implored, in broken accent. “I fear nothing! Why should I not venture also on the last voyage?”

  Güldmar made a faint but decided sign of rejection.

  “The Viking sails alone to the grave of his fathers!” he with a serene and proud smile. “Alone — alone! Neither wife, nor child, nor vassal may have place with him in his ship — even so have the gods willed it. Farewell, Valdemar! Loosen the ropes and let me go! — thou servest me ill — hasten — hasten — I am weary of waiting—”

  His head fell back, — that mysterious shadow which darkens the face of the dying a moment before dissolution, was on him now.

  Just then a strange, suffocating odor began to permeate the air — little wreaths of pale smoke made their slow way through the boards of the deck — and a fierce gust of wind, blowing seawards from the mountains, swayed the Valkyrie uneasily to and fro. Slowly, and with evident reluctance, Svensen commenced the work of detaching her from the pier — feeling instinctively all the while that his master’s dying eyes were fixed upon him. When but one slender rope remained to be cast off, he knelt by the old man’s side said whispered tremblingly that all was done. At the same moment a small, stealthy tongue of red flame curled up through the deck from the hold, — and Güldmar, observing this, smiled.

  “I see thou hast redeemed thine oath,” he said, gratefully pressing Svensen’s hand. “’Tis the last act of thine allegiance, — may the gods reward thy faithfulness! Peace be with thee! — we shall meet hereafter. Already the light shines from the Rainbow Bridge, — there, — there are the golden peaks of the hills and the stretch of the wide sea! Go, Valdemar! — delay no longer, for my soul is impatient — it burns, it struggles to be free! Go! — and — farewell!”

  Stricken to the heart, and full of anguish, — yet serf-like in his submission and resignation to the inevitable, — Svensen kissed his master’s hand for the last time. Then, with a sort of fierce sobbing groan, wrung from the very depths of his despairing grief, he turned resolutely away, and sprang off the vessel. Standing at the extreme edge of the pier, he let slip the last rope that bound her, — her sails filled and bulged outward, — her cordage creaked, she shuddered on the water — lurched a little — then paused.

  In that brief moment a loud triumphant cry rang through the air. Olaf Güldmar leaped upright on the deck as though lifted by some invisible hand, and confronted his terrified servants, who gazed at him in fascinated amazement and awe. His white hair gleamed like spun silver — his face was transfigured, and wore a strange, rapt look of pale yet splendid majesty — the dark furs that clung about him trailed in regal folds to his feet.

  “Hark!” he cried, and his voice vibrated with deep and mellow clearness. “Hark to the thunder of the galloping hoofs! — see — see the glitter of the shield and spear! She comes-ah! Thelma! Thelma!” He raised his arms as though in ecstacy. “Glory! — joy! — Victory!”

  And, like a noble tree struck down by lightning, he fell — dead!

  Even as he fell, the Valkyrie plunged forward, driven forcibly by a swooping gust of wind, and scudded out to the Fjord like a wild bird flying before a tempest, — and, while she thus fled, a sheet of flame burst through her sides and blazed upwards, mingling a lurid, smoky glow with the clear crimson radiance of the still brilliant and crown-like aurora. Following the current, she made swift way across the dark water in the direction of the island of Seiland, and presently became a wondrous Ship of Fire! Fire flashed from her masts — fire folded up her spars and sails in a devouring embrace, — fire, that leaped and played and sent forth a million showering sparks hissingly into the waves beneath.

  With beating heart and straining eyes, Valdemar Svensen crouched on the pier-head, watching, in mute agony, the burning vessel. He had fulfilled his oath! — that strange vow that had so sternly bound him, — a vow that was the outcome of his peculiar traditions and pagan creed.

  Long ago, in the days of his youth, — full of enthusiasm for the worship of Odin and the past splendors of the race of the great Norse warriors, — he had chosen to recognize in Olaf Güldmar a true descendant of kings, who was by blood and birth, though not in power, himself a king, — and tracing his legendary history back to old and half-forgotten sources, he had proved, satisfa
ctorily, to his own mind, that he, Svensen, must lawfully, and according to old feudal system, be this king’s serf or vassal. And, growing more and more convinced of this in his dreamy and imaginative mind, — he had sworn a sort of mystic friendship and allegiance, which Güldmar had accepted, imposing on him, however, only one absolute command. This was that he should be given the “crimson shroud” and sea-tomb of his war-like ancestors, — for the idea that his body might be touched by strange hands, shut in a close coffin, and laid in the earth to moulder away to wormy corruption, — had been the one fantastic dread of the sturdy old pagan’s life. And he had taken advantage of Svensen’s devotion and obedience to impress on him the paramount importance of his solitary behest.

  “Let no hypocritical prayers be chanted over my dumb corpse,” he had said. “My blood would ooze from me at every pore were I touched by the fingers of a Lutheran! Save this goodly body that has served me so well from the inferior dust, — let the bright fire wither it, and the glad sea drown it, — and my soul, beholding its end afar off, shall rejoice and be satisfied. Swear by the wrath and thunder of the gods! — swear by the unflinching Hammer of Thor, — swear by the gates of Valhalla, and in the name of Odin! — and having sworn, the curse of all these be upon thee if thou fail to keep thy vow!”

  And Valdemar had sworn. Now that the oath was kept — now that his promised obedience had been carried out to the extremest letter, he was as one stupefied. Shivering, yet regardless of the snow that began to fall thickly, he kept his post, staring, staring in drear fascination across the Fjord, where the Valkyrie drifted, now a mass of flame blown fiercely by the wind, and gleaming red through the flaky snow-storm.

  The aurora borealis faded by gradual degrees, and the flaming ship was more than ever distinctly visible. She was seen from the shore of Bosekop, by a group of the inhabitants, who, rubbing their dull eyes, could not decide whether what they beheld was fire, or a new phase of the capricious, ever-changing Northern Lights, — the rapidly descending snow rendering their vision bewildered and uncertain. Any way, they thought very little about it, — they had had excitement of another kind in the arrival of Ulrika from Talvig, bringing accounts of the godly Lovisa Elsland’s death.

  Moreover, an English steam cargo-boat, bound for the North Cape, had, just an hour previously, touched at their harbor, to land a passenger, — a mysterious woman closely veiled, who immediately on arrival had hired a sledge, and had bidden the driver to take her to the house of Olaf Güldmar, an eight miles journey through the drifted snow. All this was intensely interesting to the good, stupid, gossiping fisher-folks of Bosekop, — so much so, indeed, that they scarcely paid any heed to the spectacle of the fiery ship swaying suggestively on the heaving water, and drifting rapidly away — away towards the frosted peaks of Seiland.

  Further and further she receded, — the flames around her waving like banners in a battle — further and further still — till Valdemar Svensen, from his station on the pier, began to lose sight of her blazing timbers, — and, starting from his reverie, he ran rapidly from the shore, up through the garden paths to the farm-house, in order to gain the summit, and from that point of vantage, watch the last glimmering spark of the Viking’s burial. As he reached the house, he stopped short and uttered a wild exclamation. There, — under the porch hung with sparkling icicles, — stood Thelma! . . . Thelma, — her face pale and weary, yet smiling faintly, — Thelma with the glint of her wondrous gold hair escaping from under her hat, and glittering on the folds of her dark fur mantle.

  “I have come home, Valdemar!” said the sweet, rich, penetrating voice. “Where is my father?”

  As a man distraught, or in some dreadful dream, Valdemar approached her — the strangeness of his look and manner filled her with sudden fear, — he caught her hand and pointed to the dark Fjord — to the spot where gleamed a lurid waving wreath of flames.

  “Fröken Thelma — he is there!” he gasped in choked, hoarse tones. “there — where the gods have called him!”

  With a faint shriek of terror, Thelma’s blue eyes turned toward the shadowy water, — as she looked, a long up-twisting snake of fire appeared to leap from the perishing Valkyrie, — a snake that twined its glittering coils rapidly round and round on the wind, and as rapidly sank — down — down — to one glimmering spark which glowed redly like a floating lamp for a brief space, — and was then quenched for ever! The ship had vanished! Thelma needed no explanation, — she knew her father’s creed — she understood all. Breaking loose from Valdemar’s grasp, she rushed a few steps forward with arms outstretched on the bitter, snowy air.

  “Father! father!” she cried aloud and sobbingly. “Wait for me! — it is I Thelma! — I am coming — Father!”

  The white world around her grew black — and, shuddering like a shot bird, she fell senseless.

  Instantly Valdemar raised her from the ground, and holding her tenderly and reverently in his strong arms, carried her, as though she were a child, into the house . . . clouds darkened — the snow-storm thickened — the mountain-peaks, stern giants, frowned through their sleety veils at the arctic desolation of the land below them, — and over the charred and sunken corpse of the departed servant of Odin, sounded the solemn De Profundis of the sea.

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  “The body is the storm;

  The soul the star beyond it, in the deep

  Of Nature’s calm. And, yonder, on the steep,

  The Sun of Faith, quiescent, round, and warm!”

  Late on that same night, the pious Ulrika was engaged in prayer. Prayer with her was a sort of fanatical wrestling of the body as well as of the soul, — she was never contented unless by means of groans and contortions she could manage to work up by degrees into a condition of hysteria resembling a mild epileptic attack, in which state alone she considered herself worthy to approach the Deity. On this occasion she had some difficulty to attain the desired result — her soul, as she herself expressed it, was “dry” — and her thoughts wandered, — though she pinched her neck and arms with the hard resoluteness of a sworn flagellant, and groaned, “Lord, have mercy on me a sinner!” with indefatigable earnestness. She was considerably startled in the midst of these energetic devotions by a sudden jangling of sledge — bells, and aloud knocking — a knocking which threatened to break down the door of the small and humble house she inhabited. Hastily donning the coarse gown and bodice she had recently taken off in order to administer chastisement to her own flesh more thoroughly, she unfastened her bolts and bars, and, lifting the latch, was confronted by Valdemar Svensen, who, nearly breathless with swift driving through the snow-storm, cried out in quick gasps —

  “Come with me — come! She is dying!”

  “God help the man!” exclaimed Ulrika startled. “Who is dying?”

  “She — the Fröken Thelma — Lady Errington — she is all alone up there,” and he pointed distractedly in the direction from whence he had come. “I can get no one in Bosekop, — the women are cowards all, — all afraid to go near her,” and he wrung his hands in passionate distress.

  Ulrika pulled a thick shawl from the nail where it hung and wrapped it round her.

  “I am ready,” she said, and without more delay, stepped into the waiting sledge, while Valdemar, with an exclamation of gratitude and relief, took his place beside her. “But how is it?” she asked, as the reindeer started off at full speed, “how is it that the bonde’s daughter is again at the Altenfjord?”

  “I know not!” answered Svensen despairingly. “I would have given my life not to have told her of her father’s death.”

  “Death!” cried Ulrika. “Olaf Güldmar dead! Impossible! Only last night I saw him in the pride of his strength, — and thought I never had beheld so goodly a man. Lord, Lord! That he should be dead!”

  In a few words Svensen related all that had happened, with the exception of the fire-burial in the Fjord.

  But Ulrika immediately asked, “Is his body still in the house?”r />
  Svensen looked at her darkly. “Hast thou never heard Ulrika,” he said solemnly, “that the bodies of men who follow Olaf Güldmar’s creed, disappear as soon as the life departs from them? It is a mystery — strange and terrible! But this is true — my master’s sailing-ship has gone, and his body with it — and I know not where!”

  Ulrika surveyed him steadily with a slow, incredulous smile. After a pause, she said —

  “Fidelity in a servant is good, Valdemar Svensen! I know you well — I also know that a pagan shrinks from Christian burial. Enough said — I will ask no more — but if Olaf Güldmar’s ship’s has gone, and he with it, — I warn you, the village will wonder.”

  “I cannot help it,” said Svensen with cold brevity. “I have spoken truth — he has gone! I saw him die — and then vanish. Believe it or not as you will, I care not!”

  And he drove on in silence. Ulrika was silent too.

  She had known Valdemar Svensen for many years — he was a man universally liked and respected at all the harbors and different fishing-stations of Norway, and his life was an open book to everybody, with the exception of one page, which was turned down and sealed, — this was the question of his religious belief. No one knew what form of faith he followed, — it was only when he went to live with the bonde, after Thelma’s marriage, — that the nature of his creed was dimly suspected. But Ulrika had no dislike for him on this account, — her opinions had changed very much during the past few months. As devout a Lutheran as ever, she began to entertain a little more of the true spirit of Christianity — that spirit of gentle and patient tolerance which, full of forbearance towards all humanity, is willing to admit the possibility of a little good in everything, even in the blind tenets of a heathen creed. Part of this alteration in her was due to the gratitude she secretly felt towards the Güldmar family, for having saved from destruction, — albeit unconscious of his parentage, — Sigurd, the child she had attempted to murder. The hideous malevolence of Lovisa Elsland’s nature had shown her that there may be bad Lutherans, — the invariable tenderness displayed by the Güldmars for her unrecognized, helpless and distraught son, — had proved to her that there may be good heathens. Hearing thus suddenly of the bonde’s death, she was strangely affected — she could almost have wept. She felt perfectly convinced that Svensen had made away with his master’s body by some mysterious rite connected with pagan belief, — she knew that Güldmar himself, according to rumor, had buried his own wife in some unknown spot, with strange and weird ceremonials, but she was inclined to be tolerant, — and glancing at Svensen’s grave, pained face from time to time as she sat beside him in the sledge, she resolved to ask him no more questions on the subject, but to accept and support, if necessary, the theory he had so emphatically set forth, — namely, the mystical evanishment of the corpse by some supernatural agency.