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

by Marie Corelli

  Time passed on — and yet there was no news from Sir Philip. One night, sitting beside her exhausted patient, Ulrika fancied she saw a change on the wan face — a softer, more, peaceful look than had been there for many days. Half in fear, half in hope, she watched, — Thelma seemed to sleep, — but presently her large blue eyes opened with a calm yet wondering expression in their clear depths. She turned slightly on her pillows, and smiled faintly.

  “Have I been ill?” she asked.

  “Yes, my dear,” returned Ulrika softly, overjoyed, yet afraid at the girl’s returning intelligence. “Very ill. But you feel better now, don’t you?”

  Thelma sighed, and raising her little wasted hand, examined it curiously. Her wedding and betrothal rings were so loose on her finger that they would have fallen off had they been held downwards. She seemed surprised at this, but made no remark. For some time she remained quiet, steadfastly gazing at Ulrika, and evidently trying to make out who she was. Presently she spoke again.

  “I remember everything now,” she said, slowly. “I am at home, at the Altenfjord — and I know how I came — and also why I came.” Here her lips quivered. “And I shall see my father no more, for he has gone — and I am all — all alone in the world!” She paused — then added, “Do you think I am dying? If so, I am very glad!”

  “Hush my dear!” said Ulrika. “You mustn’t talk in that way. Your husband is coming presently—” she broke off suddenly, startled at the look of utter despair in Thelma’s eyes.

  “You are wrong,” she replied wearily. “He will not come — he cannot! He does not want me any more!”

  And two large tears rolled slowly down her pale cheeks. Ulrika wondered, but forebore to pursue the subject further, fearing to excite or distress her, — and contented herself for the present with attending to her patient’s bodily needs. She went to the fire, and began to pour out some nourishing soup, which she always had there in readiness, — and while she was thus engaged, Thelma’s brain cleared more and more, — till with touching directness, and a new hope flushing her face, she asked softly and beseechingly for her child. “I forgot!” she said simply and sweetly. “Of course I am not alone any more. Do give me my baby — I am much better — nearly well — and I should like to kiss it.”

  Ulrika stood mute, taken aback by this demand. She dared not tell her the truth — she feared its effect on the sensitive mind that had so lately regained its balance. But while she hesitated, Thelma instinctively guessed all she strove to hide.

  “It is dead!” she cried. “Dead! — and I never knew!”

  And, burying her golden head in her pillows, she broke into a passion of convulsive sobbing. Ulrika grew positively desperate at the sound, — what was she to do? Everything seemed to go against her — she was inclined to cry herself. She embraced the broken-hearted girl, and tried to soothe her, but in vain. The long delirium and subsequent weakness, — combined with the secret trouble on her mind, — had deprived poor Thelma of all resisting power, and she wept on and on in Ulrika’s arms till nature was exhausted, and she could weep no longer. Then she lay motionless, with closed eyes, utterly drained in body and spirit, scarcely breathing, and, save for a shivering moan that now and then escaped her, she seemed almost insensible. Ulrika watched her with darkening, meditative brows, — she listened to the rush of the storm-wind without, — it was past eleven o’clock at night. She began to count on her fingers — it was the sixteenth day since the birth of the child, — sixteen days exactly since she had written to Sir Philip Errington, informing him of his wife’s danger — and the danger was not yet past. Thinking over all that had happened, and the apparent hopelessness of the case, she suddenly took a strange idea into her head. Retiring to a distant corner, she dropped on her knees.

  “O Lord, God Almighty!” she said in a fierce whisper, “Behold, I have been Thy servant until now! I have wrestled with Thee in prayer till I am past all patience! If Thou wilt not hear my petition, why callest Thou Thyself good? Is it good to crush the already fallen? Is it good to have no mercy on the sorrowful? Wilt Thou condemn the innocent without reason? If so, thou art not the Holy One I imagined! Send forth Thy power now — now, while there is time! Rescue her that is lying under the shadow of death — for how has she offended Thee that she should die? Delay no longer, or how shall I put my trust in Thee? Send help speedily from Thine everlasting habitations — or, behold! I do forsake Thee — and my soul shall seek elsewhere for Eternal Justice!”

  As she finished this extraordinary, half-threatening, and entirely blasphemous petition, the boisterous gale roared wildly round the house joining in chorus with the stormy dash of waves upon the coast — a chorus that seemed to Ulrika’s ears like the sound of fiendish and derisive laughter.

  She stood listening, — a trifle scared — yet with a sort of fanatical defiance written on her face, and she waited in sullen patience evidently expecting an immediate answer to her outrageous prayer. She felt somewhat like a demagogue of the people, who boldly menaces an all-powerful sovereign, even while in dread of instant execution. There was a sharp patter of sleet on the window, — she glanced nervously at Thelma, who, perfectly still on her couch, looked more like a white, recumbent statue than a living woman. The wind shook the doors, and whistled shrilly through the crevices, — then, as though tired of its own wrath, surged away in hoarse murmurs over the tops of the creaking pines towards the Fjord, and there was a short, impressive silence.

  Ulrika still waited — almost holding her breath in expectation of some divine manifestation. The brief stillness grew unbearable.. . . Hush! What was that! Jingle — jangle — jingle — jangle! — Bells! Sledge bells tinkling musically and merrily — and approaching swiftly, nearer — nearer! Now the sharp trotting roofs on the hard snow — then a sudden slackening of speed — the little metallic chimes rang slower and yet more slowly, till with a decisive and melodious clash they stopped!

  Ulrika’s heart beat thickly — her face flushed — she advanced to Thelma’s bedside, hoping, fearing, — she knew not what. There was a tread of firm, yet hurried, footsteps without — a murmur of subdued voices — a half-suppressed exclamation of surprise and relief from Valdemar, — and then the door of the room was hastily thrown open, and a man’s tall figure, draped in what seemed to be a garment of frozen snowflakes, stood on the threshold. The noise startled Thelma — she opened her beautiful, tired, blue eyes. Ah! what a divine rapture, — what a dazzling wonder and joy flashed into them, giving them back their old lustre of sunlight sparkling on azure sea! She sprang up in her bed and stretched out her arms.

  “Philip!” she cried sobbingly. “Philip! oh my darling! Try — try to love me again! . . . just a little! — before I die!”

  As she spoke she was clasped to his breast, — folded to his heart in that strong, jealous, passionate embrace with which we who love, would fain shield our nearest and dearest from even the shadow of evil — his lips closed on hers, — and in the sacred stillness that followed, Ulrika slipped from the room, leaving husband and wife alone together.

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  “I have led her home, my love, my only friend;

  There is none like her, none!

  And never yet so warmly ran my blood,

  And sweetly on and on,

  Calming itself to the long-wished-for end,

  Full to the banks, close on the promised good.”

  TENNYSON.

  Britta was in the kitchen, dragging off her snow-wet cloak and fur 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 Fröken 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 Fröken, 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 Fröken — 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 Fröken, — 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 Güldmar’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 “Fröken,” 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.