Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Be it so!” he said briefly. “I cover the blade! You are men; like men you speak truth. As such, I receive you! Had you told me a lie concerning your coming here, — had you made pretense of having lost your way, or other such shifty evasion, your path would never have again crossed mine. As it is, — welcome!”

  And he held out his hand with a sort of royal dignity, still resting one foot on the fallen weapon. The young men, struck by his action and gratified by his change of manner and the genial expression that now softened his rugged features, were quick to respond to his friendly greeting, and the bonde, picking up and re-sheathing his hunting-knife as if he had done nothing at all out of the common, motioned them towards the very window on which their eyes had been so long and so ardently fixed.

  “Come!” he said. “You must drain a cup of wine with me before you leave. Your unguided footsteps led you by the wrong path, — I saw your boat moored to my pier, and wondered who had been venturesome enough to trample through my woodland. I might have guessed that only a couple of idle boys like yourselves, knowing no better, would have pushed their way to a spot that all worthy dwellers in Bosekop, and all true followers of the Lutheran devilry, avoid as though the plague were settled in it.”

  And the old man laughed, a splendid, mellow laugh, with the ring of true jollity in it, — a laugh that was infectious, for Errington and Lorimer joined in it heartily without precisely knowing why. Lorimer, however, thought it seemly to protest against the appellation “idle boys.”

  “What do you take us for, sir?” he said with lazy good-nature. “I carry upon my shoulders the sorrowful burden of twenty-six years, — Philip, there, is painfully conscious of being thirty, — may we not therefore dispute the word ‘boys’ as being derogatory to our dignity? You called us ‘men’ a while ago, — remember that!”

  Olaf Güldmar laughed again. His suspicious gravity had entirely disappeared, leaving his face a beaming mirror of beneficence and good-humor.

  “So you are men,” he said cheerily, “men in the bud, like leaves on a tree. But you seem boys to a tough old stump of humanity such as I am. That is my way, — my child Thelma, though they tell me she is a woman grown, is always a babe to me. ’Tis one of the many privileges of the old, to see the world about them always young and full of children.”

  And he led the way past the wide-open lattice, where they could dimly perceive the spinning-wheel standing alone, as though thinking deeply of the fair hands that had lately left it idle, and so round to the actual front of the house, which was exceedingly picturesque, and literally overgrown with roses from ground to roof. The entrance door stood open; — it was surrounded by a wide, deep porch richly carved and grotesquely ornamented, having two comfortable seats within it, one on each side. Through this they went, involuntarily brushing down as they passed, a shower of pink and white rose-leaves, and stepped into a wide passage, where upon walls of dark, polished pine, hung a large collection of curiously shaped weapons, all of primitive manufacture, such as stone darts and rough axes, together with bows and arrows and two-handled swords, huge as the fabled weapon of William Wallace.

  Opening a door to the right the bonde stood courteously aside and bade them enter, and they found themselves in the very apartment where they had seen the maiden spinning.

  “Sit down, sit down!” said their host hospitably. “We will have wine directly, and Thelma shall come hither. Thelma! Thelma! Where is the child? She wanders hither and thither like a mountain sprite. Wait here, my lads, I shall return directly.”

  And he strode away, leaving Errington and Lorimer delighted at the success of their plans, yet somewhat abashed too. There was a peace and gentle simplicity about the little room in which they were, that touched the chivalrous sentiment in their natures and kept them silent. On one side of it, half a dozen broad shelves supported a goodly row of well-bound volumes, among which the time-honored golden names of Shakespeare and Scott glittered invitingly, together with such works as Chapman’s Homer, Byron’s “Childe Harold,” the Poems of John Keats, Gibbon’s Rome, and Plutarch; while mingled with these were the devotional works in French of Alphonse de Liguori, the “Imitation,” also in French, — and a number of books with titles in Norwegian, — altogether an heterogenous collection of literature, yet not without interest as displaying taste and culture on the part of those to whom it belonged. Errington, himself learned in books, was surprised to see so many standard works in the library of one who professed to be nothing but a Norwegian farmer, and his respect for the sturdy old bonde increased. There were no pictures in the room, — the wide lattice window on one hand, looking out on the roses and pine-wood, and the other smaller one, close to the entrance door, from which the Fjord was distinctly visible, were sufficient pictures in themselves, to need no others. The furniture was roughly made of pine, and seemed to have been carved by hand, — some of the chairs were very quaint and pretty and would have sold in a bric-a-brac shop for more than a sovereign apiece. On the wide mantle-shelf was a quantity of curious old china that seemed to have been picked up from all parts of the world, — most of it was undoubtedly valuable. In one dark corner stood an ancient harp; then there was the spinning-wheel, — itself a curiosity fit for a museum, — testifying dumbly of the mistress of all these surroundings, and on the floor there was something else, — something that both the young men were strongly inclined to take possession of. It was only a bunch of tiny meadow daisies, fastened together with a bit of blue silk. It had fallen, — they guessed by whom it had been worn, — but neither made any remark, and both, by some strange instinct, avoided looking at it, as though the innocent little blossoms carried within them some terrible temptation. They were conscious of a certain embarrassment, and making an effort to break through it, Lorimer remarked softly —

  “By Jove, Phil, if this old Güldmar really knew what you are up to, I believe he would bundle you out of this place like a tramp! Didn’t you feel a sneak when he said we had told the truth like men?”

  Philip smiled dreamily. He was seated in one of the quaintly carved chairs, half absorbed in what was evidently a pleasing reverie.

  “No; not exactly,” he replied. “Because we did tell him the truth; we did want to know him, and he’s worth knowing too! He is a magnificent-looking fellow; don’t you think so?”

  “Rather!” assented Lorimer, with emphasis. “I wish there were any hope of my becoming such a fine old buffer in my decadence, — it would be worth living for if only to look at myself in the glass now and then. He rather startled me when he threw down that knife, though. I suppose it is some old Norwegian custom?”

  “I suppose so,” Errington answered, and then was silent, for at that moment the door opened and the old farmer returned, followed by a girl bearing a tray glittering with flasks of Italian wine, and long graceful glasses shaped like round goblets, set on particularly slender stems. The sight of the girl disappointed the eager visitors, for though she was undeniably pretty, she was not Thelma. She was short and plump, with rebellious nut-brown locks, that rippled about her face and from under her close white cap with persistent untidiness. Her cheeks were as round and red as lore-apples, and she had dancing blue eyes that appeared for ever engaged in good-natured efforts to outsparkle each other. She wore a spotless apron, lavishly trimmed with coquettish little starched frills, — her hands were, unfortunately, rather large and coarse, — but her smile, as she set down the tray and curtsied respectfully to the young men, was charming, disclosing as it did, tiny teeth as even and white as a double row of small pearls.

  “That is well, Britta,” said Güldmar, speaking in English, and assisting her to place the glasses. “Now, quick! . . . run after thy mistress to the shore, — her boat cannot yet have left the creek, — bid her return and come to me, — tell her there are friends here who will be glad of her presence.”

  Britta hurried away at once, but Errington’s heart sank. Thelma had gone! — gone, most probably, for one of those erratic jou
rneys across the Fjord to the cave where he had first seen her. She would not come back, he felt certain; not even at her father’s request would that beautiful, proud maiden consent to alter her plans. What an unlucky destiny was his! Absorbed in disappointed reflections, he scarcely heard the enthusiastic praises Lorimer was diplomatically bestowing on the bonde’s wine. He hardly felt its mellow flavor on his own palate, though it was in truth delicious, and fit for the table of a monarch. Güldmar noticed the young baronet’s abstraction, and addressed him with genial kindness.

  “Are you thinking, Sir Philip, of my rough speeches to you yonder? No offense was meant, no offense! . . .” the old fellow paused, and laughed over his wine-glass. “Yet I may as well be honest about it! Offense was meant; but when I found that none was taken, my humor changed.”

  A slight, half-weary smile played on Errington’s lips. “I assure you, sir,” he said, “I agreed with you then and agree with you now in every word you uttered. You took my measure very correctly, and allow me to add that no one can be more conscious of my own insignificance that I am myself. The days we live in are insignificant; the chronicle of our paltry doings will be skipped by future readers of the country’s history. Among a society of particularly useless men, I feel myself to be one of the most useless. If you could show me any way to make my life valuable—”

  He paused abruptly, and his heart beat with inexplicable rapidity. A light step and the rustle of a dress was heard coming through the porch; another perfumed shower of rose-leaves fell softly on the garden path; the door of the room opened, and a tall, fair, white-robed figure shone forth from the dark background of the outer passage; a figure that hesitated on the threshold, and then advanced noiselessly and with a reluctant shyness. The old bonde turned round in his chair with a smile.

  “Ah, here she is!” he said fondly. “Where hast thou been, my Thelma?”

  CHAPTER VI.

  “And Sigurd the Bishop said,

  ‘The old gods are not dead,

  For the great Thor still reigns,

  And among the Jarls and Thanes

  The old witchcraft is spread.’”

  LONGFELLOW’S Saga of King Olaf.

  The girl stood silent, and a faint blush crimsoned her cheeks. The young men had risen at her entrance, and in one fleeting glance she recognized Errington, though she gave no sign to that effect.

  “See, my darling,” continued her father, “here are English visitors to Norway. This is Sir Philip Errington, who travels through our wild waters in the great steam yacht now at anchor in the Fjord; and this is his friend, Mr. — Mr. — Lorimer, — have I caught your name rightly, my lad?” he continued, turning to George Lorimer with a kindly smile.

  “You have, sir,” answered that gentleman promptly, and then he was mute, feeling curiously abashed in the presence of this royal-looking young lady, who, encircled by her father’s arm, raised her deep, dazzling blue eyes, and serenely bent her stately head to him as his name was mentioned.

  The old farmer went on, “Welcome them, Thelma mine! — friends are scarce in these days, and we must not be ungrateful for good company. What! what! I know honest lads when I see them! Smile on them, my Thelma! — and then we will warm their hearts with another cup of wine.”

  As he spoke, the maiden advanced with a graceful, even noble air, and extending both her hands to each of the visitors in turn, she said —

  “I am your servant, friends; in entering this house you do possess it. Peace and heart’s greeting!”

  The words were a literal translation of a salutation perfectly common in many parts of Norway — a mere ordinary expression of politeness; but, uttered in the tender, penetrating tones, of the most musical voice they had ever heard, and accompanied by the warm, frank, double handclasp of those soft, small, daintily shaped hands, the effect on the minds of the generally self-possessed, fashionably bred young men of the world, was to confuse and bewilder them to the last degree. What could they answer to this poetical, quaint formula of welcome? The usual latitudes, such as “Delighted, I’m sure;” or, “Most happy — am charmed to meet you?” No; these remarks, deemed intelligent by the lady rulers of London drawing-rooms, would, they felt, never do here. As well put a gentleman in modern evening dress en face with a half-nude scornfully beautiful statue of Apollo, as trot out threadbare, insincere commonplaces in the hearing of this clear-eyed child of nature, whose pure, perfect face seemed to silently repel the very passing shadow of a falsehood.

  Philip’s brain whirled round and about in search of some suitable reply, but could find none; and Lorimer felt himself blushing like a schoolboy, as he stammered out something incoherent and eminently foolish, though he had sense enough left to appreciate the pressure of those lovely hands as long as it lasted.

  Thelma, however, appeared not to notice their deep embarrassment — she had not yet done with them. Taking the largest goblet on the table, she filled it to the brim with wine, and touched it with her lips, — then with a smile in which a thousand radiating sunbeams seemed to quiver and sparkle, she lifted it towards Errington. The grace of her attitude and action wakened him out of his state of dreamy bewilderment — in his soul he devoutly blessed these ancient family customs, and arose to the occasion like a man. Clasping with a tender reverence the hands that upheld the goblet, he bent his handsome head and drank a deep draught, while his dark curls almost touched her fair ones, — and then an insane jealousy possessed him for a moment, as he watched her go through the same ceremony with Lorimer.

  She next carried the now more than half-emptied cup to the bonde, and said as she held it, laughing softly —

  “Drink it all, father! — if you leave a drop, you know these gentlemen will quarrel with us, or you with them.”

  “That is true!” said Olaf Güldmar with great gravity; “but it will not be my fault, child, nor the fault of wasted wine.”

  And he drained the glass to its dregs and set it upside down on the table with a deep sigh of satisfaction and refreshment. The ceremony concluded, it was evident the ice of reserve was considered broken, for Thelma seated herself like a young queen, and motioned her visitors to do the same with a gesture of gracious condescension.

  “How did you find your way here?” she asked with sweet, yet direct abruptness, giving Sir Philip a quick glance, in which there was a sparkle of mirth, though her long lashes veiled it almost instantly.

  Her entire lack of stiffness and reserve set the young men at their ease, and they fell into conversation freely, though Errington allowed Lorimer to tell the story of their trespass in his own fashion without interference. He instinctively felt that the young lady who listened with so demure a smile to that plausible narrative, knew well enough the real motive that had brought them thither though she apparently had her own reasons for keeping silence on the point, as whatever she may have thought, she said nothing.

  Lorimer skillfully avoided betraying the fact that they had watched her through the window, and had listened to her singing. And Thelma heard all the explanations patiently till Bosekop was mentioned, and then her fair face grew cold and stern.

  “From whom did you hear of us there?” she inquired. “We do not mix with the people, — why should they speak of us?”

  “The truth is,” interposed Errington, resting his eyes with a sense of deep delight on the beautiful rounded figure and lovely features that were turned towards him, “I heard of you first through my pilot — one Valdemar Svensen.”

  “Ha, ha!” cried old Güldmar with some excitement, “there is a fellow who cannot hold his tongue! What have I said to thee, child? A bachelor is no better than a gossiping old woman. He that is always alone must talk, if it be only to woods and waves. It is the married men who know best how excellent it is to keep silence!”

  They all laughed, though Thelma’s eyes had a way of looking pensive even when she smiled.

  “You would not blame poor Svensen because he is alone, father?” she said. “Is he not to be pi
tied? Surely it is a cruel fate to have none to love in all the wide world. Nothing can be more cruel!”

  Güldmar surveyed her humorously. “Hear her!” he said. “She talks as if she knew all about such things; and if ever a child was ignorant of sorrow, surely it is my Thelma! Every flower and bird in the place loves her. Yes; I have thought sometimes the very sea loves her. It must; she is so much upon it. And as for her old father” — he laughed a little, though a suspicious moisture softened his keen eyes— “why, he doesn’t love her at all. Ask her! She knows it.”

  Thelma rose quickly and kissed him. How deliciously those sweet lips pouted, thought Errington, and what an unreasonable and extraordinary grudge he seemed to bear towards the venerable bonde for accepting that kiss with so little apparent emotion!

  “Hush, father!” she said. “These friends can see too plainly how much you spoil me. Tell me,” — and she turned with a sudden pretty imperiousness to Lorimer, who started at her voice as a racehorse starts at its rider’s touch,— “what person in Bosekop spoke of us?”

  Lorimer was rather at a loss, inasmuch as no one in the small town had actually spoken of them, and Mr. Dyceworthy’s remarks concerning those who were “ejected with good reason from respectable society,” might not, after all, have applied to the Güldmar family. Indeed, it now seemed an absurd and improbable supposition. Therefore he replied cautiously —

  “The Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy, I think, has some knowledge of you. Is he not a friend of yours?”

  These simple words had a most unexpected effect. Olaf Güldmar sprang up from his seat flaming with wrath. It was in vain that his daughter laid a restraining hand upon his arm. The name of the Lutheran divine had sufficed to put him in a towering passion, and he turned furiously upon the astonished Errington.

  “Had I known you came from the devil, sir, you should have returned to him speedily, with hot words to hasten your departure! I would have split that glass to atoms before I would have drained it after you! The friends of a false heart are no friends for me, — the followers of a pretended sanctity find no welcome under my roof! Why not have told me at once that you came as spies, hounded on by the liar Dyceworthy? Why not have confessed it openly? .. . . and not have played the thief’s trick on an old fool, who, for once, misled by your manly and upright bearing, consented to lay aside the rightful suspicions he at first entertained of your purpose? Shame on you, young men! shame!”