“Don’t ye want to get on in the world?” asked Macfarlane, almost brusquely.
“Dear me, no! What an exhausting idea! Get on in the world — what for? I have five hundred a year, and when my mother goes over to the majority (long distant be that day, for I’m very fond of the dear old lady), I shall have five thousand — more than enough to satisfy any sane man who doesn’t want to speculate on the Stock Exchange. Your case, my good Mac, is different. You will be a celebrated Scotch divine. You will preach to a crowd of pious numskulls about predestination, and so forth. You will be stump-orator for the securing of seats in paradise. Now, now, keep calm! — don’t mind me. It’s only a figure of speech! And the numskulls will call you a ‘rare powerful rousin’ preacher’ — isn’t that the way they go on? and when you die — for die you must, most unfortunately — they will give you a three-cornered block of granite (if they can make up their minds to part with the necessary bawbees) with your name prettily engraved thereon. That’s all very nice; it suits some people. It wouldn’t suit me.”
“What would suit you?” queried Errington. “You find everything more or less of a bore.”
“Ah, my good little boy!” broke in Duprèz. “Paris is the place for you. You should live in Paris. Of that you would never fatigue yourself.”
“Too much absinthe, secret murder and suicidal mania,” returned Lorimer, meditatively. “That was a neat idea about the coffins though. I never hoped to dine off a coffin.”
“Ah! you mean the Taverne de l’Enfer?” exclaimed Duprèz. “Yes; the divine waitresses wore winding sheets, and the wine was served in imitation skulls. Excellent! I remember; the tables were shaped like coffins.”
“Gude Lord Almighty!” piously murmured Macfarlane. “What a fearsome sicht!”
As he pronounced these words with an unusually marked accent, Duprèz looked inquiring.
“What does our Macfarlane say?”
“He says it must have been a ‘fearsome sicht,’” repeated Lorimer, with even a stronger accent than Sanby’s own, “which, mon cher Pierre, means all the horrors in your language; affreux, epouvantable, navrant — anything you like, that is sufficiently terrible.”
“Mais, point du tout!” cried Duprèz energetically. “It was charming! It made us laugh at death — so much better than to cry! And there was a delicious child in a winding-sheet; brown curls, laughing eyes and little mouth; ha ha! but she was well worth kissing!”
“I’d rather follow ma own funeral, than kiss a lass in a winding-sheet,” said Sandy, in solemn and horrified tones. “It’s just awfu’ to think on.”
“But, see, my friend,” persisted Duprèz, “you would not be permitted to follow your own funeral, not possible, — voilà! You are permitted to kiss the pretty one in the winding-sheet. It is possible. Behold the difference!”
“Never mind the Taverne de l’Enfer just now,” said Errington, who had finished his breakfast hurriedly. “It’s time for you fellows to get your fishing toggery on. I’m off to speak to the pilot.”
And away he went, followed more slowly by Lorimer, who, though he pretended indifference, was rather curious to know more, if possible, concerning his friend’s adventure of the morning. They found the pilot, Valdemar Svensen, leaning at his ease against the idle wheel, with his face turned towards the eastern sky. He was a stalwart specimen of Norse manhood, tall and strongly built, with thoughtful, dignified features, and keen, clear hazel eyes. His chestnut hair, plentifully sprinkled with gray, clustered thickly over a broad brow, that was deeply furrowed with many a line of anxious and speculative thought, and the forcible brown hand that rested lightly on the spokes of the wheel, told its own tale of hard and honest labor. Neither wife nor child, nor living relative had Valdemar; the one passion of his heart was the sea. Sir Philip Errington had engaged him at Christiansund, hearing of him there as a man to whom the intricacies of the Fjords, and the dangers of rock-bound coasts, were more familiar than a straight road on dry lake, and since then the management of the Eulalie had been entirely entrusted to him. Though an eminently practical sailor, he was half a mystic, and believed in the wildest legends of his land with more implicit faith than many so-called Christians believe in their sacred doctrines. He doffed his red cap respectfully now as Errington and Lorimer approached, smilingly wishing them “a fair day.” Sir Philip offered him a cigar, and, coming to the point at once, asked abruptly —
“I say, Svensen, are there any pretty girls in Bosekop?”
The pilot drew the newly lit cigar from his mouth, and passed his rough hand across his forehead in a sort of grave perplexity.
“It is a matter in which I am foolish,” he said at last, “for my ways have always gone far from the ways of women. Girls there are plenty, I suppose, but—” he mused with pondering patience for awhile. Then a broad smile broke like sunshine over his embrowned countenance, as he continued, “Now, gentlemen, I do remember well; it is said that at Bosekop yonder, are to be found some of the homeliest wenches in all Norway.”
Errington’s face fell at this reply. Lorimer turned away to hide the mischievous smile that came on his lips at his friend’s discomfiture.
“I know it was that Chartreuse,” he thought to himself. “That and the midnight sun-effects. Nothing else!”
“What!” went on Philip. “No good-looking girls at all about here, eh?”
Svensen shook his head, still smilingly.
“Not at Bosekop, sir, that I ever heard of.”
“I say!” broke in Lorimer, “are there any old tombs or sea-caves, or places of that sort close by, worth exploring?”
Valdemar Svensen answered this question readily, almost eagerly.
“No, sir! There are no antiquities of any sort; and as for caves, there are plenty, but only the natural formations of the sea, and none of these are curious or beautiful on this side of the Fjord.”
Lorimer poked his friend secretly in the ribs.
“You’ve been dreaming, old fellow!” he whispered slyly. “I knew it was a crammer!”
Errington shook him off good-humoredly.
“Can you tell me,” he said, addressing Valdemar again in distinct accents, “whether there is any place, person, or thing near here called Thelma?”
The pilot started; a look of astonishment and fear came into his eyes; his hand went instinctively to his red cap, as though in deference to the name.
“The Fröken Thelma!” he exclaimed, in low tones. “Is it possible that you have seen her?”
“Ah, George, what do you say now?” cried Errington delightedly. “Yes, yes, Valdemar; the Fröken Thelma, as you call her. Who is she? . . . What is she? — and how can there be no pretty girls in Bosekop if such a beautiful creature as she lives there?”
Valdemar looked troubled and vexed.
“Truly, I thought not of the maiden,” he said gravely. “’Tis not for me to speak of the daughter of Olaf,” here his voice sank a little, and his face grew more and more sombre. “Pardon me, sir, but how did you meet her?”
“By accident,” replied Errington promptly, not caring to relate his morning’s adventure for the pilot’s benefit. “Is she some great personage here?”
Svensen sighed, and smiled somewhat dubiously.
“Great? Oh, no; not what you would call great. Her father, Olaf Güldmar, is a bonde, — that is, a farmer in his own right. He has a goodly house, and a few fair acres well planted and tilled, — also he pays his men freely, — but those that work for him are all he sees, — neither he nor his daughter ever visit the town. They dwell apart, and have nothing in common with their neighbors.”
“And where do they live?” asked Lorimer, becoming as interested as he had formerly been incredulous.
The pilot leaned lightly over the rail of the deck and pointed towards the west.
“You see that great rock shaped like a giant’s helmet, and behind it a high green knoll, clustered thick with birch and pine?”
They nodded assent.
“At the side of the knoll is the bonde’s house, a good eight-mile walk from the outskirts of Bosekop. Should you ever seek to rest there, gentlemen,” and Svensen spoke with quiet resolution, “I doubt whether you will receive a pleasant welcome.”
And he looked at them both with an inquisitive air, as though seeking to discover their intentions.
“Is that so?” drawled Lorimer lazily, giving his friend an expressive nudge. “Ah! We shan’t trouble them! Thanks for your information, Valdemar! We don’t intend to hunt up the — what d’ye call him? — the bonde, if he’s at all surly. Hospitality that gives you greeting and a dinner for nothing, — that’s what suits me.”
“Our people are not without hospitality,” said the pilot, with a touch of wistful and appealing dignity. “All along your journey, gentlemen, you have been welcomed gladly, as you know. But Olaf Güldmar is not like the rest of us; he has the pride and fierceness of olden days; his manners and customs are different; and few like him. He is much feared.”
“You know him then?” inquired Errington carelessly.
“I know him,” returned Valdemar quietly. “And his daughter is fair as the sun and the sea. But it is not my place to speak of them — .” He broke off, and after a slightly embarrassed pause, asked, “Will the Herren wish to sail to-day?”
“No Valdemar,” answered Errington indifferently. “Not till to-morrow, when we’ll visit the Kaa Fjord if the weather keeps fair.”
“Very good, sir,” and the pilot, tacitly avoiding any further converse with his employer respecting the mysterious Thelma and her equally mysterious father, turned to examine the wheel and compass as though something there needed his earnest attention. Errington and Lorimer strolled up and down the polished white deck arm-in-arm, talking in low tones.
“You didn’t ask him about the coffin and the dwarf,” said Lorimer.
“No; because I believe he knows nothing of either, and it would be news to him which I’m not bound to give. If I can manage to see the girl again the mystery of the cave may explain itself.”
“Well, what are you going to do?”
Errington looked meditative. “Nothing at present. We’ll go fishing with the others. But, I tell you what, if you’re up to it, we’ll leave Duprèz and Macfarlane at the minister’s house this evening and tell them to wait for us there, — once they all begin to chatter they never know how time goes. Meanwhile you and I will take the boat and row over in search of this farmer’s abode. I believe there’s a short cut to it by water; at any rate I know the way she went.”
“‘I know the way she went home with her maiden posy!’” quoted Lorimer, with a laugh. “You are hit Phil, ‘a very palpable hit’! Who would have thought it! Clara Winsleigh needn’t poison her husband after all in-order to marry you, for nothing but a sun-empress will suit you now.”
“Don’t be a fool, George,” said Errington, half vexedly, as the hot color mounted to his face in spite of himself. “It is all idle curiosity, nothing else. After what Svensen told us, I’m quite as anxious to see this gruff old bonde as his daughter.”
Lorimer held up a reproachful finger. “Now, Phil, don’t stoop to duplicity — not with me, at any rate. Why disguise your feelings? Why, as the tragedians say, endeavor to crush the noblest and best emotions that ever warm the boo-zum of man? Chivalrous sentiment and admiration for beauty, — chivalrous desire to pursue it and catch it and call it your own, — I understand it all, my dear boy! But my prophetic soul tells me you will have to strangle the excellent Olaf Güldmar — heavens! what a name! — before you will be allowed to make love to his fair chee-ild. Then don’t forget the madman with the torch, — he may turn up in the most unexpected fashion and give you no end of trouble. But, by Jove, it is a romantic affair, positively quite stagey! Something will come of it, serious or comic. I wonder which?”
Errington laughed, but said nothing in reply, as their two companions ascended from the cabin at that moment, in full attire for the fishing expedition, followed by the steward bearing a large basket of provisions for luncheon, — and all private conversation came to an end. Hastening the rest of their preparations, within twenty minutes they were skimming across the Fjord in a long boat manned by four sailors, who rowed with a will and sent the light craft scudding through the water with the swiftness of an arrow. Landing, they climbed the dewy hills spangled thick with forget-me-nots and late violets, till they reached a shady and secluded part of the river, where, surrounded by the songs of hundreds of sweet-throated birds, they commenced their sport, which kept them, well employed till a late hour in the afternoon.
CHAPTER IV.
“Thou art violently carried away from grace; there is a devil haunts thee in the likeness of a fat old man, — a tun of man is thy companion.” SHAKESPEARE.
The Reverend Charles Dyceworthy sat alone in the small dining-room of his house at Bosekop, finishing a late tea, and disposing of round after round of hot buttered toast with that suave alacrity he always displayed in the consumption of succulent eatables. He was a largely made man, very much on the wrong side of fifty, with accumulations of unwholesome fat on every available portion of his body. His round face was cleanly shaven and shiny, as though its flabby surface were frequently polished with some sort of luminous grease instead of the customary soap. His mouth was absurdly small and pursy for so broad a countenance, — his nose seemed endeavoring to retreat behind his puffy cheeks as though painfully aware of its own insignificance, — and he had little, sharp, ferret-like eyes of a dull mahogany brown, which were utterly destitute of even the faintest attempt at any actual expression. They were more like glass beads than eyes, and glittered under their scanty fringe of pale-colored lashes with a sort of shallow cunning which might mean malice or good-humor, — no one looking at them could precisely determine which. His hair was of an indefinite shade, neither light nor dark, somewhat of the tinge of a dusty potato before it is washed clean. It was neatly brushed and parted in the middle with mathematical precision, while from the back of his head it was brought forward in two projections, one on each side, like budding wings behind his ears. It was impossible for the most fastidious critic to find fault with the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy’s hands. He had beautiful hands, white, soft, plump and well-shaped, — his delicate filbert nails were trimmed with punctilious care, and shone with a pink lustre that was positively charming. He was evidently an amiable man, for he smiled to himself over his tea, — he had a trick of smiling, — ill-natured people said he did it on purpose, in order to widen his mouth and make it more in pro-portion to the size of his face. Such remarks, however, emanated only from the spiteful and envious who could not succeed in winning the social popularity that everywhere attended Mr. Dyceworthy’s movements. For he was undoubtedly popular, — no one could deny that. In the small Yorkshire town where he usually had his abode, he came little short of being adored by the women of his own particular sect, who crowded to listen to his fervent discourses, and came away from them on the verge of hysteria, so profoundly moved were their sensitive souls by his damnatory doctrines. The men were more reluctant in their admiration, yet even they were always ready to admit “that he was an excellent fellow, with his heart in the right place.”
He had a convenient way of getting ill at the proper seasons, and of requiring immediate change of air, whereupon his grateful flock were ready and willing to subscribe the money necessary for their beloved preacher to take repose and relaxation in any part of the world he chose. This year, however, they had not been asked to furnish the usual funds for travelling expenses, for the resident minister of Bosekop, a frail, gentle old man, had been seriously prostrated during the past winter with an affection of the lungs, which necessitated his going to a different climate for change and rest. Knowing Dyceworthy as a zealous member of the Lutheran persuasion, and, moreover, as one who had in his youth lived for some years in Christiania, — thereby gaining a knowledge of the Norwegian tongue, — he invited him to take his place
for his enforced time of absence, offering him his house, his servants, his pony-carriage and an agreeable pecuniary douceur in exchange for his services, — proposals which the Reverend Charles eagerly accepted. Though Norway was not exactly new to him, the region of the Alten Fjord was, and he at once felt, though he knew not why, that the air there would be the very thing to benefit his delicate constitution. Besides, it looked well for at least one occasion, to go away for the summer without asking his congregation to pay for his trip. It was generous on his part, almost noble.
The ladies of his flock wept at his departure and made him socks, comforters, slippers, and other consoling gear of the like description to recall their sweet memories to his saintly mind during his absence from their society. But, truth to tell, Mr. Dyceworthy gave little thought to these fond and regretful fair ones; he was much too comfortable at Bosekop to look back with any emotional yearning to the ugly, precise little provincial town he had left behind him. The minister’s quaint, pretty house suited him perfectly; the minister’s servants were most punctual in their services: the minister’s phaeton conveniently held his cumbrous person, and the minister’s pony was a quiet beast, that trotted good-temperedly wherever it was guided, and shied at nothing. Yes, he was thoroughly comfortable, — as comfortable as a truly pious fat man deserves to be, and all the work he had to do was to preach twice on Sundays, to a quiet, primitive, decently ordered congregation, who listened to his words respectfully though without displaying any emotional rapture. Their stolidity, however, did not affect him, — he preached to please himself, — loving above all things to hear the sound of his own voice, and never so happy as when thundering fierce denunciations against the Church of Rome. His thoughts seemed tending in that direction now, as he poured himself out his third cup of tea and smilingly shook his head over it, while he stirred the cream and sugar in, — for he took from his waistcoat pocket a small glittering object and laid it before him on the table, still shaking his head and smiling with a patient, yet reproachful air of superior wisdom. It was a crucifix of mother-o’-pearl and silver, the symbol of the Christian faith. But it seemed to carry no sacred suggestions to the soul of Mr. Dyceworthy. On the contrary, he looked at it with an expression of meek ridicule, — ridicule that bordered on contempt.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 77