As they spoke, the fairy-like bridge in the sky parted asunder and vanished! The brilliant aurora borealis faded by swift degrees — a few moments, and the land was again enveloped in gloom.
It might have been midnight — yet by the clock it was but four in the afternoon. Dreary indeed was the Altenfjord, — yet the neighboring village of Talvag was even drearier. There, desolation reigned supreme — it was a frozen region of bitter, shelterless cold, where the poverty-stricken inhabitants, smitten by the physical torpor and mental stupefaction engendered by the long, dark season, scarcely stirred out of their miserable homes, save to gather extra fuel. This is a time in Norway, when beyond the Arctic Circle, the old gods yet have sway — when in spite of their persistent, sometimes fanatical, adherence to the strictest forms of Christianity, the people almost unconsciously revert to the superstitions of their ancestors. Gathering round the blazing pine-logs, they recount to one another in low voices the ancient legends of dead and gone heroes, — and listening to the yell of the storm-wind round their huts, they still fancy they hear the wild war-cries of the Valkyries rushing past air full gallop on their coal-black steeds, with their long hair floating behind them.
On this particular afternoon the appearance of the “Death-Arch,” as they called that special form of the aurora, had impressed the Talvig folk greatly. Some of them were at the doors, and, regardless of the piercing cold, occupied themselves in staring languidly at a reindeer sledge which stood outside one of the more distant huts, evidently waiting for some person within. The hoofs of the animals made no impression on the hardened snow — now and again they gently shook the tinkling bells on their harness, but otherwise were very patient. The sledge was in charge of a youthful Laplander — a hideous, stunted specimen of humanity, who appeared to be literally sewed up from head to foot in skins.
This cortege was evidently an object of curiosity, — the on-lookers eyed it askance, and with a sort of fear. For did it not belong to the terrible bonde, Olaf Güldmar? — and would not the Laplander, — a useful boy, well known in Talvig, — come to some fatal harm by watching, even for a few minutes, the property of an acknowledged pagan? Who could tell? The very reindeer might be possessed by evil spirits, — they were certainly much sleeker and finer than the ordinary run of such animals. There was something uncanny in the very look of them! Thus the stupefied, unreasoning Talvig folk muttered, one to another, leaning drowsily out of their half-open doors.
“’Tis a strange thing,” said one man, “that woman as strong in the fear of the Lord as Lovisa Elsland should call for one of the wicked to visit her on her death-bed.”
“Strange enough!” answered his neighbor, blinking over his pipe, and knocking down some of the icicles pendent from his roof. “But maybe it is to curse him with the undying curse of the godly.”
“She’s done that all her life,” said the first speaker.
“That’s true! She’s been a faithful servant of the Gospel. All’s right with her in the next world — she’ll die easily.”
“Was it for her the Death-Arch shone?” asked an old woman, suddenly thrusting her head, wrapped in a red woollen hood, out of a low doorway, through which the light of a fire sparkled from the background, sending vivid flashes across the snow.
The man who had spoken last shook his head solemnly.
“The Death-Arch never shone for a Christian yet,” he said gravely. “No! There’s something else in the wind. We can’t see it — but it will come — it must come! That sign never fails.”
And presently, tired of watching the waiting sledge and the passive Laplander, he retreated within his house, shutting his door against the darkness and the bitter wind. His neighbors followed his example, — and, save for two or three red glimmers of light here and there, the little village looked as though it had been deserted long ago — a picture of frost-bound silence and solitude.
Meanwhile, in Lovisa Elsland’s close and comfortless dwelling, stood Olaf Güldmar. His strong, stately figure, wrapped in furs, seemed almost to fill the little place — he had thrown aside the thick scarf of wadmel in which he had been wrapped to the eyes while driving in the teeth of the wind, — and he now lifted his fur cap, thus displaying his silvery hair, ruddy features, and open, massive brow. At that moment a woman who was busying herself in putting fresh pine-logs on the smouldering fire, turned and regarded him intently.
“Lord, Lord!” she muttered—”’tis a man of men, — he rejoiceth in his strength, even as the lion, — and of what avail shall the curse of the wicked avail against the soul that is firmly established!”
Güldmar heard her not — he was looking towards a low pallet bed, on which lay, extended at full length, an apparently insensible form.
“Has she been long thus?” he asked, in a low voice.
“Since last night,” replied the woman — no other than Mr. Dyceworthy’s former servant, Ulrika. “She wakened suddenly, and bade me send for you. To-day she has not spoken.”
The bonde sighed somewhat impatiently. He approached the now blazing pine-logs, and as he drew off his thick fur driving-gloves, and warmed his hands at the cheerful blaze, Ulrika again fixed her dull eyes upon him with something of wonder and reluctant admiration. Presently she trimmed an oil-lamp, and set it, burning dimly, on the table. Then she went to the bed and bent over it, — after a pause of several minutes, she turned and made a beckoning sign with her finger. Güldmar advanced a little, — when a sudden eldritch shriek startled him back, almost curdling the blood in his veins. Out of the deep obscurity, like some gaunt spectre rising from the tomb, started a face, wrinkled, cadaverous, and distorted by suffering, — a face in which the fierce, fevered eyes glittered with a strange and dreadful brilliancy — the face of Lovisa Elsland, stern, forbidding, and already dark with the shadows of approaching death. She stared vacantly at Güldmar, whose picturesque head was illumined by the ruddy glow of the fire — and feebly shaded her eyes as though she saw something that hurt them. Ulrika raised her on her tumbled pillow, and saying, in cold, unmoved tones— “Speak now, for the time is short,” she once more beckoned the bonde imperatively.
He approached slowly.
“Lovisa Elsland,” he began in distinct tones, addressing himself to that ghastly countenance still partly shaded by one hand. “I am here — Olaf Güldmar. Dost thou know me?”
At the sound of his voice, a strange spasm contorted the withered features of the dying woman. She bent her head as though to listen to some far-off echo, and held up her skinny finger as though enjoining silence.
“Know thee!” she babbled whisperingly. “How should I not know the brown-haired Olaf! Olaf of the merry eye — Olaf, the pride of the Norse maiden?” She lifted herself in a more erect attitude, and stretching out her lean arms, went on as though chanting a monotonous recitative. “Olaf, the wanderer over wild seas, — he comes and goes in his ship that sails like a white bird on the sparkling waters — long and silent are the days of his absence — mournful are the Fjelds and Fjords without the smile of Olaf — Olaf the King!”
She paused, and Güldmar regarded her in pitying wonder. Her face changed to a new expression — one of wrath and fear.
“Stay, stay!” she cried in penetrating accents. “Who comes from the South with Olaf? The clouds drive fast before the wind — clouds rest on the edge of the dark Fjord — sails red as blood flash against the sky — who comes with Olaf? Fair hair ripples against his breast like streaming sunbeams; eyes blue as the glitter of the northern lights, are looking upon him — lips crimson and heavy with kisses for Olaf — ah!” She broke off with a cry, and beat the air with her hands as though to keep some threatening thing away from her. “Back, back! Dead bride of Olaf, torment me no more — back, I say! See,” — and she pointed into the darkness before her— “The pale, pale face — the long glittering hair twisted like a snake of gold, — she glides along the path across the mountains, — the child follows! — the child! Why not kill the child as well — w
hy not?”
She stopped suddenly with a wild laugh. The bonde had listened to her ravings with something of horror, his ruddy cheeks growing paler.
“By the gods, this is strange!” he muttered. “She seems to speak of my wife, — yet what can she know of her?”
For some moments there was silence. Lovisa seemed to have exhausted her strength. Presently, however, she put aside her straggling white hairs from her forehead, and demanded fiercely —
“Where is my grandchild? Where is Britta?”
Neither Güldmar nor Ulrika made any reply. But Britta’s name recalled the old woman to herself, and when she spoke again it was quite collectedly, and in her usual harsh voice. She seemed to forget all that she had just uttered, for she turned her eyes upon the bonde, as though she had but then perceived him.
“So you are come, Olaf Güldmar!” she said. “It is well — for the hand of Death is upon me.”
“It is well, indeed, if I can be of service, Lovisa Elsland,” responded Güldmar, “though I am but a sorry consoler, holding as I do, that death is the chief blessing, and in no way to be regretted at any time. Moreover, when the body grows too weak to support the soul, ’tis as well to escape from it with what speed we may.”
“Escape — escape? Where?” asked Lovisa. “From the worm that dieth not? From the devouring fame that is never quenched? From the torturing thirst and heat and darkness of hell, who shall escape?”
“Nay, if that is all the comfort thy creed can give thee,” said the bonde, with a half-smile, “’tis but a poor staff to lean on!”
Lovisa looked at him mockingly. “And is thine so strong a prop to thy pride?” she asked disdainfully. “Has Odin so endowed thee that thou shouldst boast of him? Listen to me, Olaf Güldmar — I have but little strength remaining, and I must speak briefly. Thy wife—”
“What of her?” said the bonde hastily. “Thou knewst her not.”
“I knew her,” said Lovisa steadily, “as the lightning knows the tree it withers — as the sea knows the frail boat it wrecks for sport on a windy day. Thou haughty Olaf! I knew her well even as the broken heart knows its destroyer!”
Güldmar looked perplexedly at Ulrika. “Surely she raves again?” he said. Ulrika was silent.
“Rave? Tell him I do not rave!” cried Lovisa rising in her bed to utter her words with more strength and emphasis. “May be I have raved, but that is past! The Lord, who will judge and condemn my soul, bear witness that I speak the truth! Olaf Güldmar, rememberest thou the days when we were young?”
“’Tis long ago, Lovisa!” replied the bonde with brief gentleness.
“Long ago? It seems but yesterday! But yesterday I saw the world all radiant with hope and joy and love — love that to you was a mere pastime — but with me—” She shuddered and seemed to lose herself in a maze of dreary recollections. “Love!” she presently muttered—”’love is strong as death, — jealousy is cruel as the grave — the coals thereof are coals of fire which hath a most vehement flame!’ Even so! You, Olaf Güldmar, have forgotten what I remember, — that once in that yesterday of youth, you called me fair, — once your lips branded mine! Could I forget that kiss? Think you a Norse woman, bred in a shadow of the constant mountains, forgets the first thrill of passion waked in her soul? Light women of those lands where the sun ever shines on fresh follies, may count their loves by the score, — but with us of the North, one love suffices to fill a lifetime. And was not my life filled? Filled to overflowing with bitterness and misery! For I loved you, proud Olaf! — I loved you—” The bonde uttered an exclamation of incredulous astonishment. Lovisa fixed her eyes on him with a dark scorn. “Yes, I loved you, — scoffer and unbeliever as you were and are! — accursed of God and man! I loved you in spite of all that was said against you — nay, I would have forsaken my creed for yours, and condemned my soul to the everlasting burning for your sake! I loved you as she — that pale, fair, witch-like thing you wedded, could never love—” Her voice died away in a sort of despairing wail, and she paused.
“By my soul!” said the bonde, astounded, and stroking his white beard in some embarrassment. “I never knew of this! It is true that in the hot days of youth, mischief is often done unwittingly. But why trouble yourself with these memories, Lovisa? If it be any comfort, — believe me, I am sorry harm ever came to you through my thoughtless jesting—”
“It matters not!” and Lovisa regarded him with a strange and awful smile. “I have had my revenge!” She stopped abruptly, — then went on—”’Twas a fair bride you chose, Olaf Güldmar — child of an alien from these shores, — Thelma, with the treacherous laughter and light of the South in her eyes and smile! And I, who had known love, made friends with hate—” She checked herself, and looked full at the bonde with a fiendish joy sparkling in her eyes. “She whom you wedded — she whom you loved so well, — how soon she died!”
There was something so suggestive and dreadful in the expression of her face as she said this, that the stout heart of the old bonde, pulsated more quickly with a sudden vague distrust and dread. She gave him no time to speak, but laying one yellow, claw-like hand on his arm, and raising her voice to a sort of yell, exclaimed triumphantly —
“Yes, yes! how soon she died! Bravely, bravely done! And no one ever guessed the truth — no one ever knew I killed her!”
Güldmar uttered a sharp cry, and shook himself free from her touch. In the same instant his hand flew to the hilt of the hunting-knife in his girdle.
“Killed her! By the gods—”
Ulrika sprang before him. “Shame!” she cried sternly. “She is dying!”
“Too slowly for me!” exclaimed the bonde furiously.
“Peace — peace!” implored Ulrika. “Let her speak!”
“Strike, Olaf Güldmar!” said Lovisa, in a deep voice, harsh, but all untremulous— “Strike, pagan, with whom the law of blood is supreme — strike to the very center of my heart — I do not fear you! I killed her, I say — and therein I, the servant of the Lord, was justified! Think you that the Most High hath not commanded His elect to utterly destroy and trample underfoot their enemies? — and is not vengeance mine as well as thine, accursed slave of Odin?”
A spasm of pain here interrupted her — she struggled violently for breath — and Ulrika supported her. Güldmar stood motionless, white with restrained fury, his eyes blazing. Recovering by slow degrees, Lovisa once more spoke — her voice was weaker, and sounded a long way off.
“Yea, the Lord hath been on my side!” she said, and the hideous blasphemy rattled in her throat as it was uttered. “Listen — and hear how He delivered mine enemy into my hands. I watched her always — I followed her many and many a time, though she never saw me. I knew her favorite path across the mountains, — it led past a rocky chasm. On the edge of that chasm there was a broad, flat stone, and there she would sit often, reading, or watching the fishing-boats on the Fjord, and listening to the prattle of her child. I used to dream of that stone, and wonder if I could loosen it! It was strongly imbedded in the earth — but each day I went to it — each day I moved it! Little by little I worked — till a mere touch would have set it hurling downwards, — yet it looked as firm as ever.” Güldmar uttered a fierce ejaculation of anguish — he put one hand to his throat as though he were stifling. Lovisa, watching him, smiled vindictively, and continued —
“When I had done all I could do, I lay in wait for her, hoping and praying — my hour came at last! It was a bright sunny morning — a little bird had been twittering above the very place — as it flew away, she approached — a book was in her hand, — her child followed her at some little distance off. Fortune favored me — a cluster of pansies had opened their blossoms a few inches below the stone, — she saw them, — and, light as a bird, sprang on it and reached forward to gather them — ah!” — and the wretched woman clapped her hands and broke into malignant laughter— “I can hear her quick shriek now — the crash of the stones and the crackle of branches as she
fell down, — down to her death! Presently the child came running, — it was too young to understand — it sat down patiently waiting for its mother. How I longed to kill it! but it sang to itself like the bird that had flown away, and I could not! But she was gone — she was silent for ever — the Lord be praised for all His mercies! Was she smiling, Olaf Güldmar, when you found her — dead?”
A strange solemnity shadowed the bonde’s features. He turned his eyes upon her steadily.
“Blessing and honor be to the gods of my fathers!” he said— “I found her — living!”
The change that came over Lovisa’s face at these words was inexpressibly awful — she grew livid and her lips twitched convulsively.
“Living — living!” she gasped.
“Living!” repeated Güldmar sternly. “Vile hag! Your purpose was frustrated! Your crime destroyed her beauty and shortened her days — but she lived — lived for ten sweet, bitter years, hidden away from all eyes save mine, — mine that never grew tired of looking in her patient, heavenly face! Ten years I held her as one holds a jewel — and, when she died, her death was but falling asleep in these fond arms—”
Lovisa raised herself with a sharp cry, and wrung her hands together —
“Ten years — ten years!” she moaned. “I thought her dead — and she lived on, — beloved and loving all the while. Oh God, God, why hast thou made a mockery of Thy servant!” She rocked herself to and fro — then looked up with an evil smile. “Nay, but she suffered! That was best. It is worse to suffer than to die. Thank God, she suffered!”
“Ay, she suffered!” said Güldmar fiercely, scarce able to restrain himself from seizing upon the miserable old woman and shaking the sinking life out of her— “And had I but guessed who caused her sufferings, by the sword of Odin, I would have—”
Ulrika laid her hand on his suddenly upraised arm.
“Listen!” she whispered. A low wailing, like the cry of a distressed child, swept round and round the house, followed by a gust of wind and a clattering shower of hailstones. A strange blue light leaped up from the sparkling log fire, and cast an unearthly glow through the room. A deep stillness ensued.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 130