Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  What he would have said was uncertain, as at that moment he was nearly thrown down by a something that slipped agilely between his legs, pinching each fat calf as it passed — a something that looked like a ball, but proved to be a human creature — no other than the crazy Sigurd, who, after accomplishing his uncouth gambol successfully, stood up, shaking back his streaming fair locks and laughing wildly.

  “Ha, ha!” he exclaimed. “That was good; that was clever! If I had upset you now, you would have said your prayers backward! What are you here for? This is no place for you! They are all gone out of it. She has gone — all the world is empty! There is nothing any where but air, air, air! — no birds, no flowers, no trees, no sunshine! All gone with her on the sparkling, singing water!” and he swung his arms round violently, and snapped his fingers in the minister’s face. “What an ugly man your are!” he exclaimed with refreshing candor. “I think you are uglier than I am! You are straight, — but you are like a load of peat — heavy and barren and fit to burn. Now, I — I am the crooked bough of a tree, but I have bright leaves where a bird hides and sings all day! You — you have no song, no foliage; only ugly and barren and fit to burn!” He laughed heartily, and, catching sight of Britta, where she stood in the doorway entirely unconcerned at his eccentric behavior, he went up to her and took hold of the corner of her apron. “Take me in, Britta dear — pretty Britta!” he said coaxingly. “Sigurd is hungry! Britta, sweet little Britta, — come and talk to me and sing! Good-bye, fat man!” he added suddenly, turning round once more on Dyceworthy. “You will never overtake the big ship that has gone away with Thelma over the water. Thelma will come back, — yes! . . . but one day she will go never to come back.” He dropped his voice to a mysterious whisper. “Last night I saw a little spirit come out of a rose, — he carried a tiny golden hammer and nail, and a ball of cord like a rolled-up sunbeam. He flew away so quickly I could not follow him; but I know where he went! He fastened the nail in the heart of Thelma, deeply, so that the little drops of blood flowed, — but she felt no pain; and then he tied the golden cord to the nail and left her, carrying the other end of the string with him — to whom? Some other heart must be pierced! Whose heart?” Sigurd looked infinitely cunning as well as melancholy, and sighed deeply.

  The Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy was impatient and disgusted.

  “It is a pity,” he said with an air of solemn patience, “that this hapless creature, accursèd of God and man, is not placed in some proper abode suitable to the treatment of his affliction. You, Britta, as the favored servant of a — a — well, let us say, of a peculiar mistress, should persuade her to send this — this — person away, lest his vagaries become harmful.”

  Britta glanced very kindly at Sigurd, who still held her apron with the air of a trustful child.

  “He’s no more harmful than you are,” she said promptly, in answer to the minister’s remark. “He’s a good fellow and if he talks strangely he can make himself useful, — which is more than can be said of certain people. He can saw and chop the wood, make hay, feed the cattle, pull a strong oar, and sweep and keep the garden, — can’t you, Sigurd?” She laid her hand on Sigurd’s shoulder, and he nodded his head emphatically, as she enumerated his different talents. “And as for climbing, — he can guide you anywhere over the hills, or up the streams to the big waterfalls — no one better. And if you mean by peculiar, — that my mistress is different to other people, why, I know she is, and am glad of it, — at any rate, she’s a great deal too kind-hearted to shut this poor boy up in a house for madmen! He’d die if he couldn’t have the fresh air.” She paused, out of breath with her rapid utterance, and Mr. Dyceworthy held up his hands in dignified astonishment.

  “You talk too glibly, young woman,” he said. “It is necessary that I should instruct you without loss of time, as to how you should be sparing of your words in the presence of your superiors and betters—”

  Bang! The door was closed with a decision that sent a sharp echo through the silent, heated air, and Mr. Dyceworthy was left to contemplate it at his leisure. Full of wrath, he was about to knock peremptorily and insist that it should be re-opened; but on second thoughts he decided that it was beneath his dignity to argue with a servant, much less with a declared lunatic like Sigurd, — so he made the best of his way back to his boat, thinking gloomily of the hard labor awaiting him in the long pull back to Bosekop.

  Other thoughts, too, tortured and harrassed his brain, and as he again took the oars and plied them wearily through the water, he was in an exceedingly unchristian humor. Though a specious hypocrite, he was no fool. He knew the ways of men and women, and he thoroughly realized the present position of affairs. He was quite aware of Thelma Güldmar’s exceptional beauty, — and he felt pretty certain that no man could look upon her without admiration. But up to this time, she had been, as it were, secluded from all eyes, — a few haymakers and fishermen were the only persons of the male sex who had ever been within the precincts of Olaf Güldmar’s dwelling, with the exception of himself, Dyceworthy, — who, being armed with a letter of introduction from the actual minister of Bosekop, whose place, he, for the present, filled, had intruded his company frequently and persistently on the bonde and his daughter, though he knew himself to be entirely unwelcome. He had gathered together as much as he could, all the scraps of information concerning them; how Olaf Güldmar was credited with having made away with his wife by foul means; how nobody even knew where his wife had come from; how Thelma had been mysteriously educated, and had learned strange things concerning foreign lands, which no one else in the place understood anything about; how she was reputed to be a witch, and was believed to have cast her spells on the unhappy Sigurd, to the destruction of his reason, — and how nobody could tell where Sigurd himself had come from.

  All this Mr. Dyceworthy had heard with much interest, and as the sensual part of his nature was always more or less predominant, he had resolved in his own mind that here was a field of action suitable to his abilities. To tame and break the evil spirit in the reputed witch; to convert her to the holy and edifying Lutheran faith; to save her soul for the Lord, and take her beautiful body for himself; these were Mr. Dyceworthy’s laudable ambitions. There was no rival to oppose him, and he had plenty of time to mature his plans. So he had thought. He had not bargained for the appearance of Sir Philip Bruce Errington on the scene, — a man, young, handsome, and well-bred, with vast wealth to back up his pretensions, should he make any.

  “How did he find her out?” thought the Reverend Charles, as he dolefully pulled his craft along. “And that brutal pagan Güldmar, too, who pretends he cannot endure strangers!”

  And as he meditated, a flush of righteous indignation crimsoned his flabby features.

  “Let her take care,” he half muttered, with a smile that was not pleasant; “let her take care! There are more ways than one to bring down her pride! Sir Philip Errington must be too rich and popular in his own country to think of wishing to marry a girl who is only a farmer’s daughter after all. He may trifle with her; yes! . . . and he will help me by so doing. The more mud on her name, the better for me; the more disgrace, the more need of rescue, and the more grateful she will have to be. Just a word to Ulrika, — and the scandal will spread. Patience, patience!”

  And somewhat cheered by his own reflections, though still wearing an air of offended dignity, he rowed on, glancing up every now and then to see if the Eulalie had returned, but her place was still empty.

  Meanwhile, as he thought and planned, other thoughts and plans were being discussed at a meeting which was held in a little ruined stone hut, situated behind some trees on a dreary hill just outside Bosekop. It was a miserable place, barren of foliage, — the ground was dry and yellow, and the hut itself looked as if it had been struck by lightning. The friends, whose taste had led them to select this dilapidated dwelling as a place of conference, were two in number, both women, — one of them no other than the minister’s servant, the drear-faced U
lrika. She was crouched on the earth-floor in an attitude of utter abasement, at the feet of her companion, — an aged dame of tall and imposing appearance, who, standing erect, looked down upon her with an air of mingled contempt and malevolence. The hut was rather dark, for the roof was not sufficiently destroyed to have the advantage of being open to the sky. The sunlight fell through holes of different shapes and sizes, — one specially bright patch of radiance illumining the stately form, and strongly marked, though withered features of the elder woman, whose eyes, deeply sunken in her head, glittered with a hawk-like and evil lustre, as they rested on the prostrate figure before her. When she spoke, her accents were harsh and commanding.

  “How long?” she said, “how long must I wait? How long must I watch the work of Satan in the land? The fields are barren and will not bring forth; the curse of bitter poverty is upon us all: and only he, the pagan Güldmar, prospers and gathers in harvest, while all around him starve! Do I not know the devil’s work when I see it, — I, the chosen servant of the Lord?” And she struck a tall staff she held violently into the ground to emphasize her words. “Am I not left deserted in my age? The child Britta, — sole daughter of my sole daughter, — is she not stolen, and kept from me? Has not her heart been utterly turned away from mine? All through that vile witch, — accursèd of God and man! She it is who casts the blight on our land; she it is who makes the hands and hearts of our men heavy and careless, so that even luck has left the fishing; and yet you hesitate, — you delay, you will not fulfill your promise! I tell you, there are those in Bosekop who, at my bidding, would cast her naked into the Fjord, leave her there, to sink or swim according to her nature!”

  “I know,” murmured Ulrika humbly, raising herself slightly from her kneeling posture; “I know it well! . . . . but, good Lovisa, be patient! I work for the best! Mr. Dyceworthy will do more for us than we can do for ourselves; he is wise and cautious—”

  Lovisa interrupted her with a fierce gesture. “Fool!” she cried. “What need of caution? A witch is a witch, burn her, drown her! There is no other remedy! But two days since, the child of my neighbor Engla passed her on the Fjord; and now the boy has sickened of some strange disease, and ’tis said he will die. Again, the drove of cattle owned by Hildmar Bjorn were herded home when she passed by. Now they are seized by the murrain plague! Tell your good saint Dyceworthy these things; if he can find no cure, I can, — and will!”

  Ulrika shuddered slightly as she rose from the ground and stood erect, drawing her shawl closely about her.

  “You hate her so much, Lovisa?” she asked, almost timidly.

  Lovisa’s face darkened, and her yellow, claw-like hand closed round her strong staff in a cruel and threatening manner.

  “Hate her!” she muttered, “I have hated her ever since she was born! I hated her mother before her! A nest of devils, every one of them; and the curse will always be upon us while they dwell here.”

  She paused and looked at Ulrika steadily.

  “Remember!” she said, with an evil leer on her lips, “I hold a secret of yours that is worth the keeping! I give you two weeks more; within that time you must act! Destroy the witch, — bring back to me my grandchild Britta, or else — it will be my turn!”

  And she laughed silently. Ulrika’s face grew paler, and the hand that grasped the folds of her shawl trembled violently. She made an effort, however, to appear composed, as she answered— “I have sworn to obey you, Lovisa, — and I will. But tell me one thing — how do you know that Thelma Güldmar is indeed a witch?”

  “How do I know?” almost yelled Lovisa. “Have I lived all these years for nothing? Look at her! Am I like her? Are you like her? Are any of the honest women of the neighborhood like her? Meet her on the hills with knives and pins, — prick her, and see if the blood will flow! I swear it will not — not one drop! Her skin is too white; there is no blood in those veins — only fire! Look at the pink in her cheeks, — the transparency of her flesh, — the glittering light in her eyes, the gold of her hair, it is all devil’s work, it is not human, it is not natural! I have watched her, — I used to watch her mother, and curse her every time I saw her — ay! curse her till I was breathless with cursing—”

  She stopped abruptly. Ulrika gazed at her with as much wonder as her plain, heavy face was capable of expressing. Lovisa saw the look and smiled darkly.

  “One would think you had never known what love is!” she said, with a sort of grim satire in her tone. “Yet even your dull soul was on fire once! But I — when I was young, I had beauty such as you never had, and I loved — Olaf Güldmar.”

  Ulrika uttered an exclamation of astonishment. “You! and yet you hate him now?”

  Lovisa raised her hand with an imperious gesture.

  “I have grown hate like a flower in my breast,” she said, with a sort of stern impressiveness. “I have fostered it year after year, and now, — it has grown too strong for me! When Olaf Güldmar was young he told me I was fair; once he kissed my cheek at parting! For those words, — for that kiss, — I loved him then — for the same things I hate him now! When I know he had married, I cursed him; on the day of my own marriage with a man I despised, I cursed him! I have followed him and all his surroundings with more curses than there are hours in the day! I have had some little revenge — yes!” — and she laughed grimly— “but I want more! For Britta has been caught by his daughter’s evil spell. Britta is mine, and I must have her back. Understand me well! — do what you have to do without delay! Surely it is an easy thing to ruin a woman!”

  Ulrika stood as though absorbed in meditation, and said nothing for some moments. At last she murmured as though to herself —

  “Mr. Dyceworthy could do much — if—”

  “Ask him, then,” said Lovisa imperatively. “Tell him the village is in fear of her. Tell him that if he will do nothing we will. And if all fails, come to me again; and remember! . . . I shall not only act, — I shall speak!”

  And emphasizing the last word as a sort of threat, she turned and strode out of the hut.

  Ulrika followed more slowly, taking a different direction to that in which her late companion was seen rapidly disappearing. On returning to the minister’s dwelling, she found that Mr. Dyceworthy had not yet come back from his boating excursion. She gave no explanation of her absence to her two fellow-servants, but went straight up to her own room — a bare attic in the roof — where she deliberately took off her dress and bared her shoulders and breast. Then she knelt down on the rough boards, and clasping her hands, began to writhe and wrestle as though she were seized with a sudden convulsion. She groaned and tortured the tears from her eyes; she pinched her own flesh till it was black and blue, and scratched it with her nails till it bled, — and she prayed inaudibly, but with evident desperation. Sometimes her gestures were frantic, sometimes appealing; but she made no noise that was loud enough to attract attention from any of the dwellers in the house. Her stolid features were contorted with anguish, — and had she been an erring nun of the creed she held in such bitter abhorrence, who, for some untold crime, endured a self-imposed penance, she could not have punished her own flesh much more severely.

  She remained some quarter of an hour or twenty minutes thus; then rising from her knees, she wiped the tears from her eyes and re-clothed herself, — and with her usual calm, immovable aspect — though smarting from the injuries she had inflicted on herself — she descended to the kitchen, there to prepare Mr. Dyceworthy’s tea with all the punctilious care and nicety befitting the meal of so good a man and so perfect a saint.

  CHAPTER X.

  “She believed that by dealing nobly with all, all would show themselves noble; so that whatsoever she did became her.”

  HAFIZ.

  As the afternoon lengthened, and the sun lowered his glittering shield towards that part of the horizon where he rested a brief while without setting, the Eulalie, — her white sails spread to the cool, refreshing breeze, — swept gracefully and swiftly back
to her old place on the Fjord, and her anchor dropped with musical clank and splash, just as Mr. Dyceworthy entered his house, fatigued, perspiring, and ill-tempered at the non-success of his day. All on board the yacht were at dinner — a dinner of the most tasteful and elegant description, such as Sir Philip Errington well knew how to order and superintend, and Thelma, leaning against the violet velvet cushions that were piled behind her for her greater ease, looked, — as she indeed was, — the veritable queen of the feast. Macfarlane and Duprèz had been rendered astonished and bashful by her excessive beauty. From the moment she came on board with her father, clad in her simple white gown, with a deep crimson hood drawn over her fair hair, and tied under her rounded chin, she had taken them all captive — they were her abject slaves in heart, though they put on very creditable airs of manly independence and nonchalance. Each man in his different way strove to amuse or interest her, except, strange to say, Errington himself, who, though deeply courteous to her, kept somewhat in the background and appeared more anxious to render himself agreeable to old Olaf Güldmar, than to win the good graces of his lovely daughter. The girl was delighted with everything on board the yacht, — she admired its elegance and luxury with child-like enthusiasm; she gloried in the speed with which its glittering prow cleaved the waters; she clapped her hands at the hiss of the white foam as it split into a creaming pathway for the rushing vessel; and she was so unaffected and graceful in all her actions and attitudes, that the slow blood of the cautious Macfarlane began to warm up by degrees to a most unwonted heat of admiration. When she had first arrived, Errington, in receiving her, had seriously apologized for not having some lady to meet her, but she seemed not to understand his meaning. Her naïve smile and frankly uplifted eyes put all his suddenly conceived notions of social stiffness to flight.