She laughed. “You are morose,” she said. “That is not like you! No one is good, — we all live to try and make ourselves better.”
“What highly moral converse is going on here?” inquired Lorimer, strolling leisurely up to them. “Are you giving Duprèz a lecture, Miss Güldmar? He needs it, — so do I. Please give me a scolding!”
And he folded his hands with an air of demure appeal.
A sunny smile danced in the girl’s blue eyes. “Always you will be foolish!” she said. “One can never know you because I am sure you never show your real self to anybody. No, — I will not scold you, but I should like to find you out!”
“To find me out!” echoed Lorimer. “Why, what do you mean?”
She nodded her bright head with much sagacity.
“Ah, I do observe you often! There is something you hide; it is like when my father has tears in his eyes; he pretends to laugh, but the tears are there all the time. Now I see in you—” she paused, and her questioning eyes rested on his, seriously.
“This is interesting!” said Lorimer, lazily drawing a camp-stool opposite to her, and seating himself thereon. “I had no idea I was a human riddle. Can you read me, Miss Güldmar?”
“Yes,” she answered slowly and meditatively. “Just a little. But I will not say anything; no — except this — that you are not altogether what you seem.”
“Here, Phil!” called Lorimer, as he saw Errington approaching, arm in arm with Olaf Güldmar, “come and admire this young lady’s power of perception. She declares I am not such a fool as I look!”
“Now,” said Thelma, shaking her forefinger at him, “you know very well that I did not put it in that way. But is it not true, Sir Philip—” and she looked up for a moment, though her eyes drooped again swiftly under his ardent gaze, “is it not true that many people do hide their feelings, and pretend to be quite different to what they are?”
“I should say it was a very common fault,” replied Errington. “It is a means of self-defense against the impertinent curiosity of outsiders. But Lorimer is free from it, — he has nothing to hide. At any rate, he has no secrets from me, — I’m sure of that!” And he clapped his hand heartily on his friend’s shoulder.
Lorimer flushed slightly, but made no remark, and at that moment Macfarlane emerged from the saloon, where the writing of his journal had till now detained him. In the general handshaking and salutations which followed, the conversation took a different turn, for which Lorimer was devoutly thankful. His face was a tell-tale one, — and he was rather afraid of Philip’s keen eyes. “I hope to Heaven he’ll speak to her to-day,” he thought, vexedly. “I hate being in suspense! My mind will be easier when I once know that he has gained his point, — and that there’s not the ghost of a chance for any other fellow!”
Meanwhile the yacht skimmed along by the barren and rocky coast of Seiland; the sun was dazzling; yet there was a mist in the air as though the heavens were full of unshed tears. A bank of nearly motionless clouds hung behind the dark, sharp peaks of the Altenguard mountains, which now lay to the southward, as the vessel pursued her course. There was no wind; the flag on the mast flapped idly now and then with the motion of the yacht; and Thelma found herself too warm with her pretty crimson hood, — she therefore unfastened it and let the sunshine play on the uncovered gold of her hair. They had a superb view of the jagged glacier of Jedkè, — black in some parts, and in others white with unmelted snow, — and seeming, as it rose straight up against the sky, to be the majestic monument of some giant Viking. Presently, at her earnest request, Errington brought his portfolio of Norwegian sketches for Thelma to look at; most of them were excellently well done, and elicited much admiration from the bonde.
“It is what I have wondered at all my life,” said he, “that skill of the brush dipped in color. Pictures surprise me as much as poems. Ah, men are marvellous creatures, when they are once brought to understand that they are men, — not beasts! One will take a few words and harmonize them into a song or a verse that clings to the world for ever; another will mix a few paints and dab a brush in them, and give you a picture that generation after generation shall flock to see. It is what is called genius, — and genius is a sort of miracle. Yet I think it is fostered by climate a good deal, — the further north, the less inspiration. Warmth, color, and the lightness of heart that a generally bright sky brings, enlarges the brain and makes it capable of creative power.”
“My dear sir,” said Lorimer, “England does not possess these climatic advantages, and yet Shakespeare was an Englishman.”
“He must have travelled,” returned Güldmar positively. “No one will make me believe that the man never visited Italy. His Italian scenes prove it, — they are full of the place and the people. The whole of his works, full of such wonderful learning, and containing so many types of different nations, show, — to my mind, at least, — that countries were his books of study. Why I, who am only a farmer and proprietor of a bit of Norwegian land, — I have learned many a thing from simply taking a glance at a new shore each year. That’s the way I used to amuse myself when I was young, — now I am old, the sea tempts me less, and I am fonder of my arm-chair; yet I’ve seen a good deal in my time — enough to provide me with memories for my declining days. And it’s a droll thing, too,” he added, with a laugh, “the further south you go, the more immoral and merry are the people; the further north, the more virtuous and miserable. There’s a wrong balance somewhere, — but where, ’tis not easy to find out.”
“Weel,” said Macfarlane, “I can give ye a direct contradeection to your theory. Scotland lies to the north, and ye’ll not find a grander harvest o’ sinfu’ souls anywhere between this an’ the day o’ judgment. I’m a Scotchman, an’ I’m just proud o’ my country — I’d back its men against a’ the human race, — but I wadna say much for the stabeelity o’ its women. I wad just tak to my heels and run if I saw a real, thumpin’, red-cheeked, big-boned Scotch lassie makin’ up to me. There’s nae bashfulness in they sort, and nae safety.”
“I will go to Scotland!” said Duprèz enthusiastically. “I feel that those — what do you call them, lassies? — will charm me!”
“Scotland I never saw,” said Güldmar. “From all I have heard, it seems to me ’twould be too much like Norway. After one’s eyes have rested long on these dark mountains and glaciers, one likes now and then to see a fertile sunshiny stretch of country such as France, or the plains of Lombardy. Of course there may be exceptions, but I tell you climatic influences have a great deal to do with the state of mind and morals. Now, take the example of that miserable old Lovisa Elsland. She is the victim of religious mania — and religious mania, together with superstition of the most foolish kind, is common in Norway. It happens often during the long winters; the people have not sufficient to occupy their minds; no clergyman — not even Dyceworthy — can satisfy the height of their fanaticism. They preach and pray and shriek and groan in their huts; some swear that they have the spirit of prophecy, — others that they are possessed of devils, — others imagine witchcraft, like Lovisa — and altogether there is such a howling on the name of Christ, that I am glad to be out of it, — for ’tis a sight to awaken the laughter and contempt of a pagan such as I am!”
Thelma listened with a slight shadow of pain on her features.
“Father is not a pagan,” she declared, turning to Lorimer. “How can one be pagan if one believes that there is good in everything, — and that nothing happens except for the best?”
“It sounds to me more Christian than pagan,” averred Lorimer, with a smile. “But it’s no use appealing to me on such matters, Miss Güldmar. I am an advocate of the Law of Nothing. I remember a worthy philosopher who, — when he was in his cups, — earnestly assured me it was all right— ‘everything was nothing, and nothing was everything.’ ‘You are sure that is so?’ I would say to him. ‘My dear young friend — hic — I am positive! I have — hic — worked out the problem with — hic — care!’ An
d he would shake me by the hand warmly, with a mild and moist smile, and would retire to bed walking sideways in the most amiable manner. I’m certain his ideas were correct as well as luminous.”
They laughed, and then looking up saw that they were passing a portion of the coast of Seiland which was more than usually picturesque. Facing them was a great cavernous cleft in the rocks, tinted with a curious violet hue intermingled with bronze, — and in the strong sunlight these colors flashed with the brilliancy of jewels, reflecting themselves in the pale slate-colored sea. By Errington’s orders the yacht slackened speed, and glided along with an almost noiseless motion, — and they were silent, listening to the dash and drip of water that fell invisibly from the toppling crags that frowned above, while the breathless heat and stillness of the air added to the weird solemnity of the scene. They all rose from their chairs and leaned on the deck-rails, looking, but uttering no word.
“In one of these islands,” said Thelma at last, very softly— “it was either Seiland or Soroe — they once found the tomb of a great chief. There was an inscription outside that warned all men to respect it, but they laughed at the warning and opened the tomb. And they saw, seated in a stone chair, a skeleton with a gold crown on its head and a great carved seal in its hand, and at its feet there was a stone casket. The casket was broken open, and it was full of gold and jewels. Well, they took all the gold and jewels, and buried the skeleton — and now, — do you know what happens? At midnight a number of strange persons are seen searching on the shore and among the rocks for the lost treasure, and it is said they often utter cries of anger and despair. And those who robbed the tomb all died suddenly.”
“Served them right!” said Lorimer. “And now they are dead, I suppose the wronged ghosts don’t appear any more?”
“Oh yes, they do,” said Güldmar very seriously. “If any sailor passes at midnight, and sees them or hears their cries, he is doomed.”
“But does he see or hear them?” asked Errington, with a smile.
“Well, I don’t know,” returned Güldmar, with a grave shake of his head. “I’m not superstitious myself, but I should be sorry to say anything against the berg-folk. You see they may exist, and it’s no use offending them.”
“And what do ye mean by the berg-folk?” inquired Macfarlane.
“They are supposed to be the souls of persons who died impenitent,” said Thelma, “and they are doomed to wander, on the hills till the day of judgment. It is a sort of purgatory.”
Duprèz shook his fingers emphatically in the air.
“Ah, bah!” he said; “what droll things remain still in the world! Yes, in spite of liberty, equality, fraternity! You do not believe in foolish legends, Mademoiselle? For example, — do you think you will suffer purgatory?”
“Indeed yes!” she replied. “No one can be good enough to go straight to heaven. There must be some little stop on the way in which to be sorry for all the bad things one has done.”
“’Tis the same idea as ours,” said Güldmar. “We have two places of punishment in the Norse faith; one, Nifleheim, which is a temporary thing like the Catholic purgatory; the other Nastrond, which is the counterpart of the Christian hell. Know you not the description of Nifleheim in the Edda?— ’tis terrible enough to satisfy all tastes. ‘Hela, or Death rules over the Nine Worlds of Nifleheim. Her hall is called Grief. Famine is her table, and her only servant is Delay. Her gate is a precipice, her porch Faintness, her bed Leanness, — Cursing and Howling are her tent. Her glance is dreadful and terrifying, — and her lips are blue with the venom of Hatred.’ These words,” he added, “sound finer in Norwegian, but I have given the meaning fairly.”
“Ma certes!” said Macfarlane chuckling. “I’ll tell my aunt in Glasgie aboot it. This Nifleheim wad suit her pairfectly, — she wad send a’ her relations there wi’ tourist tickets, not available for the return journey!”
“It seems to me,” observed Errington, “that the Nine Worlds of Nifleheim have a resemblance to the different circles of Dante’s Purgatory.”
“Exactly so,” said Lorimer. “All religions seem to me to be more or less the same, — the question I can never settle is, — which is the right one?”
“Would you follow it if you knew?” asked Thelma, with a slight smile. Lorimer laughed.
“Well, upon my life, I don’t know!” he answered frankly, “I never was a praying sort of fellow, — I don’t seem to grasp the idea of it somehow. But there’s one thing I’m certain of, — I can’t endure a bird without song, — a flower without scent, or a woman without religion — she seems to me no woman at all.”
“But are there any such women?” inquired the girl surprised.
“Yes, there are undoubtedly! Free-thinking, stump-orator, have-your-rights sort of creatures. You don’t know anything about them, Miss Güldmar — be thankful! Now, Phil, how long is this vessel of yours going to linger here?”
Thus reminded, Errington called to the pilot, and in a few minutes the Eulalie resumed her usual speed, and bore swiftly on towards Soroe. This island, dreary and dark in the distance, grew somewhat more inviting in aspect on a nearer approach. Now and then a shaft of sunlight fell on some glittering point of felspar or green patch of verdure. — and Valdemar Svensen stated that he knew of a sandy creek where, if the party chose, they could land and see a small cave of exquisite beauty, literally hung all over with stalactites.
“I never heard of this cave,” said Güldmar, fixing a keen eye on the pilot. “Art thou a traveller’s guide to all such places in Norway?”
Somewhat to Errington’s surprise, Svensen changed color and appeared confused; moreover, he removed his red cap altogether when he answered the bonde, to whom he spoke deferentially in rapid Norwegian. The old man laughed as he listened, and seemed satisfied; then, turning away, he linked his arm through Philip’s, and said,
“You must pardon him, my lad, that he spoke in your presence a tongue unfamiliar to you. No offense was meant. He is of my creed, but fears to make it known, lest he should lose all employment — which is likely enough, seeing that so many of the people are fanatics. Moreover, he is bound to me by an oath, — which in olden days would have made him my serf, — but which leaves him free enough just now, — with one exception.”
“And that exception?” asked Errington with some interest.
“Is, that should I ever demand a certain service at his hands, he dare not refuse it. Odd, isn’t it? or so it seems to you,” and Güldmar pressed the young man’s arm lightly and kindly; “but our Norse oaths, are taken with great solemnity, and are as binding as the obligation of death itself. However, I have not commanded Valdemar’s obedience yet, nor do I think I am likely to do so for some time. He is a fine, faithful fellow, — though too much given to dreams.”
A gay chorus of laughter here broke from the little group seated on deck, of which Thelma was the centre, — and Güldmar stopped in his walk, with an attentive smile on his open, ruddy countenance.
“’Tis good for the heart to hear the merriment of young folks,” he said. “Think you not my girl’s laugh is like the ripple of a lark’s song? just so clear and joyous?”
“Her voice is music itself!” declared Philip quickly and warmly. “There is nothing she says, or does, or looks, — that is not absolutely beautiful!”
Then, suddenly aware of his precipitation, he stopped abruptly. His face flushed as Güldmar regarded him fixedly, with a musing and doubtful air. But whatever the old man thought, he said nothing. He merely held the young baronet’s arm a little closer, and together they joined the others, — though it was noticeable that during the rest of the day the bonde was rather abstracted and serious, — and that every now and then his eyes rested on his daughter’s face with an expression of tender yearning and melancholy.
It was about two hours after luncheon that the Eulalie approached the creek spoken of by the pilot, and they were all fascinated by the loveliness as well as by the fierce grandeur of the scene.
The rocks on that portion of Soroe appeared to have split violently asunder to admit some great in-rushing passage of the sea, and were piled up in toppling terraces to the height of more than two thousand feet above the level of the water. Beneath these wild and craggy fortresses of nature a shining stretch of beach had formed itself, on which the fine white sand, mixed with crushed felspar, sparkled like powdered silver. On the left-hand side of this beach could be distinctly seen the round opening of the cavern to which Valdemar Svensen directed their attention. They decided to visit it — the yacht was brought to a standstill, and the long-boat lowered. They took no sailors with them, Errington and his companions rowing four oars, while Thelma and her father occupied the stern. A landing was easily effected, and they walked toward the cavern, treading on thousands of beautiful little shells which strewed the sand beneath their feet. There was a deep stillness everywhere — the island was so desolate that it seemed as though the very seabirds refused to make their homes in the black clefts of such steep and barren rocks.
At the entrance of the little cave Güldmar looked back to the sea.
“There’s a storm coming!” he announced. “Those clouds we saw this morning have sailed thither almost as quickly as ourselves!”
The sky had indeed grown darker, and little wrinkling waves disturbed the surface of the water. But the sun as yet retained his sovereignty, and there was no wind. By the pilot’s advice, Errington and his friends had provided themselves each with a pine torch, in order to light up the cavern as soon as they found themselves within it. The smoky crimson flare illuminated what seemed at a first glance to be a miniature fairy palace studded thickly with clusters of diamonds. Long pointed stalactites hung from the roof at almost mathematically even distances from one another, — the walls glistened with varying shades of pink and green and violet, — and in the very midst of the cave was a still pool of water in which all the fantastic forms and hues of the place mirrored themselves in miniature. In one corner the stalactites had clustered into the shape of a large chair overhung by a canopy, and Duprèz perceiving it, exclaimed — he listened, and seemed satisfied; then, turning away, he linked his arm through Philip’s, and said,
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 93