Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  She gazed at it in surprise. “You part with it now?” she asked, with wonder in her accents. “I do not understand!”

  He kissed her. “No? I will explain again, Thelma! — and you shall not laugh at me as you did the very first time I saw you! I resolved never to part with this ring, I say, except to — my promised wife. Now do you understand?”

  She blushed deeply, and her eyes dropped before his ardent gaze.

  “I do thank you very much, Philip,” — she faltered timidly, — she was about to say something further when suddenly Lorimer entered the saloon. He glanced from Errington to Thelma, and from Thelma back again to Errington, — and smiled. So have certain brave soldiers been known to smile in face of a death-shot. He advanced with his usual languid step and nonchalant air, and removing his cap, bowed gravely and courteously.

  “Let me be the first to offer my congratulations to the future Lady Errington! Phil, old man! . . . I wish you joy!”

  CHAPTER XV.

  “Why, sir, in the universal game of double-dealing, shall not the cleverest tricksters play each other false by haphazard, and so betray their closest secrets, to their own and their friends’ infinite amazement?” — CONGREVE.

  When Olaf Güldmar and his daughter left the yacht that evening, Errington accompanied them, in order to have the satisfaction of escorting his beautiful betrothed as far as her own door. They were all three very silent — the bonde was pensive, Thelma shy, and Errington himself was too happy for speech. Arriving at the farmhouse, they saw Sigurd curled up under the porch, playing idly with the trailing rose-branches, but, on hearing their footsteps, he looked up, uttered a wild exclamation, and fled. Güldmar tapped his own forehead significantly.

  “He grows worse and worse, the poor lad!” he said somewhat sorrowfully. “And yet there is a strange mingling of foresight and wit with his wild fancies. Wouldst thou believe it, Thelma, child,” and here he turned to his daughter and encircled her waist with his arm— “he seemed to know how matters were with thee and Philip, when I was yet in the dark concerning them!”

  This was the first allusion her father had made to her engagement, and her head drooped with a sort of sweet shame.

  “Nay, now, why hide thy face?” went on the old man cheerily. “Didst thou think I would grudge my bird her summer-time? Not I! And little did I hope for thee, my darling, that thou wouldst find a shelter worthy of thee in this wild world!” He paused a moment, looking tenderly down upon her, as she nestled in mute affection against his breast, — then addressing himself to Errington, he went on —

  “We have a story in our Norse religion, my lad, of two lovers who declared their passion to each other, on one stormy night in the depth of winter. They were together in a desolate hut on the mountains, and around them lay unbroken tracts of frozen snow. They were descended from the gods, and therefore the gods protected them — and it happened that after they had sworn their troth, the doors of the snow-bound hut flew suddenly open, and lo! the landscape had changed — the hills were gay with grass and flowers, — the sky was blue and brilliant, the birds sang, and everywhere was heard the ripple of waters let loose from their icy fetters, and gamboling down the rocks in the joyous sun. This was the work of the goddess Friga, — the first kiss exchanged by the lovers she watched over, banished Winter from the land, and Spring came instead. ’Tis a pretty story, and true all the world over — true for all men and women of all creeds! It must be an ice-bound heart indeed that will not warm to the touch of love — and mine, though aged, grows young again in the joy of my children.” He put his daughter gently from him to-wards Philip, saying with more gravity, “Go to him, child! — go — with thy old father’s blessing! And take with thee the three best virtues of a wife, — truth, humility, and obedience. Good night, my son!” and he wrung Errington’s hand with fervor. “You’ll take longer to say good night to Thelma,” and he laughed, “so I’ll go in and leave you to it!”

  And with a good-natured nod, he entered the house whistling a tune as he went, that they might not think he imagined himself lonely or neglected, — and the two lovers paced slowly up and down the garden-path together, exchanging those first confidences which to outsiders seem so eminently foolish, but which to those immediately concerned are most wonderful, delightful, strange, and enchanting beyond all description. Where, from a practical point of view, is the sense of such questions as these— “When did you love me first?” “What did you feel when I said so-and-so?” “Have you dreamt of me often?” “Will you love me always, always, always?” and so on ad infinitum. “Ridiculous rubbish!” exclaims the would-be strong-minded, but secretly savage old maid, — and the selfishly matter-of-fact, but privately fidgety and lonely old bachelor. Ah! but there are those who could tell you that at one time or another of their lives this “ridiculous rubbish” seemed far more important than the decline and fall of empires, — more necessary to existence than light and air, — more fraught with hope, fear, suspense, comfort, despair, and anxiety than anything that could be invented or imagined! Philip and Thelma, — man and woman in the full flush of youth, health, beauty, and happiness, — had just entered their Paradise, — their fairy-garden, — and every little flower and leaf on the way had special, sweet interest for them. Love’s indefinable glories, — Love’s proud possibilities, — Love’s long ecstasies, — these, like so many spirit-figures, seemed to smile and beckon them on, on, on, through golden seas of sunlight, — through flower-filled fields of drowsy entrancement, — through winding ways of rose-strewn and lily-scented leafage, — on, on, with eyes and hearts absorbed in one another, — unseeing any end to the dreamlike wonders that, like some heavenly picture-scroll, unrolled slowly and radiantly before them. And so they murmured those unwise, tender things which no wisdom in the world has ever surpassed, and when Philip at last said “Good night!” with more reluctance than Romeo, and pressed his parting kiss on his love’s sweet, fresh mouth, — the riddle with which he had puzzled himself so often was resolved at last, — life was worth living, worth cherishing, worth ennobling. The reason of all things seemed clear to him, — Love, and Love only, supported, controlled, and grandly completed the universe! He accepted this answer to all perplexities, — his heart expanded with a sense of large content — his soul was satisfied.

  Meanwhile, during his friend’s absence from the yacht, Lorimer took it upon himself to break the news to Duprèz and Macfarlane. These latter young gentlemen had had their suspicions already, but they were not quite prepared to hear them so soon confirmed. Lorimer told the matter in his own way.

  “I say, you fellows!” he remarked carelessly, as he sat smoking in their company on deck, “you’d better look out! If you stare at Miss Güldmar too much, you’ll have Phil down upon you!”

  “Ha, ha!” exclaimed Duprèz slyly, “the dear Phil-eep is in love?”

  “Something more than that,” said Lorimer, looking absently at the cigarette he held between his fingers,— “he’s an engaged man.”

  “Engaged!” cried Macfarlane excitedly. “Ma certes! He has the deevil’s own luck! He’s just secured for himself the grandest woman in the warld!”

  “Je le crois bien!” said Duprèz gravely, nodding his head several times. “Phil-eep is a wise boy! He is the fortunate one! I am not for marriage at all — no! not for myself, — it is to tie one’s hands, to become a prisoner, — and that would not suit me; but if I were inclined to captivity, I should like Mademoiselle Güldmar for my beautiful gaoler. And beautiful she is, mon Dieu! . . . beyond all comparison!”

  Lorimer was silent, so was Macfarlane. After a pause Duprèz spoke again.

  “And do you know, cher Lorimer, when our Phil-eep will marry?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” returned Lorimer. “I know he’s engaged, that’s all.”

  Suddenly Macfarlane broke into a chuckling laugh.

  “I say, Lorimer,” he said, with his deep-set, small grey eyes sparkling with mischief. “’Twould be gr
and fun to see auld Dyceworthy’s face when he hears o’t. By the Lord! He’ll fall to cursin’ an’ swearin’ like ma pious aunt in Glasgie, or that auld witch that cursed Miss Thelma yestreen!”

  “An eminently unpleasant old woman she was!” said Lorimer musingly. “I wonder what she meant by it!”

  “She meant, mon cher,” said Duprèz airily, “that she knew herself to be ugly and venerable, while Mademoiselle was youthful and ravishing, — it is a sufficient reason to excite profanity in the mind of a lady!”

  “Here comes Errington!” said Macfarlane, pointing to the approaching boat that was coming swiftly back from the Güldmars’ pier. “Lorimer, are we to congratulate him?”

  “If you like!” returned Lorimer. “I dare say he won’t object.”

  So that as soon as Sir Philip set foot on the yacht, his hands were cordially grasped, and his friends out-vied each other in good wishes for his happiness. He thanked them simply and with a manly straightforwardness, entirely free from the usual affected embarrassment that some modern young men think it seemly to adopt under similar circumstances.

  “The fact is,” he said frankly, “I congratulate myself, — I’m more lucky than I deserve, I know!”

  “What a sensation she will make in London, Phil!” said Lorimer suddenly. “I’ve just thought of it! Good Heavens! Lady Winsleigh will cry for sheer spite and vexation!”

  Philip laughed. “I hope not,” he said. “I should think it would need immense force to draw a tear from her ladyship’s cold bright eyes.”

  “She used to like you awfully, Phil!” said Lorimer. “You were a great favorite of hers.”

  “All men are her favorites with the exception of one — her husband!” observed Errington gaily. “Come along, let’s have some champagne to celebrate the day! We’ll propose toasts and drink healths — we’ve got a fair excuse for jollity this evening.”

  They all descended into the saloon, and had a merry time of it, singing songs and telling good stories, Lorimer being the gayest of the party, and it was long past midnight when they retired to their cabins, without even looking at the wonders of, perhaps, the most gorgeous sky that had yet shone on their travels — a sky of complete rose-color, varying from the deepest shade up to the palest, in which the sun glowed with a subdued radiance like an enormous burning ruby.

  Thelma saw it, standing under her house-porch, where her father had joined her, — Sigurd saw it, — he had come out from some thicket where he had been hiding, and he now sat, in a humble, crouching posture at Thelma’s feet. All three were silent, reverently watching the spreading splendor of the heavens. Once Güldmar addressed his daughter in a soft tone.

  “Thou are happy, my bird?”

  She smiled — the expression of her face was almost divine in its rapture.

  “Perfectly happy, my father!”

  At the sound of her dulcet voice, Sigurd looked up. His large blue eyes were full of tears, he took her hand and held it in his meagre and wasted one.

  “Mistress!” he said suddenly, “do you think I shall soon die?”

  She turned her pitying eyes down upon him, startled by the vibrating melancholy of his tone.

  “Thou wilt die, Sigurd,” answered Güldmar gently, “when the gods please, — not one second sooner or later. Art thou eager to see Valhalla?”

  Sigurd nodded dreamily. “They will understand me there!” he murmured. “And I shall grow straight and strong and brave! Mistress, if you meet me in Valhalla, you will love me!”

  She stroked his wild fair locks. “I love you now, Sigurd,” she said tenderly. “But perhaps we shall all love each other better in heaven.”

  “Yes, yes!” exclaimed Sigurd, patting her hand caressingly. “When we are all dead, dead! When our bodies crumble away and turn to flowers and birds and butterflies, — and our souls come out like white and red flames, — yes! . . . then we shall love each other and talk of such strange, strange things!” He paused and laughed wildly. Then his voice sank again into melancholy monotony — and he added: “Mistress, you are killing poor Sigurd!”

  Thelma’s face grow very earnest and anxious. “Are you vexed with me, dear?” she asked soothingly. “Tell me what it is that troubles you?”

  Sigurd met her eyes with a look of speechless despair and shook his head.

  “I cannot tell you!” he muttered. “All my thoughts have gone to drown themselves one by one in the cold sea! My heart was buried yesterday, and I saw it sealed down into its coffin. There is something of me left, — something that dances before me like a flame, — but it will not rest, it does not obey me. I call it, but it will not come! And I am getting tired, mistress — very, very tired!” His voice broke, and a low sob escaped him, — he hid his face in the folds of her dress. Güldmar looked at the poor fellow compassionately.

  “The wits wander further and further away!” he said to his daughter in a low tone. “’Tis a mind like a broken rainbow, split through by storm— ‘twill soon vanish. Be patient with him, child, — it cannot be for long!”

  “No, not for long!” cried Sigurd, raising his head brightly. “That is true — not for long! Mistress, will you come to-morrow with me and gather flowers? You used to love to wander with your poor boy in the fields, — but you have forgotten, — and I cannot find any blossoms without you! They will not show themselves unless you come! Will you? dear, beautiful mistress! will you come?”

  She smiled, pleased to see him a little more cheerful. “Yes, Sigurd,” she said; “I will come. We will go together early to-morrow morning and gather all the flowers we can find. Will that make you happy?”

  “Yes!” he said, softly kissing the hem of her dress. “It will make me happy — for the last time.”

  Then he rose in an attitude of attention, as though he had been called by some one at a distance, — and with a grave, preoccupied air he moved away, walking on tip-toe as though he feared to interrupt the sound of some soft invisible music. Güldmar sighed as he watched him disappear.

  “May the gods make us thankful for a clear brain when we have it!” he said devoutly; and then turning to his daughter, he bade her good night, and laid his hands on her golden head in silent but fervent blessing. “Child,” he said tremulously, “in the new joys that await thee, never forget how thy old father loves thee!”

  Then, not trusting himself to say more, he strode into the house and betook himself to slumber. Thelma followed his example, and the old farmhouse was soon wrapped in the peace and stillness of the strange night — a night of glittering sunshine. Sigurd alone was wakeful, — he lay at the foot of one of the tallest pine-trees, and stared persistently at the radiant sky through the network of dark branches. Now and then he smiled as though he saw some beatific vision — sometimes he plucked fitfully at the soft long moss on which he had made his couch, and sometimes he broke into a low, crooning song. God alone knew the broken ideas, the dim fancies, the half born desires, that glimmered like pale ghosts in the desert of his brain, — God alone, in the great Hereafter, could solve the problem of his sorrows and throw light on his soul’s darkness.

  It was past six in the morning when he arose, and smoothing back his tangled locks, went to Thelma’s window and sat down beneath it, in mute expectancy. He had not long to wait, — at the expiration of ten or fifteen minutes, the little lattice was thrown wide open, and the girl’s face, fresh as a rose, framed in a shower of amber locks, smiled down upon him.

  “I am coming, Sigurd!” she cried softly and joyously. “How lovely the morning is! Stay for me there! I shall not be long.”

  And she disappeared, leaving her window open. Sigurd heard her singing little scraps of song to herself, as she moved about in the interior of her room. He listened, as though his soul were drawn out of him by her voice, — but presently the rich notes ceased, and there was a sudden silence. Sigurd knew or guessed the reason of that hush, — Thelma was at her prayers. Instinctively the poor forlorn lad folded his wasted hands — most piteously a
nd most imploringly he raised his bewildered eyes to the blue and golden glory of the sky. His conception of God was indefinable; his dreams of heaven, chaotic minglings of fairy-land with Valhalla, — but he somehow felt that wherever Thelma’s holy aspirations turned, there the angels must be listening.

  Presently she came out of the house, looking radiant as the morning itself, — her luxuriant hair was thrown back over her shoulders, and fell loosely about her in thick curls, simply confined by a knot of blue ribbon. She carried a large osier basket, capacious, and gracefully shaped.

  “Now, Sigurd,” she called sweetly, “I am ready! Where shall we go?”

  Sigurd hastened to her side, happy and smiling.

  “Across there,” he said, pointing toward the direction of Bosekop. “There is a stream under the trees that laughs to itself all day — you know it, mistress? And the poppies are in the field as you go — and by the banks there are the heart’s-ease flowers — we cannot have too many of them! Shall we go?”

  “Wherever you like, dear,” answered Thelma tenderly, looking down from her stately height on the poor stunted creature at her side, who held her dress as though he were a child clinging to her as his sole means of guidance. “All the land is pleasant to-day.”

  They left the farm and its boundaries. A few men were at work on one of Güldmar’s fields, and these looked up, — half in awe, half in fear, — as Thelma and her fantastic servitor passed along.

  “’Tis a fine wench!” said one man, resting on his spade, and following with his eyes the erect, graceful figure of his employer’s daughter.

  “Maybe, maybe!” said another gruffly; “but a fine wench is a snare of the devil! Do ye mind what Lovisa Elsland told us?”

  “Ay, ay,” answered the first speaker, “Lovisa knows, — Lovisa is the wisest woman we have in these parts — that’s true! The girl’s a witch, for sure!”

  And they resumed their work in gloomy silence. Not one of them would have willingly labored on Olaf Güldmar’s land, had not the wages he offered been above the usual rate of hire, — and times were bad in Norway. But otherwise, the superstitious fear of him was so great that his fields might have gone untilled and his crops ungathered, — however, as matters stood, none of them could deny that he was a good paymaster, and just in his dealings with those whom he employed.