Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Njedegorze!” cried Sigurd again, giving a singularly musical pronunciation to the apparently uncouth name. “Come! still a little further, — to the top of the Fall!”

  Olaf Güldmar, however, paid no attention to this invitation. He was already beginning to busy himself with preparations for passing the night comfortably in the hut before mentioned. Stout old Norseman as he was, there were limits to his endurance, and the arduous exertions of the long day had brought fatigue to him as well as to the rest of the party.

  Macfarlane was particularly exhausted. His frequent pulls at the whiskey flask had been of little or no avail as a support to his aching limbs, and, now he had reached his destination, he threw himself full length on the turf in front of the hut and groaned most dismally.

  Lorimer surveyed him amusedly, and stood beside him, the very picture of a cool young Briton whom nothing could possibly discompose.

  “Done up — eh, Sandy?” he inquired.

  “Done up!” growled Macfarlane. “D’ye think I’m a Norseman or a jumping Frenchy?” This with a look of positive indignation at the lively Duprèz, who, if tired, was probably too vain to admit it, for he was strutting about, giving vent to his genuine admiration of the scene before him with the utmost freshness and enthusiasm. “I’m just a plain Scotchman, an’ no such a fule at climbin’ either! Why, man, I’ve been up Goatfell in Arran, an’ Ben Lomond an’ Ben Nevis — there’s a mountain for ye, if ye like! But a brae like this, wi’ a’ the stanes lyin’ helter-skelter, an’ crags that ye can barely hold on to — and a mad chap guidin’ ye on at the speed o’ a leapin’ goat — I tell ye, I havena been used to’t.” Here he drew out his flask and took another extensive pull at it. Then he added suddenly, “Just look at Errington! He’ll be in a fair way to break his neck if he follows yon wee crazy loon any further.”

  At these words Lorimer turned sharply round, and perceived his friend following Sigurd step by step up a narrow footing in the steep ascent of some rough, irregular crags that ran out and formed a narrow ledge, ending in a sharp point, jutting directly over the full fury of the waterfall. He watched the two climbing figures for an instant without any anxiety, — then he suddenly remembered that Philip had promised to go with Sigurd “to the top of the Fall.” Acting on a rapid impulse which he did not stop to explain to himself, Lorimer at once started off after them, — but the ascent was difficult; they were some distance ahead, and though he shouted vociferously, the roar of the cascade rendered his voice inaudible. Gaining on them, however, by slow degrees, he was startled when all at once they disappeared at the summit — and, breathless with his rapid climb, he paused, bewildered. By-and-by he saw Sigurd creeping cautiously out along the rocky shelf that overhung the tumbling torrent — his gaze grew riveted with a sort of deadly fascination on the spot.

  “Good God!” he muttered under his breath. “Surely Phil will not follow him there!”

  He watched with strained eyes, — and a smothered cry escaped him as Errington’s tall figure, erect and bold, appeared on that narrow and dangerous platform! He never knew how he clambered up the rest of the slippery ascent. A double energy seemed given to his active limbs. He never paused again for one second till he also stood on the platform, without being heard or perceived by either Sigurd or Philip. Their backs were turned to him, and he feared to move or speak, lest a sudden surprised movement on their parts should have the fatal result of precipitating one or both into the fall. He remained, therefore, behind them, silent and motionless, — looking, as they looked, at the terrific scene below. From that point, Njedegorze was as a huge boiling caldron, from which arose twisted wreaths and coiling lengths of white vapor, faintly colored with gold and silvery blue. Dispersing in air, these mists took all manner of fantastic forms, — ghostly arms seemed to wave and beckon, ghostly hands to unite in prayer, — and fluttering creatures in gossamer draperies of green and crimson, appeared to rise and float, and retire and shrink, to nothingness again in the rainbow drift and sweep of whirling foam. Errington gazed unconcernedly down on the seething abyss. He pushed back his cap from his brow, and let the fresh wind play among his dark, clustering curls. His nerves were steady, and he surveyed the giddily twisting wheels of shining water, without any corresponding giddiness in his own brain. He had that sincere delight in a sublime natural spectacle, which is the heritage of all who possess a poetic and artistic temperament; and though he stood on a frail ledge of rock, from which one false or unwary step might send him to certain destruction, he had not the slightest sense of possible danger in his position. Withdrawing his eyes from the Fall, he looked kindly down at Sigurd, who in turn was staring up at him with a wild fixity of regard.

  “Well, old boy,” he said cheerfully, “this is a fine sight! Have you had enough of it? Shall we go back?”

  Sigurd drew imperceptibly nearer. Lorimer, from his point of vantage behind a huge bowlder, drew nearer also.

  “Go back?” echoed Sigurd. “Why should we go back?”

  “Why, indeed!” laughed Errington, lightly balancing himself on the trembling rocks beneath him. “Except that I should scarcely think this is the best place on which to pass the night! Not enough room, and too much noise! What say you?”

  “Oh, brave, brave, fool!” cried the dwarf in sudden excitement. “Are you not afraid?”

  The young baronet’s keen eyes glanced him over with amused wonder.

  “What of?” he demanded coolly. Still nearer came Sigurd — nearer also came the watchful, though almost invisible Lorimer.

  “Look down there!” continued Sigurd in shrill tones, pointing to the foaming gulf. “Look at the Elf-danz — see the beautiful spirits with the long pale green hair and glittering wings! See how they beckon, beckon, beckon! They want some one to join them — look how their white arms wave, — they throw back their golden veils and smile at us! They call to you — you with the strong figure and the proud eyes — why do you not go to them? They will kiss and caress you — they have sweet lips and snow-white bosoms, — they will love you and take care of you — they are as fair as Thelma!”

  “Are they? I doubt it!” and Errington smiled dreamily as he turned his head again towards the fleecy whirl of white water, and saw at once with an artist’s quick eye what his sick-brained companion meant by the Elf-danz, in the fantastic twisting, gliding shapes tossed up in the vaporous mist of the Fall. “But I’ll take your word, Sigurd, without making the elves’ personal acquaintance! Come along — this place is bad for you — we’ll dance with the green-haired nymphs another time.”

  And with a light laugh he was about to turn away, when he was surprised by a sudden, strange convulsion of Sigurd’s countenance — his blue eyes flashed with an almost phosphorescent lustre, — his pale skin flushed deeply red, and the veins in his forehead started into swelled and knotted prominence.

  “Another time!” he screamed loudly; “no, no! Now — now! Die, robber of Thelma’s love! Die — die — die!”

  Repeating these words like quick gasps of fury, he twisted his meager arms tightly round Errington, and thrust him fiercely with all his might towards the edge of the Fall. For one second Philip strove against him — the next, he closed his eyes — Thelma’s face smiled on his mind in that darkness as though in white farewell — the surging blood roared in his ears with more thunder than the terrific tumble of the torrent— “God!” he muttered, and then — then he stood safe on the upper part of the rocky platform with Lorimer’s strong hand holding him in a vice-like grasp, and Lorimer’s face, pale, but looking cheerfully into his. For a moment he was too bewildered to speak. His friend loosened him and laughed rather forcedly — a slight tremble of his lips was observable under his fair moustache.

  “By Jove, Phil,” he remarked in his usual nonchalant manner, “that was rather a narrow shave! Fortunate I happened to be there!”

  Errington gazed about him confusedly. “Where’s Sigurd?” he asked.

  “Gone! Ran off like a ‘leapin’ goat,�
�� as Sandy elegantly describes him. I thought at first he meant to jump over the Fall, in which case I should have been compelled to let him have his own way, as my hands were full. But he’s taken a safe landward direction.”

  “Didn’t he try to push me over?”

  “Exactly! He was quite convinced that the mermaids wanted you. But I considered that Miss Thelma’s wishes had a prior claim on my regard.”

  “Look here, old man,” said Errington suddenly, “don’t jest about it! You saved my life!”

  “Well!” and Lorimer laughed. “Quite by accident, I assure you.”

  “Not by accident!” and Philip flushed up, looking very handsome and earnest. “I believe you followed us up here thinking something might happen. Now didn’t you?”

  “Suppose I did,” began Lorimer, but he was interrupted by his friend, who seized his hand, and pressed it with a warm, close, affectionate fervor. Their eyes met — and Lorimer blushed as though he had performed some action meriting blame rather than gratitude. “That’ll do, old fellow,” he said almost nervously. “As we say in polite society when some one crushes our favorite corn under his heel — don’t mention it! You see Sigurd is cracked, — there’s not the slightest doubt about that, — and he’s hardly accountable for his vagaries. Then I know something about him that perhaps you don’t. He loves your Thelma!”

  They were making the descent of the rocks together, and Errington stopped short in surprise.

  “Loves Thelma! You mean as a brother—”

  “Oh no, I don’t! I mean that he loves her as brothers often love other people’s sisters — his affection is by no means fraternal — if it were only that—”

  “I see!” and Philip’s eyes filled with a look of grave compassion. “Poor fellow! I understand his hatred of me now. Good Heavens! how he must suffer! I forgive him with all my heart. But — I say, Thelma has no idea of this!”

  “Of course not. And you’d better not tell her. What’s the good of making her unhappy?”

  “But how did you learn it?” inquired Philip, with a look of some curiosity at his friend.

  “Oh, I!” and Lorimer laughed carelessly; “I was always an observing sort of fellow — fond of putting two and two together and making four of them, when I wasn’t too exhausted and the weather wasn’t too hot for the process. Sigurd’s rather attached to me — indulges me with some specially private ravings now and then — I soon found out his secret, though I believe the poor little chap doesn’t understand his own feelings himself.”

  “Well,” said Errington thoughtfully, “under the circumstances you’d better not mention this affair of the Fall to Güldmar. It will only vex him. Sigurd won’t try such a prank again.”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” replied Lorimer; “but you know enough now to be on your guard with him.” He paused and looked up with a misty softness in his frank blue eyes — then went on in a subdued tone— “When I saw you on the edge of that frightful chasm, Phil—” He broke off as if the recollection were too painful, and exclaimed suddenly— “Good God! if I had lost you!”

  Errington clapped one hand on his shoulder.

  “Well! What if you had?” he asked almost mirthfully, though there was a suspicious tremble in his ringing voice.

  “I should have said with Horatio, ‘I am more an antique Roman than a Dane,’ — and gone after you,” laughed Lorimer. “And who knows what a jolly banquet we might not have been enjoying in the next world by this time? If I believe in anything at all, I believe in a really agreeable heaven — nectar and ambrosia, and all that sort of thing, and Hebes to wait upon you.”

  As he spoke they reached the sheltering hut, where Güldmar, Duprèz, and Macfarlane were waiting rather impatiently for them.

  “Where’s Sigurd?” cried the bonde.

  “Gone for a ramble on his own account,” answered Errington readily. “You know his fancies!”

  “I wish his fancies would leave him,” grumbled Güldmar. “He promised to light a fire and spread the meal — and now, who knows whither he has wandered?”

  “Never mind, sir,” said Lorimer. “Engage me as a kitchen-boy. I can light a fire, and can also sit beside it when it is properly kindled. More I cannot promise. As the housemaids say when they object to assist the cook, — it would be beneath me.”

  “Cook!” cried Duprèz, catching at this word. “I can cook! Give me anything to broil. I will broil it! You have coffee — I will make it!” And in the twinkling of an eye he had divested himself of his coat, turned up his cuffs, and manufactured the cap of a chef out of a newspaper which he stuck jauntily on his head. “Behold me, messieurs, à votre service!”

  His liveliness was infectious; they all set to work with a will, and in a few moments a crackling wood-fire blazed cheerily on the ground, and the gipsy preparations for the al fresco supper went on apace amid peals of laughter. Soon the fragrance of steaming coffee arose and mingled itself with the resinous odors of the surrounding pine-trees, — while Macfarlane distinguished himself by catching a fine salmon trout in a quiet nook of the rushing river, and this Duprèz cooked in a style that would have done honor to a cordon bleu. They made an excellent meal, and sang songs in turn and told stories, — Olaf Güldmar, in particular, related eerie legends of the Dovre-fjelde, and many a striking history of ancient origin, full of terror and superstition, — concerning witches, devils, and spirits both good and evil, who are still believed to have their abode on the Norwegian hills, — for, as the bonde remarked with a smile, “when civilization has driven these unearthly beings from every other refuge in the world, they will always be sure of a welcome in Norway.”

  It was eleven o’clock when they at last retired within the hut to rest for the night, and the errant Sigurd had not returned. The sun shone brilliantly, but there was no window to the small shed, and light and air came only through the door, which was left wide open. The tired travellers lay down on their spread-out rugs and blankets, and wishing each other a cheerful “good night,” were soon fast asleep. Errington was rather restless, and lay awake for some little time, listening to the stormy discourse of the Fall; but at last his eyelids yielded to the heaviness that oppressed them, and he sank into a light slumber.

  Meanwhile the imperial sun rode majestically downwards to the edge of the horizon, — and the sky blushed into the pale tint of a wild rose, that deepened softly and steadily with an ever-increasing fiery brilliance as the minutes glided noiselessly on to the enchanted midnight hour. A wind began to rustle mysteriously among the pines — then gradually growing wrathful, strove to whistle a loud defiance to the roar of the tumbling waters. Through the little nooks and crannies of the roughly constructed cabin, where the travellers slept, it uttered small wild shrieks of warning or dismay — and, suddenly, as though touched by an invisible hand, Sir Philip awoke. A crimson glare streaming through the open door dazzled his drowsy eyes — was it a forest on fire? He started up in dreamy alarm, — then remembered where he was. Realizing that there must be an exceptionally fine sky to cast so ruddy a reflection on the ground, he threw on his cloak and went outside.

  What a wondrous, almost unearthly scene greeted him! His first impulse was to shout aloud in sheer ecstasy — his next to stand silent in reverential awe. The great Fall was no longer a sweeping flow of white foam — it had changed to a sparkling shower of rubies, as though some great genie, tired of his treasures, were flinging them away by giant handfuls, in the most reckless haste and lavish abundance. From the bottom of the cascade a crimson vapor arose, like smoke from flame, and the whirling rapids, deeply red for the most part, darkened here and there into an olive-green flecked with gold, while the spray, tossed high over interrupting rocks and boulders, glittered as it fell like, small fragments of broken opal. The sky was of one dense uniform rose-color from west to east, — soft and shimmering as a broad satin pavilion freshly unrolled, — the sun was invisible, hidden behind the adjacent mountains, but his rays touched some peaks in the distance, o
n which white wreaths of snow lay, bringing them into near and sparkling prominence.

  The whole landscape was transformed — the tall trees, rustling and swaying in the now boisterous wind, took all flickering tints of color on their trunks and leaves, — the grey stones and pebbles turned to lumps of gold and heaps of diamonds, and on the other side of the rapids, a large tuft of heather in a cleft of the rocks glowed with extraordinary vividness and warmth, like a suddenly kindled fire. A troop of witches dancing wildly on the sward, — a ring of fairies, — kelpies tripping from crag to crag, — a sudden chorus of sweet-voiced water-nymphs — nothing unreal or fantastical would have surprised Errington at that moment. Indeed, he almost expected something of the kind — the scene was so eminently fitted for it.

  “Positively, I must wake Lorimer,” he thought to himself. “He oughtn’t to miss such a gorgeous spectacle as this.”

  He moved a little more in position to view the Fall. What was that small dark object running swiftly yet steadily along on the highest summit of those jutting crags? He rubbed his eyes amazedly — was it — could it be Sigurd? He watched it for a moment, — then uttered a loud cry as he saw it pause on the very ledge of rock from which but a short while since, he himself had been so nearly precipitated. The figure was now distinctly visible, outlined in black against the flaming crimson of the sky, — it stood upright and waved its arms with a frantic gesture. There was no mistaking it — it was Sigurd!