Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Jump in — jump in! We must go on as quickly as possible to Bosekop! Quick — quick! Oh my poor Fröken! The old villain! Wait till I get at him!”

  “But, my leet-le child!” expostulated Pierre, climbing up into the queer vehicle— “What is all this? I am in astonishment — I understand not at all! How comes it that you are run away from home, and Mademoiselle also?”

  Britta only waited till he was safely seated, and then lashed the pony with redoubled force. Away they clattered at a break-neck pace, the Frenchman having much ado to prevent himself from being jolted out again on the road.

  “It is a wicked plot!” she then exclaimed, panting with excitement— “a wicked, wicked plot! This afternoon Mr. Dyceworthy’s servant came and brought Sir Philip’s card. It said that he had met with an accident and had been brought back to Bosekop, and that he wished the Fröken to come to him at once. Of course, the darling believed it all — and she grew so pale, so pale! And she went straight away in her boat all by herself! Oh my dear — my dear!”

  Britta gasped for breath, and Duprèz soothingly placed an arm round her waist, an action which the little maiden seemed not to be aware of. She resumed her story— “Then the Fröken had not been gone so very long, and I was watching for her in the garden, when a woman passed by — a friend of my grandmother’s. She called out— ‘Hey, Britta! Do you know they have got your mistress down at Talvig, and they’ll burn her for a witch before they sleep!’ ‘She has gone to Bosekop,’ I answered, ‘so I know you tell a lie.’ ‘It is no lie,’ said the old woman, ‘old Lovisa has her this time for sure.’ And she laughed and went away. Well, I did not stop to think twice about it — I started off for Talvig at once — I ran nearly all the way. I found my grandmother alone — I asked her if she had seen the Fröken? She screamed and clapped her hands like a mad woman! she said that the Fröken was with Mr. Dyceworthy — Mr. Dyceworthy would know what to do with her!”

  “Sapristi!” ejaculated Duprèz. “This is serious!”

  Britta glanced anxiously at him, and went on. “Then she tried to shut the doors upon me and beat me — but I escaped. Outside I saw a man I knew with his carriole, and I borrowed it of him and came back as fast as I could — but oh! I am so afraid — my grandmother said such dreadful things!”

  “The others have taken a boat to Bosekop,” said Duprèz, to reassure her. “They may be there by now.”

  Britta shook her head. “The tide is against them — no! we shall be there first. But,” and she looked wistfully at Pierre, “my grandmother said Mr. Dyceworthy had sworn to ruin the Fröken. What did she mean, do you think?”

  Duprèz did not answer, — he made a strange grimace and shrugged his shoulders. Then he seized the whip and lashed the pony.

  “Faster, faster, mon chère!” he cried to that much-astonished, well-intentioned animal. “It is not a time to sleep, ma foi!” Then to Britta— “My little one, you shall see! We shall disturb the good clergyman at his peaceful supper — yes indeed! Be not afraid!”

  And with such reassuring remarks he beguiled the rest of the way, which to both of them seemed unusually long, though it was not much past nine when they rattled into the little village called by courtesy a town, and came to a halt within a few paces of the minister’s residence. Everything was very quiet — the inhabitants of the place retired to rest early — and the one principal street was absolutely deserted. Duprèz alighted.

  “Stay you here, Britta,” he said, lightly kissing the hand that held the pony’s reins. “I will make an examination of the windows of the house. Yes — before knocking at the door! You wait with patience. I will let you know everything!”

  And with a sense of pleasurable excitement in his mind, he stole softly along on tip-toe — entered the minister’s garden, fragrant with roses and mignonette, and then, attracted by the sound of voices, went straight up to the parlor window. The blind was down and he could see nothing, but he heard Mr. Dyceworthy’s bland persuasive tones, echoing out with a soft sonorousness, as though he were preaching to some refractory parishioner. He listened attentively.

  “Oh strange, strange!” said Mr. Dyceworthy. “Strange that you will not see how graciously the Lord hath delivered you into my hands! Yea, — and no escape is possible! For lo, you yourself, Fröken Thelma,” Dyceworthy started, “you yourself came hither unto my dwelling, a woman all unprotected, to a man equally unprotected, — and who, though a humble minister of saving grace, is not proof against the offered surrender of your charms! Make the best of it, my sweet girl! — make the best of it! You can never undo what you have done to-night.”

  “Coward! . . . coward!” and Thelma’s rich low voice caused Pierre to almost leap forward from the place where he stood concealed. “You, — you made me come here — you sent me that card — you dared to use the name of my betrothed husband, to gain your vile purpose! You have kept me locked in this room all these hours — and do you think you will not be punished? I will let the whole village know of your treachery and falsehood!”

  Mr. Dyceworthy laughed gently. “Dear me, dear me!” he remarked sweetly. “How pretty we look in a passion, to be sure! And we talk of our ‘betrothed husband’ do we? Tut-tut! Put that dream out of your mind, my dear girl — Sir Philip Bruce-Errington will have nothing to do with you after your little escapade of to-night! Your honor is touched! — yes, yes! and honor is everything to such a man as he. As for the ‘card’ you talk about, I never sent a card — not I!” Mr. Dyceworthy made this assertion in a tone of injured honesty. “Why should I! No — no! You came here of your own accord, — that is certain and—” here he spoke more slowly and with a certain malicious glee, “I shall have no difficulty in proving it to be so, should the young man Errington ask me for an explanation! Now you had better give me a kiss and make the peace! There’s not a soul in the place who will believe anything you say against me; you, a reputed witch, and I, a minister of the Gospel. For your father I care nothing, a poor sinful pagan can never injure a servant of the Lord. Come now, let me have that kiss! I have been very patient — I am sure I deserve it!”

  There was a sudden rushing movement in the room, and a slight cry.

  “If you touch me!” cried Thelma, “I will kill you! I will! God will help me!”

  Again Mr. Dyceworthy laughed sneeringly. “God will help you!” he exclaimed as though in wonder. “As if God ever helped a Roman! Fröken Thelma, be sensible. By your strange visit to me to-night you have ruined your already damaged character — I say you have ruined it, — and if anything remains to be said against you, I can say it — moreover, I will!”

  A crash of breaking window-glass followed these words, and before Mr. Dyceworthy could realize what had happened, he was pinioned against his own wall by an active, wiry, excited individual, whose black eyes sparkled with gratified rage, whose clenched fist was dealing him severe thumps all over his fat body.

  “Ha, ha! You will, will you!” cried Duprèz, literally dancing up against him and squeezing him as though he were a jelly. “You will tell lies in the service of le Bon Dieu? No — not quite, not yet!” And still pinioning him with one hand, he dragged at his collar with the other till he succeeded, in spite of the minister’s unwieldly efforts to defend himself, in rolling him down upon the floor, where he knelt upon him in triumph. “Voilà! Je sais faire la boxe, moi!” Then turning to Thelma, who stood an amazed spectator of the scene, her flushed cheeks and tear-swollen eyes testifying to the misery of the hours she had passed, he said, “Run, Mademoiselle, run! The little Britta is outside, she has a pony-car — she will drive you home. I will stay here till Phil-eep comes. I shall enjoy myself! I will begin — Phil-eep with finish! Then we will return to you.”

  Thelma needed no more words, she rushed to the door, threw it open, and vanished like a bird in air. Britta’s joy at seeing her was too great for more than an exclamation of welcome, — and the carriole, with the two girls safely in it, was soon on its rapid way back to the farm. Meanwhile,
Olaf Güldmar, with Errington and the others, had just landed at Bosekop after a heavy pull across the Fjord, and they made straight for Mr. Dyceworthy’s house, the bonde working himself up as he walked into a positive volcano of wrath. Finding the street-door open as it had just been left by the escaped Thelma, they entered, and on the threshold of the parlor, stopped abruptly, in amazement at the sight that presented itself. Two figures were rolling about on the floor, apparently in a close embrace, — one large and cumbrous, the other small and slight. Sometimes they shook each other, — sometimes they lay still, — sometimes they recommenced rolling. Both were perfectly silent, save that the larger personage seemed to breathe somewhat heavily. Lorimer stepped into the room to secure a better view — then he broke into an irrepressible laugh.

  “It’s Duprèz,” he cried, for the benefit of the others that stood at the door. “By Jove! How did he get here, I wonder?”

  Hearing his name, Duprèz looked up from that portion of Mr. Dyceworthy’s form in which he had been burrowing, and smiled radiantly.

  “Ah, cher Lorimer! Put your knee here, will you? So! that is well — I will rest myself!” And he rose, smoothing his roughened hair with both hands, while Lorimer in obedience to his request, kept one knee artistically pressed on the recumbent figure of the minister. “Ah! and there is our Phil-eep, and Sandy, and Monsieur Güldmar! But I do not think,” here he beamed all over, “there is much more to be done! He is one bruise, I assure you! He will not preach for many Sundays; — it is bad to be so fat — he will be so exceedingly suffering!”

  Errington could not forbear smiling at Pierre’s equanimity. “But what has happened?” he asked. “Is Thelma here?”

  “She was here,” answered Duprèz. “The religious had decoyed her here by means of some false writing, — supposed to be from you. He kept her locked up here the whole afternoon. When I came he was making love and frightening her, — I am pleased I was in time. But” — and he smiled again— “he is well beaten!”

  Sir Philip strode up to the fallen Dyceworthy, his face darkening with wrath.

  “Let him go, Lorimer,” he said sternly. Then, as the reverend gentleman slowly struggled to his feet, moaning with pain, he demanded, “What have you to say for yourself, sir? Be thankful if I do not give you the horse-whipping you deserve, you scoundrel!”

  “Let me get at him!” vociferated Güldmar at this juncture, struggling to free himself from the close grasp of the prudent Macfarlane. “I have longed for such a chance! Let me get at him!”

  But Lorimer assisted to restrain him from springing forward, — and the old man chafed and swore by his gods in vain.

  Mr. Dyceworthy meanwhile meekly raised his eyes, and folded his hands with a sort of pious resignation.

  “I have been set upon and cruelly abused,” he said mournfully, “and there is no part of me without ache and soreness!” He sighed deeply. “But I am punished rightly for yielding unto carnal temptation, put before me in the form of the maiden who came hither unto me with delusive entrancements—”

  He stopped, shrinking back in alarm from the suddenly raised fist of the young baronet.

  “You’d better be careful!” remarked Philip coolly, with dangerously flashing eyes; “there are four of us here, remember!”

  Mr. Dyceworthy coughed, and resumed an air of outraged dignity.

  “Truly, I am aware of it!” he said; “and it surpriseth me not at all that the number of the ungodly outweigheth that of the righteous! Alas! ‘why do the heathen rage so furiously together?’ Why, indeed! Except that ‘in their hearts they imagine a vain thing!’ I pardon you, Sir Philip, I freely pardon you! And you also, sir,” turning gravely to Duprèz, who received his forgiveness with a cheerful and delighted bow. “You can indeed injure — and you have injured this poor body of mine — but you cannot touch the soul! No, nor can you hinder that freedom of speech” — here his malignant smile was truly diabolical— “which is my glory, and which shall forever be uplifted against all manner of evil-doers, whether they be fair women and witches, or misguided pagans—”

  Again he paused, rather astonished at Errington’s scornful laugh.

  “You low fellow!” said the baronet. “From Yorkshire, are you? Well, I happen to know a good many people in that part of the world — and I have some influence there, too. Now, understand me — I’ll have you hounded out of the place! You shall find it too hot to hold you — that I swear! Remember! I’m a man of my word! And if you dare to mention the name of Miss Güldmar disrespectfully, I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life!”

  Mr. Dyceworthy blinked feebly, and drew out his handkerchief.

  “I trust, Sir Philip,” he said mildly, “you will reconsider your words! It would ill beseem you to strive to do me harm in the parish were my ministrations are welcome, as appealing to that portion of the people who follow the godly Luther. Oh yes,” — and he smiled cheerfully— “you will reconsider your words. In the meantime — I — I” — he stammered slightly— “I apologize! I meant naught but good to the maiden — but I have been misunderstood, as is ever the case with the servants of the Lord. Let us say no more about it! I forgive! — let us all forgive! I will even extend my pardon to the pagan yonder—”

  But the “pagan” at that moment broke loose from the friendly grasp in which he had been hitherto held, and strode up to the minister, who recoiled like a beaten cur from the look of that fine old face flushed with just indignation, and those clear blue eyes fiery as the flash of steel.

  “Pagan, you call me!” he cried. “I thank the gods for it — I am proud of the title! I would rather be the veriest savage that ever knelt in untutored worship to the great forces of Nature, than such a thing as you — a slinking, unclean animal, crawling coward-like between earth and sky, and daring to call itself a Christian! Faugh! Were I the Christ, I should sicken at sight of you!”

  Dyceworthy made no reply, but his little eyes glittered evilly.

  Errington, not desiring any further prolongation of the scene, managed to draw the irate bonde away, saying in a low tone —

  “We’ve had enough of this, sir! Let us get home to Thelma.”

  “I was about to suggest a move,” added Lorimer. “We are only wasting time here.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Duprèz radiantly— “and Monsieur Dyceworthy will be glad to be in bed! He will be very stiff to-morrow, I am sure! Here is a lady who will attend him.”

  This with a courteous salute to the wooden-faced Ulrika, who suddenly confronted them in the little passage. She seemed surprised to see them, and spoke in a monotonous dreamy tone, as though she walked in her sleep.

  “The girl has gone?” she added slowly.

  Duprèz nodded briskly. “She has gone! And let me tell you, madame, that if it had not been for you, she would not have come here at all. You took that card to her?”

  Ulrika frowned. “I was compelled,” she said. “She made me take it. I promised.” She turned her dull eyes slowly on Güldmar. “It was Lovisa’s fault. Ask Lovisa about it.” She paused, and moistened her dry lips with her tongue. “Where is your crazy lad?” she asked, almost anxiously. “Did he come with you?”

  “He is dead!” answered Güldmar, with grave coldness.

  “Dead!” And to their utter amazement, she threw up her arms and burst into a fit of wild laughter. “Dead! Thank God! Thank God! Dead! And through no fault of mine! The Lord be praised! He was only fit for death — never mind how he died — it is enough that he is dead — dead! I shall see him no more — he cannot curse me again! — the Lord be thankful for all His mercies!”

  And her laughter ceased — she threw her apron over her head and broke into a passion of weeping.

  “The woman must be crazy!” exclaimed the bonde, thoroughly mystified, — then placing his arm through Errington’s, he said impatiently, “You’re right, my lad! We’ve had enough of this. Let us shake the dust of this accursed place off our feet and get home. I’m tired out!”

&n
bsp; They left the minister’s dwelling and made straight for the shore, and were soon well on their journey back to the farm across the Fjord. This time the tide was with them — the evening was magnificent, and the coolness of the breeze, the fresh lapping of the water against the boat, and the brilliant tranquility of the landscape, soon calmed their over-excited feelings. Thelma was waiting for them under the porch as usual, looking a trifle paler than her wont, after all the worry and fright and suspense she had undergone, — but the caresses of her father and lover soon brought back the rosy warmth on her fair face, and restored the lustre to her eyes. Nothing was said about Sigurd’s fate just then, — when she asked for her faithful servitor, she was told he had “gone wandering as usual,” and it was not till Errington and his friends returned to their yacht that old Güldmar, left alone with his daughter, broke the sad news to her very gently. But the shock, so unexpected and terrible, was almost too much for her already overwrought nerves, — and such tears were shed for Sigurd as Sigurd himself might have noted with gratitude. Sigurd — the loving, devoted Sigurd — gone for ever! Sigurd, — her playmate, — her servant, — her worshiper, — dead! Ah, how tenderly she mourned him! — how regretfully she thought of his wild words! “Mistress, you are killing poor Sigurd!” Wistfully she wondered if, in her absorbing love for Philip, she had neglected the poor crazed lad, — his face, in all its pale, piteous appeal, haunted her, and her grief for his loss was the greatest she had ever known since the day on which she had seen her mother sink into the last long sleep. Britta, too, wept and would not be comforted — she had been fond of Sigurd in her own impetuous little way, — and it was some time before either she or her mistress, could calm themselves sufficiently to retire to rest. And long after Thelma was sleeping, with tears still wet on her cheeks, her father sat alone under his porch, lost in melancholy meditation. Now and then he ruffled his white hair impatiently with his hand, — his daughter’s adventure in Mr. Dyceworthy’s house had vexed his proud spirit. He knew well enough that the minister’s apology meant nothing — that the whole village would be set talking against Thelma more, even than before, — that there was no possibility of preventing scandal so long as Dyceworthy was there to start it. He thought and thought and puzzled himself with probabilities — till at last, when he finally rose to enter his dwelling for the night, he muttered half-aloud. “If it must be, it must! And the sooner the better now, I think, for the child’s sake.”