Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  “Bury me not when I am dead —

  Lay me not down in a dusty bed;

  I could not bear the life down there,

  With the wet worms crawling about my hair!”

  ERIC MACKAY.

  Long hours passed, and the next day dawned, if the dim twilight that glimmered faintly across the Altenfjord could be called a dawn. The snow-fall had ceased, — the wind had sunk — there was a frost-bound, monotonous calm. The picturesque dwelling of the bonde was white in every part, and fringed with long icicles, — icicles drooped from its sheltering porch and gabled windows — the deserted dove-cote on the roof was a miniature ice-palace, curiously festooned with thin threads and crested pinnacles of frozen snow. Within the house there was silence, — the silence of approaching desolation. In the room where Thelma used to sit and spin, a blazing fire of pine sparkled on the walls, casting ruddy outward flashes through the frost-covered lattice-windows, — and here, towards the obscure noon, Olaf Güldmar awoke from his long trance of insensibility. He found himself at home, stretched on his own bed, and looked about him vacantly. In the earnest and watchful countenance that bent above his pillow, he slowly recognized his friend, companion, and servant, Valdemar Svensen, and though returning consciousness brought with it throbs of agonizing pain, he strove to smile, and feebly stretched out his hand. Valdemar grasped it — kissed it — and in spite of his efforts to restrain his emotion, a sigh, that was almost a groan, escaped him. The bonde smiled again, — then lay quiet for a few moments as though endeavoring to collect his thought. Presently he spoke — his voice was faint yet distinct.

  “What has happened, Valdemar?” he asked. “How is it that the strength has departed from me?”

  Svensen dropped on his knees by the bedside. “An accident, my Lord Olaf,” he began falteringly.

  Güldmar’s eyes suddenly lightened. “Ah, I remember!” he said. “The rush down the valley — I remember all!” He paused, then added gently, “And so the end has come, Valdemar!”

  Svensen uttered a passionate exclamation of distress.

  “Let not my lord say so!” he murmured appealingly, with the air of a subject entreating favor from a king. “Or, if it must be, let me also travel with thee wherever thou goest!”

  Olaf Güldmar’s gaze rested on him with a musing tenderness.

  “’Tis a far journey,” he said simply. “And thou art not summoned.” He raised his arm to test its force — for one second it was uplifted, — then it fell powerless at his side. “I am conquered!” he went on with a cheerful air. “The fight is over, Valdemar! Surely I have had a long battle, and the time for rest and reward is welcome.” He was silent for a little, then continued, “Tell me — how — where didst thou find me? It seems I had a dream, strange, and glorious — then came a rushing sound of wheels and clanging bells, — and after that, a long deep silence.”

  Speaking in low tones, Valdemar briefly related the events of the past night. How he had heard the reindeer’s gallop down the road, and the quick jangling of the bells on their harness, and had concluded that the bonde was returning home at extraordinary speed — how these sounds had suddenly and unaccountably ceased, — how, after waiting for some time, and hearing nothing more, he had become greatly alarmed, and, taking a pine-torch, had gone out to see what had occurred, — how he had found the reindeer standing by the broken sledge in the gully, and how, after some search, he had finally discovered his master, lying half-covered by the snow, and grievously injured. How he had lifted him and carried him into the house, . . .

  “By my soul!” interrupted the bonde cheerfully, “thou must have found me no light weight, Valdemar! See what a good thing it is to be a man — with iron muscles, and strong limbs, and hardy nerve! By the Hammer of Thor! the glorious gift of strong manhood is never half appreciated! As for me — I am a man no longer!”

  He sighed a little, and, passing his sinewy hand across his brow, lay back exhausted. He was racked by bodily torture, but, — unflinching old hero as he was, — gave no sign of the agonizing pain he suffered. Valdemar Svensen had risen from his knees, and now stood gazing at him with yearning, miserable eyes, his brown, weather-beaten visage heavily marked with lines of grief and despair. He knew that he was utterly powerless — that nothing could save the noble life that was ebbing slowly away before him. His long and varied experience as a sailor, pilot, and traveller in many countries had given him some useful knowledge of medicine and surgery, and if anything was possible to be done, he could do it. But in this case no medical skill would have been availing — the old man’s ribs were crushed in and his spine injured, — his death was a question of but a few hours at the utmost, if so long.

  “Olaf the King!” muttered the bonde presently, “True! They make no mistakes yonder, — they know each warrior by name and rank— ’tis only in this world we are subject to error. This world! By the gods! . . . ’tis but a puff of thistle-down — or a light mist floating from the sunset to the sea!”

  He made a vigorous attempt to raise himself from his pillow — though the excruciating anguish caused by his movement, made him wince a little and grow paler.

  “Wine, Valdemar! Fill the horn cup to the brim and bring it to me — I must have strength to speak — before I depart — on the last great journey.”

  Obediently and in haste, Svensen filled the cup he asked for with old Lacrima Christi, of which there was always a supply in this far Northern abode, and gave it to him, watching him with a sort of superstitious reverence as he drained off its contents and returned it empty.

  “Ah! That warms this freezing blood of mine,” he said, the lustre flashing back into his eyes. “‘Twill find fresh force to flow a brief while longer. Valdemar — I have little time to spend with thee — I feel death here” — and he slightly touched his chest— “cold — cold and heavy. ’Tis nothing — a passing, chilly touch that sweeps away the world! But the warmth of a new, strong life awaits me — a life of never-ending triumph! The doors of Valhalla stand wide open — I heard the trumpet-call last night — I saw the dark-haired Valkyrie! All is well — and my soul is full of rejoicing. Valdemar — there is but one thing now thou hast to do for me, — the one great service thou hast sworn to render. Fulfill thine oath!”

  Valdemar’s brown cheek blanched, — his lips quivered, — he flung up his hands in wild appeal. The picturesque flow of his native speech gained new fervor and eloquence as he spoke.

  “Not yet — not yet, my lord!” he cried passionately. “Wait but a little — there is time. Think for one moment — think! Would it not be well for my lord to sleep the last sleep by the side of his beloved Thelma — the star of the dark mountains — the moonbeam of the night of his life? Would not peace enwrap him there as with a soft garment, and would not his rest be lulled by the placid murmur of the sea? For the days of old time and storm and victory are past — and the dead slumber as stones in the silent pathways — why would my lord depart in haste as though he were wrathful, from the land he has loved? — from the vassal who implores his pardon for pleading against a deed he dares not do!”

  “Dares not — dares not!” cried the bonde, springing up half-erect from his couch, in spite of pain, and looking like some enraged old lion with his tossed, streaming hair and glittering eyes. “Serf as thou art and coward! Thinkest thou an oath such as thine is but a thread of hair, to be snapped at thy pleasure? Wilt thou brave the wrath of the gods and the teeth of the Wolf of Nastrond? As surely as the seven stars shine on the white brow of Thor, evil shall be upon thee if thou refusest to perform the vow thou hast sworn! And shall a slave have strength to resist the dying curse of a King?”

  The pride, the supreme authority, — the magnified strength of command that flushed the old man’s features, were extraordinary and almost terrible in their impressive grandeur. If he indeed believed himself by blood a king and a descendant of kings, — he could not have shown a more forcible display of personal sovereignty
. The effect of his manner on Valdemar was instantaneous, — the superstitious fears of that bronzed sea-wanderer were easily aroused. His head drooped — he stretched out his hands imploringly.

  “Let not my lord curse his servant,” he faltered. “It was but a tremor of the heart that caused my tongue to speak foolishly. I am ready — I have sworn — the oath shall be kept to its utmost end!”

  Olaf Güldmar’s threatening countenance relaxed, and he fell back on his pillows.

  “It is well!” he said feebly and somewhat indistinctly. “Thy want of will maddened me — I spoke and lived in times that are no more — days of battle — and — glory — that are gone — from men — for ever. More wine, Valdemar! — I must keep a grip on this slippery life — and yet — I wander — wander into the — night—”

  His voice ceased, and he sank into a swoon — a swoon that was like death. His breathing was scarcely perceptible, and Svensen, alarmed at his appearance, forced some drops of wine between his set lips, and chafed his cold hands with anxious solicitude. Slowly and very gradually he recovered consciousness and intelligence, and presently asked for a pencil and paper to write a few farewell words to his daughter. In the grief and bewilderment of the time, Valdemar entirely forgot to tell him that a letter from Thelma had arrived for him on the previous afternoon while he was away at Talvig, — and was even now on the shelf above the chimney, awaiting perusal. Güldmar, ignorant of this, began to write slowly and with firmness, disregarding his rapidly sinking strength. Scarcely had he begun the letter, however, than he looked up meaningly at Svensen, who stood waiting beside him.

  “The time grows very short,” he said imperatively. “Prepare everything quickly — go! Fear not — I shall live to see thee return — and to bless thee for thy faithful service.”

  As he uttered these words he smiled; — and with one wistful, yearning look at him, Valdemar obediently and instantly departed. He left the house, carrying with him a huge pile of dry brushwood, and with the air of a man strung up to prompt action, rapidly descended the sloping path, thick with hardened snow, that led downwards to the Fjord. On reaching the shore, he looked anxiously about him. There was nothing in sight but the distant, twinkling lights of Bosekop — the Fjord itself was like a black pool, — so still that even the faintest murmur of its rippling against the bonde’s own private pier could be heard, — the tide was full up.

  Out of the reach of the encroaching waters, high and dry on the beach, was Güldmar’s brig, the Valkyrie, transformed by the fingers of the frost into a white ship, fantastically draped with threads of frozen snow and pendent icicles. She was placed on a descending plank, to which she was attached by a chain and rope pulley, — so that at any time of the weather or tide she could be moved glidingly downwards into deep water — and this was what Valdemar occupied himself in doing. It was a hard task. The chains were stiff with the frost, — but, after some patient and arduous striving, they yielded to his efforts, and, with slow clank and much creaking complaint, the vessel slid reluctantly down and plunged forward, afloat at last. Holding her ropes, Valdemar sprang to the extreme edge of the pier and fastened her there, and then getting on board, he untied and began to hoist the sails. This was a matter of the greatest difficulty, but it was gradually and successfully accomplished; and a strange sight the Valkyrie then presented, resting nearly motionless on the black Fjord, — her stretched and frosted canvas looking like sheeted pearl fringed with silver, — her masts white with encrusted snow, and topped with pointed icicles. Leaving her for a moment, Valdemar quickly returned, carrying the pile of dry brushwood he had brought, — he descended with this into the hold of the ship, and returned without it. Glancing once more nervously about him, he jumped from the deck to the pier — thence to the shore — and as he did so a long dark wave rolled up and broke at his feet. The capricious wind had suddenly arisen, — and a moaning whisper coming from the adjacent hills gave warning of another storm.

  Valdemar hurriedly retraced his steps back to the house, — his work with the Valkyrie had occupied him more than an hour — the bonde, his friend and master, might have died during his absence! There was a cold sickness at his heart — his feet seemed heavy as lead, and scarcely able to carry him along quickly enough — to his credulous and visionary mind, the hovering shadow of death seemed everywhere, — in every crackling twig he brushed against, — in every sough of the wakening gale that rustled among the bare pines. To his intense relief he found Güldmar lying calmly back among his pillows, — his eyes well open and clear, and an expression of perfect peace upon his features. He smiled as he saw his servant enter.

  “All is in readiness?” he asked.

  Valdemar bent his head in silent assent.

  The bonde’s face lightened with extraordinary rapture.

  “I thank thee, old friend!” he said in low but glad accents. “Thou knowest I could not be at peace in any other grave. I have suffered in thine absence, — the sufferings of the body that, being yet strong in spite of age, is reluctant to take leave of life. But it is past! I am as one numbed with everlasting frost, — and now I feel no pain. And my mind is like a bird that poises for a while over past and present, ere soaring into the far future. There are things I must yet say to thee, Valdemar, — give me thy close hearing, for my voice is weak.”

  Svensen drew closer, and stood in the humble attitude of one who waits a command from some supreme chief.

  “This letter,” went on the old man, giving him a folded paper, “is to the child of my heart, my Thelma. Send it to her — when — I am gone. It will not grieve her, I hope — for, as far as I could find words, I have expressed therein nothing but joy — the joy of a prisoner set free. Tell her, that with all the strength of my perishing body and escaping soul, I blessed her! . . . her and the husband in whose arms she rests in safety.” He raised his trembling hands solemnly— “The gods of my fathers and their attendant spirits have her young life in their glorious keeping! — the joy of love and purity and peace be on her innocent head for ever!”

  He paused, — the wind wailed mournfully round the house and shook the lattice with a sort of stealthy clatter, like a forlorn wanderer striving to creep in to warmth and shelter.

  “Here, Valdemar,” continued the bonde presently, in fainter accents, at the same time handing him another paper. “Here are some scrawled lines — they are plainly set forth and signed — which make thee master of this poor place and all that it contains.”

  A low, choked sob broke from Valdemar’s broad breast — he covered his face with his hands.

  “Of what avail?” he murmured brokenly. “When my lord departs, I am alone and friendless!”

  The bonde regarded him with kindly pity.

  “Tears from the stout heart?” he inquired with a sort of grave wonder. “Weep for life, Valdemar — not for death! Alone and friendless? Not while the gods are in heaven! Cheer thee — thou art strong and in vigorous pride of manhood — why should not bright days come for thee—” He broke off with a gasp — a sudden access of pain convulsed him and rendered his breathing difficult. By sheer force of will he mastered the cruel agony, though great drops of sweat stood on his brow when he at last found voice to continue —

  “I thought all suffering was past,” he said with a heroic smile. “This foolish flesh and blood of mine dies hard! But, as I was saying to thee, Valdemar — the farm is thine, and all it holds — save some few trifles I have set down to be given to my child. There is little worth in what I leave thee — the soil — is hard and ungrateful — the harvest uncertain, and the cattle few. Even the reindeer — didst thou say they were injured by their fall last night? — I — I forget, . . .”

  “No harm has come to them,” said Svensen hastily, seeing that the very effort of thinking was becoming too much for the old man. “They are safe and unhurt. Trouble not about these things!”

  A strange, unearthly radiance transfigured Güldmar’s visage.

  “Trouble is departin
g swiftly from me,” he murmured.

  “Trouble and I shall know each other no more!” His voice died away inarticulately, and he was silent a little space. Suddenly, and with a rush of vigor — that seemed superhuman, he raised himself nearly erect, and pointed outwards with a commanding gesture.

  “Bear me hence!” he cried in ringing tones. “Hence to the mountains and the sea!”

  With a sort of mechanical, swift obedience, Valdemar threw open the door — the wind rushed coldly into the house, bringing with it large feathery flakes of snow. A hand sledge stood outside the porch, — it was always there during the winter, being much used for visiting the outlying grounds of the farm, — and to this, Valdemar prepared to carry the bonde in his herculean arms. But, on being lifted from his couch, the old man, filled with strange, almost delirious force, declared himself able to stand, — and, though suffering deadly anguish at every step, did in truth manage to reach and enter the sledge, strongly supported by Valdemar. There, however, he fainted — and his faithful servant, covering his insensible form with, furs, thought he was dead. But there was now no time for hesitation, — dead or living, Olaf Güldmar’s will was law to his vassal, — an oath had been made and must be kept. To propel the sledge down to the Fjord was an easy matter — how the rest of his duty was accomplished he never knew.