Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 91
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
“Now, you will drink this Monsieur Pierre, and you will rest quite still till it is time to go back to the yacht; and to-morrow you will not feel any pain, I am sure. And I do think it will not be an ugly scar for long.”
“If it is,” answered Pierre, “I shall say I received it in a duel! Then I shall be great — glorious! and all the pretty ladies will love me!”
She laughed, — but looked grave a moment afterwards.
“You must never say what is not true,” she said. “It is wrong to deceive any one, — even in a small matter.”
Duprèz gazed up at her wonderingly, feeling very much like a chidden child.
“Never say what is not true!” he thought. “Mon Dieu! what would become of my life?”
It was a new suggestion, and he reflected upon it with astonishment. It opened such a wide vista of impossibilities to his mind.
Meanwhile old Güldmar was engaged in pouring out wine for the other young men, talking all the time.
“I tell thee, Thelma mine,” he said seriously, “something must be very wrong with our Sigurd. The poor lad has always been gentle and tractable, but to-day he was like some wild animal for mischief and hardihood. I grieve to see it! I fear the time may come when he may no longer be a safe servant for thee, child!”
“Oh, father!” — and the girl’s voice was full of tender anxiety— “surely not! He is too fond of us to do us any harm — he is so docile and affectionate!”
“Maybe, maybe!” and the old farmer shook his head doubtfully. “But when the wits are away the brain is like a ship without ballast — there is no safe sailing possible. He would not mean any harm, perhaps, — and yet in his wild moods he might do it, and be sorry for it directly afterwards. ’Tis little use to cry when the mischief is done, — and I confess I do not like his present humor.”
“By-the-by,” observed Lorimer, “that reminds me! Sigurd has taken an uncommonly strong aversion to Phil. It’s curious but it’s a fact. Perhaps it is that which upsets his nerves?”
“I have noticed it myself,” said Errington, “and I’m sorry for it, for I’ve done him no harm that I can remember. He certainly asked me to go away from the Altenfjord, and I refused, — I’d no idea he had any serious meaning in his request. But it’s evident he can’t endure my company.”
“Ah, then!” said Thelma simply and sorrowfully, “he must be very ill, — because it is natural for every one to like you.”
She spoke in perfect good faith and innocence of heart; but Errington’s eyes flashed and he smiled — one of those rare, tender smiles of his which brightened his whole visage.
“You are very kind to say so, Miss Güldmar!”
“It is not kindness; it is the truth!” she replied frankly.
At that moment a very rosy face and two sparkling eyes peered in at the door.
“Yes, Britta!” Thelma smiled; “we are quite ready!”
Whereupon the face disappeared, and Olaf Güldmar led the way into the kitchen, which was at the same time the dining-room, and where a substantial supper was spread on the polished pine table.
The farmer’s great arm-chair was brought in for Duprèz, who, though he declared he was being spoilt by too much attention, seemed to enjoy it immensely, — and they were all, including Britta, soon clustered round the hospitable board whereon antique silver and quaint glasses of foreign make sparkled bravely, their effect enhanced by the snowy whiteness of the homespun table-linen.
A few minutes set them all talking gaily. Macfarlane vied with the ever-gallant Duprèz in making a few compliments to Britta, who was pretty and engaging enough to merit attention, and who, after all, was something more than a mere servant, possessing, as she did, a great deal of her young mistress’s affection and confidence, and being always treated by Güldmar himself as one of the family. There was no reserve or coldness in the party, and the hum of their merry voices echoed up to the cross-rafters of the stout wooden ceiling and through the open door and window, from whence a patch of the gorgeous afternoon sky could be seen, glimmering redly, like a distant lake of fire. They were in the full enjoyment of their repast, and the old farmer’s rollicking “Ha, ha, ha!” in response to a joke of Lorimer’s, had just echoed jovially through the room, when a strong, harsh voice called aloud— “Olaf Güldmar!”
There was a sudden silence. Each one looked at the other in surprise. Again the voice called— “Olaf Güldmar!”
“Well!” roared the bonde testily, turning sharply round in his chair, “who calls me?”
“I do!” and the tall, emaciated figure of a woman advanced and stood on the threshold, without actually entering the room. She dropped the black shawl that enveloped her, and, in so doing, disordered her hair, which fell in white, straggling locks about her withered features, and her dark eyes gleamed maliciously as she fixed them on the assembled party. Britta, on perceiving her, uttered a faint shriek, and without considering the propriety of her action, buried her nut-brown curls and sparkling eyes in Duprèz’s coat-sleeve, which, to do the Frenchman justice, was exceedingly prompt to receive and shelter its fair burden. The bonde rose from his chair, and his face grew stern.
“What do you here, Lovisa Elsland? Have you walked thus far from Talvig to pay a visit that must needs be unwelcome?”
“Unwelcome I know I am,” replied Lovisa, disdainfully noting the terror of Britta and the astonished glances if Errington and his friends— “unwelcome at all times, — but most unwelcome at the hour of feasting and folly, — for who can endure to receive a message from the Lord when the mouth is full of savory morsels, and the brain reels with the wicked wine? Yet I have come in spite of your iniquities. Olaf Güldmar, — strong in the strength of the Lord, I dare to set foot upon your accursèd threshold, and once more make my just demand. Give me back the child of my dead daughter! . . . restore to me the erring creature who should be the prop of my defenceless age, had not your pagan spells alienated her from me, — release her, — and bid her return with me to my desolate hearth and home. This done, — I will stay the tempest that threatens your habitation — I will hold back the dark cloud of destruction — I will avert the wrath of the Lord, — yes! for the sake of the past — for the sake of the past!”
These last words she muttered in a low tone, more to herself than to Güldmar; and, having spoken, she averted her eyes from the company, drew her shawl closely about her, and waited for an answer.
“By all the gods of my fathers!” shouted the bonde in a towering passion. “This passes my utmost endurance! Have I not told thee again and again, thou silly soul! . . . that thy grandchild is no slave? She is free — free to return to thee an’ she will; free also to stay with us, where she has found a happier home than thy miserable hut at Talvig, Britta!” and he thumped his fist on the table. “Look up, child! Speak for thyself! Thou hast a spirit of thine own. Here is thy one earthly relation. Wilt go with her? Neither thy mistress nor I will stand in the way of thy pleasure.”
Thus adjured Britta looked up so suddenly that Duprèz, — who had rather enjoyed the feel of her little nestling head hidden upon his arm, — was quite startled, and he was still more so at the utter defiance that flashed into the small maiden’s round, rosy face.
“Go with you!” she cried shrilly, addressing the old woman, who remained standing in the same attitude, with an air of perfect composure. “Do you think I have forgotten how you treated my mother, or how you used to beat me and starve me? You wicked old woman! How dare you come here? I’m ashamed of you! You frightened my mother to death — you know you did! . . . and now you want to do the same to me! But you won’t — I can tell you! I’m old enough to do as I like, and I’d rather die than live with you!”
Then, overcome by excitement and temper, she burst out crying, heedless of Pierre Duprèz’s smiling nods of approval, and the admiring remarks he was making under his breath, such as— “Brava, ma petite! C’est bien fait! c’est joliment bien dit! Mais je crois bien!”
Lovisa seemed unmoved; she raised her head and looked, at Güldmar.
“Is this your answer?” she demanded.
“By the sword of Odin!” cried the bonde, “the woman must be mad! my answer? The girl has spoken for herself, — and plainly enough too! Art thou deaf, Lovisa Elsland? or are thy wits astray?”
“My hearing is very good,” replied Lovisa calmly, “and my mind, Olaf Güldmar, is as clear as yours. And, thanks to your teaching in mine early days,” — she paused and looked keenly at him, but he appeared to see no meaning in her allusion,— “I know the English tongue, of which we hear far too much, — too often! There is nothing Britta has said that I do not understand. But I know well it is not the girl herself that speaks — it is a demon in her, — and that demon shall be cast forth before I die! Yea, with the help of the Lord I shall—” She stopped abruptly and fixed her eyes, glowing with fierce wrath, on Thelma. The girl met her evil glance with a gentle surprise. Lovisa smiled malignantly.
“You know me, I think!” said Lovisa. “You have seen me before?”
“Often,” answered Thelma mildly. “I have always been sorry for you.”
“Sorry for me!” almost yelled the old woman. “Why — why are you sorry for me?”
“Do not answer her, child!” interrupted Güldmar angrily. “She is mad as the winds of a wild winter, and will but vex thee.”
But Thelma laid her hand soothingly on her father’s, and smiled peacefully as she turned her fair face again towards Lovisa.
“Why?” she said. “Because you seem so very lonely and sad — and that must make you cross with every one who is happy! And it is a pity, I think, that you do not let Britta alone — you only quarrel with each other when you meet. And would you not like her to think kindly of you when you are dead?”
Lovisa seemed choking with anger, — her face worked into such hideous grimaces, that all present, save Thelma, were dismayed at her repulsive aspect.
“When I am dead!” she muttered hoarsely. “So you count upon that already, do you? Ah! . . . but do you know which of us shall die first!” Then raising her voice with an effort she exclaimed —
“Stand forth, Thelma Güldmar! Let me see you closely — face to face!”
Errington said something in a low tone, and the bonde would have again interfered, but Thelma shook her head, smiled and rose from her seat at table.
“Anything to soothe her, poor soul!” she whispered, as she left Errington’s side and advanced towards Lovisa till she was within reach of the old woman’s hand. She looked like some grand white angel, who had stepped down from a cathedral altar, as she stood erect and stately with a gravely pitying expression in her lovely eyes, confronting the sable-draped, withered, leering hag, who fixed upon her a steady look of the most cruel and pitiless hatred.
“Daughter of Satan!” said Lovisa then, in intense piercing tones that somehow carried with them a sense of awe and horror. “Creature, in whose veins the fire of hell burns without ceasing, — my curse upon you! My curse upon the beauty of your body — may it grow loathsome in the sight of all men! May those who embrace you, embrace misfortune and ruin! — may love betray you and forsake you! May your heart be broken even as mine has been! — may your bridal bed be left deserted! — may your children wither and pine from their hour of birth! Sorrow track you to the grave! — may your death be lingering and horrible! God be my witness and fulfill my words!”
And, raising her arms with wild gesture, she turned and left the house. The spell of stupefied silence was broken with her disappearance. Old Güldmar prepared to rush after her and force her to retract her evil speech, — Errington was furious, and Britta cried bitterly. The lazy Lorimer was excited and annoyed.
“Fetch her back,” he said, “and I’ll dance upon her!”
But Thelma stood where the old woman had left her — she smiled faintly, but she was very pale. Errington approached her, — she turned to him and stretched out her hands with a little appealing gesture.
“My friend,” she said softly, “do you think I deserve so many curses? Is there something about me that is evil?”
What Errington would have answered is doubtful, — his heart beat wildly — he longed to draw those little hands in his own, and cover them with passionate kisses, — but he was intercepted by old Güldmar, who caught his daughter in his arms and hugged her closely, his silvery beard mingling with the gold of her rippling hair.
“Never fear a wicked tongue, my bird!” said the old man fondly. “There is naught of harm that would touch thee either on earth or in heaven, — and a foul-mouthed curse must roll off thy soul like water from a dove’s wing! Cheer thee, my darling — cheer thee! What! Thine own creed teaches thee that the gentle Mother of Christ, with her little white angels round her, watches over all innocent maids, — and thinkest thou she will let an old woman’s malice and envy blight thy young days? No, no! Thou accursed?” And the bonde laughed loudly to hide the tears that moistened his keen eyes. “Thou art the sweetest blessing of my heart, even as thy mother was before thee! Come, come! Raise thy pretty head — here are these merry lads growing long-faced, — and Britta is weeping enough salt water to fill a bucket! One of thy smiles will set us all right again, — ay, there now!” — as she looked up and, meeting Philip’s eloquent eyes, blushed, and withdrew herself gently from her father’s arms,— “Let us finish our supper and think no more of yonder villainous old hag — she is crazy, I believe, and knows not what she says half her time. Now, Britta, cease thy grunting and sighing— ‘twill spoil thy face and will not mend the hole in thy grandmother’s brain!”
“Wicked, spiteful, ugly old thing!” sobbed Britta; “I’ll never, never, never forgive her!” Then, running to Thelma, she caught her hand and kissed it affectionately. “Oh, my dear, my dear! To think she should have cursed you, what dreadful, dreadful wickedness! Oh!” and Britta looked volumes of wrath. “I could have beaten her black and blue!”
Her vicious eagerness was almost comic — every one laughed, including Thelma, though she pressed the hand of her little servant very warmly.
“Oh fie!” said Lorimer seriously. “Little girls mustn’t whip their grandmothers; it’s specially forbidden in the Prayer-book, isn’t it, Phil?”
“I’m sure I don’t know!” replied Errington merrily. “I believe there is something to the effect that a man may not marry his grandmother — perhaps that is what you mean?”
“Ah, no doubt!” murmured Lorimer languidly, as, with the others, he resumed his seat at the supper-table. “I knew there was a special mandate respecting one’s particularly venerable relations, with a view to self-guidance in case they should prove troublesome, like Britta’s good grand-mamma. What a frightfully picturesque mouthing old lady she is!”
“She is la petroleuse of Norway!” exclaimed Duprèz. “She would make an admirable dancer in the Carmagnole!”
Macfarlane, who had preserved a discreet silence throughout the whole scene, here looked up.
“She’s just a screech-owl o’ mistaken piety,” he said. “She minds me o’ a glowerin’ auld warlock of an aunt o’ mine in Glasgie, wha sits in her chair a’ day wi’ ae finger on the Bible. She says she’s gaun straight to heaven by special invitation o’ the Lord, leavin’ a’ her blood relations howlin’ vainly after her from their roastin’ fires down below. Ma certes! she’ll give ye a good rousin’ curse if ye like! She’s cursed me ever since I can remember her, — cursed me in and out from sunrise to sunset, — but I’m no the worse for’t as yet, — an’ it’s dootful whether she’s any the better.”
“And yet Lovisa Elsland used to be as merry and lissom a lass as ever stepped,” said Güldmar musingly. “I remember her well when both she and I were young. I was always on the sea at that time, — never happy unless the waves tossed me and my vessel from one shore to another. I suppose the restless spirit of my fathers was in me. I was never contented unless I saw some new coast every six months or so. Well! . . . Lovisa was always foremost among the girls of the village who watched me leave the Fjord, — and however long or short a time I might be absent, she was certain to be on the shore when my ship came sailing home again. Many a joke I have cracked with her and her companions — and she was a bonnie enough creature to look at then, I tell you, — though now she is like a battered figure-head on a wreck. Her marriage, spoiled her temper, — her husband was as dark and sour a man as could be met with in all Norway, and when he and his fishing-boat sank in a squall off the Lofoden Islands, I doubt if she shed many tears for his loss. Her only daughter’s husband went down in the same storm, — and he but three months wedded, — and the girl, — Britta’s mother, — pined and pined, and even when her child was born took no sort of comfort in it. She died four years after Britta’s birth — her death was hastened, so I have heard, through old Lovisa’s harsh treatment, — anyhow the little lass she left behind her had no very easy time of it all alone with her grandmother, — eh Britta?”
Britta looked up and shook her head emphatically.
“Then,” went on Güldmar, “when my girl came back the last time from France, Britta chanced to see her, and, strangely enough,” — here he winked shrewdly— “took a fancy to her face, — odd, wasn’t it? However, nothing would suit her but that she must be Thelma’s handmaiden, and here she is. Now you know her history, — she would be happy enough if her grandmother would let her alone; but the silly old woman thinks the girl is under a spell, and that Thelma is the witch that works it;” — and the old farmer laughed. “There’s a grain of truth in the notion too, but not in the way she has of looking at it.”
“All women are witches!” said Duprèz. “Britta is a little witch herself!”
