CHAPTER I

Transcriber’s Note

Italic text displayed as: _italic_

THE MONEY-SPIDER

[Illustration: “_For a second the pair stared into one another’s eyes.

There was defiance, even hatred, in the glance of both of them._”]

THE

MONEY-SPIDER

BY

WILLIAM LE QUEUX

_Author of “The Great God Gold,” “The

Red Room,” etc., etc._

[Illustration]

RICHARD G. BADGER

THE GORHAM PRESS

BOSTON

_Copyright 1911 by William Le Queux

Entered at Stationer’s Hall

All Rights Reserved_

_The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A._

_In this Life of many troubles, what pain is greater than this:

Desire without ability, when that desire turneth not away?_

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER PAGE

1 Introduces a Red-Faced Man 1

2 Concerns Certain Secrets 8

3 The End of the World 17

4 The Touchstone of Misfortune 27

5 An Allegation 35

6 Strange Matters of Fact 43

7 The Captain Makes a Suggestion 53

8 Reveals the Shadow 61

9 The Arctic Wilderness 66

10 Towards the Doom 72

11 Face to Face 82

12 Love’s Shadow 90

13 Faces in the Mist 97

14 Is In Several Ways Mysterious 107

15 Lifts the Veil 116

16 Bride and Lover 123

17 Some Amazing Facts 132

18 The Four Letters 141

PART II

1 Bide Tryst 149

2 The Peril of Dick Jervoise 158

3 Strangers in London 166

4 Thyra Makes an Admission 175

5 The Bond of Silence 182

6 Contains A Problem 190

7 The Problem Continued 199

8 The Man Bourtzeff 208

9 An Indiscreet Friendship 217

10 A Curious Truth 225

11 On the Ripley Road 233

12 A Hammersmith Hero 242

13 Another Problem 253

14 A Warning is Uttered 268

15 The Villa Sergio 277

16 On the Adriatic 284

17 A Question is Asked 292

18 Father and Daughter 299

19 In Black and White 308

20 A Woman’s Honour 322

21 Towards the Truth 329

22 Alza Makes a Confession 338

23 In Sound of Piccadilly 345

Conclusion 354

THE MONEY-SPIDER

PART I

CHAPTER I

INTRODUCES A RED-FACED MAN

“And if the truth were ever exposed—what then?”

“Bah! You never need fear that, my dear fellow. The people we are

dealing with are discreet—silent in their own interests. This isn’t the

first little piece of confidential business I’ve had with them.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

“But you want money!”

“Not if I’m compelled to commit a crime to obtain it.”

“Ah, my dear Jorgen, you’re becoming really too scrupulous in your old

age,” laughed the fat, pimply-faced man in a well-cut yachting suit, as

he drew heavily at his cigar and lolled back in a long cane-chair on

deck. “You should recollect that in these modern days of ours honesty

spells poverty.”

“Not always, Peter, not always,” protested the other, a

broad-shouldered, burly, grey-bearded man in a well-worn suit of blue

serge. “One can be honest and prosper, even now.”

“Seldom, my dear fellow, seldom. Men to become millionaires must be

unscrupulous,” replied Peter Sundt, the owner of that fine steam

yacht, the blustering, red-faced man who had once been a fisherman,

but who now practically controlled the great cod-fishing industry of

Finmarken. For him hundreds of men toiled upon the deep, reaping the

harvest of the Arctic Ocean, while he, wealthy and luxurious, lived in

summer at his beautiful home near Christiania, and in winter at his

splendid white villa among the palms at Ragusa, on the blue Adriatic.

The man seated at his side, gazing thoughtfully across at the broken

coast of the French Riviera lying purple in the spring sunset, was of

an altogether different stamp. Big, broad-shouldered, with a kind,

merry, furrowed face and a deep-toned voice, he was a typical sailor of

the bluff, hail-fellow-well-met type. Indeed, for forty years he had

sailed the Polar Sea in search of the whale, and in the days before

Sven Foyn invented his deadly cannon-harpoon, he had had many thrilling

adventures in the frozen North—adventures which, if written, would

assuredly make a most fascinating book.

Nowadays, however, he had given up whaling and had settled down in a

snug appointment as harbour-master at Vardo, that far-off little town

on the most northernly point east of the North Cape, a place beyond

the pale of civilisation and where for many months each year the

inhabitants lived in the perpetual Arctic night.

He had known Peter Sundt, the millionaire of stock-fish, all his life,

and had now sailed to the South with him on his magnificent yacht in

order to keep a certain appointment at an obscure hotel—the Palmiers—at

Monte Carlo.

The cruise around the North Cape, past Hammerfest, down the long,

broken coast-line of Norway, through the Straits of Dover, across the

stormy bay and through Gibraltar, had been a most pleasant one. It was

years since Berentsen had sailed a summer sea, nearly his whole life

having been spent on the edge of the ice-pack, therefore he had greatly

enjoyed his old friend’s hospitality.

Yet now they were off Villefranche, with Beaulieu lying in its

picturesque bay, and the Tete de Chien rising against the clear sky,

with the brown rock of Monaco beyond, the old harbour-master had become

suddenly thoughtful and apprehensive.

Besides the crew—a hardy set of Norwegians and Danes—they were the only

persons on board. Peter Sundt was a widower, and in no way a lady’s

man. From small beginnings he had risen to become one of the wealthiest

and most influential men in Norway, while his friend, Jorgen Berentsen,

bluff old sailor that he was, had continued his life of the sea until

his friend had been able to obtain for him the post of harbour-master

of that far-away, dismal town, which was the outpost of civilisation.

Jorgen had been appointed to Vardo at his own request. Born and bred

within the Arctic Circle, he cared little for the South, and the

pleasures of Christiania or Trondhjem had never held any attraction for

him.

Like most Norwegians, both men knew English, and, indeed, had been

conversing in that language.

“The meeting is at ten to-night, isn’t it?” asked the old

harbour-master slowly, with a sigh, his deeply-furrowed face bearing a

thoughtful, apprehensive expression.

“Yes. Our friend said so in the wire I received at Marseilles,” replied

his red-faced host.

“I’m half inclined to withdraw, even now. I confess, Peter, I don’t

like the affair.”

“And after all the trouble you’ve taken!” exclaimed Sundt. “Why, you’ve

planned every detail.”

“I know; but I’m ready to sacrifice it all in order to preserve my

innocence, my own honour.”

“Honour, be hanged!” laughed his wealthy friend. “Who cares a jot for

your honour except yourself? If I’d prided myself upon my honour I’d

to-day still have been a fisherman. My advice to you, my dear Jorgen,

is to get money wherever you can. Never refuse a good thing. You’ve

taken my advice before, and you’ve profited, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” replied the other, with a deep pull at his cigar. “I owe

everything to you, Peter—everything. I’d still have been at sea now had

it not been for your kind offices.”

“Well, we’ve struck a bargain, you and I; and we’ve kept it. You’ve

placed in your pocket a good many thousand kroners which you otherwise

would not have had.”

“And you also,” laughed Berentsen uneasily.

“Certainly; and I hope we shall both make a good many more thousands.

We shall, providing you don’t continue to suffer from these absurd

fits of groundless apprehension. Self-exposure would mean exposure of

myself—and I couldn’t afford that—as you well know!”

“But to thus betray—”

“Oh, rubbish!” laughed Sundt, interrupting him. “Let’s talk of

something else. You’ve never been to Monte Carlo. You’ll be amused

there, I can assure you.”

“I’m thinking of Thyra. How would she judge me if she knew the truth?”

he remarked in a low, intense voice, his bearded chin sunk upon his

breast and a far-away look in his deep-set eyes.

“Thyra will marry one day, I suppose, and you’ll want money to give

her. Look at the practical side of life, man! Get the money now it’s

within your grasp.”

“Thyra would disown me as her father,” said the thick-set, old

sea-captain in a strained tone.

“As many another daughter would disown her father if she knew all his

business secrets,” remarked Sundt, with a smile. “Ignorance is always

bliss.”

“Well, Peter, I don’t like it!” exclaimed old Jorgen, jumping from his

long cane-chair, and taking three paces up the deck and three paces

back again—his old habit of the bridge. His face had grown pale and

rigid.

Peter Sundt cast a curiously crafty glance at him while his back was

turned. But the unusual expression only rested upon his countenance for

a moment. Next second it had vanished, and with a smile full of forced

bonhomie the millionaire said:

“My dear fellow, put all worry behind you, as I do. Little Thyra

believes you to be the most honest man in all Norway, as every daughter

believes her father to be. Why should she ever be undeceived? All of us

have one skeleton in our cupboard. Why should we go out of our way to

exhibit it?”

“But this mysterious person we are here to meet? What guarantee have we

of his good faith? He might blackmail us!”

“He will not do so. I’ll guarantee that.”

“How can you stand guarantee for him?”

“Well—I have had previous experience,” replied Pete, rather slowly.

“The reason why the appointment for meeting is made here in Monte Carlo

is to avoid suspicion. The place is so cosmopolitan that even though we

might be watched, there would be nothing extraordinary in us meeting a

stranger here. Besides, I always come here for a fortnight or so each

Carnival, before going round to Ragusa.”

“I somehow scent danger,” declared the Captain, halting and leaning

with his back to the rail. “I don’t think I shall meet the mysterious

person, whoever he may be or however much I may gain by the commission

of the crime!”

“What!” cried the owner of the yacht, starting in surprise and staring

straight at his friend. “You surely don’t wish to back out of the

bargain now? This isn’t like you, Jorgen.”

“I see signs of a gathering storm,” he replied, heartily wishing he had

never accepted his host’s invitation.

“Where?”

But the old harbour-master only shrugged his broad shoulders and, as he

did so, cast his cigar-end into the water.

A smart French steward appeared with a tray upon which was tea, and

setting it near his master, retired.

The two men did not speak. The silence of the sunset hour was unbroken

save for the jar of the engines and the low swish of the calm, blue

waters, as they steamed straight to the long, low Cap d’Ail.

They were close enough to the rocky shore to distinguish the Corniche

road, running like a white ribbon over the olive-clad Monte Bastis,

while in the centre of the picturesque scene rose the ancient village

of Eze, perched high-up upon its conical hill, with the white

flower-embowered villas of the wealthy dotted everywhere over the

sloping mountain-sides.

To old Captain Berentsen the scene was an unfamiliar one. He knew

the ice-bound coasts of Kolguev, Franz Josef Land, Spitzbergen, Nova

Zembla. He lived far beyond the tree zone, in a dismal land of grey

mists and snow blizzards, where nothing grew save the Arctic mosses.

Therefore, the fairy-like scene before him was entrancing.

Yet he gazed upon it all as a man gazes at his own open grave.

His hands were clenched upon the iron rail, and as he looked seaward

his teeth were set, his deep-lined brow clouded. His face was turned

away from that man who, though his host, held him so irresistibly in

his power. He was poor, and his poverty had compelled him to become, as

he now was, the helpless puppet in that fat man’s hands.

He was thinking of Thyra—his sweet-faced, neat-waisted little daughter,

whom he had left at home in that far-away town, now plunged in the

darkness of the long Arctic night. He had sacrificed his own honour in

order that she should not want. What, however, would she, devoted child

that she was, say if she knew the real reason of his present pleasure

cruise with this coarse-handed, red-faced millionaire—the object of the

secret meeting which Sundt had arranged for ten o’clock that night?

“You’re a fool, Jorgen!” declared Peter Sundt, bluntly at last,

“and ungrateful, too! I point out to you a mode by which money can

be secured for Thyra and yourself, and you’re disinclined to take

advantage of it!”

“If the truth were exposed,” declared the unhappy man in a faltering

voice, “I would never dare to look my daughter in the face again!”

Peter Sundt laughed.

“And have your hands been so very clean in the past, eh?”

“That is just why I fear—why I fear always.”

“You’re a coward, as well as a fool. You will never become a rich man.”

“I’d rather remain poor and honest.”

Sundt laughed again.

“Honest!” he sneered. “Isn’t it rather late in the day, Jorgen, to

talk of honesty? Rest assured that Thyra will never know. So just calm

yourself, and make hay while the sun shines—as the English say.”

But bluff old Jorgen Berentsen only buttoned his pilot-jacket tightly

and paced backward and forward on the deck, his heart full of regret

and poignant bitterness, yet held fettered and bound by the great crime

he was being forced, against his will, to commit.

CHAPTER II

CONCERNS CERTAIN SECRETS

Monte Carlo at night.

You who know the Riviera know well the scene. It never changes, the

terrestrial paradise that is so near hell. The garish, noisy cafes,

the expensive restaurants, full to overflowing with the smartest crowd

in Europe, the myriad-coloured lights, the waving palms, the beds of

sweet-smelling flowers, the well-dressed men, the pretty women in

wonderful toilettes, and the centre of it all, the Casino with its

red-carpeted steps, its wide portals, and its uniformed attendants. It

was just before Carnival, and the place was crowded.

The old harbour-master and his millionaire host had dined at the Hotel

de Paris, amid a scene of luxury unfamiliar to Jorgen Berentsen. The

artistically lit tables, the flowers, the gay laughter of the pretty

women, and the soft strains of the Roumanian band, all combined to

create an impression upon the case-hardened old whaling captain, who

had spent the greater part of his adventurous life in the desolation of

the Arctic. To him civilisation of that luxurious kind was a revelation.

As they crossed the palm-lined Place to the Casino they could see

the long white yacht, with its many lights, lying in the port, a

magnificent craft that had been familiar to habitués of the Riviera for

several seasons past.

Peter Sundt was well known to the officials in the Casino, otherwise it

is doubtful whether the entrance-card would have been issued to his

burly companion, who carried with him so unmistakably the air of the

Northern sea.

But the door at the end of the atrium swung over, and a moment later

the pair found themselves in the great world-famous gaming-room, where

the roulette tables were already crowded by a smart, eager throng. It

happened to be a Saturday night, and that is the evening of the week

when the women dress well and put on their jewels.

“_Rien ne va plus!_” The strident cries of the croupiers were

incessant, mingled with the fascinating jingle of gold, the soft rustle

of bank-notes, and the sharp click of the little ivory ball which, each

moment, brought many of those standing by nearer to the verge of ruin.

As Peter and Jorgen passed from table to table they found at each

crowds four or five deep, eager to stake their money in the hope of the

fickle goddess smiling upon them.

Hot and close were the rooms, as they always are, with that

indescribable odour which ever pervades the place—that fevered, fetid

odour of mingled perspiration and perfume.

Sundt, while standing at one of the roulette tables, handed a croupier

a hundred-franc note to place upon the last dozen. Then old Jorgen,

following his example and bitten by the contagious excitement, handed

the same croupier a louis to place on the zero.

The game was made, the ball spun, and gradually losing its impetus, it

fell with a loud click.

“Ze-r-ro!” announced the croupier.

The old captain’s furrowed face brightened when a moment later he was

handed a small handful of golden louis, which he at once pocketed, and

then turned away, with Peter congratulating him upon his stroke of luck.

But Jorgen smiled bitterly. He was dreading the fast-approaching

hour—ten o’clock.

As they were passing on to the next table, a tall, slim, dark-haired

French girl, quite young, but most elegantly dressed in pale pink

chiffon, unmistakably a creation of the Rue de la Paix, with a big

black hat which suited her admirably, and a collar of gleaming

diamonds, swept past them laughing gaily with an elderly woman in

grey satin who accompanied her. Into her golden chain purse she was

carelessly stuffing a number of thousand-franc notes, which she had

just won by a lucky coup.

Peter Sundt halted and stared at her for a second. His red cheeks had

blanched, and he held his breath.

She, however, had not noticed him, and passed on towards the great

swing doors.

As she walked down the room, two young Frenchmen, evidently Riviera

loungers, bowed acquaintance with her, and she smiled upon them. She

was not more than twenty, and her clear-cut, regular features were

strikingly handsome.

Jorgen Berentsen noticed his friend’s sudden surprise, but made no

remark. He, however, wondered that the sight of that butterfly of

fashion, that elegant little Parisienne, with her dark hair arranged

in bandeaux across her white brow, should have produced such a curious

impression upon him.

The young girl went out, her skirts rustling as she walked, leaving

Peter Sundt standing in the great salon gazing after her as though

dumfounded.

“Who’s that?” the Captain inquired a few moments later.

“That girl? Oh!—oh, well only somebody I know. I am very surprised to

meet her here, that’s all,” he responded, somewhat confused.

“A friend of yours—eh?”

“Well—no—not exactly,” replied the millionaire, now thoroughly

recovered from the evident shock that her unexpected appearance had

caused him.

But the harbour-master saw plainly that the sight of that young

Parisienne, flushed with the excitement of winning a large coup, had

produced an extraordinary change in his companion, and that he knew

more of her than he intended to admit.

“Perhaps you’d like to follow and join her? If so, I’ll stay here for a

little,” said the burly old sailor.

“Join her!” echoed his companion, staring at him. “_Join her!_ No,

thank you,” he said, laughing grimly. “No,” he added, with an apparent

effort, as he braced himself up. “Let’s go into yonder room, and watch

the _trente-et-quarante_.”

And together they strolled in the great painted salon adjoining, where

only gold was being played, and where the cards were being dealt in a

quiet and serious manner.

To the hardy old sea-captain gambling possessed little attraction.

He had won a zero, and was therefore perfectly satisfied. Already he

found the atmosphere stifling and the thousand perfumes of the women

nauseating. The jingle of gold sounded everywhere, and above all the

voices of the croupiers inviting the company to play, or declaring that

no further stakes could be accepted, or announcing the winning numbers.

“I’m ready to go,” he said at last, with a deep-drawn sigh as he looked

at the big clock at the end of the great gilded gaming-room.

It wanted but fifteen minutes to ten—the hour of the secret appointment

which he had been so long dreading.

At ten o’clock he was to commit a crime unpardonable!

Together, they passed through the atrium, down the red-carpeted steps,

and out into the moonlit Place.

The manner of the red-faced man had changed. He gazed swiftly on every

side, and looked eagerly across to the terrace of the Cafe de Paris, as

though in search of that laughing, dark-haired girl, the sight of whom

had caused him such great surprise.

But she had gone; and upon his coarse face was a look of bitter

disappointment.

As they re-crossed the Place and walked on beneath the dark shadows of

the palms, the old sea-captain, pale and agitated, suddenly halted,

exclaiming in a determined voice:

“No, Peter! I—I’ll not do this! I—I’ll go no further!”

“What!” cried his companion, stopping aghast. “What are you saying?”

“I say what I mean,” replied the bluff old fellow resolutely.

“You can’t mean it! Why, it would be utterly absurd to withdraw now,”

declared Peter Sundt.

“Better withdraw now than be guilty of such an offence,” the Captain

replied in the low, hoarse voice of a man struggling with his own

conscience.

“I’ve arranged it all and brought you here, yet you now go back upon

your word, and make a fool of me!” cried the other.

“You brought me here, Peter, as your catspaw—just as I have always

been, ever since I took that first false step!” remarked the old

fellow, who owed his present snug position to the man standing before

him.

“And what have you to complain of, pray? I’ve assisted you, exercised

my influence on your behalf, yet this is how you thank me! You cast mud

in my face!” exclaimed the wealthy man in quick anger.

“I shall not do this,” said Berentsen. “I have decided.”

“You shall! Come, it’s just on ten o’clock. We shall be late. Women are

impatient creatures.”

“Not a step further will I go in this dirty business, Peter—even for

you.”

“But I say you shall!” was Sundt’s determined response. “You’ve

suddenly grown conscientious, a trait which in you, my dear Jorgen, is

unusual. Conscientiousness is a very bad sign. No man who entertains

such thoughts can ever hope to prosper in these bright days, believe

me!”

“I—I’d rather starve than do this to-night,” declared Jorgen, his eyes

staring before him, as though confronted by his own terrible doom.

“You can’t afford to starve, my dear friend,” replied the other with a

short, harsh laugh. “Besides, think of little Thyra!”

“It is of her that I’m thinking,” he said. “What would she say if she

knew that her father was—was—a—— But enough! Let us part, Peter. Let us

part now. I will get back to the north alone.”

“Listen!” exclaimed the red-faced man angrily. “You are not going to

play the fool like this. Come,” and he linked his arm in that of his

friend. “Come, at once, and don’t show the white feather. I never

before thought you were a coward, Jorgen.”

“I’m no coward!” cried his companion fiercely. “No man has ever called

me that. But I refuse to commit this crime at your bidding!”

“You will act as I have arranged,” replied the other. “If not—well, you

know the consequences.”

“Yes,” said the old fellow in a low, strained voice, “imprisonment for

me—and ruin for the child!”

“You have to choose one or the other,” the coarse-faced man remarked.

“As I told you not long ago, you must choose between prosperity and

ruin. None but an imbecile would choose the latter—which must mean your

exposure to Thyra.”

The man addressed bit his lip. His hard hands were clenched. Within

him a fierce struggle was taking place, for he knew alas! too

well, that this man, who had amassed a huge fortune by his callous

unscrupulousness, now held him entirely in his power.

He was thinking of Thyra—his own little Thyra, to whom he was so

entirely devoted.

Peter Sundt, quick to notice his companion’s indecision, linked his arm

in his again, and drew him slowly forward, saying:

“Come, man. Don’t be a fool! You can’t draw back now. Why discuss such

an unpleasant subject further? Come—or we shall be too late.”

And the old harbour-master, his face pale, his eyes set straight before

him at the long dark vista of the palms, allowed himself to be slowly

led towards that fatal rendezvous, knowing, alas! that to refuse at

that, the eleventh, hour would mean an exposure that he dare not face.

He was as a fly in the web of the spider. The more he struggled, the

more inextricable became his position. So he only sighed bitterly, and

with set teeth bowed to the inevitable.

It was not long before they reached the obscure little hotel, the

Palmiers—a place in a narrow street which make a speciality of cheap

table d’hôte luncheons and dinners. And into its small private entrance

both men entered, Jorgen Berentsen holding his breath, terrified at the

act which he was thus forced to commit.

Five minutes afterwards Peter Sundt emerged alone, and retracing his

steps, sauntered slowly back to the Place du Casino, where, beneath the

dark shadow of the trees, he halted, anxiously awaiting the man over

whom he exercised a baneful influence.

For a full twenty minutes he idled up and down, impatiently smoking

a cigar, until suddenly Jorgen’s big, square figure loomed up in the

darkness.

“Well?” inquired Sundt anxiously.

“It’s done!” answered the old fellow breathlessly, in a low, hoarse

voice. “Let’s get away from this horrible place—away anywhere.”

“First let’s go across to the Cafe de Paris yonder. You want a drop of

brandy, no doubt. Then we’ll go on board. By eleven, we’ll weigh anchor

and be away.”

They crossed to the big, brilliantly-lit cafe, where, at the small

tables, many well-dressed men and women were drinking in the interval

of staking their money on the tables of the Casino opposite.

Upon the terrace outside Peter’s quick eye caught sight of the

sweet-faced young Parisienne in pale pink chiffon and black hat, seated

alone at a little table placed in the shadow against the wall.

He therefore turned, and walking along the terrace both men took seats

at a table near. So agitated was the old harbour-master that he, at

first, did not notice her.

It was only when he followed the direction of his companion’s eyes that

he recognised the girl whom they had encountered in the Rooms. He saw

that she had turned her head, and was staring straight at Peter Sundt

with a wild, fixed look, as though she had seen an apparition.

With her dark eyes still upon him, she drained her tiny liqueur glass.

Then her pretty lips relaxed into a smile, half of recognition, half of

defiance.

Peter Sundt raised his hat politely, and was in the act of crossing to

where she was seated in the shadow, when she half-rose from her seat.

Her face suddenly became blanched and drawn, her jaws were fixed, and

next instant, even before he could reach her, she had collapsed upon

her chair and, reeling sideways, fell heavily upon the stone flooring.

In a moment both men dashed across to her, and all became confusion,

for there were many people seated in the vicinity.

The first belief was that she had merely fainted, but next moment a

terrible truth became evident. Upon the little marble table lay a tiny

phial about two inches long, and empty. Jorgen took it up and smelt it.

The odour was that of almonds.

In a few seconds two agents of police were on the spot, not, however,

before the old harbour-master had realized the ghastly fact.

The unfortunate girl, like many another butterfly whose wings are

singed in that gilded inferno opposite, had deliberately swallowed a

fatal draught!

The police wrested her lifeless body from Peter Sundt, who held it

tenderly in his arms, and as they did so the red-faced man, now pale as

the poor girl herself, placed his hand wildly to his brow, and shrieked

aloud:

“_Dead!_ My God!—she’s dead! This, then, is my punishment—the vengeance

of Heaven!”

CHAPTER III

THE END OF THE WORLD

“What secret can father have with Peter Sundt? Poor dad! He looked so

scared and worried! What can have happened, I wonder, to bring Peter so

far up here again to Vardo? It’s just seven months ago since dad went

south with him.”

The sweet-faced girl of twenty, whose soft, fair hair streamed out upon

the icy wind, spoke thus to herself as, resting upon a great brown

boulder, she fixed her big grey, wide-open eyes straight before her

upon the limitless expanse of stormy Arctic Ocean.

That wide waste of grey, tempest-tossed waters, the very edge of

civilisation, were assuredly a sea of despair.

Thyra Berentsen, the bright, merry girl of sweet, almost child-like,

beauty, lived amid surroundings which were the most dismal and

dispiriting in all that barren, ice-bound, Arctic land of Finmarken.

The month was August, yet she wore a thick blue beret, a fur-lined coat

of Astrakhan, and on her hands wool-lined mitts of leather, for there,

far east of the North Cape, the thermometer was at freezing point.

Upon a small rocky islet, bare of the slightest trace of vegetation,

swept constantly by the cutting blizzards, and buffeted by the long,

dark, oily-looking rollers of the Polar Sea, stands a tiny town of low

wooden houses, mostly roofed by turf. Such is Vardo, the last post

of civilisation in the Far North, and the point of departure of many

Arctic explorers who have gone to their graves, and assuredly the

most wretched, lonely, and inhospitable spot of any between the high,

frowning Nordykn, standing sheer from the glacial ocean, to the White

Sea.

On the one side, from the rolling waters, rise the high grey cliffs of

the mainland of Europe, while on the other lies the wide, open ocean,

where the long breakers roll in from Nova Zembla, the ice-pack, and the

unknown frozen Land of the No Return. The wind, the tearing, icy wind,

swept that August afternoon straight from the unexplored regions of the

Farthest North, causing the girl to button her fur coat tightly at the

throat and thrust her mittened hands into her pockets.

“I wonder,” she repeated to herself, “I wonder what it all means?”

Ever and anon she glanced along the path in the direction of the

wretched little log-built town, as though in expectation of someone

whom she was awaiting.

Behind her, across that narrow strait, lay the great lone land, where

even the stunted Arctic willow was unable to take root, and where,

indeed, nothing grew save the carpet of a myriad different species of

wild flowers, the red cloud-berries, and the yellow reindeer-moss;

the dismal uninhabited wilderness of barren rock and sky, of river

and limitless tundra, snow-covered plains in winter, but in summer a

treacherous, mosquito-infested morass.

In all that wild Norrland beyond the Polar Circle no spot is more

bleak or more desolate, nor is the climate with its grey fogs, its

continuous blizzards and iron frosts, more terrible anywhere than

here. Hammerfest, on the western coast, is the most northerly town in

the world, but not the coldest, for it is sheltered by the island of

Soro opposite. Vardo, on the contrary, standing out as it does in the

Arctic Sea, is more open and exposed than any other inhabited point

along that terrible rock-bound coast. Its community is, indeed, a hardy

one of sturdy fisher-folk, who year in, year out, battle fiercely with

the elements for their bare existence.

Here, it is not the land, but the sea, that is ploughed. Men do not sow

and wield the scythe in summer, but reap in mid-winter without having

sowed. In the months in which the long night holds its undisputed sway,

when the light of the sun has given place to that of the moon, and the

rosy flush of dawn and sunset to the glow of the Northern Lights, then

those dwellers in the Far North gather in the rich harvest of the sea.

Yet the sky there is ever low and grey, the sea ever stormy, and

the winds ever howling, while the temperature, even in August, is

that of December in our own much-maligned England. The midnight sun

which proves so attractive to European tourists who go in comfortable

steamers, and entertained by string-bands, up as far as the North Cape,

gives its continuous light in summer; yet, alas! is no compensation for

those long months of the Polar night, when God’s blessed sunlight is

entirely withheld from that dismal, grey, forgotten land.

In such surroundings, and amid those rough, uncultured toilers of

the sea, Thyra—the only daughter of old Captain Berentsen, the

harbour-master—had been born, and now lived.

The bleak monotony and stern wildness of everything was, alas! terribly

gloomy. The tourist steamers never went so far as Vardo.

Notwithstanding those tempestuous winds, the very air was polluted,

for every now and then a breath of the sickening effluvia of the

fish-drying houses, the fish-guano works, the whale boileries or the

fish offal decaying everywhere in the streets, reached the girl’s

nostrils where she sat.

“I wonder why dear old dad is so troubled?” she repeated to herself,

sighing as she gazed blankly around upon the cheerless scene, so

colourless and so inhospitable. Across her mind at that moment flashed

the recollection of Christiania, with all its brightness, its movement

and its civilisation; the capital in which she had been for some years

at school. But her schooldays being over, she had, three years ago,

returned home—returned to an exile’s life among those rude, uncouth

fisher-folk, an existence terribly galling to a girl so accomplished

and so refined.

She thought of her old schoolfellows living their happy lives,

possessing friends and enjoying the sunshine of the south.

And she sighed again.

Hers, alas! was a life of dreary loneliness and cramped confinement

upon that narrow, treeless islet, with its eternal odour of decaying

codfish. Her life was as monotonous as the scene itself. All her

day-dreams down in Christiania had come to naught. Her mother had died

long ago, and her father’s household consisted only of herself and

Feyia, the old Lapp woman who acted as housekeeper.

In all Vardo there was no girl of similar age or similar education with

whom she could associate, for the simple reason that no man would dwell

with his family amid that savage sea if he could possibly avoid it.

Reflecting upon this, and still wondering why the red-faced old Peter

Sundt, the wealthy fish-exporter, had come up from the south to see her

father, she saw on glancing towards the town the tall figure of a young

man striding towards her.

The quick flush of colour tinging her soft cheeks told its own tale. He

waved his hand, and, smiling, she waved back to the man to whom she was

secretly betrothed.

“I am so sorry, darling, that I’m late!” he cried in French, lifting

his cap as he took her mittened hand. “I hope you have not waited very

long. The mail has just landed, and I was compelled to reply to an

important letter.”

“I have not been here long, Paul,” was her reply in the same language.

“Have any strangers arrived by the mail boat?”

“Only two Englishmen. They’ve come up from Tromso, the captain

told me. I haven’t seen them yet. Really,” he added, “one is quite

out-of-the-world up here, with only a mail once a fortnight to create a

little excitement and to bring us news from the land of the sunshine.”

They were standing together. He was looking into her raised beautiful

countenance with his dark eyes full of passionate love, while the gaze

of those blue unfathomable eyes that held him so irresistibly beneath

their spell was fixed and unwavering.

Paul Grinevitch was Russian. His knowledge of Norwegian, or of Finnish,

was not very extensive, therefore they talked either in French or in

English, both of which languages Thyra spoke extremely well. About

thirty, tall, athletic, with a handsome, refined face and a small dark

moustache, its ends trained upwards in German fashion, he was extremely

courteous and gentlemanly, while his bearing was undoubtedly military,

though at the moment he was wearing a suit of thick, rough tweeds.

Six months before, he had landed one afternoon from the mail-steamer

which had come up from Tromso, and becoming unaccountably attracted

by the remoteness of the place from civilisation, had taken up his

quarters in the turf-roofed house of an old fisherman, with whom he

had made many excursions in the neighbourhood in search of sport.

Any stranger landing at the little place is at once known to everybody;

therefore, within a few hours of his arrival, Thyra had found herself

introduced to him, and it had been, on the part of both of them, a case

of love at first sight.

Paul Grinevitch had pretended that the reason his visit had been so

long protracted was because of the excellent fishing and shooting which

the neighbourhood afforded. But truth to tell, the sole attraction was

the beautiful Thyra, from whom he was unable to tear himself away.

They met—again and again. She had possessed the young Russian, body and

soul.

He had told her little about himself, very little, save that he had

been at college in Moscow, and that his parents lived away in the far

south at Odessa. That he was a gentleman, old Jorgen Berentsen had

known instinctively from the very first moment of their acquaintance

and that he was comfortably off was likewise apparent. Letters came to

him sometimes bearing on their envelopes a golden coronet and cipher,

and it was whispered in Vardo that he was the son of a Russian Privy

Councillor in the Czar’s _entourage_.

Indeed, on one occasion he had, for one of the fish merchants,

scribbled a note to the captain of the port of Archangel, and the

bearer of the note had returned and told everybody how all-powerful the

recommendation had been, and with what respect the Russian official had

treated him.

Therefore, all Vardo knew that Paul Grinevitch was a gentleman, even

though they regarded the reason of his continued residence among them

as something of a mystery. It was known that he was frequently in

Thyra’s company—and everybody wondered.

They were, indeed, a handsome pair, as they stood together at the edge

of those cold, grim waters.

He was in love with this beautiful daughter of the Arctic—in love with

her honestly, deeply, completely. Paul, to whom the smartest salons

of Petersburg, of Moscow, and of Paris were ever open, loved the

sweet-faced daughter of the old weather-beaten sailor of the Polar seas.

He had not released her hand, but stood with it held in his own, gazing

into those deep, child-like eyes that held him ever in such fascination.

“Thyra!” he exclaimed in a deep, low, earnest tone, as a sigh escaped

him.

“Well?” she asked, looking up into his face as she smiled

mischievously, all trace of the troubled expression upon her

countenance having vanished.

“Thyra—my own darling!” he cried. “I—I—I want to tell you something,

but—well, I—I can’t!” And he sighed again and drew himself up, his

passionate gaze still fixed immovably upon her.

“Why not?” she asked simply. “If it is a secret, surely you can trust

me? Am I not your betrothed?”

“Ah, yes!” he cried hoarsely. “It is just because of that—because we

are to marry in a few weeks that I cannot tell you.”

The girl stared at her lover in blank surprise. She had never before

seen him so distressed. What could he mean? Had the mail just in

brought him bad news?

A serious, apprehensive look overspread her beautiful face—a face that

was,—indeed, peerless in its perfection. The soft sweetness of her

features, so well-cut and so regular, was such that it would assuredly

have caused comment even among the women of the _haut monde_ in the

Park or in the Bois. Hers was a type of rare, delicate beauty, with her

unfathomable eyes, her well formed nose, her pointed chin and dimpled

cheeks; a beauty that was delightfully innocent and child-like, without

being insipid; a beauty the more remarkable considering the rigour of

that terrible climate, and how soon, alas! the faces of the sturdy men

and women of the Finmarken coast—the end of the civilised world—become

hard, furrowed and weather-beaten.

The long strands of fair hair blown out upon the wind were soft as

floss silk, and as she smiled she disclosed an even row of pearly teeth

behind dainty lips, bearing upon them the true bow of Cupid, and made

for kisses.

Yes, Thyra was lovely. The young Russian told himself that again, as

indeed he had done a thousand times within those past six months.

Among the girls he had met in Paris and in Petersburg, in Monte Carlo

or in Rome, he had never met one so beautiful, so dainty, so full of

inexpressible charm.

And she was his—his very own. She had promised, three weeks ago, to be

his wife, and old Jorgen, the bluff old retired Arctic sea-captain, had

given his consent upon one condition—that the strictest secrecy was to

be observed regarding the engagement.

Why, they both wondered. What motive had the old fellow in withholding

the news from that tiny, gossiping, rough-and-ready little world of

Vardo?

“Paul,” exclaimed the girl, slowly twining her soft arm around her

lover’s neck, regardless of the fact that they might be observed. “Do

tell me, dearest, what is troubling you. Why does our forthcoming

marriage prevent you telling the truth to me—the woman who is to be

your wife?” she asked in English in a low, persuasive tone, raising her

lips to his and fondly kissing him with long, clinging caress. That

kiss itself was assuredly enough to make any man’s head reel.

The young man sighed. She noticed his brow contract as he bit his

nether lip involuntarily.

“Because, my darling—because it is a secret which, though I long to

confide it to you, I—I dare not. Indeed, I must not. You are to be my

wife—my own love—” And he held her with trembling hands and kissed her

with the fierce passion of affection. “But there—I was a fool to have

mentioned it—to have aroused your apprehension, my own dear heart. I so

long to be able to tell you, and yet—and yet—”

“Yet what, Paul?”

“I cannot. I—I dare not.”

“Not when I, Thyra, ask you to tell me? Not when I make an urgent

request to you—the man who is to be my husband?” she asked in a voice

of quiet, earnest reproach.

“No, no!” he cried, in quick distress, his gloved hand clenched in

desperation. “No, darling; don’t put it like that. Forget, I beg of

you; forget my unpardonable foolishness in mentioning a matter which,

after all, does not concern you, and has naturally aroused within you

some grave forebodings. We love each other, surely that is sufficient?

Come, let us put all gloomy thoughts aside.”

“Then your thoughts are actually gloomy ones?” she exclaimed, in quick

alarm. “Why do you try to conceal the truth from me, Paul? This is not

like you.”

“Because, my darling, in this matter it is, for the present, imperative

that—that I should remain silent. Silence is best for you, and for me,”

answered the young man. “One day you will know; but, Thyra, though I

regret deeply that I cannot explain matters, you must, for the present,

remain in ignorance. I cannot bring myself to tell you. No, I will

not, even though I could. You love me, my own dear heart, therefore

why should I bring upon you sorrow, apprehension, perhaps a great

bitterness of heart? Let us live—let us be happy, even though our

bliss may be fleeting as your summer snows. You are mine, my own sweet

well-beloved—my own darling wife that is to be!”

CHAPTER IV

THE TOUCHSTONE OF MISFORTUNE

Thyra’s home was very plain and simple. Up there, in the far-away

North, they are all simple folk, honest, hardy, strong of heart and

strong of hand.

The dismal little street of Vardo consisted of two rows of low,

wood-built, inartistic houses, mostly without an upper floor, the

majority being roofed with peat, upon which grew a varied assortment

of the Arctic mosses. One or two of the houses were tiled, and one of

these—one somewhat superior to the others, inasmuch as it possessed an

upper storey, where curtains showed at the big, ugly square windows—was

occupied by old Captain Berentsen.

On the same evening that Paul had made that inexplicable declaration to

Thyra the girl was seated in the upstairs dining-room with her father,

her head bent beneath the lamp trying to read an English novel, while

old Jorgen himself lounged in his easy chair near the stove, smoking

his big Norwegian pipe.

In Vardo those who possess a house of one storey live upstairs because

the deep snows of winter too frequently shut out the light from the

windows of the lower floor. The room wherein sat the pretty girl

and her grey-bearded, weather-beaten father was not a particularly

comfortable one, if judged by our southern standard of luxury. The

floor was carpetless, the chairs were cane-bottomed, the walls were

of wood, and upon them were one or two cheap Russian oleographs of

brilliant colouring. Over the door hung a small _ikon_, or holy

picture, for Thyra’s mother had been Russian, from Archangel.

At one end of the room was the buffet of varnished pine, while at the

other was a cottage piano, one of the very few in that most northerly

point of Lapland. The windows were double, to keep out the cold, and

before them were two or three sickly-looking flowers in pots.

The pot-plant is the hobby of the people of Finmarken. In almost every

house one will find a wretched little geranium or two, with their

blooms dwarfed by the uncongenial climate and surroundings, or a pet

rose, stunted and unhealthy, with its blossom drooping or its bud

already fading before it had opened.

As nothing grew out of doors in that high latitude, Thyra had brought

up those plants with her from Christiania, a thousand miles south, when

she returned from school, and she had carefully tended and nursed them

ever since.

With her elbows upon the table, she was deeply absorbed in the English

sixpenny edition of a popular detective story which one of her old

schoolfellows had sent her. In the zone of light from the small

petroleum table-lamp her face, now that her cap was removed, showed

even more perfect in its beauty, so sweet and so thoroughly feminine.

Outside the storm howled fiercely, the tearing wind, its force unbroken

from the ice-pack, shaking the windows and ever and anon causing the

very house to tremble. But was it not the usual condition of things in

August? Therefore neither father nor daughter made remark.

Old Jorgen Berentsen, sitting there in the shadow watching his

daughter as he smoked, was assuredly a fine figure of a man—a man of

many adventures. On one occasion his vessel had been wrecked on the

barren coast of Melville Land, in East Greenland, and after months

of suffering and starvation, during which all his companions died

except two, he had been rescued by another whaling vessel. On a second

occasion the ship he commanded had foundered, and the crew managed to

reach land at the terrible delta of the Lena, in Northern Siberia, near

where De Long and the party of the _Jeannette_ had perished two years

before.

Little wonder was it, therefore, that his brow should be so deeply

furrowed, that his hair should be grey, that his voice should be gruff,

or that his strong hand should possess such an iron grip.

Forty years of navigating the Arctic Ocean, first high up in the

crow’s-nest and afterwards as captain, had stirred within him the call

of the Polar Mystery as it stirs every man. Even now, retired as he

was, with the sinecure of harbour-master, and acting as vice-consul

for several foreign countries, he often closed his eyes and imagined

himself back again upon the bridge of his grimy, evil-smelling whaler

with the biting wind whistling through the rigging and the brilliant

aurora waving across the northern sky.

Living as he constantly had done in the land of the Great Night, his

aid and advice had been sought by almost every Arctic explorer of

the past twenty years. It was he who had provided the sled-dogs for

Nansen and for Jackson; he who had given advice to Shackleton upon his

equipment for the Antarctic; he who had been consulted by Peary, by

the Duke of the Abruzzi, and by Wellman of airship fame. To him the

ice-bound coasts of Franz Josef Land, of Nova Zembla, of Spitzbergen,

and of Greenland, with their steel-blue glaciers and snow-covered

bluffs, were all well known. Indeed, he knew far more of Arctic life,

Arctic conditions, and Arctic mysteries than any Fellow of the Royal

Geographical Society of England.

Nowadays, however, his adventures were all of the past. His wife was

dead and, with his daughter to bear him company, he led a frugal,

quiet, uneventful life, a life that bored him somewhat in summer and

became well-nigh intolerable in the three months of perpetual night

from November to January. Those dead, dark, bitterly cold days, when

the lamp burned perpetually and when the little town was silent as

the grave, made him long for the old activity at sea and the keen

excitement of hunting the leviathan of the deep.

The last days before his retirement had been spent as captain of a

passenger vessel between Bergen and New York, hence he had learned to

speak English in addition to his native Norwegian, and Finnish and

French.

A ring at the door-bell below aroused them. Thyra raised her head from

her book with a sigh. At that moment she did not wish to be disturbed.

“Oh, I quite forgot, my dear,” the old man exclaimed. “The _Mercur_

came in this afternoon, and I asked the captain to come in and bring

his two passengers, young Englishmen. I met them on the quay. They seem

to be gentlemen.”

Thyra frowned slightly as she heard old Freyia, the Lap woman who acted

as housekeeper and maid-of-all-work, go to the door, and next instant

came the cheery voice of the captain of the _Mercur_, the black old

cargo-boat which, trading between Vardo and Hamburg, and calling at

all the ports down the Norwegian coast, brought them the mail from the

south.

When each six or seven weeks the _Mercur_, with her high black funnel

and white bands, appeared through the driving mists and entered the

harbour it was always a day of activity, for the captain was highly

popular everywhere, and with the visits of the _Mercur_ came news of

friends, and the stores without which the dwellers on that remote

little island could not exist.

“Well, Miss Thyra,” exclaimed the captain cheerily as he entered the

room. “And how are you getting on up here, after Christiania, eh?”

He was a tall, rather good-looking, fair-moustached man, well set-up,

and extremely smart both in manner and dress. Well known to all along

the Norwegian coast as something of a dandy, his uniform was always

spotless, the braid upon it was untarnished, and his boots always well

shined, even though he sailed those stormy seas. Besides, though he

was Norwegian born and bred, his name, curiously enough was typically

English—John Martin.

“Well, Captain Martin,” exclaimed the girl, with a laugh, as she cast a

furtive glance at the two strangers behind him, “here it is scarcely so

gay as in Christiania, of course. Yet it is my duty to be here and look

after dad, so, of course, I must not grumble.”

“Allow me to introduce two friends of mine,” the captain said in fair

English. Then, indicating the elder of the pair of Englishmen, a

good-looking, dark-haired, merry-eyed fellow in a well-cut suit of blue

serge, he said, “This is Mr. Jervoise—Miss Thyra Berentsen.”

The other, a short, rather thick-set man of thirty-two, with a small

moustache and wearing gold pince-nez, he introduced as Doctor Owen Odd,

adding, “These gentlemen have been with me all the way from Bergen—my

only passengers this trip.”

“And a most delightful time we’ve had, Miss Berentsen,” declared Dick

Jervoise. “Your friend the captain has been untiring in his efforts to

make us comfortable in the heavy weather we ran into after rounding the

North Cape.”

Thyra raised her eyes to his, and regarding him for a second, saw

honesty in his gaze. Then she smiled answering:

“Everybody knows how pleasant Captain Martin makes a voyage. I’ve been

with him twice down to the south.”

“And I hope you’ll make many more trips with me, Miss Thyra,” declared

the fair-haired man who, ashore, had exchanged his spotless uniform for

thick grey tweeds.

At old Jorgen’s invitation the trio sat down, the two Englishmen

delighted with their experience. It was unique to be entertained in a

house so far north—and by such a delightful hostess, with her beautiful

face and her pretty broken English.

The four men were soon chatting, while Thyra, instantly at ease with

her English visitors, busied herself in setting out the little glasses

for the vodka.

Martin was explaining to his English friends the adventurous career

of the old man who sat there smoking his long pipe with its carved

meerschaum bowl, and they were listening, entranced by the captain’s

story.

The old fellow, however, modestly disclaimed all title to be classed

among Arctic explorers.

“I’m only a whaling skipper,” he declared, laughing. “My explorations

have been done out of necessity, and were the outcome of mishap.”

Dick Jervoise glanced around the small, plain room, devoid of any

cosiness. He noted the small, sickly looking flowers, the double

windows, the big stove roaring though it was an August night. All was

so strange, so unusual, so extraordinary after the civilisation and

luxury of London.

He fixed his eyes upon the beautiful countenance of the girl who

offered him the Russian cigarettes. In all his wide experience never

had he seen a face so sweet, so entirely perfect. And he noticed that

Owen was also gazing at her in wrapt admiration.

She raised her big grey eyes from the box suddenly, and their gaze met.

In the white lamplight Captain Martin saw the slight flush rise to the

girl’s cheeks. He smiled within himself for, as a bachelor, he was

never averse to a mild flirtation. He knew well how much the girl had

been admired down in Christiania, and had heard how she might have made

a most excellent match with one of the richest men in Norway if old

Jorgen had not ordered her to return home to that life of grey monotony

which was surely sufficient to crush all the gaiety and brightness out

of any young girl’s heart.

For nearly an hour they sat together chatting, Thyra explaining to the

two visitors many interesting facts concerning the nomad Laplanders

and their habits—some of whom, dressed in their reindeer skins, they

had seen that afternoon—while the pair sat listening, entranced by the

music of her voice.

Presently the door-bell rang again, and a few seconds later a short,

stout, pompous man with a red, pimply face, and a big diamond in his

cravat, entered the room.

It was Peter Sundt.

Thyra held the man in distinct dislike. She had hated him ever since

she was a child.

Of late he had seemed to hold some irresistible power over her father,

a power that was, to her, an entire and complete mystery.

As he entered she did not fail to notice how uneasily her father

stirred in his armchair, or that the greeting extended to him was not

that genuine, hearty one with which he had met the captain of the

_Mercur_.

What secret was there between them?

The Englishmen were introduced, and the coarse, red-faced, loud-voiced

man tossed off his vodka at a gulp, and seemed to treat everybody with

supreme disdain—even Thyra herself.

Her eyes again met those of Dick Jervoise, and in them he discerned a

mutely expressed disgust. To him it seemed that society in Vardo was

not very refined, and he pitied her, compelled as she was to live amid

such depressing, soul-killing surroundings.

At last Martin and his friends rose to go, and Jervoise, promising to

call again before the _Mercur_ sailed, bowed over the girl’s hand,

followed by the doctor.

She accompanied them downstairs to the door, leaving her father alone

with Peter Sundt.

The instant she had left the room the coarse-featured man rose, and

approaching the grey-haired captain, bent and asked in a low, hard

voice:

“Well, have you decided? I’ve come here for your answer, remember.”

The old man removed his pipe slowly from his lips and looked straight

into the other’s face.

“I—I haven’t had sufficient time to consider. I—”

“But you will decide to-night—now—before I leave this house,” declared

the man firmly. “If your answer is in the negative you know well what

the result will be.”

“Ah! I see,” cried the other fiercely. “You—you now hold the dagger at

my throat, because you know that I am utterly in your hands. Are you a

man that you should make this demand, Peter Sundt, or are you one of

hell’s fiends?”

But Peter Sundt, quite unperturbed by his victim’s outburst, coolly

poured out another glass of vodka and tossed it off, a smile of triumph

upon his pimply face as he did so.

He knew that Jorgen Berentsen was as wax in his hands.

CHAPTER V

AN ALLEGATION

“That’s a very neat and dainty little girl, the harbour-master’s

daughter,” remarked the doctor to his friend as, half an hour later,

they were seated together in the narrow little saloon of the _Mercur_,

having a cigarette prior to turning in. For a month the black old

steamer, with its odoriferous cargo of dried fish, whale oil, and cod

liver oil had been their home, and their stomachs had long ago grown

used to the flavour. To the uninitiated, however, the effluvia was

poisonous, especially in a rough sea.

Dick Jervoise agreed, but remained unusually thoughtful. Truth to tell,

the sweet face of Thyra Berentsen had so impressed him that he could

think of nothing else. Those soft grey eyes, that slim, dainty figure,

and that musical speech in three or four languages, had charmed him.

Was it not entirely and utterly unexpected to find up there, so far

north beyond civilisation, amid that rough, hard-handed fisher-folk, a

girl so perfectly beautiful, so sweet and so child-like?

“By Jove!” declared Owen Odd, “she’d make a sensation even in the park

in town! Fancy a girl like that being doomed to live in this awful

place, where codfish is the sole and staple food and industry. When

we started, Dick, I never thought we’d get into so high a latitude as

this.”

“Well, we’ve taken Martin’s advice,” replied his friend. “He said if we

rounded the North Cape we’d get into a part of the world that, though

bleak and rugged, would interest us.”

“It interests you, my dear fellow, because you’ve been such a

traveller; but for myself, who’ve had to stay at home grinding at

hospital for my degree, I confess I’d prefer a warm climate with palms

and oranges and girls in black mantillas. You’re too _blase_ for

that, I know. You spend every winter on the Riviera, or in the south

of Spain, while I’m forced to practise medicine among the poor of

Hammersmith.”

Dick Jervoise was still staring straight before him, hardly conscious

of what his friend the young doctor was saying.

“Well,” he exclaimed at last, with a faint smile, “the air up here is a

bit fresher than in King Street, Hammersmith, isn’t it? Why, they say

that along this coast, though the wind is so keen and the climate so

terrible, there are no cases of consumption.”

“Because all the weaklings here die young, my dear old chap. Only the

tough ones can survive. Fancy spending the winter here—three months of

perpetual night—ugh!”

Dick, his mind still fixed upon the girl to whom the captain had that

evening introduced him, said:

“I don’t know, Owen, whether it struck you to-night the same as myself,

but somehow the face of Thyra Berentsen is, to me, a face of tragedy.”

“Tragedy!” laughed the young doctor from Hammersmith. “I don’t quite

follow you, Dick.”

“Well, I scarcely know how to explain myself,” was the other’s reply.

“In the countenance of some people I find their destiny portrayed

quite distinctly. Perhaps other people do not possess the same faculty

of—well, divination, shall we call it? But in the rare cases in which

I have discerned the future in a person’s face I have seldom been in

error.”

“That’s curious,” exclaimed Odd, suddenly interested. “And so you

foretell tragedy and unhappiness for the pretty Thyra, eh?”

“Yes. I fear, alas! that unhappiness will be her lot, even though she’s

now so merry and light-hearted.”

The young medical man shrugged his shoulders. He was used to the quaint

ideas, and sometimes rather eccentric whims, of his old friend.

To him it seemed a quaint conceit to be able to foretell a girl’s

future by her face. A woman’s past may often be read in her eyes, but

to divine the future was something novel.

Both men smoked on in silence.

They had been at Eton together, and afterwards at Oxford. Subsequently,

however, their ways in life had parted. Owen Odd, the fair-haired,

thick-set young man, had studied medicine at Edinburgh, where he had

taken his M. D. degree. He then expended what little capital he had

in the purchase of a partnership in Exeter, but this did not turn out

well. His partner bolted, and died abroad, and Odd, until he could pull

himself together, had to be content with the not very lucrative post of

assistant to a doctor living in Bridge Avenue, Hammersmith.

With Richard Jervoise it had been different. For him life held all

the sweets and but few of the sorrows. The second son of Sir James

Jervoise, Baronet, ex-Lord Mayor of London and underwriter at Lloyd’s,

his lot had always been cast in pleasant places. When he was twenty-two

his father, who had amassed a fortune in the City, had died, leaving

the snug little Hertfordshire estate to Richard’s elder brother James,

who of course, also succeeded to the baronetcy, and to him bequeathed

property which brought him in a clear two thousand a year.

It was not much, as money goes nowadays, but it had enabled him to

lead a life of easy luxury, travelling hither and thither just where

his fancy willed, and now, at thirty-five, he found himself already a

thorough-going cosmopolitan.

He was of a quiet, studious nature, almost the exact opposite to his

elder brother, James, who had married a vain, giddy little woman six

years before and was generally believed to have run through the greater

portion of his inheritance. In order to be near his friend Odd, Dick

Jervoise occupied a cosy little flat in Castelnau Mansions, Barnes,

that big red-brick building which lies just across Hammersmith Bridge,

commanding a wide sweep of the Thames. When he was at home, but few

evenings passed that they did not sit together smoking and gossiping.

Owen’s practice lay mostly among the struggling poor in the back

streets of Hammersmith, for his principal held the post of parish

doctor, and often when he would relate some tale of distress—a sick

widow with half a dozen hungry little ones, or an ailing father with

a motherless family—Dick’s hand went instinctively to his pocket and

never withdrew without a little gift for them.

Though of such a wandering, restless disposition, and though he spent

much of his time at the gay Continental resorts, the dark-haired,

good-looking man’s chief hobby was the study of folk-lore, a book upon

which he intended one day to write.

Owen and he had long planned a trip together, but the absence of a

doctor’s assistant for long periods is always difficult. At last,

however, it had been arranged, a _locum tenens_ had been provided, and

already the pair had been away from London seven weeks—weeks that had

been extremely enjoyable, even though they were sailing that stormy

Arctic sea.

If the truth were told, the fair-haired Thyra had charmed both men,

even though neither of them was very impressionable where the fair sex

were concerned. Both had already had their little affairs of the heart

long ago. That of Dick Jervoise had been a somewhat painful one, and in

consequence he had, like so many other men before him, made a solemn

vow of celibacy. His friend knew some of the facts though not all. They

were unpleasant facts, hence he never mentioned or recalled them. He

knew of the unfortunate affair and, with a true friend’s solicitude, he

was careful always to avoid any reference whatsoever to the subject.

He recollected Dick’s silent grief and unspoken bitterness; he

remembered the great change that had been wrought in him by the

now-buried episode.

Thus were they smoking in silence when John Martin entered the little

saloon, and taking down his long Norwegian pipe, slowly began to fill

it, asking in his broken English:

“Well, what do you think of Vardo, eh?”

“Interesting for half a day, captain,” Jervoise replied; “but a

terrible place.”

“Yes,” admitted the captain, with a laugh. “Not much amusement here,

is there? Poor old Berentsen! He must find it pretty dull, after his

active life. But there, he’s an Arctic sailor, body and soul.”

“Pretty hard on his daughter, to be doomed to live here,” the doctor

remarked. “She told me she was at school at Christiania, and finds it

deadly dull after the capital.”

“I should think she does,” replied the captain as he lit his big pipe.

“You should be up here in the long night. You’d never forget it.”

“But what do the people do all the winter?” asked Dick.

“Do? Well, they just manage to exist, and that’s about all,” was

Martin’s reply. “Of course, a good many Lapps come down to the coast

yonder, but beyond that all is still, and the place, five or six feet

deep in snow, is silent as the grave.”

“It’s really a shame that such a pretty girl should be buried in such a

hole as this!” declared Jervoise.

Instantly a strange look crossed the fair-haired captain’s face, and he

stroked his yellow moustache. Then, a few moments later, he said:

“Well, perhaps she’s better here than down in Christiania, after all.

I’ve taken her backwards and forwards several times, and we’ve had some

merry music on that piano. She’s a splendid player, you know.”

“Why is she better here than in the capital, captain?” inquired Owen,

his curiosity aroused.

“Oh, for certain reasons,” Martin answered, with a smile. “After

leaving school she lived with an aunt for a year, and tasted the social

delights of the capital.”

“You’re growing mysterious,” laughed Jervoise. “What’s the reason she

is better here, in this awful place?”

But the captain only puffed at his long pipe, while the curl of his lip

betrayed that he knew more than he intended to tell.

“Ah, a love affair, of course!” exclaimed Owen.

“As an old friend of the family I happen to know the truth,” replied

the captain, suddenly growing serious; “but I’m not permitted to tell

you why she was not allowed by her father to remain in Christiania.”

“A secret!” exclaimed Dick, bending towards the captain, very much

interested. “Was it some schoolgirl love affair?”

“Mr. Jervoise,” replied the Arctic skipper, in a tone of slight

reproach, “that question is really not a fair one. Captain Berentsen

and his daughter are my friends, remember, and I have no right to

discuss their private affairs.”

“Oh, pardon me,” Dick cried quickly. “I know I’m too inquisitive,

only—well, the fact is that she’s delightful, and the mystery about her

had only increased our interest.”

“Let the mystery rest, Mr. Jervoise. It’s far best, I assure you,”

declared Martin. “No good is ever served by raking up the past,

especially where a woman is concerned.”

The two Englishmen exchanged swift glances. What did the captain mean?

The past? Surely that young girl with the grey eyes and sweet, innocent

face could not have had “a past!”

“Well,” remarked Owen, “whatever may be the reason of the girl’s recall

from the south, certainly it’s very hard upon her that she should be

exiled in this dreadful hole.”

“Best for her, doctor, best for her, I assure you,” declared the

captain emphatically, his pipe between his teeth.

“Why?”

“For reasons which, as I have already told you, are secret,” he

replied, his face, still sphinx-like. “The story is a curious one, I

admit. I’m sorry I’m not permitted to tell it to you. If I did it would

certainly surprise you both.”

“Why don’t you tell us, captain?” urged Jervoise persuasively. “You’re

always so ready to explain everything. And we will both regard what you

tell us as a confidence.”

“No, I cannot tell you the reason of Thyra Berentsen’s return to

Vardo,” responded Martin firmly. “Please, please don’t press your

question. It’s a secret—you understand—one that I am not permitted to

divulge. Captain Berentsen is one of my best friends.”

Both the Englishmen were sadly disappointed. There was a reason—some

strong reason, they realised—why the merry, easy-going Norwegian

captain, who was always so merry and careless of everything, had so

suddenly become obdurate, refusing to tell them anything.

The secret concerning the pretty Thyra was—well, it seemed that it was

not altogether creditable. What, they wondered, could it be?

No explanation was forthcoming, therefore they both wished the captain

good night and went along to their respective cabins.

CHAPTER VI

STRANGE MATTERS OF FACT

When Thyra, bright and fresh-looking, entered their own small

living-room on the following morning, she found her father seated in

his armchair, bent, pale, and tired.

The room, the double windows of which were seldom, if ever, opened,

smelt strongly of the odour of overnight tobacco; the dirty vodka

glasses were still upon the table, and as the grey, sunless light

fell upon the rugged face of the burly old whaler the girl saw that

something serious was amiss.

The room with its wooden walls, its wooden ceiling, and its gaudy

oleographs, presented a strangely bizarre appearance in the morning

light, while it was at once apparent to her that her father had not

been to bed.

“Why, dad,” she cried in alarm, falling upon her knees before the

seated man, “what’s the matter?”

“Nothing, my child, nothing,” the burly old fellow replied hoarsely, as

his hand wandered to her white brow and he tenderly stroked her fair

hair.

“But there is—I know there is!” she declared. “You haven’t been to bed

at all!”

“No,” he replied. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went out.”

“What, were you out in all that storm? Why, it shook the house to its

foundations.”

“Yes; it blew hard in the night. It was fortunate for Martin that he

anchored inside the breakwater. If not, the _Mercur_ would probably

have dragged her anchor and come ashore.”

She glanced out of the window, and saw that the neighbouring roofs were

lightly covered with snow.

“Now, dad,” the girl said, winding her soft arm about his neck

persuasively, “I demand to know why you’ve been so upset these last two

days. I’ve noticed a change in you, you know.”

“Change in me, dear!” he exclaimed, pulling himself together with an

effort at once. “Why, what change is there in me? It’s only your fancy.”

“No, it isn’t. Ever since Peter Sundt arrived yesterday morning you’ve

not been yourself. I’ve noticed it, so you can’t deny it!”

The old fellow’s weather-beaten face, now pale and haggard, instantly

changed. He bit his lip, but tried, nevertheless, to look unconcerned.

His hand trembled nervously, and the girl detected in his deep-set

eyes, with their grey overhanging brows, an expression such as she had

never before seen there.

Jorgen Berentsen was usually a deep-voiced, humorous, open-hearted man,

whose beaming face and iron-hand grip were sufficient index to his

honesty of character. But as he sat there, bending over his kneeling

daughter, he presented the picture of a heart-broken, disappointed man.

“I didn’t know that Peter’s landing had had any extraordinary effect

upon me, dear,” he said, with a vain attempt to smile. “Perhaps I’m not

very well,” he added in faint excuse.

“You are worried about something, dad. You must tell me,” she urged.

“It’s nothing, really nothing,” he assured her, stirring in his chair.

“Freyia is late. Why hasn’t she prepared breakfast, I wonder.”

“No, dad; it’s rather early. I got up because I intended to go out for

a walk.”

“To meet Paul, eh, dear? Ah!” and the old man sighed as his bony

fingers entangled themselves in the girl’s silken tresses.

“Why do you sigh like that, dad?” she ventured to ask, taking his other

hand and raising it to her lips. “I love Paul, and I’m sure—quite

sure—that he loves me.”

“I know that, my dear. I’ve seen quite enough to be aware that you’re

deeply in love with one another,” remarked the old man. Then, after a

pause, he added, “I only wish—”

“Wish what?”

“I only wish, my dear, that we knew a little more about Paul

Grinevitch. He is always so silent concerning himself. He has told me

practically nothing.”

“He is, at any rate, a gentleman, dad. And, further, he has ample

means. You told me that only the other day, you know. Besides, what

should I care if he hadn’t? I love him.”

“Love!” the old man echoed in a hard voice. “Ah! yes, dear child, I

know—I know, alas! what love means to you both. I loved—once.”

And he sighed deeply at some recollection of long ago that stirred his

memory to its depths. She was surprised, for she had never seen her

father in that strange and somewhat sentimental mood before.

More than ever was she convinced that some secret existed between him

and that red-faced parvenu, Peter Sundt, the man who carried with him

the odour of fish into the salons of Christiania society.

“Yes, dad,” she said, raising her soft white hand and pushing his grey

hair back from his brow. “You loved my dear mother—just as Paul loves

me.”

The old man sat staring before him. All the natural bonhomie had fled

from his face. He was hard and silent, as though his very nature had

been frozen by the bitter thoughts that now obsessed him.

“Why don’t you try and induce him, my dear, to tell you more about

himself,” he urged in a hoarse voice. “The fact is, Thyra, I don’t

like you, my only child, marrying a man about whom I know practically

nothing, and who, after all, may be only an adventurer.”

“Oh, dad! you really shouldn’t talk of Paul like that!” she exclaimed

quickly, in a voice of reproach. “Within your heart you know quite well

he’s not an adventurer, or you would never have given your consent to

our secret engagement.”

“No, dear, I don’t say he is an adventurer. Personally, I believe him

to be a very honest fellow. And certainly he would never remain here in

Vardo were it not for you. Who would stay here if they could get away?”

The girl blushed slightly. She knew that her father spoke the truth.

“Then why may we not make our engagement public?” she asked. “Only

yesterday Paul expressed a hope that you would soon allow us to make

our love known.”

But the lines in the old sailor’s brow grew perceptibly deeper, and he

only drew a long breath without answering.

“I know how lonely you will be when I am married and go south,” she

said. “We shall live in Russia, I expect. Paul talks of Moscow; but I

would prefer Petersburg, as in summer I could always come to Archangel

by rail, and get here by the mail to see you. And perhaps after I’m

married—perhaps you, dad, could get some appointment farther south,

where there are sunshine and trees and flowers.”

Her father shook his head sadly. Appointments as harbour-master were

few and far between. There were always hundreds of applicants. For

the office he held he had been the lucky candidate out of nearly three

hundred retired seafaring men.

“For myself, darling, I care nothing,” he said, looking into her grey

eyes fondly. “It is your own future I am thinking of. I have lived my

life, as hard a one as that of any man. What matters now if I die up

here? Besides the hot summers of the south don’t suit me. I’ve lived

almost my whole life here in the Arctic.”

“But though I love Paul, father, I don’t feel happy if I have, after

marriage, to leave you alone,” she said quickly, her eyes fixed upon

his.

“My dear, though I know so little of your lover’s position or of his

past I’d—well,” he went on, with a strange catch in his voice, “I’d

rather that you married him than—”

“Than what?” she asked in quick surprise.

“Oh—well, nothing, dear,” he declared. “I’m not very well this morning,

that’s all.”

“Now, dad,” she cried reproachfully, “that really isn’t fair. You have

something upon your mind which you won’t tell me. Peter Sundt stayed

talking with you for a long time last night after I went to bed. What

has he been saying to upset you?”

“Why, nothing, dear!” her father laughed faintly. “What ever caused

you to imagine that? I’ve known Peter a great many years; indeed, ever

since he used to live in a hut at Gamvik, behind the Sletnes, and go

out fishing for cod.”

“I’m aware of that. But why would you rather see me married? Tell me

the reason,” she urged.

“Well,” he laughed uneasily, “because you would, I know, be far happier

with a good husband than living up in this dull place so full of

the evil odours of decaying fish and so far beyond the culture and

refinement amid which you were educated. I’ve always lived the rough

life of the sea. With you, child, it is different. You are unfitted for

this climate, its long darkness and its hardships. Surely you can see

what a sacrifice it will be to me to allow your marriage, but——” and

he paused. “Well, shall I tell you the truth?” he asked, staring again

straight before him.

“Yes, do, dear dad!” she cried suddenly, again flinging her sinuous

arms about his neck.

“Well, all to-night I’ve been thinking and wondering—wondering if I

consented to your marriage with Paul at an early date, would you make

your father a firm and definite promise?”

“A promise! Why, of course, dad,” she declared, kissing his wrinkled

cheek. “But do you really mean that I may marry Paul soon?” she asked

excitedly.

For a second the old fellow hesitated, almost as though he had not the

courage to make such a promise.

“I have decided, dear Thyra,” he answered in a deep, distinct voice,

“that if Paul Grinevitch is willing, he may marry you as soon as ever

he wishes.”

The girl sprang up in a veritable delirium of joy.

“Oh, dad, you are really too good!” she cried, bending and kissing him

again and again. Then, on reflection, a few moments later she saw that

this sudden decision must be due to some unexpected circumstance.

What, she wondered, had happened to so change her father’s usual

character, to cause him to remember his own love of long ago, and at

the same time to induce him to allow her immediate marriage with Paul?

“I give my permission, dear, on this one condition,” he said. “That you

make a solemn promise to me—that you promise——” he added hoarsely,

without, however, concluding his sentence.

“Yes, dear dad; what am I to promise you?”

Again he hesitated. It struck her curiously as though he were ashamed

to speak.

“I—I want you, Thyra, to promise me one thing,” he stammered.

“Remember, I, your father, ask you to grant me this. After your

marriage there may be some evil spoken of myself—a foul calumny spread

by a blackguardly liar!” he cried, his eyes flashing suddenly. “If

there is,” he said, looking straight at her with an almost imploring

expression, “if there is, promise me that you will not believe one

single word of it—promise me that you, my own Thyra, will not misjudge

me!”

“Father,” she answered quite quietly, for she saw how deadly earnest he

was, “I promise you. Of course, I would never believe any allegation

against you, who have been always so good and kind to me. When you

brought me back up here from Christiania, I fretted and thought you

unkind. But now I know different—you were cruel to me in my own

interests. But,” she added, taking both his hard hands in hers, “tell

me what is the nature of this calumny—what evil do you anticipate that

people may say of you?”

“It will be sufficient for you to know when you hear it!” was the old

fellow’s broken reply. “As long as you close your ears to the lies of

my enemy, then I do not fear. The world may seek to crush, humiliate,

and ruin me with a disgraceful scandal which I am powerless to refute.

Yet I am still a man—and I will face them and bear the indignity for

your own dear sake, even though, at the same time, it will mean the

loss of you to me.”

Then the bluff, broad-shouldered man in silence took the girl’s

soft hand in his own iron grip. And thus they sat for a long time;

she joyful yet full of curiosity at what her father had hinted; he

hard-mouthed, grave-faced, and broken.

She felt vaguely that that moment was the crisis of her father’s life.

He had an enemy who had threatened to encompass his ruin. Yet she was

powerless to act, save to reassure him by repeating her promise of

refusal to believe any word that might be uttered against him.

At what had her father hinted? Why, indeed, had he so suddenly and so

willingly given his consent to their engagement being known, and their

marriage taking place? What had caused the change in him?

These and a hundred other thoughts ran through her puzzled brain as she

sat at his feet in silence, her hands in his, until they were at last

interrupted by the entry of the faithful, flat-faced, bead-eyed old

Lapp woman whose name, Freyia, meant in the Lapp tongue “the Goddess of

Love.”

Though she had left her encampment many years to take service in Vardo,

Freyia still retained her national dress, the long jacket of reindeer

leather falling below her knees, secured by a leather belt and edged

with gay-coloured red, yellow, and blue cloth, while her legs were

encased in leather moccasins. Many a time old Jorgen had tried to

induce her to adopt civilised garb, but she had always refused. A Lapp,

go wherever he or she may, clings ever to the dress of his nomad clan.

Thyra, when the old woman entered to prepare breakfast, rose, and went

to her own room to write a note to Paul announcing the good news, while

her father turned to the window, and with hands clenched and teeth hard

set, held his breath as he looked out upon the snow-covered roofs and

the grey, stormy ocean beyond.

He had made that sacrifice for Thyra’s sake. For him, in the evening

of his days, the future held only a painful scandal which he must now

face, and which would, more than probably, bring upon him ruin as well

as disgrace.

That same morning Dick Jervoise and his friend had, on rising, packed

some eatables together and taken one of the big, high-prowed old boats

out of the harbour and across the rough sea to the mainland, being

anxious to ascertain what the bleak, treeless, inhospitable coast was

like.

In a deep hollow they found a Lapp encampment—a dozen or so miserable

tents of reindeer skin, with their quaintly-garbed tenants in their

curious, four-cornered caps stuffed with eider-down, and many of them

in heavy furs, even though it were summer. The Lapp is an extremely

friendly person, therefore they spent the morning photographing, buying

spoons and other articles of reindeer horn, tobacco pouches, purses of

skin and other Arctic souvenirs, in turn being invited by the head-man

into his tent and given the place of honour beside the ever-burning

fire.

At five o’clock in the afternoon they returned to the ship to wash

and make themselves respectable before having dinner, intending to go

ashore to Vardo afterwards.

In the saloon they found Captain Martin in mufti, taking his cup of tea

and slice of lemon.

“Well?” he asked cheerily. “And how have you fared to-day among the

Lapps?”

They both declared that their outing had been full of interest,

whereupon the fair-moustached, dandified man exclaimed:

“I’ve got some interesting news for you. Vardo is full of it.”

“What’s that?” inquired the doctor. “We haven’t seen a newspaper for a

month.”

“Thyra Berentsen—the girl you both admire so much—is to be married.”

“Married!” gasped Jervoise.

“Yes. I’ve had orders this morning to go on to Archangel for half a

cargo, after calling at Vadso and Kirkanaes. Therefore she and her

father and the happy bridegroom sail with us when we go south in a

fortnight’s time.”

“But who is she to marry? Surely not one of these uncouth fishermen!”

“No. He’s not at all uncouth. On the contrary, he’s a very refined,

good-looking and wealthy young gentleman—a Russian from Moscow named

Paul Grinevitch.”

Jervoise stood staring at the captain, his mouth wide open.

“Paul Grinevitch!” he echoed. “She has promised to marry him?”

“Yes. The announcement has set all Vardo agog. Everybody is talking of

it. Why?”

The other’s teeth were clenched, his brows had contracted, and his

cheeks had gone pale. Odd, standing with his back to him, did not

notice the sudden change in his friend.

“Oh, for no reason!” he managed to reply. “I—well I’m greatly

surprised. Nobody told me that she was engaged. That’s all.”

But as he turned away he muttered some words below his breath, though

neither the captain nor the doctor heard him.

“Paul Grinevitch! So I was not mistaken after all, when I thought I

caught sight of you yesterday! You are hiding here, at the end of the

world, and you intend to marry Thyra Berentsen! You—_you of all men_!”

His blanched countenance grew rigid as he turned on his heel and left

the narrow little saloon.

CHAPTER VII

THE CAPTAIN MAKES A SUGGESTION

When, two days later, Dick Jervoise rose, dressed with difficulty

owing to the heavy sea, and ascended to the deck, he found they were

approaching a small bay where, through the drifting fog could be

distinguished a line of low wooden houses, painted various colours,

brown, white and blue, behind which, upon a small eminence, stood a

tiny white church with pointed spire, while away on the horizon showed

a range of low bare hills.

A dispiriting scene, ineffably sad. A grey, wintry sky, a grey sea,

a grey land, while so chill was the wind that even though he wore a

heavy leather-lined motor-coat, he shivered. And it was the height of

summer. They were far away now from the haunts of the twenty-guinea

midnight-sun tourists—away in the great lone land.

The _Mercur_ was approaching the little fishing station of Vadso, a

lonely desolate little place on the Norwegian and Russian frontier.

On the bridge stood Captain Martin, smart and spruce in his uniform,

and without an overcoat, chatting to the big-bearded Norseman who had

piloted them through the many dangerous channels beyond the Nordkap,

and who was now keeping a wary eye upon the difficult course they were

taking.

For a ship to approach Vadso closely is impossible, therefore, while

still a mile from the long breakwater, the pilot pulled three times

at the cord of the siren, sounding the Morse-code signal, and then

drew over the engine-room lever. The answering bell sounded, and the

engines suddenly stopped.

A shout, and down plunged the anchor with whirr and rattle.

Owen had not yet risen. While Dick had remained on board all the

previous day, pleading a slight indisposition, the young doctor and

the Captain had been ashore at Vardo and spent the evening with the

Berentsens. They had come on board again about four o’clock in the

morning, and sailed at once, eastward for Vadso.

Before turning in, Owen had come into his friend’s cabin to inquire

how he was, and to explain how they had spent the evening at the

harbour-master’s hospitable little house.

“Thyra was there, of course?” asked Dick, suddenly interrupting him.

“Certainly. And the young Russian too. It appears that their engagement

was formally announced to-day, and it has created as great a sensation

among the fisher-folk of Vardo as a similar announcement in the

_Morning Post_ does in Mayfair. She’s being congratulated everywhere.”

“And what sort of fellow is he?” inquired the man.

“A gentleman, I believe,” replied the young doctor carelessly. “Speaks

English as well as most educated Russians, is rather good-looking,

but slightly disfigured by a white scar against his left ear. He’s

evidently devoted to her, and seems quite a decent sort of fellow.”

Dick turned over in his narrow berth without a word. He only sighed.

Truth to tell, however, he had turned his head away lest his friend’s

curiosity should be aroused by the expression upon his countenance.

“Well,” exclaimed Owen after a slight pause; “you’re tired, old chap. I

really ought not to have disturbed you, only—well, I thought you’d like

to know all the news.”

“Thanks, old chap. I’m not disturbed. But I’ll just have an hour or two

longer.”

“Right. We’re due off Vadso at nine,” Owen said cheerily, and he left

the cabin, closing the door after him, and struggling unsteadily to his

own berth, for the ship was already on her way, rolling heavily outside

the harbour.

After that, Dick Jervoise had slept but little. So it was really _the_

Paul Grinevitch! The white scar that he remembered so well—the mark of

Cain upon him—proved his identity.

He was glad that after Martin had told him of Thyra’s engagement, he

had not set foot in Vardo again. Surely he had pursued the only course

possible?

Yet the discovery had utterly staggered him.

Even now, as he stood upon the black, greasy deck, slippery with the

cod-liver oil which oozed from the many barrels lashed to the bulwarks,

the strange and unexpected truth filled his mind. The Captain, from

the bridge above, shouted a merry “Good-morning”; but he only replied

mechanically.

He was thinking of Thyra, and that man, her lover—of all men.

Again he shivered, and even while half-frozen by that biting wind he

was at the same time asphyxiated by the horrible effluvia wafted from

the cod-curing and boiling-houses and poisonous odours from guano

factories.

A big, high-prowed boat rowed by six Lapp fishermen in furs with

leather mitts upon their hands, came alongside, and into it was flung

the small, half-filled mail bag from the south. Then the Captain,

Dick and Owen Odd, together with the two officers, the engineer and

mail officer—the same merry little company who had met there every

morning for the past month—assembled for breakfast.

“Well, Mr. Jervoise,” inquired the Captain cheerily from the head

of the table, “what have you decided? We sail at ten to-night for

Archangel. Shall you come with us, or do you intend taking a trip

inland for a fortnight, and we’ll pick you up again at Kjelvik on our

way south? As I said yesterday, you’d have a most interesting journey

with the Lapps. Of course you’d perhaps be compelled to rough it a

little, but you, as a traveller, wouldn’t mind that.”

“I think it would be jolly good fun,” declared Odd enthusiastically.

“I’ve been looking up the route on the map. Of course, Captain, you

wouldn’t fail to call in for us? We don’t want to be left up here all

the winter,” he added with a laugh.

“We shall be at Kjelvik fifteen days from to-day,” answered the

Captain. “The voyage from here along the Murman coast and up the White

Sea is not at all interesting. You’d find much more enjoyment in a

journey across country. Mr. Ackerman, your British consul here, would

no doubt find you a reliable Lapp guide, and you wouldn’t have much

trouble. The steward can give you some tinned food, and I daresay you

can buy a little cooking-stove ashore. I did the journey once across to

Kistrand, on the Porsanger Fjord, and had a most excellent time.”

“How far is it?” inquired Jervoise.

“About four hundred kilometres—the last two hundred through a

magnificent mountain range. The country is a very wild one, and quite

unknown to travellers. But you’ll find the Lapps exceedingly friendly,”

the Captain said. “There are two routes from here to Kistrand. One

is by road to a little place called Nyborg, across the Tana River,

and then due east by the track in the valley of the Mats and over the

Borgavarre to a tiny place called Laxelven, at the extreme head of the

Porsanger Fjord and thence north for fifty kilometres to Kistrand.

From there you can go in a boat down the fjord to Kjelvik, where we

will pick you up. The other, which is longer, but more interesting,

is to ascend the Tana from Seida to Karasjok in a Lapp boat for about

two hundred kilometres, and drive thence due north to Laxelven and on

to Kistrand. I should certainly recommend the latter route as less

tedious. The Tana, as you know, divides Norwegian Lapland from that of

Finland. Besides you’ll be able to see the Laplander at home.”

Captain Martin’s description appealed to the adventurous spirit of Dick

Jervoise. He had roughed it in many odd corners of the world, and his

main object in going so far north now was in order to see the Lapps and

their mode of life, to study a people about whom scarcely anything has

ever been written.

So there and then he and his friend decided to take the Captain’s

advice and go by the longer route of Karasjok and up the Fjelma

valley. The journey by road and river would occupy them about

thirteen days, the Captain estimated. The _Mercur_ could not be in

the Magerosund—behind the island of Magero on which the North Cape is

situated—for at least eighteen or nineteen days, being compelled to

call at all the tiny fishing stations between Vardo and the North Cape,

those clusters of wooden huts sheltered beneath the bare rocks, such

as Makur, Mehavn, Gamvik and Finkongkjeilen. Therefore they would have

five or six days to spare, in case of untoward circumstances.

The big map of Lapland was brought from the chart-room, spread upon

the table of the saloon, and eagerly examined by the ship’s officers

and the two Londoners. Then, when the route was decided, the steward

was interviewed, and tinned provisions obtained from the store-room.

There being no fresh food in the north, all the victuals on board the

_Mercur_, including the vegetables, were preserved. The only thing

fresh was the ever-present codfish, the very smell of which permeated

everything on board.

A couple of reindeer skin sleeping sacks were brought out of the

store-room, as well as a tea-kettle, a cooking-pot or two, matches, a

couple of drums of petroleum, and other necessaries.

For several hours Dick and his friend were thus occupied in their

preparations, packing warm clothing into two canvas mail-sacks.

After luncheon they went ashore to interview the British consul, Mr.

Ackerman, and to purchase a cooking-stove.

The doctor was delighted. It was his first experience of travel upon

an unbeaten track. Hammersmith and Hammerfest were indeed widely

separated. He recollected the dust and stuffiness of King Street,

Hammersmith, with its working-class crowds, now, as he gazed upon the

quaint though evil-smelling little town of Vadso, so far removed from

the bustle of the world.

On landing at the breakwater, the Captain accompanying them, they

found that the population of about a couple of thousand were mostly

Laplanders. The few Norwegians occupied a central group of houses, one

tiny street, while all around, in the rows of ramshackle sheds built

of odds and ends of driftwood, old petroleum-tins and slabs of stone,

lived the Lapps, or Kvaen, as they call themselves.

Alongside the water stood a row of little wooden houses painted in

bright colours, interspersed by old boats transformed into various

uses, and black wooden sheds for the drying of the cod.

In the centre of all was the little _torv_, or market, which at the

moment of their arrival presented quite a picturesque scene. Around

the stalls, where various wares were displayed, notwithstanding the

cutting wind, was an unwashed crowd of all the races of the far

North—Norwegian fishermen, Russian sailors, Finns, Russian Lapps in

four-cornered caps, tunics of dark blue homespun ornamented by heavy

embroideries in red and yellow cloth, Lapps of the Finmarken, short

of stature, in ragged furs, with knitted blue caps with scarlet

tassels, and knives in their belts, while Samoyeds from Archangel were

distinguishable by their long caftans of reindeer hide. Truly a most

remarkable crowd—a _melange_ of a dozen different languages and a dozen

different costumes.

Consul Ackerman proved to be a shipping-agent and agent of the

universal Lloyd’s. Upstairs, in his comfortable wooden house, where

stunted roses and geraniums struggled for life behind the double

windows, the two Englishmen were introduced by the Captain, the usual

glass of vodka was offered as sign of the hospitality of the North, and

the conversation soon drifted to the ways and means of the projected

journey across the Kistrand.

Mr. Ackerman, a pleasant middle-aged man who had spent his life in the

Arctic, and who had travelled in various parts of Lapland and also out

across the terrible country of the Kola, sat for a full hour and gave

them a number of useful hints regarding their proposed route.

Eventually they descended to the ground floor, where a funny, bead-eyed

little man wearing ragged furs, and whose face was of distinctly Mongol

type, was introduced.

“This is Henkela,” explained the consul. “You may place every reliance

in him. He is a Lapp of the Finmarken, and has travelled your route

several times. He often does odd jobs for me, for he speaks Russian as

well as a little English.”

At this, the brown-faced aborigine of those inhospitable tundras of the

North grinned, nodded, and exclaimed:

“Yes.”

In Norwegian the consul explained the route which the travellers

desired to take, and to every word Henkela listened most attentively.

His age it was impossible to guess, for the average Laplander begins to

look old at twenty-five.

Both Dick and Owen noted that he was not particularly clean-looking,

but the consul had already warned them that they must expect dirt in

travelling so far from European civilisation. Dick was used to it, and

possessed the practised traveller’s instinct of being able to keep

himself clean under almost any circumstances. Odd, as medical man,

however, regarded uncleanliness with horror.

The remainder of that short grey day was occupied mostly in

preparations, the wizened-faced Henkela being particularly active in

adding to the stores various articles of necessity which had been

forgotten.

On the road from Vadso to Nyborg reindeer are only used with the sleds

in winter, therefore Henkela obtained horses with two very shaky

vehicles, while at the general store Dick and Owen each purchased, at

the Lapp’s request, pairs of leathern mitts, and from a house in the

Lapp town each a _pesk_, or huge coat of reindeer skin with the fur

outside.

That evening the pair, together with the Captain, dined with the

consul, and afterwards Captain Martin bade them farewell and went off

in the ship’s boat, promising to call for them at the little fishing

station of Kjelvik within eighteen days.

Half an hour later the siren, echoing across the dark fjord, announced

the departure of the _Mercur_ for Archangel.

CHAPTER VIII

REVEALS THE SHADOW

The only road in Northern Lapland worthy the name is that which runs

for fifty kilometres or so from Vadso, along the edge of the desolate

Varangerfjord to Seida, on the broad Tana, one of the most noted salmon

rivers in the world.

Next morning, soon after it became light, Jervoise and his companion

driving in one rickety old vehicle and the little beady-eyed Henkela in

his ragged furs seated on the top of the impedimenta in the other, set

forth upon the journey, the consul shouting them a cheery adieu.

The whole of the little Lapp town seemed to have been made aware

of the impending departure of the Englishmen, for a hundred or so

quaintly-garbed men and women, mostly in leather or in furs, turned out

to witness the triumphant start of Henkela, who was evidently a most

popular person.

During the night it had snowed, and the ground was still covered to

the depth of perhaps an inch. All around the Varanger is a veritable

wilderness. As they left Vadso a tree two yards high, growing in a

sheltered corner of the town, was pointed out by Henkela to the two men

in the cart behind as a vegetable prodigy. And as they went out upon

the road, forth into that grey sad country of silence and solitude, an

inexpressible feeling of melancholy fell upon them both.

“How horribly depressing this place is!” Owen remarked when they got

beyond the town, the road running close to the edge of the broad fjord,

where, far across, showed the misty mountains in Russian territory.

“Yes,” answered Jervoise mechanically. He was driving, but his thoughts

were far from that scene of wintry desolation—away in a different

vista of palms and olives, of sunshine and blue sky—a scene that was

delightful to the eye, but full, alas! of bitter tragedy.

Before him, as he drove from the drifting mists of morning, arose that

peerless face of the fair-haired daughter of the old Arctic whaler—the

tall, graceful girl with the grey eyes that had held him in such

strange fascination—even before he became aware of the identity of her

lover.

He was thinking of her—thinking as he had done a hundred times during

those past twenty-four hours—thinking, too, of that man whom she had

promised to marry.

And whenever he thought of him, whenever there recurred to him that

scene among the gnarled grey-green olives of the south, he set hard his

teeth, and his nails drove themselves into his palms.

Owen noticed his friend’s silence, but attributed it to the impressive

sadness of the scene. The road they were travelling was the most

northerly in Europe, and was passable for wheeled vehicles only about

three months in the year. In the country of the Great Night the sled

and reindeer are the usual means of locomotion. The Laplander uses a

_pulk_, or boat-shaped sled in which he sits and is drawn by reindeer,

one of the most uncomfortable modes of travelling in the whole world,

for the bottom of the _pulk_ being rounded, and not being on runners

like the Russian sled, is constantly turning over, and its occupant

usually finds himself beneath it.

Winter had not, however, yet set in in earnest. Nevertheless, the

ground was lightly covered with snow until the whole country, flanked

on one side by the great grey expanse of the fjord and on the other

by the sloping treeless waste, was the very acme of inhospitable

desolation.

Not a tree was visible, not a habitation—nothing but a long, straight

road through a desert of intense white snow and grey water.

The ravines were rich in polar flora, with a thousand different

varieties of mosses, as well as the dwarf cloud-berry or “multebaer,”

which, as every visitor to Scandinavia knows, is so dear to the

Norwegian palate. No plant higher than a few inches, however, survived

that terrible climate of that Arctic desert.

It was freezing hard, and even in their mitts and heavy coats the two

travellers soon began to be chilled to the bone. Therefore, after

about five miles, at Henkela’s suggestion they pulled up and exchanged

their motor-coats of European civilisation for the big Lapp _pesks_ of

reindeer skin.

Both laughed at the bulky figure each presented in that unaccustomed

garb.

As they travelled westward the snow became less until the stony road

was only lightly powdered, the way, however, still keeping along the

edge of the broad fjord, until, after five hours, they pulled up at a

long, log-built house, alone in that treeless region, which proved to

be the post-house of Bergeby.

This, the most northerly skyds-station which the Norwegian government

maintains, proved to be a curious little place. In the carpetless

guest-room was a table and some chairs. That was all. Travelers

supplied their own food and their own bedding.

The post-house keeper produced his register for the Englishmen to sign,

and having done so, they “killed” a tin of corned beef, off which they

made a rough meal, handing the remainder to the faithful Henkela, who

devoured it without much ceremony.

As they sat together in that lonely little house so far removed from

any human habitation, smoking cigarettes while the fresh horses were

put to amid the shouts of Henkela, Owen remarked:

“Well, old chap, when we set out from London we never anticipated this

journey, did we?”

“No,” responded his friend reflectively. “We’ve met with several

unexpected incidents,” he added meaningly.

Truth to tell, that journey did not interest Dick in the least. Usually

he loved the excitement of travel, but at that moment it only bored

him. He was on a route unfrequented and unknown to all save the Lapps

of that district and the Finnish post-driver who passed along twice

each month. Yet the pale, tragic face with the grey eyes was ever

before his vision, blotting out every other thing and every other

interest.

Owen Odd was puzzled. His companion’s almost complete silence during

that long drive had caused him considerable reflection. Dick Jervoise

was always so full of dry humour that he began to wonder whether his

friend’s present attitude was due to any annoyance he might have

unwittingly caused him.

“What’s the matter, Dick?” he ventured to ask at last.

“Matter?” echoed the other, rousing himself suddenly. “Nothing. Why?”

“Well—because you’re not exactly yourself to-day, old fellow. That’s

all. I’m afraid you’re annoyed with me for going ashore the night

before last when you were seedy.”

“Annoyed, my dear Owen! What rubbish! Surely we are good friends enough

not to quarrel over any childish disagreements,” he said, pulling

himself together and bracing himself up with an effort. “Forgive me,”

he added apologetically, “if I’m not quite as bright as usual. I’m

sorry.”

“My dear fellow, don’t be so foolish,” laughed the other. “As long as

you’re not annoyed with me I don’t mind, I assure you.”

Dick Jervoise suppressed a sigh. What would Owen think if he knew the

truth? Yet he must never obtain knowledge of it—never—_never_.

Paul Grinevitch would be sailing with them on board the _Mercur_

for the south. He and his bride—his bride!—would be traveling to

Christiania to be united as man and wife!

On board the steamer they must meet. And then?

Aye, and then?

CHAPTER IX

THE ARCTIC WILDERNESS

Leaving the Varangerfjord just before darkness set in, the travellers

struck across the wide, rolling tundra, and for many hours went

forward, until about two o’clock in the morning they drove into an

enclosure in the centre of which stood a small wooden hut, together

with several other ramshackle out-buildings.

It was the last resthouse on the road. Indeed, the road, or rather

the track, ended there, for before it lay the broad, swift-flowing

Tana river. The stockade kept out the wolves in winter, and the house

itself, raised several feet from the ground, showed the depth of the

snows which lay there for several months each year.

Henkela banged loudly upon the wooden door, shouting something in

Lappish, while Dick and Owen descended from the cart, cold and cramped,

stamping their feet upon the frozen ground to promote the circulation.

A deep, guttural response came from within, and after the lapse of

five minutes or so, the door opened, and upon the threshold before the

lamplight stood a tall, fair-haired Finnish Lapp, in his blouse of

dark blue cloth heavily embroidered with red, and long fur boots with

upturned toes.

With a broad grin of amusement upon his fat face, he stretched out

both his big hands to wish the travellers welcome, and a few moments

later Dick and his friend found themselves inside a good-sized wooden

room, bare and carpetless, of course, save for four truckle beds, an

old couch, some chairs, and a stove, the warmth of which was indeed

gratifying after the frosty night.

“Senko, our host, asks whether the gentlemen would like some coffee?”

asked Henkela in his very indifferent English, and at the same time

there appeared a good-looking Finnish girl of fourteen, who was

introduced as Senko’s daughter, and who busied herself in piling

driftwood into the stove.

She was a fresh-looking, blue-eyed girl, all smiles and bows. Her dress

was typical of the civilised Lapp, fur boots like her father’s, a short

homespun skirt with heavy blue ornamentation, and a Russian shawl of

scarlet and white plaid around her shoulders.

Dick replied that coffee would be welcome; therefore the girl at once

retired into the back premises to prepare it. Coffee is a speciality

with the Lapps, and wherever one may go, even among the half-civilised

aborigines like Henkela, it is always quite drinkable.

“By Jove!” remarked Owen, spreading his hands to the stove. “This is a

weird place, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” his friend answered. “We’re getting beyond civilisation now.

This is the last resthouse.”

Henkela explained that for the next seven days or so they would be

compelled to throw themselves upon the hospitality of the nomad Lapps

for shelter in their huts, while Senko, his big face beaming with

pleasure at entertaining strangers from that almost legendary land,

England—the first he had ever had—came forward and through the guide,

answered their eager interrogations.

He was a fine specimen of a man, six feet two in height, a perfect type

of stalwart northerner. His blouse was held by a wonderful girdle of

chased brass, and in a repousse sheath reposed the usual long knife

used by the Lapp for the slaughter of reindeer.

Henkela and Senko were in deep consultation, speaking in Lappic, of

course. The subject of their conversation was the best means of getting

up the river to Karasjok, and presently Henkela turned to the pair,

saying:

“Senko has a boat which will just suit us. We shall want three rowers,

and he will get them from the encampment down in the ravine, two miles

away. He will send there in the morning.”

“Let us go, too,” suggested Owen. “We’ll then see the kind of men we

are getting.”

So that was arranged. Coffee was brought by the blue-eyed girl, who

also bent and unlaced Dick’s boots, and the whole party sat down to sip

the comforting beverage.

“Well,” declared Owen, laughing, as he looked around, “this is really

most quaint!”

True, it was a curious experience. But curious experiences are of every

day occurrence when one is travelling beyond the zone of our modern

civilisation. Those people whom they were among were a race who fought

the elements every day in order to live; a race who had never seen a

tree or flower as we know them, who knew nothing of trains, tramways,

or modern locomotion, and who cared not a jot how the world lived so

long as they themselves obtained sufficient for their daily wants.

While the coffee was being drunk and all smoked the cigarettes which

Dick offered from his case, Senko entertained them with an account of

how a bear had been killed close by on the previous day, concluding his

narrative by showing them the skin.

All the while he slapped his leg and laughed merrily, as though the

arrival of two wandering Englishmen in the middle of the night at that

outpost of civilisation was the greatest joke he could conceive.

At last, however, tired out, Dick, Owen and Henkela, dressed just as

they were, threw themselves down on the beds, blew out the smoking

lamp, and all slept soundly until the dawn.

After more coffee, and some ship-biscuits and ham from their stores,

the humorous giant, who at every turn slapped the travellers heavily

upon the back as a sign of good-fellowship, conducted them to the Lapp

encampment.

It consisted, they found, of a dozen or so roughly constructed

conical-shaped huts covered with turf, a hole being left in the roof

to allow the egress of the smoke. Beside each hut was a framework of

sticks, upon which were stretched reindeer skins in process of drying,

antlers, salmon from the river, and pieces of reindeer meat awaiting

consumption, all placed high out of the reach of the many grey,

wolf-like, Arctic dogs which barked vociferously and snapped viciously

at their approach.

Senko stooped, and pretended to take up a stone, whereupon the animals

slunk away. It is the only method of quieting the ever-barking dog of

the Laplander.

A shout from Senko, and a little undersized native in ragged furs,

wearing a cap similar to that worn by Henkela, emerged from one of the

huts and shouted back what was evidently a welcome. Then the party

entered the encampment, Henkela explaining that to enter without

permission was, by his people, considered the gravest form of insult.

To receive assistance or hospitality from the Lapp the traveller must

always place himself in the position of being helpless. He will then be

most kindly and considerately treated.

They approached the hut of the head-man who had greeted Senko, and as

they entered the narrow but not uncomfortable little dwelling, Henkela

exclaimed:

“_Rafthe vissui_” (Peace to your house).

“_Ibmel addi_” (God grant it) was the man’s reply as, by dumb signs, he

motioned the two Englishmen to a heap of furs placed on the right of

the smouldering fire, the place of honour.

In a Lapp hut the master and his family sleep on the skins spread on

the right of the fire, and the servants on the left.

A wizened, brown-faced little woman in furs, wearing a cap similar

to the man, and dressed like him, was cleaning a cooking-pot, quite

undisturbed by the intrusion, while the interior, with the suffocating

smoke curling through the hole in the roof, dimly lit by the light from

the doorway, presented a strange, unusual scene. Around the place were

heaps of reindeer and fox skins, in one spot the cooking utensils, in

another a heap of fur clothing, while close to where Owen sat lay a

child of six or seven, calmly sleeping.

A sharp-nosed dog rose, sniffed the two strangers inquisitively, and

then, satisfied with his investigations, curled himself again before

the fire.

Henkela, a minute later, explained in his broken English that the

head-man, having heard what the pair required, bade them welcome, and

promised to let them have three of his best men as rowers to Karasjok.

Then Dick handed round his cigarette-case, and all smoked, including

the old woman. Presently the two Englishmen were taken to the stockade,

where a herd of about eight hundred reindeer was enclosed against that

arch-enemy of the Lapp, the wolf.

Upon his reindeer the lonely Laplander practically subsists. He lives

upon the flesh, he makes his tent and his clothing of its skin, his

thread of its sinews, his cheese of its milk, his implements of its

bones, and often his fire of its offal. All this Henkela explained.

Dick, student that he was, soon discovered Henkela to be a man of more

than average intelligence. In his youth he had been for some years

at the government school at Vadso, and, possessing a rather musical

voice, he had, he said, learned many of those ancient songs which

for centuries past have been produced and orally spread among the

Lapps—including many of the runes of the “Kalevala.”

In a moment Dick Jervoise became interested. He had long ago closely

studied the various works of Russian and Norwegian writers upon the

traditional poetry of the Lapps and Finns, and here was an opportunity

to gather much information at first hand which hitherto he had not been

able to obtain.

Henkela’s English was, of course, not very clear, but it was quite

sufficient to act as a channel through which he could obtain knowledge.

He had gone deeply into the subject. In the cosy comfort of his little

flat at Barnes he had studied many translations of the Finnish and

Lappish runes, those heroic or magic songs which have been handed down

from the remote ages. The song of the “Origin of the Kantele,” those of

the “Journey to Vipunen,” “Vainamoinen’s Wound,” and the “Expedition

for the Sampo” were all well known to him; therefore, with much

gesticulation and not without difficulty, he discussed them with the

black-eyed little man in furs and knitted cap, as, after making final

arrangements with the three Lapps who came forward as rowers, they

walked back side by side to Senko’s house.

At last Dick Jervoise seemed to take a keen interest in the journey;

therefore Owen was gratified. Though the story of the ancient runes or

of the “Kalevala” did not interest the doctor, yet he was delighted to

see that in his friend, student that he always was, a new interest had

been aroused.

CHAPTER X

TOWARDS THE DOOM

The ascent of the broad Tana in that big old black boat was slow,

tedious, and terribly monotonous.

For the most part the river, famous for its salmon and the particles of

gold the water contains, flowed across a great, open, treeless tundra,

and often the current was so strong that the three rowers required the

assistance of Henkela, himself a fisherman, to keep her head to the

stream.

The distance from Seida to Karasjok was nearly three hundred

kilometres, and most of the course lay due south through a barren land

entirely uninhabited save where the Lapps had settled upon the banks to

fish. And it was in these huts, in every way similar to the huts of the

encampment near Seida, that each night they sought shelter and slept.

Landing several times each day to cook food and stretch themselves was

the only recreation they obtained; therefore Dick, seated in the stern

of the boat hour after hour and day after day as they slowly ascended

the stream, turned his main attention to Henkela, in order to improve

his knowledge of the Lapp poetry.

The weather was by no means propitious. Often they would be delayed

for hours by those dense white mists which hung over the river each

morning, and more than once snow fell heavily. Still, even Owen,

matter-of-fact Londoner that he was, was compelled to admit that the

journey was fraught with plenty of excitement and many humorous

episodes.

To enliven the voyage, and to encourage the rowers to their oars,

Henkela, at Dick’s request, took to chanting the old runes. Sometimes

he would sing of the beautiful Luonnotar, daughter of the air, of the

supreme god, the ancient of years, Ukko, or of Vainamoinen, the eternal

singer who was for thirty years imprisoned with his mother.

Hour after hour, across those broad-flowing waters with their rippling

shallows, would the voice of the dark-faced Lapp sound, with that soft

sibillation peculiar to his own unwritten tongue, musical almost as

Italian.

As well as he could he would, after chanting the runes, explain what

they meant in English.

One day Henkela, as the rowers kept up the rhythm of the oars, was

explaining the rivalry in magic between the Finns and Lapps which is so

strongly marked in the magic and epic runes.

“Lapp magic is not poetical,” he was explaining as well as he could in

his somewhat indifferent English. “It is of that damnable kind, called

by the Norse _seidr_. This word has not entered the Finnic tongue, but

we Lapps have taken it and applied it to formless or rude images of our

deities in wood, or in stone, because we used them years ago in our

magic operations. We Lapps all believe in magic.”

“But surely you are Christians!” Jervoise exclaimed.

“We believe in magic, nevertheless,” Henkela declared. “Each day when

I go forth fishing I make my song of prayer—my _rukouksia_. I say:

‘Vellamo, mistress of waters, Queen of a hundred sea-caves, Arouse the

scaly crowd, Urge on the fish flocks. Forth from their hiding-place.

Forth from the muddy slime. Forth to this net-hauling. To the weights

of the hundred-meshed. Take now thy beauteous shield. Shake the

golden water-lily with which the fish thou frighten’st. And driv’st

them towards the net. Beneath the plain so gloomy, Above the boulders

black.’”

“Most interesting!” declared Odd, who had been listening attentively.

“Again,” exclaimed the Lapp with the sharp black eyes, as he puffed at

his long pipe, setting his gaze straight towards the grey bank of mist

before him. “Again, if I am ill, and I take waters as a medicine, I

repeat the words: ‘O pure water, O Lady of the waters, Now do thou make

me whole, Strong as before. For this I beg thee dearly, And in offering

I gave thee, Blood to appease thee, Salt to propitiate thee.’”

One morning, after passing an uncomfortable night in the hut of some

nomad Lapps near the dreary Finnish settlement of Audagoski, they had

been delayed from starting for several hours by the dense fog which

hung over the river, and in which it was impossible to row.

At length, however, about noon, they had made a start, and at the

suggestion of Jervoise, Henkela had resumed his explanation of the

land of Pohjola as being the seat of evils and darkness. In all the

Lapp songs Pohja, or Pohjola, is conspicuous, and according to Henkela

that mythical country of the far north beyond the eternal snows was

inhabited by Lapps, and the lady of Pohjola was Lady of the Lapps.

This Lady is one of the principal types among the heroines of the

“Kalevala,” and from her mythic region, ill-omened in character and

harbourer of ills, come forth all the evils that afflict the northern

peoples, such as ice, snow, cold winds, and the darkness of winter.

It is a remote region, existing they know not exactly where; but in

what direction is clearly shown by the icy breath of Boreas which

comes out of it. A country of fearsome imagination, an outer land on

the northern confines of the earth (ulkomaa), essentially dark (pimea)

and cold (kylma) the country of Pakkanen (icy coldness), a wretched

land, fatal to men and heroes, where sun and moon are never seen, but

visible in the eternal night is the “coloured cover” (kyrjokansi) or

the star-studded vault of the sky.

All this curious lore of a practically unknown people Dick Jervoise

found peculiarly fascinating, and by the hour he sat chatting and

learning from Henkela, whose broken English daily became clearer to the

pair.

That morning the little brown-faced man had, at Jervoise’s request,

been chanting the “Kalevala,” the rowers keeping time with the runes as

they passed through that dismal, depressing land. The quaint ancient

poetry told how the daughter of the air, tired of her long solitude,

came down from the vast untrodden regions of the air and settled on the

surface of the waters, where for seven hundred years she floated hither

and thither as Lady of the Waters.

The runes told how the egg of a duck fell into the sea and broke, and

the fragments underwent a transformation. From the two halves of the

shell arose the vault of the sky, and the terrestrial hemisphere below

it; from the yolk the sun took form; from the white the moon; from the

more shining parts the stars; from the darker parts the clouds. The

story was told of how every tree grew, save the oak, which Vainamoinen,

the eternal rune-maker, at last made grow by a fire lit by five

sea-maidens; how it rose so high as to darken the clouds, and how a

giant was called to cut it down and fling it into the waters, where it

was carried north to the shore of the dreaded land of Pohjola.

He sang those five hundred or so lines of the quaint national song of

ages long past in his curious plaintive chant, the rowers straining at

their long oars and keeping time.

And when he had concluded he translated portions of it into his

indifferent English. The conclusion the two travellers understood to be

as follows:—

Spake ancient Vainamoinen:

“Come now, thou dame of Pohjola,

Go we to share the Sampo,

To see the coloured cover,

On the point of the misty headland,

On the height of the fog-swathed island.”

Says of Pohjola the lady:

“I’ll not go to share the Sampo,

To see the coloured cover.”

Then ancient Vainamoinen

Sieved mist within a sieve

And around about fog sowed he

At the foggy headland’s ending;

And thus in words then spake he:

“Here ploughing and here sowing,

Here every kind of grain-crop

For the wretched north country,

For the widespread soil of Suomi.

Moons here, and here be suns,

Here stars be in the skies!”

Says of Pohjola the lady:

“To this I’ll find a hindrance;

A wondrous thing have found I

For thy ploughing, for thy sowing.

I’ll create a hail of iron,

Of steel a raging rain-storm,

To strike thy crops so tender,

To scourge and waste thy field!”

Spake ancient Vainamoinen:

“Create thy hail of iron,

Yea, cause to fall thy steel storm,

Upon the land of Pohjola,

On the crest of the cliff of clay.”

The river mists had now lifted, disclosing the low, treeless banks of

the broad-flowing waters—a wide, dreary, uninhabited wilderness. Here

and there clumps of dwarf silver-birch, the trees only four or five

feet in height, struggled for an existence. This was the edge of the

tree zone. Travelling south, it was the first sign of vegetation in

addition to the moss and lichen of the Arctic tundras.

As next day and the next they continued their voyage up-stream the

birches grew thicker and higher, their grey trunks adding to the

general melancholy of the scene.

At rare intervals they passed a few scattered Lapp huts near the river

bank, when the rowers would shout their salutations, awakening a horde

of dogs whose barking made exchange of greetings difficult. Sometimes

they would land to allow the three rowers to rest, and receive the

hospitality of a Lapp hut, and in exchange make presents to the chubby,

brown-faced little children in furs.

In that great lone, God-forgotten land, where fog and stretches of snow

intensified the gloom, and where the only means of subsistence were the

fish and the reindeer, those fur-clad wanderers of the tundra, dwarfed

of stature and still savage of nature, only just managed to keep body

and soul together. Many of the men went, in winter, down to the coast

to work in the cod-fishing or in those strong-smelling “hjelder,” the

timber-built sheds where the fish is dried for the European markets.

The others remained in their turf-built settlements, herding their

reindeer and awaiting the passing of the long night.

Henkela one afternoon ordered the rowers to halt at a sharp bend of

the river, now rapidly narrowing and more wooded on its banks, and,

landing, conducted Jervoise and his friend to the “siedi,” or sacred

oracle-stones of Lavvajok. The same day they passed three dangerous

rapids, which roared and foamed, and as night closed in they found

themselves at the junction of the Karasjokka (rapid river) with the

Tana.

Dick Jervoise had one thought, one fear. Each day, each hour, brought

him nearer a crisis of his life. And that thought obsessed him during

the whole journey through the monotonous gloom.

They found a Lapp hut, where they spent the night wrapped in their

furs, for it was snowing heavily and intensely cold; and next morning

ascended the swiftly-flowing stream which ran through thick birch woods

to the little Lapp town of Karasjok, where their boat journey ended.

The time at their disposal was very limited, for they had already taken

a day and a half longer in ascending the Tana than they had estimated,

and now, in order to catch the _Mercur_, they would be compelled to

travel in all haste due north again to the Porsanger Fjord.

Though they found Karasjok and its three hundred or so inhabitants

intensely interesting, they could only remain there six hours. Then,

bidding adieu to their three rowers, they with Henkela, mounted into

two ramshackle vehicles, each of which was driven by a Lapp in reindeer

_pesk_, fur boots, and four-cornered cap stuffed with eider-down, and

set their faces due north across the wide, rolling tundra, upon which

snow had already fallen, though not so deeply as to enable them to use

sleds.

From Karasjok to Laxelven, at the extreme head of the fjord, was a

distance of about a hundred kilometres. But progress was difficult

owing to the bad state of the track. The route is a winter way used by

the Lapps in their boat-sleds. Therefore, in autumn, before the heavy

snow has fallen, it is in places almost impassable.

On the road there was neither resthouse nor even Lapp huts, therefore

the drivers were compelled to husband the strength of their horses, and

progress was consequently very slow.

Evening drew on with that curious steely light only seen within the

Polar circle, that bright greyness which quite suddenly gives place to

total darkness. They were slowly plodding their way around the base of

a bare, giant, snow-covered mountain, known to the Lapps as the Gvornik

and for ages regarded as sacred, owing to its form like a crouching

man. The birches around were stunted, and ever and anon could be heard

the dismal howling of the wolves which infest that district. Before

them in the cheerless gloom lay the grey waters of the Lake of Igja,

and Henkela explained that while in winter the sleds traversed its

frozen surface from end to end, it was at that season necessary, in

order to avoid the swamps, to make a long detour.

For the thousandth time Dick Jervoise cursed himself that he had not

continued in the _Mercur_, landed at Archangel, and gone south to

Petersburg. The journey they were now completing must end in disaster.

That was inevitable!

The tired horses stumbled over the rough way, and the tearing wind in

their teeth was bitingly cold. So sharp, indeed, was it that Dick and

his friend had their faces half hidden by their big fur hoods and their

hands in their mitts. All were hungry; therefore, after consultation,

it was arranged to halt by the lakeside, light a fire, and have a meal,

while the horses rested.

In that lonely, dismal spot they remained, sheltered from the tearing

wind as well as they could by the two Lapp carts, until about three

o’clock in the morning, when, all having snatched a brief sleep

reclining before the fire on their baggage, they struck camp and pushed

again onward.

“If we don’t turn up in time at Kjelvik,” laughed Dick, as he mounted

into the rickety old vehicle, “then Martin must go on with the mails

and we’ll be left up here to spend the winter! What would your patients

in Hammersmith do then, my dear fellow—eh?”

“They’d have to die happily, without my aid,” exclaimed the other, with

grim humour.

“Never fear,” interrupted the faithful Henkela, “you will be in Kjelvik

in time. We have yet two days. We shall be at Laxelven to-morrow

evening, and row down the fjord fifty kilometres to Kistrand, and then

by another boat to Kjelvik.”

“We leave it entirely to you, Henkela,” Jervoise said. “We must

catch the _Mercur_ at all hazards. We couldn’t spend the winter here

with you. We have no proper clothes or equipment, and could not, in

consequence, withstand the cold.”

“You would have to wear the dress of our people and live in our huts.

You would not suffer,” answered the Lapp simply. “Our life, though so

rough to you, is very healthful after all.”

“We’ll return again next year—never fear,” Owen promised.

He was just as anxious to rejoin the ship as his friend had been to

leave it.

Dick had grown more silent and thoughtful in the hours which slowly

passed as they pushed forward towards the coast.

How much would he give if he could but avoid travelling by the old

_Mercur_? True, he could land in Hammerfest after they had rounded the

North Cape.

But it would then, alas! be too late.

On board that black steamer, with its eternal smell of cod-liver oil,

was Paul Grinevitch, the last man in the whole world he desired to

meet. Had not Captain Martin told them he was to pick up Berentsen,

Thyra, and the young Russian on his way back from Archangel?

Alone in that terrible land of darkness and desolation all the winter

it was impossible to remain.

To meet that man to whom Thyra Berentsen was engaged was now absolutely

imperative. There was no way by which to avoid him.

On the morrow he must board the steamer; he must meet Paul Grinevitch

face to face!

He shrank, yet he set his teeth hard and his brows contracted at

thought of what must ensue at that encounter.

A name escaped his lips involuntarily, yet so low that his friend

seated beside him did not distinguish it.

“Thyra! Thyra!”

Yes. He must act—act even at risk of his own honour—for her sake!

CHAPTER XI

FACE TO FACE

Four days later.

A cold, cheerless morning with grey sky, drifting snow and a biting

wind.

From Laxelven they had rowed the whole length of the wide Porsanger

Fjord, first to Kistrand and then on to Kjelvik, the wretched little

fishing station on the island of Magero, just behind the North Cape.

The _Mercur_ was due that day.

The fortnight of hard travel had fagged them both, and now, resting in

a bare and rather uncleanly little hut belonging to a fisherman, the

outlook over the grey narrow Magerosund, with the high, brown rocks,

rising sheer on either side, was terribly dismal and dispiriting.

Henkela had gone forth, and with the searching eyes of the fisherman

was scanning the horizon eastward for any sign of the steamer. But

there was none.

A little cluster of miserable huts, together with the two or three

drying-sheds, comprised the most northerly fishing station in Europe,

being nearly one hundred kilometres north of Hammerfest.

The climate at that point, exposed to the open Polar ocean, was even

worse than at Vardo, while the stench from the cod-liver boilery was

dreadful. The dwellers there, the hardy toilers of the sea, most of

them Lapps, knew not a bright day of sunshine as we of the south know

it, nor had they ever in their lives seen either tree or even flower

other than those upon the mosses of the tundra. Never a cornfield or

an olive grove, a vineyard or a grass pasture had they ever gazed upon.

They knew of nothing but those storm-tossed waters of the glacial sea,

the floating ice, the bare rocky land, and the bird-covered bergs from

which, even as the two Englishmen gazed, countless thousands of gulls,

penguins and auks came forth darkening the sky in their flight.

Dick Jervoise, still in his big reindeer coat and with a fortnight’s

growth of scrubby beard upon his chin, was sitting on an upturned

barrel calmly smoking a cigarette.

The moment he had been dreading through all those days of travel since

they had left Vadso was now approaching.

He was to meet Paul Grinevitch!

Owen Odd, with an air of nonchalance, very different from that

calm attentive attitude he adopted in his shabby little surgery in

Hammersmith, was seated on a box impatient for the arrival of the

_Mercur_.

“By Jove, Dick!” he was saying. “I’ll be glad to get out of this

stinking hole. It’s the worst place we’ve struck in the whole journey.

Only fancy being doomed to live here and to work in the boilery yonder!

Phew!” and he held his nose against the sickening stench.

“Yes,” laughed his friend. “This is, I admit, rather different from

other places—the perfume factory at Grasse, and the otto-of-rose

distillery at Kazanlik, for instance. Yet surely ours is an experience

never to be forgotten, an experience of the hard conditions of life on

the edge of civilisation.”

“This place, Henkela tells me, is one of the fishing stations belonging

to that fat, red-faced old man Sundt whom we met at the Berentsen’s. He

controls the fishing and boiling here, at Mehavn, Finkongkjeilen, and

lots of other places.”

“And is reputed to be a millionaire—eh?” added Dick.

“They say so—and all out of cod-liver oil and stock-fish,” Owen

laughed. “The more consumptives there are in the world, then the better

for his pocket! Some men’s fortunes actually depend upon the spread of

disease.”

“Doctors included,” remarked Dick, with a mischievous smile.

Whereat Odd laughed, and with impatience suggested they should go

outside and join Henkela to scan the horizon for signs of the incoming

_Mercur_.

The whole of the wretched little colony of undersized men, in furs and

mitts, unclean men, with pale brown faces of Mongol type, with small,

narrow eyes, short, scrubby beards, full lips, and blunt noses, was

agog with expectation. The rare visits of the steamer which brought

them stores and took away their barrels of oil and the great packages

of dried cod down to Hamburg, was always a red-letter day. The few

Norwegians and Russians who worked there looked for letters and

newspapers from the civilised land they had known in their youth. The

others, the half-savage Lapps, loved the excitement of drawing their

big black boat alongside the steamer in the heavy sea, and shipping

their black, greasy barrels on board.

The work was always very perilous, for the sea around that great

frowning cliff, called the Helnes, was never calm, and the wind,

straight from the ice, was always rough, bleak, and bitter. Many a life

had been lost in the work of shipping the oil and the wind-dried fish,

and many, alas! in the work of gathering the scaly harvest of the sea.

The shingly beach, whereon the great breakers of the Arctic were

lashing themselves into a boiling foam, was strewn with thousands of

cod-heads and offal, while from the boilery came forth a dark vapour,

poisoning the atmosphere for miles around.

Some Lapps, in their grey, ragged furs, their dirty red-tasselled caps,

and their fur boots, turned up at the toes, were busy packing the last

bales of dried fish, shouting among themselves and hauling on the

cords as they bound four or five hundred cod together. A Norwegian,

one of Peter Sundt’s managers, in furs and mitts, stood by, directing

operations.

Outside some of the huts the Lapps were mending nets, others tarring

and repairing their boats, while the flat-faced women within were busy

cooking meals and attending to their household duties.

Henkela, as they strolled along the shore, chatted here and there in

his own soft tongue with the fur-clad fishermen, while as they passed

the flag-staff the Norwegian flag was run up as signal of the approach

of the steamer.

Away on the grey horizon could be seen the sharp, rocky point of the

Svoerholtklubben, standing out from the land eastward, and from behind

this Henkela pointed out, the _Mercur_ would first be distinguished.

That little colony, which, through those months of the great Arctic

night, toiled and fished in a perpetual darkness, only broken by the

occasional aurora borealis, and in snowstorms and blizzards almost

continuous, was, Henkela declared, enjoying a “fine” day! “Fine” meant

that there was no fog, no snow, and it was daylight.

The eyes of the colony were even upon that far-off, indistinct horizon,

and were so for several hours, until nearly midday, when a shout from a

group of Lapps attracted the two Englishmen; and they saw emerging from

behind the long, misty headland a thin trail of black smoke.

The heart of Dick Jervoise fell. He bit his lip, uttering no word.

Owen, however, set about packing their traps together and seeing that

they were carried down to the boat which Henkela had engaged. They had

paid off their faithful attendant, paid him well, and he had expressed

his delight in many ways.

For the next four months there would be no steamer to take him back

to Vadso; therefore he explained that he would return to Karasjok by

the way they had come, wait there until the Tana was frozen, and then

travel in a reindeer _pulk_ over the surface of the river, and so back

to his own settlement.

Dick had scribbled a note to Mr. Ackerman, explaining how pleased they

had been with the Lapp’s services, and there now remained nothing but

to leave that damp, dreary, inhospitable land.

The two friends stood watching the rapid approach of the black,

battered old steamer, with its high black funnel bearing the three

narrow white bands, the vessel that had been their home for so many

weeks, and was now to bear them back to the civilisation and hustle of

modern life.

With the long trail from her smoke-stack, she steamed direct for the

shore, until, when about three miles away, there sounded from the siren

that well known warning note, the Morse code signal of long and short

blasts, announcing its approach.

Ashore all was bustle in the little place. Men, women, and children ran

down to the beach to watch the only link they possessed with Europe,

that unknown country of the sun, the country whence came the flour

without which they must die—the country about which the men who had

seen it told such marvellous stories.

The Laplander is ever a child in his vivid imagination, and though he

may be rough and uncouth he builds castles in the air and imagines

that he has seen that wonderful city of which he had heard so much—the

capital, Christiania, where lives King Haakon.

At last the _Mercur_ suddenly altered her course, dropping anchor about

half-a-mile from land, whereupon the boats, already laden with barrels

and bales of fish until they appeared top-heavy, put off, followed

by the boat with the two Englishmen and their impedimenta, Henkela

insisting upon coming in order to see his charges safely on board what

he termed “the Hamburger.”

The crucial moment for Dick Jervoise had arrived. He knew that among

the passengers on deck watching the arrival of the cargo would be Paul

Grinevitch.

In a few moments, too, he would bow over the white hand of Thyra

Berentsen, the girl with the grey, child-like eyes, that he so

admired—the eyes that now ever haunted him.

The approach was difficult on account of the tremendous sea running,

but at last Dick found himself on board, shaking hands with Captain

Martin, who, smart in his well-kept uniform, was greeting the pair.

“Well, how did you get on? Had a good journey—eh?” he inquired.

“Excellent!” Owen declared. “It was all most interesting. And you?”

“Oh, pretty bad weather in the White Sea; quite unusual at this

season,” responded the captain. “But,” he added, “we have on board

our friends from Vardo, the captain, his daughter, and the Russian

gentleman. They go down with us to Trondhjem for the wedding. You will

land there and go on to Christiania by train, I suppose?” he asked of

Jervoise.

“I—well, I really don’t know,” Dick replied, almost mechanically. “I

may get off at Hammerfest or Tromso.”

“Better not,” advised the captain. “The summer season is over now, you

know, and winter is setting in. Up here it is not place in winter for

you people from the south.”

“Well,” declared Odd, “I’ll have to get back to Christiania and across

to Hull as soon as I can, even though you stay here, Dick. I’ve my

practice to return to, remember.”

“We’ll discuss it all later on,” Dick said; and as he turned he found a

burly man in yachting cap and thick blue pilot-jacket standing behind

him. It was Jorgen Berentsen, whose face beamed with good-humour as

they grasped hands.

“I’m going down to Trondhjem,” he explained, “I go to be present at my

daughter’s wedding. You land at Trondhjem, too, of course. I hope you

and your friend the doctor will accept our invitation to the ceremony.

You,” he added, addressing Owen, “have met Monsieur Grinevitch. You met

him the night before you sailed.”

“Yes,” replied the young doctor. “But my friend Jervoise has not yet

done so.”

“He’s on the upper deck, I believe, with Thyra. Of course they are

inseparable!” he laughed merrily.

Inseparable! Would they be, thought Dick Jervoise, if father and

daughter knew the shameful truth.

Above their heads rang out a peal of merry, girlish laughter.

She was leaning upon the rail just over them. He could hear the man’s

voice—a voice which he had, alas! bitter cause to remember.

Her lover made a remark, whereat she laughed again.

Dick Jervoise overheard what the man had uttered. His brows contracted,

and, smiling a hard, tight-lipped smile, he turned away.

Jorgen Berentsen held him, however, in conversation for a few moments

longer, while Owen had already gone below to wash and make himself

presentable.

Then, just as he turned to descend to his cabin, he came face to face

with Thyra and her lover.

Dressed in neat blue serge, with a long seal jacket, a fine blue

foxskin around her neck, and a small fur toque, she presented a

delightfully dainty figure, as her grey eyes shone with delight at

meeting the Englishman.

“Ah, Mr. Jervoise!” she cried, holding out to him her hand in its

leather mitt. “Here you are at last! We’ve been wondering ever since we

left Vardo whether you would get across here in time.”

“We arrived only this morning, Miss Thyra,” he answered, bending over

her hand with his cosmopolitan courtliness. “It took us much longer to

ascend the Tana than we had anticipated, and it seems we very nearly

lost the steamer.”

“Oh, Captain Martin intended to wait twenty-four hours for you,” she

declared. “We could never have left you and Doctor Odd in this awful

place all the winter! Allow me to introduce Mr. Grinevitch, my future

husband—Mr. Richard Jervoise.”

The Russian, in a suit of rough homespun, and wearing a thick, grey,

half-military overcoat, reaching to his heels, and a golf cap, turned

from gazing across at the land and faced him.

For a second the pair stared into one another’s eyes. There was

defiance, even hatred, in the glance of both of them.

Thyra, however, did not detect Paul’s expression. Her usually quick

intelligence had now become blinded by her intense and all-absorbing

love for him.

She did not notice that quick flash of anger, so cold and metallic.

The two men bowed stiffly in silence. Neither uttered a word.

Dick Jervoise, with an excuse that he was unpresentable, passed by them

and went straight downstairs.

The strife had begun. How would it end?

CHAPTER XII

LOVE’S SHADOW

Evening fell rapidly; the shadows deepened into black, impalpable

clouds.

Slowly the _Mercur_ steamed up the narrow Magerosund behind the bare,

rocky island of Magero, on which stands the North Cape. On either side

rose, sheer from the rolling waters, the dark, black, inaccessible

rocks, the home of thousands of sea-birds.

As daylight faded the scene became inexpressibly grand. The merry

little company had assembled below in the shabby little saloon, where

somebody was playing the old piano. Only Paul and Thyra were on deck,

standing near the chart-room, hand in hand, and watching the northern

twilight fast deepening into night.

Thyra, for the first time since leaving Vardo, felt a weight of sadness

upon her soul. What was it? The gloom, the oppression of twilight in

that remote and barren place through which destiny was carrying her; or

was it the mere reflection of Paul’s unwonted seriousness?

She spoke, raising her beautiful eyes to his, but he remained silent,

his cigarette between his teeth, his gaze fixed straight before him.

The light was being run up to the mast-head, the music ceased, and the

only sound was the rhythmic throbbing of the engines and the hiss of

the angry sea. An infinite sadness, a mystery of fearful shadow fell

blacker and blacker from the heavens.

Why had her father so suddenly and inexplicably allowed her marriage

to Paul? This thought again recurred to her as she stood leaning upon

the rail in silence. It was certainly most generous of him to make that

sacrifice—to allow her to marry and leave him to lead his life alone in

that dismal settlement of the Far North. Yet she felt that there was a

reason—some strong reason—of which she was being kept in ignorance.

True, she loved Paul with all her heart. Yet, somehow, when she came to

analyse her feelings, she regarded the future, the embarrassments of

the first days of marriage, with just the slightest trepidation.

Surely her soul was becoming involved in the shadows darkening her!

Together they paced the slippery deck, sometimes with difficulty, owing

to the heavy roll of the Polar Sea. Her lover buttoned her coat tightly

at the throat, and tightened the splendid blue fox around her throat,

for the wind was biting.

The ship’s bell clanged out the time of day, and the mast-head light

showed brighter in the darkness.

A strange sense of oppression had fallen upon her. She was not guilty

of folly in action, but certainly her words were strange. Paul found

them amusing, yet they distressed him.

Though seemingly calm, Thyra could not hide that she was under the

dominion of some fixed idea. What was she thinking about?

He halted, and at a point secluded from the view of any sailor who

might be on deck, he embraced her tenderly, imprinting a fond kiss upon

her soft, white cheek. And yet, even as he held her in his arms, he

felt her far, immeasurably far, away from him.

What could it mean?

“Aren’t you happy, my darling?” he asked at last.

Paul’s searching question had its echo in her soul also. What was it

that they lacked? They were both of them strong and young, the girl

told herself. Paul loved her ardently, blindly; he lived only for her;

and he was so good-looking. His fine, passionate eyes, his soft white

hands, his clear-cut features possessed a magic which intoxicated her.

Since leaving Vardo, three days before, they had been skirting that

northern iron-bound coast, spending greater part of their time on deck,

standing or sitting hand in hand. The stern grandeur of the scenery was

everywhere impressive; the gloom of that silent coast alternated with

the gaiety of Captain Martin and his officers, and the merry strains

of the old piano below. True, the sea was rough, but was she not

essentially a child of the sea?

As they steamed along in the gathering gloom, black masses of rock

reared themselves perpendicularly out of the waters, rising directly

from the deeply cut fjords, and, riven and cleft, towered precipitously

upwards or leaned threateningly over. On their heads lay masses of ice

stretching for miles, covering whole districts and scaring away all

life save the torrents to which they themselves gave birth.

The midsummer sun had disappeared. No longer at midnight it stood large

and blood-red on the horizon, its veiled brilliance reflected alike

from the ice-covered mountains and from the ocean, as Dick and Owen had

witnessed it, for the brief summer in that dread wilderness of rock and

icy sea had passed.

There is a bewildering, overwhelming charm about that northern

latitude—that region of silence and mystery—a charm that is unlike

any in the whole wide world. It is a charm that grips the heart

unconsciously, and yet so firmly that all who have sailed the Arctic

seas, or travelled on those barren lands of the far north, strangely

enough, are ever eager and ever long to return once again to those

islands and skerries and that maze of bays, sounds and straits of

the northern coast of Lapland, which possesses for the southerner an

attraction as magnetic as they do for the compass of the mariner.

As the darkness deepened, the steamer slowly passed beneath a high

black cliff rising sheer from the water, which, the girl pointed out to

her lover, was one of the largest bird-covered bergs of the district,

the home of millions of eider-duck.

“How strange it is,” she remarked for want of something to say, for

she saw that he seemed troubled, “that only two causes can move the

sea-birds—the eider-ducks, auks, gulls, terns, oyster-catchers, and the

rest—to visit the land: the joyous springtime sense of new-awakening

love, and the mournful foreboding of approaching death.”

“I was not aware of that,” he said, gazing up at the towering wall of

black rock. “You have studied the birds, I suppose?”

“A little,” she laughed. “It’s curious that not even winter, with its

long night, its cold, and its storms, can drive them to the land; they

are proof to all the terrors of the North. They may alight, but only

for a short time, often on a solitary island in the sea to oil their

feathers more thoroughly than can be done in the water. But when with

the sun’s first brightness love stirs in their breasts, all—young and

old alike—though they may have thousands of miles to swim and fly,

strive to reach the place where they themselves first saw the light of

day. And if, in mid-winter, months after the breeding-places have been

left desolate, a sea-bird feels death in his heart, he hastens, as

long as his strength holds out, that he may, if possible, die in the

place where he was cradled.”

“It is surely much the same with us,” he said, holding her hand. “We

would all of us, if we could, die in the place where we were born.”

He spoke mechanically. The truth was that his thoughts were far away

from that gloomy solitude. Before him had arisen a vision of the past—a

recollection of sunshine and brightness, of sweet-smelling violets

and carnations, of pretty women and well-dressed men; of a land where

man had enhanced the beauties of nature until it seemed almost a

terrestrial Paradise. And as he gazed upon the scene he saw two faces—a

man’s and a woman’s—faces that he had believed until an hour ago he

would never again recall.

The man—that man who alone knew the terrible truth—had risen against

him, risen as though from the sea! He had come on board, and had met

him face to face!

Thyra, in ignorance of the reason of her lover’s silence, stood by his

side in uneasiness.

Try how she would, she could not account for that strange feeling of

oppressive sadness, precursory of evil. Something was not right. Of

that she felt convinced.

And yet what could it be? Her father, devoted as he was to her, was

taking her to her aunt’s in Trondhjem, where she was to be married to

Paul. Afterwards they were to live in St. Petersburg. They had decided

upon the Russian capital in preference to Moscow. Before they had left

Vardo, Paul and her father had spent some hours together, and what her

lover had said had apparently entirely satisfied the old captain.

“Soon,” Paul was saying, as with her soft hand in his they both fixed

their gaze upon the dark waters, “soon you will be mine, my own dear

wife. Then we shall be happy—so happy,” he added in a strange voice.

“Aren’t we supremely happy now, Paul?” she asked. “Surely this journey

should be the happiest in all our lives!”

He bit his lip. But in the darkness she could not see the hard

expression upon his countenance.

“It is. Of course it is,” he assured her with an uneasy laugh. Yet his

thoughts were all of that man. Richard Jervoise, in the saloon below,

the man with whom he must sit and eat at the same table in half an

hour. Then a moment later he said: “I never anticipated, dearest, that

we should be traveling south so soon. All this seems a dream, Thyra—a

dream too sweet to be a reality.” And his fingers closed tightly upon

hers.

“Yes,” she declared, turning her face, half buried as it was in her

furs, towards his with a passionate look in her eyes, filled with the

light of unshed tears. “I know, Paul, how fondly you love me. Need I

say that I love you, dearest, just as fervently, and that I am very,

very happy?”

“Are you?” he cried quickly. “Do you know that from your attitude

to-day I began to suspect that you had been filled by some grave

apprehensions—that something had caused you uneasiness.”

“Did you?” she laughed with well-feigned carelessness. “How absurd!

Why, Paul, I’m the happiest girl in all the world. I have your love.

What more can I desire?”

“That’s right,” he exclaimed cheerily. “Love, peace, happiness—all

that makes life worth living lie before us. Therefore why let these

dispirited surroundings influence our thoughts? In Petersburg my

friends will welcome you warmly, and you will soon be mistress of your

own home.”

“And you, dear heart,” she said, clinging to him, “will be my husband.

Ah! Paul, my Paul, I want nothing else in all the world—only you.”

He bent until his lips touched hers.

Yet as she returned his passionate caress his conscience smote him.

What would she, who trusted him so entirely and implicitly, she so

innocent of the world and its pleasures and its pitfalls, think of him

if she knew the shameful truth?

She clung to him, for where they stood no one could witness their

embrace. He loved her, yet he feared—feared that tall, athletic,

straight-eyed Englishman who had once before crossed his path in that

far-off southern land, and who now, at the very moment of his triumph,

had risen a living witness of his dishonour!

As he held her slim form close to his breast, covering her dainty mouth

with his kisses, yet standing unsteadily on the slippery deck owing to

the long roll of the sea, he reflected. His brain was awhirl. True,

Dick Jervoise could, if he chose, tell a strange and bitter truth. Yet

was not that hateful Englishman utterly in his power, after all?

Could he not, if he so wished, crush him so completely that any word he

uttered in retaliation would be disbelieved?

And his lips tightened into a hard smile, even as he pressed them again

to those of the sweet, innocent girl whose pure soul he possessed and

whose intense love was all-consuming.

CHAPTER XIII

FACES IN THE MIST

The evening meal in the small saloon of the _Mercur_ was bright and

pleasant, even though it consisted of tinned provisions and many

varieties of cheese in Norwegian style.

Captain Martin, his uniform carefully brushed, his linen spotless,

and his fair moustache carefully curled, sat at the head of the table

smiling brightly, while Berentsen, the bluff old whaler, and Owen Odd

were the life and soul of the little party.

Paul Grinevitch had been allotted a place opposite Jervoise, but as he

seated himself the Englishman had smiled affably and remarked that it

was the first civilised meal he and his companion had enjoyed since

leaving Vadso. The Russian having replied with equal affability, none

of the party guessed that the two men had met on a previous occasion in

circumstances both remarkable and tragic.

Indeed, Thyra, her lover, and Dick Jervoise were soon in animated

conversation, the last-named describing their journey to Karasjok and

relating many of the humorous incidents of the road.

Now and then the two men exchanged glances—quick, covert glances—each

wondering what was passing at the back of the other’s mind, while Owen

was laughing heartily with Martin and the grey-bearded harbour-master,

the hunchback mail officer and the engineer joining in the hilarious

chorus. Captain Berentsen’s broad smile lighting his weather-beaten

face, told of unruffled good humour, that easy-going good-fellowship of

the true-born sailor. Full of amusing anecdote and possessor of a keen

sense of humour, he kept the little company in fits of laughter as he

related to them some of the ludicrous experiences during his whaling

days. He had, just before his appointment as harbour-master, been

second in command of the copy of the Viking ship built by the Norwegian

Government and sent over for exhibition at the World’s Fair in Chicago.

The voyage of the weird-looking craft across the Atlantic and the

sensation it caused aboard the various vessels met on the way, he

described most humorously. Some skippers, discovering it looming up on

the horizon, believed that Noah’s Ark was still afloat, while others

fancied it was one of the Armada vessels risen from the deep, or the

Flying Dutchman himself.

“You should have been on board with me!” he was saying in English. “We

had the greatest fun, I assure you. We would refuse to answer signals,

and they would heave-to and come on board to see who and what we really

were. The crews of some craft were evidently frightened, for they stood

away directly they sighted us. They believed Old Nick himself to be

aboard.”

“Yes,” remarked Captain Martin; “no doubt it was a most unusual looking

vessel, and must have given a good many people a turn! One doesn’t meet

Viking ships on the high seas very often in one’s life.”

“Well, we, of course, acted suspiciously in order to puzzle every ship

we met,” laughed Berentsen. “And in mid-Atlantic we experienced some

very bad weather into the bargain.”

The meal was enlivened throughout by nautical and other reminiscences,

and afterwards, at Dick’s request, Thyra went to the piano and, smiling

sweetly, sang one or two of the gay French songs she had learned from a

book, called “Les Chansons de Paris,” which Captain Martin had brought

her up from the south a year before.

The first she sang was “Heures d’Ivresse,” the popular ditty which

Leontine Deschamps sang for so long at the Folies Bergere, and the

refrain of which was:—

Veux-tu, toi que j’adore,

Me dire encore, encore,

Ces mots voluptueux,

Tendrement amoureux?

Ces phrases si grisantes,

Si folles, si troublantes.

Viens me les dire encore,

Toi que j’adore!

This she followed by the dainty chansonette of Denoisy, “Les Refrains

du Printemps”:—

Quand le printemps dans les buissons

Met un bouquet de fleurs nouvelles,

Il apporte aussi des chansons,

Dedans le coeur des demoiselles;

Les p’tits jeun’s gens sont plus legers,

Et trottinant, l’amour en tete,

Ils chantent d’un air degage.

Un gai refrain de chansonette:

Titine,

Mutine,

N’a pas dix-huit ans,

Et chante,

Contente,

Voici le printemps!

Sweetly she sang, with a tuneful verve and a pronunciation full of

charm, and when she had ended all the party applauded her again and

again, bringing a slight flush of embarrassment to her soft cheeks.

Captain Berentsen, a fine burly, grey-bearded figure as he stood at

the table, his body swaying easily with the motion of the ship as

became the sailor, gave a humorous recitation in Norwegian, while

Dick Jervoise, now thoroughly reassured by the Russian’s attitude of

pretended disregard of the past, gave one of the Ingoldsby Legends.

Thus passed the first evening of the southward voyage, Martin and

Berentsen smoking their long, Norwegian pipes with the huge bowls, and

everyone contributing to the general entertainment. Captain Martin had

but little to do with the navigation of the ship, for so dangerous

are the channels and fjords right down to Bergen that the vessel was

constantly in charge of the two pilots which she always carried to and

from the North.

Paul Grinevitch’s turn came. He seated himself at the piano and, with a

quick glance at Jervoise first, ran his fingers over the yellow keys,

and then, in a rather good tenor voice, began:—

On la nomme la Fanchonnette,

Elle est blondes, comme les bles,

Elle a la voix d’une fauvette,

Les yeux noirs, les cheveux boucles;

Elle est frele, mignonne et blanche,

Exhale un parfum embaume;

Nous nous connumes un dimanche,

Et depuis mon coeur fut charme.

Ma Fanchonnette

Svelte et simplette

Revets tes atours gracieux;

A la folie,

Fais-toi jolie,

Et le charme de tous les yeux

Ma favorite

Profitons vite

Car les beaux jours n’auront qu’un temps,

Et dans la fete

Des amourettes

Sachons depenser nos vingt ans,

Ma Fanchonnette!

Fanchonnette! Those words, that haunting refrain of the cafe concerts,

brought back to the eyes of Dick Jervoise the vision that he would fain

forget—the vision of that sweet-faced girl with whom he had walked in

the olive groves at sundown and in the bright moonlight by the tideless

southern sea! He tried to close his ears to the words, but, alas! it

was impossible. He sat rigid, staring towards that man seated at the

piano, that man who was taunting him, torturing him with a refinement

of cruelty of which those about them never dreamed.

It was a pretty song. Ah! yes; but they knew not the tragic memories

which that tune awakened within the heart of the tall Englishman.

Before him rose a grey mist, and from it a woman’s face gazed forth,

at first with a look of bitter reproach in her big, blue eyes, to be

succeeded a moment later by an expression of terrible haunting horror,

the face of a woman who was gazing into eternity.

Once, while singing, Paul Grinevitch, turned from the instrument and

again glanced at Jervoise. Their eyes met. The singer recognised by the

Englishman’s countenance the effect of the song upon him, and, after a

pause, commenced the last verse.

It was _her_ song! Had not they both sat and witnessed her triumphs;

had they not both joined their plaudits with those of the after-dinner

crowds at the Alcazar d’Ete, the Ambassadeurs, Olympia, the Parisiana,

and that gilded casino beside the Mediterranean? Ah! yes. It was her

song—the one he remembered so well, the one she had sung at his request

on that last never-to-be-forgotten night.

His nails drove themselves into his palms and the perspiration stood

upon his brow at thought of it all. There was a grim fatality, surely,

that he should meet Paul Grinevitch face to face—that Grinevitch

himself should sing that song out upon that chill Arctic sea!

He sat staring straight before him, not moving a muscle. His attitude,

though none noticed him save the Russian, was that of a man fascinated

by a peep into the future.

Strange how a simple song, the scent of some common flower, the mention

of a name, recalls in both men and women after long years the vivid

recollection of a tender affection of a forgotten love. For one brief

moment the heart strings are touched, and respond in sympathy. Then,

disregarding the present, we live again for a short space beside the

one we loved and, more often than not, drink our fill of the tragedy of

the past.

Fanchonnette! The very name caused a big lump to rise in the throat of

Dick Jervoise. The torture of it all was beyond endurance. He could

have risen and struck down that grinning man who, singing her song,

knew that he was cutting deeply into his enemy’s heart more cruelly and

relentlessly than by a knife thrust. Scenes, some sweet and tender,

some—alas! tragic and terrible, arose in quick succession before his

clouded vision. In all he saw her countenance—that pale, wan face, with

the shadow of death upon it—that face upon which he had, alas! looked

for the last time!

Ah! it was cruel—too cruel of Grinevitch to sing that song. It was

inhuman to thus torture him, well knowing that he dare not raise his

voice in complaint.

At last the singer sang the concluding refrain, and then turned to his

victim. But the latter dare not raise his gaze. He was sitting pale and

erect, glaring before him at that hideous ghost of the past.

“What a charming little song!” Thyra declared; and as her lover rose

from the piano and rejoined her she gazed into his eyes with an

expression of fervent devotion.

As soon as he could, Dick Jervoise escaped from the saloon and,

followed by Owen, ascended to the deck. The night was now dark, with a

tearing wind straight from the ice-pack, causing the vessel to labour

heavily in the long rollers, for they were now out in the open Polar

Sea again, and would remain so until they reached Hammerfest.

Behind the canvas wind-screen on the bridge the pilot, in heavy fur

coat and mitts, paced up and down, his keen, deep-set eyes ever upon

his difficult course. From the high funnel sparks flew out far across

the angry waters, while ever and anon a huge wave would strike the

bows, causing the ship to shiver from stem to stern.

“Ah!” cried Dick to his companion, as he bared his head to the wind,

“it is more pleasant up here than down there in that stuffy saloon.”

“Yes,” answered the Doctor, “I noticed just now that you were a bit

pale, Dick. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, my dear fellow—nothing,” laughed the other. “I’m tired,

perhaps.”

“Better turn in early to-night,” the doctor suggested. “But, I say, the

young couple seem most devoted, don’t they? Thyra has been engaged to

the Russian for quite a long time, I hear, though the secret, for some

reason or other, hasn’t been allowed to leak out. Then, all at once,

it is announced, and the marriage hurried on as quickly as possible.

Rather strange, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” responded Jervoise, as they walked together towards the stern,

careful to avoid stumbling against the piles of miscellaneous deck

cargo. “You said, I think, that the Russian has been staying in Vardo

for some time. What took him up to such an out-of-the-world place, I

wonder?”

“Who knows? What took us there, for example? Only just our wanderings.

Same with him, I suppose. He met her, and fell in love with her—just

as you or I would probably have done had we been first on the scene.

Myself, I have no hesitation in saying that she’s one of the most

charming and intelligent girls I’ve ever met.”

“We were agreed on that point on the first evening we went to the

harbour-master’s house,” said Dick slowly. “What do you think of the

man?”

“Well, rather a good sort, I should call him,” was Owen’s deliberate

reply. “I know there’s a prejudice against Russians all the world over.

People believe they treat their wives badly. But I can’t imagine him

treating Thyra—or, in fact, any woman—badly. He’s completely devoted to

her, that’s quite apparent, and she has eyes only for him. They make a

very smart pair.”

Dick Jervoise smiled.

“Love-making is always amusing and sometimes ludicrous—when you

are only a witness,” he said. “The lover always puts on his best

behavior before his enchantress. It is certainly so in this case. Paul

Grinevitch is, I admit, good-looking, courteous, well-spoken, and

essentially a ladies’ man; but——” And he paused. His mouth shut with a

snap.

“But what? Don’t you think he’ll make a good husband for our little

Thyra? I call her ours because we seem to have discovered her.”

“Husband!” echoed his companion quickly. “Thyra would be better off in

her grave than to marry such a man.”

“Why do you anticipate unhappiness for her?” asked Owen in quick

suspicion.

“Because that man, like most of his race, conceals the claws within the

velvet paw. When powerless, he is humble and humiliated; but give him

power over a woman and he will tire of her and crush the heart—nay, the

very life—from her. Ah! you don’t know, old chap—you don’t know.”

“Why, what’s the matter with you to-night, Dick?” inquired his friend.

“You don’t seem to have a very good opinion of Paul Grinevitch.”

“No,” Jervoise snapped, “I have not. Thyra will regret the day of her

marriage to that man—depend upon it.”

“Don’t you think your condemnation—well, rather premature, old fellow?

You’ve only been with him a few hours.”

“I’ve seen sufficient to know the truth,” was the other’s hard response.

Could it be that Dick was jealous of the Russian, his friend wondered.

He had noticed his curious pre-occupied demeanour all through their

journey across from Vadso. Prior to their meeting with Thyra he had

been his sane, rollicking, easy-going, cosmopolitan self. Could it

mean that Dick had fallen desperately in love with the daughter of the

harbour-master, and now, discovering that she already had a secret

lover, he hated him?

That was the only solution of the problem. Dick, dear old Dick

Jervoise—who was to him almost as a brother—was deeply in love! This

Russian, with his courtly airs and piercing eyes so full of passionate

glances, was his rival for the hand of the beautiful Thyra.

Owen Odd was silent. The position was both painful and difficult. He

had never suspected it, for he had long ago believed Dick to be proof

against a woman’s smiles, case-hardened against feminine blandishments,

as most men who lead cosmopolitan lives at last become. But his words

were sufficient proof of the hatred and bitterness in his heart.

“You don’t appear to like Paul Grinevitch, eh?” he repeated a few

moments later.

“Like him!” cried Dick. “I—I hate him.”

“Because she loves him?” slowly suggested Owen in a softer voice.

“Not for one reason alone I hate him,” declared Dick frankly, “but for

many.”

At that moment he would have given worlds to have been able to unburden

his heart to his friend. But, alas! it was quite impossible.

Fanchonnette! Fanchonnette! That name, the haunting music, the face

of that man seated at the piano was still before him, until he almost

cried aloud to the wind in agony of soul.

CHAPTER XIV

IS IN SEVERAL WAYS MYSTERIOUS

Owen and Dick spent a pleasant hour on deck next morning with the

dainty grey-eyed girl, while Paul and Captain Berentsen smoked and

chatted in the deck-house.

In her neat serge gown, long sealskin travelling coat, and fur toque

she was a delightful little companion. Anticipation of the coming event

in Trondhjem filled her with intense, almost childish, excitement,

and she had already made both the Englishmen promise to remain to be

present at the marriage feast. To Paul—her Paul—she was utterly and

entirely devoted. She spoke of him almost with every breath.

Leaning against the rail on the upper deck, she chatted merrily in

English with the two men, always piquante and always amusing, as the

ship rounded the high rocky headland of the Island of Kyalo. Suddenly,

pointing with her mittened hand to the grey distance, she exclaimed:

“Look! There’s Hammerfest—the most northerly town in the world. You saw

it on your journey north, of course.”

“We didn’t land,” Dick replied. “We put in there at night and left at

dawn. Captain Martin said there was very little to see, and promised us

a longer stay on our return.”

“I heard him say this morning that we’ll remain six hours there,” she

replied. “I know the place quite well. I have an uncle who owns one of

the boileries yonder.”

“And his factory contributes to the unpleasant effluvia, of course,”

laughed Owen.

“I suppose so,” she answered. “But all these places must really seem

very terrible to both of you after the sunshine and warmth and trees

and flowers of your southern land. I love Christiania. Everything there

is so bright and gay—and life altogether so very different.”

“You ought to see London,” Dick remarked. “There’s far more movement

and bustle there than in Christiania.”

“Ah! yes. I have read so much of your great London, where the railways

run underground. I would love to see it. Paul has promised to take me

there some day.”

Jervoise held his breath. Paul! She spoke ever of that man. In her

ignorance and inexperience she believed in him; believed all the lies

he had told her. She worshipped him as a god.

Gradually they approached the small bay where the northernmost little

wood-built town nestled at the foot of its stony hill. In the harbour

were moored rows of small Russian schooners, which had come round from

the White Sea for fish, together with some whalers, distinguishable by

the white crow’s-nest upon their mast. Along the shore stood a row of

wooden drying-houses and boileries for making cod-liver oil, all of

them emitting an effluvia that already caused them to hold their noses.

Above the other roofs rose the pointed wooden spire of the church

against the rocky background. There, as at Vardo, Thyra explained,

the sun never set from the middle of May until the end of July, and

never rose from the middle of November until the end of January.

On going ashore they found it a quaint and very interesting little

place, notwithstanding the noxious odour of boiling cod that pervaded

everything. In the Gronnevold Gaden were a number of stores and shops,

and from the post office—built high from the ground on account of the

deep snows experienced for so many months each year—the two Englishmen

obtained their mail, which had been lying there for some weeks,

together with a London newspaper or two, the most recent a month old.

Captain Berentsen, with Thyra, took Paul to introduce him to his

brother-in-law, and not until a few moments before sailing did they

scramble back on board.

Then, in the grey evening light, the vessel stood south for the Loppen

Sea.

During that week’s voyage south to Tromso, and eventually to Trondhjem,

calling at Lodingen, on the Lofoden Islands, at the rocky little island

of Skjervo, threading the narrow Raftsund and the dangerous channels

between the thousand islands north of Bodo, obtaining glimpses of the

great pale-green glaciers of the Svartisen, they passed through the

finest fjord scenery of Norway, and as each day succeeded day the air

grew perceptibly warmer. They were returning to the European summer.

One afternoon, not long after leaving Bodo, with its background of

irregular snow-capped mountains, they crossed the Polar Circle, their

small signal-gun being fired to mark the event, while in the saloon a

bottle of champagne was opened, and the future prosperity was wished to

the happy pair now so soon to become man and wife.

Paul Grinevitch curiously enough, displayed no further animosity

towards the Englishman. Ever since singing that song of Fanchonnette he

had, indeed, showed a marked cordiality towards his fellow passenger,

frequently chatting with him, and even on one or two occasions taking a

hand at bridge. It was as though he had thrown down the gauntlet, and

now stood defiant and triumphant.

Two passengers, bearded Norwegian merchants, had joined the ship at

Tromso, and as they skirted the rocky coast, a grand panorama day

after day, the merriment grew greater. The oppression of that terrible

desolation of the bleak Nordland was being lifted from them all now

that upon the land, right down to the sea shore, grew the firs and

pines, while the houses and smiling villages of civilisation nestled

beneath the brown rocks.

They were entering the Norway of the tourist, the picturesque fjords of

the twelve-guinea-yachting-folk and the fjields of the tweed-attired

personally-conducted. But the season was over. The last tourist steamer

had gone south, and even though it was early September, winter was

creeping on; in those latitudes there is no autumn.

Thyra’s gay, rippling laughter rang everywhere throughout the vessel

as one afternoon they steamed up the beautiful Trondhjem Fjord towards

the busy Northern port. All was excitement and bustle, and the deck was

heaped with baggage. The girl had, in her lover’s presence, repeated

the invitation to the two Englishmen to remain in Trondhjem and be

present at the wedding, and as Grinevitch had added his cordial request

with hers, Dick and Owen both accepted. Captain Martin, whom Berentsen

and his daughter pressed to remain, had promised to do his best to

anchor for three days before proceeding down to Hamburg.

Owen Odd was still sorely puzzled. He could not for the life of him

decide whether, after all, Dick was really in love with Thyra or

whether his friend, by some extraordinary intuition, believed Paul

Grinevitch unfitted to be her husband.

Many times during walks along the oily deck with his friend he had

reverted to the subject, but Dick had always declined to discuss the

matter.

“I hope she will be very happy,” was all he would say. Never once

did he again betray his animosity towards the man who was to be her

husband. It was that very fact which mystified the doctor so completely.

Thyra and her lover had spent most of their time together seated in

cosy corners out of the wind, chatting and discussing the future. When

he was nigh the love-look was ever in her eyes—that expression which in

a woman is so unmistakable.

On landing at last Dick and Owen took up their quarters at the

Britannia Hotel, Paul having announced his intention of going to the

Grand, where he had stayed on a previous occasion. Thyra went at once

with her father to her aunt, the widow of a Government official, who

occupied a large house facing the fjord, about a mile from the town.

The house Thyra had pointed out to Jervoise as they approached the

landing stage.

Trondhjem, surrounded by its green hills, proved to the travellers a

pleasant little place with fine main streets broadly built in order to

diminish the danger of fire, even though they were perhaps a little too

full of shops of false curios and those rubbishy souvenirs prepared for

English and German tourists who land there, and purchase articles of

reindeer-horn, Lapp “skaller,” knives and caps, and make believe they

have visited the North.

As at Hammerfest, on their journey north they had put in at night

and sailed at dawn; therefore, after so much knocking about in the

Arctic, Dick and his companion were glad to bid adieu to their rather

narrow quarters on the storm-battered old _Mercur_, to sleep again in

a civilised bed, and eat food that had not been tinned. A few days’

sojourn there, they resolved, would prepare them for the journey home.

Therefore in the hotel they took their ease and waited for the wedding

feast.

Martin they frequently met in mufti in the streets, but Paul

Grinevitch, it appeared, was mostly with Thyra out at her aunt’s house.

At first it had been uncertain whether the necessary formalities prior

to the marriage could be completed within the three days at Martin’s

disposal, but a note from old Jorgen Berentsen delivered at the hotel

told them that all was in order, and that the wedding, which was to be

of the quietest nature, was to take place in the quaint old cathedral

of Trondhjem, wherein repose the relics of St. Olaf, and which is

probably familiar in photographs to many readers of this drama of the

Arctic seas.

That same evening the two Englishmen met Paul emerging from a

jeweller’s in the Dronningens Gaden. At first the Russian endeavoured

to avoid them, and seemed a trifle flurried at the encounter.

“No,” laughed Owen good-humouredly. “Now you might just as well

confess! You’ve been to buy your bride a present. May we not be allowed

to see it?”

With some reluctance the Russian at last handed the doctor a leather

case, which, on being opened, disclosed a pretty hair-ornament in

diamonds of chaste design in the form of three ears of barley.

The keen eyes of Grinevitch met Dick’s. In them was that same look of

bold defiance and of triumph.

The Englishman lowered his gaze, made a remark of admiration of the

present, and then spoke of something else.

“Well,” exclaimed the Russian presently, “you will be at the church,

both of you, to-morrow at twelve.” And he rushed off, for he had, he

said, to visit his _fiancee_.

“You hate that man, Dick—and he hates you!” Owen declared the instant

Paul was out of hearing. “I saw it in the fellow’s eyes.”

Jervoise started at his friend’s words. Then he had noticed!

“Yes,” he replied, with a feeble attempt to laugh it off. “I—well,

I suppose he’s jealous of me. Yet I can assure you he has not the

slightest cause.”

Next day was bright and brilliant as Dick Jervoise passed from the warm

sunlight into the grey, sombre interior of the great cathedral with its

wonderful windows. That day he acted as though in a dream.

He saw the little group in the shadow before the altar, the pair

kneeling, the pastor speaking in low, impressive tones in the Norwegian

tongue. Not more than a dozen people were present in that vast edifice

and all seemed attired in black. Owen whispered something, but he sat

unheeding his friend’s words. Then there was a short prayer, and Thyra

Berentsen and Paul Grinevitch rose from their knees man and wife. He

saw the passionate love-look in her eyes, as arm in arm they walked

out. Yes. She loved him entirely and devotedly; she believed in him as

other women had believed! Ah! it was all tragic—horrible.

Dick drove to the Hotel Angleterre, where the feast was to be held

and where he stood to congratulate the bride and bridegroom, though

his words almost froze upon his lips. The food he afterwards took

almost choked him. He had been compelled to stand by and see that

sweet-faced innocent girl, so full of plans for the future, sacrificed

to that man whom he dare not rise up and denounce—that man who had sung

“Fanchonnette,” and who stood triumphant.

At the feast there was much merriment. Old Jorgen, beaming with

good-fellowship and satisfaction at the match made by his daughter,

related some of his best stories, throwing his sister-in-law and the

other guests into fits of laughter, while on every hand the bride and

bridegroom received congratulations and toasts in their honour until

Dick Jervoise could no longer bear it. He rose, making an excuse that

he must send a telegram, and, going out, did not return.

That night at seven he and Owen took their seats in the express for

Christiania, his intention being to cut himself adrift in future from

the newly-wedded pair. That man’s presence was to him a perpetual

torture. His evil, crafty face brought back all the bitter past. Owen

was aware of the deadly hatred existing between the men, but of course

believed it to be owing to jealousy. He suspected that his friend loved

the beautiful Thyra.

Dick had sent a hurried note to the Grand, wishing Paul Grinevitch a

cold adieu, and was greatly surprised, while he and Owen were seated

together in their compartment at the moment of departure, to see Paul

and his bride upon the platform, followed by old Jorgen and Captain

Martin, the latter more spruce and dandified than ever.

“Why, of course, I quite forgot!” cried Owen. “They go to the capital

to spend their honeymoon! I didn’t expect, however, they’d be

travelling by our train.”

A compartment at the rear had been reserved for the pair; therefore the

two Englishmen descended, and, having greeted them, promised to see

them on their arrival in Christiania next morning.

Then the train moved off, and through the brilliant, moonlit night

wound due southward among those fertile valleys of the Hedenmark,

until, at ten o’clock next morning, the travellers found themselves in

the Norwegian capital.

On alighting, the Englishmen greeted the happy pair, Paul promising

to send his address in Petersburg to Dick’s club in London. They had,

he said, decided to go to the Hotel Victoria, at the corner of the

Raadhus-Gaden, for a few days, as Thyra wished to visit her relations

and one or two of her old schoolfellows. The Englishmen, in reply,

said they were putting up at the Grand.

“We may perhaps meet again before you leave Christiania,” the young

wife exclaimed merrily as she held out her hand, and Dick Jervoise bent

over it gallantly.

As he did so he whispered:

“Remember your promise! Make excuses to him to get away, for I shall be

awaiting you. Be careful to arouse no suspicion.”

Then, with a quick, meaning glance, a glance of bitter hatred at her

husband, who was standing near, he raised his hat, and, turning upon

his heel, walked across to the fiacre, whereon the baggage was already

piled.

“Well, Dick, old chap,” remarked Owen, with a slight sigh, as they

drove together out of the station, “that little incident of our lives

has, I suppose, ended. By Jove! how lovely she looks!”

“Yes,” responded his friend hoarsely, “it has ended—but badly for her,

poor little girl, I fear—very badly.”

“You seem to know something, Dick!”

“Yes,” replied his friend, “I do; I could tell a story that would amaze

you.”

CHAPTER XV

LIFTS THE VEIL

Husband and wife drove at once to the Hotel Victoria, situated near the

harbour.

Thyra felt happy again at Paul’s side, squeezed in the corner of

the fiacre. Yes, certainly, Christiania was the dream-city, full of

gardens, fountains, grand buildings; a city great and splendid by

day and by night! She felt joyous, as if she had drunk wine; she

chattered with feverish animation. Never afterwards did she succeed

in remembering what she said in that first hour of arrival; she

did remember, however, that her pleasure was marred by the strange

thoughtful look upon Paul’s face, a look she had never noticed there

before.

They reached the hotel at last. The manager came forth, bowing,

and Thyra was impressed by the grand entrance-hall and the marble

staircase, which seemed a continuation of the splendours of the street.

The suite of rooms reserved for them was on the first floor, a pretty

sitting-room, two bedrooms, a dressing-room, and bath-room, and when

their baggage was deposited and the porters and chambermaid had left,

Grinevitch clasped his wife in his arms and fondly kissed her.

“Paul,” she said, “you don’t, somehow, seem your old self to-day. How

is it?”

“I don’t know,” he laughed. “I wasn’t aware that I was unusually

uninteresting.” And he assumed an air of gaiety which she, with her

woman’s quick perception, detected was forced and false.

She took off her hat and cloak; her little face, all eyes and lips,

seemed suddenly pale and frightened under the waves of her abundant

hair.

He grasped her hand and raised it tenderly to his lips, saying:

“Tell me, little one, what’s the matter? You, who seemed so very happy

as we drove from the station, are now worried and pale.”

“Why, I’m sure I’m not, Paul!” she protested. “I’m so delighted to be

back again in Christiania. I want this afternoon to go and see my old

schoolfellow, Aslang Anderson, if you’ll let me. I sent her a postcard

from Trondhjem.”

“Of course, dearest, go and see her, if you wish. I have letters to

write, so I’ll remain in after luncheon.”

Thyra, who had sought permission to be absent not without some

apprehension, breathed more freely when her husband gave his consent.

Would he have done so so readily, she wondered, if he had known her

real intention?

When she had washed and redressed her pretty hair, they sat down to

_dejeuner_ in their little salon, both laughing merrily while they ate

their meal.

Paul, who had been rather surprised at her change of manner, attributed

it to her excitement at again finding herself back in the capital,

where she had spent so many happy days of her girlhood.

“My friend has no idea I’m here,” she was saying. “I did not telegraph

to her, as I want to give her a surprise. She doesn’t even know I’m

married.”

But Paul listened to her chatter only mechanically. His mind was full

of other things. A cloud had arisen upon the horizon, and he was now

wondering if it would pass over, as so many clouds had passed over, or

if it would burst.

If it did, what then? Well, he would be instantly overwhelmed. The

truth would be out! He held his breath at the mere thought of such ugly

contretemps.

Their marriage had been a strange one, it was true, but its result was

foredoomed to be stranger, with a _denouement_ undreamed of.

About two o’clock Thyra put on her furs, and for the first time since

her marriage wished her husband “Au revoir!” promising to be back in

a couple of hours at most. She knew her way well about the capital;

therefore, before leaving Paul, she kissed him and begged him not to be

apprehensive on her behalf.

“Get through all your horrid letters, dearest,” she urged, “and we will

go out to the theatre this evening. It will be such a great treat to

me, you know.”

So he promised her, and, with a ripple of light, happy laughter, she

left him, and disappeared with a frou-frou of her skirts down the great

staircase.

From the window he watched her turn the corner out of sight, for she

preferred not to take a cab. She loved to walk in Christiania, she

declared.

Then, when she had gone, the man drew a long breath, and, as he stood

in the centre of the room, he gasped:

“My God! if she knew! Ah! if she knew, what would she think? But she

must never know the truth—never!”

He lit a cigar to steady his nerves, and then passed out upon the

balcony, where he seated himself, staring moodily down into the street.

Afterwards, agitated and unnerved, he rose and, returning to the room,

sat at the writing-table for a short time. The three letters he had

written with a fountain-pen, he took in his hand, and, descending to

the bureau, asked that they might be sent to the post office to be

registered. He also remarked to the manager that any visitor who should

chance to call should be shown to his room at once.

Then he re-ascended the broad staircase and paced the room in quick

agitation. The expression upon his countenance showed that he dreaded

something—that a dark cloud overwhelmed him.

Shortly before half-past three a waiter tapped at the door of the

sitting-room and ushered in a tall, slim young woman in deep mourning,

and wearing a veil.

“Well, Paul,” she exclaimed in a hard voice, the moment the man had

gone, “this is a curious situation, is it not? So you are married!”

She spoke in Russian, though by her dress and manner she presented the

appearance of a Frenchwoman. She was dark, and, when she raised her

veil, revealed well-cut regular features.

He had risen, but had scarcely greeted her. Indeed, he had not even

offered her a chair.

“Ah!” she laughed, “I see that my presence here is not altogether

welcome, eh? You are devoted to your bride from the snows, of course,”

she added with a sneer.

“Cannot we leave Thyra out of this discussion?” he asked coldly,

indicating a chair, in which she seated herself.

“It seems that she’s gone out and left you. Have you quarrelled

already?”

“It was fortunate, perhaps, that she wished to go and visit an old

schoolfellow.”

“Fortunate for you. She would not have approved of this meeting.”

“I can’t think why you assume this attitude, Alza,” he cried angrily.

“Surely it is only to torture me that you recall the past?”

She laughed triumphantly.

“Is the past so very bitter, then? I did not know you possessed a

memory. I don’t.” She laughed airily. “It was not always so. You have

tasted the sweets, you now have the dregs.”

“Yes,” he said, in a hoarse, bitter voice, “I know, alas! And you are

carrying out your threat. You intend to expose me—to tell Thyra the

truth.”

“I am here to do so,” was the woman’s calm response. “It is only right

that she should be informed. She little knows whom she has married,

poor girl.”

“And you!” he cried fiercely, advancing a few paces towards her. “You!

What if I tell the truth—that you are the woman who——”

“My dear friend!” she exclaimed, interrupting him, “you are perfectly

at liberty to make whatever charge you like against me. I am quite

capable of taking care of myself.”

“Not always. Remember what you owe to that white-livered Englishman!”

“He was at least a gentleman, Paul,” she declared, “and, if he had

chosen, he could have made matters very awkward for both of us.”

“If we had allowed him.”

“We could not have prevented it. I was caught like a rat in a trap.”

“Yes, I know,” laughed Paul Grinevitch, “but isn’t it best to drop the

subject? Why are you here in Christiania—on the old game, I suppose?”

“My business here is my own affair,” she replied with an air of

defiance. “You and I are not friends, so it is scarcely probable that

I shall tell my secrets to my enemy, is it?” Then, suddenly catching

sight of Thyra’s photograph on the writing-table, she crossed and took

it up. It was a cabinet portrait in a plain silver frame.

For some time she regarded it in silence, then she replaced it with

just a suspicion of a sigh. It was a pretty picture, one which Paul had

himself taken up at Vardo, showing the girl in furs standing beside one

of the high-prowed fishing-boats.

Afterwards, when she turned again to the man at her side, there was a

curious hard expression in her eyes. It was evident that she held him

in distrust. She had come there at his invitation, but, nevertheless,

in order to make a statement to the woman who was now his wife.

“Well?” he asked; “don’t you think it’s time you left? Thyra may return

at any moment.”

“I thought you wished to see me?”

“I did. I believed that you were better disposed towards me than you

are. I wanted to ask you a favour.”

“A favour of me—eh?”

“Yes, Alza,” he said in an earnest, altered voice, “since that

scoundrel Bourtzeff has spoken we are both sailing in the same boat.

You know my position—penniless.”

“You’ve married Thyra, and haven’t a sou!”

“That is unfortunately true. I’ve been a fool, an absolute fool, but I

loved her. I went too far, and I couldn’t draw back.”

“Well?”

“I want money—money to take us to England. You have plenty, I know.

That last little affair with the French bonds must have brought you at

least a hundred thousand francs. Will you lend me some?”

The well-dressed young woman sighed slightly, her dark eyes still fixed

upon him.

“You want me to assist you to carry this grim comedy of marriage still

further?”

“Yes. Why expose me? It would break the girl’s heart. You yourself have

suffered sufficiently, I know; at least spare her—I beg of you.”

She hesitated for a few moments.

“Yes, Paul, as you appeal on the girl’s behalf, I’ll remain silent, and

I will help you, only on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You will resume your friendship with me—your business friendship, if

we may so put it,” she said, her eyes still upon his.

“But, Alza—I—could never do that! It wouldn’t be fair to Thyra.”

“Fair or not,” replied the young woman with determination, “if I help

you, then you must in return give me your assistance.”

“And run the risk of arrest?”

“Are you not doing so now—each hour since Bourtzeff has betrayed us?

Come, you will write a letter to Enderlein, agreeing to assist us

again, and I will telephone to the Norsk Credit Bank for funds for you.”

“But I—I really can’t. I’ve done with that kind of thing—done with it

for ever.”

“Very well,” she laughed, “then we, on our part, have done with you,

and shall regard you still as an enemy.”

CHAPTER XVI

BRIDE AND LOVER

Owen and Dick, on their arrival after the night journey from

Trondhjem, idled about the Grand Hotel and took a stroll up the broad

Karl-Johans-Gaden, smoking and inspecting the shops.

The young doctor did not fail to notice that, with Thyra’s departure,

Dick’s manner had entirely changed. He had now become listless and

careless, and once or twice had remarked, with a deep sigh, upon the

tragedy of the girl’s union with the young Russian.

The life and movement of the capital was pleasant enough after their

long sojourn in the silent north, yet both men were now anxious to get

back to London.

As Dick strolled at his friend’s side up the principal street his mind

was full of Thyra, and of apprehensions regarding her future. His blood

boiled when he realised the full consequence of her marriage to Paul

Grinevitch. That she should have married that man—of all others!

Through his brain surged a thousand bitter thoughts. The past arose

before him, hideous as a bad dream. He saw nothing of the scene before

him. His thoughts were far away in the south—away in another land. The

face of another woman—one almost as fair as Thyra—arose before him—the

woman who had loved the Russian better than her own life.

He bit his lip, and tried to brace himself up. Beneath his breath he

uttered a fierce imprecation.

“What’s the matter, old chap?” inquired Owen. And only then Dick

realised that he was making a fool of himself before his friend.

They lunched together in the big restaurant of the hotel, and, soon

afterwards, Dick, with a somewhat lame excuse that he wanted a little

exercise—for they had not been able to get any during the past month or

so—put on his overcoat and went out.

Owen, not in walking mood, preferred to lounge about with a new

Tauchnitz he had bought earlier in the morning.

“I’ll be back in time for dinner,” Jervoise said as he left the hotel,

and then, passing up the street for some distance, he took from his

pocket the plan of the city which he had torn from his Baedeker, and,

having studied it for a few moments, continued his walk right up to

the royal palace, situate, as it is, on an eminence, in the centre of

a pretty park. Then, taking the road through the royal grounds to the

right, he emerged into the suburb of Homansby.

Walking some distance, he found himself in a small, rather secluded

square, the name of which he noted upon it, and there he halted, lit a

cigarette, and waited in expectation.

His countenance was pale, and his eager apprehension was apparent. Not

a soul was to be seen in the vicinity, therefore the spot was eminently

adapted as a place of rendezvous. A full quarter of an hour he waited,

until at last around the corner came a smart, slim, female figure in

furs—that of Thyra, the newly-wedded bride.

He raised his hat as he advanced, while her sweet countenance lit in a

glad smile of welcome.

“I—I’m so glad you were able to get away,” he exclaimed quickly. “Where

can we go, so that we may talk? I have something very important to say

to you.”

“It is very wrong of me to have done this, Mr. Jervoise,” she said. “I

was compelled to tell my husband an untruth—that I was going to visit

an old schoolfellow.”

“You can go to see her afterwards,” laughed the Englishman. “Shall we

go back into the park? We shall not be disturbed there.”

“As you wish,” was her reply, and, strolling at her side, they turned

and retraced their steps along the Holbergs-Gade into the well-wooded

royal demesne which nowadays is thrown open to the public.

“Doctor Odd does not suspect that you are meeting me, I hope?” she

asked apprehensively.

“Certainly not. Our meeting must be kept a most profound secret—at all

costs, and for several reasons.”

“I, on my part, shall never admit having seen you,” she smiled.

“Nor I. You may depend upon that.”

“But if you wished to speak to me, Mr. Jervoise, why didn’t you do so

when we were on board the _Mercur_?” she asked, puzzled.

“There were reasons why I could not,” he said, rather evasively. And as

they walked on in silence he glanced at her face, and could not help

remarking her striking beauty. She, the sweet, pale-faced, innocent

Thyra, was the victim of that man who was now her husband!

The very thought caused his nails to press themselves deeply into his

palms.

At last, after entering the park and traversing one of the byways, they

found a seat away from the more frequented paths. Then, when they were

seated side by side, he turned to her, and, looking very seriously into

her face, he said:

“Madame Grinevitch—for I suppose I must now call you by that name——”

“No,” she said; “Thyra to you, Mr. Jervoise—always Thyra,” and she

smiled.

“Very well, then,” he said, “I will continue to call you Thyra. I first

want you to forgive me for daring to presume to speak to you upon a

subject which is—well, very painful to me.”

She stared at the Englishman in wonder. She did not follow his meaning.

“I—I think it was ill-advised for me to have met you,” she said,

stirring uneasily. “What would Paul say if he knew?”

“Paul will never know—nobody must ever know. Understand that!” he

cried. “I have my own honour, my own safety, at stake—as well as yours.”

“Your safety!” she echoed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that if the secret of this meeting were ever betrayed, it might

prove disastrous for us both. You do not know Paul Grinevitch as well

as I do.”

“You surely do not insinuate anything against my husband!” she

exclaimed, looking straight at him.

“I—oh, no!—well, I mean this,” he stammered. “But of course, it would

not be my place to make any remark. Paul Grinevitch is your husband,

after all.”

“Yes,” she said, and in a slow, distinct voice she added, “And I love

him.”

Dick Jervoise drew a deep breath. He wanted to speak to her, but

could not find a way. He realised that in asking her to that secret

rendezvous he was only making a fool of himself.

“‘Love is blind’ is an old and true saying, Thyra,” he remarked.

“And you think I am blind—eh?” she asked quickly.

“Certainly not—except towards myself.”

“How?”

“You do not realise that in asking you to meet me here—for the

last time—that I wish to act sincerely in your interests, but—but,

unfortunately, am debarred from so doing.”

“Please explain further,” she urged with a slight frown of

thoughtfulness.

“I intended to speak to you, but—well, Thyra, I—I haven’t the courage!

You are married now. Therefore it is, alas! too late.”

He was longing to warn her against the man whose wife she had become,

but she, unfortunately, misunderstood his words. She believed that his

intention had been a declaration of love.

“Yes, Mr. Jervoise,” she said with a slight sigh. “It is, as you say,

too late. I am already Paul’s wife.”

“Ah, that is the cruel tragedy of it all!” he cried, starting up

suddenly. “If—if I only dared to tell you the truth—to speak openly.

But I see that I was wrong in asking you here, in attempting to tell

you the truth. If I did, you would never believe me.”

“I think, Mr. Jervoise, it would be better if I left you,” she said

quietly. “This interview is as painful to me as to you.”

“Thyra!” he said. “You are in ignorance of the tragedy that lies before

you—ignorant of the past of Paul Grinevitch. If you but knew, you would

hate him with as deep and fierce a hatred as I do!”

In an instant her cheeks flushed crimson with anger.

“How dare you ask me here in order to make vague allegations against my

husband!” she demanded resentfully.

“I want to tell you the truth, but you will not allow me,” he answered

quickly. “Ah! do not misunderstand me, Thyra. I am acting in your

interests, because, even though you are now married to this man, I—I

still hold you in sincerest regard. If—if I cannot be your husband—I

can at least stand your friend!” he blurted forth.

“My husband should be my best friend,” she said, her eyes downcast, for

she saw in this speech of the Englishman’s a covert declaration of love.

“Your husband!” he cried. “Go to him, and ask him if he knows poor

Helene Marquet.”

She turned and faced him with a strange look in her wide-open eyes. For

a moment she held her breath in surprise.

“What is it—what do you really allege against Paul?”

“I allege,” he said, “that he is not what he represents himself to

you to be. I have tried to remain silent, Thyra, for your sake. But I

cannot any longer. I know that I ought to have spoken before, but—well,

I did not wish to destroy your confidence in that man, lest you should

think that I did it for my own personal ends and in order that I might

take his place in your heart. But now it can no longer be alleged that

I have any ulterior motive, except to warn you against him; I have met

you here to speak with you and place you upon your guard.”

She was silent. His words had confused her. What could he mean?

“Tell me, Mr. Jervoise,” she asked in a hard strained voice, “who is

this woman Marquet?”

“Ask him,” was Dick’s response. “Go back to him, and tell him that

you know a friend of Helene Marquet’s, and that this friend has told

Nicholas Bourtzeff of his whereabouts. Then watch the effect of your

words upon him.”

“And this on the first day of my marriage!”

“Better to-day than later—when you are numbered among his victims,” was

Dick’s earnest reply. “Only I beg of you to regard the source of your

information as a secret one.”

“Then you fear Paul?”

“Fear him!” cried Dick in furious anger. “I do not fear him! He fears

me, rather. I hate him, and if ever we meet again I—I’ll crush the life

from him with as little compunction as I’d kill a viper!”

“You would kill Paul?” she gasped.

“It would only be what he richly deserves—and, alas! Thyra, you will

agree with me some day—when you know the truth!”

The girl was silent. What the Englishman had told her caused her

to reflect deeply. Could it really be true that Paul—her Paul—her

husband—was only an adventurer after all?

No. It could not be. She refused to believe. What proof had she against

him? She was his wife, and it was not just to him that she should

listen to such calumny.

Who was Helene Marquet? At least she would know that, and would demand

a reply from his own lips. Oh! why, she thought, had not the Englishman

told her this before her marriage, instead of waiting until it was too

late?

No word was spoken between the pair for a full five minutes. Then,

suddenly stirring herself, she said, rising from her seat:

“I wish to go, Mr. Jervoise.”

“Why so quickly?”

“I have got my girl friend to call upon, in order to justify my

absence.”

“Ah! You fear your husband,” he remarked bitterly. “But it will not be

for long, I venture to think.”

She noticed the strangeness of his manners, and wondered.

Then she bowed, her eyes filled with tears, and refusing to remain

longer with him wished him adieu, and hurrying away down the path was

quickly lost to sight.

A few minutes later Dick, with his pale drawn face hard set, turned

upon his heel and walked in the opposite direction.

“At any rate,” he muttered between his teeth, “I’ve told her the truth

and unmasked the scoundrel!”

And he strode along, not knowing whither his footsteps led him.

About three hours later he returned to the hotel, distrait and

thoughtful, and slowly dressed for dinner. The latter was not by any

means a cheerful meal, and Owen noticed how gloomy his friend had

become.

In order to liven him up a little he suggested a music-hall, and not

until midnight did they return to the Grand.

About half-past twelve, just as they were leaving the big, noisy cafe

which occupied the ground floor of their hotel, to ascend to their

rooms, a page-boy approached them asking for Mr. Jervoise, and saying

that a gentleman was in the bureau desiring to see him instantly.

Filled with curiosity as to who his visitor might be at that hour, Dick

found a tall, thin-faced, elderly man, who, speaking in fairly good

English, said:

“I have been sent, sir, by Madame Grinevitch, at the Hotel Victoria.

Would you kindly go to her at once.—She is in greatest distress, poor

young lady!”

“Distress at what?” he gasped, his face in an instant pale as death.

“Ah! then you have not heard—you have not read the newspaper this

evening?” said the man. “You are unaware of the mysterious occurrence.

Madame’s husband is dead!”

“Dead!” the two gasped in one breath, staring at each other.

Dick’s face was blanched to the lips. Owen noted how his hands were

trembling, and how his eyes seemed starting from his head.

“Ah, gentlemen!” exclaimed the thin man who stood before them holding

up his hands. “It is indeed a most annoying matter for our hotel,

and calculated to greatly injure us. Poor little Madame! She has

been out alone all the afternoon, and returning a little after six

found her newly-wedded husband lying dead upon the floor of their

sitting-room—_murdered_!”

CHAPTER XVII

SOME AMAZING FACTS

The announcement electrified them.

“What can have happened?” gasped the doctor, staring at his friend,

who, standing rigid, could utter no word. “We must go at once to her.”

Dick Jervoise hesitated. He was trembling like a leaf. He tried to

articulate some words, but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth.

“The matter is already in the hands of the police,” exclaimed the

thin-faced Norwegian, who explained that he was manager of the

hotel. “The poor lady is distracted. For nearly two hours she

remained unconscious. Then she only sat moaning her dead husband’s

name—Paul—Paul! Afterwards she asked me to find Mr. Jervoise, and to

inform him of the terrible tragedy. Ah! gentlemen,” the man added, “it

is most unfortunate for my brother’s hotel. Business is bad enough just

now, without this damaging occurrence.”

“Is it an entire mystery?” asked Jervoise. “Is nobody suspected?” he

managed to inquire.

“Nobody,” was the reply. “But, gentlemen, we are wasting time,” added

the man. “I have a fiacre; let us go to her.”

Outside it had been raining for the past three hours. Christiania was

drowned in mire and gloom. As the rickety fly rumbled over the stones

up the broad Karl-Johans-Gaden, the principal street of the city,

to where the great arc lamps of the station shed their cold white

brilliance, Dick Jervoise sat as a man in a dream. The announcement had

staggered him. Why had she sent for him. Why had she dared to do that?

There was a danger, a peril to her and to him. He knew that it would

now require all his self-possession, all the cunning he possessed, in

order to avert suspicion of the truth.

She had loved that man who was now dead—the man struck down by an

unsuspected hand.

His teeth were tightly clenched, and he held his breath. It was fate.

In her presence he had felt the burning, the fragrant, the intoxicating

whirlwind of life. She was everything his youth, his instinct, his soul

had yearned for of maddest and sweetest. How many years had he not

travelled and dreamed of that one pale, sweet face—the one woman who

would fill the void within his heart! The delicious expectation was

already beginning to be shrouded in his cosmopolitan world, weariness

was beginning to seem altogether gone when she had appeared in that

out-of-the-world place.

And then—and then——

He bit his lip as the vehicle, with the rain pelting against the

closed windows, turned from the zone of brilliant light around the

station into one of the long, narrow, ill-lit streets on the right, the

Dronningens-Gaden, and presently they drew up before the hotel-entrance.

They found the dead man’s bride huddled up in a chair in a small

sitting-room on the first floor, a pale, pathetic little figure whose

face, turned towards them as they entered, had strangely changed.

Jervoise crossed to her, and, bending, spoke softly, humbly, almost

sweetly, but with that sweetness one employs towards a sick and

fractious child.

For a moment it seemed that Thyra was unconscious of his presence, but

next instant, with a curious haunted look in her fine eyes, she shrank

from him.

A grave-faced, elderly man was standing at her side—the doctor who had

been summoned to her when she had fallen unconscious beneath the blow.

To both Englishmen it was apparent that the unfortunate girl’s mind had

become slightly unbalanced by that sudden shattering of all her hopes,

of all her love—that love born of dreams and enchantments.

Dick Jervoise still stood before her in silence, his eyes fixed upon

hers, as though he read into her very soul. Why, if she had called him,

did she now shrink from him?

Owen looked from the sweet, wan face with the dishevelled hair, to that

of his friend. The attitude of the pair puzzled him. Why did she, who

on board the steamer had been so friendly with Dick, now glance at him

with eyes so full of dread and terror?

“Madame,” he exclaimed at last, “we are here to assist you. We have

heard the terrible, appalling news. What can we do?”

“Do!” she answered hoarsely, raising her pointed chin from her breast.

“Do! Why, find the man who, in my absence, killed my Paul!”

And Owen noticed that, as she spoke, she fixed her eyes upon those of

his friend.

The scene was indeed a sadly pathetic one—the slim, white-faced

girl-wife, seated in that small, rather shabbily furnished room to

which she had been moved after the tragedy, the man who loved her so

intensely standing before her, bowed and undecided.

Owen Odd saw that, for some unaccountable reason, Dick feared her just

as much as she feared him. What, he wondered, had really occurred? In

a flash the recollection of his friend’s long absence that afternoon

crossed his mind. She, too, had been absent from her husband—out

making a call upon one of her old schoolfellows, it was said. Had Thyra

and Dick met—and spoken?

Suspicions—dark, grave suspicions—arose within him, but, being Dick’s

friend, he resolutely put them aside. Yet he could not conceal from

himself his friend’s bitter hatred of the man now dead; nor could he

forget that Dick himself, in a moment of anger, had denounced the

murdered man.

“Paul! Paul!” cried the poor girl suddenly in English, lifting her

white arms into space, now believing in her delirium that her husband

still stood before her. “Ah! you are still sad!” she went on. “You

think it a mere passing caprice. If you could only know the truth—how

many days, how many weeks, how many months even, I had thought it over,

examined it all, tortured my conscience with it! If you knew how many

times I have tried to express in words what I want to tell you.... I

have never found it possible to speak; some tyrannous force has always

prevented me from opening my heart to you. And now you are my husband,

dearest, we two, by ourselves, far from every molesting voice, we two

alone, shall decide our destiny. Hear me! I will try and explain....

More than ever, at this moment, I love you. I am united to you for

my whole life—and for the life beyond. I—I was crying, and I fancied

I saw your eyes clouded too; it was at that moment I realised that I

loved you above everything in the world, and I decided then to make the

sacrifice for you. I—I——”

Her rambling sentences were too painful to the listeners—painful to

Dick most of all.

The grey-bearded man standing by her motioned to them, and they left

the room, feeling themselves powerless to assist. Even Owen, a medical

man himself, recognised that the case was better left in the hands of

a doctor of her own people.

In the corridor outside they met the thin-faced Norwegian who had

conducted them there, and another rather stout, fair-haired man, whom

the other introduced as a commissary of police.

“The whole affair is a complete mystery,” explained the thin-faced

hotel manager in English. “Yonder is the room in which the tragedy

occurred—if you care to see it.”

And he conducted them along the passage to the farther end, where, on

opening a door, they found themselves in a good-sized salon, rather

well furnished with two long French windows overlooking the small,

tree-lined square and the harbour beyond.

As the electric light was switched on, they saw at one end of the room

a high carved sideboard, and on the walls each side long gilt mirrors.

Across near the windows was a restful-looking couch with a big yellow

silk cushion, in the centre a square table, and in a corner, set

cross-wise, a small escritoire.

On the table, in a big vase, was the splendid bouquet of white flowers

which Captain Martin had presented to the bride as she had entered the

train on the previous night, the odour of them heavy and oppressive,

now that they were drooped and fading.

Jervoise tried to blot the scene from his vision. Had he dared, he

would have refused to enter there.

Those words of Thyra’s, as in her delirium she believed that her

husband still lived, haunted him. His, indeed, was an agony of soul.

Her sacrifice—what had been her sacrifice?

“See!” exclaimed the commissary of police in Norwegian, pointing to the

dark green carpet behind the table.

Owen bent, and upon it saw a large brown patch, still damp—the

life-blood of Paul Grinevitch. On the yellow silk cushion which the

official turned over was another ugly stain, and again upon the

couch, to which it was apparent the unfortunate man had crawled after

receiving the mortal wound.

“Explain to us all that is known concerning the affair,” urged the

young doctor, turning to the hotel proprietor’s brother.

The other shrugged his shoulders, exchanged a few words in Norwegian

with the stout police official, and then answered:

“There are several very remarkable features about the case, the

commissary says. As far as we in the hotel know, what happened was

this: The young gentleman sent a telegram last night from Trondhjem,

engaging a suite of rooms for himself and wife. When they arrived we at

once saw they were newly-wedded, and gave them this suite, the best in

the hotel. They took their _dejeuner_ up here at eleven, after which,

according to the waiter who served them, it seemed as though the young

lady had been crying bitterly. At two o’clock the chambermaid, who

was called to button the young lady’s blouse, heard her say that she

was going over to the Hegdehaugen quarter to visit a friend, while he

declared that he would remain in and write some important letters. He

sat down and wrote three. Then he lounged in a chair in the balcony and

smoked for some time. Afterwards he descended to the bureau, bringing

his letters, asking me to have them registered, and telling me that

if anyone called they were to be shown up to his room directly. At

half-past three, or thereabouts, a young lady in deep mourning, wearing

a veil and speaking with a distinctly foreign accent, called, and

inquired for Monsieur Grinevitch. She held in her hand a letter, as

though a letter of introduction, and was at once taken up in the lift

and ushered into the salon.”

“A woman!” gasped Dick Jervoise, interrupting. “Was she French?”

“We cannot tell,” the man went on. “All we know is a statement by the

waiter who, a few moments afterwards, heard voices raised in anger. The

pair were speaking in some foreign tongue—probably Russian. The lady

went to the telephone yonder and rang up somebody—whom we don’t know.

The communication is direct with the exchange, which, unfortunately,

does not keep a note of the numbers inquired for. The waiter heard

her speaking for some time—the gentleman prompting her what to say.

Then she rang off, and seemed to be persuading the gentleman to act

somewhat against his inclination. Eventually he sat down at the table,

scribbled a letter, which he sealed with wax, using the gold seal upon

his watch-chain. Then, their disagreement having apparently ended, she

laughed merrily, wished him adieu, and the gentleman saw her along to

the lift.”

“Then there are people who saw this woman!” Dick demanded eagerly.

“They could recognise her again, I mean?”

“They say so. I did not see her.”

“She wore a veil,” remarked Owen. “She therefore evidently meant to

conceal her identity.”

“No doubt. Is that to be wondered at, with the bride’s absence in

view?” remarked the brother of the hotel proprietor, the latter, they

understood, being absent in the Telemarken.

“And what occurred afterwards?” demanded Jervoise quickly, now

breathless in curiosity.

“His actions afterwards were most mysterious. The lady having left, he

called the waiter, and, announcing his departure by the Wilson steamer

which sailed at ten to-night for Hull, order his bill to be prepared.

He then called the hotel messenger-boy, and, writing a note, told him

to take it to an address behind the Royal Park, and there wait for a

reply. The note was addressed to a man named Nystrom, who chanced to be

out; therefore the boy waited there for hours, until this evening, when

he returned, having failed to deliver the note.”

The stout police officer, who evidently understood English, like so

many officials in Norway, interrupted the hotel manager with some rapid

words.

“These gentlemen,” the other explained, “are intimate friends of the

poor young lady.”

“And also of the dead man,” added Doctor Odd. “Therefore we wish to

know the most complete details, in order, if possible, to throw some

light upon them.”

“The authorities are entirely puzzled,” declared the thin-faced man.

“They do not suspect anybody—at present.”

“But what happened after the unfortunate man had sent the boy on the

message?” Dick inquired.

“He wrote a telegram addressed to Captain Berentsen, in Trondhjem,

announcing his immediate departure for England, and giving his address

in London at 108, Keppel Street, Russell Square.”

“Did he give no reason for his sudden departure?” asked Owen.

“None. His wife, remember, was not aware of this decision, which we

think must have been arrived at in consequence of the unwelcome visit

of the lady in black.”

“But apparently he expected her,” said Dick.

“No. I understood him in the bureau to say that a gentleman would call.”

“Ah!” remarked Owen. “Then the lady called and found him unawares.

She, however, knew Madame was absent, or she would scarcely have dared

to visit him, I think.”

“But the assassination!” exclaimed Jervoise anxiously. “What led to it?”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE FOUR LETTERS

“How can we tell?” asked the Norwegian as he stood beside that ugly

stain upon the carpet.

“It could not have been suicide?” suggested Owen Odd.

“Impossible. Both doctors have unhesitatingly pronounced it a case

of murder. The victim was struck down from behind, they declare, and

very considerable force must have been used,” was the reply. “After

the despatch of the telegram it is probable that the young Russian

destroyed a quantity of papers, for, as you see, in the stove yonder

there has been a fire, and there still remains a quantity of tinder,

all of which will to-morrow be carefully examined by the police.”

Both Englishmen turned, and saw inside the open door of the high, tiled

stove a quantity of burnt paper.

“It is as though he wanted to get rid of some documents that were

incriminating,” declared the doctor to his friend.

“Exactly. Yet what had he possibly to fear? He was crossing to England

in a few hours,” Dick said.

“He probably did not wish to take them to London. He no doubt had

reason.”

The round-faced official interrupted, whereupon the hotel manager added:

“The police theory is that the documents were burned by the assassin.”

“Most probably,” exclaimed Jervoise.

“Yet shortly afterwards, when he ordered some tea, the waiter says that

in the room there was a strong smell of burning paper, combined with

a curious choking odour, like some chemical—which he had never before

smelt in all his life.”

“Then that would surely lend colour to the theory that he himself

destroyed the papers,” remarked Owen.

The fat commissary elevated his broad shoulders with an expression of

stupefaction.

“A chambermaid, passing along the corridor about five o’clock, declares

that she heard voices in this room,” went on the hotel manager, “and

believed that Madame had returned. One voice, she asserts, was a female

one. But,” he added, “the servants are scared, and therefore one cannot

believe all the statements that have been made.”

“Was that the last known of Mr. Grinevitch?” inquired Owen.

“Yes, except that he again descended to the bureau, and, obtaining a

copy of the _Petit Parisien_, returned to his room.”

“After the lady’s voice was heard there?”

“Yes, ten minutes afterwards. That is why we disbelieve the

chambermaid. The police have closely questioned her, and now discount

her allegation. She is not now certain whether it was a woman or only

the young gentleman speaking aloud to himself. At any rate, when he

came down for the newspaper, I spoke to him, and he was perfectly calm.

‘I may be out when my wife returns,’ he said. ‘If I am, kindly tell

her I have only gone along to the telegraph office and will be back

immediately.’ He ascended again in the lift, and that was the last I

saw of him alive.”

“What else is known?” anxiously inquired Dick, his blanched face drawn

and haggard.

“Nothing—or practically nothing,” was the prompt reply. “Madame

returned in a fiacre just after six. As she passed through the hall I

noticed that she seemed very flurried, and anxious to get upstairs.

I spoke to her, giving her her husband’s message, but she scarcely

heeded me, and flew upstairs without waiting for the lift. She dashed

along the corridor and opened the door. Then a loud, piercing shriek

alarmed us, and the terrible truth was quickly apparent. I was called

instantly, and on entering here my eyes met a ghastly scene. The poor

fellow was lying beside the couch over there, with life extinct, while

on the floor beside him his girl-bride had fallen in a dead swoon.”

“And was no stranger seen to enter or leave the hotel?” asked Owen with

knit brows.

“Absolutely nobody.”

“How many entrances are there here?”

“Only one—by the main hall. There is, of course, a kitchen entrance,

but it is shut off from the visitors by a locked door, the key of

which hangs in my office. The door has been examined, and has not been

unlocked.”

“And the only visitor was the young lady in mourning?”

“She was the only visitor. Of that we are quite certain.”

“Then who committed the crime?” asked Jervoise.

“Ah! that is an absolute and complete mystery—one which is rendered

even the more remarkable by certain extraordinary facts which have been

discovered since the grim occurrence.”

“And what are they?” demanded the young Hammersmith doctor.

“Several,” replied the hotel manager. “One is, perhaps, more curious

than all the rest. You will recollect that the deceased gentleman,

before his death, sent our messenger with a note to a certain person

named Nystrom. That note was not delivered. But the police have just

ascertained that the man in question is an adventurer who is wanted in

Copenhagen on a very serious charge, and whose arrest was only this

afternoon applied for by telegram by the Danish police.”

“Curious.”

“The authorities believe that the note sent by the unfortunate man was

a preconcerted signal, or warning.”

At that moment two police officers in uniform entered the room, and

handed to the commissary several letters.

“Ah! here are the letters I sent to the post office to be registered

this evening—the letters which Mr. Grinevitch brought down to me after

his wife’s departure!” exclaimed the manager. “See, they are all

addressed to persons in Russia. It is fortunate that they had not been

despatched.”

The fat commissary laid the three sealed letters upon the table, and,

taking his penknife, slit them all open, being eagerly watched by all

assembled.

“Zo!” he ejaculated as he took out the contents of the first.

“Extraordinary! The same as the mysterious letter to Nystrom!”

exclaimed the hotel manager.

And to the two Englishmen were exhibited three sheets of the hotel

notepaper—blank!

“Most curious!” declared Odd, turning again to his friend. “What can

they all mean?”

“Who knows?” replied Jervoise in a hoarse, inert voice. “That there’s

no suspicion against anyone is also very strange. The destroying of

papers, the sudden resolve to cross to England, and the unwelcome visit

of the woman in black, all point to suicide. And yet——”

“It was murder—crafty and deliberate murder, I tell you,” the manager

declared. “The poor young man was, according to both doctors and

police, struck treacherously in the back as he was seated at the little

escritoire over there. He rose, reeled across to the spot where that

stain appears on the carpet, and in his dying agony dragged himself

here to the sofa. It is their belief that in his dying moments he was

trying to reach the window in order to call for assistance.”

“I see no sign of any struggle,” Owen Odd said, glancing around the

scene of the tragedy.

“There was none,” answered the Norwegian. “He was struck down before he

could turn to defend himself. He probably never even saw his assailant.”

Dick Jervoise pursed his hot lips. There was a strange, stony look

upon his countenance—a look which his friend Odd had never seen there

before. Was it possible that he knew something more about the tragedy

than the police knew? Was it possible that he had, on that same

afternoon, met Thyra in secret?

He recollected the strange glance in the girl’s eyes when he had

entered to where she sat—that look of undisguised terror—of abhorrence.

Yes. Dick was concealing from him some facts which, if divulged, would

place that amazing affair in a very different light. Of that he felt

convinced.

Knowing his friend so well, and being acquainted with his every mood,

he saw quite plainly that he was strenuously endeavouring to conceal

some knowledge which he possessed.

Was he shielding the woman with those wonderful grey eyes? Or was he

withholding, for his own purposes, a guilty secret?

The pale cheeks with just a spot of colour in the centre, the dry,

half-parted lips, the contracted brows, the haggard deep-set eyes,

were all most unusual to Richard Jervoise. Besides, had he not been

absent from the Grand Hotel during the whole time of the bride’s

absence from her husband?

But why should he sit in judgment upon his friend—his oldest, his

dearest friend, he reflected. No. A thousand times no. He would believe

nothing against him, even if the suspicion were so strong—even if,

after the first shock, it was Dick whom the bereaved bride had summoned.

He set his teeth, steeling himself against all that horrible suspicion.

Within himself he declared that Dick could in no way be an accessory to

the fact of that most terrible and mysterious crime.

“And what is now being done?” asked Owen of the hotel manager.

“Everything that is possible,” he replied. “The police have removed

the body. The scene was a most painful and tragic one. When the poor

young lady recovered consciousness after the shock, she returned to the

body of her husband and refused to leave him. She believed him to be

still alive, and, kneeling by him, made all sorts of strange and wild

statements.”

“What did she say?” gasped Dick in breathless anxiety.

“Oh, all sorts of curious things. She made an allegation against

some man, but would not name him. She said she knew now who was her

husband’s enemy.”

“Then the police are in possession of some suspicious fact?” exclaimed

Owen with a side glance at his friend.

“The doctors did not consider her in a fit state to be questioned. Her

statements were so very contradictory.”

Jervoise breathed again. He longed to get away from that room where the

floor still bore traces of the horrible crime.

“But,” the young doctor went on, “what are the police doing? Surely it

is known by what means the assassin gained access to Grinevitch’s room?”

“We cannot tell,” answered the thin-faced Norwegian. “The hall-porter

saw no stranger enter or leave, though he was at his post the whole

time. Neither did the servants see anyone go into the room, even though

several of them, their curiosity aroused by the happenings of the

previous couple of hours, were almost constantly on the watch. There

were whispers among the servants that the bridal pair had quarrelled;

hence the whole staff on this floor had become instantly inquisitive,

as was but natural. Yet the assassination was committed swiftly and

surely by invisible hands.”

“Could anyone have climbed up from the street—or come along the

balcony?” Owen suggested.

“See for yourself,” replied the other, throwing open one of the long

windows.

Both men, followed by Dick, stepped out upon the spacious balcony into

the rain. But at a glance all saw that entrance by the window was

entirely out of the question.

“No,” Owen said, reassured. “The assassin must have entered by yonder

door, for if the victim had been sitting writing, then the murderer

could have crept across the carpet noiselessly and struck the blow ere

the other could realise his danger.”

“That is exactly the police theory. They are doing all in their power

to obtain some clue. Already they have taken away certain things—the

door knobs, as you see, and other small articles—in the hope of finding

fingerprints. The whole of the Christiania detective force are at this

moment engaged in trying to solve the mystery, and endeavouring to

trace Nystrom and the dead man’s unknown visitor. You can do nothing,

gentlemen, I fear—nothing except to try and console the poor young

lady. Let us return to her.” And the hotel manager led the way back to

the room where Thyra was still sitting silent, crushed, lifeless.

The grey-bearded doctor stood near the window, looking out gloomily

upon the wet night.

As they entered he held up a warning finger. They halted.

In the slim girl-widow’s grey eyes they detected a strange, wild

expression as her gaze fell upon Dick Jervoise.

“Ah!” she gasped with sudden surprise, stretching forth both her thin,

white hands. “You—Mr. Jervoise! I—I must speak to you—alone! Come in

for a few moments, and send all these people away. I—I want to speak

with you—alone!”

Owen and Dick exchanged glances. Then the grave-faced doctor, who had

been watching her, spoke something in Norwegian, and all withdrew—all

save Richard Jervoise.

They closed the door softly, leaving the pair alone. The Englishman

stood in the centre of the room trembling, staring, pale as death, his

chin sunk upon his breast. To her he dare not lift his stony eyes; he

dare not utter a single word.

For several moments there was dead unbroken silence.

Then, bending forward and looking straight at him with those great,

wide-open eyes, she said in a hard, distinct voice:

“Mr. Jervoise, you lied to me! _I know the truth!_”

PART II

CHAPTER I

BIDE TRYST

The grey light of the brief December afternoon had deepened into

darkness.

The Woodland Pytchley had enjoyed a splendid day across South Rutland.

Meeting at Stockerston Hall, they had found in Great Easton Park, and

after a sharp run across Holyoaks Lodge, the fox had crossed the Eye

brook to the Uppingham road, where the kill had taken place.

Another brush had been secured in that long little spinney behind

Seaton Grange after a hard chase, and a third, an old dog-fox, had been

given to the hounds in Laxton Park.

The smart crowd of men and women who had followed—people who hunted

with the Quorn, with Lord Exeter’s, or with the Fitzwilliam three

or four days a week—had agreed that it had been the best run of the

season. Then, after mutual adieux, they had, in the falling light, all

separated to ride home, each his own way, some for many a weary mile.

Dick Jervoise’s road back to Ingarsby Hall, his aunt’s splendid old

place, lay by bridle-paths which he knew well, paths which he had

ridden ever since a boy. That morning he had gone to the meet with his

cousin Harry, a young Yorkshire landowner, but the latter had been

thrown out at a spot north of Uppingham, where he had had a spill in

a brook, and Dick had not seen him since. Therefore he rode on alone,

his tired bay mare stumbling ever and anon, and causing him to utter

language scarcely suited to a drawing-room.

His way lay across bare ploughed lands, and through Harrington Wood,

leafless and dismal in the fading light, until close to the old mansion

of Kirby, gaunt and grim in its loveliness and decay, he was compelled

to dismount and lead the mare.

Thus he trudged onward for nearly five miles, sometimes across ploughed

land, or over broad pastures and along muddy lanes, every inch being

known to him. The shortest cut is not always the easiest, for on his

way he found a brook so swollen that he had to remount in order to

cross it.

Fox-hunting ran in Dick Jervoise’s blood. His father had been one of

the most noted followers to hounds in the grass country, and one of the

fastest cross-country riders of his day. Before his death he had been

M. F. H., and more than once had received tempting offers to write his

reminiscences of the Belvoir and the Grafton. In the hunting season

Dick frequently stayed with the Dowager Countess of Corby at Ingarsby,

and rode with both the Woodland Pytchley and Mr. Fernie’s.

In his well-worn hunting pink he looked a fine athletic fellow, an

ideal English sportsman, as indeed he was. Though a student who loved

to pore over his dry-as-dust books in his little flat overlooking the

river at Hammersmith Bridge, yet no sooner had cub-hunting commenced

than he was down at Ingarsby and up and out at four o’clock in the

morning, riding with the huntsman and his pack through the mists before

daybreak.

“A chip of the old block,” old hunting-men had dubbed him long ago. In

his teens he had earned his laurels by breaking his collar-bone in a

bad fall over at Cold Overton, and even other accidents of minor count

had never deterred him from enjoying hot runs over that ideal country

north of his late uncle’s fine ancestral domain.

As he entered the great old-world stableyard, Chapman, the groom,

touched his cap, and, glancing at the mare, exclaimed:

“Gone lame, sir—eh?”

“Yes,” Dick replied, handing over his mount. “We’ve had a pretty hard

day, but we killed three times, so we mustn’t grumble.” And he entered

a door, traversing many stone corridors of the magnificent old Tudor

mansion, worn hollow by the feet of many generations, until he passed

into the great hall, with its high windows of stained glass, its oaken

roof, its rich carpets, stands of armour of bygone Corbys, and the

splendid old Gibbons carvings.

Before the wide, open hearth, where blazed huge logs, the tea-table had

been set, and around it, with the well-preserved, white-haired Countess

presiding, were several gay, gossiping young men and women of the

house-party.

Dick’s entry was hailed with delight, and news of the run eagerly

demanded.

“And where’s Harry?” inquired her ladyship, pouring out Dick’s tea from

the silver pot.

“Don’t know, aunt,” replied her nephew airily. “Last I saw of him was

in a ditch, looking a bit muddy and rather the worse for his fall. I

saw he wasn’t hurt, and rode on.”

“You hunting men are really extremely selfish,” declared the old lady,

when at the same moment Burton, the elderly butler, handed Dick a

telegram on a salver, saying:

“It came for you, sir, about twelve o’clock.”

Jervoise tore it open, read its contents, and thrust it carelessly into

the pocket of his scarlet coat. Then, turning to a pretty girl in blue,

the daughter of a Yorkshire banker, he began to chaff her regarding

something he had heard in the hunting-field that day anent her latest

swain. The girl blushed, declaring that what he said was both cruel and

untrue.

“Well, that’s what Teddie Mills told me to-day as we rode together. And

he’s your cousin, isn’t he?” asked Dick, good-humouredly.

Ingarsby was a splendid old Tudor place, with battlemented towers,

turrets, buttressed walls, and noble oriel windows originally glazed

with beryl, and imposing structures with numerous shields of arms and

heraldic devices upon the masonry. On the painted glass of the high

mullioned windows of the hall beneath where Dick stood were emblazoned

the shields of the various families with whom the Earls of Corby had

intermarried; and straight before him, at the rear of that great,

open fireplace with its shining dogs, was a secret chamber, in which

twenty persons could comfortably dine, as well as the entrance to a

subterranean passage to a house three miles distant.

The white-haired Countess had led a lonely widowhood in that beautiful

old place for twenty odd years, dividing her life between there and

her snug, little house in Curzon Street. She was a very charming,

well-preserved woman, essentially aristocratic in bearing, whose “turn

out” was always one of the smartest in the park, whose hospitality was

unbounded, and who at Ingarsby delighted in surrounding herself with

young people, for there was plenty of hunting and some of the finest

shooting in the Midlands.

Sir James Kingwell, first Earl of Corby, who died three years after the

Restoration, was a typical old cavalier, who spent twenty years of his

life as a prisoner in the Tower. Many of the portraits in the hall, in

the dining-room, and in the splendid ball-room were historical, among

them being the picture of the Earl of Shrewsbury, who was slain in the

notorious duel by the second Duke of Buckingham. Indeed, the old place

was full of interesting relics, but practically unknown because her

ladyship, preferring privacy, had closed her doors rigorously to all

sightseers, prying archæologists, or photographers of the illustrated

papers.

There was much merry chatter over the tea cups around the huge, blazing

logs. About a dozen young men and women had assembled, and were

discussing in anticipation the ball which Lady Exeter was giving at

Burghley on the following night, and to which the house-party had been

invited.

Dick, however, managed to slip away up to his room, the great,

old-fashioned apartment which he always occupied, and was known as

Henry VII’s room, as that monarch, when Earl of Richmond, was said to

have ridden from Bosworth Field to seek refuge at Ingarsby, then a

monastery. It was a quaint, old-world room, the mullioned windows of

which looked out across the terrace, the monks’ fish ponds, and the

great park beyond. In the centre was an old, carved, four-poster bed,

the counterpane of which was of silk embroidered by hands dead three

centuries ago.

So frequent a visitor was he at his aunt’s that he kept some books

there, and the big writing-table in the corner Burton had provided for

him specially.

Entering his room, he threw off his hunting coat, drew off his riding

boots, and then re-read the telegram which had been handed to him in

the hall.

“I wonder!” he exclaimed to himself aloud, as he crushed the message in

his hand, standing staring at the fire, the light of which illuminated

the room. “I wonder if I dare?”

He drew a long breath, standing in indecision.

“By Jove!” he went on. “If it’s not dangerous—then I may, after all,

see her again. I may——”

But he did not finish his sentence, for a second later, with sudden

impetuosity, he tossed the telegram into the flames, and with a changed

expression on his face lit a cigarette, and flung himself into the big,

cretonne-covered armchair to think.

“No!” he cried aloud at last. “She was a fool—an absolute fool. Her

words aroused suspicion. Owen suspects—everybody suspects!” And he gave

vent to a harsh, bitter laugh as he leaned back in his shirt sleeves

and blew a cloud of smoke from his lips.

Presently, after half an hour, his man Carter, a smart, clean-shaven

man, entered to arrange his master’s evening clothes. Without a word

the servant crossed to the wardrobe, and busied himself in getting out

the suit and spreading it, with the dress-shirt, collar and tie, upon

the bed.

“Shall you dress now, sir?” he inquired at last.

“No, Carter,” was his master’s reply. “Perhaps I shan’t dress at all

this evening. At eight I want you to send word to her ladyship that I’m

not very well—caught a chill out hunting to-day—and ask her to excuse

me from coming down to dinner. Pretend I’m in bed, and have some food

brought up here. I’m going out this evening, and I don’t want anyone to

know I’ve been absent. You understand?”

“Exactly, sir,” answered the well-trained man.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back—before the house is closed, I hope. If

I’m not, watch Burton to bed, and then go down to the ball-room, and

leave one of those two end windows unfastened for me. I shall go out

that way—as I went once before.”

“Very well, sir.”

“And if my cousin Harry or anyone wants to see the invalid, say I’m

asleep, and have told you I didn’t wish to be disturbed. You’ll stay on

duty up here all the evening, and eat my dinner for me.”

“Yes, sir.” And the man stood awaiting further commands, without moving

a muscle of his aquiline face.

“Remember, not a soul must know of my absence. A lady’s good name may

perhaps be at stake. If I’m back early I may dress and join the men in

the billiard-room. I don’t know yet. Be discreet, that’s all.”

“I shall be, sir. No one shall know you are absent.”

Then Dick Jervoise exchanged his hunting breeches for a rough suit

of country tweeds, and, putting on a golf cap and taking a stick, he

glanced at the little silver travelling clock upon the dressing-table.

It was, he saw, nearly seven.

He felt in his hip pocket, as though to reassure himself that he had

something there. Then, with parting instructions to his man, he left

the room, descending by the stairs at the end of the corridor, and by

an intricate route threaded those endless stone passages and reached

the great ball-room.

It was in darkness, but in order to make sure he was alone he touched

the electric switch, and next second the magnificent room with its

polished floor and splendid portraits, the scene of so many brilliant

gatherings, was flooded with a bright light from a dozen crystal

electroliers. After a hasty glance around, he extinguished the hundreds

of lamps, and then, walking to the further end of the huge apartment,

opened one of the long, lead-paned windows, and, climbing through it,

dropped softly upon the grass outside.

Then, keeping in the shadow as much as possible, he slipped across the

stone bridge that spanned the lake in front of the house—the ancient

fish pond of the Carthusian brothers—and struck out straight across the

park to the dark woods beyond.

The night was moonless, with heavy clouds precursory of rain; but the

way being known to him, he walked on without hesitation, and was soon

within the wood, taking a narrow footpath, which, in twenty minutes or

so, brought him out into a ploughed field, which he skirted, passing in

turn across a wide pasture, and at length gaining a narrow lane full of

deep cart ruts, where walking in the darkness was somewhat difficult.

Presently, however, he came out upon a broad highway, the many

telegraph lines beside which denoted that it was a main road, and,

turning to the left, walked along for a full half-hour, passing on his

way a small hamlet consisting of half a dozen or so tiny cottages with

dormer windows peeping forth from their thatch.

By the light from one of the windows he glanced at his watch, and

seeing that he was late, quickened his pace up a long hill. A big motor

car with a long bonnet and a single searchlight glaring in front, came

swiftly down, and, passing him, bespattered him with mud from head to

foot. He recognised that it was the Ingarsby car—the six cylinder—which

was conveying an arrival guest, the Honourable Walter Bryant, a friend

of his, from Ashley station, on the Market Harborough line, to the Hall.

Rockingham Hill, one of the steepest in the Midlands, he climbed, and

presently turned into a road by the left, which at length brought him

in sight of the lighted windows of a village. He avoided the village

street, for, passing the inn on the outskirts, he turned again into a

dark, muddy lane on the left.

Walking still farther for about a quarter of a mile, he halted against

a gate standing white in the darkness, and next moment a figure loomed

up out of the night.

It was a woman—a woman who uttered his name in greeting.