"Le vent qui vient à travers la montagne
M'a rendu fou!"
VICTOR HUGO.
It was half an hour past midnight. Sir Philip was left in absolute
solitude to enjoy his meditative stroll on deck, for the full radiance
of light that streamed over the sea and land was too clear and brilliant
to necessitate the attendance of any of the sailors for the purpose of
guarding the _Eulalie_. She was safely anchored and distinctly visible
to all boats or fishing craft crossing the Fjord, so that unless a
sudden gale should blow, which did not seem probable in the present
state of the weather, there was nothing for the men to do that need
deprive them of their lawful repose. Errington paced up and down slowly,
his yachting shoes making no noise, even as they left no scratch on the
spotless white deck, that shone in the night sunshine like polished
silver. The Fjord was very calm,--on one side it gleamed like a pool of
golden oil in which the outline of the _Eulalie_ was precisely traced,
her delicate masts and spars and drooping flag being drawn in black
lines on the yellow water as though with a finely pointed pencil. There
was a curious light in the western sky; a thick bank of clouds, dusky
brown in color, were swept together and piled one above the other in
mountainous ridges, that rose up perpendicularly from the very edge of
the sea-line, while over their dark summits a glimpse of the sun, like a
giant's eye, looked forth, darting dazzling descending rays through the
sullen smoke-like masses, tinging them with metallic green and copper
hues as brilliant and shifting as the bristling points of lifted spears.
Away to the south, a solitary wreath of purple vapor floated slowly as
though lost from some great mountain height; and through its faint, half
disguising veil the pale moon peered sorrowfully, like a dying prisoner
lamenting joy long past, but unforgotten.
A solemn silence reigned; and Errington, watching sea and sky, grew more
and more absorbed and serious. The scornful words of the proud old Olaf
Güldmar rankled in his mind and stung him. "An idle trifler with
time--an aimless wanderer!" Bitter, but, after all, true! He looked back
on his life with a feeling kin to contempt. What had he done that was at
all worth doing? He had seen to the proper management of his
estates,--well! any one with a grain of self-respect and love of
independence would do the same. He had travelled and amused himself,--he
had studied languages and literature,--he had made many friends; but
after all said and done, the _bonde's_ cutting observations had
described him correctly enough. The do-nothing, care-nothing tendency,
common to the very wealthy in this age, had crept upon him
unconsciously; the easy, cool, indifferent nonchalance common to men of
his class and breeding was habitual with him, and he had never thought
it worth while to exert his dormant abilities. Why then, should he now
begin to think it was time to reform all this,--to rouse himself to an
effort,--to gain for himself some honor, some distinction, some renown
that should mark him out as different to other men? why was he suddenly
seized with an insatiate desire to be something more than a mere
"mushroom knight, a fungus of nobility"--why? if not to make himself
worthy of--ah! There he had struck a suggestive key-note! Worthy of
what? of whom? There was no one in all the world, excepting perhaps
Lorimer, who cared what became of Sir Philip Errington, Baronet, in the
future, so long as he would, for the present, entertain and feast his
numerous acquaintances and give them all the advantages, social and
political, his wealth could so easily obtain. Then why, in the name of
well-bred indolence, should he muse with such persistent gloom, on his
general unworthiness at this particular moment? Was it because this
Norwegian maiden's grand blue eyes had met his with such beautiful trust
and candor?
He had known many women, queens of society, titled beauties, brilliant
actresses, sirens of the world with all their witcheries in full play,
and he had never lost his self-possession or his heart; with the
loveliest of them he had always felt himself master of the situation,
knowing that, in their opinion he was always "a catch," "an eligible,"
and, therefore, well worth winning. Now, for the first time, he became
aware of his utter insignificance,--this tall, fair goddess knew none of
the social slang--and her fair, pure face, the mirror of a fair, pure
soul, showed that the "eligibility" of a man from a pecuniary point of
view was a consideration that would never present itself to her mind.
What she would look at would be the man himself,--not his pocket. And,
studied from such an exceptional height,--a height seldom climbed by
modern marrying women,--Philip felt himself unworthy. It was a good
sign; there are great hopes of any man who is honestly dissatisfied with
himself. Folding his arms, he leaned idly on the deck-rails, and looked
gravely and musingly down into the motionless water where the varied
lines of the sky were clearly mirrored,--when a slight creaking,
cracking sound was heard, as of some obstacle grazing against or bumping
the side of the yacht. He looked, and saw, to his surprise, a small
rowing boat close under the gunwale, so close indeed that the slow
motion of the tide heaved it every now and then into a jerky collision
with the lower framework of the _Eulalie_--a circumstance which
explained the sound which had attracted his attention. The boat was not
unoccupied--there was some one in it lying straight across the seats,
with face turned upwards to the sky--and, walking noiselessly to a
better post of observation, Errington's heart beat with some excitement
as he recognized the long, fair, unkempt locks, and eccentric attire of
the strange personage who had confronted him in the cave--the crazy
little man who had called himself "Sigurd." There he was, beyond a
doubt, lying flat on his back with his eyes closed. Asleep or dead? He
might have been the latter,--his thin face was so pale and drawn,--his
lips were so set and colorless. Errington, astonished to see him there,
called softly--
"Sigurd! Sigurd!" There was no answer; Sigurd's form seemed
inanimate--his eyes remained fast shut.
"Is he in a trance?" thought Sir Philip wonderingly; "or has he fainted
from some physical exhaustion?"
He called again, but again received no reply. He now observed in the
stem of the boat a large bunch of pansies, dark as velvet, and evidently
freshly gathered,--proving that Sigurd had been wandering in the deep
valleys and on the sloping sides of the hills, where these flowers may
be frequently found in Norway during the summer. He began to feel rather
uncomfortable, as he watched that straight stiff figure in the boat, and
was just about to swing down the companion-ladder for the purpose of
closer inspection, when a glorious burst of light streamed radiantly
over the Fjord,--the sun conquered the masses of dark cloud that had
striven to conceal his beauty, and now,--like a warrior clad in golden
armor, surmounted and trod down his enemies, shining forth in all his
splendor. With that rush of brilliant effulgence, the apparently
lifeless Sigurd stirred,--he opened his eyes, and as they were turned
upwards, he naturally, from his close vicinity to the side of the
_Eulalie_, met Errington's gaze fixed inquiringly and somewhat anxiously
upon him. He sprang up with such sudden and fierce haste that his frail
boat rocked dangerously and Philip involuntarily cried out--
"Take care!"
Sigurd stood upright in his swaying skiff and laughed scornfully.
"Take care!" he echoed derisively. "It is you who should take care!
You,--poor miserable moth on the edge of a mad storm! It is you to
fear--not I! See how the light rains over the broad sky. All for me!
Yes, all the light, all the glory for me; all the darkness, all the
shame for you!"
Errington listened to these ravings with an air of patience and pitying
gentleness, then he said with perfect coolness--
"You are quite right, Sigurd! You are always right, I am sure. Come up
here and see me; I won't hurt you! Come along!"
The friendly tone and gentle manner appeared to soothe the unhappy
dwarf, for he stared doubtfully, then smiled,--and finally, as though
acting under a spell, he took up an oar and propelled himself skillfully
enough to the gangway, where Errington let down the ladder and with his
own hand assisted his visitor to mount, not forgetting to fasten the
boat safely to the steps as he did so. Once on deck, Sigurd gazed about
him perplexedly. He had brought his bunch of pansies with him, and he
fingered their soft leaves thoughtfully. Suddenly his eyes flashed.
"You are alone here?" he asked abruptly.
Fearing to scare his strange guest by the mention of his companions,
Errington answered simply--"Yes, quite alone just now, Sigurd."
Sigurd took a step closer towards him. "Are you not afraid?" he said in
an awe-struck, solemn voice.
Sir Philip smiled. "I never was afraid of anything in my life!" he
answered.
The dwarf eyed him keenly. "You are not afraid," he went on, "that I
shall kill you?"
"Not in the least," returned Errington calmly. "You would not do
anything so foolish, my friend."
Sigurd laughed. "Ha ha! You call me 'friend.' You think that word a
safeguard! I tell you, no! There are no friends now; the world is a
great field of battle,--each man fights the other. There is no
peace,--none anywhere! The wind fights with the forests; you can hear
them slashing and slaying all night long--when it _is_ night--the long,
long night! The sun fights with the sky, the light with the dark, and
life with death. It is all a bitter quarrel; none are satisfied, none
shall know friendship any more; it is too late! We cannot be friends!"
"Well, have it your own way," said Philip good-naturedly, wishing that
Lorimer were awake to interview this strange specimen of human wit gone
astray; "we'll fight if you like. Anything to please you!"
"We _are_ fighting," said Sigurd with intense passion in his voice. "You
may not know it; but I know it! I have felt the thrust of your sword; it
has crossed mine. Stay!" and his eyes grew vague and dreamy. "Why was I
sent to seek you out--let me think--let me think!"
And he seated himself forlornly on one of the deck chairs and seemed
painfully endeavoring to put his scattered ideas in order. Errington
studied him with a gentle forbearance; inwardly he was very curious to
know whether this Sigurd had any connection with the Güldmars, but he
refrained from asking too many questions. He simply said in a cheery
tone--
"Yes, Sigurd,--why did you come to see me? I'm glad you did; it's very
kind of you, but I don't think you even know my name."
To his surprise, Sigurd looked up with a more settled and resolved
expression of face, and answered almost as connectedly as any sane man
could have done.
"I know your name very well," he said in a low composed manner. "You are
Sir Philip Errington, a rich English nobleman. Fate led you to _her_
grave--a grave that no strange feet have ever passed, save yours--and so
I know you are the man for whom her spirit has waited,--she has brought
you hither. How foolish to think she sleeps under the stone, when she is
always awake and busy,--always at work opposing me! Yes, though I pray
her to lie still, she will not!"
His voice grew wild again, and Philip asked quietly--
"Of whom are you speaking, Sigurd?"
His steady tone seemed to have some compelling influence on the confused
mind of the half-witted creature, who answered readily and at once--
"Of whom should I speak but Thelma? Thelma, the beautiful rose of the
northern forest--Thelma--"
He broke off abruptly with a long shuddering sigh, and rocking himself
drearily to and fro, gazed wistfully out to the sea. Errington hazarded
a guess as to the purpose of that coffin hidden in the shell cavern.
"Do you mean Thelma living? . . . or Thelma dead?"
"Both," answered Sigurd promptly. "They are one and the same,--you
cannot part them. Mother and child,--rose and rosebud! One walks the
earth with the step of a queen, the other floats in the air like a
silvery cloud; but I see them join and embrace and melt into each
other's arms till they unite in one form, fairer than the beauty of
angels! And you--you know this as well as I do--you have seen Thelma,
you have kissed the cup of friendship with her; but remember!--not with
me--not with me!"
He started from his seat, and, running close up to Errington, laid one
meagre hand on his chest.
"How strong you are, how broad and brave," he exclaimed with a sort of
childish admiration. "And can you not be generous too?"
Errington looked down upon him compassionately. He had learned enough
from his incoherent talk to clear up what had seemed a mystery. The
scandalous reports concerning Olaf Güldmar were incorrect,--he had
evidently laid the remains of his wife in the shell-cavern, for some
reason connected with his religious belief, and Thelma's visits to the
sacred spot were now easy of comprehension. No doubt it was she who
placed fresh flowers there every day, and kept the little lamp burning
before the crucifix as a sign of the faith her departed mother had
professed, and which she herself followed. But who was Sigurd, and what
was he to the Güldmars? Thinking this, he replied to the dwarf's
question by a counter-inquiry.
"How shall I be generous, Sigurd? Tell me! What can I do to please you?"
Sigurd's wild blue eyes sparkled with pleasure.
"Do!" he cried. "You can go away, swiftly, swiftly, over the seas, and
the Altenfjord need know you no more! Spread your white sails!" and he
pointed excitedly up to the tall tapering masts of the _Eulalie_. "You
are king here. Command and you are obeyed! Go from us, go! What is there
here to delay you? Our mountains are dark and gloomy,--the fields are
wild and desolate,--there are rocks, glaciers and shrieking torrents
that hiss like serpents gliding into the sea! Oh, there must be fairer
lands than this one,--lands where oceans and sky are like twin jewels
set in one ring,--where there are sweet flowers and fruits and bright
eyes to smile on you all day--yes! for you are as a god in your strength
and beauty--no woman will be cruel to _you_! Ah! say you will go away!"
and Sigurd's face was transfigured into a sort of pained beauty as he
made his appeal. "That is what I came to seek you for,--to ask you to
set sail quickly and go, for why should you wish to destroy me? I have
done you no harm as yet. Go!--and Odin himself shall follow your path
with blessings!"
He paused, almost breathless with his own earnest pleading. Errington
was silent. He considered the request a mere proof of the poor
creature's disorder. The very idea that Sigurd seemed to entertain of
his doing him any harm, showed a reasonless terror and foreboding that
was simply to be set down as caused by his unfortunate mental condition.
To such an appeal there could be no satisfactory reply. To sail away
from the Altenfjord and its now most fascinating attractions, because a
madman asked him to do so, was a proposition impossible of acceptance,
so Sir Philip said nothing. Sigurd, however, watching his face intently,
saw, or thought he saw, a look of resolution in the Englishman's clear,
deep grey eyes,--and with the startling quickness common to many whose
brains, like musical instruments, are jarred, yet not quite unstrung, he
grasped the meaning of that expression instantly.
"Ah! cruel and traitorous!" he exclaimed fiercely. "You will not go; you
are resolved to tear my heart out for your sport! I have pleaded with
you as one pleads with a king and all in vain--all in vain! You will not
go? Listen, see what you will do," and he held up the bunch of purple
pansies, while his voice sank to an almost feeble faintness. "Look!" and
he fingered the flowers, "look! . . . they are dark and soft as a purple
sky,--cool and dewy and fresh;--they are the thoughts of Thelma; such
thoughts! So wise and earnest, so pure and full of tender shadows!--no
hand has grasped them rudely, no rough touch has spoiled their
smoothness! They open full-faced to the sky, they never droop or
languish; they have no secrets, save the marvel of their beauty. Now you
have come, you will have no pity,--one by one you will gather and play
with her thoughts as though they were these blossoms,--your burning hand
will mar their color,--they will wither and furl up and die, all of
them,--and you,--what will you care? Nothing! no man ever cares for a
flower that is withered,--not even though his own hand slew it."
The intense melancholy that vibrated through Sigurd's voice touched his
listener profoundly. Dimly he guessed that the stricken soul before him
had formed the erroneous idea that he, Errington, had come to do some
great wrong to Thelma or her belongings, and he pitied the poor creature
for his foolish self-torture.
"Listen to me, Sigurd," he said, with a certain imperativeness; "I
cannot promise you to go away, but I can promise that I will do no harm
to you or to--to--Thelma. Will that content you?"
Sigurd smiled vacantly and shook his head. He looked at the pansies
wistfully and laid them down very gently on one of the deck benches.
"I must go," he said in a faint voice:--"She is calling me."
"Who is calling you?" demanded Errington astonished.
"She is," persisted Sigurd, walking steadily to the gangway. "I can hear
her! There are the roses to water, and the doves to feed, and many other
things." He looked steadily at Sir Philip, who, seeing he was bent on
departure, assisted him to descend the companion ladder into his little
boat. "You are sure you will not sail away?"
Errington balanced himself lightly on the ladder and smiled.
"I am sure, Sigurd! I have no wish to sail away. Are you all right
there?"
He spoke cheerily, feeling in his own mind that it was scarcely safe for
a madman to be quite alone in a cockle-shell of a boat on a deep Fjord,
the shores of which were indented with dangerous rocks as sharp as the
bristling teeth of fabled sea-monsters, but Sigurd answered him almost
contemptuously.
"All right!" he echoed. "That is what the English say always. All right!
As if it were ever wrong with me, and the sea! We know each other,--we
do each other no harm. _You_ may die on the sea, but _I_ shall not! No,
there is another way to Valhalla!"
"Oh, I dare say there are no end of ways," said Errington
good-temperedly, still poising himself on the ladder, and holding on to
the side of his yacht, as he watched his late visitor take the oars and
move off. "Good-bye, Sigurd! Take care of yourself! Hope I shall see you
again soon."
But Sigurd replied not. Bending to the oars, he rowed swiftly and
strongly, and Sir Philip, pulling up the ladder and closing the gangway,
saw the little skiff flying over the water like a bird in the direction
of the Güldmar's landing-place. He wondered again and again what
relationship, if any, this half-crazed being bore to the _bonde_ and his
daughter. That he knew all about them was pretty evident; but how?
Catching sight of the pansies left on the deck bench, Errington took
them, and, descending to the saloon, set them on the table in a tumbler
of water.
"Thelma's thoughts, the poor little fellow called them," he mused, with
a smile. "A pretty fancy of his, and linked with the crazy imaginings of
Ophelia too. 'There's pansies, that's for thoughts,' _she_ said, but
Sigurd's idea is different; he believes they are Thelma's own thoughts
in flower. 'No rough touch has spoiled their smoothness,' he declared;
he's right there, I'm sure. And shall I ruffle the sweet leaves; shall I
crush the tender petals? or shall I simply transform them, from pansies
into roses,--from the dream of love,--into love itself?"
His eyes softened as he glanced at the drooping rose he wore, which
Thelma herself had given him, and as he went to his sleeping cabin, he
carefully detached it from his button-hole, and taking down a book,--one
which he greatly prized, because it had belonged to his mother,--he
prepared to press the flower within its leaves. It was the "Imitation of
Christ," bound quaintly and fastened with silver clasps, and as he was
about to lay his fragrant trophy on the first page that opened naturally
of itself, he glanced at the words that there presented themselves to
his eyes.
"Nothing is sweeter than love, nothing stronger, nothing higher, nothing
wider, nothing more pleasant, nothing fuller or better in heaven or in
earth!" And with a smile and a warmer flush of color than usual on his
handsome face, he touched the rose lightly yet tenderly with his lips
and shut it reverently within its sacred resting-place.