"Our manners are infinitely corrupted, and wonderfully incline to
the worse; of our customs there are many barbarous and
monstrous."
MONTAIGNE.
The next day was very warm and bright, and that pious Lutheran divine,
the Reverend Charles Dyceworthy, was seriously encumbered by his own
surplus flesh material as he wearily rowed himself across the Fjord
towards Olaf Güldmar's private pier. As the perspiration bedewed his
brow, he felt that Heaven had dealt with him somewhat too liberally in
the way of fat--he was provided too amply with it ever to excel as an
oarsman. The sun was burning hot, the water was smooth as oil, and very
weighty--it seemed to resist every stroke of his clumsily wielded
blades. Altogether it was hard, uncongenial work,--and, being rendered
somewhat flabby and nerveless by his previous evening's carouse with
Macfarlane's whisky, Mr. Dyceworthy was in a plaintive and injured frame
of mind, he was bound on a mission--a holy and edifying errand, which
would have elevated any minister of his particular sect. He had found a
crucifix with the name of Thelma engraved thereon,--he was now about to
return it to the evident rightful owner, and in returning it, he
purposed denouncing it as an emblem of the "Scarlet Woman, that sitteth
on the Seven Hills," and threatening all those who dared to hold it
sacred, as doomed to eternal torture, "where the worm dieth not." He had
thought over all he meant to say; he had planned several eloquent and
rounded sentences, some of which he murmured placidly to himself as he
propelled his slow boat along.
"Yea!" he observed in a mild sotto-voce--"ye shall be cut off root and
branch! Ye shall be scorched even as stubble,--and utterly destroyed."
Here he paused and mopped his streaming forehead with his clean perfumed
handkerchief. "Yea!" he resumed peacefully, "the worshippers of
idolatrous images are accursèd; they shall have ashes for food and gall
for drink! Let them turn and repent themselves, lest the wrath of God
consume them as straw whirled on the wind. Repent! . . . or ye shall be
cast into everlasting fire. Beauty shall avail not, learning shall avail
not, meekness shall avail not; for the fire of hell is a searching,
endless, destroying--" here Mr. Dyceworthy, by plunging one oar with too
much determination into the watery depths, caught a crab, as the saying
is, and fell violently backward in a somewhat undignified posture.
Recovering himself slowly, he looked about him in a bewildered way, and
for the first time noticed the vacant, solitary appearance of the Fjord.
Some object was missing; he realized what it was immediately--the
English yacht _Eulalie_ was gone from her point of anchorage.
"Dear me!" said Mr. Dyceworthy, half aloud, "what a very sudden
departure! I wonder, now, if those young men have gone for good, or
whether they are coming back again? Pleasant fellows, very pleasant!
flippant, perhaps, but pleasant."
And he smiled benevolently. He had no remembrance of what had occurred,
after he had emptied young Macfarlane's flask of Glenlivet; he had no
idea that he had been almost carried from his garden into his parlor,
and there flung on the sofa and left to sleep off the effects of his
strong tipple; least of all did he dream that he had betrayed any of his
intentions towards Thelma Güldmar, or given his religious opinions with
such free and undisguised candor. Blissfully ignorant on these points,
he resumed his refractory oars, and after nearly an hour of laborious
effort, succeeded at last in reaching his destination. Arrived at the
little pier, he fastened up his boat, and with the lofty air of a
thoroughly moral man, he walked deliberately up to the door of the
_bonde's_ house. Contrary to custom, it was closed, and the place seemed
strangely silent and deserted. The afternoon heat was so great that the
song-birds were hushed, and in hiding under the cool green leaves,--the
clambering roses round the porch hung down their bright heads for sheer
faintness,--and the only sounds to be heard were the subdued coo-cooing
of the doves on the roof and the soft trickling rush of a little
mountain stream that flowed through the grounds. Some what surprised,
though not abashed, at the evident "not-at-home" look of the farm-house,
Mr. Dyceworthy rapped loudly at the rough oaken door with his knuckles,
there being no such modern convenience as a bell or a knocker. He waited
sometime before he was answered, repeating his summons violently at
frequent intervals, and swearing irreligiously under his breath as he
did so. But at last the door was flung sharply open, and the
tangle-haired, rosy-cheeked Britta confronted him with an aspect which
was by no means encouraging or polite. Her round blue eyes sparkled
saucily, and she placed her bare, plump, red arms, wet with recent
soapsuds, akimbo on her sturdy little hips, with an air that was
decidedly impertinent.
"Well, what do you want?" she demanded with rude abruptness.
Mr. Dyceworthy regarded her in speechless dignity. Vouchsafing no reply,
he attempted to pass her and enter the house. But Britta settled her
arms more defiantly than ever, and her voice had a sharper ring as she
said--
"It's no use your coming in! There's no one here but me. The master has
gone out for the day."
"Young woman," returned Mr. Dyceworthy with polite severity, "I regret
to see that your manners stand in sore need of improvement. Your
master's absence is of no importance to me. It is with the Fröken Thelma
I desire to speak."
Britta laughed and tossed her rough brown curls back from her forehead.
Mischievous dimples came and went at the corners of her
mouth--indications of suppressed fun.
"The Fröken is out too," she said demurely. "It's time she had a little
amusement; and the gentlemen treat her as if she were a queen!"
Mr. Dyceworthy started, and his red visage became a trifle paler.
"Gentlemen? What gentlemen?" he demanded with some impatience.
Britta's inward delight evidently increased.
"The gentlemen from the yacht, of course," she said. "What other
_gentlemen_ are there?" This with a contemptuous up-and-down sort of
look at the Lutheran minister's portly form. "Sir Philip Errington was
here with his friend yesterday evening and stayed a long time--and today
a fine boat with four oars came to fetch the master and Fröken Thelma,
and they are all gone for a sail to the Kaa Fjord or some other place
near here--I cannot remember the name. And I am SO glad!" went on
Britta, clasping her plump hands in ecstasy. "They are the grandest,
handsomest _Herren_ I have ever seen, and one can tell they think
wonders of the Fröken--nothing is too good for her!"
Mr. Dyceworthy's face was the picture of dismay. This was a new turn to
the course of events, and one, more over, that he had never once
contemplated. Britta watched him amusedly.
"Will you leave any message for them when they return?" she asked.
"No," said the minister dubiously. "Yet, stay; yes! I will! Tell the
Fröken that I have found something which belongs to her, and that when
she wishes to have it, I will myself bring it."
Britta looked cross. "If it is hers you have no business to keep it,"
she said brusquely. "Why not leave it,--whatever it is,--with me?"
Mr. Dyceworthy regarded her with a bland and lofty air.
"I trust no concerns of mine or hers to the keeping of a paid domestic,"
he said. "A domestic, moreover, who deserts the ways of her own
people,--who hath dealings with the dwellers in darkness,--who even
bringeth herself to forget much of her own native tongue, and who
devoteth herself to--"
What he would have said was uncertain, as at that moment he was nearly
thrown down by a something that slipped agilely between his legs,
pinching each fat calf as it passed--a something that looked like a
ball, but proved to be a human creature--no other than the crazy Sigurd,
who, after accomplishing his uncouth gambol successfully, stood up,
shaking back his streaming fair locks and laughing wildly.
"Ha, ha!" he exclaimed. "That was good; that was clever! If I had upset
you now, you would have said your prayers backward! What are you here
for? This is no place for you! They are all gone out of it. _She_ has
gone--all the world is empty! There is nothing any where but air, air,
air!--no birds, no flowers, no trees, no sunshine! All gone with her on
the sparkling, singing water!" and he swung his arms round violently,
and snapped his fingers in the minister's face. "What an ugly man your
are!" he exclaimed with refreshing candor. "I think you are uglier than
I am! You are straight,--but you are like a load of peat--heavy and
barren and fit to burn. Now, I--I am the crooked bough of a tree, but I
have bright leaves where a bird hides and sings all day! You--you have
no song, no foliage; only ugly and barren and fit to burn!" He laughed
heartily, and, catching sight of Britta, where she stood in the doorway
entirely unconcerned at his eccentric behavior, he went up to her and
took hold of the corner of her apron. "Take me in, Britta dear--pretty
Britta!" he said coaxingly. "Sigurd is hungry! Britta, sweet little
Britta,--come and talk to me and sing! Good-bye, fat man!" he added
suddenly, turning round once more on Dyceworthy. "You will never
overtake the big ship that has gone away with Thelma over the water.
Thelma will come back,--yes! . . . but one day she will go never to come
back." He dropped his voice to a mysterious whisper. "Last night I saw a
little spirit come out of a rose,--he carried a tiny golden hammer and
nail, and a ball of cord like a rolled-up sunbeam. He flew away so
quickly I could not follow him; but I know where he went! He fastened
the nail in the heart of Thelma, deeply, so that the little drops of
blood flowed,--but she felt no pain; and then he tied the golden cord to
the nail and left her, carrying the other end of the string with him--to
whom? Some other heart must be pierced! Whose heart?" Sigurd looked
infinitely cunning as well as melancholy, and sighed deeply.
The Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy was impatient and disgusted.
"It is a pity," he said with an air of solemn patience, "that this
hapless creature, accursèd of God and man, is not placed in some proper
abode suitable to the treatment of his affliction. You, Britta, as the
favored servant of a--a--well, let us say, of a peculiar mistress,
should persuade her to send this--this--person away, lest his vagaries
become harmful."
Britta glanced very kindly at Sigurd, who still held her apron with the
air of a trustful child.
"He's no more harmful than you are," she said promptly, in answer to the
minister's remark. "He's a good fellow and if he talks strangely he can
make himself useful,--which is more than can be said of certain people.
He can saw and chop the wood, make hay, feed the cattle, pull a strong
oar, and sweep and keep the garden,--can't you, Sigurd?" She laid her
hand on Sigurd's shoulder, and he nodded his head emphatically, as she
enumerated his different talents. "And as for climbing,--he can guide
you anywhere over the hills, or up the streams to the big waterfalls--no
one better. And if you mean by peculiar,--that my mistress is different
to other people, why, I know she is, and am glad of it,--at any rate,
she's a great deal too kind-hearted to shut this poor boy up in a house
for madmen! He'd die if he couldn't have the fresh air." She paused, out
of breath with her rapid utterance, and Mr. Dyceworthy held up his hands
in dignified astonishment.
"You talk too glibly, young woman," he said. "It is necessary that I
should instruct you without loss of time, as to how you should be
sparing of your words in the presence of your superiors and betters--"
Bang! The door was closed with a decision that sent a sharp echo through
the silent, heated air, and Mr. Dyceworthy was left to contemplate it at
his leisure. Full of wrath, he was about to knock peremptorily and
insist that it should be re-opened; but on second thoughts he decided
that it was beneath his dignity to argue with a servant, much less with
a declared lunatic like Sigurd,--so he made the best of his way back to
his boat, thinking gloomily of the hard labor awaiting him in the long
pull back to Bosekop.
Other thoughts, too, tortured and harrassed his brain, and as he again
took the oars and plied them wearily through the water, he was in an
exceedingly unchristian humor. Though a specious hypocrite, he was no
fool. He knew the ways of men and women, and he thoroughly realized the
present position of affairs. He was quite aware of Thelma Güldmar's
exceptional beauty,--and he felt pretty certain that no man could look
upon her without admiration. But up to this time, she had been, as it
were, secluded from all eyes,--a few haymakers and fishermen were the
only persons of the male sex who had ever been within the precincts of
Olaf Güldmar's dwelling, with the exception of himself,
Dyceworthy,--who, being armed with a letter of introduction from the
actual minister of Bosekop, whose place, he, for the present, filled,
had intruded his company frequently and persistently on the _bonde_ and
his daughter, though he knew himself to be entirely unwelcome. He had
gathered together as much as he could, all the scraps of information
concerning them; how Olaf Güldmar was credited with having made away
with his wife by foul means; how nobody even knew where his wife had
come from; how Thelma had been mysteriously educated, and had learned
strange things concerning foreign lands, which no one else in the place
understood anything about; how she was reputed to be a witch, and was
believed to have cast her spells on the unhappy Sigurd, to the
destruction of his reason,--and how nobody could tell where Sigurd
himself had come from.
All this Mr. Dyceworthy had heard with much interest, and as the sensual
part of his nature was always more or less predominant, he had resolved
in his own mind that here was a field of action suitable to his
abilities. To tame and break the evil spirit in the reputed witch; to
convert her to the holy and edifying Lutheran faith; to save her soul
for the Lord, and take her beautiful body for himself; these were Mr.
Dyceworthy's laudable ambitions. There was no rival to oppose him, and
he had plenty of time to mature his plans. So he had thought. He had not
bargained for the appearance of Sir Philip Bruce Errington on the
scene,--a man, young, handsome, and well-bred, with vast wealth to back
up his pretensions, should he make any.
"How did he find her out?" thought the Reverend Charles, as he dolefully
pulled his craft along. "And that brutal pagan Güldmar, too, who
pretends he cannot endure strangers!"
And as he meditated, a flush of righteous indignation crimsoned his
flabby features.
"Let her take care," he half muttered, with a smile that was not
pleasant; "let her take care! There are more ways than one to bring down
her pride! Sir Philip Errington must be too rich and popular in his own
country to think of wishing to marry a girl who is only a farmer's
daughter after all. He may trifle with her; yes! . . . and he will help
me by so doing. The more mud on her name, the better for me; the more
disgrace, the more need of rescue, and the more grateful she will have
to be. Just a word to Ulrika,--and the scandal will spread. Patience,
patience!"
And somewhat cheered by his own reflections, though still wearing an air
of offended dignity, he rowed on, glancing up every now and then to see
if the _Eulalie_ had returned, but her place was still empty.
Meanwhile, as he thought and planned, other thoughts and plans were
being discussed at a meeting which was held in a little ruined stone
hut, situated behind some trees on a dreary hill just outside Bosekop.
It was a miserable place, barren of foliage,--the ground was dry and
yellow, and the hut itself looked as if it had been struck by lightning.
The friends, whose taste had led them to select this dilapidated
dwelling as a place of conference, were two in number, both women,--one
of them no other than the minister's servant, the drear-faced Ulrika.
She was crouched on the earth-floor in an attitude of utter abasement,
at the feet of her companion,--an aged dame of tall and imposing
appearance, who, standing erect, looked down upon her with an air of
mingled contempt and malevolence. The hut was rather dark, for the roof
was not sufficiently destroyed to have the advantage of being open to
the sky. The sunlight fell through holes of different shapes and
sizes,--one specially bright patch of radiance illumining the stately
form, and strongly marked, though withered features of the elder woman,
whose eyes, deeply sunken in her head, glittered with a hawk-like and
evil lustre, as they rested on the prostrate figure before her. When she
spoke, her accents were harsh and commanding.
"How long?" she said, "how long must I wait? How long must I watch the
work of Satan in the land? The fields are barren and will not bring
forth; the curse of bitter poverty is upon us all: and only he, the
pagan Güldmar, prospers and gathers in harvest, while all around him
starve! Do I not know the devil's work when I see it,--I, the chosen
servant of the Lord?" And she struck a tall staff she held violently
into the ground to emphasize her words. "Am I not left deserted in my
age? The child Britta,--sole daughter of my sole daughter,--is she not
stolen, and kept from me? Has not her heart been utterly turned away
from mine? All through that vile witch,--accursèd of God and man! She it
is who casts the blight on our land; she it is who makes the hands and
hearts of our men heavy and careless, so that even luck has left the
fishing; and yet you hesitate,--you delay, you will not fulfill your
promise! I tell you, there are those in Bosekop who, at my bidding,
would cast her naked into the Fjord, leave her there, to sink or swim
according to her nature!"
"I know," murmured Ulrika humbly, raising herself slightly from her
kneeling posture; "I know it well! . . . . but, good Lovisa, be patient!
I work for the best! Mr. Dyceworthy will do more for us than we can do
for ourselves; he is wise and cautious--"
Lovisa interrupted her with a fierce gesture. "Fool!" she cried. "What
need of caution? A witch is a witch, burn her, drown her! There is no
other remedy! But two days since, the child of my neighbor Engla passed
her on the Fjord; and now the boy has sickened of some strange disease,
and 'tis said he will die. Again, the drove of cattle owned by Hildmar
Bjorn were herded home when she passed by. Now they are seized by the
murrain plague! Tell your good saint Dyceworthy these things; if he can
find no cure, _I_ can,--and _will_!"
Ulrika shuddered slightly as she rose from the ground and stood erect,
drawing her shawl closely about her.
"You hate her so much, Lovisa?" she asked, almost timidly.
Lovisa's face darkened, and her yellow, claw-like hand closed round her
strong staff in a cruel and threatening manner.
"Hate her!" she muttered, "I have hated her ever since she was born! I
hated her mother before her! A nest of devils, every one of them; and
the curse will always be upon us while they dwell here."
She paused and looked at Ulrika steadily.
"Remember!" she said, with an evil leer on her lips, "I hold a secret of
yours that is worth the keeping! I give you two weeks more; within that
time you must act! Destroy the witch,--bring back to me my grandchild
Britta, or else--it will be _my_ turn!"
And she laughed silently. Ulrika's face grew paler, and the hand that
grasped the folds of her shawl trembled violently. She made an effort,
however, to appear composed, as she answered--"I have sworn to obey you,
Lovisa,--and I will. But tell me one thing--how do you know that Thelma
Güldmar is indeed a witch?"
"How do I know?" almost yelled Lovisa. "Have I lived all these years for
nothing? Look at her! Am _I_ like her? Are _you_ like her? Are any of
the honest women of the neighborhood like her? Meet her on the hills
with knives and pins,--prick her, and see if the blood will flow! I
swear it will not--not one drop! Her skin is too white; there is no
blood in those veins--only fire! Look at the pink in her cheeks,--the
transparency of her flesh,--the glittering light in her eyes, the gold
of her hair, it is all devil's work, it is not human, it is not natural!
I have watched her,--I used to watch her mother, and curse her every
time I saw her--ay! curse her till I was breathless with cursing--"
She stopped abruptly. Ulrika gazed at her with as much wonder as her
plain, heavy face was capable of expressing. Lovisa saw the look and
smiled darkly.
"One would think _you_ had never known what love is!" she said, with a
sort of grim satire in her tone. "Yet even your dull soul was on fire
once! But I--when I was young, I had beauty such as you never had, and I
loved--Olaf Güldmar."
Ulrika uttered an exclamation of astonishment. "You! and yet you hate
him now?"
Lovisa raised her hand with an imperious gesture.
"I have grown hate like a flower in my breast," she said, with a sort of
stern impressiveness. "I have fostered it year after year, and now,--it
has grown too strong for me! When Olaf Güldmar was young he told me I
was fair; once he kissed my cheek at parting! For those words,--for that
kiss,--I loved him then--for the same things I hate him now! When I know
he had married, I cursed him; on the day of my own marriage with a man I
despised, I cursed him! I have followed him and all his surroundings
with more curses than there are hours in the day! I have had some little
revenge--yes!"--and she laughed grimly--"but I want more! For Britta has
been caught by his daughter's evil spell. Britta is mine, and I must
have her back. Understand me well!--do what you have to do without
delay! Surely it is an easy thing to ruin a woman!"
Ulrika stood as though absorbed in meditation, and said nothing for some
moments. At last she murmured as though to herself--
"Mr. Dyceworthy could do much--if--"
"Ask him, then," said Lovisa imperatively. "Tell him the village is in
fear of her. Tell him that if he will do nothing _we_ will. And if all
fails, come to me again; and remember! . . . I shall not only act,--I
shall _speak_!"
And emphasizing the last word as a sort of threat, she turned and strode
out of the hut.
Ulrika followed more slowly, taking a different direction to that in
which her late companion was seen rapidly disappearing. On returning to
the minister's dwelling, she found that Mr. Dyceworthy had not yet come
back from his boating excursion. She gave no explanation of her absence
to her two fellow-servants, but went straight up to her own room--a bare
attic in the roof--where she deliberately took off her dress and bared
her shoulders and breast. Then she knelt down on the rough boards, and
clasping her hands, began to writhe and wrestle as though she were
seized with a sudden convulsion. She groaned and tortured the tears from
her eyes; she pinched her own flesh till it was black and blue, and
scratched it with her nails till it bled,--and she prayed inaudibly, but
with evident desperation. Sometimes her gestures were frantic, sometimes
appealing; but she made no noise that was loud enough to attract
attention from any of the dwellers in the house. Her stolid features
were contorted with anguish,--and had she been an erring nun of the
creed she held in such bitter abhorrence, who, for some untold crime,
endured a self-imposed penance, she could not have punished her own
flesh much more severely.
She remained some quarter of an hour or twenty minutes thus; then rising
from her knees, she wiped the tears from her eyes and re-clothed
herself,--and with her usual calm, immovable aspect--though smarting
from the injuries she had inflicted on herself--she descended to the
kitchen, there to prepare Mr. Dyceworthy's tea with all the punctilious
care and nicety befitting the meal of so good a man and so perfect a
saint.