"Why, sir, in the universal game of double-dealing, shall not the
cleverest tricksters play each other false by haphazard, and so
betray their closest secrets, to their own and their friends'
infinite amazement?"--CONGREVE.
When Olaf Güldmar and his daughter left the yacht that evening,
Errington accompanied them, in order to have the satisfaction of
escorting his beautiful betrothed as far as her own door. They were all
three very silent--the _bonde_ was pensive, Thelma shy, and Errington
himself was too happy for speech. Arriving at the farmhouse, they saw
Sigurd curled up under the porch, playing idly with the trailing
rose-branches, but, on hearing their footsteps, he looked up, uttered a
wild exclamation, and fled. Güldmar tapped his own forehead
significantly.
"He grows worse and worse, the poor lad!" he said somewhat sorrowfully.
"And yet there is a strange mingling of foresight and wit with his wild
fancies. Wouldst thou believe it, Thelma, child," and here he turned to
his daughter and encircled her waist with his arm--"he seemed to know
how matters were with thee and Philip, when I was yet in the dark
concerning them!"
This was the first allusion her father had made to her engagement, and
her head drooped with a sort of sweet shame.
"Nay, now, why hide thy face?" went on the old man cheerily. "Didst thou
think I would grudge my bird her summer-time? Not I! And little did I
hope for thee, my darling, that thou wouldst find a shelter worthy of
thee in this wild world!" He paused a moment, looking tenderly down upon
her, as she nestled in mute affection against his breast,--then
addressing himself to Errington, he went on--
"We have a story in our Norse religion, my lad, of two lovers who
declared their passion to each other, on one stormy night in the depth
of winter. They were together in a desolate hut on the mountains, and
around them lay unbroken tracts of frozen snow. They were descended from
the gods, and therefore the gods protected them--and it happened that
after they had sworn their troth, the doors of the snow-bound hut flew
suddenly open, and lo! the landscape had changed--the hills were gay
with grass and flowers,--the sky was blue and brilliant, the birds sang,
and everywhere was heard the ripple of waters let loose from their icy
fetters, and gamboling down the rocks in the joyous sun. This was the
work of the goddess Friga,--the first kiss exchanged by the lovers she
watched over, banished Winter from the land, and Spring came instead.
'Tis a pretty story, and true all the world over--true for all men and
women of all creeds! It must be an ice-bound heart indeed that will not
warm to the touch of love--and mine, though aged, grows young again in
the joy of my children." He put his daughter gently from him to-wards
Philip, saying with more gravity, "Go to him, child!--go--with thy old
father's blessing! And take with thee the three best virtues of a
wife,--truth, humility, and obedience. Good night, my son!" and he wrung
Errington's hand with fervor. "You'll take longer to say good night to
Thelma," and he laughed, "so I'll go in and leave you to it!"
And with a good-natured nod, he entered the house whistling a tune as he
went, that they might not think he imagined himself lonely or
neglected,--and the two lovers paced slowly up and down the garden-path
together, exchanging those first confidences which to outsiders seem so
eminently foolish, but which to those immediately concerned are most
wonderful, delightful, strange, and enchanting beyond all description.
Where, from a practical point of view, is the sense of such questions as
these--"When did you love me first?" "What did you feel when I said
so-and-so?" "Have you dreamt of me often?" "Will you love me always,
always, always?" and so on _ad infinitum_. "Ridiculous rubbish!"
exclaims the would-be strong-minded, but secretly savage old maid,--and
the selfishly matter-of-fact, but privately fidgety and lonely old
bachelor. Ah! but there are those who could tell you that at one time or
another of their lives this "ridiculous rubbish" seemed far more
important than the decline and fall of empires,--more necessary to
existence than light and air,--more fraught with hope, fear, suspense,
comfort, despair, and anxiety than anything that could be invented or
imagined! Philip and Thelma,--man and woman in the full flush of youth,
health, beauty, and happiness,--had just entered their Paradise,--their
fairy-garden,--and every little flower and leaf on the way had special,
sweet interest for them. Love's indefinable glories,--Love's proud
possibilities,--Love's long ecstasies,--these, like so many
spirit-figures, seemed to smile and beckon them on, on, on, through
golden seas of sunlight,--through flower-filled fields of drowsy
entrancement,--through winding ways of rose-strewn and lily-scented
leafage,--on, on, with eyes and hearts absorbed in one another,--unseeing
any end to the dreamlike wonders that, like some heavenly picture-scroll,
unrolled slowly and radiantly before them. And so they murmured those
unwise, tender things which no wisdom in the world has ever surpassed,
and when Philip at last said "Good night!" with more reluctance than
Romeo, and pressed his parting kiss on his love's sweet, fresh
mouth,--the riddle with which he had puzzled himself so often was
resolved at last,--life _was_ worth living, worth cherishing, worth
ennobling. The reason of all things seemed clear to him,--Love, and Love
only, supported, controlled, and grandly completed the universe! He
accepted this answer to all perplexities,--his heart expanded with a
sense of large content--his soul was satisfied.
Meanwhile, during his friend's absence from the yacht, Lorimer took it
upon himself to break the news to Duprèz and Macfarlane. These latter
young gentlemen had had their suspicions already, but they were not
quite prepared to hear them so soon confirmed. Lorimer told the matter
in his own way.
"I say, you fellows!" he remarked carelessly, as he sat smoking in their
company on deck, "you'd better look out! If you stare at Miss Güldmar
too much, you'll have Phil down upon you!"
"Ha, ha!" exclaimed Duprèz slyly, "the dear Phil-eep is in love?"
"Something more than that," said Lorimer, looking absently at the
cigarette he held between his fingers,--"he's an engaged man."
"Engaged!" cried Macfarlane excitedly. "Ma certes! He has the deevil's
own luck! He's just secured for himself the grandest woman in the
warld!"
"_Je le crois bien!_" said Duprèz gravely, nodding his head several
times. "Phil-eep is a wise boy! He is the fortunate one! I am not for
marriage at all--no! not for myself,--it is to tie one's hands, to
become a prisoner,--and that would not suit me; but if I were inclined
to captivity, I should like Mademoiselle Güldmar for my beautiful
gaoler. And beautiful she is, _mon Dieu!_ . . . beyond all comparison!"
Lorimer was silent, so was Macfarlane. After a pause Duprèz spoke again.
"And do you know, _cher_ Lorimer, when our Phil-eep will marry?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," returned Lorimer. "I know he's engaged,
that's all."
Suddenly Macfarlane broke into a chuckling laugh.
"I say, Lorimer," he said, with his deep-set, small grey eyes sparkling
with mischief. "'Twould be grand fun to see auld Dyceworthy's face when
he hears o't. By the Lord! He'll fall to cursin' an' swearin' like ma
pious aunt in Glasgie, or that auld witch that cursed Miss Thelma
yestreen!"
"An eminently unpleasant old woman _she_ was!" said Lorimer musingly. "I
wonder what she meant by it!"
"She meant, _mon cher_," said Duprèz airily, "that she knew herself to
be ugly and venerable, while Mademoiselle was youthful and
ravishing,--it is a sufficient reason to excite profanity in the mind of
a lady!"
"Here comes Errington!" said Macfarlane, pointing to the approaching
boat that was coming swiftly back from the Güldmars' pier. "Lorimer, are
we to congratulate him?"
"If you like!" returned Lorimer. "I dare say he won't object."
So that as soon as Sir Philip set foot on the yacht, his hands were
cordially grasped, and his friends out-vied each other in good wishes
for his happiness. He thanked them simply and with a manly
straightforwardness, entirely free from the usual affected embarrassment
that some modern young men think it seemly to adopt under similar
circumstances.
"The fact is," he said frankly, "I congratulate myself,--I'm more lucky
than I deserve, I know!"
"What a sensation she will make in London, Phil!" said Lorimer suddenly.
"I've just thought of it! Good Heavens! Lady Winsleigh will cry for
sheer spite and vexation!"
Philip laughed. "I hope not," he said. "I should think it would need
immense force to draw a tear from her ladyship's cold bright eyes."
"She used to like you awfully, Phil!" said Lorimer. "You were a great
favorite of hers."
"All men are her favorites with the exception of one--her husband!"
observed Errington gaily. "Come along, let's have some champagne to
celebrate the day! We'll propose toasts and drink healths--we've got a
fair excuse for jollity this evening."
They all descended into the saloon, and had a merry time of it, singing
songs and telling good stories, Lorimer being the gayest of the party,
and it was long past midnight when they retired to their cabins, without
even looking at the wonders of, perhaps, the most gorgeous sky that had
yet shone on their travels--a sky of complete rose-color, varying from
the deepest shade up to the palest, in which the sun glowed with a
subdued radiance like an enormous burning ruby.
Thelma saw it, standing under her house-porch, where her father had
joined her,--Sigurd saw it,--he had come out from some thicket where he
had been hiding, and he now sat, in a humble, crouching posture at
Thelma's feet. All three were silent, reverently watching the spreading
splendor of the heavens. Once Güldmar addressed his daughter in a soft
tone.
"Thou are happy, my bird?"
She smiled--the expression of her face was almost divine in its rapture.
"Perfectly happy, my father!"
At the sound of her dulcet voice, Sigurd looked up. His large blue eyes
were full of tears, he took her hand and held it in his meagre and
wasted one.
"Mistress!" he said suddenly, "do you think I shall soon die?"
She turned her pitying eyes down upon him, startled by the vibrating
melancholy of his tone.
"Thou wilt die, Sigurd," answered Güldmar gently, "when the gods
please,--not one second sooner or later. Art thou eager to see
Valhalla?"
Sigurd nodded dreamily. "They will understand me there!" he murmured.
"And I shall grow straight and strong and brave! Mistress, if you meet
me in Valhalla, you will love me!"
She stroked his wild fair locks. "I love you now, Sigurd," she said
tenderly. "But perhaps we shall all love each other better in heaven."
"Yes, yes!" exclaimed Sigurd, patting her hand caressingly. "When we are
all dead, dead! When our bodies crumble away and turn to flowers and
birds and butterflies,--and our souls come out like white and red
flames,--yes! . . . then we shall love each other and talk of such
strange, strange things!" He paused and laughed wildly. Then his voice
sank again into melancholy monotony--and he added: "Mistress, you are
killing poor Sigurd!"
Thelma's face grow very earnest and anxious. "Are you vexed with me,
dear?" she asked soothingly. "Tell me what it is that troubles you?"
Sigurd met her eyes with a look of speechless despair and shook his
head.
"I cannot tell you!" he muttered. "All my thoughts have gone to drown
themselves one by one in the cold sea! My heart was buried yesterday,
and I saw it sealed down into its coffin. There is something of me
left,--something that dances before me like a flame,--but it will not
rest, it does not obey me. I call it, but it will not come! And I am
getting tired, mistress--very, very tired!" His voice broke, and a low
sob escaped him,--he hid his face in the folds of her dress. Güldmar
looked at the poor fellow compassionately.
"The wits wander further and further away!" he said to his daughter in a
low tone. "'Tis a mind like a broken rainbow, split through by
storm--'twill soon vanish. Be patient with him, child,--it cannot be for
long!"
"No, not for long!" cried Sigurd, raising his head brightly. "That is
true--not for long! Mistress, will you come to-morrow with me and gather
flowers? You used to love to wander with your poor boy in the
fields,--but you have forgotten,--and I cannot find any blossoms without
you! They will not show themselves unless you come! Will you? dear,
beautiful mistress! will you come?"
She smiled, pleased to see him a little more cheerful. "Yes, Sigurd,"
she said; "I will come. We will go together early to-morrow morning and
gather all the flowers we can find. Will that make you happy?"
"Yes!" he said, softly kissing the hem of her dress. "It will make me
happy--for the last time."
Then he rose in an attitude of attention, as though he had been called
by some one at a distance,--and with a grave, preoccupied air he moved
away, walking on tip-toe as though he feared to interrupt the sound of
some soft invisible music. Güldmar sighed as he watched him disappear.
"May the gods make us thankful for a clear brain when we have it!" he
said devoutly; and then turning to his daughter, he bade her good night,
and laid his hands on her golden head in silent but fervent blessing.
"Child," he said tremulously, "in the new joys that await thee, never
forget how thy old father loves thee!"
Then, not trusting himself to say more, he strode into the house and
betook himself to slumber. Thelma followed his example, and the old
farmhouse was soon wrapped in the peace and stillness of the strange
night--a night of glittering sunshine. Sigurd alone was wakeful,--he lay
at the foot of one of the tallest pine-trees, and stared persistently at
the radiant sky through the network of dark branches. Now and then he
smiled as though he saw some beatific vision--sometimes he plucked
fitfully at the soft long moss on which he had made his couch, and
sometimes he broke into a low, crooning song. God alone knew the broken
ideas, the dim fancies, the half born desires, that glimmered like pale
ghosts in the desert of his brain,--God alone, in the great Hereafter,
could solve the problem of his sorrows and throw light on his soul's
darkness.
It was past six in the morning when he arose, and smoothing back his
tangled locks, went to Thelma's window and sat down beneath it, in mute
expectancy. He had not long to wait,--at the expiration of ten or
fifteen minutes, the little lattice was thrown wide open, and the girl's
face, fresh as a rose, framed in a shower of amber locks, smiled down
upon him.
"I am coming, Sigurd!" she cried softly and joyously. "How lovely the
morning is! Stay for me there! I shall not be long."
And she disappeared, leaving her window open. Sigurd heard her singing
little scraps of song to herself, as she moved about in the interior of
her room. He listened, as though his soul were drawn out of him by her
voice,--but presently the rich notes ceased, and there was a sudden
silence. Sigurd knew or guessed the reason of that hush,--Thelma was at
her prayers. Instinctively the poor forlorn lad folded his wasted
hands--most piteously and most imploringly he raised his bewildered eyes
to the blue and golden glory of the sky. His conception of God was
indefinable; his dreams of heaven, chaotic minglings of fairy-land with
Valhalla,--but he somehow felt that wherever Thelma's holy aspirations
turned, there the angels must be listening.
Presently she came out of the house, looking radiant as the morning
itself,--her luxuriant hair was thrown back over her shoulders, and fell
loosely about her in thick curls, simply confined by a knot of blue
ribbon. She carried a large osier basket, capacious, and gracefully
shaped.
"Now, Sigurd," she called sweetly, "I am ready! Where shall we go?"
Sigurd hastened to her side, happy and smiling.
"Across there," he said, pointing toward the direction of Bosekop.
"There is a stream under the trees that laughs to itself all day--you
know it, mistress? And the poppies are in the field as you go--and by
the banks there are the heart's-ease flowers--we cannot have too many of
_them_! Shall we go?"
"Wherever you like, dear," answered Thelma tenderly, looking down from
her stately height on the poor stunted creature at her side, who held
her dress as though he were a child clinging to her as his sole means of
guidance. "All the land is pleasant to-day."
They left the farm and its boundaries. A few men were at work on one of
Güldmar's fields, and these looked up,--half in awe, half in fear,--as
Thelma and her fantastic servitor passed along.
"'Tis a fine wench!" said one man, resting on his spade, and following
with his eyes the erect, graceful figure of his employer's daughter.
"Maybe, maybe!" said another gruffly; "but a fine wench is a snare of
the devil! Do ye mind what Lovisa Elsland told us?"
"Ay, ay," answered the first speaker, "Lovisa knows,--Lovisa is the
wisest woman we have in these parts--that's true! The girl's a witch,
for sure!"
And they resumed their work in gloomy silence. Not one of them would
have willingly labored on Olaf Güldmar's land, had not the wages he
offered been above the usual rate of hire,--and times were bad in
Norway. But otherwise, the superstitious fear of him was so great that
his fields might have gone untilled and his crops ungathered,--however,
as matters stood, none of them could deny that he was a good paymaster,
and just in his dealings with those whom he employed.
Thelma and Sigurd took their way in silence across a perfumed stretch of
meadow-land,--the one naturally fertile spot in that somewhat barren
district. Plenty of flowers blossomed at their feet, but they did not
pause to gather these, for Sigurd was anxious to get to the stream where
the purple pansies grew. They soon reached it--it was a silvery clear
ribbon of water that unrolled itself in bright folds, through green,
transparent tunnels of fern and waving grass--leaping now and then with
a swift dash over a smooth block of stone or jagged rock--but for the
most part gliding softly, with a happy, self-satisfied murmur, as though
it were some drowsy spirit dreaming joyous dreams. Here nodded the
grave, purple-leaved pansies,--legendary consolers of the heart,--their
little, quaint, expressive physiognomies turned in every direction; up
to the sky, as though absorbing the sunlight,--down to the ground, with
an almost severe air of meditation, or curled sideways on their stems in
a sort of sly reflectiveness.
Sigurd was among them at once--they were his friends,--his playmates,
his favorites,--and he gathered them quickly, yet tenderly, murmuring as
he did so, "Yes, you must all die; but death does not hurt; no! life
hurts, but not death! See! as I pluck you, you all grow wings and fly
away--away to other meadows, and bloom again." He paused, and a puzzled
look came into his eyes. He turned toward Thelma, who had seated herself
on a little knoll just above the stream, "Tell me, mistress," he said,
"do the flowers go to heaven?"
She smiled. "I think so, dear Sigurd," she said; "I hope so! I am almost
sure they do."
Sigurd nodded with an air of satisfaction.
"That is right," he observed. "It would never do to leave them behind,
you know! They would be missed, and we should have to come down again
and fetch them--" A crackling among the branches of some trees startled
him,--he looked round, and uttered a peculiar cry like the cry of a wild
animal, and exclaimed, "Spies, spies! ha! ha! secret, wicked faces that
are afraid to show themselves! Come out! Mistress, mistress! make them
come out!"
Thelma rose, surprised as his gesticulations, and came towards him; to
her utter astonishment she found herself confronted by old Lovisa
Elsland, and the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy's servant, Ulrika. On both
women's faces there was a curious expression of mingled fear, triumph,
and malevolence. Lovisa was the first to break silence.
"At last!" she croaked, in a sort of slow, monotonous tone "At last,
Thelma Güldmar, the Lord has delivered you into my hands!"
Thelma drew Sigurd close to her, and slipped one arm around him.
"Poor soul!" she said softly, with sweet pitying eyes fixed fearlessly
on the old hag's withered, evil visage. "You must be tired, wandering
about on the hills as you do! If you are her friend," she added,
addressing Ulrika, "why do you not make her rest at home and keep warm?
She is so old and feeble!"
"Feeble!" shrieked Lovisa; "feeble!" And she seemed choking with
passion. "If I had my fingers at your throat, you should then see if I
am feeble! I--" Ulrika pulled her by the arm, and whispered something
which had the effect of calming her a little. "Well," she said, "you
speak then! I can wait!"
Ulrika cleared her husky voice, and fixed her dull eyes on the girl's
radiant countenance.
"You must go away," she said coldly and briefly; "You and your father,
and this creature," and she pointed contemptuously to the staring
Sigurd. "Do you understand? You must leave the Alten Fjord. The people
are tired of you--tired of bad harvests, ill-luck, sickness, and
continued poverty. You are the cause of all our miseries,--and we have
resolved you shall not stay among us. Go quickly,--take the blight and
pestilence of your presence elsewhere! Go! or if you will not--"
"We shall burn, burn, burn, and utterly destroy!" interrupted Lovisa,
with a sort of eldritch shriek. "The strong pine rafters of Olaf
Güldmar's dwelling shall be kindled into flame to light the hills with
crimson, far and near! Not a plank shall be spared!--not a vestige of
his pride be left--"
"Stop!" said Thelma quietly. "What do you mean? You must both be very
mad or very wicked! You want us to go away--you threaten to set fire to
our home--why? We have done you no harm. Tell me, poor soul!" and she
turned with queenly forbearance to Lovisa, "is it for Britta's sake that
you would burn the house she lives in? That is not wise! You cursed me
the other day,--and why? What have I done that you should hate me?"
The old woman regarded her with steadfast, cruel eyes.
"You are your mother's child!" she said. "I hated her--I hate you! You
are a witch!--the village knows it--Mr. Dyceworthy knows it! Mr.
Dyceworthy says we shall be justified in the Lord's sight for wreaking
evil upon you! Evil, evil be on those of evil deeds!"
"Then shall the evil fall on Mr. Dyceworthy," said the girl calmly. "He
is wicked in himself,--and doubly wicked to encourage _you_ in
wickedness. He is ignorant and false--why do you believe in such a man?"
"He is a saint--a saint!" cried Lovisa wildly. "And shall the daughter
of Satan withstand his power?" And she clapped her hands in a sort of
fierce ecstasy.
Thelma glanced at her pityingly and smiled. "A saint! Poor thing, how
little you know him!" she said. "And it is a pity you should hate me,
for I have done you no wrong. I would do good to all if I knew
how,--tell me can I comfort you, or make your life more cheerful? It
must be hard to be so old and all alone!"
"Your death would comfort me!" returned Lovisa grimly. "Why do you keep
Britta from me?"
"I do not keep her," Thelma answered. "She stays with me because she is
happy. Why do you grudge her, her happiness? And as for burning my
father's house, surely you would not do so wicked and foolish a
thing!--but still, you must do as you choose, for it is not possible
that we shall leave the Altenfjord to please you."
Here Ulrika started forward angrily. "You defy us!" she cried. "You will
not go?" And in her excitement she seized Thelma's arm roughly.
This action was too much for Sigurd; he considered it an attack on the
person of his beloved mistress and he resented it at once in his own
fashion. Throwing himself on Ulrika with sudden ferocity, he pushed and
beat her back as though he were a wolf-hound struggling with refractory
prey; and though the ancient Lovisa rushed to the rescue, and Thelma
imploringly called upon her zealous champion to desist,--all
remonstrances were unavailing, till Sigurd had reduced his enemy to the
most abject and whimpering terror.
"A demon--a demon!" she sobbed and moaned, as the valiant dwarf at last
released her from his clutches; and, tossing his long, fair locks over
his misshapen shoulders, laughed loudly and triumphantly with delight at
his victory. "Lovisa! Lovisa Elsland! this is your doing; you brought
this upon me! I may die now, and you will not care! O Lord, Lord, have
mercy--"
Suddenly she stopped; her eyes dilated,--her face grew grey with the
sickening pallor of fear. Slowly she raised her hand and pointed to
Sigurd--his fantastic dress had become disordered in the affray, and his
jacket was torn open,--and on his bare chest a long red scar in the
shape of a cross was distinctly visible. "That scar!" she muttered. "How
did he get that scar?"
Lovisa stared at her in impatient derision. Thelma was too surprised to
answer immediately, and Sigurd took it upon himself to furnish what he
considered a crushing reply.
"Odin's mark!" he said, patting the scar with much elation. "No wonder
you are afraid of it! Everybody knows it--birds, flowers, trees, and
stars! Even you--you are afraid!"
And he laughed again, and snapped his fingers in her face. The woman
shuddered violently. Step by step she drew near to the wondering Thelma,
and spoke in low and trembling accents, without a trace of her former
anger.
"They say you are wicked," she said slowly, "and that the devil has your
soul ready, before you are dead! But I am not afraid of you. No; I will
forgive you, and pray for you, if you will tell me, . . ." She paused,
and then continued, as with a strong effort. "Yes--tell me _who_ is this
Sigurd?"
"Sigurd is a foundling," answered Thelma simply. "He was floating about
in the Fjord in a basket, and my father saved him. He was quite a baby.
He had this scar on his chest then. He has lived with us ever since."
Ulrika looked at her searchingly,--then bent her head,--whether in
gratitude or despair it was difficult to say.
"Lovisa Elsland," she said monotonously, "I am going home. I cannot help
you any longer! I am tired--ill." Here she suddenly broke down, and,
throwing up her arms with a wild gesture, she cried, "O God, God! O
God!" and burst into a stormy passion of sobs and tears.
Thelma, touched by her utter misery, would have offered consolation, but
Lovisa repelled her with a fierce gesture.
"Go!" said the old woman harshly. "You have cast your spells upon her--I
am witness of your work! And shall you escape just punishment? No; not
while there is a God in heaven, and I, Lovisa Elsland, live to perform
His bidding! Go,--white devil that you are!--go and carry misfortune
upon misfortune to your fine gentleman-lover! Ah!" and she chuckled
maliciously as the girl recoiled from her, her proud face growing
suddenly paler, "have I touched you there? Lie in his breast, and it
shall be as though a serpent stung him,--kiss his lips, and your touch
shall be poison,--live in doubt, and die in misery! Go! and may all evil
follow you!"
She raised her staff and waved it majestically, as though she drew a
circle in the air,--Thelma smiled pityingly, but deigned no answer to
her wild ravings.
"Come, Sigurd!" she said simply, "let us return home. It is growing
late--father will wonder where we are."
"Yes, yes," agreed Sigurd, seizing the basket full of the pansies he had
plucked. "The sunshine is slipping away, and we cannot live with
shadows! These are not real women, mistress; they are dreams--black
dreams,--I have often fought with dreams, and I know how to make them
afraid! See how the one weeps because she knows me,--and the other is
just going to fall into a grave. I can hear the clods thrown on her
head--thump--thump! It does not take long to bury a dream! Come,
mistress, let us follow the sunshine!"
And, taking the hand she extended towards him, he turned away, looking
back once, however, to call out loudly--
"Good-bye, bad dreams!"
As they disappeared behind the trees, Lovisa turned angrily to the
still-sobbing Ulrika.
"What is this folly?" she exclaimed, striking her staff fiercely into
the ground. "Art mad or bewitched?"
Ulrika looked up,--her plain face swollen and stained with weeping.
"O Lord, have mercy upon me! O Lord, forgive me!" she moaned. "I did not
know it--how _could_ I know?"
Lovisa grew so impatient that she seized her by the shoulder and shook
her violently.
"Know what?" she cried; "know what?"
"Sigurd is my son!" said Ulrika, with a sort of solemn
resignation,--then, with a sudden gesture, she threw her hands above her
head, crying, "My son, my son! The child I thought I had killed! The
Lord be praised I did not murder him!"
Lovisa Elsland seemed stupefied with surprise. "Is this the truth?" she
asked at last, slowly and incredulously.
"The truth, the truth!" cried Ulrika passionately. "It is always the
truth that comes to light! He is my child, I tell you! . . . I gave him
that scar!" She paused, shuddering, and continued in a lower tone, "I
tried to kill him with a knife, but when the blood flowed, it sickened
me, and I could not! He was an infant abortion--the evil fruit of an
evil deed--and I threw him out to the waves,--as I told you, long ago.
You have had good use of my confession, Lovisa Elsland; you have held me
in your power by means of my secret, but now--"
The old woman interrupted her with a low laugh of contempt and malice.
"As the parents are, so are the children!" she said scornfully. "Your
lover must have been a fine man, Ulrika, if the son is like his father!"
Ulrika glared at her vengefully, then drew herself up with an air of
defiance.
"I care nothing for your taunts, Lovisa Elsland!" she said. "You can do
me no harm! All is over between us! I will help in no mischief against
the Güldmars. Whatever their faults, they saved--my child!"
"Is that so great a blessing?" asked Lovisa ironically.
"It makes your threats useless," answered Ulrika. "You cannot call me
_murderess_ again!"
"Coward and fool!" shrieked Lovisa. "Was it _your_ intent that the child
should live? Were you not glad to think it dead? And cannot I spread the
story of your infamy through all the villages where you are known? Is
not the wretched boy himself a living witness of the attempt you made to
kill him? Does not that scar speak against you? Would not Olaf Güldmar
relate the story of the child's rescue to any one that asked him? Would
you like all Bosekop to know of your intrigue with an escaped criminal,
who was afterwards caught and hung! The virtuous Ulrika--the zealous
servant of the Gospel--the pious, praying Ulrika!" and the old woman
trembled with rage and excitement. "Out of my power? Never, never! As
long as there is breath in my body I will hold you down! _Not_ a
murderess, you say--?"
"No," said Ulrika very calmly, with a keen look, "I am _not_--but you
_are_!"