Thelma Part 34

Meanwhile the imperial sun rode majestically downwards to the edge of the horizon,--and the sky blushed into the pale tint of a wild rose, that deepened softly and steadily with an ever-increasing fiery brilliance as the minutes glided noiselessly on to the enchanted midnight hour. A wind began to rustle mysteriously among the pines--then gradually growing wrathful, strove to whistle a loud defiance to the roar of the tumbling waters. Through the little nooks and crannies of the roughly constructed cabin, where the travellers slept, it uttered small wild shrieks of warning or dismay--and, suddenly, as though touched by an invisible hand, Sir Philip awoke. A crimson glare streaming through the open door dazzled his drowsy eyes--was it a forest on fire? He started up in dreamy alarm,--then remembered where he was.

Realizing that there must be an exceptionally fine sky to cast so ruddy a reflection on the ground, he threw on his cloak and went outside.

What a wondrous, almost unearthly scene greeted him! His first impulse was to shout aloud in sheer ecstasy--his next to stand silent in reverential awe. The great Fall was no longer a sweeping flow of white foam--it had changed to a sparkling shower of rubies, as though some great genie, tired of his treasures, were flinging them away by giant handfuls, in the most reckless haste and lavish abundance. From the bottom of the cascade a crimson vapor arose, like smoke from flame, and the whirling rapids, deeply red for the most part, darkened here and there into an olive-green flecked with gold, while the spray, tossed high over interrupting rocks and boulders, glittered as it fell like, small fragments of broken opal. The sky was of one dense uniform rose-color from west to east,--soft and s.h.i.+mmering as a broad satin pavilion freshly unrolled,--the sun was invisible, hidden behind the adjacent mountains, but his rays touched some peaks in the distance, on which white wreaths of snow lay, bringing them into near and sparkling prominence.

The whole landscape was transformed--the tall trees, rustling and swaying in the now boisterous wind, took all flickering tints of color on their trunks and leaves,--the grey stones and pebbles turned to lumps of gold and heaps of diamonds, and on the other side of the rapids, a large tuft of heather in a cleft of the rocks glowed with extraordinary vividness and warmth, like a suddenly kindled fire. A troop of witches dancing wildly on the sward,--a ring of fairies,--kelpies tripping from crag to crag,--a sudden chorus of sweet-voiced water-nymphs--nothing unreal or fantastical would have surprised Errington at that moment.

Indeed, he almost expected something of the kind--the scene was so eminently fitted for it.

"Positively, I must wake Lorimer," he thought to himself. "He oughtn't to miss such a gorgeous spectacle as this."

He moved a little more in position to view the Fall. What was that small dark object running swiftly yet steadily along on the highest summit of those jutting crags? He rubbed his eyes amazedly--was it--could it be _Sigurd_? He watched it for a moment,--then uttered a loud cry as he saw it pause on the very ledge of rock from which but a short while since, he himself had been so nearly precipitated. The figure was now distinctly visible, outlined in black against the flaming crimson of the sky,--it stood upright and waved its arms with a frantic gesture. There was no mistaking it--it _was_ Sigurd!

Without another second's hesitation Errington rushed back to the hut and awoke, with clamorous alarm, the rest of the party. His brief explanation sufficed--they all hurried forth in startled excitement.

Sigurd still occupied his hazardous position, and as they looked at him he seemed to dance wildly nearer the extreme edge of the rocky platform.

Old Guldmar turned pale. "The G.o.ds preserve him!" he muttered in his beard--then turning he began resolutely to make the ascent of the rocks with long, rapid strides--the young men followed him eager and almost breathless, each and all bent upon saving Sigurd from the danger in which he stood, and trying by different ways to get more quickly near the unfortunate lad and call, or draw him back by force from his point of imminent deadly peril. They were more than half-way up, when a piercing cry rang clearly above the thunderous din of the fall--a cry that made them pause for a moment.

Sigurd had caught sight of the figures advancing to his rescue, and was waving them back with eloquent gesture of anger and defiance. His small misshapen body was alive with wrath,--it seemed as though he were some dwarf king ruling over the glittering crimson torrent, and grimly forbidding strangers to enter on the boundaries of his magic territory.

They, however, pressed on with renewed haste,--and they had nearly reached the summit when another shrill cry echoed over the sunset-colored foam.

Once more they paused--they were in full view of the distraught Sigurd, and he turned his head towards them, shaking back his long fair hair with his old favorite gesture and laughing in apparent glee. Then he suddenly raised his arms, and, clasping his hands together, poised himself as though he were some winged thing about to fly.

"Sigurd! Sigurd!" shouted Guldmar, his strong voice tremulous with anguish. "Come back! come back to Thelma!"

At the sound of that beloved name, the unhappy creature seemed to hesitate, and, profiting by that instant of irresolution, Errington and Lorimer rushed forward--Too late! Sigurd saw them coming, and glided with stealthy caution to the very brink of the torrent, where there was scarcely any foothold--there he looked back at his would-be rescuers with an air of mystery and cunning, and broke into a loud derisive laugh.

Then--still with clasped hands and smiling face--unheeding the shout of horror that broke from those who beheld him--he leaped, and fell! Down, down into the roaring abyss! For one half-second--one lightning flash--his twisted figure, like a slight black speck was seen against the wide roseate glory of the tumbling cascade--then it disappeared, engulfed and lost for ever! Gone,--with all his wild poet fancies and wandering dreams--gone, with his unspoken love and unguessed sorrows--gone where dark things shall be made light,--and where the broken or tangled chain of the soul's intelligence shall be mended and made perfect by the tender hands of the All-Wise and the All-Loving One, whose ways are too gloriously vast for our finite comprehension.

"Gone, mistress!" as he would have said to the innocent cause of his heart's anguish. "Gone where I shall grow straight and strong and brave!

Mistress, if you meet me in Valhalla, you will love me!"

CHAPTER XVII.

"Do not, I pray you, think evilly of so holy a man! He has a sore combat against the flesh and the devil!"--_The Maid of Honor_.

The horror-stricken spectators of the catastrophe stood for a minute inert and speechless,--stupefied by its suddenness and awful rapidity.

Then with one accord they hurried down to the level sh.o.r.e of the torrent, moved by the unanimous idea that they might possibly succeed in rescuing Sigurd's frail corpse from the sharp teeth of the jagged rocks, that, piercing upwards through the foam of the roaring rapids, were certain to bruise, tear, and disfigure it beyond all recognition. But even this small satisfaction was denied them. There was no sign of a floating or struggling body anywhere visible. And while they kept an eager look-out, the light in the heavens slowly changed. From burning crimson it softened to a tender amethyst hue, as smooth and delicate as the glossy pale tint of the purple clematis,--and with it the rosy foam of the Fall graduated to varying tints of pink, from pink to tender green, and lastly, it became as a shower of amber wine. Guldmar spoke first in a voice broken by deep emotion.

"'Tis all over with him, poor lad!" he said, and tears glittered thickly in his keen old eyes. "And--though the G.o.ds, of a surety, know best--this is an end I looked not for! A mournful home-returning shall we have--for how to break the news to Thelma is more than I can tell!"

And he shook his head sorrowfully while returning the warm and sympathizing pressure of Errington's hand.

"You see," he went on, with a wistful look at the grave and compa.s.sionate face of his accepted son-in-law--"the boy was no boy of mine, 'tis true--and the winds had more than their share of his wits--yet--we knew him from a baby--and my wife loved him for his sad estate, which he was not to blame for. Thelma, too--he was her first playmate--"

The _bonde_ could trust himself to say no more, but turned abruptly away, brus.h.i.+ng one hand across his eyes, and was silent for many minutes. The young men, too, were silent,--Sigurd's determined suicide had chilled and sickened them. Slowly they returned to the hut to pa.s.s the remaining hours of the night--though sleep was, of course, after what they had witnessed, impossible. They remained awake, therefore, talking in low tones of the fatal event, and listening to the solemn _sough_ of the wind through the pines, that sounded to Errington's ears like a monotonous forest dirge. He thought of the first time he had ever seen the unhappy creature whose wandering days had just ended,--of that scene in the mysterious sh.e.l.l cavern,--of the wild words he had then uttered--how strangely they came back to Philip's memory now!

"You have come as a thief in the golden midnight, and the thing you seek is the life of Sigurd! Yes--yes! it is true--the spirit cannot lie! You must kill, you must steal--see how the blood drips, drop by drop, from the heart of Sigurd! and the jewel you steal,--ah! what a jewel! You shall not find such another in Norway!" Was not the hidden meaning of these incoherent phrases rendered somewhat clear now? though how the poor lad's disordered imagination had been able thus promptly to conjure up with such correctness, an idea of Errington's future relations with Thelma, was a riddle impossible of explanation. He thought, too, with a sort of generous remorse, of that occasion when Sigurd had visited him on board the yacht to implore him to leave the Altenfjord. He realized everything,--the inchoate desires of the desolate being, who, though intensely capable of loving, felt himself in a dim, sad way, unworthy of love,--the struggling pa.s.sions in him that clamored for utterance--the instinctive dread and jealousy of a rival, while knowing that he was both physically and mentally unfitted to compete with one,--all these things pa.s.sed through Philip's mind, and filled him with a most profound pity for the hidden sufferings, the tortures and inexplicable emotions which had racked Sigurd's darkened soul. And, still busy with these reflections, he turned on his arm as he lay, and whispered softly to his friend who was close by him--"I say, Lorimer,--I feel as if I had been to blame somehow in this affair! If I had never come on the scene, Sigurd would still have been happy in his own way."

Lorimer was silent. After a pause, Errington went on still in the same low tone.

"Poor little fellow! Do you know, I can't imagine anything more utterly distracting than having to see such a woman as Thelma day after day,--loving her all the time, and knowing such love to be absolutely hopeless! Why, it was enough to make him crazier than ever!"

Lorimer moved restlessly. "Yes, it must have been hard on him!" he answered at last, in a gentle, somewhat sad tone. "Perhaps it's as well he's out of it all. Life is infinitely perplexing to many of us. By this time he's no doubt wiser than you or I, Phil,--he could tell us the reason why love is such a blessing to some men, and such a curse to others!"

Errington made no answer, and they relapsed into silence--silence which was almost unbroken save by an occasional deep sigh from Olaf Guldmar and a smothered exclamation such as, "Poor lad, poor lad! Who would have thought it?"

With the early dawn they were all up and ready for the homeward journey,--though with very different feelings to those with which they had started on their expedition. The morning was dazzlingly bright and clear,--and the cataract of Njedegorze rolled down in glittering folds of creamy white and green, uttering its ceaseless psalm of praise to the Creator in a jubilant roar of musical thunder. They paused and looked at it for the last time before leaving,--it had a.s.sumed for them a new and solemn aspect--it was Sigurd's grave. The _bonde_ raised his cap from his rough white hair,--instinctively the others followed his example.

"May the G.o.ds grant him good rest!" said the old man reverently. "In the wildest waters they say there is a calm underflow,--maybe the lad has found it and is glad to sleep." He paused and stretched his hands forth with an eloquent and touching gesture. "Peace be with him!"

Then, without more words, and as though disdaining his own emotion, he turned abruptly away, and began to descend the stony and precipitous hill, up which Sigurd had so skillfully guided them the day before.

Macfarlane and Duprez followed him close,--Macfarlane casting more than once a keen look over the rapids.

"'Tis a pity we couldna find his body," he said in a low tone.

Duprez shrugged his shoulders. Sigurd's death had shocked him considerably by its suddenness, but he was too much of a volatile Frenchman to be morbidly anxious about securing the corpse.

"I think not so at all," he said. "Of what use would it be? To grieve _mademoiselle_? to make her cry? That would be cruel,--I would not a.s.sist in it! A dead body is not a sight for ladies,--believe me, things are best as they are."

They went on, while Errington and Lorimer lingered yet a moment longer.

"A magnificent sepulchre!" said Lorimer, dreamily eyeing for the last time the sweeping flow of the glittering torrent. "Better than all the monuments ever erected! Upon my life, I would not mind having such a grave myself! Say what you like, Phil, there was something grand in Sigurd's choice of a death. We all of us have to get out of life somehow one day--that's certain--but few of us have the chance of making such a triumphant exit!"

Errington looked at him with a grave smile. "How you talk, George!" he said half-reproachfully. "One would think you envied the end of that unfortunate, half-witted fellow! You've no reason to be tired of your life, I'm sure,--all your bright days are before you."

"Are they?" And Lorimer's blue eyes looked slightly melancholy. "Well, I dare say they are! Let's hope so at all events. There need be something before me,--there isn't much behind except wasted opportunities. Come on, Phil!"

They resumed their walk, and soon rejoined the others. The journey back to the Altenfjord was continued all day with but one or two interruptions for rest and refreshment. It was decided that on reaching home, old Guldmar should proceed a little in advance, in order to see his daughter alone first, and break to her the news of the tragic event that had occurred,--so that when, after a long and toilsome journey, they caught sight, at about eight in the evening, of the familiar farmhouse through the branches of the trees that surrounded and sheltered it, they all came to a halt.

The young men seated themselves on a pleasant knoll under some tall pines, there to wait a quarter of an hour or so, while the _bonde_ went forward to prepare Thelma. On second thoughts, the old man asked Errington to accompany him,--a request to which he very readily acceded, and these two, leaving the others to follow at their leisure, went on their way rapidly. They arrived at, and entered the garden,--their footsteps made a crunching noise on the pebbly path,--but no welcoming face looked forth from any of the windows of the house. The entrance door stood wide open,--there was not a living soul to be seen but the kitten asleep in a corner of the porch, and the doves drowsing on the roof in the suns.h.i.+ne. The deserted air of the place was unmistakable, and Guldmar and Errington exchanged looks of wonder not unmixed with alarm.

"Thelma! Thelma!" called the _bonde_ anxiously. There was no response.

He entered the house and threw open the kitchen door. There was no fire,--and not the slightest sign of any of the usual preparations for supper.

"Britta!" shouted Guldmar. Still no answer. "By the G.o.ds!" he exclaimed, turning to the astonished Philip, "this is a strange thing! Where can the girls be? I have never known both of them to be absent from the house at the same time. Go down to the sh.o.r.e, my lad, and see if Thelma's boat is missing, while I search the garden."

Errington obeyed--hurrying off on his errand with a heart beating fast from sudden fear and anxiety. For he knew Thelma was not likely to have gone out of her own accord, at the very time she would have naturally expected her father and his friends back, and the absence of Britta too, was, to say the least of it, extraordinary. He reached the pier very speedily, and saw at a glance that the boat was gone. He hastened back to report this to Guldmar, who was making the whole place resound with his shouts of "Thelma!" and "Britta!" though he shouted altogether in vain.

"Maybe," he said dubiously, on hearing of the missing boat--"Maybe the child has gone on the Fjord--'tis often her custom,--but, then, where is Britta? Besides, they must have expected us--they would have prepared supper--they would have been watching for our return. No, no! there is something wrong about this--'tis altogether unusual."

And he looked about him in a bewildered way, while Sir Philip, noting his uneasiness, grew more and more uneasy himself.

"Let me go and search for them, sir," he said, eagerly. "They may be in the woods, or up towards the orchard."

Guldmar shook his head and drew his fuzzy white brows together in puzzled meditation--suddenly he started and struck his staff forcibly on the ground.