Part 13 (1/2)
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, a.s.sisted 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 c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.l of a boat on a deep Fjord, the sh.o.r.es 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 Guldmar's landing-place. He wondered again and again what relations.h.i.+p, 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 b.u.t.ton-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.
CHAPTER IX.
”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 enc.u.mbered by his own surplus flesh material as he wearily rowed himself across the Fjord towards Olaf Guldmar'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 wors.h.i.+ppers of idolatrous images are accursed; they shall have ashes for food and gall for drink! Let them turn and repent themselves, lest the wrath of G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l 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.