Part 77 (2/2)
His voice ceased, and he sank into a swoon--a swoon that was like death.
His breathing was scarcely perceptible, and Svensen, alarmed at his appearance, forced some drops of wine between his set lips, and chafed his cold hands with anxious solicitude. Slowly and very gradually he recovered consciousness and intelligence, and presently asked for a pencil and paper to write a few farewell words to his daughter. In the grief and bewilderment of the time, Valdemar entirely forgot to tell him that a letter from Thelma had arrived for him on the previous afternoon while he was away at Talvig,--and was even now on the shelf above the chimney, awaiting perusal. Guldmar, ignorant of this, began to write slowly and with firmness, disregarding his rapidly sinking strength.
Scarcely had he begun the letter, however, than he looked up meaningly at Svensen, who stood waiting beside him.
”The time grows very short,” he said imperatively. ”Prepare everything quickly--go! Fear not--I shall live to see thee return--and to bless thee for thy faithful service.”
As he uttered these words he smiled;--and with one wistful, yearning look at him, Valdemar obediently and instantly departed. He left the house, carrying with him a huge pile of dry brushwood, and with the air of a man strung up to prompt action, rapidly descended the sloping path, thick with hardened snow, that led downwards to the Fjord. On reaching the sh.o.r.e, he looked anxiously about him. There was nothing in sight but the distant, twinkling lights of Bosekop--the Fjord itself was like a black pool,--so still that even the faintest murmur of its rippling against the _bonde's_ own private pier could be heard,--the tide was full up.
Out of the reach of the encroaching waters, high and dry on the beach, was Guldmar's brig, the _Valkyrie_, transformed by the fingers of the frost into a white s.h.i.+p, fantastically draped with threads of frozen snow and pendent icicles. She was placed on a descending plank, to which she was attached by a chain and rope pulley,--so that at any time of the weather or tide she could be moved glidingly downwards into deep water--and this was what Valdemar occupied himself in doing. It was a hard task. The chains were stiff with the frost,--but, after some patient and arduous striving, they yielded to his efforts, and, with slow clank and much creaking complaint, the vessel slid reluctantly down and plunged forward, afloat at last. Holding her ropes, Valdemar sprang to the extreme edge of the pier and fastened her there, and then getting on board, he untied and began to hoist the sails. This was a matter of the greatest difficulty, but it was gradually and successfully accomplished; and a strange sight the _Valkyrie_ then presented, resting nearly motionless on the black Fjord,--her stretched and frosted canvas looking like sheeted pearl fringed with silver,--her masts white with encrusted snow, and topped with pointed icicles. Leaving her for a moment, Valdemar quickly returned, carrying the pile of dry brushwood he had brought,--he descended with this into the hold of the s.h.i.+p, and returned without it. Glancing once more nervously about him, he jumped from the deck to the pier--thence to the sh.o.r.e--and as he did so a long dark wave rolled up and broke at his feet. The capricious wind had suddenly arisen,--and a moaning whisper coming from the adjacent hills gave warning of another storm.
Valdemar hurriedly retraced his steps back to the house,--his work with the _Valkyrie_ had occupied him more than an hour--the _bonde_, his friend and master, might have died during his absence! There was a cold sickness at his heart--his feet seemed heavy as lead, and scarcely able to carry him along quickly enough--to his credulous and visionary mind, the hovering shadow of death seemed everywhere,--in every crackling twig he brushed against,--in every sough of the wakening gale that rustled among the bare pines. To his intense relief he found Guldmar lying calmly back among his pillows,--his eyes well open and clear, and an expression of perfect peace upon his features. He smiled as he saw his servant enter.
”All is in readiness?” he asked.
Valdemar bent his head in silent a.s.sent.
The _bonde's_ face lightened with extraordinary rapture.
”I thank thee, old friend!” he said in low but glad accents. ”Thou knowest I could not be at peace in any other grave. I have suffered in thine absence,--the sufferings of the body that, being yet strong in spite of age, is reluctant to take leave of life. But it is past! I am as one numbed with everlasting frost,--and now I feel no pain. And my mind is like a bird that poises for a while over past and present, ere soaring into the far future. There are things I must yet say to thee, Valdemar,--give me thy close hearing, for my voice is weak.”
Svensen drew closer, and stood in the humble att.i.tude of one who waits a command from some supreme chief.
”This letter,” went on the old man, giving him a folded paper, ”is to the child of my heart, my Thelma. Send it to her--when--I am gone. It will not grieve her, I hope--for, as far as I could find words, I have expressed therein nothing but joy--the joy of a prisoner set free. Tell her, that with all the strength of my peris.h.i.+ng body and escaping soul, I blessed her! . . . her and the husband in whose arms she rests in safety.” He raised his trembling hands solemnly--”The G.o.ds of my fathers and their attendant spirits have her young life in their glorious keeping!--the joy of love and purity and peace be on her innocent head for ever!”
He paused,--the wind wailed mournfully round the house and shook the lattice with a sort of stealthy clatter, like a forlorn wanderer striving to creep in to warmth and shelter.
”Here, Valdemar,” continued the _bonde_ presently, in fainter accents, at the same time handing him another paper. ”Here are some scrawled lines--they are plainly set forth and signed--which make thee master of this poor place and all that it contains.”
A low, choked sob broke from Valdemar's broad breast--he covered his face with his hands.
”Of what avail?” he murmured brokenly. ”When my lord departs, I am alone and friendless!”
The _bonde_ regarded him with kindly pity.
”Tears from the stout heart?” he inquired with a sort of grave wonder.
”Weep for life, Valdemar--not for death! Alone and friendless? Not while the G.o.ds are in heaven! Cheer thee--thou art strong and in vigorous pride of manhood--why should not bright days come for thee--” He broke off with a gasp--a sudden access of pain convulsed him and rendered his breathing difficult. By sheer force of will he mastered the cruel agony, though great drops of sweat stood on his brow when he at last found voice to continue--
”I thought all suffering was past,” he said with a heroic smile. ”This foolish flesh and blood of mine dies hard! But, as I was saying to thee, Valdemar--the farm is thine, and all it holds--save some few trifles I have set down to be given to my child. There is little worth in what I leave thee--the soil--is hard and ungrateful--the harvest uncertain, and the cattle few. Even the reindeer--didst thou say they were injured by their fall last night?--I--I forget, . . .”
”No harm has come to them,” said Svensen hastily, seeing that the very effort of thinking was becoming too much for the old man. ”They are safe and unhurt. Trouble not about these things!”
A strange, unearthly radiance transfigured Guldmar's visage.
”Trouble is departing swiftly from me,” he murmured.
”Trouble and I shall know each other no more!” His voice died away inarticulately, and he was silent a little s.p.a.ce. Suddenly, and with a rush of vigor--that seemed superhuman, he raised himself nearly erect, and pointed outwards with a commanding gesture.
”Bear me hence!” he cried in ringing tones. ”Hence to the mountains and the sea!”
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