Part 80 (1/2)
Ulrika asked him no questions--she was entirely absorbed in the duties that devolved upon her, and with an ungrudging devotion strange to see in her, watched and tended Thelma incessantly, scarcely allowing herself a minute's s.p.a.ce for rest or food. The idea that her present ministration was to save her soul in the sight of the Lord, had grown upon her, and was now rooted firmly in her mind--she never gave way to fatigue or inattention,--every moan, every restless movement of the suffering girl, obtained her instant and tender solicitude, and when she prayed now, it was not for herself but for Thelma.
”Spare her, good Lord!” she would implore in the hyperbolical language she had drawn from her study of the Scriptures--”As the lily among thorns, so is she among the daughters! Cut her not off root and branch from the land of the living, for her countenance is comely, and as a bunch of myrrh which hath a powerful sweetness, even so must she surely be to the heart of her husband! Stretch forth Thy right hand, O Lord, and scatter healing, for the gates of death shall not prevail against Thy power!”
Day after day she poured out pet.i.tions such as these, and with the dogged persistency of a soldier serving Cromwell, believed that they would be granted,--though day after day Thelma seemed to grow weaker and weaker. She was still light-headed--her face grew thin and shadowy,--her hands were almost transparent in their whiteness and delicacy, and her voice was so faint as to be nearly in-audible. Sometimes Ulrika got frightened at her appearance, and heartily wished for medical a.s.sistance but this was not to be had. Therefore she was compelled to rely on the efficacy of one simple remedy,--a herbal drink to allay fever,--the virtues of which she had been taught in her youth,--this, and the healing mercies of mother Nature together with the reserved strength of her own const.i.tution, were the threads on which Thelma's life hung.
Time pa.s.sed on--and yet there was no news from Sir Philip. One night, sitting beside her exhausted patient, Ulrika fancied she saw a change on the wan face--a softer, more, peaceful look than had been there for many days. Half in fear, half in hope, she watched,--Thelma seemed to sleep,--but presently her large blue eyes opened with a calm yet wondering expression in their clear depths. She turned slightly on her pillows, and smiled faintly.
”Have I been ill?” she asked.
”Yes, my dear,” returned Ulrika softly, overjoyed, yet afraid at the girl's returning intelligence. ”Very ill. But you feel better now, don't you?”
Thelma sighed, and raising her little wasted hand, examined it curiously. Her wedding and betrothal rings were so loose on her finger that they would have fallen off had they been held downwards. She seemed surprised at this, but made no remark. For some time she remained quiet, steadfastly gazing at Ulrika, and evidently trying to make out who she was. Presently she spoke again.
”I remember everything now,” she said, slowly. ”I am at home, at the Altenfjord--and I know how I came--and also _why_ I came.” Here her lips quivered. ”And I shall see my father no more, for he has gone--and I am all--all alone in the world!” She paused--then added, ”Do you think I am dying? If so, I am very glad!”
”Hush my dear!” said Ulrika. ”You mustn't talk in that way. Your husband is coming presently--” she broke off suddenly, startled at the look of utter despair in Thelma's eyes.
”You are wrong,” she replied wearily. ”He will not come--he cannot! He does not want me any more!”
And two large tears rolled slowly down her pale cheeks. Ulrika wondered, but forebore to pursue the subject further, fearing to excite or distress her,--and contented herself for the present with attending to her patient's bodily needs. She went to the fire, and began to pour out some nouris.h.i.+ng soup, which she always had there in readiness,--and while she was thus engaged, Thelma's brain cleared more and more,--till with touching directness, and a new hope flus.h.i.+ng her face, she asked softly and beseechingly for her child. ”I forgot!” she said simply and sweetly. ”Of course I am not alone any more. Do give me my baby--I am much better--nearly well--and I should like to kiss it.”
Ulrika stood mute, taken aback by this demand. She dared not tell her the truth--she feared its effect on the sensitive mind that had so lately regained its balance. But while she hesitated, Thelma instinctively guessed all she strove to hide.
”It is dead!” she cried. ”Dead!--and I never knew!”
And, burying her golden head in her pillows, she broke into a pa.s.sion of convulsive sobbing. Ulrika grew positively desperate at the sound,--what _was_ she to do? Everything seemed to go against her--she was inclined to cry herself. She embraced the broken-hearted girl, and tried to soothe her, but in vain. The long delirium and subsequent weakness,--combined with the secret trouble on her mind,--had deprived poor Thelma of all resisting power, and she wept on and on in Ulrika's arms till nature was exhausted, and she could weep no longer. Then she lay motionless, with closed eyes, utterly drained in body and spirit, scarcely breathing, and, save for a s.h.i.+vering moan that now and then escaped her, she seemed almost insensible. Ulrika watched her with darkening, meditative brows,--she listened to the rush of the storm-wind without,--it was past eleven o'clock at night. She began to count on her fingers--it was the sixteenth day since the birth of the child,--sixteen days exactly since she had written to Sir Philip Errington, informing him of his wife's danger--and the danger was not yet past. Thinking over all that had happened, and the apparent hopelessness of the case, she suddenly took a strange idea into her head. Retiring to a distant corner, she dropped on her knees.
”O Lord, G.o.d Almighty!” she said in a fierce whisper, ”Behold, I have been Thy servant until now! I have wrestled with Thee in prayer till I am past all patience! If Thou wilt not hear my pet.i.tion, why callest Thou Thyself good? Is it good to crush the already fallen? Is it good to have no mercy on the sorrowful? Wilt Thou condemn the innocent without reason? If so, thou art not the Holy One I imagined! Send forth Thy power now--now, while there is time! Rescue her that is lying under the shadow of death--for how has she offended Thee that she should die?
Delay no longer, or how shall I put my trust in Thee? Send help speedily from Thine everlasting habitations--or, behold! I do forsake Thee--and my soul shall seek elsewhere for Eternal Justice!”
As she finished this extraordinary, half-threatening, and entirely blasphemous pet.i.tion, the boisterous gale roared wildly round the house joining in chorus with the stormy dash of waves upon the coast--a chorus that seemed to Ulrika's ears like the sound of fiendish and derisive laughter.
She stood listening,--a trifle scared--yet with a sort of fanatical defiance written on her face, and she waited in sullen patience evidently expecting an immediate answer to her outrageous prayer. She felt somewhat like a demagogue of the people, who boldly menaces an all-powerful sovereign, even while in dread of instant execution. There was a sharp patter of sleet on the window,--she glanced nervously at Thelma, who, perfectly still on her couch, looked more like a white, rec.u.mbent statue than a living woman. The wind shook the doors, and whistled shrilly through the crevices,--then, as though tired of its own wrath, surged away in hoa.r.s.e murmurs over the tops of the creaking pines towards the Fjord, and there was a short, impressive silence.
Ulrika still waited--almost holding her breath in expectation of some divine manifestation. The brief stillness grew unbearable.. . . Hus.h.!.+
What was that! Jingle--jangle--jingle--jangle!--Bells! Sledge bells tinkling musically and merrily--and approaching swiftly, nearer--nearer!
Now the sharp trotting roofs on the hard snow--then a sudden slackening of speed--the little metallic chimes rang slower and yet more slowly, till with a decisive and melodious clash they stopped!
Ulrika's heart beat thickly--her face flushed--she advanced to Thelma's bedside, hoping, fearing,--she knew not what. There was a tread of firm, yet hurried, footsteps without--a murmur of subdued voices--a half-suppressed exclamation of surprise and relief from Valdemar,--and then the door of the room was hastily thrown open, and a man's tall figure, draped in what seemed to be a garment of frozen snowflakes, stood on the threshold. The noise startled Thelma--she opened her beautiful, tired, blue eyes. Ah! what a divine rapture,--what a dazzling wonder and joy flashed into them, giving them back their old l.u.s.tre of sunlight sparkling on azure sea! She sprang up in her bed and stretched out her arms.
”Philip!” she cried sobbingly. ”Philip! oh my darling! Try--try to love me again! . . . just a little!--before I die!”
As she spoke she was clasped to his breast,--folded to his heart in that strong, jealous, pa.s.sionate embrace with which we who love, would fain s.h.i.+eld our nearest and dearest from even the shadow of evil--his lips closed on hers,--and in the sacred stillness that followed, Ulrika slipped from the room, leaving husband and wife alone together.
CHAPTER x.x.xIV.
”I have led her home, my love, my only friend; There is none like her, none!
And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly on and on, Calming itself to the long-wished-for end, Full to the banks, close on the promised good.”