Thelma

M >> Marie Corelli >> Thelma


He paused and listened attentively. There was no sound but the slow
lapping of the water near the entrance; within, the thickness of the
cavern walls shut out the gay carolling of the birds, and all the
cheerful noises of awakening nature. Silence, chillness, and partial
obscurity are depressing influences, and the warm blood flowing through
his veins, ran a trifle more slowly and coldly as he felt the sort of
uncomfortable eerie sensation which is experienced by the jolliest and
most careless traveller, when he first goes down to the catacombs in
Rome. A sort of damp, earthy shudder creeps through the system, and a
dreary feeling of general hopelessness benumbs the faculties; a morbid
state of body and mind which is only to be remedied by a speedy return
to the warm sunlight, and a draught of generous wine.

Sir Philip, however, held the antique lamp aloft, and descended the
clumsy steps cautiously, counting twenty steps in all, at the bottom of
which he found himself face to face with the closed door. It was made of
hard wood, so hard as to be almost like iron. It was black with age, and
covered with quaint carvings and inscriptions; but in the middle,
standing out in bold relief among the numberless Runic figures and
devices, was written in large well-cut letters the word--

THELMA

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I have it! The girl's name, of course! This is
some private retreat of hers, I suppose,--a kind of boudoir like my Lady
Winsleigh's, only with rather a difference."

And he laughed aloud, thinking of the dainty gold-satin hangings of a
certain room in a certain great mansion in Park Lane, where an
aristocratic and handsome lady-leader of fashion had as nearly made love
to him as it was possible for her to do without losing her social
dignity. His laugh was echoed back with a weird and hollow sound, as
though a hidden demon of the cave were mocking him, a demon whose
merriment was intense but also horrible. He heard the unpleasant jeering
repetition with a kind of careless admiration.

"That echo would make a fortune in _Faust_, if it could be persuaded to
back up Mephistopheles with that truly fiendish, '_Ha Ha_!'" he said,
resuming his examination of the name on the door. Then an odd fancy
seized him, and he called loudly--

"Thelma!"

"Thelma!" shouted the echo.

"Is that her name?"

"Her name!" replied the echo.

"I thought so!" And Philip laughed again, while the echo laughed wildly
in answer. "Just the sort of name to suit a Norwegian nymph or goddess.
_Thelma_ is quaint and appropriate, and as far as I can remember there's
no rhyme to it in the English language. _Thelma_!" And he lingered on
the pronunciation of the strange word with a curious sensation of
pleasure. "There is something mysteriously suggestive about the sound of
it; like a chord of music played softly in the distance. Now, can I get
through this door, I wonder?"

He pushed it gently. It yielded very slightly, and he tried again and
yet again. Finally, he put down the lamp and set his shoulder against
the wooden barrier with all his force. A dull creaking sound rewarded
his efforts, and inch by inch the huge door opened into what at first
appeared immeasurable darkness. Holding up the light he looked in, and
uttered a smothered exclamation. A sudden gust of wind rushed from the
sea through the passage and extinguished the lamp, leaving him in
profound gloom. Nothing daunted he sought his fusee case; there was just
one left in it. This he hastily struck, and shielding the glow carefully
with one hand, relit his lamp, and stepped boldly into the mysterious
grotto.

The murmur of the wind and waves, like spirit-voices in unison, followed
him as he entered. He found himself in a spacious winding corridor, that
had evidently been hollowed out in the rocks and fashioned by human
hands. Its construction was after the ancient Gothic method; but the
wonder of the place consisted in the walls, which were entirely covered
with shells,--shells of every shape and hue,--some delicate as
rose-leaves, some rough and prickly, others polished as ivory, some
gleaming with a thousand irridescent colors, others pure white as the
foam on high billows. Many of them were turned artistically in such a
position as to show their inner sides glistening with soft tints like
the shades of fine silk or satin,--others glittered with the opaline
sheen of mother-o'-pearl. All were arranged in exquisite patterns,
evidently copied from fixed mathematical designs,--there were stars,
crescents, roses, sunflowers, hearts, crossed daggers, ships and
implements of war, all faithfully depicted with extraordinary neatness
and care, as though each particular emblem had served some special
purpose.

Sir Philip walked along very slowly, delighted with his discovery,
and,--pausing to examine each panel as he passed,--amused himself with
speculations as to the meaning of this beautiful cavern, so fancifully
yet skillfully decorated.

"Some old place of worship, I suppose," he thought. "There must be many
such hidden in different parts of Norway. It has nothing to do with the
Christian faith, for among all these devices I don't perceive a single
cross."

He was right. There were no crosses; but there were many designs of the
sun--the sun rising, the sun setting, the sun in full glory, with all
his rays embroidered round him in tiny shells, some of them no bigger
than a pin's head. "What a waste of time and labor," he mused. "Who
would undertake such a thing nowadays? Fancy the patience and delicacy
of finger required to fit all these shells in their places! and they are
embedded in strong mortar too, as if the work were meant to be
indestructible."

Pull of pleased interest, he pursued his way, winding in and out through
different arches, all more or less richly ornamented, till he came to a
tall, round column, which seemingly supported the whole gallery, for all
the arches converged towards it. It was garlanded from top to bottom
with their roses and their leaves, all worked in pink and lilac shells,
interspersed with small pieces of shining amber and polished malachite.
The flicker of the lamp he carried, made it glisten like a mass of
jewel-work, and, absorbed in his close examination of this unique
specimen of ancient art, Sir Philip did not at once perceive that
another light beside his own glimmered from out the furthest archway a
little beyond him,--an opening that led into some recess he had not as
yet explored. A peculiar lustre sparkling on one side of the shell-work
however, at last attracted his attention, and, glancing up quickly, he
saw, to his surprise, the reflection of a strange radiance, rosily
tinted and brilliant.

Turning in its direction, he paused, irresolute. Could there be some one
living in that furthest chamber to which the long passage he had
followed evidently led? some one who would perhaps resent his intrusion
as an impertinence? some eccentric artist or hermit who had made the
cave his home? Or was it perhaps a refuge for smugglers? He listened
anxiously. There was no sound. He waited a minute or two, then boldly
advanced, determined to solve the mystery.

This last archway was lower than any of those he had passed through, and
he was forced to take off his hat and stoop as he went under it. When he
raised his head he remained uncovered, for he saw at a glance that the
place was sacred. He was in the presence, not of Life, but Death. The
chamber in which he stood was square in form, and more richly ornamented
with shell-designs than any other portion of the grotto he had seen, and
facing the east was an altar hewn out of the solid rock and studded
thickly with amber, malachite and mother-o'-pearl. It was covered With
the incomprehensible emblems of a bygone creed worked in most exquisite
shell-patterns, but on it,--as though in solemn protest against the
past,--stood a crucifix of ebony and carved ivory, before which burned
steadily a red lamp.

The meaning of the mysterious light was thus explained, but what chiefly
interested Errington was the central object of the place,--a coffin,--of
rather a plain granite sarcophagus which was placed on the floor lying
from north to south. Upon it,--in strange contrast to the sombre
coldness of the stone,--reposed a large wreath of poppies freshly
gathered. The vivid scarlet of the flowers, the gleam of the shining
shells on the walls, the mournful figure of the ivory Christ stretched
on the cross among all those pagan emblems,--the intense silence broken
only by the slow drip, drip of water trickling somewhere behind the
cavern,--and more than these outward things,--his own impressive
conviction that he was with the imperial Dead--imperial because past the
sway of empire--all made a powerful impression on his mind. Overcoming
by degrees his first sensations of awe, he approached the sarcophagus
and examined it. It was solidly closed and mortared all round, so that
it might have been one compact coffin-shaped block of stone so far as
its outward appearance testified. Stooping more closely, however, to
look at the brilliant poppy-wreath, he started back with a slight
exclamation. Cut deeply in the hard granite he read for the second time
that odd name--

THELMA

It belonged to some one dead, then--not to the lovely living woman who
had so lately confronted him in the burning glow of the midnight sun? He
felt dismayed at his unthinking precipitation,--he had, in his fancy,
actually associated _her_, so full of radiant health and beauty, with
what was probably a mouldering corpse in that hermetically sealed
tenement of stone! This idea was unpleasant, and jarred upon his
feelings. Surely she, that golden-haired nymph of the Fjord, had nothing
to do with death! He had evidently found his way into some ancient tomb.
"Thelma" might be the name or title of some long-departed queen or
princess of Norway, yet, if so, how came the crucifix there,--the red
lamp, the flowers?

He lingered, looking curiously about him, as if he fancied the
shell-embroidered walls might whisper some answer to his thoughts. The
silence offered no suggestions. The plaintive figure of the tortured
Christ suspended on the cross maintained an immovable watch over all
things, and there was a subtle, faint odor floating about as of crushed
spices or herbs. While he still stood there absorbed in perplexed
conjectures, he became oppressed by want of air. The red hue of the
poppy-wreath mingled with the softer glow of the lamp on the altar,--the
moist glitter of the shells and polished pebbles, seemed to dazzle and
confuse his eyes. He felt dizzy and faint--and hastily made his way out
of that close death-chamber into the passage, where he leaned for a few
minutes against the great central column to recover himself. A brisk
breath of wind from the Fjord came careering through the gallery, and
blew coldly upon his forehead. Refreshed by it, he rapidly overcame the
sensation of giddiness, and began to retrace his steps through the
winding arches, thinking with some satisfaction as he went, what a
romantic incident he would have to relate to Lorimer and his other
friends, when a sudden glare of light illumined the passage, and he was
brought to an abrupt standstill by the sound of a wild "Halloo!" The
light vanished; it reappeared. It vanished again, and again appeared,
flinging a strong flare upon the shell-worked walls as it approached.
Again the fierce "Halloo!" resounded through the hollow cavities of the
subterranean temple, and he remained motionless, waiting for an
explanation of this unlooked-for turn to the events of the morning.

He had plenty of physical courage, and the idea of any addition to his
adventure rather pleased him than otherwise. Still, with all his
bravery, he recoiled a little when he first caught sight of the
extraordinary being that emerged from the darkness--a wild, distorted
figure that ran towards him with its head downwards, bearing aloft in
one skinny hand a smoking pine-torch, from which the sparks flew like so
many fireflies. This uncanny personage, wearing the semblance of man,
came within two paces of Errington before perceiving him; then, stopping
short in his headlong career, the creature flourished his torch and
uttered a defiant yell.

Philip surveyed him coolly and without alarm, though so weird an object
might well have aroused a pardonable distrust, and even timidity. He saw
a misshapen dwarf, not quite four feet high, with large, ungainly limbs
out of all proportion to his head, which was small and compact. His
features were of almost feminine fineness, and from under his shaggy
brows gleamed a restless pair of large, full, wild blue eyes. His thick,
rough flaxen hair was long and curly, and hung in disordered profusion
over his deformed shoulders. His dress was of reindeer skin, very
fancifully cut, and ornamented with beads of different colors,--and
twisted about him as though in an effort to be artistic, was a long
strip of bright scarlet woollen material, which showed up the extreme
pallor and ill-health of the meagre countenance, and the brilliancy of
the eyes that now sparkled with rage as they met those of Errington. He,
from his superior height, glanced down with pity on the unfortunate
creature, whom he at once took to be the actual owner of the cave he had
explored. Uncertain what to do, whether to speak or remain silent, he
moved slightly as though to pass on; but the shock-headed dwarf leaped
lightly in his way, and, planting himself firmly before him, shrieked
some unintelligible threat, of which Errington could only make out the
last words, "Nifleheim" and "Nastrond."

"I believe he is commending me to the old Norwegian inferno," thought
the young baronet with a smile, amused at the little man's evident
excitement. "Very polite of him, I'm sure! But, after all, I had no
business here. I'd better apologize." And forthwith he began to speak in
the simplest English words he could choose, taking care to pronounce
them very slowly and distinctly.

"I cannot understand you, my good sir; but I see you are angry. I came
here by accident. I am going away now at once."

His explanation had a strange effect. The dwarf drew nearer, twirled
himself rapidly round three times as though waltzing; then, holding his
torch a little to one side, turned up his thin, pale countenance, and,
fixing his gaze on Sir Philip, studied every feature of his face with
absorbing interest. Then he burst into a violent fit of laughter.

"At last--at last?" he cried in fluent English. "Going now? Going, you
say? Never! never! You will never go away any more. No, not without
something stolen! The dead have summoned you here! Their white bony
fingers have dragged you across the deep! Did you not hear their voices,
cold and hollow as the winter wind, calling, calling you, and saying,
'Come, come, proud robber, from over the far seas; come and gather the
beautiful rose of the northern forest'? Yes, Yes! You have obeyed the
dead--the dead who feign sleep, but are ever wakeful;--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!"

His excited voice sank by degrees to a plaintive and forlorn whisper,
and dropping his torch with a gesture of despair on the ground, he
looked at it burning, with an air of mournful and utter desolation.
Profoundly touched, as he immediately understood the condition of his
companion's wandering wits, Errington spoke to him soothingly.

"You mistake me," he said in gentle accents; "I would not steal anything
from you, nor have I come to kill you. See," and he held out his hand,
"I wouldn't harm you for the world. I didn't know this cave belonged to
you. Forgive me for having entered it. I am going to rejoin my friends.
Good-bye!"

The strange, half-crazy creature touched his outstretched hand timidly,
and with a sort of appeal.

"Good-bye, good-bye!" he muttered. "That is what they all say,--even the
dead,--good-bye; but they never go--never, never! You cannot be
different to the rest. And you do not wish to hurt poor Sigurd?"

"Certainly not, if _you_ are Sigurd," said Philip, half laughing; "I
should be very sorry to hurt you."

"You are _sure_?" he persisted, with a sort of obstinate eagerness. "You
have eyes which tell truths; but there are other things which are truer
than eyes--things in the air, in the grass, in the waves, and they talk
very strangely of you. I know you, of course! I knew you ages ago--long
before I saw you dead on the field of battle, and the black-haired
Valkyrie galloped with you to Valhalla! Yes; I knew you long before
that, and you knew me; for I was your King, and you were my vassal, wild
and rebellious--not the proud, rich Englishman you are to-day."

Errington startled. How could this Sigurd, as he called himself, be
aware of either his wealth or nationality?

The dwarf observed his movement of surprise with a cunning smile.

"Sigurd is wise,--Sigurd is brave! Who shall deceive him? He knows you
well; he will always know you. The old gods teach Sigurd all his
wisdom--the gods of the sea and the wind--the sleepy gods that lie in
the hearts of the flowers--the small spirits that sit in shells and sing
all day and all night." He paused, and his eyes filled with a wistful
look of attention. He drew closer.

"Come," he said earnestly, "come, you must listen to my music; perhaps
you can tell me what it means."

He picked up his smouldering torch and held it aloft again; then,
beckoning Errington to follow him, he led the way to a small grotto, cut
deeply into the wall of the cavern. Here there were no shell patterns.
Little green ferns grew thickly out of the stone crevices, and a minute
runlet of water trickled slowly down from above, freshening the delicate
frondage as it fell. With quick, agile fingers he removed a loose stone
from this aperture, and as he did so, a low shuddering wail resounded
through the arches--a melancholy moan that rose and sank, and rose again
in weird, sorrowful minor echoes.

"Hear her," murmured Sigurd plaintively. "She is always complaining; it
is a pity she cannot rest! She is a spirit, you know. I have often asked
her what troubles her, but she will not tell me; she only weeps!"

His companion looked at him compassionately. The sound that so affected
his disordered imagination was nothing but the wind blowing through the
narrow hole formed by the removal of the stone; but it was useless to
explain this simple fact to one in his condition.

"Tell me," and Sir Philip spoke very gently, "is this your home?"

The dwarf surveyed him almost scornfully. "_My_ home!" he echoed. "My
home is everywhere--on the mountains, in the forests, on the black rocks
and barren shores! My soul lives between the sun and the sea; my heart
is with Thelma!"

Thelma! Here was perhaps a clue to the mystery.

"Who is Thelma?" asked Errington somewhat hurriedly.

Sigurd broke into violent and derisive laughter. "Do you think I will
tell _you_?" he cried loudly. "_You_,--one of that strong, cruel race
who must conquer all they see; who covet everything fair under heaven,
and will buy it, even at the cost of blood and tears! Do you think I
will unlock the door of my treasure to _you_? No, no; besides," and his
voice sank lower, "what should you do with Thelma? She is dead!"

And, as if possessed by a sudden access of frenzy, he brandished his
pine-torch wildly above his head till it showered a rain of bright
sparks above him, and exclaimed furiously--"Away, away, and trouble me
not! The days are not yet fulfilled,--the time is not yet ripe. Why seek
to hasten my end? Away, away, I tell you! Leave me in peace! I will die
when Thelma bids me; but not till then!"

And he rushed down the long gallery and disappeared in the furthest
chamber, where he gave vent to a sort of long, sobbing cry, which rang
dolefully through the cavern and then subsided into utter silence.

Feeling as if he were in a chaotic dream, Errington pursued his
interrupted course through the winding passages with a bewildered and
wondering mind. What strange place had he inadvertently lighted on? and
who were the still stranger beings in connection with it? First the
beautiful girl herself; next the mysterious coffin, hidden in its
fanciful shell temple; and now this deformed madman, with the pale face
and fine eyes; whose utterances, though incoherent, savored somewhat of
poesy and prophecy. And what spell was attached to that name of Thelma?
The more he thought of his morning's adventure, the more puzzled he
became. As a rule, he believed more in the commonplace than in the
romantic--most people do. But truth to tell, romance is far more common
than the commonplace. There are few who have not, at one time or other
of their lives, had some strange or tragic episode woven into the tissue
of their every-day existence; and it would be difficult to find one
person even among humdrum individuals, who, from birth to death, has
experienced nothing out of the common.

Errington generally dismissed all tales of adventure as mere
exaggerations of heated fancy; and, had he read in some book, of a
respectable nineteenth-century yachtsman having such an interview with a
madman in a sea-cavern, he would have laughed at the affair as an utter
improbability, though he could not have explained why he considered it
improbable. But now it had occurred to himself, he was both surprised
and amused at the whole circumstance; moreover, he was sufficiently
interested and carious to be desirous of sifting the matter to its
foundation.

It was, however, somewhat of a relief to him when he again readied the
outer cavern. He replaced the lamp on the shelf where he had found it,
and stepped once more into the brilliant light of the very early dawn,
which then had all the splendor of full morning. There was a deliciously
balmy wind, the blue sky was musical with a chorus of larks, and every
breath of air that waved aside the long grass sent forth a thousand
odors from hidden beds of wild thyme and bog-myrtle.

He perceived the _Eulalie_ at anchor in her old place on the Fjord; she
had returned while he was absent on his explorations. Gathering together
his rug and painting materials, he blew a whistle sharply three times;
he was answered from the yacht, and presently a boat, manned by a couple
of sailors, came skimming over the water towards him. It soon reached
the shore, and, entering it, he was speedily rowed away from the scene
of his morning's experience back to his floating palace, where, as yet,
none of his friends were stirring.

"How about Jedke?" he inquired of one of his men. "Did they climb it?"

A slow grin overspread the sailor's brown face.

"Lord bless you, no, sir! Mr. Lorimer, he just looked at it and sat down
in the shade; the other gentleman played pitch-and-toss with pebbles.
They was main hungry too, and ate a mighty sight of 'am and pickles.
Then they came on board and all turned in at once."

Errington laughed. He was amused at the utter failure of Lorimer's
recent sudden energy, but not surprised. His thoughts were, however,
busied with something else, and he next asked--"Where's our pilot?"

"Valdemar Svensen, sir? He went down to his bunk as soon as we anchored,
for a snooze, he said."

"All right. If he comes on deck before I do, just tell him not to go
ashore for anything till I see him. I want to speak to him after
breakfast."

"Ay, ay, sir."

Whereupon Sir Philip descended to his private cabin. He drew the blind
at the port-hole to shut out the dazzling sunlight, for it was nearly
three o'clock in the morning, and quickly undressing, he flung himself
into his berth with a slight, not altogether unpleasant, feeling of
exhaustion. To the last, as his eyes closed drowsily, he seemed to hear
the slow drip, drip of the water behind the rocky cavern, and the
desolate cry of the incomprehensible Sigurd, while through these sounds
that mingled with the gurgle of little waves lapping against the sides
of the _Eulalie_, the name of "Thelma" murmured itself in his ears till
slumber drowned his senses in oblivion.




CHAPTER III.

"Hast any mortal name,
Fit appellation for this dazzling frame,
Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth?"
KEATS.


"This is positively absurd," murmured Lorimer, in mildly injured tones,
seven hours later, as he sat on the edge of his berth, surveying
Errington, who, fully dressed, and in the highest spirits, had burst in
to upbraid him for his laziness while he was yet but scantily attired.
"I tell you, my good fellow, there are some things which the utmost
stretch of friendship will _not_ stand. Here am I in shirt and trousers
with only one sock on, and you dare to say you have had an adventure!
Why, if you had cut a piece out of the sun, you ought to wait till a man
is shaved before mentioning it."