And they resumed their work in gloomy silence. Not one of them would have willingly labored on Olaf Güldmar's land, had not the wages he offered been above the usual rate of hire,—and times were bad in Norway. But otherwise, the superstitious fear of him was so great that his fields might have gone untilled and his crops ungathered,—however, as matters stood, none of them could deny that he was a good paymaster, and just in his dealings with those whom he employed.
Thelma and Sigurd took their way in silence across a perfumed stretch of meadow-land,—the one naturally fertile spot in that somewhat barren district. Plenty of flowers blossomed at their feet, but they did not pause to gather these, for Sigurd was anxious to get to the stream where the purple pansies grew. They soon reached it—it was a silvery clear ribbon of water that unrolled itself in bright folds, through green, transparent tunnels of fern and waving grass—leaping now and then with a swift dash over a smooth block of stone or jagged rock—but for the most part gliding softly, with a happy, self-satisfied murmur, as though it were some drowsy spirit dreaming joyous dreams. Here nodded the grave, purple-leaved pansies,—legendary consolers of the heart,—their little, quaint, expressive physiognomies turned in every direction; up to the sky, as though absorbing the sunlight,—down to the ground, with an almost severe air of meditation, or curled sideways on their stems in a sort of sly reflectiveness.
Sigurd was among them at once—they were his friends,—his playmates, his favorites,—and he gathered them quickly, yet tenderly, murmuring as he did so, "Yes, you must all die; but death does not hurt; no! life hurts, but not death! See! as I pluck you, you all grow wings and fly away—away to other meadows, and bloom again." He paused, and a puzzled look came into his eyes. He turned toward Thelma, who had seated herself on a little knoll just above the stream, "Tell me, mistress," he said, "do the flowers go to heaven?"
She smiled. "I think so, dear Sigurd," she said; "I hope so! I am almost sure they do."
Sigurd nodded with an air of satisfaction.
"That is right," he observed. "It would never do to leave them behind, you know! They would be missed, and we should have to come down again and fetch them—" A crackling among the branches of some trees startled him,—he looked round, and uttered a peculiar cry like the cry of a wild animal, and exclaimed, "Spies, spies! ha! ha! secret, wicked faces that are afraid to show themselves! Come out! Mistress, mistress! make them come out!"
Thelma rose, surprised as his gesticulations, and came towards him; to her utter astonishment she found herself confronted by old Lovisa Elsland, and the Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy's servant, Ulrika. On both women's faces there was a curious expression of mingled fear, triumph, and malevolence. Lovisa was the first to break silence.
"At last!" she croaked, in a sort of slow, monotonous tone "At last, Thelma Güldmar, the Lord has delivered you into my hands!"
Thelma drew Sigurd close to her, and slipped one arm around him.
"Poor soul!" she said softly, with sweet pitying eyes fixed fearlessly on the old hag's withered, evil visage. "You must be tired, wandering about on the hills as you do! If you are her friend," she added, addressing Ulrika, "why do you not make her rest at home and keep warm? She is so old and feeble!"