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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.
Ulrika, without answering, began to pack the tea-things together in a methodical way, without clattering so much as a plate or spoon, and, piling them compactly on a tray, was about to leave the room, when Mr. Dyceworthy called to her, "Ulrika!" "Sir?" "Did you ever see a thing like this before?" and he held up the crucifix to her gaze.
Ulrika uttered an exclamation of astonishment. "You! and yet you hate him now?" Lovisa raised her hand with an imperious gesture. "I have grown hate like a flower in my breast," she said, with a sort of stern impressiveness. "I have fostered it year after year, and now, it has grown too strong for me! When Olaf Gueldmar was young he told me I was fair; once he kissed my cheek at parting!
"I was knocked up; had fits, and all that sort of thing; took these three fellows all their time on Sunday to hold me down!" "Dear me!" and Mr. Dyceworthy was about to make further inquiries concerning Mr. Lorimer's present state of health, when the door opened, and Ulrika entered, bearing a large tray laden with wine and other refreshments.
The day after her husband arrived, and Ulrika departed, she rose from her bed with Britta's assistance, and sat by the blazing fire, wrapped in her white gown and looking very fragile, though very lovely, Philip had been talking to her for some time, and now he sat at her feet, holding her hand in his, and, watching her face, on which there was an expression of the most plaintive and serious penitence.
She stared vacantly at Gueldmar, whose picturesque head was illumined by the ruddy glow of the fire and feebly shaded her eyes as though she saw something that hurt them. Ulrika raised her on her tumbled pillow, and saying, in cold, unmoved tones "Speak now, for the time is short," she once more beckoned the bonde imperatively. He approached slowly.
An ambitious young Lutheran preacher came, and, addressing himself to all assembled, loudly extolled the superhuman virtues of the dead "Mother of the village," as Lovisa had been called, amid the hysterical weeping and moaning of the mourners, he begged them to look upon her "venerated face" and observe "the smile of God's own peace engraven there," and amid all his eloquence, and the shrieking excitement of his fanatical hearers, Ulrika alone was silent.
As she spoke she was clasped to his breast, folded to his heart in that strong, jealous, passionate embrace with which we who love, would fain shield 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.
Valdemar Svensen had hastily blurted out the news of the bonde's death even while she and Sir Philip were alighting from their sledge and in the same breath had told them of Thelma's dangerous illness. What wonder, then, that Britta sobbed hysterically, and refused to be comforted, what wonder that she turned upon Ulrika as that personage approached, in a burst of unreasonable anger.
Ulrika shuddered slightly as she rose from the ground and stood erect, drawing her shawl closely about her. "You hate her so much, Lovisa?" she asked, almost timidly. Lovisa's face darkened, and her yellow, claw-like hand closed round her strong staff in a cruel and threatening manner. "Hate her!" she muttered, "I have hated her ever since she was born! I hated her mother before her!
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