Thelma
grown, is always a babe to me. 'Tis one of the many privileges of the
old, to see the world about them always young and full of children."
And he led the way past the wide-open lattice, where they could dimly
perceive the spinning-wheel standing alone, as though thinking deeply of
the fair hands that had lately left it idle, and so round to the actual
front of the house, which was exceedingly picturesque, and literally
overgrown with roses from ground to roof. The entrance door stood
open;--it was surrounded by a wide, deep porch richly carved and
grotesquely ornamented, having two comfortable seats within it, one on
each side. Through this they went, involuntarily brushing down as they
passed, a shower of pink and white rose-leaves, and stepped into a wide
passage, where upon walls of dark, polished pine, hung a large
collection of curiously shaped weapons, all of primitive manufacture,
such as stone darts and rough axes, together with bows and arrows and
two-handled swords, huge as the fabled weapon of William Wallace.
Opening a door to the right the _bonde_ stood courteously aside and bade
them enter, and they found themselves in the very apartment where they
had seen the maiden spinning.
"Sit down, sit down!" said their host hospitably. "We will have wine
directly, and Thelma shall come hither. Thelma! Thelma! Where is the
child? She wanders hither and thither like a mountain sprite. Wait here,
my lads, I shall return directly."
And he strode away, leaving Errington and Lorimer delighted at the
success of their plans, yet somewhat abashed too. There was a peace and
gentle simplicity about the little room in which they were, that touched
the chivalrous sentiment in their natures and kept them silent. On one
side of it, half a dozen broad shelves supported a goodly row of
well-bound volumes, among which the time-honored golden names of
Shakespeare and Scott glittered invitingly, together with such works as
Chapman's Homer, Byron's "Childe Harold," the Poems of John Keats,
Gibbon's Rome, and Plutarch; while mingled with these were the
devotional works in French of Alphonse de Liguori, the "Imitation," also
in French,--and a number of books with titles in Norwegian,--altogether
an heterogenous collection of literature, yet not without interest as
displaying taste and culture on the part of those to whom it belonged.
Errington, himself learned in books, was surprised to see so many
standard works in the library of one who professed to be nothing but a
Norwegian farmer, and his respect for the sturdy old _bonde_ increased.
There were no pictures in the room,--the wide lattice window on one
hand, looking out on the roses and pine-wood, and the other smaller one,
close to the entrance door, from which the Fjord was distinctly visible,
were sufficient pictures in themselves, to need no others. The furniture
was roughly made of pine, and seemed to have been carved by hand,--some
of the chairs were very quaint and pretty and would have sold in a
bric-a-brac shop for more than a sovereign apiece. On the wide
mantle-shelf was a quantity of curious old china that seemed to have
been picked up from all parts of the world,--most of it was undoubtedly
valuable. In one dark corner stood an ancient harp; then there was the
spinning-wheel,--itself a curiosity fit for a museum,--testifying dumbly
of the mistress of all these surroundings, and on the floor there was
something else,--something that both the young men were strongly
inclined to take possession of. It was only a bunch of tiny meadow
daisies, fastened together with a bit of blue silk. It had fallen,--they
guessed by whom it had been worn,--but neither made any remark, and
both, by some strange instinct, avoided looking at it, as though the
innocent little blossoms carried within them some terrible temptation.
They were conscious of a certain embarrassment, and making an effort to
break through it, Lorimer remarked softly--
"By Jove, Phil, if this old Gueldmar really knew what you are up to, I
believe he would bundle you out of this place like a tramp! Didn't you
feel a sneak when he said we had told the truth like men?"
Philip smiled dreamily. He was seated in one of the quaintly carved
chairs, half absorbed in what was evidently a pleasing reverie.
"No; not exactly," he replied. "Because we _did_ tell him the truth; we
did want to know him, and he's worth knowing too! He is a
magnificent-looking fellow; don't you think so?"
"Rather!" assented Lorimer, with emphasis. "I wish there were any hope
of my becoming such a fine old buffer in my _decadence_,--it would be
worth living for if only to look at myself in the glass now and then. He
rather startled me when he threw down that knife, though. I suppose it
is some old Norwegian custom?"
"I suppose so," Errington answered, and then was silent, for at that
moment the door opened and the old farmer returned, followed by a girl
bearing a tray glittering with flasks of Italian wine, and long graceful
glasses shaped like round goblets, set on particularly slender stems.
The sight of the girl disappointed the eager visitors, for though she
was undeniably pretty, she was not Thelma. She was short and plump, with
rebellious nut-brown locks, that rippled about her face and from under
her close white cap with persistent untidiness. Her cheeks were as round
and red as lore-apples, and she had dancing blue eyes that appeared for
ever engaged in good-natured efforts to outsparkle each other. She wore
a spotless apron, lavishly trimmed with coquettish little starched
frills,--her hands were, unfortunately, rather large and coarse,--but
her smile, as she set down the tray and curtsied respectfully to the
young men, was charming, disclosing as it did, tiny teeth as even and
white as a double row of small pearls.
"That is well, Britta," said Gueldmar, speaking in English, and assisting
her to place the glasses. "Now, quick! . . . run after thy mistress to
the shore,--her boat cannot yet have left the creek,--bid her return and
come to me,--tell her there are friends here who will be glad of her
presence."
Britta hurried away at once, but Errington's heart sank. Thelma had
gone!--gone, most probably, for one of those erratic journeys across the
Fjord to the cave where he had first seen her. She would not come back,
he felt certain; not even at her father's request would that beautiful,
proud maiden consent to alter her plans. What an unlucky destiny was
his! Absorbed in disappointed reflections, he scarcely heard the
enthusiastic praises Lorimer was diplomatically bestowing on the
_bonde's_ wine. He hardly felt its mellow flavor on his own palate,
though it was in truth delicious, and fit for the table of a monarch.
Gueldmar noticed the young baronet's abstraction, and addressed him with
genial kindness.
"Are you thinking, Sir Philip, of my rough speeches to you yonder? No
offense was meant, no offense! . . ." the old fellow paused, and laughed
over his wine-glass. "Yet I may as well be honest about it! Offense
_was_ meant; but when I found that none was taken, my humor changed."
A slight, half-weary smile played on Errington's lips. "I assure you,
sir," he said, "I agreed with you then and agree with you now in every
word you uttered. You took my measure very correctly, and allow me to
add that no one can be more conscious of my own insignificance that I am
myself. The days we live in are insignificant; the chronicle of our
paltry doings will be skipped by future readers of the country's
history. Among a society of particularly useless men, I feel myself to
be one of the most useless. If you could show me any way to make my life
valuable--"
He paused abruptly, and his heart beat with inexplicable rapidity. A
light step and the rustle of a dress was heard coming through the porch;
another perfumed shower of rose-leaves fell softly on the garden path;
the door of the room opened, and a tall, fair, white-robed figure shone
forth from the dark background of the outer passage; a figure that
hesitated on the threshold, and then advanced noiselessly and with a
reluctant shyness. The old _bonde_ turned round in his chair with a
smile.
"Ah, here she is!" he said fondly. "Where hast thou been, my Thelma?"
CHAPTER VI.
"And Sigurd the Bishop said,
'The old gods are not dead,
For the great Thor still reigns,
And among the Jarls and Thanes
The old witchcraft is spread.'"
LONGFELLOW'S _Saga of King Olaf_.
The girl stood silent, and a faint blush crimsoned her cheeks. The young
men had risen at her entrance, and in one fleeting glance she recognized
Errington, though she gave no sign to that effect.
"See, my darling," continued her father, "here are English visitors to
Norway. This is Sir Philip Errington, who travels through our wild
waters in the great steam yacht now at anchor in the Fjord; and this is
his friend, Mr.--Mr.--Lorimer,--have I caught your name rightly, my
lad?" he continued, turning to George Lorimer with a kindly smile.
"You have, sir," answered that gentleman promptly, and then he was mute,
feeling curiously abashed in the presence of this royal-looking young
lady, who, encircled by her father's arm, raised her deep, dazzling blue
eyes, and serenely bent her stately head to him as his name was
mentioned.
The old farmer went on, "Welcome them, Thelma mine!--friends are scarce
in these days, and we must not be ungrateful for good company. What!
what! I know honest lads when I see them! Smile on them, my Thelma!--and
then we will warm their hearts with another cup of wine."
As he spoke, the maiden advanced with a graceful, even noble air, and
extending both her hands to each of the visitors in turn, she said--
"I am your servant, friends; in entering this house you do possess it.
Peace and heart's greeting!"
The words were a literal translation of a salutation perfectly common in
many parts of Norway--a mere ordinary expression of politeness; but,
uttered in the tender, penetrating tones, of the most musical voice they
had ever heard, and accompanied by the warm, frank, double handclasp of
those soft, small, daintily shaped hands, the effect on the minds of the
generally self-possessed, fashionably bred young men of the world, was
to confuse and bewilder them to the last degree. What could they answer
to this poetical, quaint formula of welcome? The usual latitudes, such
as "Delighted, I'm sure;" or, "Most happy--am charmed to meet you?" No;
these remarks, deemed intelligent by the lady rulers of London
drawing-rooms, would, they felt, never do here. As well put a gentleman
in modern evening dress _en face_ with a half-nude scornfully beautiful
statue of Apollo, as trot out threadbare, insincere commonplaces in the
hearing of this clear-eyed child of nature, whose pure, perfect face
seemed to silently repel the very passing shadow of a falsehood.
Philip's brain whirled round and about in search of some suitable reply,
but could find none; and Lorimer felt himself blushing like a schoolboy,
as he stammered out something incoherent and eminently foolish, though
he had sense enough left to appreciate the pressure of those lovely
hands as long as it lasted.
Thelma, however, appeared not to notice their deep embarrassment--she
had not yet done with them. Taking the largest goblet on the table, she
filled it to the brim with wine, and touched it with her lips,--then
with a smile in which a thousand radiating sunbeams seemed to quiver and
sparkle, she lifted it towards Errington. The grace of her attitude and
action wakened him out of his state of dreamy bewilderment--in his soul
he devoutly blessed these ancient family customs, and arose to the
occasion like a man. Clasping with a tender reverence the hands that