Thelma
upheld the goblet, he bent his handsome head and drank a deep draught,
while his dark curls almost touched her fair ones,--and then an insane
jealousy possessed him for a moment, as he watched her go through the
same ceremony with Lorimer.
She next carried the now more than half-emptied cup to the _bonde_, and
said as she held it, laughing softly--
"Drink it all, father!--if you leave a drop, you know these gentlemen
will quarrel with us, or you with them."
"That is true!" said Olaf Gueldmar with great gravity; "but it will not
be my fault, child, nor the fault of wasted wine."
And he drained the glass to its dregs and set it upside down on the
table with a deep sigh of satisfaction and refreshment. The ceremony
concluded, it was evident the ice of reserve was considered broken, for
Thelma seated herself like a young queen, and motioned her visitors to
do the same with a gesture of gracious condescension.
"How did you find your way here?" she asked with sweet, yet direct
abruptness, giving Sir Philip a quick glance, in which there was a
sparkle of mirth, though her long lashes veiled it almost instantly.
Her entire lack of stiffness and reserve set the young men at their
ease, and they fell into conversation freely, though Errington allowed
Lorimer to tell the story of their trespass in his own fashion without
interference. He instinctively felt that the young lady who listened
with so demure a smile to that plausible narrative, knew well enough the
real motive that had brought them thither though she apparently had her
own reasons for keeping silence on the point, as whatever she may have
thought, she said nothing.
Lorimer skillfully avoided betraying the fact that they had watched her
through the window, and had listened to her singing. And Thelma heard
all the explanations patiently till Bosekop was mentioned, and then her
fair face grew cold and stern.
"From whom did you hear of us there?" she inquired. "We do not mix with
the people,--why should they speak of us?"
"The truth is," interposed Errington, resting his eyes with a sense of
deep delight on the beautiful rounded figure and lovely features that
were turned towards him, "I heard of you first through my pilot--one
Valdemar Svensen."
"Ha, ha!" cried old Gueldmar with some excitement, "there is a fellow who
cannot hold his tongue! What have I said to thee, child? A bachelor is
no better than a gossiping old woman. He that is always alone must talk,
if it be only to woods and waves. It is the married men who know best
how excellent it is to keep silence!"
They all laughed, though Thelma's eyes had a way of looking pensive even
when she smiled.
"You would not blame poor Svensen because he is alone, father?" she
said. "Is he not to be pitied? Surely it is a cruel fate to have none to
love in all the wide world. Nothing can be more cruel!"
Gueldmar surveyed her humorously. "Hear her!" he said. "She talks as if
she knew all about such things; and if ever a child was ignorant of
sorrow, surely it is my Thelma! Every flower and bird in the place loves
her. Yes; I have thought sometimes the very sea loves her. It must; she
is so much upon it. And as for her old father"--he laughed a little,
though a suspicious moisture softened his keen eyes--"why, he doesn't
love her at all. Ask her! She knows it."
Thelma rose quickly and kissed him. How deliciously those sweet lips
pouted, thought Errington, and what an unreasonable and extraordinary
grudge he seemed to bear towards the venerable _bonde_ for accepting
that kiss with so little apparent emotion!
"Hush, father!" she said. "These friends can see too plainly how much
you spoil me. Tell me,"--and she turned with a sudden pretty
imperiousness to Lorimer, who started at her voice as a racehorse starts
at its rider's touch,--"what person in Bosekop spoke of us?"
Lorimer was rather at a loss, inasmuch as no one in the small town had
actually spoken of them, and Mr. Dyceworthy's remarks concerning those
who were "ejected with good reason from respectable society," might not,
after all, have applied to the Gueldmar family. Indeed, it now seemed an
absurd and improbable supposition. Therefore he replied cautiously--
"The Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy, I think, has some knowledge of you. Is he
not a friend of yours?"
These simple words had a most unexpected effect. Olaf Gueldmar sprang up
from his seat flaming with wrath. It was in vain that his daughter laid
a restraining hand upon his arm. The name of the Lutheran divine had
sufficed to put him in a towering passion, and he turned furiously upon
the astonished Errington.
"Had I known you came from the devil, sir, you should have returned to
him speedily, with hot words to hasten your departure! I would have
split that glass to atoms before I would have drained it after you! The
friends of a false heart are no friends for me,--the followers of a
pretended sanctity find no welcome under my roof! Why not have told me
at once that you came as spies, hounded on by the liar Dyceworthy? Why
not have confessed it openly? .. . . and not have played the thief's
trick on an old fool, who, for once, misled by your manly and upright
bearing, consented to lay aside the rightful suspicions he at first
entertained of your purpose? Shame on you, young men! shame!"
The words coursed impetuously from his lips; his face burned with
indignation. He had broken away from his daughter's hold, while she,
pale and very still, stood leaning one hand upon the table. His white
hair was tossed back from his brow; his eyes flashed; his attitude
though vengeful and threatening, was at the same time so bold and
commanding that Lorimer caught himself lazily admiring the contour of
his figure, and wondering how he would look in marble as an infuriated
Viking.
One excellent thing in the dispositions of both Errington and Lorimer
was that they never lost temper. Either they were too lazy or too
well-bred. Undoubtedly they both considered it "bad form." This
indifference stood them in good stead now. They showed no sign whatever
of offense, though the old farmer's outbreak of wrath was so sudden and
unlooked for, that they remained for a moment silent out of sheer
surprise. Then rising with unruffled serenity, they took up their caps
preparatory to departure. Errington's gentle, refined voice broke the
silence.
"You are in error, Mr. Gueldmar," he said in chilly but perfectly polite
tones. "I regret you should be so hasty in your judgment of us. If you
accepted us as 'men' when you first met us, I cannot imagine why you
should now take us for spies. The two terms are by no means synonymous.
I know nothing of Mr. Dyceworthy beyond that he called upon me, and that
I, as in duty bound, returned his call. I am ignorant of his character
and disposition. I may add that I have no desire to be enlightened
respecting them. I do not often take a dislike to anybody, but it so
happens that I have done so in the case of Mr. Dyceworthy. I know
Lorimer doesn't care for him, and I don't think my other two friends are
particularly attached to him. I have nothing more to say, except that I
fear we have outstayed our welcome. Permit us now to wish you good
evening. And you,"--he hesitated, and turned with a low bow to Thelma,
who had listened to his words with a gradually dawning brightness on her
face--"you will, I trust, exonerate us from any intentional offense
towards your father or yourself? Our visit has proved unlucky, but--"
Thelma interrupted him by laying her fair little hand on his arm with a
wistful, detaining gesture, which, though seemingly familiar, was yet
perfectly sweet and natural. The light touch thrilled his blood, and
sent it coursing through his veins at more than customary speed.
"Ah, then, you also will be foolish!" she said, with a naive protecting
air of superior dignity. "Do you not see my father is sorry? Have we all
kissed the cup for nothing, or was the wine wasted? Not a drop was
spilt; how then, if we are friends should we part in coldness? Father,
it is you to be ashamed,--not these gentleman, who are strangers to the
Altenfjord, and know nothing of Mr. Dyceworthy, or an other person
dwelling here. And when their vessel sails away again over the wide seas
to their own shores, how will you have them think of you? As one whose
heart was all kindness, and who helped to make their days pass
pleasantly? or as one who, in unreasonable anger, forgot the duties of
sworn hospitality?"
The _bonde_ listened to her full, sweet, reproachful voice as a tough
old lion might listen to the voice of its tamer, uncertain whether to
yield or spring. He wiped his heated brow and stared around him
shamefacedly. Finally, as though swallowing his pride with a gulp, he
drew a long breath, took a couple of determined strides forward, and
held out his hands, one to Errington and the other to Lorimer, by whom
they were warmly grasped.
"There, my lads," he said rapidly. "I'm sorry I spoke! Forgive and
forget! That is the worst of me--my blood is up in a minute, and old
though I am, I'm not old enough yet to be patient. And when I hear the
name of that sneak Dyceworthy--by the gates of Valhalla, I feel as if my
own house would not hold me! No, no; don't go yet! Nearly ten? Well, no
matter, the night is like the day here, you see--it doesn't matter when
one goes to bed. Come and sit in the porch awhile; I shall get cool out
there. Ah, Thelma, child! I see thee laughing at thy old father's
temper! Never mind, never mind; is it not for thy sake after all?"
And, holding Errington by the arm, he led the way into the fine old
porch, Lorimer following with rather a flushed face, for he, as he
passed out of the room, had managed to pick up and secrete the neglected
little bunch of daisies, before noticed as having fallen on the floor.
He put them quickly in his breast pocket with a curious sense of
satisfaction, though he had no intention of keeping them, and leaned
idly against the clambering roses, watching Thelma, as she drew a low
stool to her father's feet and sat there. A balmy wind blew in from the
Fjord, and rustled mysteriously among the pines; the sky was flecked
here and there with fleecy clouds, and a number of birds were singing in
full chorus. Old Gueldmar heaved a sigh of relief, as though his recent
outburst of passion had done him good.
"I will tell you, Sir Philip," he said, ruffling his daughter's curls as
he spoke,--"I will tell you why I detest the villain Dyceworthy. It is
but fair you should know it. Now, Thelma!--why that push to my knee? You
fear I may offend our friends again? Nay, I will take good care. And so,
first of all, I ask you, what is your religion? Though I know you cannot
be Lutherans."
Errington was somewhat taken aback by the question. He smiled.
"My dear sir," he replied at last; "to be frank with you, I really do
not think I have any religion. If I had, I suppose I should call myself
a Christian, though, judging from the behavior of Christians in general,
I cannot be one of them after all,--for I belong to no sect, I go to no
church, and I have never read a tract in my life. I have a profound
reverence and admiration for the character and doctrine of Christ, and I
believe if I had had the privilege of knowing and conversing with Him, I
should not have deserted Him in extremity as his timorous disciples did.
I believe in an all-wise Creator; so you see I am not an atheist. My
mother was an Austrian and a Catholic, and I have a notion that, as a
small child, I was brought up in that creed; but I'm afraid I don't know
much about it now."
The _bonde_ nodded gravely. "Thelma, here," he said, "is a Catholic, as
her mother was--" he stopped abruptly, and a deep shadow of pain