Thelma
tiny liqueur glass of Chartreuse, as a wind-up to the exertions of the
day, a mild luxury in which the others joined him, with the exception of
Macfarlane, who was wont to declare that a "mon without his whusky was
nae mon at a'," and who, therefore, persisted in burning up his interior
mechanism with alcohol in spite of the doctrines of hygiene, and was now
absorbed in the work of mixing his lemon, sugar, hot water, and
poison--his usual preparation for a night's rest.
Lorimer, usually conversational, watched him in abstracted silence.
Rallied on this morose humor, he rose, shook himself like a retriever,
yawned, and sauntered to the piano that occupied a dim corner of the
saloon, and began to play with that delicate, subtle touch, which,
though it does not always mark the brilliant pianist, distinguishes the
true lover of music, to whose ears a rough thump on the instrument, or a
false note would be most exquisite agony. Lorimer had no pretense to
musical talent; asked, he confessed he could "strum a little," and he
seemed to see the evident wonder and admiration he awakened in the minds
of many to whom such "strumming" as his was infinitely more delightful
than more practiced, finished playing. Just now he seemed undecided,--he
commenced a dainty little prelude of Chopin's, then broke suddenly off,
and wandered into another strain, wild, pleading, pitiful, and
passionate,--a melody so weird and dreamy that even the stolid
Macfarlane paused in his toddy-sipping, and Duprez looked round in some
wonderment.
"_Comme c'est beau, ca!_" he murmured.
Errington said nothing; he recognized the tune as that which Thelma had
sung at her spinning-wheel, and his bold bright eyes grew pensive and
soft, as the picture of the fair face and form rose up again before his
mind. Absorbed in a reverie, he almost started when Lorimer ceased
playing, and said lightly--
"By-bye, boys! I'm off to bed! Phil, don't wake me so abominably early
as you did this morning. If you do, friendship can hold out no
longer--we must part!"
"All right!" laughed Errington good-humoredly, watching his friend as he
sauntered out of the saloon; then seeing Duprez and Macfarlane rise from
the table, he added courteously, "Don't hurry away on Lorimer's account,
you two. I'm not in the least sleepy,--I'll sit up with you to any
hour."
"It is droll to go to bed in broad daylight," said Duprez. "But it must
be done. _Cher Philippe_, your eyes are heavy. 'To bed, to bed,' as the
excellent Madame Macbeth says. Ah! _quelle femme!_ What an exciting wife
she was for a man? Come, let us follow our dear Lorimer,--his music was
delicious. Good night or good morning? . . . I know not which it is in
this strange land where the sun shines always! It is confusing!"
They shook hands and separated. Errington, however, unable to compose
his mind to rest, went into his cabin merely to come out of it again and
betake himself to the deck, where he decided to walk up and down till he
felt sleepy. He wished to be alone with his own thoughts for awhile--to
try and resolve the meaning of this strange new emotion that possessed
him,--a feeling that was half pleasing, half painful, and that certainly
moved him to a sort of shame. A man, if he be strong and healthy, is
always more or less ashamed when Love, with a single effort, proves him
to be weaker than a blade of grass swaying in the wind. What! all his
dignity, all his resoluteness, all his authority swept down by the light
touch of a mere willow wand? for the very sake of his own manhood and
self-respect, he cannot help but be ashamed! It is as though a little
nude, laughing child mocked at a lion's strength, and made him a
helpless prisoner with a fragile daisy chain. So the god Eros begins his
battles, which end in perpetual victory,--first fear and shame,--then
desire and passion,--then conquest and possession. And afterwards? ah!
. . . afterwards the pagan deity is powerless,--a higher God, a grander
force, a nobler creed must carry Love to its supreme and best
fulfillment.
CHAPTER VIII.
"Le vent qui vient a travers la montagne
M'a rendu fou!"
VICTOR HUGO.
It was half an hour past midnight. Sir Philip was left in absolute
solitude to enjoy his meditative stroll on deck, for the full radiance
of light that streamed over the sea and land was too clear and brilliant
to necessitate the attendance of any of the sailors for the purpose of
guarding the _Eulalie_. She was safely anchored and distinctly visible
to all boats or fishing craft crossing the Fjord, so that unless a
sudden gale should blow, which did not seem probable in the present
state of the weather, there was nothing for the men to do that need
deprive them of their lawful repose. Errington paced up and down slowly,
his yachting shoes making no noise, even as they left no scratch on the
spotless white deck, that shone in the night sunshine like polished
silver. The Fjord was very calm,--on one side it gleamed like a pool of
golden oil in which the outline of the _Eulalie_ was precisely traced,
her delicate masts and spars and drooping flag being drawn in black
lines on the yellow water as though with a finely pointed pencil. There
was a curious light in the western sky; a thick bank of clouds, dusky
brown in color, were swept together and piled one above the other in
mountainous ridges, that rose up perpendicularly from the very edge of
the sea-line, while over their dark summits a glimpse of the sun, like a
giant's eye, looked forth, darting dazzling descending rays through the
sullen smoke-like masses, tinging them with metallic green and copper
hues as brilliant and shifting as the bristling points of lifted spears.
Away to the south, a solitary wreath of purple vapor floated slowly as
though lost from some great mountain height; and through its faint, half
disguising veil the pale moon peered sorrowfully, like a dying prisoner
lamenting joy long past, but unforgotten.
A solemn silence reigned; and Errington, watching sea and sky, grew more
and more absorbed and serious. The scornful words of the proud old Olaf
Gueldmar rankled in his mind and stung him. "An idle trifler with
time--an aimless wanderer!" Bitter, but, after all, true! He looked back
on his life with a feeling kin to contempt. What had he done that was at
all worth doing? He had seen to the proper management of his
estates,--well! any one with a grain of self-respect and love of
independence would do the same. He had travelled and amused himself,--he
had studied languages and literature,--he had made many friends; but
after all said and done, the _bonde's_ cutting observations had
described him correctly enough. The do-nothing, care-nothing tendency,
common to the very wealthy in this age, had crept upon him
unconsciously; the easy, cool, indifferent nonchalance common to men of
his class and breeding was habitual with him, and he had never thought
it worth while to exert his dormant abilities. Why then, should he now
begin to think it was time to reform all this,--to rouse himself to an
effort,--to gain for himself some honor, some distinction, some renown
that should mark him out as different to other men? why was he suddenly
seized with an insatiate desire to be something more than a mere
"mushroom knight, a fungus of nobility"--why? if not to make himself
worthy of--ah! There he had struck a suggestive key-note! Worthy of
what? of whom? There was no one in all the world, excepting perhaps
Lorimer, who cared what became of Sir Philip Errington, Baronet, in the
future, so long as he would, for the present, entertain and feast his
numerous acquaintances and give them all the advantages, social and
political, his wealth could so easily obtain. Then why, in the name of
well-bred indolence, should he muse with such persistent gloom, on his
general unworthiness at this particular moment? Was it because this
Norwegian maiden's grand blue eyes had met his with such beautiful trust
and candor?
He had known many women, queens of society, titled beauties, brilliant
actresses, sirens of the world with all their witcheries in full play,
and he had never lost his self-possession or his heart; with the
loveliest of them he had always felt himself master of the situation,
knowing that, in their opinion he was always "a catch," "an eligible,"
and, therefore, well worth winning. Now, for the first time, he became
aware of his utter insignificance,--this tall, fair goddess knew none of
the social slang--and her fair, pure face, the mirror of a fair, pure
soul, showed that the "eligibility" of a man from a pecuniary point of
view was a consideration that would never present itself to her mind.
What she would look at would be the man himself,--not his pocket. And,
studied from such an exceptional height,--a height seldom climbed by
modern marrying women,--Philip felt himself unworthy. It was a good
sign; there are great hopes of any man who is honestly dissatisfied with
himself. Folding his arms, he leaned idly on the deck-rails, and looked
gravely and musingly down into the motionless water where the varied
lines of the sky were clearly mirrored,--when a slight creaking,
cracking sound was heard, as of some obstacle grazing against or bumping
the side of the yacht. He looked, and saw, to his surprise, a small
rowing boat close under the gunwale, so close indeed that the slow
motion of the tide heaved it every now and then into a jerky collision
with the lower framework of the _Eulalie_--a circumstance which
explained the sound which had attracted his attention. The boat was not
unoccupied--there was some one in it lying straight across the seats,
with face turned upwards to the sky--and, walking noiselessly to a
better post of observation, Errington's heart beat with some excitement
as he recognized the long, fair, unkempt locks, and eccentric attire of
the strange personage who had confronted him in the cave--the crazy
little man who had called himself "Sigurd." There he was, beyond a
doubt, lying flat on his back with his eyes closed. Asleep or dead? He
might have been the latter,--his thin face was so pale and drawn,--his
lips were so set and colorless. Errington, astonished to see him there,
called softly--
"Sigurd! Sigurd!" There was no answer; Sigurd's form seemed
inanimate--his eyes remained fast shut.
"Is he in a trance?" thought Sir Philip wonderingly; "or has he fainted
from some physical exhaustion?"
He called again, but again received no reply. He now observed in the
stem of the boat a large bunch of pansies, dark as velvet, and evidently
freshly gathered,--proving that Sigurd had been wandering in the deep
valleys and on the sloping sides of the hills, where these flowers may
be frequently found in Norway during the summer. He began to feel rather
uncomfortable, as he watched that straight stiff figure in the boat, and
was just about to swing down the companion-ladder for the purpose of
closer inspection, when a glorious burst of light streamed radiantly
over the Fjord,--the sun conquered the masses of dark cloud that had
striven to conceal his beauty, and now,--like a warrior clad in golden
armor, surmounted and trod down his enemies, shining forth in all his
splendor. With that rush of brilliant effulgence, the apparently
lifeless Sigurd stirred,--he opened his eyes, and as they were turned
upwards, he naturally, from his close vicinity to the side of the
_Eulalie_, met Errington's gaze fixed inquiringly and somewhat anxiously
upon him. He sprang up with such sudden and fierce haste that his frail
boat rocked dangerously and Philip involuntarily cried out--
"Take care!"
Sigurd stood upright in his swaying skiff and laughed scornfully.