Thelma
she smiled now and then,--such a smile! Even so sweetly might the
"kiss-worthy" lips of the Greek Aphrodite part, could that eloquent and
matchless marble for once breathe into life. He looked at her with a
sort of fear. Her hands held his fate. What if she could not love him?
What if he must lose her utterly? This idea overpowered him; his brain
whirled, and he suddenly pushed away his untasted glass of wine, and
rose abruptly from the table, heedless of the surprise his action
excited.
"Hullo, Phil, where are you off to?" cried Lorimer. "Wait for me!"
"Tired of our company, my lad?" said Gueldmar kindly, "You've had a long
day of it,--and what with the climbing and the strong air, no doubt
you'll be glad to turn in."
"Upon my life, sir," answered Errington, with some confusion, "I don't
know why I got up just now! I was thinking,--I'm rather a dreamy sort of
fellow sometimes, and--"
"He was asleep, and doesn't want to own it!" interrupted Lorimer
sententiously. "You will excuse him; he means well! He looks rather
seedy. I think, Mr. Gueldmar, we'll be off to the yacht. By the way,
you're coming with us to-morrow, aren't you?"
"Oh yes," said Thelma. "We will sail with you round by Soroe,--it is
weird and dark and grand; but I think it is beautiful. And there are
many stories of the elves and berg-folk, who are said to dwell there
among the deep ravines. Have you heard about the berg-folk?" she
continued, addressing herself to Errington, unaware of the effort he was
making to appear cool and composed in her presence. "No? Then I must
tell you to-morrow."
They all walked out of the house into the porch, and while her father
was interchanging farewells with the others, she looked at Sir Philip's
grave face with some solicitude.
"I am afraid you are very tired, my friend?" she asked softly, "or your
head aches,--and you suffer?"
He caught her hands swiftly and raised them to his lips.
"Would you care much,--would you care at all, if I suffered?" he
murmured in a low tone.
Then before she could speak or move, he let go her hands again, and
turned with his usual easy courtesy to Gueldmar. "Then we may expect you
without fail to-morrow, sir! Good night!"
"Good night, my lad!"
And with many hearty salutations the young men took their departure,
raising their hats to Thelma as they turned down the winding path to the
shore. She remained standing near her father,--and, when the sound of
their footsteps had died away, she drew closer still and laid her head
against his breast.
"Cold, my bird?" queried the old man. "Why, thou art shivering,
child!--and yet the sunshine is as warm as wine. What ails thee?"
"Nothing, father!" And she raised her eyes, glowing and brilliant as
stars. "Tell me,--do you think often of my mother now!"
"Often!" And Gueldmar's fine resolute face grew sad and tender. "She is
never absent from my mind! I see her night and day, ay! I can feel her
soft arms clinging round my neck,--why dost thou ask so strange a
question, little one? Is it possible to forget what has been once
loved?"
Thelma was silent for many minutes. Then she kissed her father and said
"good night." He held her by the hand and looked at her with a sort of
vague anxiety.
"Art thou well, my child?" he asked. "This little hand burns like
fire,--and thine eyes are too bright, surely, for sleep to visit them?
Art sure that nothing ails thee?"
"Sure, quite sure," answered the girl with a strange, dreamy smile. "I
am quite well,--and happy!"
And she turned to enter the house.
"Stay!" called the father. "Promise me thou wilt think no more of
Lovisa!"
"I had nearly forgotten her," she responded. "Poor thing! She cursed me
because she is so miserable, I suppose--all alone and unloved; it must
be hard! Curses sometimes turn to blessings, father! Good night!"
And she ascended the one flight of wooden stairs in the house to her own
bedroom--a little three-cornered place as clean and white as the
interior of a shell. Never once glancing at the small mirror that seemed
to invite her charms to reflect themselves therein, she went to the
quaint latticed window and knelt down by it, folding her arms on the
sill while she looked far out to the Fjord. She could see the English
flag fluttering from the masts of the _Eulalie_; she could almost hear
the steady plash of the oars wielded by Errington and his friends as
they rowed themselves back to the yacht. Bright tears filled her eyes,
and brimmed over, falling warmly on her folded hands.
"Would I care if you suffered?" she whispered. "Oh, my love! . . . my
love!"
Then, as if afraid lest the very winds should have heard her
half-breathed exclamation, she shut her window in haste, and a hot blush
crimsoned her cheeks.
Undressing quickly, she slipped into her little white bed and, closing
her eyes, fancied she slept, though her sleep was but a waking dream of
love in which all bright hopes reached their utmost fulfillment, and yet
were in some strange way crossed with shadows which she had no power to
disperse. And later on, when old Gueldmar slumbered soundly, and the
golden mid-night sunshine lit up every nook and gable of the farmhouse
with its lustrous glory, making Thelma's closed lattice sparkle like a
carven jewel,--a desolate figure lay prone on the grass beneath her
window, with meagre pale face, and wide-open wild blue eyes upturned to
the fiery brilliancy of the heavens. Sigurd had come home;--Sigurd was
repentant, sorrowful, ashamed,--and broken-hearted.
CHAPTER XIII.
"O Love! O Love! O Gateway of Delight!
Thou porch of peace, thou pageant of the prime
Of all God's creatures! I am here to climb
Thine upward steps, and daily and by night
To gaze beyond them and to search aright
The far-off splendor of thy track sublime."
ERIC MACKAY'S _Love-letters of a Violinist_.
On the following morning the heat was intense,--no breath of wind
stirred a ripple on the Fjord, and there was a heaviness in the
atmosphere which made the very brightness of the sky oppressive. Such
hot weather was unusual for that part of Norway, and according to
Valdemar Svensen, betokened some change. On board the _Eulalie_
everything was ready for the trip to Soroe,--steam was getting up prior
to departure,--and a group of red-capped sailors stood prepared to weigh
the anchor as soon as the signal was given. Breakfast was
over,--Macfarlane was in the saloon writing his journal, which he kept
with great exactitude, and Duprez, who, on account of his wound, was
considered something of an invalid, was seated in a lounge chair on
deck, delightedly turning over a bundle of inflammatory French political
journals received that morning. Errington and Lorimer were pacing the
deck arm in arm, keeping a sharp look-out for the first glimpse of the
returning boat which had been sent off to fetch Thelma and her father.
Errington looked vexed and excited,--Lorimer bland and convincing.
"I can't help it, Phil!" he said. "It's no use fretting and fuming at
me. It was like Dyceworthy's impudence, of course,--but there's no doubt
he proposed to her,--and it's equally certain that she rejected him. I
thought I'd tell you you had a rival,--not in me, as you seemed to think
yesterday,--but in our holy fat friend."
"Rival! pshaw!" returned Errington, with an angry laugh. "He is not
worth kicking!"
"Possibly not! Still I have a presentiment that he's the sort of fellow
that won't take 'no' for an answer. He'll dodge that poor girl and make
her life miserable if he can, unless--"
"Unless what?" asked Philip quickly.
Lorimer stopped in his walk, and, leaning against the deck-railings,
looked his friend straight in the eyes.
"Unless you settle the matter," he said with a slight effort. "You love
her,--tell her so!"
Errington laid one hand earnestly on his shoulder.
"Ah, George, you don't understand!" he said in a low tone, while his
face was grave and full of trouble. "I used to think I was fairly brave,
but I find I am a positive coward. I dare not tell her! She--Thelma--is
not like other women. You may think me a fool,--I dare say you do,--but
I swear to you I am afraid to speak, because--because, old boy,--if she
were to refuse me,--if I knew there was no hope--well, I don't want to
be sentimental,--but my life would be utterly empty and worthless,--so
useless, that I doubt if I should care to live it out to the bitter
end!"
Lorimer heard him in silence,--a silence maintained partly out of
sympathy, and partly that he might keep his own feelings well under
control.
"But why persist in looking at the gloomy side of the picture?" he said
at last. "Suppose she loves you?"
"Suppose an angel flew down from Heaven!" replied Philip, with rather a
sad smile. "My dear fellow, who am I that I should flatter myself so
far? If she were one of those ordinary women to whom marriage is the
be-all and end-all of existence, it would be different--but she is not.
Her thoughts are like those of a child or a poet,--why should I trouble
them by the selfishness of my passion? for all passion _is_ selfish,
even at its best. Why should I venture to break the calm friendship she
may have for me, by telling her of a love which might prove unwelcome!"
Lorimer looked at him with gentle amusement depicted in his face.
"Phil, you are less conceited than I thought you were," he said, with a
light laugh, "or else you are blind--blind as a bat, old man! Take my
advice,--don't lose any more time about it. Make the 'king's daughter of
Norroway' happy, . . ." and a brief sigh escaped him. "You are the man to
do it. I am surprised at your density; Sigurd, the lunatic, has more
perception. He sees which way the wind blows,--and that's why he's so
desperately unhappy. He thinks--and thinks rightly too--that he will
lose his 'beautiful rose of the northern forest,' as he calls her,--and
that you are to be the robber. Hence his dislike to you. Dear me!" and
Lorimer lit a cigarette and puffed at it complacently. "It seems to me
that my wits are becoming sharper as I grow older, and that yours, my
dear boy,--pardon me! . . . are getting somewhat blunted, otherwise you
would certainly have perceived--" he broke off abruptly.
"Well, go on!" exclaimed Philip eagerly, with flashing eyes. "Perceived
what?"
Lorimer laughed. "That the boat containing your Sun-empress is coming
along very rapidly, old fellow, and that you'd better make haste to
receive her!"
This was the fact, and Duprez had risen from his chair and was waving
his French newspaper energetically to the approaching visitors.
Errington hastened to the gangway with a brighter flush than usual on
his handsome face, and his heart beating with a new sense of
exhilaration and excitement. If Lorimer's hints had any foundation of
truth--if Thelma loved him ever so little--how wild a dream it seemed!
. . . why not risk his fate? He resolved to speak to her that very day
if opportunity favored him,--and, having thus decided, felt quite
masterful and heroic about it.
This feeling of proud and tender elation increased when Thelma stepped
on deck that morning and laid her hands in his. For, as he greeted her
and her father, he saw at a glance that she was slightly changed. Some
restless dream must have haunted her--or his hurried words beneath the
porch, when he parted from her the previous evening, had startled her
and troubled her mind. Her blue eyes were no longer raised to his in
absolute candor,--her voice was timid, and she had lost something of her
usual buoyant and graceful self-possession. But she looked lovelier than
ever with that air of shy hesitation and appealing sweetness. Love had
thrown his network of light about her soul and body till, like Keats's