Thelma
"Madeleine,"
"She seemed a splendid angel newly drest
Save wings, for heaven!"
As soon as the Gueldmars were on board, the anchor was weighed with many
a cheery and musical cry from the sailors; the wheel revolved rapidly
under Valdemar Svensen's firm hand,--and with a grand outward sweeping
curtsy to the majestic Fjord she left behind her, the _Eulalie_ steamed
away, cutting a glittering line of white foam through the smooth water
as she went, and threading her way swiftly among the clustering
picturesque islands,--while the inhabitants of every little farm and
hamlet on the shores, stopped for a while in their occupations to stare
at the superb vessel, and to dreamily envy the wealth of the English
_Herren_ who could afford to pass the summer months in such luxury and
idleness. Thelma seated herself at once by Duprez, and seemed glad to
divert attention from herself to him.
"You are better, Monsieur Duprez, are you not?" she asked gently. "We
saw Sigurd this morning; he came home last night. He is very, very sorry
to have hurt you!"
"He need not apologize," said Duprez cheerfully. "I am delighted he gave
me this scar, otherwise I am confident he would have put out the eye of
Phil-eep. And that would have been a misfortune! For what would the
ladies in London say if _le beau_ Errington returned to them with one
eye! _Mon Dieu!_ they would all be en desespoir!"
Thelma looked up. Philip was standing at some little distance with Olaf
Gueldmar and Lorimer, talking and laughing gaily. His cap was slightly
pushed off his forehead, and the sun shone on his thick dark-chestnut
curls; his features, warmly colored by the wind and sea, were lit up
with mirth, and his even white teeth sparkled in an irresistible smile
of fascinating good-humor. He was the beau-ideal of the best type of
Englishman, in the full tide of youth, health and good spirits.
"I suppose he is a great favorite with all those beautiful ladies?" she
asked very quietly.
Something of gentle resignation in her tone struck the Frenchman's sense
of chivalry; had she been like any ordinary woman, bent on conquest, he
would have taken a mischievous delight in inventing a long list of fair
ones supposed to be deeply enamored of Errington's good looks,--but this
girl's innocent inquiring face inspired him with quite a different
sentiment.
"_Mais certainement!_" he said frankly and emphatically. "Phil-eep is a
favorite everywhere! Yet not more so with women than with men. I love
him extremely--he is a charming boy! Then you see, _chere Mademoiselle_,
he is rich,--very rich,--and there are so many pretty girls who are very
poor,--naturally they are enchanted with our Errington--_voyez-vous_?"
"I do not understand," she said, with a puzzled brow. "It is not
possible that they should like him better because he is rich. He would
be the same man without money as with it--it makes no difference!"
"Perhaps not to you," returned Duprez, with a smile; "but to many it
would make an immense difference! _Chere Mademoiselle_, it is a grand
thing to have plenty of money,--believe me!"
Thelma shrugged her shoulders. "Perhaps," she answered indifferently.
"But one cannot spend much on one's self, after all. The nuns at Arles
used to tell me that poverty was a virtue, and that to be very rich was
to be very miserable. They were poor,--all those good women,--and they
were always cheerful."
"The nuns! _ah, mon Dieu!_" cried Duprez. "The darlings know not the
taste of joy--they speak of what they cannot understand! How should they
know what it is to be happy or unhappy, when they bar their great
convent doors against the very name of love!"
She looked at him, and her color rose.
"You always talk of _love_," she said, half reproachfully, "as if it
were so common a thing! You know it is sacred--why will you speak as if
it were all a jest?"
A strange emotion of admiring tenderness stirred Pierre's heart--he was
very impulsive and impressionable.
"Forgive me!" he murmured penitently. Then he added suddenly, "You
should have lived ages ago, _ma belle_,--the world of to-day will not
suit you! You will be made very sorrowful in it, I assure you,--it is
not a place for good women!"
She laughed. "You are morose," she said. "That is not like you! No one
is good,--we all live to try and make ourselves better."
"What highly moral converse is going on here?" inquired Lorimer,
strolling leisurely up to them. "Are you giving Duprez a lecture, Miss
Gueldmar? He needs it,--so do I. Please give me a scolding!"
And he folded his hands with an air of demure appeal.
A sunny smile danced in the girl's blue eyes. "Always you will be
foolish!" she said. "One can never know you because I am sure you never
show your real self to anybody. No,--I will not scold you, but I should
like to find you out!"
"To find me out!" echoed Lorimer. "Why, what do you mean?"
She nodded her bright head with much sagacity.
"Ah, I do observe you often! There is something you hide; it is like
when my father has tears in his eyes; he pretends to laugh, but the
tears are there all the time. Now I see in you--" she paused, and her
questioning eyes rested on his, seriously.
"This is interesting!" said Lorimer, lazily drawing a camp-stool
opposite to her, and seating himself thereon. "I had no idea I was a
human riddle. Can you read me, Miss Gueldmar?"
"Yes," she answered slowly and meditatively. "Just a little. But I will
not say anything; no--except this--that you are not altogether what you
seem."
"Here, Phil!" called Lorimer, as he saw Errington approaching, arm in
arm with Olaf Gueldmar, "come and admire this young lady's power of
perception. She declares I am not such a fool as I look!"
"Now," said Thelma, shaking her forefinger at him, "you know very well
that I did not put it in that way. But is it not true, Sir Philip--" and
she looked up for a moment, though her eyes drooped again swiftly under
his ardent gaze, "is it not true that many people do hide their
feelings, and pretend to be quite different to what they are?"
"I should say it was a very common fault," replied Errington. "It is a
means of self-defense against the impertinent curiosity of outsiders.
But Lorimer is free from it,--he has nothing to hide. At any rate, he
has no secrets from me,--I'm sure of that!" And he clapped his hand
heartily on his friend's shoulder.
Lorimer flushed slightly, but made no remark, and at that moment
Macfarlane emerged from the saloon, where the writing of his journal had
till now detained him. In the general handshaking and salutations which
followed, the conversation took a different turn, for which Lorimer was
devoutly thankful. His face was a tell-tale one,--and he was rather
afraid of Philip's keen eyes. "I hope to Heaven he'll speak to her
to-day," he thought, vexedly. "I hate being in suspense! My mind will be
easier when I once know that he has gained his point,--and that there's
not the ghost of a chance for any other fellow!"
Meanwhile the yacht skimmed along by the barren and rocky coast of
Seiland; the sun was dazzling; yet there was a mist in the air as though
the heavens were full of unshed tears. A bank of nearly motionless
clouds hung behind the dark, sharp peaks of the Altenguard mountains,
which now lay to the southward, as the vessel pursued her course. There
was no wind; the flag on the mast flapped idly now and then with the
motion of the yacht; and Thelma found herself too warm with her pretty
crimson hood,--she therefore unfastened it and let the sunshine play on
the uncovered gold of her hair. They had a superb view of the jagged
glacier of Jedke,--black in some parts, and in others white with
unmelted snow,--and seeming, as it rose straight up against the sky, to
be the majestic monument of some giant Viking. Presently, at her earnest
request, Errington brought his portfolio of Norwegian sketches for
Thelma to look at; most of them were excellently well done, and elicited
much admiration from the _bonde_.
"It is what I have wondered at all my life," said he, "that skill of the
brush dipped in color. Pictures surprise me as much as poems. Ah, men
are marvellous creatures, when they are once brought to understand that
they _are_ men,--not beasts! One will take a few words and harmonize
them into a song or a verse that clings to the world for ever; another
will mix a few paints and dab a brush in them, and give you a picture
that generation after generation shall flock to see. It is what is
called genius,--and genius is a sort of miracle. Yet I think it is
fostered by climate a good deal,--the further north, the less
inspiration. Warmth, color, and the lightness of heart that a generally
bright sky brings, enlarges the brain and makes it capable of creative
power."
"My dear sir," said Lorimer, "England does not possess these climatic
advantages, and yet Shakespeare was an Englishman."
"He must have travelled," returned Gueldmar positively. "No one will make
me believe that the man never visited Italy. His Italian scenes prove
it,--they are full of the place and the people. The whole of his works,
full of such wonderful learning, and containing so many types of
different nations, show,--to _my_ mind, at least,--that countries were
his books of study. Why I, who am only a farmer and proprietor of a bit
of Norwegian land,--I have learned many a thing from simply taking a
glance at a new shore each year. That's the way I used to amuse myself
when I was young,--now I am old, the sea tempts me less, and I am fonder
of my arm-chair; yet I've seen a good deal in my time--enough to provide
me with memories for my declining days. And it's a droll thing, too," he
added, with a laugh, "the further south you go, the more immoral and
merry are the people; the further north, the more virtuous and
miserable. There's a wrong balance somewhere,--but where, 'tis not easy
to find out."
"Weel," said Macfarlane, "I can give ye a direct contradeection to your
theory. Scotland lies to the north, and ye'll not find a grander harvest
o' sinfu' souls anywhere between this an' the day o' judgment. I'm a
Scotchman, an' I'm just proud o' my country--I'd back its men against a'
the human race,--but I wadna say much for the stabeelity o' its women. I
wad just tak to my heels and run if I saw a real, thumpin', red-cheeked,
big-boned Scotch lassie makin' up to me. There's nae bashfulness in they
sort, and nae safety."
"I will go to Scotland!" said Duprez enthusiastically. "I feel that
those--what do you call them, _lassies_?--will charm me!"
"Scotland I never saw," said Gueldmar. "From all I have heard, it seems
to me 'twould be too much like Norway. After one's eyes have rested long
on these dark mountains and glaciers, one likes now and then to see a
fertile sunshiny stretch of country such as France, or the plains of
Lombardy. Of course there may be exceptions, but I tell you climatic
influences have a great deal to do with the state of mind and morals.
Now, take the example of that miserable old Lovisa Elsland. She is the
victim of religious mania--and religious mania, together with
superstition of the most foolish kind, is common in Norway. It happens
often during the long winters; the people have not sufficient to occupy
their minds; no clergyman--not even Dyceworthy--can satisfy the height
of their fanaticism. They preach and pray and shriek and groan in their
huts; some swear that they have the spirit of prophecy,--others that
they are possessed of devils,--others imagine witchcraft, like
Lovisa--and altogether there is such a howling on the name of Christ,
that I am glad to be out of it,--for 'tis a sight to awaken the laughter
and contempt of a pagan such as I am!"
Thelma listened with a slight shadow of pain on her features.