Thelma
She looked up--the flame of the bright torch he carried illumined his
face, on which love had written what she could not fail to read,--but
she trembled as with cold, and there was a kind of appalling wonder in
her troubled eyes. He whispered, "come, Queen Thelma!" As in a dream,
she allowed him to lead her to the stalactite chair, and when she was
seated therein, she endeavored to control the rapid beating of her
heart, and to smile unconcernedly on the little group that surrounded
her with shouts of mingled mirth and admiration.
"Ye look just fine!" said Macfarlane with undisguised delight. "Ye'd
mak' a grand picture, wouldn't she, Errington?"
Phillip gazed at her, but said nothing--his head was too full. Sitting
there among the glittering, intertwisted, and suspended rocks,--with the
blaze from the torches flashing on her winsome face and luxuriant
hair,--with that half-troubled, half-happy look in her eyes, and an
uncertain shadowy smile quivering on her sweet lips, the girl looked
almost dangerously lovely,--Helen of Troy could scarce have fired more
passionate emotion among the old-world heroes than she unconsciously
excited at that moment in the minds of all who beheld her. Duprez for
once understood what it was to reverence a woman's beauty, and decided
that the flippant language of compliment was out of place--he therefore
said nothing, and Lorrimer, too, was silent battling bravely against the
wild desires that were now, in his opinion, nothing but disloyalty to
his friend. Old Gueldmar's hearty voice roused and startled them all.
"Now Thelma, child! If thou art a queen, give orders to these lads to be
moving! 'Tis a damp place to hold a court in, and thy throne must needs
be a cold one. Let us out to the blessed sunshine again--maybe we can
climb one of yon wild rocks and get a view worth seeing."
"All right, sir!" said Lorimer, chivalrously resolving that now
Errington should have a chance. "Come on, Mac! _Allons,
marchons_,--Pierre! Mr. Gueldmar exacts our obedience! Phil, you take
care of the queen!"
And skillfully pushing on Duprez and Macfarlane before him, he followed
Gueldmar, who preceded them all,--thus leaving his friend in a momentary
comparative solitude with Thelma. The girl was a little startled as she
saw them thus taking their departure, and sprang up from her stalactite
throne in haste. Sir Philip had laid aside his torch in order to assist
her with both hands to descend the sloping rocks; but her embarrassment
at being left almost alone with him made her nervous and uncertain of
foot,--she was hurried and agitated and anxious to overtake the others,
and in trying to walk quickly she slipped and nearly fell. In one second
she was caught in his arms and clasped passionately to his heart.
"Thelma! Thelma!" he whispered, "I love you, my darling--I love you!"
She trembled in his strong embrace, and strove to release herself, but
he pressed her more closely to him, scarcely knowing that he did so, but
feeling that he held the world, life, time, happiness, and salvation in
this one fair creature. His brain was in a wild whirl--the glitter of
the stalactite cave turned to a gyrating wheel of jewel-work, there was
nothing any more--no universe, no existence--nothing but love, love,
love, beating strong hammer-strokes through every fibre of his frame. He
glanced up, and saw that the slowly retreating forms of his friends had
nearly reached the outer opening of the cavern. Once there, they would
look back and--
"Quick, Thelma!" and his warm breath touched her cheek. "My darling! my
love! if you are not angry,--kiss me! I shall understand."
She hesitated. To Philip that instant of hesitation seemed a cycle of
slow revolving years. Timidly she lifted her head. She was very pale,
and her breath came and went quickly. He gazed at her in speechless
suspense,--and saw as in a vision the pure radiance of her face and
star-like eyes shining more and more closely upon him. Then came a
touch,--soft and sweet as a roseleaf pressed against his lips,--and for
one mad moment he remembered nothing,--he was caught up like Homer's
Paris in a cloud of gold, and knew not which was earth or heaven.
"You love me, Thelma?" he murmured in a sort of wondering rapture. "I
cannot believe it, sweet! Tell me--you love me?"
She looked up. A new, unspeakable glory flushed her face, and her eyes
glowed with the mute eloquence of awakening passion.
"Love you?" she said in a voice so low and sweet that it might have been
the whisper of a passing fairy. "Ah, yes! more than my life!"
CHAPTER XIV.
"Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, sweet eyes, sweet mouth;
Each singly wooed and won!"
DANTE ROSETTI.
"Hallo, ho!" shouted Gueldmar vociferously, peering back into the shadows
of the cavern from whence the figures of his daughter and Errington were
seen presently emerging. "Why, what kept you so long, my lad? We thought
you were close behind us. Where's your torch?"
"It went out," replied Philip promptly, as he assisted Thelma with grave
and ceremonious politeness to cross over some rough stones at the
entrance, "and we had some trouble to find our way."
"Ye might hae called to us i' the way o' friendship," observed
Macfarlane somewhat suspiciously, "and we wad hae lighted ye through."
"Oh, it was no matter!" said Thelma, with a charming smile. "Sir Philip
seemed well to know the way, and it was not so very dark!"
Lorimer glanced at her and read plainly all that was written in her
happy face. His heart sank a little; but, noticing that the old _bonde_
was studying his daughter with a slight air of vexation and surprise, he
loyally determined to divert the general attention from her bright
blushes and too brilliantly sparkling eyes.
"Well! . . . here you both are, at any rate," he said lightly, "and I
should strongly advise that we attempt no more exploration of the island
of Soroe to-day. Look at the sky; and just now there was a clap of
thunder."
"Thunder?" exclaimed Errington. "I never heard it!"
"I dare say not!" said Lorimer, with a quiet smile. "Still _we_ heard it
pretty distinctly, and I think we'd better make for the yacht."
"All right!" and Sir Philip sprang gaily into the long-boat to arrange
the cushions in the stern for Thelma. Never had he looked handsomer or
more high-spirited, and his elation was noticed by all his companions.
"Something joyous has happened to our Phil-eep," said Duprez in a
half-whisper. "He is in the air!"
"And something in the ither way has happened vera suddenly to Mr.
Gueldmar," returned Macfarlane. "Th' auld man is in the dumps."
The _bonde's_ face in truth looked sad and somewhat stern. He scarcely
spoke at all as he took his place in the boat beside his daughter,--once
he raised her little hand, looked at it, and kissed it fondly.
They were all soon on their way back to the _Eulalie_ over a sea that
had grown rough and white-crested during their visit to the stalactite
cave. Clouds had gathered thickly over the sky, and though a few shafts
of sunlight still forced a passage through them, the threatening
darkness spread with steady persistency, especially to the northern side
of the horizon, where Storm hovered in the shape of a black wing edged
with coppery crimson. As they reached the yacht a silver glare of
lightning sprang forth from beneath this sable pinion, and a few large
drops of rain began to fall. Errington hurried Thelma on deck and down
into the saloon. His friends, with Gueldmar, followed,--and the vessel
was soon plunging through waves of no small height on her way back to
the Altenfjord. A loud peal of thunder like a salvo of artillery
accompanied their departure from Soroe, and Thelma shivered a little as
she heard it.
"You are nervous, Mademoiselle Gueldmar?" asked Duprez, noticing her
tremor.
"Oh no," she answered brightly. "Nervous? That is to be afraid,--I am
not afraid of a storm, but I do not like it. It is a cruel, fierce
thing; and I should have wished to-day to be all sunshine--all
gladness!" She paused, and her eyes grew soft and humid.
"Then you have been happy to-day?" said Lorimer in a low and very gentle
voice.
She smiled up at him from the depths of the velvet lounge in which
Errington had placed her.
"Happy? I do not think I have ever been so happy before!" She paused,
and a bright blush crimsoned her cheeks; then, seeing the piano open,
she said suddenly "Shall I sing to you? or perhaps you are all tired,
and would rather rest?"
"Music _is_ rest," said Lorimer rather dreamily, watching her as she
rose from her seat,--a tall, supple, lithe figure,--and moved towards
the instrument. "And _your_ voice. Miss Gueldmar, would soothe the most
weary soul that ever dwelt in clay."
She glanced round at him, surprised at his sad tone.
"Ah, you are very, very tired, Mr. Lorimer, I am sure! I will sing you a
Norse cradle-song to make you go to sleep. You will not understand the
words though--will that matter?"
"Not in the least!" answered Lorimer, with a smile. "The London girls
sing in German, Italian, Spanish, and English. Nobody knows what they
are saying: they scarcely know themselves--but it's all right, and quite
fashionable."
Thelma laughed gaily. "How funny!" she exclaimed. "It is to amuse
people, I suppose! Well,--now listen." And, playing a soft prelude, her
rich contralto rippled forth in a tender, passionate, melancholy
melody,--so sweet and heart-penetrating that the practical Macfarlane
sat as one in a dream,--Duprez forgot to finish making the cigarette he
was daintily manipulating between his fingers, and Lorimer had much ado
to keep tears from his eyes. From one song she glided to another and yet
another; her soul seemed possessed by the very spirit of music.
Meanwhile Errington, in obedience to an imperative sign from old
Gueldmar, left the saloon, with him,--once outside the doors the _bonde_
said in a somewhat agitated voice--
"I desire to speak to you, Sir Philip, alone and undisturbed, if such a
thing be possible."
"By all means!" answered Philip. "Come to my 'den' on deck. We shall be
quite solitary there."
He led the way, and Olaf Gueldmar followed him in silence.
It was raining fiercely, and the waves, green towers of strength, broke
every now and then over the sides of the yacht with a hissing shower of
salt white spray. The thunder rolled along the sky in angry
reverberating echoes,--frequent flashes of lightning leaped out like
swords drawn from dark scabbards,--yet towards the south the sky was
clearing, and arrowy beams of pale gold fell from the hidden sun, with a
soothing and soft lustre on the breast of the troubled water.
Gueldmar looked about him, and heaved a deep sigh of refreshment. His
eyes rested lovingly on the tumbling billows,--he bared his white head
to the wind and rain.
"This is the life, the blood, the heart of a man!" he said, while a sort
of fierce delight shone in his keen eyes. "To battle with the
tempest,--to laugh at the wrath of waters,--to set one's face against
the wild wind,--to sport with the elements as though they were children
or serfs,--this is the joy of manhood! A joy," he added slowly, "that
few so-called men of to-day can ever feel."
Errington smiled gravely. "Perhaps you are right, sir," he said; "but
perhaps, at the same time, you forget that life has grown very bitter to
all of us during the last hundred years or so. Maybe the world is
getting old and used up, maybe the fault is in ourselves,--but it is
certain that none of us nowadays are particularly happy, except at rare
intervals when--"
At that moment, in a lull of the storm, Thelma's voice pealed upwards