Thelma
from the saloon. She was singing a French song, and the refrain rang out
clearly--
"Ah! le doux son d'un baiser tendre!"
Errington paused abruptly in his speech, and turning towards a little
closed and covered place on deck which was half cabin, half
smoking-room, and which he kept as his own private sanctum, he unlocked
it, saying--
"Will you come in here, sir? It's not very spacious, but I think it's
just the place for a chat,--especially a private one."
Gueldmar entered, but did not sit down,--Errington shut the door against
the rain and beating spray and also remained standing. After a pause,
during which the _bonde_ seemed struggling with some inward emotion, he
said resolutely--
"Sir Philip, you are a young man, and I am an old one. I would not
willingly offend you--for I like you--yes!" And the old man looked up
frankly: "I like you enough to respect you--which is more than I can say
to many men I have known! But I have a weight on my heart that must be
lifted. You and my child have been much together for many days,--and I
was an old fool not to have foreseen the influence your companionship
might have upon her. I may be mistaken in the idea that has taken hold
of me--some wild words let fall by the poor boy Sigurd this morning,
when he entreated my pardon for his misconduct of yesterday, have
perhaps misled my judgment,--but--by the gods! I cannot put it into
suitable words! I--"
"You think I love your daughter?" said Sir Philip quietly. "You are not
mistaken, Sir! I love her with my whole heart and soul! I want you to
give her to me as my wife."
A change passed over the old farmer's face. He grew deathly pale, and
put out one hand feebly as though to seek some support. Errington caught
it in his own and pressed it hard.
"Surely you are not surprised, Sir?" he added with eagerness. "How can I
help loving her! She is the best and loveliest girl I have ever seen!
Believe me,--I would make her happy!"
"And have you thought, young man," returned Gueldmar slowly, "that you
would make me desolate?--or, thinking it, have you cared?"
There was an infinite pathos in his voice, and Errington was touched and
silent. He found no answer to this reproach. Gueldmar sat down, leaning
his head on his hand.
"Let me think a little," he said. "My mind is confused a bit. I was not
prepared for--"
He paused and seemed lost in sorrowful meditation. By-and-by he looked
up, and meeting Errington's anxious gaze, he broke into a short laugh.
"Don't mind me, my lad!" he said sturdily. "'Tis a blow, you see! I had
not thought so far as this. I'll tell you the plain truth, and you must
forgive me for wronging you. I know what young blood is, all the world
over. A fair face fires it--and impulse makes it gallop beyond control.
'Twas so with me when I was your age,--though no woman, I hope, was ever
the worse for my harmless lovemaking. But Thelma is different from most
women,--she has a strange nature,--moreover, she has a heart and a
memory,--if she once learns the meaning of love, she will never unlearn
the lesson. Now, I thought, that like most young men of your type, you
might, without meaning any actual evil, trifle with her--play with her
feelings--"
"I understand, Sir," said Philip coolly, without displaying any offense.
"To put it plainly, in spite of your liking for me, you thought me a
snob."
This time the old man laughed heartily and unforcedly.
"Dear, dear!" he exclaimed. "You are what is termed in your own land, a
peppery customer! Never mind--I like it. Why, my lad, the men of to-day
think it fair sport to trifle with a pretty woman now and then--"
"Pardon!" interrupted Philip curtly. "I must defend my sex. We _may_
occasionally trifle with those women who show us that they wish to be
trifled with--but never with those who, like your daughter, win every
man's respect and reverence."
Gueldmar rose and grasped his hand fervently.
"By all the gods, I believe you are a true gentleman!" he said. "I ask
your pardon if I have offended you by so much as a thought. But
now"--and his face grew very serious--"we must talk this matter over. I
will not speak of the suddenness of your love for my child, because I
know, from my own past experience, that love is a rapid impulse--a flame
ignited in a moment. Yes, I know that well!" He paused, and his voice
trembled a little, but he soon steadied it and went on--"I think,
however, my lad, that you have been a little hasty,--for instance, have
you thought what your English friends and relatives will say to your
marrying a farmer's daughter who,--though she has the blood of kings in
her veins,--is, nevertheless, as this present world would judge, beneath
you in social standing? I say, have you thought of this?"
Philip smiled proudly. "Certainly, sir, I have _not_ thought of any such
trifle as the opinion of society,--if that is what you mean. I have no
relatives to please or displease--no friends in the truest sense of the
world except Lorimer. I have a long list of acquaintances
undoubtedly,--infinite bores, most of them,--and whether they approve or
disapprove of my actions is to me a matter of profound indifference."
"See you!" said the _bonde_ firmly and earnestly. "It would be an ill
day for me if I gave my little one to a husband who might--mind! I only
say _might_,--in the course of years, regret having married her."
"Regret!" cried Philip excitedly, then quieting down, he said gently.
"My good friend, I do not think you understand me. You talk as if Thelma
were beneath _me_. Good God! It is _I_ who am infinitely beneath _her_!
I am utterly unworthy of her in every way, I assure you--and I tell you
so frankly. I have led a useless life, and a more or less selfish one. I
have principally sought to amuse and interest myself all through it.
I've had my vices too, and have them still. Beside Thelma's innocent
white soul, mine looks villainous! But I can honestly say I never knew
what love was till I saw her,--and now--well! I would give my life away
gladly to save her from even a small sorrow."
"I believe you--I thoroughly believe you!" said Gueldmar. "I see you love
the child. The gods forbid that I should stand in the way of her
happiness! I am getting old, and 'twas often a sore point with me to
know what would become of my darling when I was gone,--for she is fair
to look upon, and there are many human wolves ready to devour such
lambs. Still, my lad, you must learn all. Do you know what is said of me
in Bosekop?"
Errington smiled and nodded in the affirmative.
"You do?" exclaimed the old man, somewhat surprised. "You know they say
I killed my wife--my wife! the creature before whom my soul knelt in
worship night and day--whose bright head was the sunlight of life! Let
me tell you of her, Sir Philip--'tis a simple story. She was the child
of my dearest friend, and many years younger than myself. This friend of
mine, Erik Erlandsen, was the captain of a stout Norwegian barque,
running constantly between these wild waters and the coast of France. He
fell in love with, and married a blue-eyed beauty from the Sogne Fjord,
he carried her secretly away from her parents, who would not consent to
the marriage. She was a timid creature, in spite of her queenly ways,
and, for fear of her parents, she would never land again on the shores
of Norway. She grew to love France,--and Erik often left her there in
some safe shelter when he was bound on some extra long and stormy
passage. She took to the Catholic creed, too, in France, and learned to
speak the French tongue, so Erik said, as though it were her own. At the
time of the expected birth of her child, her husband had taken her far
inland to Arles, and there business compelled him to leave her for some
days. When he returned she was dead!--laid out for burial, with flowers
and tapers round her. He fell prone on her body insensible,--and not for
many hours did the people of the place dare to tell him that he was the
father of a living child--a girl, with the great blue eyes and white
skin of her mother. He would scarce look at it--but at last, when roused
a bit, he carried the little thing in his arms to the great Convent at
Arles, and, giving the nuns money, he bade them take it and bring it up
as they would, only giving it the name of Thelma. Then poor Erlandsen
came home--he sought me out:--he said, 'Olaf, I feel that I am going on
my last voyage. Promise you will see to my child--guard her, if you can,
from an evil fate! For me there is no future!' I promised, and strove to
cheer him--but he spoke truly--his ship went down in a storm on the Bay
of Biscay, and all on board were lost. Then it was that I commenced my
journeyings to and fro, to see the little maiden that was growing up in
the Convent at Arles. I watched her for sixteen years--and when she
reached her seventeenth birthday, I married her and brought her to
Norway."
"And she was Thelma's mother?" said Errington with interest.
"She was Thelma's mother," returned the _bonde_, "and she was more
beautiful than even Thelma is now. Her education had been almost
entirely French, but, as a child, she had learnt that I generally spoke
English, and as there happened to be an English nun in the Convent, she
studied that language and mastered it for the love of me--yes!" he
repeated with musing tenderness, "all for the love of me,--for she loved
me, Sir Philip--ay! as passionately as I loved her, and that is saying a
great deal! We lived a solitary happy life,--but we did not mix with our
neighbors--our creeds were different,--our ways apart from theirs. We
had some time of perfect happiness together. Three years passed before
our child was born, and then"--the _bonde_ paused awhile, and again
continued,--"then my wife's health grew frail and uncertain. She liked
to be in the fresh air, and was fond of wandering about the hills with
her little one in her arms. One day--shall I ever forget it! when Thelma
was about two and a half years old, I missed them both, and went out to
search for them, fearing my wife had lost her way, and knowing that our
child could not toddle far without fatigue. I found them"--the _bonde_
shuddered-"but how? My wife had slipped and fallen through a chasm in
the rocks,--high enough, indeed, to have killed her,--she was alive, but
injured for life. She lay there white and motionless--little Thelma
meanwhile sat smilingly on the edge of the rock, assuring me that her
mother had gone to sleep '_down there_.' Well!" and Gueldmar brushed the
back of his hand across his eyes, "to make a long story short, I carried
my darling home in my arms a wreck--she lingered for ten years of
patient suffering, ten long years! She could only move about on
crutches,--the beauty of her figure was gone--but the beauty of her face
grew more perfect every day! Never again was she seen on the hills,--and
so to the silly folks of Bosekop she seemed to have disappeared. Indeed,
I kept her very existence a secret,--I could not endure that others
should hear of the destruction of all that marvellous grace and queenly
loveliness! She lived long enough to see her daughter blossom into
girlhood,--then,--she died. I could not bear to have her laid in the
damp, wormy earth--you know in our creed earth-burial is not
practiced,--so I laid her tenderly away in a king's tomb of
antiquity,--a tomb known only to myself and one who assisted me to lay
her in her last resting-place. There she sleeps right royally,--and now
is your mind relieved, my lad? For the reports of the Bosekop folk must
certainly have awakened some suspicions in your mind?"
"Your story has interested me deeply, sir," said Errington; "but I
assure you I never had any suspicions of you at all. I always disregard