Thelma
He made no answer, but looked at her as she stood before him, majestic
as a young empress in her straight, unadorned white gown.
"Thelma!" he said suddenly, "do you know how lovely you are?"
"Yes!" she answered simply; "I know it, because I am like my mother. But
it is not anything to be beautiful,--unless one is loved,--and then it
is different! I feel much more beautiful now, since you think me
pleasant to look at!"
Philip laughed and caught her hand. "What a child you are!" he said.
"Now let me see this little finger." And he loosened from his
watch-chain a half-hoop ring of brilliants. "This belonged to _my_
mother, Thelma," he continued gently, "and since her death I have always
carried it about with me. I resolved never to part with it, except to--"
He paused and slipped it on the third finger of her left hand, where it
sparkled bravely.
She gazed at it in surprise. "You part with it now?" she asked, with
wonder in her accents. "I do not understand!"
He kissed her. "No? I will explain again, Thelma!--and you shall not
laugh at me as you did the very first time I saw you! I resolved never
to part with this ring, I say, except to--my promised wife. _Now_ do you
understand?"
She blushed deeply, and her eyes dropped before his ardent gaze.
"I do thank you very much, Philip,"--she faltered timidly,--she was
about to say something further when suddenly Lorimer entered the saloon.
He glanced from Errington to Thelma, and from Thelma back again to
Errington,--and smiled. So have certain brave soldiers been known to
smile in face of a death-shot. He advanced with his usual languid step
and nonchalant air, and removing his cap, bowed gravely and courteously.
"Let me be the first to offer my congratulations to the future Lady
Errington! Phil, old man! . . . I wish you joy!"
CHAPTER XV.
"Why, sir, in the universal game of double-dealing, shall not the
cleverest tricksters play each other false by haphazard, and so
betray their closest secrets, to their own and their friends'
infinite amazement?"--CONGREVE.
When Olaf Gueldmar and his daughter left the yacht that evening,
Errington accompanied them, in order to have the satisfaction of
escorting his beautiful betrothed as far as her own door. They were all
three very silent--the _bonde_ was pensive, Thelma shy, and Errington
himself was too happy for speech. Arriving at the farmhouse, they saw
Sigurd curled up under the porch, playing idly with the trailing
rose-branches, but, on hearing their footsteps, he looked up, uttered a
wild exclamation, and fled. Gueldmar tapped his own forehead
significantly.
"He grows worse and worse, the poor lad!" he said somewhat sorrowfully.
"And yet there is a strange mingling of foresight and wit with his wild
fancies. Wouldst thou believe it, Thelma, child," and here he turned to
his daughter and encircled her waist with his arm--"he seemed to know
how matters were with thee and Philip, when I was yet in the dark
concerning them!"
This was the first allusion her father had made to her engagement, and
her head drooped with a sort of sweet shame.
"Nay, now, why hide thy face?" went on the old man cheerily. "Didst thou
think I would grudge my bird her summer-time? Not I! And little did I
hope for thee, my darling, that thou wouldst find a shelter worthy of
thee in this wild world!" He paused a moment, looking tenderly down upon
her, as she nestled in mute affection against his breast,--then
addressing himself to Errington, he went on--
"We have a story in our Norse religion, my lad, of two lovers who
declared their passion to each other, on one stormy night in the depth
of winter. They were together in a desolate hut on the mountains, and
around them lay unbroken tracts of frozen snow. They were descended from
the gods, and therefore the gods protected them--and it happened that
after they had sworn their troth, the doors of the snow-bound hut flew
suddenly open, and lo! the landscape had changed--the hills were gay
with grass and flowers,--the sky was blue and brilliant, the birds sang,
and everywhere was heard the ripple of waters let loose from their icy
fetters, and gamboling down the rocks in the joyous sun. This was the
work of the goddess Friga,--the first kiss exchanged by the lovers she
watched over, banished Winter from the land, and Spring came instead.
'Tis a pretty story, and true all the world over--true for all men and
women of all creeds! It must be an ice-bound heart indeed that will not
warm to the touch of love--and mine, though aged, grows young again in
the joy of my children." He put his daughter gently from him to-wards
Philip, saying with more gravity, "Go to him, child!--go--with thy old
father's blessing! And take with thee the three best virtues of a
wife,--truth, humility, and obedience. Good night, my son!" and he wrung
Errington's hand with fervor. "You'll take longer to say good night to
Thelma," and he laughed, "so I'll go in and leave you to it!"
And with a good-natured nod, he entered the house whistling a tune as he
went, that they might not think he imagined himself lonely or
neglected,--and the two lovers paced slowly up and down the garden-path
together, exchanging those first confidences which to outsiders seem so
eminently foolish, but which to those immediately concerned are most
wonderful, delightful, strange, and enchanting beyond all description.
Where, from a practical point of view, is the sense of such questions as
these--"When did you love me first?" "What did you feel when I said
so-and-so?" "Have you dreamt of me often?" "Will you love me always,
always, always?" and so on _ad infinitum_. "Ridiculous rubbish!"
exclaims the would-be strong-minded, but secretly savage old maid,--and
the selfishly matter-of-fact, but privately fidgety and lonely old
bachelor. Ah! but there are those who could tell you that at one time or
another of their lives this "ridiculous rubbish" seemed far more
important than the decline and fall of empires,--more necessary to
existence than light and air,--more fraught with hope, fear, suspense,
comfort, despair, and anxiety than anything that could be invented or
imagined! Philip and Thelma,--man and woman in the full flush of youth,
health, beauty, and happiness,--had just entered their Paradise,--their
fairy-garden,--and every little flower and leaf on the way had special,
sweet interest for them. Love's indefinable glories,--Love's proud
possibilities,--Love's long ecstasies,--these, like so many
spirit-figures, seemed to smile and beckon them on, on, on, through
golden seas of sunlight,--through flower-filled fields of drowsy
entrancement,--through winding ways of rose-strewn and lily-scented
leafage,--on, on, with eyes and hearts absorbed in one another,--unseeing
any end to the dreamlike wonders that, like some heavenly picture-scroll,
unrolled slowly and radiantly before them. And so they murmured those
unwise, tender things which no wisdom in the world has ever surpassed,
and when Philip at last said "Good night!" with more reluctance than
Romeo, and pressed his parting kiss on his love's sweet, fresh
mouth,--the riddle with which he had puzzled himself so often was
resolved at last,--life _was_ worth living, worth cherishing, worth
ennobling. The reason of all things seemed clear to him,--Love, and Love
only, supported, controlled, and grandly completed the universe! He
accepted this answer to all perplexities,--his heart expanded with a
sense of large content--his soul was satisfied.
Meanwhile, during his friend's absence from the yacht, Lorimer took it
upon himself to break the news to Duprez and Macfarlane. These latter
young gentlemen had had their suspicions already, but they were not
quite prepared to hear them so soon confirmed. Lorimer told the matter
in his own way.
"I say, you fellows!" he remarked carelessly, as he sat smoking in their
company on deck, "you'd better look out! If you stare at Miss Gueldmar
too much, you'll have Phil down upon you!"
"Ha, ha!" exclaimed Duprez slyly, "the dear Phil-eep is in love?"
"Something more than that," said Lorimer, looking absently at the
cigarette he held between his fingers,--"he's an engaged man."
"Engaged!" cried Macfarlane excitedly. "Ma certes! He has the deevil's
own luck! He's just secured for himself the grandest woman in the
warld!"
"_Je le crois bien!_" said Duprez gravely, nodding his head several
times. "Phil-eep is a wise boy! He is the fortunate one! I am not for
marriage at all--no! not for myself,--it is to tie one's hands, to
become a prisoner,--and that would not suit me; but if I were inclined
to captivity, I should like Mademoiselle Gueldmar for my beautiful
gaoler. And beautiful she is, _mon Dieu!_ . . . beyond all comparison!"
Lorimer was silent, so was Macfarlane. After a pause Duprez spoke again.
"And do you know, _cher_ Lorimer, when our Phil-eep will marry?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," returned Lorimer. "I know he's engaged,
that's all."
Suddenly Macfarlane broke into a chuckling laugh.
"I say, Lorimer," he said, with his deep-set, small grey eyes sparkling
with mischief. "'Twould be grand fun to see auld Dyceworthy's face when
he hears o't. By the Lord! He'll fall to cursin' an' swearin' like ma
pious aunt in Glasgie, or that auld witch that cursed Miss Thelma
yestreen!"
"An eminently unpleasant old woman _she_ was!" said Lorimer musingly. "I
wonder what she meant by it!"
"She meant, _mon cher_," said Duprez airily, "that she knew herself to
be ugly and venerable, while Mademoiselle was youthful and
ravishing,--it is a sufficient reason to excite profanity in the mind of
a lady!"
"Here comes Errington!" said Macfarlane, pointing to the approaching
boat that was coming swiftly back from the Gueldmars' pier. "Lorimer, are
we to congratulate him?"
"If you like!" returned Lorimer. "I dare say he won't object."
So that as soon as Sir Philip set foot on the yacht, his hands were
cordially grasped, and his friends out-vied each other in good wishes
for his happiness. He thanked them simply and with a manly
straightforwardness, entirely free from the usual affected embarrassment
that some modern young men think it seemly to adopt under similar
circumstances.
"The fact is," he said frankly, "I congratulate myself,--I'm more lucky
than I deserve, I know!"
"What a sensation she will make in London, Phil!" said Lorimer suddenly.
"I've just thought of it! Good Heavens! Lady Winsleigh will cry for
sheer spite and vexation!"
Philip laughed. "I hope not," he said. "I should think it would need
immense force to draw a tear from her ladyship's cold bright eyes."
"She used to like you awfully, Phil!" said Lorimer. "You were a great
favorite of hers."
"All men are her favorites with the exception of one--her husband!"
observed Errington gaily. "Come along, let's have some champagne to
celebrate the day! We'll propose toasts and drink healths--we've got a
fair excuse for jollity this evening."
They all descended into the saloon, and had a merry time of it, singing
songs and telling good stories, Lorimer being the gayest of the party,
and it was long past midnight when they retired to their cabins, without
even looking at the wonders of, perhaps, the most gorgeous sky that had
yet shone on their travels--a sky of complete rose-color, varying from
the deepest shade up to the palest, in which the sun glowed with a
subdued radiance like an enormous burning ruby.
Thelma saw it, standing under her house-porch, where her father had
joined her,--Sigurd saw it,--he had come out from some thicket where he
had been hiding, and he now sat, in a humble, crouching posture at
Thelma's feet. All three were silent, reverently watching the spreading