Thelma
At these words Lorimer turned sharply round, and perceived his friend
following Sigurd step by step up a narrow footing in the steep ascent of
some rough, irregular crags that ran out and formed a narrow ledge,
ending in a sharp point, jutting directly over the full fury of the
waterfall. He watched the two climbing figures for an instant without
any anxiety,--then he suddenly remembered that Philip had promised to go
with Sigurd "to the top of the Fall." Acting on a rapid impulse which he
did not stop to explain to himself, Lorimer at once started off after
them,--but the ascent was difficult; they were some distance ahead, and
though he shouted vociferously, the roar of the cascade rendered his
voice inaudible. Gaining on them, however, by slow degrees, he was
startled when all at once they disappeared at the summit--and,
breathless with his rapid climb, he paused, bewildered. By-and-by he saw
Sigurd creeping cautiously out along the rocky shelf that overhung the
tumbling torrent--his gaze grew riveted with a sort of deadly
fascination on the spot.
"Good God!" he muttered under his breath. "Surely Phil will not follow
him _there_!"
He watched with strained eyes,--and a smothered cry escaped him as
Errington's tall figure, erect and bold, appeared on that narrow and
dangerous platform! He never knew how he clambered up the rest of the
slippery ascent. A double energy seemed given to his active limbs. He
never paused again for one second till he also stood on the platform,
without being heard or perceived by either Sigurd or Philip. Their backs
were turned to him, and he feared to move or speak, lest a sudden
surprised movement on their parts should have the fatal result of
precipitating one or both into the fall. He remained, therefore, behind
them, silent and motionless,--looking, as they looked, at the terrific
scene below. From that point, Njedegorze was as a huge boiling caldron,
from which arose twisted wreaths and coiling lengths of white vapor,
faintly colored with gold and silvery blue. Dispersing in air, these
mists took all manner of fantastic forms,--ghostly arms seemed to wave
and beckon, ghostly hands to unite in prayer,--and fluttering creatures
in gossamer draperies of green and crimson, appeared to rise and float,
and retire and shrink, to nothingness again in the rainbow drift and
sweep of whirling foam. Errington gazed unconcernedly down on the
seething abyss. He pushed back his cap from his brow, and let the fresh
wind play among his dark, clustering curls. His nerves were steady, and
he surveyed the giddily twisting wheels of shining water, without any
corresponding giddiness in his own brain. He had that sincere delight in
a sublime natural spectacle, which is the heritage of all who possess a
poetic and artistic temperament; and though he stood on a frail ledge of
rock, from which one false or unwary step might send him to certain
destruction, he had not the slightest sense of possible danger in his
position. Withdrawing his eyes from the Fall, he looked kindly down at
Sigurd, who in turn was staring up at him with a wild fixity of regard.
"Well, old boy," he said cheerfully, "this is a fine sight! Have you had
enough of it? Shall we go back?"
Sigurd drew imperceptibly nearer. Lorimer, from his point of vantage
behind a huge bowlder, drew nearer also.
"Go back?" echoed Sigurd. "Why should we go back?"
"Why, indeed!" laughed Errington, lightly balancing himself on the
trembling rocks beneath him. "Except that I should scarcely think this
is the best place on which to pass the night! Not enough room, and too
much noise! What say you?"
"Oh, brave, brave, fool!" cried the dwarf in sudden excitement. "Are you
not _afraid_?"
The young baronet's keen eyes glanced him over with amused wonder.
"What of?" he demanded coolly. Still nearer came Sigurd--nearer also
came the watchful, though almost invisible Lorimer.
"Look down there!" continued Sigurd in shrill tones, pointing to the
foaming gulf. "Look at the _Elf-danz_--see the beautiful spirits with
the long pale green hair and glittering wings! See how they beckon,
beckon, beckon! They want some one to join them--look how their white
arms wave,--they throw back their golden veils and smile at us! They
call to _you_--you with the strong figure and the proud eyes--why do you
not go to them? They will kiss and caress you--they have sweet lips and
snow-white bosoms,--they will love you and take care of you--they are as
fair as Thelma!"
"Are they? I doubt it!" and Errington smiled dreamily as he turned his
head again towards the fleecy whirl of white water, and saw at once with
an artist's quick eye what his sick-brained companion meant by the
_Elf-danz_, in the fantastic twisting, gliding shapes tossed up in the
vaporous mist of the Fall. "But I'll take your word, Sigurd, without
making the elves' personal acquaintance! Come along--this place is bad
for you--we'll dance with the green-haired nymphs another time."
And with a light laugh he was about to turn away, when he was surprised
by a sudden, strange convulsion of Sigurd's countenance--his blue eyes
flashed with an almost phosphorescent lustre,--his pale skin flushed
deeply red, and the veins in his forehead started into swelled and
knotted prominence.
"Another time!" he screamed loudly; "no, no! Now--now! Die, robber of
Thelma's love! Die--die--_die_!"
Repeating these words like quick gasps of fury, he twisted his meager
arms tightly round Errington, and thrust him fiercely with all his might
towards the edge of the Fall. For one second Philip strove against
him--the next, he closed his eyes--Thelma's face smiled on his mind in
that darkness as though in white farewell--the surging blood roared in
his ears with more thunder than the terrific tumble of the
torrent--"God!" he muttered, and _then_--then he stood safe on the upper
part of the rocky platform with Lorimer's strong hand holding him in a
vice-like grasp, and Lorimer's face, pale, but looking cheerfully into
his. For a moment he was too bewildered to speak. His friend loosened
him and laughed rather forcedly--a slight tremble of his lips was
observable under his fair moustache.
"By Jove, Phil," he remarked in his usual nonchalant manner, "that was
rather a narrow shave! Fortunate I happened to be there!"
Errington gazed about him confusedly. "Where's Sigurd?" he asked.
"Gone! Ran off like a 'leapin' goat,' as Sandy elegantly describes him.
I thought at first he meant to jump over the Fall, in which case I
should have been compelled to let him have his own way, as my hands were
full. But he's taken a safe landward direction."
"Didn't he try to push me over?"
"Exactly! He was quite convinced that the mermaids wanted you. But I
considered that Miss Thelma's wishes had a prior claim on my regard."
"Look here, old man," said Errington suddenly, "don't jest about it! You
saved my life!"
"Well!" and Lorimer laughed. "Quite by accident, I assure you."
"_Not_ by accident!" and Philip flushed up, looking very handsome and
earnest. "I believe you followed us up here thinking something might
happen. Now didn't you?"
"Suppose I did," began Lorimer, but he was interrupted by his friend,
who seized his hand, and pressed it with a warm, close, affectionate
fervor. Their eyes met--and Lorimer blushed as though he had performed
some action meriting blame rather than gratitude. "That'll do, old
fellow," he said almost nervously. "As we say in polite society when
some one crushes our favorite corn under his heel--don't mention it! You
see Sigurd _is_ cracked,--there's not the slightest doubt about
that,--and he's hardly accountable for his vagaries. Then I know
something about him that perhaps you don't. He loves your Thelma!"
They were making the descent of the rocks together, and Errington
stopped short in surprise.
"Loves Thelma! You mean as a brother--"
"Oh no, I don't! I mean that he loves her as brothers often love other
people's sisters--his affection is by no means fraternal--if it were
only _that_--"
"I see!" and Philip's eyes filled with a look of grave compassion. "Poor
fellow! I understand his hatred of me now. Good Heavens! how he must
suffer! I forgive him with all my heart. But--I say, Thelma has no idea
of this!"
"Of course not. And you'd better not tell her. What's the good of making
her unhappy?"
"But how did _you_ learn it?" inquired Philip, with a look of some
curiosity at his friend.
"Oh, I!" and Lorimer laughed carelessly; "I was always an observing sort
of fellow--fond of putting two and two together and making four of them,
when I wasn't too exhausted and the weather wasn't too hot for the
process. Sigurd's rather attached to me--indulges me with some specially
private ravings now and then--I soon found out his secret, though I
believe the poor little chap doesn't understand his own feelings
himself."
"Well," said Errington thoughtfully, "under the circumstances you'd
better not mention this affair of the Fall to Gueldmar. It will only vex
him. Sigurd won't try such a prank again."
"I'm not so sure of that," replied Lorimer; "but you know enough now to
be on your guard with him." He paused and looked up with a misty
softness in his frank blue eyes--then went on in a subdued tone--"When I
saw you on the edge of that frightful chasm, Phil--" He broke off as if
the recollection were too painful, and exclaimed suddenly--"Good God! if
I had lost you!"
Errington clapped one hand on his shoulder.
"Well! What if you had?" he asked almost mirthfully, though there was a
suspicious tremble in his ringing voice.
"I should have said with Horatio, 'I am more an antique Roman than a
Dane,'--and gone after you," laughed Lorimer. "And who knows what a
jolly banquet we might not have been enjoying in the next world by this
time? If I believe in anything at all, I believe in a really agreeable
heaven--nectar and ambrosia, and all that sort of thing, and Hebes to
wait upon you."
As he spoke they reached the sheltering hut, where Gueldmar, Duprez, and
Macfarlane were waiting rather impatiently for them.
"Where's Sigurd?" cried the _bonde_.
"Gone for a ramble on his own account," answered Errington readily. "You
know his fancies!"
"I wish his fancies would leave him," grumbled Gueldmar. "He promised to
light a fire and spread the meal--and now, who knows whither he has
wandered?"
"Never mind, sir," said Lorimer. "Engage me as a kitchen-boy. I can
light a fire, and can also sit beside it when it is properly kindled.
More I cannot promise. As the housemaids say when they object to assist
the cook,--it would be _beneath_ me."
"Cook!" cried Duprez, catching at this word. "I can cook! Give me
anything to broil. I will broil it! You have coffee--I will make it!"
And in the twinkling of an eye he had divested himself of his coat,
turned up his cuffs, and manufactured the cap of a _chef_ out of a
newspaper which he stuck jauntily on his head. "Behold me, _messieurs_,
_a votre service_!"
His liveliness was infectious; they all set to work with a will, and in
a few moments a crackling wood-fire blazed cheerily on the ground, and
the gipsy preparations for the _al fresco_ supper went on apace amid
peals of laughter. Soon the fragrance of steaming coffee arose and
mingled itself with the resinous odors of the surrounding
pine-trees,--while Macfarlane distinguished himself by catching a fine
salmon trout in a quiet nook of the rushing river, and this Duprez
cooked in a style that would have done honor to a _cordon bleu_. They
made an excellent meal, and sang songs in turn and told stories,--Olaf
Gueldmar, in particular, related eerie legends of the _Dovre-fjelde_, and
many a striking history of ancient origin, full of terror and