Thelma
preach. At that suggestion I'll fight him. He's soft enough to bruise
easily."
"Ye're just too lazy to fight onybody," declared Macfarlane.
Lorimer smiled sweetly. "Thanks, awfully! I dare say you're right. I've
never found it worth while as yet to exert myself in any particular
direction. No one has asked me to exert myself; no one wants me to exert
myself; therefore, why should I?"
"Don't ye want to get on in the world?" asked Macfarlane, almost
brusquely.
"Dear me, no! What an exhausting idea! Get on in the world--what for? I
have five hundred a year, and when my mother goes over to the majority
(long distant be that day, for I'm very fond of the dear old lady), I
shall have five thousand--more than enough to satisfy any sane man who
doesn't want to speculate on the Stock Exchange. _Your_ case, my good
Mac, is different. You will be a celebrated Scotch divine. You will
preach to a crowd of pious numskulls about predestination, and so forth.
You will be stump-orator for the securing of seats in paradise. Now,
now, keep calm!--don't mind me. It's only a figure of speech! And the
numskulls will call you a 'rare powerful rousin' preacher'--isn't that
the way they go on? and when you die--for die you must, most
unfortunately--they will give you a three-cornered block of granite (if
they can make up their minds to part with the necessary bawbees) with
your name prettily engraved thereon. That's all very nice; it suits some
people. It wouldn't suit me."
"What _would_ suit you?" queried Errington. "You find everything more or
less of a bore."
"Ah, my good little boy!" broke in Duprez. "Paris is the place for you.
You should live in Paris. Of that you would never fatigue yourself."
"Too much absinthe, secret murder and suicidal mania," returned Lorimer,
meditatively. "That was a neat idea about the coffins though. I never
hoped to dine off a coffin."
"Ah! you mean the Taverne de l'Enfer?" exclaimed Duprez. "Yes; the
divine waitresses wore winding sheets, and the wine was served in
imitation skulls. Excellent! I remember; the tables were shaped like
coffins."
"Gude Lord Almighty!" piously murmured Macfarlane. "What a fearsome
sicht!"
As he pronounced these words with an unusually marked accent, Duprez
looked inquiring.
"What does our Macfarlane say?"
"He says it must have been a 'fearsome sicht,'" repeated Lorimer, with
even a stronger accent than Sanby's own, "which, _mon cher_ Pierre,
means all the horrors in your language; _affreux_, _epouvantable_,
_navrant_--anything you like, that is sufficiently terrible."
"_Mais, point du tout_!" cried Duprez energetically. "It was charming!
It made us laugh at death--so much better than to cry! And there was a
delicious child in a winding-sheet; brown curls, laughing eyes and
little mouth; ha ha! but she was well worth kissing!"
"I'd rather follow ma own funeral, than kiss a lass in a winding-sheet,"
said Sandy, in solemn and horrified tones. "It's just awfu' to think
on."
"But, see, my friend," persisted Duprez, "you would not be permitted to
follow your own funeral, not possible,--_voila_! You _are_ permitted to
kiss the pretty one in the winding-sheet. It _is_ possible. Behold the
difference!"
"Never mind the Taverne de l'Enfer just now," said Errington, who had
finished his breakfast hurriedly. "It's time for you fellows to get your
fishing toggery on. I'm off to speak to the pilot."
And away he went, followed more slowly by Lorimer, who, though he
pretended indifference, was rather curious to know more, if possible,
concerning his friend's adventure of the morning. They found the pilot,
Valdemar Svensen, leaning at his ease against the idle wheel, with his
face turned towards the eastern sky. He was a stalwart specimen of Norse
manhood, tall and strongly built, with thoughtful, dignified features,
and keen, clear hazel eyes. His chestnut hair, plentifully sprinkled
with gray, clustered thickly over a broad brow, that was deeply furrowed
with many a line of anxious and speculative thought, and the forcible
brown hand that rested lightly on the spokes of the wheel, told its own
tale of hard and honest labor. Neither wife nor child, nor living
relative had Valdemar; the one passion of his heart was the sea. Sir
Philip Errington had engaged him at Christiansund, hearing of him there
as a man to whom the intricacies of the Fjords, and the dangers of
rock-bound coasts, were more familiar than a straight road on dry lake,
and since then the management of the _Eulalie_ had been entirely
entrusted to him. Though an eminently practical sailor, he was half a
mystic, and believed in the wildest legends of his land with more
implicit faith than many so-called Christians believe in their sacred
doctrines. He doffed his red cap respectfully now as Errington and
Lorimer approached, smilingly wishing them "a fair day." Sir Philip
offered him a cigar, and, coming to the point at once, asked abruptly--
"I say, Svensen, are there any pretty girls in Bosekop?"
The pilot drew the newly lit cigar from his mouth, and passed his rough
hand across his forehead in a sort of grave perplexity.
"It is a matter in which I am foolish," he said at last, "for my ways
have always gone far from the ways of women. Girls there are plenty, I
suppose, but--" he mused with pondering patience for awhile. Then a
broad smile broke like sunshine over his embrowned countenance, as he
continued, "Now, gentlemen, I do remember well; it is said that at
Bosekop yonder, are to be found some of the homeliest wenches in all
Norway."
Errington's face fell at this reply. Lorimer turned away to hide the
mischievous smile that came on his lips at his friend's discomfiture.
"I _know_ it was that Chartreuse," he thought to himself. "That and the
midnight sun-effects. Nothing else!"
"What!" went on Philip. "No good-looking girls at all about here, eh?"
Svensen shook his head, still smilingly.
"Not at Bosekop, sir, that I ever heard of."
"I say!" broke in Lorimer, "are there any old tombs or sea-caves, or
places of that sort close by, worth exploring?"
Valdemar Svensen answered this question readily, almost eagerly.
"No, sir! There are no antiquities of any sort; and as for caves, there
are plenty, but only the natural formations of the sea, and none of
these are curious or beautiful on this side of the Fjord."
Lorimer poked his friend secretly in the ribs.
"You've been dreaming, old fellow!" he whispered slyly. "I knew it was a
crammer!"
Errington shook him off good-humoredly.
"Can you tell me," he said, addressing Valdemar again in distinct
accents, "whether there is any place, person, or thing near here called
_Thelma_?"
The pilot started; a look of astonishment and fear came into his eyes;
his hand went instinctively to his red cap, as though in deference to
the name.
"The Froeken Thelma!" he exclaimed, in low tones. "Is it possible that
you have seen her?"
"Ah, George, what do you say now?" cried Errington delightedly. "Yes,
yes, Valdemar; the Froeken Thelma, as you call her. Who is she? . . .
What is she?--and how can there be no pretty girls in Bosekop if such a
beautiful creature as she lives there?"
Valdemar looked troubled and vexed.
"Truly, I thought not of the maiden," he said gravely. "'Tis not for me
to speak of the daughter of Olaf," here his voice sank a little, and his
face grew more and more sombre. "Pardon me, sir, but how did you meet
her?"
"By accident," replied Errington promptly, not caring to relate his
morning's adventure for the pilot's benefit. "Is she some great
personage here?"
Svensen sighed, and smiled somewhat dubiously.
"Great? Oh, no; not what you would call great. Her father, Olaf Gueldmar,
is a _bonde_,--that is, a farmer in his own right. He has a goodly
house, and a few fair acres well planted and tilled,--also he pays his
men freely,--but those that work for him are all he sees,--neither he
nor his daughter ever visit the town. They dwell apart, and have nothing
in common with their neighbors."
"And where do they live?" asked Lorimer, becoming as interested as he
had formerly been incredulous.
The pilot leaned lightly over the rail of the deck and pointed towards
the west.
"You see that great rock shaped like a giant's helmet, and behind it a
high green knoll, clustered thick with birch and pine?"
They nodded assent.
"At the side of the knoll is the _bonde's_ house, a good eight-mile walk
from the outskirts of Bosekop. Should you ever seek to rest there,
gentlemen," and Svensen spoke with quiet resolution, "I doubt whether
you will receive a pleasant welcome."
And he looked at them both with an inquisitive air, as though seeking to
discover their intentions.
"Is that so?" drawled Lorimer lazily, giving his friend an expressive
nudge. "Ah! _We_ shan't trouble them! Thanks for your information,
Valdemar! We don't intend to hunt up the--what d'ye call him?--the
_bonde_, if he's at all surly. Hospitality that gives you greeting and a
dinner for nothing,--that's what suits _me_."
"Our people are not without hospitality," said the pilot, with a touch
of wistful and appealing dignity. "All along your journey, gentlemen,
you have been welcomed gladly, as you know. But Olaf Gueldmar is not like
the rest of us; he has the pride and fierceness of olden days; his
manners and customs are different; and few like him. He is much feared."
"You know him then?" inquired Errington carelessly.
"I know him," returned Valdemar quietly. "And his daughter is fair as
the sun and the sea. But it is not my place to speak of them--." He
broke off, and after a slightly embarrassed pause, asked, "Will the
Herren wish to sail to-day?"
"No Valdemar," answered Errington indifferently. "Not till to-morrow,
when we'll visit the Kaa Fjord if the weather keeps fair."
"Very good, sir," and the pilot, tacitly avoiding any further converse
with his employer respecting the mysterious Thelma and her equally
mysterious father, turned to examine the wheel and compass as though
something there needed his earnest attention. Errington and Lorimer
strolled up and down the polished white deck arm-in-arm, talking in low
tones.
"You didn't ask him about the coffin and the dwarf," said Lorimer.
"No; because I believe he knows nothing of either, and it would be news
to him which I'm not bound to give. If I can manage to see the girl
again the mystery of the cave may explain itself."
"Well, what are you going to do?"
Errington looked meditative. "Nothing at present. We'll go fishing with
the others. But, I tell you what, if you're up to it, we'll leave Duprez
and Macfarlane at the minister's house this evening and tell them to
wait for us there,--once they all begin to chatter they never know how
time goes. Meanwhile you and I will take the boat and row over in search
of this farmer's abode. I believe there's a short cut to it by water; at
any rate I know the way _she_ went."
"'I know the way she went home with her maiden posy!'" quoted Lorimer,
with a laugh. "You are hit Phil, 'a very palpable hit'! Who would have
thought it! Clara Winsleigh needn't poison her husband after all
in-order to marry you, for nothing but a sun-empress will suit you now."
"Don't be a fool, George," said Errington, half vexedly, as the hot
color mounted to his face in spite of himself. "It is all idle
curiosity, nothing else. After what Svensen told us, I'm quite as
anxious to see this gruff old _bonde_ as his daughter."
Lorimer held up a reproachful finger. "Now, Phil, don't stoop to
duplicity--not with me, at any rate. Why disguise your feelings? Why, as
the tragedians say, endeavor to crush the noblest and best emotions that
ever warm the _boo-zum_ of man? Chivalrous sentiment and admiration for