Thelma
welled up slowly, and were hot as fire, but which soon began to fall
faster and faster in large, bright drops down her pale cheeks. Seeing
that its mother still slept, she took the baby gently into her own fair
arms,--and rocked it to and fro with many a sobbing murmur of
tenderness;--the little thing smiled drowsily and soon fell asleep
again, all unconscious that its timely look and innocent touch had saved
poor Thelma's life and reason.
She, meanwhile, wept on softly, till her tired brain and heart were
somewhat relieved of their heavy burden,--the entanglement of her
thoughts became unravelled,--and, though keenly aware of the blank
desolation of her life, she was able to raise herself in spirit to the
Giver of all Love and Consolation, and to pray humbly for that patience
and resignation which now alone could serve her needs. And she communed
with herself and God in silence, as the train rushed on northwards. Her
fellow-traveller woke up as they were nearing their destination, and,
seeing her holding the baby, was profuse in her thanks for this
kindness. And when they at last reached Hull, about half an hour after
midnight, the good woman was exceedingly anxious to know if she could be
of any service,--but Thelma gently, yet firmly, refused all her offers
of assistance.
They parted in the most friendly manner,--Thelma kissing the child,
through whose unconscious means, as she now owned to herself, she had
escaped a terrible death,--and then she went directly to a quiet hotel
she knew of, which was kept by a native of Christiania, a man who had
formerly been acquainted with her father. At first, when this worthy
individual saw a lady arrive, alone, young, richly dressed, and without
luggage, he was inclined to be suspicious,--but as soon as she addressed
him in Norwegian, and told him who she was, he greeted her with the
utmost deference and humility.
"The daughter of Jarl Gueldmar," he said, continuing to speak in his own
tongue, "honors my house by entering it!"
Thelma smiled a little. "The days of the great Jarls are past,
Friedhof," she replied somewhat sadly, "and my father is content to be
what he is,--a simple _bonde_."
Friedhof shook his head quite obstinately. "A Jarl is always a Jarl," he
declared. "Nothing can alter a man's birth and nature. And the last time
I saw Valdemar Svensen,--he who lives with your father now,--he was
careful always to speak of the _Jarl_, and seldom or never did he
mention him in any other fashion. And now, noble Froeken, in what manner
can I serve you?"
Thelma told him briefly that she was going to see her father on
business, and that she was desirous of starting for Norway the next day
as early as possible.
Friedhof held up his hands in amazement. "Ah! most surely you forget,"
he exclaimed, using the picturesque expressions of his native speech,
"that this is the sleeping time of the sun! Even at the Hardanger Fjord
it is dark and silent,--the falling streams freeze with cold on their
way; and if it is so at the Hardanger, what will it be at the Alten? And
there is no passenger ship going to Christiania or Bergen for a
fortnight!"
Thelma clasped her hands in dismay. "But I _must_ go!" she cried
impatiently; "I must, indeed, good Friedhof! I cannot stay here! Surely,
surely there is some vessel that would take me,--some fishing
boat,--what does it matter how I travel, so long as I get away?"
The landlord looked at her rather wonderingly. "Nay, if it is indeed so
urgent, noble Froeken," he replied, "do not trouble, for there is a means
of making the journey. But for _you_, and in such bitter weather, it
seems a cruelty to speak of it. A steam cargo-boat leaves here for
Hammerfest and the North Cape to-morrow--it will pass the Altenfjord. No
doubt you could go with that, if you so choose,--but there will be no
warmth or comfort, and there are heavy storms on the North Sea. I know
the captain; and 'tis true he takes his wife with him, so there would be
a woman on board,--yet--"
Thelma interrupted him. She pressed two sovereigns into his hand.
"Say no more, Friedhof," she said eagerly. "You will take me to see this
captain--you will tell him I must go with him. My father will thank you
for this kindness to me, even better than I can."
"It does not seem to me a kindness at all," returned Friedhof with frank
bluntness. "I would be loth to sail the seas myself in such weather. And
I thought you were so grandly married, Froeken Gueldmar,--though I forget
your wedded name,--how comes it that your husband is not with you?"
"He is very busy in London," answered Thelma. "He knows where I am
going. Do not be at all anxious, Friedhof,--I shall make the journey
very well and I am not afraid of storm or wild seas."
Friedhof still looked dubious, but finally yielded to her entreaties and
agreed to arrange her passage for her in the morning.
She stayed at his hotel that night, and with the very early dawn
accompanied him on board the ship he had mentioned. It was a small,
awkwardly built craft, with an ugly crooked black funnel out of which
the steam was hissing and spitting with quite an unnecessary degree of
violence--the decks were wet and dirty, and the whole vessel was
pervaded with a sickening smell of whale-oil. The captain, a gruff
red-faced fellow, looked rather surlily at his unexpected passenger--but
was soon mollified by her gentle manner, and the readiness with which
she paid the money he demanded for taking her.
"You won't be very warm," he said, eyeing her from head to foot--"but I
can lend you a rug to sleep in."
Thelma smiled and thanked him. He called to his wife, a thin,
overworked-looking creature, who put up her head from a window in the
cabin, at his summons.
"Here's a lady going with us," he announced. "Look after her, will you?"
The woman nodded. Then, once more addressing himself to Thelma, he said,
"We shall have nasty weather and a wicked sea!"
"I do not mind!" she answered quietly, and turning to Friedhof who had
come to see her off, she shook hands with him warmly and thanked him for
the trouble he had taken in her behalf. The good landlord bade her
farewell somewhat reluctantly,--he had a presentiment that there was
something wrong with the beautiful, golden-haired daughter of the
_Jarl_--and that perhaps he ought to have prevented her making this
uncomfortable and possibly perilous voyage. But it was too late
now,--and at a little before seven o'clock, the vessel,--which rejoiced
in the name of the _Black Polly_,--left the harbor, and steamed fussily
down the Humber in the teeth of a sudden storm of sleet and snow.
Her departure had no interest for any one save Friedhof, who stood
watching her till she was no more than a speck on the turbid water. He
kept his post, regardless of the piercing cold of the gusty, early
morning air, till she had entirely disappeared, and then returned to his
own house and his daily business in a rather depressed frame of mind. He
was haunted by the pale face and serious eyes of Thelma--she looked very
ill, he thought. He began to reproach himself,--why had he been such a
fool as to let her go?--why had he not detained her?--or at any rate,
persuaded her to rest a few days in Hull? He looked at the threatening
sky and the falling flakes of snow with a shiver.
"What weather!" he muttered, "and there must be a darkness as of death
at the Altenfjord!"
Meanwhile the _Black Polly_--unhandsome as she was in appearance,
struggled gallantly with and overcame an army of furious waves that rose
to greet her as she rounded Spurn Head, and long ere Thelma closed her
weary eyes in an effort to sleep, was plunging, shivering, and fighting
her slow way through shattering mountainous billows and a tempest of
sleet, snow, and tossing foam across the wild North Sea.
CHAPTER XXVII.
"What of her glass without her? The blank grey
There, where the pool is blind of the moon's face--
Her dress without her? The tossed empty space
Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away!"
DANTE G. ROSSETTI.
"Good God!" cried Errington impatiently "What's the matter? Speak out!"
He had just arrived home. He had barely set foot within his own door,
and full of lover-like ardor and eagerness was about to hasten to his
wife's room,--when his old servant Morris stood in his way trembling and
pale-faced,--looking helplessly from him to Neville,--who was as much
astonished as Sir Philip, at the man's woe-begone appearance.
"Something has happened," he stammered faintly at last. "Her ladyship--"
Philip started--his heart beat quickly and then seemed to grow still
with a horrible sensation of fear.
"What of her?" he demanded in low hoarse tones. "Is she ill?"
Morris threw up his hands with a gesture of despair.
"Sir Philip, my dear master!" cried the poor old man. "I do not know
whether she is ill or well--I cannot guess! My lady went out last night
at a little before eight o'clock,--and--and she has never come home at
all! We cannot tell what has become of her! She has gone!"
And tears of distress and anxiety filled his eyes. Philip stood mute. He
could not understand it. All color fled from his face--he seemed as
though he had received a sudden blow on the head which had stunned him.
"Gone!" he said mechanically. "Thelma--my wife gone! Why should she go?"
And he stared fixedly at Neville, who laid one hand soothingly on his
arm.
"Perhaps she is with friends," he suggested. "She may be at Lady
Winsleigh's or Mrs. Lorimer's."
"No, no!" interrupted Morris. "Britta, who stayed up all night for her,
has since been to every house that my lady visits and no one has seen or
heard of her!"
"Where is Britta?" demanded Philip suddenly.
"She has gone again to Lady Winsleigh's," answered Morris, "she says it
is there that mischief has been done,--I don't know what she means!"
Philip shook off his secretary's sympathetic touch, and strode through
the rooms to Thelma's boudoir. He put aside the velvet curtains of the
portiere with a noiseless hand--somehow he felt as if, in spite of all
he had just heard, she _must_ be there as usual to welcome him with that
serene sweet smile which was the sunshine of his life. The empty
desolate air of the room smote him with a sense of bitter pain,--only
the plaintive warble of her pet thrush, who was singing to himself most
mournfully in his gilded cage, broke the heavy silence. He looked about
him vacantly. All sorts of dark forebodings crowded on his mind,--she
must have met with some accident, he thought with a shudder,--for that
she would depart from him in this sudden way of her own accord for no
reason whatsoever seemed to him incredible--impossible.
"What have I done that she should leave me?" he asked half aloud and
wonderingly. Everything that had seemed to him of worth a few hours ago
became valueless in this moment of time. What cared he now for the
business of Parliament--for distinction or honors among men?
Nothing--less than nothing! Without her, the world was empty--its
ambitions, its pride, its good, its evil, seemed but the dreariest and
most foolish trifles!
"Not even a message?" he thought. "No hint of where she meant to go--no
word of explanation for me? Surely I must be dreaming--my Thelma would
never have deserted me!"
A sort of sob rose in his throat, and he pressed his hand strongly over
his eyes to keep down the womanish drops that threatened to overflow
them. After a minute or two, he went to her desk and opened it, thinking
that there perhaps she might have left a note of farewell. There was
nothing--nothing save a little heap of money and jewels. These Thelma
had herself placed, before her sorrowful, silent departure, in the