Thelma
critics are large-minded and generous, we know,--but he happens to be
remarkably so. He did me the kindest turn I ever had in my life. When my
first book came out, he fell upon it tooth and claw, mangled it, tore it
to ribbons, metaphorically speaking,--and waved the fragments mockingly
in the eyes of the public. From that day my name was made--my writings
sold off with delightful rapidity, and words can never tell how I
blessed, and how I still bless, Whipper! He always pitches into
me--that's what's so good of him! We're awfully polite to each other, as
you observe--and what is so perfectly charming is that he's quite
unconscious how much he's helped me along! He's really a first-rate
fellow. But I haven't yet attained the summit of my ambition,"--and here
Lovelace broke off with a sparkle of fun in his clear steel-grey eyes.
"Why, what else do you want?" asked Lorimer laughing.
"I want," returned Beau solemnly, "I want to be jeered at by _Punch_! I
want _Punch_ to make mouths at me, and give me the benefit of his
inimitable squeak and gibber. No author's fame is quite secure till dear
old _Punch_ has abused him. Abuse is the thing nowadays, you know.
Heaven forbid that I should be praised by _Punch_. That would be
frightfully unfortunate!"
Here the coffee arrived, and Lovelace dispensed it to his friends,
talking gaily the while in an effort to distract Errington from his
gloomy thoughts.
"I've just been informed on respectable authority, that Walt Whitman is
the new Socrates," he said laughingly. "I felt rather stunned at the
moment but I've got over it now. Oh, this deliciously mad London! what a
gigantic Colney Hatch it is for the crazed folk of the world to air
their follies in! That any reasonable Englishmen with such names as
Shakespeare, Byron, Keats, and Shelley, to keep the glory of their
country warm, should for one moment consider Walt Whitman a _poet_! Ye
gods! Where are your thunderbolts!"
"He's an American, isn't he?" asked Errington.
"He is, my dear boy! An American whom the sensible portion of America
rejects. We, therefore,--out of opposition,--take him up. His
chief recommendation is that he writes blatantly concerning
commonplaces,--regardless of music or rhythm. Here's a bit of him
concerning the taming of oxen. He says the tamer lives in a
"'Placid pastoral region.
There they bring him the three-year-olds and the four-year-olds
to break them,--
Some are such beautiful animals, so lofty looking,--some are
buff-colored, some mottled, one has a white line running
along his back, some are brindled,
Some have wide flaring horns (a good sign!) look you! the bright
hides
See the two with stars on their foreheads--see the round bodies
and broad backs
How straight and square they stand on their legs--'"
"Stop, stop!" cried Lorimer, putting his hands to his ears. "This is a
practical joke, Beau! No one would call that jargon poetry!"
"Oh! wouldn't they though!" exclaimed Lovelace. "Let some critic of
reputation once start the idea, and you'll have the good London folk who
won't bother to read him for themselves, declaring him as fine as
Shakespeare. The dear English muttons! fine Southdowns! fleecy
baa-lambs! once let the Press-bell tinkle loudly enough across the
fields of literature, and they'll follow, bleating sweetly in any
direction! The sharpest heads in our big metropolis are those who know
this, and who act accordingly."
"Then why don't _you_ act accordingly?" asked Errington, with a faint
smile.
"Oh, I? I can't! I never asked a favor from the Press in my life--but
its little bell has tinkled for me all the same, and a few of the
muttons follow, but not all. Are you off?" this, as they rose to take
their leave. "Well, Errington, old fellow," and he shook hands warmly,
"a pleasant journey to you, and a happy return home! My best regards to
your wife. Lorimer, have you settled whether you'll go with me to Italy?
I start the day after to-morrow."
Lorimer hesitated--then said, "All right! My mother's delighted at the
idea,--yes, Beau! we'll come. Only I hope we shan't bore you."
"Bore me! you know me better than that," and he accompanied them out of
the smoking-room into the hall, while Errington, a little surprised at
this sudden arrangement, observed--
"Why, George--I thought you'd be here when we came back from
Norway--to--to welcome Thelma, you know!"
George laughed. "My dear boy, I shan't be wanted! Just let me know how
everything goes on. You--you see, I'm in duty bound to take my mother
out of London in winter."
"Just so!" agreed Lovelace, who had watched him narrowly while he spoke.
"Don't grudge the old lady her southern sunshine. Errington! Lorimer
wants brushing up a bit too--he looks seedy. Then I shall consider it
settled--the day after to-morrow, we meet at Charing Cross--morning
tidal express, of course,--never go by night service across the Channel
if you can help it."
Again they shook hands and parted.
"Best thing that young fellow can do!" thought Lovelace as he returned
to the Club reading-room. "The sooner he gets out of this, into new
scenes the better,--he's breaking his heart over the beautiful Thelma.
By Jove! the boy's eyes looked like those of a shot animal whenever her
name was mentioned. He's rather badly hit!"
He sat down and began to meditate. "What can I do for him, I wonder?" he
thought. "Nothing, I suppose. A love of that sort can't be remedied.
It's a pity--a great pity! And I don't know any woman likely to make a
counter-impression on him. He'd never put up with an Italian beauty"--he
paused in his reflections, and the color flushed his broad, handsome
brow, as the dazzling vision of a sweet, piquant face with liquid dark
eyes and rippling masses of rich brown hair came flitting before
him--"unless he saw Angela," he murmured to himself softly,--"and he
will not see her,--besides, Angela loves _me_!"
And after this, his meditations seemed to be particularly pleasant, to
judge from the expression of his features. Beau was by no means ignorant
of the tender passion--he had his own little romance, as beautiful and
bright as a summer day--but he had resolved that London, with its love
of gossip, its scandal, and society papers,--London, that on account of
his popularity as a writer, watched his movements and chronicled his
doings in the most authoritative and incorrect manner,--London should
have no chance of penetrating into the secret of his private life. And
so far he had succeeded--and was likely still to succeed.
Meanwhile, as he still sat in blissful reverie, pretending to read a
newspaper, though his thoughts were far away from it, Errington and
Lorimer arrived at the Midland Station. Britta was already there with
the luggage,--she was excited and pleased--her spirits had risen at the
prospect of seeing her mistress soon again,--possibly, she thought
gladly, they might find her at Hull,--they might not have to go to
Norway at all. The train came up to the platform--the tickets were
taken,--and Sir Philip, with Britta, entered--a first-class compartment,
while Lorimer stood outside leaning with folded arms on the
carriage-window, talking cheerfully.
"You'll find her all right, Phil, I'm positive!" he said. "I think it's
very probable she has been compelled to remain at Hull,--and even at the
worst, Britta can guide you all over Norway, if necessary. Nothing will
daunt _her_!"
And he nodded kindly to the little maid who had regained her rosy color
and the sparkle of her eyes in the eagerness she felt to rejoin her
beloved "Froeken." The engine-whistle gave a warning shriek--Philip
leaned out and pressed his friend's hand warmly.
"Good-bye, old fellow! I'll write to you in Italy."
"All right--mind you do! And I say--give my love to Thelma!"
Philip smiled and promised. The train began to move,--slowly at first,
then more quickly, till with clattering uproar and puffing clouds of
white steam, it rushed forth from the station, winding through the
arches like a black snake, till it had twisted itself rapidly out of
sight. Lorimer, left alone, looked after it wistfully, with a heavy
weight of unuttered love and sorrow at his heart, and as he at last
turned away, those haunting words that he had heard under the pines at
the Altenfjord recurred again and again to his memory--the words uttered
by the distraught Sigurd--and how true they were, he thought! how
desperately, cruelly true!
"Good things may come for others--but for _you_, the heavens are empty!"
CHAPTER XXX.
"Honor is an old-world thing, but it smells sweet to those in
whose hand it is strong."--OUIDA.
Disappointment upon disappointment awaited Errington at Hull.
Unfortunately, neither he nor Britta knew of the existence of the good
Norwegian innkeeper, Friedhof, who had assisted Thelma in her
flight--and all their persistent and anxious inquiries elicited no news
of her. Moreover, there was no boat of any kind leaving immediately for
Norway--not even a whaler or fishing-smack. In a week's time,--possibly
later,--there would be a steamer starting for Christiansund, and for
this, Errington, though almost mad with impatience, was forced to wait.
And in the meantime, he roamed about the streets of Hull, looking
eagerly at every fair-haired woman who passed him, and always hoping
that Thelma herself would suddenly meet him face to face, and put her
hands in his. He wrote to Neville and told him to send on any letters
that might arrive for him, and by every post he waited anxiously for one
from Thelma but none came. To relieve his mind a little, he scribbled a
long letter to her, explaining everything, telling her how ardently he
loved and worshipped her--how he was on his way to join her at the
Altenfjord,--and ending by the most passionate vows of unchanging love
and fidelity. He was somewhat soothed when he had done this--though he
did not realize the fact that in all probability he himself might arrive
before the letter. The slow, miserable days went on--the week was
completed--the steamer for Christiansund started at last,--and, after a
terribly stormy passage, he and the faithful Britta were landed there.
On arrival, he learned that a vessel bound for the North Cape had left
on the previous day--there would not be another for a fortnight. Cursing
his ill-luck, he resolved to reach the Altenfjord by land, and began to
make arrangements accordingly. Those who knew the country well
endeavored to dissuade him from this desperate project--the further
north, the greater danger, they told him,--moreover, the weather was,
even for Norway, exceptionally trying. Snow lay heavily over all the
country he would have to traverse--the only means of conveyance was by
carriole or _pulkha_--the latter a sort of sledge used by the
Laplanders, made in the form of a boat, and generally drawn by reindeer.
The capabilities of the carriole would be exhausted as soon as the
snow-covered regions were reached--and to manage a _pulkha_
successfully, required special skill of no ordinary kind. But the
courageous little Britta made short work of all these difficulties--she
could drive a _pulkha_,--she knew how to manage reindeer,--she
entertained not the slightest doubt of being able to overcome all the
obstacles on the way. At the same time, she frankly told Sir Philip that
the journey would be a long one, perhaps occupying several days--that
they would have to rest at different farms or stations on the road, and
put up with hard fare--that the cold would be intense,--that often they
would find it difficult to get relays of the required reindeer,--and
that it might perhaps be wiser to wait for the next boat going to the
North Cape.