Thelma
woman. Leave her to run after you--she'll do it fast enough."
"Wait till you see her. Besides, I'm not running after any woman,"
averred Philip with some heat.
"Oh, I beg your pardon--I forgot. She's not a woman; she's a Sun-angel.
You are rowing, not running, after a Sun-angel. Is that correct? I say,
don't drive through the water like that; you'll pull the boat round."
Errington slackened his speed and laughed. "It's only curiosity," he
said, lifting his hat, and pushing back the clustering dark-brown curls
from his brow. "I bet you that sleek Dyceworthy fellow meant the old
_bonde_ and his daughter, when he spoke of persons who were 'ejected'
from the social circles of Bosekop. Fancy Bosekop society presuming to
be particular--what an absurd idea!"
"My good fellow, don't pretend to be so deplorably ignorant! Surely you
know that a trumpery village or a two-penny town is much more choice and
exclusive in its 'sets' than a great city? I wouldn't live in a small
place for the world. Every inhabitant would know the cut of my clothes
by heart, and the number of buttons on my waistcoat. The grocer would
copy the pattern of my trousers,--the butcher would carry a cane like
mine. It would be simply insufferable. To change the subject, may I ask
you if you know which way you are going, for it seems to me we're bound
straight for a smash on that uncomfortable-looking rock, where there is
certainly no landing-place."
Errington stopped pulling, and, standing up in the boat, began to
examine the surroundings with keen interest. They were close to the
great crag "shaped like a giant's helmet," as Valdemar Svensen had said.
It rose sheer out of the water, and its sides were almost perpendicular.
Some beautiful star-shaped sea anemones clung to it in a vari-colored
cluster on one projection, and the running ripple of the small waves
broke on its jagged corners with a musical splash, and sparkle of white
foam. Below them, in the emerald mirror of the Fjord, it was so clear
that they could see the fine white sand lying at the bottom, sprinkled
thick with shells and lithe moving creatures of all shapes, while every
now and then, there streamed past them, brilliantly tinted specimens of
the Medusae, with their long feelers or tendrils, looking like torn
skins of crimson and azure floss silk.
The place was very silent; only the sea-gulls circled round and round
the summit of the great rock, some of them occasionally swooping down on
the unwary fishes, their keen eyes perceived in the waters beneath, then
up again they soared, swaying their graceful wings and uttering at
intervals that peculiar wild cry that in solitary haunts sounds so
intensely mournful. Errington gazed about him in doubt for some minutes,
then suddenly his face brightened. He sat down again in the boat and
resumed his oar.
"Row quietly, George," he said in a subdued tone "Quietly--round to the
left."
The oars dipped noiselessly, and the boat shot forward,--then swerved
sharply round in the direction,--and there before them lay a small sandy
creek, white and shining as though sprinkled with powdered silver. From
this, a small but strongly-built wooden pier ran out into the sea. It
was carved all over with fantastic figures, and in it at equal
distances, were fastened iron rings, such as are used for the safe
mooring of boats. One boat was there already, and Errington recognized
it with delight. It was that in which he had seen the mysterious maiden
disappear. High and dry on the sand, out of reach of the tides, was a
neat sailing-vessel; its name was painted round the stern--_The
Valkyrie_.
As the two friends ran their boat on shore, and fastened it to the
furthest ring of the convenient pier, they caught the distant sound of
the plaintiff "coo-cooing" of turtle doves.
"You've done it this time, old boy," said Lorimer, speaking in a
whisper, though he knew not why. "This is the old _bonde's_ own private
landing-place evidently, and here's a footpath leading somewhere. Shall
we follow it?"
Philip emphatically assented, and, treading softly, like the trespassers
they felt themselves to be, they climbed the ascending narrow way that
guided them up from the seashore, round through a close thicket of
pines, where their footsteps fell noiselessly on a thick carpet of
velvety green moss, dotted prettily here and there with the red gleam of
ripening wild strawberries. Everything was intensely still, and as yet
there seemed no sign of human habitation. Suddenly a low whirring sound
broke upon their ears, and Errington, who was a little in advance of his
companion, paused abruptly with a smothered exclamation, and drew back
on tip-toe, catching Lorimer by the arm.
"By Jove!" he whispered excitedly, "we've come right up to the very
windows of the house. Look!"
Lorimer obeyed, and for once, the light jest died upon his tips.
Surprise and admiration held him absolutely silent.
CHAPTER V.
"Elle filait et souriait--et je crois qu'elle enveloppa mon coeur
avec son fil."--HEINE.
Before them, close enough for their outstretched hands to have touched
it, was what appeared to be a framed picture, exquisitely painted,--a
picture perfect in outline matchless in color, faultless in detail,--but
which was in reality nothing but a large latticed window thrown wide
open to admit the air. They could now see distinctly through the shadows
cast by the stately pines, a long, low, rambling house, built roughly,
but strongly, of wooden rafters, all overgrown with green and blossoming
creepers; but they scarcely glanced at the actual building, so strongly
was their attention riveted on the one window before them. It was
surrounded by an unusually broad framework, curiously and elaborately
carved, and black as polished ebony. Flowers grew all about it,--sweet
peas, mignonette, and large purple pansies--while red and white climbing
roses rioted in untrained profusion over its wide sill. Above it was a
quaintly built dovecote, where some of the strutting fan-tailed
inhabitants were perched, swelling out their snowy breasts, and
discoursing of their domestic trials in notes of dulcet melancholy;
while lower down, three or four ring-doves nestled on the roof in a
patch of sunlight, spreading up their pinions like miniature sails, to
catch the warmth and lustre.
Within the deep, shadowy embrasure, like a jewel placed on dark velvet,
was seated a girl spinning,--no other than the mysterious maiden of the
shell cavern. She was attired in a plain, straight gown, of some soft
white woolen stuff, cut squarely at her throat; her round, graceful arms
were partially bare, and as the wheel turned swiftly, and her slender
hands busied themselves with the flax, she smiled, as though some
pleasing thought had touched her mind. Her smile had the effect of
sudden sunshine in the dark room where she sat and span,--it was radiant
and mirthful as the smile of a happy child. Yet her dark blue eyes
remained pensive and earnest, and the smile soon faded, leaving her fair
face absorbed and almost dreamy. The whirr-whirring of the wheel grew
less and less rapid,--it slackened,--it stopped altogether,--and, as
though startled by some unexpected sound, the girl paused and listened,
pushing away the clustering masses of her rich hair from her brow. Then
rising slowly from her seat, she advanced to the window, put aside the
roses with one hand, and looked out,--thus forming another picture as
beautiful, if not more beautiful, than the first.
Lorimer drew his breath hard. "I say, old fellow," he whispered; but
Errington pressed his arm with vice-like firmness, as a warning to him
to be silent, while they both stepped farther back into the dusky gloom
of the pine boughs.
The girl, meanwhile, stood motionless, in a half-expectant attitude,
and, seeing her there, some of the doves on the roof flew down and
strutted on the ground before her, coo-cooing proudly, as though
desirous of attracting her attention. One of them boldly perched on the
window-sill; she glanced at the bird musingly, and softly stroked its
opaline wings and shining head without terrifying it. It seemed
delighted to be noticed, and almost lay down under her hand in order to
be more conveniently caressed. Still gently smoothing its feathers, she
leaned further out among the clambering wealth of blossoms, and called
in a low, penetrating tone, "Father! father! is that you?"
There was no answer; and, after waited a minute or two, she moved and
resumed her former seat, the stray doves flew back to their customary
promenade on the roof, and the drowsy whirr-whirr of the spinning-wheel
murmured again its monotonous hum upon the air.
"Come on, Phil," whispered Lorimer, determined not to be checked this
time; "I feel perfectly wretched! It's mean of us to be skulking about
here, as if we were a couple of low thieves waiting to trap some of
those birds for a pigeon-pie. Come away,--you've seen her; that's
enough."
Errington did not move. Holding back a branch of pine, he watched the
movements of the girl at her wheel with absorbed fascination.
Suddenly her sweet lips parted, and she sang a weird, wild melody, that
seemed, like a running torrent, to have fallen from the crests of the
mountains, bringing with it echoes from the furthest summits, mingled
with soft wailings of a mournful wind.
Her voice was pure as the ring of fine crystal--deep, liquid, and
tender, with a restrained passion in it that stirred Errington's heart
and filled it with a strange unrest and feverish yearning,--emotions
which were new to him, and which, while he realized their existence,
moved him to a sort of ashamed impatience. He would have willingly left
his post of observation now, if only for the sake of shaking off his
unwonted sensations; and he took a step or two backwards for that
purpose, when Lorimer, in his turn, laid a detaining hand on his
shoulder.
"For Heaven's sake, let us hear the song through!" he said in subdued
tones. "What a voice! A positive golden flute!"
His rapt face betokened his enjoyment, and Errington, nothing loth,
still lingered, his eyes fixed on the white-robed slim figure framed in
the dark old rose-wreathed window--the figure that swayed softly with
the motion of the wheel and the rhythm of the song,--while flickering
sunbeams sparkled now and then on the maiden's dusky gold hair, or
touched up a warmer tint on her tenderly flushed cheeks, and fair neck,
more snowy than the gown she wore. Music poured from her lips as from
the throat of a nightingale. The words she sang were Norwegian, and her
listeners understood nothing of them; but the melody,--the pathetic
appealing melody,--soul-moving as all true melody must be, touched the
very core of their hearts, and entangled them in a web of delicious
reveries.
"Talk of Ary Scheffer's Gretchen!" murmured Lorimer with a sigh. "What a
miserable, pasty, milk-and-watery young person she is beside that
magnificent, unconscious beauty! I give in, Phil! I admit your taste.
I'm willing to swear that she's a Sun-Angel if you like. Her voice has
convinced me of that."
At that instant the song ceased. Errington turned and regarded him
steadfastly.
"Are _you_ hit, George?" he said softly, with a forced smile.
Lorimer's face flushed, but he met his friend's eyes frankly.
"I am no poacher, old fellow," he answered in the same quiet accents; "I
think you know that. If that girl's mind is as lovely as her face, I
say, go in and win!"
Sir Philip smiled. His brow cleared and an expression of relief settled
there. The look of gladness was unconscious; but Lorimer saw it at once
and noted it.
"Nonsense!" he said in a mirthful undertone. "How can I go in and win,
as you say? What am I to do? I can't go up to that window and speak to