"In mezzo del mio core c' e una spina;
Non c' e barbier che la possa levare,--
Solo il mio amore colla sua manina"
_Rime Popolari._
Errington and Lorimer pulled away across the Fjord in a silence that
lasted for many minutes. Old Güldmar stood on the edge of his little
pier to watch them out of sight. So, till their boat turned the sharp
corner of the protecting rock, that hid the landing-place from view,
they saw his picturesque figure and gleaming silvery hair outlined
clearly against the background of the sky--a sky now tenderly flushed
with pink like the inside of a delicate shell. When they could no longer
perceive him they still rowed on speaking no word,--the measured,
musical plash of the oars through the smooth, dark olive-green water
alone breaking the stillness around them. There was a curious sort of
hushed breathlessness in the air; fantastic, dream-like lights and
shadows played on the little wrinkling waves; sudden flushes of crimson
came and went in the western horizon, and over the high summits of the
surrounding mountains mysterious shapes, formed of purple and grey mist,
rose up and crept softly downwards, winding in and out deep valleys and
dark ravines, like wandering spirits sent on some secret and sorrowful
errand. After a while Errington said almost vexedly--
"Are you struck dumb, George? Haven't you a word to say to a fellow?"
"Just what I was about to ask _you_," replied Lorimer carelessly; "and I
was also going to remark that we hadn't seen your mad friend up at the
Güldmar residence."
"No. Yet I can't help thinking he has something to do with them, all the
same," returned Errington meditatively. "I tell you, he swore at me by
some old Norwegian infernal place or other. I dare say he's an Odin
worshipper, too. But never mind him. What do you think of _her_?"
Lorimer turned lazily round in the boat, so that he faced his companion.
"Well, old fellow, if you ask me frankly, I think she is the most
beautiful woman I ever saw, or, for that matter, ever heard of. And I am
an impartial critic--perfectly impartial."
And, resting on his oar, he dipped the blade musingly in and out of the
water, watching the bright drops fall with an oil-like smoothness as
they trickled from the polished wood and glittered in the late sunshine
like vari-colored jewels. Then he glanced curiously at Philip, who sat
silent, but whose face was very grave and earnest,--even noble, with
that shade of profound thought upon it. He looked like one who had
suddenly accepted a high trust, in which there was not only pride, but
tenderness. Lorimer shook himself together, as he himself would have
expressed it, and touched his friend's arm half-playfully.
"You've met the king's daughter of Norroway after all, Phil;" and his
light accents had a touch of sadness in them; "and you'll have to bring
her home, as the old song says. I believe the 'eligible' is caught at
last. The 'woman' of the piece has turned up, and your chum must play
second fiddle--eh, old boy?"
Errington flushed hotly, but caught Lorimer's hand and pressed it with
tremendous fervor.
"By Jove, I'll wring it off your wrist if you talk in that fashion,
George!" he said, with a laugh. "You'll always be the same to me, and
you know it. I tell you," and he pulled his moustache doubtfully, "I
don't know quite what's the matter with me. That girl fascinates me! I
feel a fool in her presence. Is that a sign of being in love I wonder?"
"Certainly not!" returned George promptly; "for _I_ feel a fool in her
presence, and I'm not in love."
"How do you know that?" And Errington glanced at him keenly and
inquiringly.
"How do I know? Come, I like that! Have I studied myself all these years
for nothing? Look here,"--and he carefully drew out the little withering
bunch of daisies he had purloined--"these are for you. I knew you wanted
them, though you hadn't the impudence to pick them up, and I had. I
thought you might like to put them under your pillow, and all that sort
of thing, because if one is resolved to become love-lunatic, one may as
well do the thing properly out and out,--I hate all half-measures. Now,
if the remotest thrill of sentiment were in me, you can understand, I
hope, that wild horses would not have torn this adorable posy from my
possession! I should have kept it, and you would never have known of
it," and he laughed softly. "Take it, old fellow! You're rich now, with
the rose she gave you besides. What is all your wealth compared with the
sacred preciousness of such blossoms! There, don't look so awfully
estactic, or I shall be called upon to ridicule you in the interests of
common sense. So you're in love with the girl at once, and have done
with it. Don't beat about the bush!"
"I'm not sure about it," said Philip, taking the daisies gratefully,
however, and pressing them in his pocket-book. "I don't believe in love
at first sight!"
"I do," returned Lorimer decidedly. "Love is electricity. Two telegrams
are enough to settle the business,--one from the eyes of the man, the
other from those of the woman. You and Miss Güldmar must have exchanged
a dozen such messages at least."
"And you?" inquired Errington persistently. "You had the same chance as
myself."
George shrugged his shoulders. "My dear boy, there are no wires of
communication between the Sun-angel and myself; nothing but a blank,
innocent landscape, over which perhaps some day, the mild lustre of
friendship may beam. The girl is beautiful--extraordinarily so; but I'm
not a 'man o' wax,' as Juliet's gabbling old nurse says--not in the
least impressionable."
And forthwith he resumed his oar, saying briskly as he did so--
"Phil, do you know those other fellows must be swearing at us pretty
forcibly for leaving them so long with Dyceworthy. We've been away two
hours!"
"Not possible!" cried Errington, amazed, and wielding his oar
vigorously. "They'll think me horribly rude. By Jove, they must be bored
to death!"
And, stimulated by the thought of the penance their friends were
enduring, they sent the boat spinning swiftly through the water, and
rowed as though they were trying for a race, when they were suddenly
pulled up by a loud "Halloo!" and the sight of another boat coming
slowly out from Bosekop, wherein two individuals were standing up,
gesticulating violently.
"There they are!" exclaimed Lorimer. "I say, Phil, they've hired a
special tub, and are coming out to us."
So it proved. Duprèz and Macfarlane had grown tired of waiting for their
truant companions, and had taken the first clumsy wherry that presented
itself, rowed by an even clumsier Norwegian boatman, whom they had been
compelled to engage also, as he would not let his ugly punt out of his
sight, for fear some harm might chance to befall it. Thus attended, they
were on their way back to the yacht. With a few long, elegant strokes,
Errington and Lorimer soon brought their boat alongside, and their
friends gladly jumped into it, delighted to be free of the company of
the wooden-faced mariner they had so reluctantly hired, and who now, on
receiving his fee, paddled awkwardly away in his ill-constructed craft,
without either a word of thanks or salutation. Errington began to
apologize at once for his long absence, giving as a reason for it, the
necessity he found himself under of making a call on some persons of
importance in the neighborhood, whom he had, till now, forgotten.
"My good Phil-eep!" cried Duprèz, in his cheery sing song accent, "why
apologize? We have amused ourselves! Our dear Sandy has a vein of humor
that is astonishing! We have not wasted our time. No! We have made Mr.
Dyceworthy our slave; we have conquered him; we have abased him! He is
what we please,--he is for all gods or for no god,--just as we pull the
string! In plain words, _mon cher_, that amiable religious is drunk!"
"Drunk!" cried Errington and Lorimer together. "Jove! you don't mean
it?"
Macfarlane looked up with a twinkle of satirical humor in his deep-set
grey eyes.
"Ye see," he said seriously, "the Lacrima, or Papist wine as he calls
it, was strong--we got him to take a good dose o't--a vera feir dose
indeed. Then, doun he sat, an' fell to convairsing vera pheelosophically
o' mony things,--it wad hae done ye gude to hear him,--he was fair lost
in the mazes o' his metapheesics, for twa flies took a bit saunter
through the pleasant dewy lanes o' his forehead, an' he never raised a
finger to send them awa' aboot their beeziness. Then I thoet I wad try
him wi' the whusky--I had ma pocket flask wi' me--an' O mon! he was
sairly glad and gratefu' for the first snack o't! He said it was
deevilish fine stuff, an' so he took ane drappikie, an' anither
drappikie, and yet anither drappikie,"--Sandy's accent got more and more
pronounced as he went on--"an' after a bit, his heed dropt doun, an' he
took a wee snoozle of a minute or twa,--then he woke up in a' his
strength an' just grappit the flask in his twa hands an' took the hale
o't off at a grand, rousin' gulp! Ma certes! after it ye shuld ha' seen
him laughin' like a feckless fule, an' rubbin' an' rubbin' his heed,
till his hair was like the straw kicked roond by a mad coo!"
Lorimer lay back in the stern of the boat and laughed uproariously at
this extraordinary picture, as did the others.
"But that is not all," said Duprèz, with delighted mischief sparkling in
his wicked little dark eyes; "the dear religious opened his heart to us.
He spoke thickly, but we could understand him. He was very impressive!
He is quite of my opinion. He says all religion is nonsense, fable,
imposture,--Man is the only god, Woman his creature and subject.
Again,--man and woman conjoined, make up divinity, necessity, law. He
was quite clear on that point. Why did he preach what he did not
believe, we asked? He almost wept! He replied that the children of this
world liked fairy-stories and he was paid to tell them. It was his bread
and butter,--would we wish him to have no bread and butter? We assured
him so cruel a thought had no place in our hearts! Then he is
amorous--yes! the good fat man is amorous! He would have become a
priest, but on close examination of the confessionals he saw there was
no possibility of seeing, much less kissing a lady penitent through the
grating. So he gave up that idea! In his form of faith he _can_ kiss, he
says,--he _does_ kiss!--always a holy kiss, of course! He is so
ingenuous,--so delightfully frank, it is quite charming!"
They laughed again. Sir Philip looked somewhat disgusted.
"What an old brute he must be!" he said. "Somebody ought to kick him--a
holy kick, of course, and therefore more intense and forcible than other
kicks."
"You begin, Phil," laughed Lorimer, "and we'll all follow suit. He'll be
like that Indian in 'Vathek' who rolled himself into a ball; no one
could resist kicking as long as the ball bounded before them,--we,
similarly, shall not be able to resist, if Dyceworthy's fat person is
once left at our mercy."
"That was a grand bit he told us, Errington," resumed Macfarlane. "Ye
should ha' heard him talk aboot his love-affair! . . . the saft jelly of
a man that he is, to be making up to ony woman."
At that moment they ran alongside of the _Eulalie_ and threw up their
oars.
"Stop a bit," said Errington. "Tell us the rest on board."
The ladder was lowered; they mounted it, and their boat was hauled up to
its place.
"Go on!" said Lorimer, throwing himself lazily into a deck arm-chair and
lighting a cigar, while the others leaned against the yacht rails and
followed his example. "Go on, Sandy--this is fun! Dyceworthy's amours
must be amusing. I suppose he's after that ugly wooden block of a woman
we saw at his house who is so zealous for the 'true gospel'?"
"Not a bit of it," replied Sandy, with immense gravity. "The auld
Silenus has better taste. He says there's a young lass running after
him, fit to break her heart aboot him,--puir thing, she must have vera
little choice o' men! He hasna quite made up his mind, though he admeets
she's as fine a lass as ony man need require. He's sorely afraid she has
set herself to catch him, as he says she's an eye like a warlock for a
really strong good-looking fellow like himself," and Macfarlane chuckled
audibly. "Maybe he'll take pity on her, maybe he wont; the misguided
lassie will be sairly teazed by him from a' he tauld us in his cups. He
gave us her name,--the oddest in a' the warld for sure,--I canna just
remember it."
"I can," said Duprèz glibly. "It struck me as quaint and pretty--Thelma
Güldmar."
Errington started so violently, and flushed so deeply, that Lorimer was
afraid of some rash outbreak of wrath on his part. But he restrained
himself by a strong effort. He merely took his cigar from his mouth and
puffed a light cloud of smoke into the air before replying, then he said
coldly--
"I should say Mr. Dyceworthy, besides being a drunkard, is a most
consummate liar. It so happens that the Güldmars are the very people I
have just visited,--highly superior in every way to anybody we have yet
met in Norway. In fact, Mr. and Miss Güldmar will come on board
to-morrow. I have invited them to dine with us; you will then be able to
judge for yourselves whether the young lady is at all of the description
Mr. Dyceworthy gives of her."
Duprèz and Macfarlane exchanged astonished looks.
"Are ye quite sure," the latter ventured to remark cautiously, "that
ye're prudent in what ye have done? Remember ye have asked no pairson at
a' to dine with ye as yet,--it's a vera sudden an' exceptional freak o'
hospitality."
Errington smoked on peacefully and made no answer. Duprèz hummed a verse
of a French _chansonnette_ under his breath and smiled. Lorimer glanced
at him with a lazy amusement.
"Unburden yourself, Pierre, for heaven's sake!" he said. "Your mind is
as uncomfortable as a loaded camel. Let it lie down, while you take off
its packages, one by one, and reveal their contents. In short, what's
up?"
Duprèz made a rapid, expressive gesture with his hands.
"_Mon cher_, I fear to displease Phil-eep! He has invited these people;
they are coming,--_bien_! there is no more to say."
"I disagree with ye," interposed Macfarlane "I think Errington should
hear what _we_ ha' heard; it's fair an' just to a mon that he should
understand what sort o' folk are gaun to pairtake wi' him at his table.
Ye see, Errington, ye should ha' thought a wee, before inviting pairsons
o' unsettled an' dootful chairacter--"
"Who says they are?" demanded Errington half-angrily. "The drunken
Dyceworthy?"
"He was no sae drunk at the time he tauld us." persisted Macfarlane in
his most obstinate, most dictatorial manner. "Ye see, it's just this
way--"
"Ah, _pardon_!" interrupted Duprèz briskly. "Our dear Sandy is an
excellent talker, but he is a little slow. Thus it is, _mon cher_
Errington. This gentleman named Güldmar had a most lovely wife--a
mysterious lady, with an evident secret. The beautiful one was never
seen in the church or in any town or village; she was met sometimes on
hills, by rivers, in valleys, carrying her child in her arms. The people
grew afraid of her; but, now, see what happens! Suddenly, she appears no
more; some one ventures to ask this Monsieur Güldmar, 'What has become
of Madame?' His answer is brief. 'She is dead!' Satisfactory so far, yet
not quite; for, Madame being dead, then what has become of the corpse of
Madame? It was never seen,--no coffin was ever ordered,--and apparently
it was never buried! _Bien!_ What follows? The good people of Bosekop
draw the only conclusion possible--Monsieur Güldmar, who is said to have
a terrific temper, killed Madame and made away with her body. _Voilà_!"
And Duprèz waved his hand with an air of entire satisfaction.
Errington's brow grew sombre. "This is the story, is it?" he asked at
last.
"It is enough, is it not?" laughed Duprèz. "But, after all, what matter?
It will be novel to dine with a mur--"
"Stop!" said Philip fiercely, with so much authority that the sparkling
Pierre was startled. "Call no man by such a name till you know he
deserves it. If Güldmar was suspected, as you say, why didn't somebody
arrest him on the charge?"
"Because, ye see," replied Macfarlane, "there was not sufficient proof
to warrant such a proceeding. Moreover, the actual meenister of the
parish declared it was a' richt, an' said this Güldmar was a mon o' vera
queer notions, an' maybe, had buried his wife wi' certain ceremonies
peculiar to himself--What's wrong wi' ye now?"
For a light had flashed on Errington's mind, and with the quick
comprehension it gave him, his countenance cleared. He laughed.
"That's very likely," he said; "Mr. Güldmar is a character. He follows
the faith of Odin, and not even Dyceworthy can convert him to
Christianity."
Macfarlane stared with a sort of stupefied solemnity.
"Mon!" he exclaimed, "ye never mean to say there's an actual puir human
creature that in this blessed, enlightened nineteenth century of ours,
is so far misguidit as to worship the fearfu' gods o' the Scandinavian
meethology?"
"Ah!" yawned Lorimer, "you may wonder away, Sandy, but it's true enough!
Old Güldmar is an Odinite. In this blessed, enlightened nineteenth
century of ours, when Christians amuse themselves by despising and
condemning each other, and thus upsetting all the precepts of the Master
they profess to follow, there is actually a man who sticks to the
traditions of his ancestors. Odd, isn't it? In this delightful,
intellectual age, when more than half of us are discontented with life
and yet don't want to die, there is a fine old gentleman, living beyond
the Arctic circle, who is perfectly satisfied with his existence--not
only that, he thinks death the greatest glory that can befall him.
Comfortable state of things altogether! I'm half inclined to be an
Odinite too."
Sandy still remained lost in astonishment. "Then ye don't believe that
he made awa' wi' his wife?" he inquired slowly.
"Not in the least!" returned Lorimer decidedly; "neither will you,
to-morrow, when you see him. He's a great deal better up in literature
than you are, my boy, I'd swear, judging from the books he has. And when
he mentioned his wife, as he did once, you could see in his face he had
never done _her_ any harm. Besides, his daughter--"
"Ah! but I forgot," interposed Duprèz again. "The daughter, Thelma, was
the child the mysteriously vanished lady carried in her arms, wandering
with it all about the woods and hills. After her disappearance, another
thing extraordinary happens. The child also disappears, and Monsieur
Güldmar lives alone, avoided carefully by every respectable person.
Suddenly the child returns, grown to be nearly a woman--and they say,
lovely to an almost impossible extreme. She lives with her father. She,
like her strange mother, never enters a church, town, or
village--nowhere, in fact, where persons are in any numbers. Three years
ago, it appears, she vanished again, but came back at the end of ten
months, lovelier than ever. Since then she has remained
quiet--composed--but always apart,--she may disappear at any moment.
Droll, is it not, Errington? and the reputation she has is natural!"
"Pray state it," said Philip, with freezing coldness. "The reputation of
a woman is nothing nowadays. Fair game--go on!"
But his face was pale, and his eyes blazed dangerously. Almost
unconsciously his hand toyed with the rose Thelma had given him, that
still ornamented his button-hole.
"Mon Dieu!" cried Duprèz in amazement. "But look not at me like that! It
seems to displease you, to put you _en fureur_, what I say! It is not my
story,--it is not I,--I know not Mademoiselle Güldmar. But as her beauty
is considered superhuman, they say it is the devil who is her
_parfumeur_, her _coiffeur_, and who sees after her complexion; in
brief, she is thought to be a witch in full practice, dangerous to life
and limb."
Errington laughed loudly, he was so much relieved.
"Is that all?" he said with light contempt. "By Jove! what a pack of
fools there must be about here,--ugly fools too, if they think beauty is
a sign of witchcraft. I wonder Dyceworthy isn't scared out of his skin
if he positively thinks the so-called witch is setting her cap at him."
"Ah, but he means to convairt her," said Macfarlane seriously. "To draw
the evil oot o' her, as it were. He said he wad do't by fair means or
foul."
Something in these latter words struck Lorimer, for, raising himself in
his seat, he asked, "Surely Mr. Dyceworthy, with all his stupidity,
doesn't carry it so far as to believe in witchcraft?"
"Oh, indeed he does," exclaimed Duprèz; "he believes in it _à la
lettre_! He has Bible authority for his belief. He is very firm--firmest
when drunk!" And he laughed gaily.
Errington muttered something not very flattering to Mr. Dyceworthy's
intelligence, which escaped the hearing of his friends; then he said--
"Come along, all of you, down into the saloon. We want something to eat.
Let the Güldmars alone; I'm not a bit sorry I've asked them to come
to-morrow. I believe you'll all like them immensely."
They all descended the stair-way leading to the lower part of the yacht,
and Macfarlane asked as he followed his host--
"Is the lass vera bonnie did ye say?"
"Bonnie's not the word for it this time," said Lorimer, coolly answering
instead of Errington. "Miss Güldmar is a magnificent woman. You never
saw such a one, Sandy, my boy; she'll make you sing small with one look;
she'll wither you up into a kippered herring! And as for you, Duprèz,"
and he regarded the little Frenchman critically, "let me see,--you _may_
possibly reach up to her shoulder,--certainly not beyond it."
"_Pas possible!_" cried Duprèz. "Mademoiselle is a giantess."
"She needn't be a giantess to overtop you, _mon ami_," laughed Lorimer
with a lazy shrug. "By Jove, I _am_ sleepy, Errington, old boy; are we
never going to bed? It's no good waiting till it's dark here, you know."
"Have something first," said Sir Philip, seating himself at the saloon
table, where his steward had laid out a tasty cold collation. "We've had
a good deal of climbing about and rowing; it's taken it out of us a
little."
Thus hospitably adjured, they took their places, and managed to dispose
of an excellent supper. The meal concluded, Duprèz helped himself to a
tiny liqueur glass of Chartreuse, as a wind-up to the exertions of the
day, a mild luxury in which the others joined him, with the exception of
Macfarlane, who was wont to declare that a "mon without his whusky was
nae mon at a'," and who, therefore, persisted in burning up his interior
mechanism with alcohol in spite of the doctrines of hygiene, and was now
absorbed in the work of mixing his lemon, sugar, hot water, and
poison--his usual preparation for a night's rest.
Lorimer, usually conversational, watched him in abstracted silence.
Rallied on this morose humor, he rose, shook himself like a retriever,
yawned, and sauntered to the piano that occupied a dim corner of the
saloon, and began to play with that delicate, subtle touch, which,
though it does not always mark the brilliant pianist, distinguishes the
true lover of music, to whose ears a rough thump on the instrument, or a
false note would be most exquisite agony. Lorimer had no pretense to
musical talent; asked, he confessed he could "strum a little," and he
seemed to see the evident wonder and admiration he awakened in the minds
of many to whom such "strumming" as his was infinitely more delightful
than more practiced, finished playing. Just now he seemed undecided,--he
commenced a dainty little prelude of Chopin's, then broke suddenly off,
and wandered into another strain, wild, pleading, pitiful, and
passionate,--a melody so weird and dreamy that even the stolid
Macfarlane paused in his toddy-sipping, and Duprèz looked round in some
wonderment.
"_Comme c'est beau, ça!_" he murmured.
Errington said nothing; he recognized the tune as that which Thelma had
sung at her spinning-wheel, and his bold bright eyes grew pensive and
soft, as the picture of the fair face and form rose up again before his
mind. Absorbed in a reverie, he almost started when Lorimer ceased
playing, and said lightly--
"By-bye, boys! I'm off to bed! Phil, don't wake me so abominably early
as you did this morning. If you do, friendship can hold out no
longer--we must part!"
"All right!" laughed Errington good-humoredly, watching his friend as he
sauntered out of the saloon; then seeing Duprèz and Macfarlane rise from
the table, he added courteously, "Don't hurry away on Lorimer's account,
you two. I'm not in the least sleepy,--I'll sit up with you to any
hour."
"It is droll to go to bed in broad daylight," said Duprèz. "But it must
be done. _Cher Philippe_, your eyes are heavy. 'To bed, to bed,' as the
excellent Madame Macbeth says. Ah! _quelle femme!_ What an exciting wife
she was for a man? Come, let us follow our dear Lorimer,--his music was
delicious. Good night or good morning? . . . I know not which it is in
this strange land where the sun shines always! It is confusing!"
They shook hands and separated. Errington, however, unable to compose
his mind to rest, went into his cabin merely to come out of it again and
betake himself to the deck, where he decided to walk up and down till he
felt sleepy. He wished to be alone with his own thoughts for awhile--to
try and resolve the meaning of this strange new emotion that possessed
him,--a feeling that was half pleasing, half painful, and that certainly
moved him to a sort of shame. A man, if he be strong and healthy, is
always more or less ashamed when Love, with a single effort, proves him
to be weaker than a blade of grass swaying in the wind. What! all his
dignity, all his resoluteness, all his authority swept down by the light
touch of a mere willow wand? for the very sake of his own manhood and
self-respect, he cannot help but be ashamed! It is as though a little
nude, laughing child mocked at a lion's strength, and made him a
helpless prisoner with a fragile daisy chain. So the god Eros begins his
battles, which end in perpetual victory,--first fear and shame,--then
desire and passion,--then conquest and possession. And afterwards? ah!
. . . afterwards the pagan deity is powerless,--a higher God, a grander
force, a nobler creed must carry Love to its supreme and best
fulfillment.