"She believed that by dealing nobly with all, all would show
themselves noble; so that whatsoever she did became her."
HAFIZ.
As the afternoon lengthened, and the sun lowered his glittering shield
towards that part of the horizon where he rested a brief while without
setting, the _Eulalie_,--her white sails spread to the cool, refreshing
breeze,--swept gracefully and swiftly back to her old place on the
Fjord, and her anchor dropped with musical clank and splash, just as Mr.
Dyceworthy entered his house, fatigued, perspiring, and ill-tempered at
the non-success of his day. All on board the yacht were at dinner--a
dinner of the most tasteful and elegant description, such as Sir Philip
Errington well knew how to order and superintend, and Thelma, leaning
against the violet velvet cushions that were piled behind her for her
greater ease, looked,--as she indeed was,--the veritable queen of the
feast. Macfarlane and Duprèz had been rendered astonished and bashful by
her excessive beauty. From the moment she came on board with her father,
clad in her simple white gown, with a deep crimson hood drawn over her
fair hair, and tied under her rounded chin, she had taken them all
captive--they were her abject slaves in heart, though they put on very
creditable airs of manly independence and nonchalance. Each man in his
different way strove to amuse or interest her, except, strange to say,
Errington himself, who, though deeply courteous to her, kept somewhat in
the background and appeared more anxious to render himself agreeable to
old Olaf Güldmar, than to win the good graces of his lovely daughter.
The girl was delighted with everything on board the yacht,--she admired
its elegance and luxury with child-like enthusiasm; she gloried in the
speed with which its glittering prow cleaved the waters; she clapped her
hands at the hiss of the white foam as it split into a creaming pathway
for the rushing vessel; and she was so unaffected and graceful in all
her actions and attitudes, that the slow blood of the cautious
Macfarlane began to warm up by degrees to a most unwonted heat of
admiration. When she had first arrived, Errington, in receiving her, had
seriously apologized for not having some lady to meet her, but she
seemed not to understand his meaning. Her naïve smile and frankly
uplifted eyes put all his suddenly conceived notions of social stiffness
to flight.
"Why should a lady come?" she asked sweetly. "It is not necessary? . . ."
"Of course it isn't!" said Lorimer promptly and delightedly. "I am sure
we shall be able to amuse you, Miss Güldmar."
"Oh,--for that!" she replied, with a little shrug that had something
French about it, "I amuse myself always! I am amused now,--you must not
trouble yourselves!"
As she was introduced to Duprèz and Macfarlane, she gave them each a
quaint, sweeping curtsy, which had the effect of making them feel the
most ungainly lumbersome fellows on the face of the earth. Macfarlane
grew secretly enraged at the length of his legs,--while Pierre Duprèz,
though his bow was entirely Parisian, decided in his own mind that it
was jerky, and not good style. She was perfectly unembarrassed with all
the young men; she laughed at their jokes, and turned her glorious eyes
full on them with the unabashed sweetness of innocence; she listened to
the accounts they gave her of their fishing and climbing excursions with
the most eager interest,--and in her turn, she told them of fresh nooks
and streams and waterfalls, of which they had never even heard the
names. Not only were they enchanted with her, but they were thoroughly
delighted with her father, Olaf Güldmar. The sturdy old pagan was in the
best of humors,--and seemed determined to be pleased with
everything,--he told good stories,--and laughed that rollicking, jovial
laugh of his with such unforced heartiness that it was impossible to be
dull in his company,--and not one of Errington's companions gave a
thought to the reports concerning him and his daughter, which had been
so gratuitously related by Mr. Dyceworthy.
They had had a glorious day's sail, piloted by Valdemar Svensen, whose
astonishment at seeing the Güldmars on board the _Eulalie_ was depicted
in his face, but who prudently forebore from making any remarks thereon.
The _bonde_ hailed him good-humoredly as an old acquaintance,--much in
the tone of a master addressing a servant,--and Thelma smiled kindly at
him,--but the boundary line between superior and inferior was in this
case very strongly marked, and neither side showed any intention of
overstepping it. In the course of the day, Duprèz had accidentally
lapsed into French, whereupon to his surprise Thelma had answered him in
the same tongue,--though with a different and much softer pronunciation.
Her "_bien zoli_!" had the mellifluous sweetness of the Provencal
dialect, and on his eagerly questioning her, he learned that she had
received her education in a large convent at Arles, where she had
learned French from the nuns. Her father overheard her talking of her
school-days, and he added--
"Yes, I sent my girl away for her education, though I know the teaching
is good in Christiania. Yet it did not seem good enough for her.
Besides, your modern 'higher education' is not the thing for a
woman,--it is too heavy and commonplace. Thelma knows nothing about
mathematics or algebra. She can sing and read and write,--and, what is
more, she can spin and sew; but even these things were not the first
consideration with me. I wanted her disposition trained, and her bodily
health attended to. I said to those good women at Arles--'Look
here,--here's a child for you! I don't care how much or how little she
knows about accomplishments. I want her to be sound and sweet from head
to heel--a clean mind in a wholesome body. Teach her self-respect, and
make her prefer death to a lie. Show her the curse of a shrewish temper,
and the blessing of cheerfulness. That will satisfy me!' I dare say, now
I come to think of it, those nuns thought me an odd customer; but, at
any rate, they seemed to understand me. Thelma was very happy with them,
and considering all things"--the old man's eyes twinkled fondly--"she
hasn't turned out so badly!"
They laughed,--and Thelma blushed as Errington's dreamy eyes rested on
her with a look, which, though he was unconscious of it, spoke
passionate admiration. The day passed too quickly with them all,--and
now, as they sat at dinner in the richly ornamented saloon, there was
not one among them who could contemplate without reluctance the
approaching break-up of so pleasant a party. Dessert was served, and as
Thelma toyed with the fruit on her plate and sipped her glass of
champagne, her face grew serious and absorbed,--even sad,--and she
scarcely seemed to hear the merry chatter of tongues around her, till
Errington's voice asking a question of her father roused her into swift
attention.
"Do you know any one of the name of Sigurd?" he was saying, "a poor
fellow whose wits are in heaven let us hope,--for they certainly are not
on earth."
Olaf Güldmar's fine face softened with pity, and he replied--
"Sigurd? Have you met him then? Ah, poor boy, his is a sad fate! He has
wit enough, but it works wrongly; the brain is there, but 'tis twisted.
Yes, we know Sigurd well enough--his home is with us in default of a
better. Ay, ay! we snatched him from death--perhaps unwisely,--yet he
has a good heart, and finds pleasure in his life."
"He is a kind of poet in his own way," went on Errington, watching
Thelma as she listened intently to their conversation. "Do you know he
actually visited me on board here last night and begged me to go away
from the Altenfjord altogether? He seemed afraid of me, as if he thought
I meant to do him some harm."
"How strange!" murmured Thelma. "Sigurd never speaks to visitors,--he is
too shy. I cannot understand his motive!"
"Ah, my dear!" sighed her father. "Has he any motive at all? . . . and
does he ever understand himself? His fancies change with every shifting
breeze! I will tell you," he continued, addressing himself to Errington,
"how he came to be, as it were, a bit of our home. Just before Thelma
was born, I was walking with my wife one day on the shore, when we both
caught sight of something bumping against our little pier, like a large
box or basket. I managed to get hold of it with a boat-hook and drag it
in; it was a sort of creel such as is used to pack fish in, and in it
was the naked body of a half-drowned child. It was an ugly little
creature--a newly born infant deformity--and on its chest there was a
horrible scar in the shape of a cross, as though it had been gashed
deeply with a pen-knife. I thought it was dead, and was for throwing it
back into the Fjord, but my wife,--a tender-hearted angel--took the poor
wretched little wet body in her arms, and found that it breathed. She
warmed it, dried it, and wrapped it in her shawl,--and after awhile the
tiny monster opened its eyes and stared at her. Well! . . . somehow,
neither of us could forget the look it gave us,--such a solemn, warning,
pitiful, appealing sort of expression! There was no resisting it,--so we
took the foundling and did the best we could for him. We gave him the
name of Sigurd,--and when Thelma was born, the two babies used to play
together all day, and we never noticed anything wrong with the boy,
except his natural deformity, till he was about ten or twelve years old.
Then we saw to our sorrow that the gods had chosen to play havoc with
his wits. However, we humored him tenderly, and he was always
manageable. Poor Sigurd! He adored my wife; I have known him listen for
hours to catch the sound of her footstep; he would actually deck the
threshold with flowers in the morning that she might tread on them as
she passed by." The old bonds sighed and rubbed his hand across his eyes
with a gesture half of pain, half of impatience--"And now he is Thelma's
slave,--a regular servant to her. She can manage him best of us all,--he
is as docile as a lamb, and will do anything she tells him."
"I am not surprised at that," said the gallant Duprèz; "there is reason
in such obedience!"
Thelma looked at him inquiringly, ignoring the implied compliment.
"You think so?" she said simply "I am glad! I always hope that he will
one day be well in mind,--and every little sign of reason in him is
pleasant to me."
Duprèz was silent. It was evidently no use making even an attempt at
flattering this strange girl; surely she must be dense not to understand
compliments that most other women compel from the lips of men as their
right? He was confused--his Paris breeding was no use to him--in fact he
had been at a loss all day, and his conversation had, even to himself,
seemed particularly shallow and frothy. This Mademoiselle Güldmar, as he
called her, was by no means stupid--she was not a mere moving statue of
lovely flesh and perfect color whose outward beauty was her only
recommendation,--she was, on the contrary, of a most superior
intelligence,--she had read much and thought more,--and the dignified
elegance of her manner, and bearing would have done honor to a queen.
After all, thought Duprèz musingly, the social creeds of Paris _might_
be wrong--it was just possible! There might be women who were
womanly,--there might be beautiful girls who were neither vain nor
frivolous,--there might even be creatures of the feminine sex, besides
whom a trained Parisian coquette would seem nothing more than a painted
fiend of the neuter gender. These were new and startling considerations
to the feather-light mind of the Frenchman,--and unconsciously his fancy
began to busy itself with the old romantic histories of the ancient
French chivalry, when faith, and love, and loyalty, kept white the
lilies of France, and the stately courtesy and unflinching pride of the
_ancien régime_ made its name honored throughout the world. An odd
direction indeed for Pierre Duprèz's reflection to wander in--he, who
never reflected on either past or future, but was content to fritter
away the present as pleasantly as might be--and the only reason to which
his unusually serious reverie could be attributed was the presence of
Thelma. She certainly had a strange influence on them all, though she
herself was not aware of it,--and not only Errington, but each one of
his companions had been deeply considering during the day, that
notwithstanding the unheroic tendency of modern living, life itself
might be turned to good and even noble account, if only an effort were
made in the right direction.
Such was the compelling effect of Thelma's stainless mind reflected in
her pure face, on the different dispositions of all the young men; and
she, perfectly unconscious of it, smiled at them, and conversed
gaily,--little knowing as she talked, in her own sweet and unaffected
way, that the most profound resolutions were being formed, and the most
noble and unselfish deeds, were being planned in the souls of her
listeners,--all forsooth! because one fair, innocent woman had, in the
clear, grave glances of her wondrous sea-blue eyes, suddenly made them
aware of their own utter unworthiness. Macfarlane, meditatively watching
the girl from under his pale eyelashes, thought of Mr. Dyceworthy's
matrimonial pretensions, with a humorous smile hovering on his thin
lips.
"Ma certes! the fellow has an unco' gude opeenion o' himself," he mused.
"He might as well offer his hand in marriage to the Queen while he's
aboot it,--he wad hae just as muckle chance o' acceptance."
Meanwhile, Errington, having learned all he wished to know concerning
Sigurd, was skillfully drawing out old Olaf Güldmar, and getting him to
give his ideas on things in general, a task in which Lorimer joined.
"So you don't think we're making any progress nowadays?" inquired the
latter with an appearance of interest, and a lazy amusement in his blue
eyes as he put the question.
"Progress!" exclaimed Güldmar. "Not a bit of it! It is all a going
backward; it may not seem apparent, but it is so. England, for instance,
is losing the great place she once held in the world's history,--and
these things always happen to all nations when money becomes more
precious to the souls of the people than honesty and honor. I take the
universal wide-spread greed of gain to be one of the worst signs of the
times,--the forewarning of some great upheaval and disaster, the effects
of which no human mind can calculate. I am told that America is destined
to be the dominating power of the future,--but I doubt it! Its politics
are too corrupt,--its people live too fast, and burn their candle at
both ends, which is unnatural and most unwholesome; moreover, it is
almost destitute of Art in its highest forms,--and is not its confessed
watchward 'the almighty Dollar?' And such a country as that expects to
arrogate to itself the absolute sway of the world? I tell you, _no_--ten
thousand times _no_! It is destitute of nearly everything that has made
nations great and all-powerful in historic annals,--and my belief is
that what, has been, will be again,--and that what has never been, will
never be."
"You mean by that, I suppose, that there is no possibility of doing
anything new,--no way of branching out in some, better and untried
direction?" asked Errington.
Olaf Güldmar shook his head emphatically. "You can't do it," he said
decisively. "Everything in every way has been begun and completed and
then forgotten over and over in this world,--to be begun and completed
and forgotten again, and so on to the end of the chapter. No one nation
is better than another in this respect,--there is,--there can be nothing
new. Norway, for example, has had its day; whether it will ever have
another I know not,--at any rate, I shall not live to see it. And yet,
what a past!--" He broke off and his eyes grew meditative.
Lorimer looked at him. "You would have been a Viking, Mr. Güldmar, had
you lived in the old days," he said with a smile.
"I should, indeed!" returned the old man, with an unconsciously haughty
gesture of his head; "and no better fate could have befallen me! To sail
the seas in hot pursuit of one's enemies, or in search of further
conquest,--to feel the very wind and sun beating up the blood in one's
veins,--to live the life of a _man_--a true man! . . . in all the pride
and worth of strength, and invincible vigor!--how much better than the
puling, feeble, sickly existence, led by the majority of men to-day! I
dwell apart from them as much as I can,--I steep my mind and body in the
joys of Nature, and the free fresh air,--but often I feel that the old
days of the heroes must have been best,--when Gorm the Bold and the
fierce Siegfried seized Paris, and stabled their horses in the chapel
where Charlemagne lay buried!"
Pierre Duprèz looked up with a faint smile. "Ah, _pardon_! But that was
surely a very long time ago!"
"True!" said Güldmar quietly. "And no doubt you will not believe the
story at this distance of years. But the day is coming when people will
look back on the little chronicle of your Empire,--your commune,--your
republic, all your little affairs, and will say, 'Surely these things
are myths; they occurred--if they occurred at all,--a very long time
ago!"
"Monsieur is a philosopher!" said Duprèz, with a good-humored gesture;
"I would not presume to contradict him."
"You see, my lad," went on Güldmar more gently, "there is much in our
ancient Norwegian history that is forgotten or ignored by students of
to-day. The travellers that come hither come to see the glories of our
glaciers and fjords,--but they think little or nothing of the vanished
tribe of heroes who once possessed the land. If you know your Greek
history, you must have heard of Pythias, who lived three hundred and
fifty-six years before Christ, and who was taken captive by a band of
Norseman and carried away to see 'the place where the sun slept in
winter.' Most probably he came to this very spot, the Altenfjord,--at
any rate the ancient Greeks had good words to say for the 'Outside
Northwinders,' as they called us Norwegians, for they reported us to be
'persons living in peace with their gods and themselves.' Again, one of
the oldest tribes in the world came among us in times past,--the
Phoenicians,--there are traces among us still of their customs and
manners. Yes! we have a great deal to look back upon with pride as well
as sorrow,--and much as I hear of the wonders of the New World, the
marvels and the go-ahead speed of American manners and civilization,--I
would rather be a Norseman than a Yankee." And he laughed.
"There's more dignity in the name, at any rate," said Lorimer. "But I
say, Mr. Güldmar, you are 'up' in history much better than I am. The
annals of my country were grounded into my tender soul early in life,
but I have a very hazy recollection of them. I know Henry VIII. got rid
of his wives expeditiously and conveniently,--and I distinctly remember
that Queen Elizabeth wore the first pair of silk stockings, and danced a
kind of jig in them with the Earl of Leicester; these things interested
me at the time,--and they now seen firmly impressed on my memory to the
exclusion of everything else that might possibly be more important."
Old Güldmar smiled, but Thelma laughed outright and her eyes danced
mirthfully.
"Ah, I do know you now!" she said, nodding her fair head at him wisely.
"You are not anything that is to be believed! So I shall well understand
you,--that is, you are a very great scholar,--but that it pleases you to
pretend you are a dunce!"
Lorimer's face brightened into a very gentle and winning softness as he
looked at her.
"I assure you, Miss Güldmar, I am not pretending in the least. I'm no
scholar. Errington is, if you like! If it hadn't been for him, I should
never have learned anything at Oxford at all. He used to leap over a
difficulty while I was looking at it. Phil, don't interrupt me,--you
know you did! I tell you he's up to everything: Greek, Latin, and all
the rest of it,--and, what's more, he writes well,--I believe,--though
he'll never forgive me for mentioning it,--that he has even published
some poems."
"Be quiet, George!" exclaimed Errington, with a vexed laugh. "You are
boring Miss Güldmar to death!"
"What is _boring_?" asked Thelma gently, and then turning her eyes full
on the young Baronet, she added, "I like to hear that you will pass your
days sometimes without shooting the birds and killing the fish; it can
hurt nobody for you to write." And she smiled that dreamy pensive smile,
of hers that was so infinitely bewitching. "You must show me all your
sweet poems!"
Errington colored hotly. "They are all nonsense, Miss Güldmar," he said
quickly. "There's nothing 'sweet' about them, I tell you frankly! All
rubbish, every line of them!"
"Then you should not write them," said Thelma quietly. "It is only a
pity and a disappointment."
"I wish every one were of your opinion," laughed Lorimer, "it would
spare us a lot of indifferent verse."
"Ah! you have the chief Skald of all the world in your land!" cried
Güldmar, bringing his fist down with a jovial thump on the table. "He
can teach you all that you need to know."
"_Skald_?" queried Lorimer dubiously. "Oh, you mean bard. I suppose you
allude to Shakespeare?"
"I do," said the old _bonde_ enthusiastically, "he is the only glory of
your country I envy! I would give anything to prove him a Norwegian. By
Valhalla! had he but been one of the Bards of Odin, the world might have
followed the grand old creed still! If anything could ever persuade me
to be a Christian, it would be the fact that Shakespeare was one. If
England's name is rendered imperishable, it will be through the fame of
Shakespeare alone,--just as we have a kind of tenderness for degraded
modern Greece, because of Homer. Ay, ay! countries and nations are
worthless enough; it is only the great names of heroes that endure, to
teach the lesson that is never learned sufficiently,--namely, that man
and man alone is fitted to grasp the prize of immortality."
"Ye believe in immortality?" inquired Macfarlane seriously.
Güldmar's keen eyes lighted on him with fiery impetuousness.
"Believe in it? I possess it! How can it be taken from me? As well make
a bird without wings, a tree without sap, an ocean without depths, as
expect to find a man without an immortal soul! What a question to ask?
Do _you_ not possess heaven's gift? and why should not I?"
"No offense," said Macfarlane, secretly astonished at the old _bonde's_
fervor,--for had not he, though himself intending to become a devout
minister of the Word,--had not he now and then felt a creeping doubt as
to whether, after all, there was any truth in the doctrine of another
life than this one. "I only thocht ye might have perhaps questioned the
probabeelity o't, in your own mind?"
"I never question Divine authority," replied Olaf Güldmar, "I pity those
that do!"
"And this Divine authority?" said Duprèz suddenly with a delicate
sarcastic smile, "how and where do you perceive it?"
"In the very Law that compels me to exist, young sir," said
Güldmar,--"in the mysteries of the universe about me,--the glory of the
heavens,--the wonders of the sea! You have perhaps lived in cities all
your life, and your mind is cramped a bit. No wonder, . . . you can
hardly see the stars above the roofs of a wilderness of houses. Cities
are men's work,--the gods have never had a finger in the building of
them. Dwelling in them, I suppose you cannot help forgetting Divine
authority altogether; but here,--here among the mountains, you would
soon remember it! You should live here,--it would make a man of you!"
"And you do not consider me a man?" inquired Duprèz with imperturbable
good-humor.
Güldmar laughed. "Well, not quite!" he admitted candidly, "there's not
enough muscle about you. I confess I like to see strong fellows--fellows
fit to rule the planet on which they are placed. That's my whim!--but
you're a neat little chap enough, and I dare say you can hold your own!"
And his eyes twinkled good-temperedly as he filled himself another glass
of his host's fine Burgundy, and drank it off, while Duprèz, with a
half-plaintive, half-comical shrug of resignation to Güldmar's verdict
on his personal appearance, asked Thelma if she would favor them with a
song. She rose from her seat instantly, without any affected hesitation,
and went to the piano. She had a delicate touch, and accompanied herself
with great taste,--but her voice, full, penetrating, rich and true,--was
one of the purest and most sympathetic ever possessed by woman, and its
freshness was unspoilt by any of the varied "systems" of torture
invented by singing-masters for the ingenious destruction of the
delicate vocal organ. She sang a Norwegian love-song in the original
tongue, which might be roughly translated as follows:--
"Lovest thou me for my beauty's sake?
Love me not then!
Love the victorious, glittering Sun,
The fadeless, deathless, marvellous One!"
"Lovest thou me for my youth's sake?
Love me not then!
Love the triumphant, unperishing Spring,
Who every year new charms doth bring!"
"Lovest thou me for treasure's sake?
Oh, love me not then!
Love the deep, the wonderful Sea,
Its jewels are worthier love than me!"
"Lovest thou me for Love's own sake?
Ah sweet, then love me!
More than the Sun and the Spring and the Sea,
Is the faithful heart I will yield to thee!"
A silence greeted the close of her song. Though the young men were
ignorant of the meaning of the words still old Güldmar translated them
for their benefit, they could feel the intensity of the passion
vibrating through her ringing tones,--and Errington sighed
involuntarily. She heard the sigh, and turned round on the music-stool
laughing.
"Are you so tired, or sad, or what is it?" she asked merrily. "It is too
melancholy a tune? And I was foolish to sing it,--because you cannot
understand the meaning of it. It is all about love,--and of course love
is always sorrowful."
"Always?" asked Lorimer, with a half-smile.
"I do not know," she said frankly, with a pretty deprecatory gesture of
her hands,--"but all books say so! It must be a great pain, and also a
great happiness. Let me think what I can sing to you now,--but perhaps
you will yourself sing?"
"Not one of us have a voice, Miss Güldmar," said Errington. "I used to
think I had, but Lorimer discouraged my efforts."
"Men shouldn't sing," observed Lorimer; "if they only knew how awfully
ridiculous they look, standing up in dress-coats and white ties, pouring
forth inane love-ditties that nobody wants to hear, they wouldn't do it.
Only a woman looks pretty while singing."
"Ah, that is very nice!" said Thelma, with a demure smile. "Then I am
agreeable to you when I sing?"
Agreeable? This was far too tame a word--they all rose from the table
and came towards her, with many assurances of their delight and
admiration; but she put all their compliments aside with a little
gesture that was both incredulous and peremptory.
"You must not say so many things in praise of me," she said, with a
swift upward glance at Errington, where he leaned on the piano regarding
her. "It is nothing to be able to sing. It is only like the birds, but
we cannot understand the words they say, just as you cannot understand
Norwegian. Listen,--here is a little ballad you will all know," and she
played a soft prelude, while her voice, subdued to a plaintive murmur,
rippled out in the dainty verses of Sainte-Beuve--
"Sur ma lyre, l'autre fois
Dans un bois,
Ma main préludait à peine;
Une colombe descend
En passant,
Blanche sur le luth d'ébène"
"Mais au lieu d'accords touchants,
De doux chants,
La colombe gemissante
Me demande par pitié
Sa moitié
Sa moitié loin d'elle absente!"
She sang this seriously and sweetly till she came to the last three
lines, when, catching Errington's earnest gaze, her voice quivered and
her cheeks flushed. She rose from the piano as soon as she had finished,
and said to the _bonde_, who had been watching her with proud and
gratified looks--
"It is growing late, father. We must say good-bye to our friends and
return home."
"Not yet!" eagerly implored Sir Philip. "Come up on deck,--we will have
coffee there, and afterwards you shall leave us when you will."
Güldmar acquiesced in this arrangement, before his daughter had time to
raise any objection, and they all went on deck, where a comfortable
lounging chair was placed for Thelma, facing the most gorgeous portion
of the glowing sky, which on this evening was like a moving mass of
molten gold, split asunder here and there by angry ragged-looking rifts
of crimson. The young men grouped themselves together at the prow of the
vessel in order to smoke their cigars without annoyance to Thelma. Old
Güldmar did not smoke, but he talked,--and Errington after seeing them
all fairly absorbed in an argument on the best methods of spearing
salmon, moved quietly away to where the girl was sitting, her great
pensive eyes fixed on the burning splendors of the heavens.
"Are you warm enough there?" he asked, and there was an unconscious
tenderness in his voice as he asked the question, "or shall I fetch you
a wrap?"
She smiled. "I have my hood," she said. "It is the warmest thing I ever
wear, except, of course, in winter."
Philip looked at the hood as she drew it more closely over her head, and
thought that surely no more becoming article of apparel ever was
designed for woman's wear. He had never seen anything like it either in
color or texture,--it was of a peculiarly warm, rich crimson, like the
heart of a red damask rose, and it suited the bright hair and tender,
thoughtful eyes of its owner to perfection.
"Tell me," he said, drawing a little nearer and speaking in a lower
tone, "have you forgiven me for my rudeness the first time I saw you?"
She looked a little troubled.
"Perhaps also I was rude," she said gently. "I did not know you. I
thought--"
"You were quite right," he eagerly interrupted her. "It was very
impertinent of me to ask you for your name. I should have found it out
for myself, as I _have_ done."
And he smiled at her as he said the last words with marked emphasis. She
raised her eyes wistfully.
"And you are glad?" she asked softly and with a sort of wonder in her
accents.
"Glad to know your name? glad to know _you_! Of course! Can you ask such
a question?"
"But why?" persisted Thelma. "It is not as if you were lonely,--you have
friends already. We are nothing to you. Soon you will go away, and you
will think of the Altenfjord as a dream,--and our names will be
forgotten. That is natural!"
What a foolish rush of passion filled his heart as she spoke in those
mellow, almost plaintive accents,--what wild words leaped to his lips
and what an effort it cost him to keep them hack. The heat and
impetuosity of Romeo,--whom up to the present he had been inclined to
consider a particularly stupid youth,--was now quite comprehensible to
his mind, and he, the cool, self-possessed Englishman, was ready at that
moment to outrival Juliet's lover, in his utmost excesses of amorous
folly. In spite of his self-restraint, his voice quivered a little as he
answered her--
"I shall never forget the Altenfjord or you, Miss Güldmar. Don't you
know there are some things that cannot be forgotten? such as a sudden
glimpse of fine scenery,--a beautiful song, or a pathetic poem?" She
bent her head in assent. "And here there is so much to remember--the
light of the midnight sun,--the glorious mountains, the loveliness of
the whole land!"
"Is it better than other countries you have seen?" asked the girl with
some interest.
"Much better!" returned Sir Philip fervently. "In fact, there is no
place like it in my opinion." He paused at the sound of her pretty
laughter.
"You are--what is it?--ecstatic!" she said mirthfully. "Tell me, have
you been to the south of France and the Pyrenees?"
"Of course I have," he replied. "I have been all over the
Continent,--travelled about it till I'm tired of it. Do you like the
south of France better than Norway?"
"No,--not so very much better," she said dubiously. "And yet a little.
It is so warm and bright there, and the people are gay. Here they are
stern and sullen. My father loves to sail the seas, and when I first
went to school at Arles, he took me a long and beautiful voyage. We went
from Christiansund to Holland, and saw all those pretty Dutch cities
with their canals and quaint bridges. Then we went through the English
Channel to Brest,--then by the Bay of Biscay to Bayonne. Bayonne seemed
to me very lovely, but we left it soon, and travelled a long way by
land, seeing all sorts of wonderful things, till we came to Arles. And
though it is such a long route, and not one for many persons to take, I
have travelled to Arles and back twice that way, so all there is
familiar to me,--and in some things I do think it better than Norway."
"What induced your father to send you so far away from him?" asked
Philip rather curiously.
The girl's eyes softened tenderly. "Ah, that is easy to understand!" she
said. "My mother came from Arles."
"She was French, then?" he exclaimed with some surprise.
"No," she answered gravely. "She was Norwegian, because her father and
mother both were of this land. She was what they call 'born sadly.' You
must not ask me any more about her, please!"
Errington apologized at once with some embarrassment, and a deeper color
than usual on his face. She looked up at him quite frankly.
"It is possible I will tell you her history some day," she said, "when
we shall know each other better. I do like to talk to you very much! I
suppose there are many Englishmen like you?"
Philip laughed. "I don't think I am at all exceptional! why do you ask?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I have seen some of them," she said
slowly, "and they are stupid. They shoot, shoot,--fish, fish, all day,
and eat a great deal. . . ."
"My dear Miss Güldmar, I also do all these things!" declared Errington
amusedly. "These are only our surface faults. Englishmen are the best
fellows to be found anywhere. You mustn't judge them by their athletic
sports, or their vulgar appetites. You must appeal to their hearts when
you want to know them."
"Or to their pockets, and you will know them still better!" said Thelma
almost mischievously, as she raised herself in her chair to take a cup
of coffee from the tray that was then being handed to her by the
respectful steward. "Ah, how good this is! It reminds me of our coffee
luncheon at Arles!"
Errington watched her with a half-smile, but said no more, as the others
now came up to claim their share of her company.
"I say!" said Lorimer, lazily throwing himself full length on the deck
and looking up at her, "come and see us spear a salmon to-morrow, Miss
Güldmar. Your father is going to show us how to do it in the proper
Norse style."
"That is for men," said Thelma loftily. "Women must know nothing about
such things."
"By Jove!" and Lorimer looked profoundly astonished. "Why, Miss Güldmar,
women are going in for everything nowadays! Hunting, shooting,
bull-fighting, duelling, horse-whipping, lecturing,--heaven knows what!
They stop at nothing--salmon-spearing is a mere trifle in the list of
modern feminine accomplishments."
Thelma smiled down upon him benignly. "You will always be the same," she
said with a sort of indulgent air. "It is your delight to say things
upside down? But you shall not make me believe that women do all these
dreadful things. Because, how is it possible? The men would not allow
them!"
Errington laughed, and Lorimer appeared stupefied with surprise.
"The men--would--not--allow them?" he repeated slowly. "Oh, Miss
Güldmar, little do you realize the state of things at the present day!
The glamor of Viking memories clings about you still! Don't you know the
power of man has passed away, and that ladies do exactly as they like?
It is easier to control the thunderbolt than to prevent a woman having
her own way."
"All that is nonsense!" said Thelma decidedly. "Where there is a man to
rule, he _must_ rule, that is certain."
"Is that positively your opinion?" and Lorimer looked more astonished
than ever.
"It is everybody's opinion, of course!" averred Thelma. "How foolish it
would be if women did not obey men! The world would be all confusion!
Ah, you see you cannot make me think your funny thoughts; it is no use!"
And she laughed and rose from her chair, adding with a gentle persuasive
air, "Father dear, is it not time to say good-bye?"
"Truly I think it is!" returned Güldmar, giving himself a shake like an
old lion, as he broke off a rather tedious conversation he had been
having with Macfarlane. "We shall have Sigurd coming to look for us, and
poor Britta will think we have left her too long alone. Thank you, my
lad!" this to Sir Philip, who instantly gave orders for the boat to be
lowered. "You have given us a day of thorough, wholesome enjoyment. I
hope I shall be able to return it in some way. You must let me see as
much of you as possible."
They shook hands cordially, and Errington proposed to escort them back
as far as their own pier, but this offer Güldmar refused.
"Nonsense!" he exclaimed cheerily. "With four oarsmen to row us along,
why should we take you away from your friends? I won't hear of such a
thing! And now, regarding the great fall of Njedegorze; Mr. Macfarlane
here says you have not visited it yet. Well the best guide you can have
there is Sigurd. We'll make up a party and go when it is agreeable to
you; it is a grand sight,--well worth seeing. To-morrow we shall meet
again for the salmon-spearing,--I warrant I shall be able to make the
time pass quickly for you! How long do you think of staying here?"
"As long as possible!" answered Errington absently, his eyes wandering
to Thelma, who was just then shaking hands with his friends and bidding
them farewell.
Güldmar laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "That means till you
are tired of the place," he said good-humoredly. "Well you shall not be
dull if I can prevent it! Good-bye, and thanks for your hospitality."
"Ah, yes!" added Thelma gently, coming up at that moment and laying her
soft hand in his. "I have been so happy all day, and it is all your
kindness! I am very grateful!"
"It is I who have cause to be grateful," said Errington hurriedly,
clasping her hand warmly, "for your company and that of your father. I
trust we shall have many more pleasant days together."
"I hope so too!" she answered simply, and then, the boat being ready,
they departed. Errington and Lorimer leaned on the deck-rails, waving
their hats and watching them disappear over the gleaming water, till the
very last glimpse of Thelma's crimson hood had vanished, and then they
turned to rejoin their companions, who were strolling up and down
smoking.
"_Belle comme un ange!_" said Duprèz briefly. "In short, I doubt if the
angels are so good-looking!"
"The auld pagan's a fine scholar," added Macfarlane meditatively. "He
corrected me in a bit o' Latin."
"Did he, indeed?" And Lorimer laughed indolently. "I suppose you think
better of him now, Sandy?"
Sandy made no reply, and as Errington persisted in turning the
conversation away from the merits or demerits of their recent guests,
they soon entered on other topics. But that night, before retiring to
rest, Lorimer laid a hand on his friend's shoulder, and said quietly,
with a keen look--
"Well, old man, have you made up your mind? Have I seen the future Lady
Bruce-Errington?"
Sir Philip smiled,--then, after a brief pause, answered steadily--
"Yes, George, you have! That is,--if I can win her!"
Lorimer laughed a little and sighed. "There's no doubt about that,
Phil." And eyeing Errington's fine figure and noble features musingly,
he repeated again thoughtfully--"No doubt about that, my boy!" Then
after a pause he said, somewhat abruptly, "Time to turn in--good night!"
"Good night, old fellow!" And Errington wrung his hand warmly, and left
him to repose.
But Lorimer had rather a bad night,--he tossed and tumbled a good deal,
and had dreams,--unusual visitors with him,--and once or twice he
muttered in his sleep,--"No doubt about it--not the least in the
world--and if there were--"
But the conclusion of this sentence was inaudible.