"A wicked will,
A woman's will; a cankered grandame's will!"
_King John_.
"By Jove!"
And Lorimer, after uttering this unmeaning exclamation, was silent out
of sheer dismay. He stood hesitating and looking in at the door of the
Güldmar's sitting-room, and the alarming spectacle he saw was the
queenly Thelma down on the floor in an attitude of grief,--Thelma giving
way to little smothered sobs of distress,--Thelma actually crying! He
drew a long breath and stared, utterly bewildered. It was a sight for
which he was unprepared,--he was not accustomed to women's tears. What
should he do? Should he cough gently to attract her attention, or should
he retire on tip-toe and leave her to indulge her grief as long as she
would, without making any attempt to console her? The latter course
seemed almost brutal, yet he was nearly deciding upon it, when a slight
creak of the door against which he leaned, caused her to look up
suddenly. Seeing him, she rose quickly from her desponding position and
faced him, her cheeks somewhat deeply flushed and her eyes glittering
feverishly.
"Mr. Lorimer!" she exclaimed, forcing a faint smile to her quivering
lips. "You here? Why, where are the others?"
"They are coming on after me," replied Lorimer, advancing into the room,
and diplomatically ignoring the girl's efforts to hide the tears that
still threatened to have their way. "But I was sent in advance to tell
you not to be frightened. There has been a slight accident--"
She grew very pale. "Is it my father?" she asked tremblingly. "Sir
Philip--"
"No, no!" answered Lorimer reassuringly. "It is nothing serious, really,
upon my honor! Your father's all right,--so is Phil,--our lively friend
Pierre is the victim. The fact is, we've had some trouble with Sigurd. I
can't think what has come to the boy! He was as amiable as possible when
we started, but after we had climbed about half-way up the mountain, he
took it into his head to throw stones about rather recklessly. It was
only fun, he said. Your father tried to make him leave off, but he was
obstinate. At last, in a particularly bright access of playfulness, he
got hold of a large flint, and nearly put Phil's eye out with it,--Phil
dodged it, and it flew straight at Duprèz, splitting open his cheek in
rather an unbecoming fashion--Don't look so horrified, Miss Güldmar,--it
is really nothing!"
"Oh, but indeed it is something!" she said, with true womanly anxiety in
her voice. "Poor fellow! I am so sorry! Is he much hurt? Does he
suffer?"
"Pierre? Oh, no, not a bit of it! He's as jolly as possible! We bandaged
him up in a very artistic fashion; he looks quite interesting, I assure
you. His beauty's spoilt for a time, that's all. Phil thought you might
be alarmed when you saw us bringing home the wounded,--that is why I
came on to tell you all about it."
"But what can be the matter with Sigurd?" asked the girl, raising her
hand furtively to dash off a few tear-drops that still hung on her long
lashes. "And where is he?"
"Ah, that I can't tell you!" answered Lorimer. "He is perfectly
incomprehensible to-day. As soon as he saw the blood flowing from
Duprèz's cheek, he tittered a howl as if some one had shot him, and away
he rushed into the woods as fast as he could go. We called him, and
shouted his name till we were hoarse,--all no use! He wouldn't come
back. I suppose he'll find his way home by himself?"
"Oh, yes," said Thelma gravely. "But when he comes I will scold him very
much! It is not like him to be so wild and cruel. He will understand me
when I tell him how wrong he has been."
"Oh, don't break his heart, poor little chap!" said Lorimer easily.
"Your father has given him a terrible scolding already. He hasn't got
his wits about him you know,--he can't help being queer sometimes. But
what have _you_ been doing with yourself during our absence?" And he
regarded her with friendly scrutiny. "You were crying when I came in.
Now, weren't you?"
She met his gaze quite frankly. "Yes!" she replied, with a plaintive
thrill in her voice. "I could not help it! My heart ached and the tears
came. Somehow I felt that everything was wrong,--and that it was all my
fault--"
"Your fault!" murmured Lorimer, astonished. "My dear Miss Güldmar, what
do you mean? What _is_ your fault?"
"Everything!" she answered sadly, with a deep sigh. "I am very foolish;
and I am sure I often do wrong without meaning it. Mr. Dyceworthy has
been here and--" she stopped abruptly, and a wave of color flushed her
face.
Lorimer laughed lightly. "Dyceworthy!" he exclaimed. "The mystery is
explained! You have been bored by 'the good religious,' as Pierre calls
him. You know what _boring_ means now, Miss Güldmar, don't you?" She
smiled slightly, and nodded. "The first time you visited the _Eulalie_,
you didn't understand the word, I remember,--ah!" and he shook his
head--"if you were in London society, you'd find that expression very
convenient,--it would come to your lips pretty frequently, I can tell
you!"
"I shall never see London," she said, with a sort of resigned air. "You
will all go away very soon, and I--I shall be lonely--"
She bit her lips in quick vexation, as her blue eyes filled again with
tears in spite of herself.
Lorimer turned away and pulled a chair to the open window.
"Come and sit down here," he said invitingly. "We shall be able to see
the others coming down the hill. Nothing like fresh air for blowing away
the blues." Then, as she obeyed him, he added, "What has Dyceworthy been
saying to you?"
"He told me I was wicked," she murmured; "and that all the people here
think very badly of me. But that was not the worst"--and a little
shudder passed over her--"there was something else--something that made
me very angry--so angry!"--and here she raised her eyes with a gravely
penitent air--"Mr. Lorimer, I do not think I have ever had so bad and
fierce a temper before!"
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Lorimer, with a broad smile. "You alarm me,
Miss Güldmar! I had no idea you were a 'bad, fierce' person,--I shall
get afraid of you--I shall, really!"
"Ah, you laugh!" and she spoke half-reproachfully. "You will not be
serious for one little moment!"
"Yes I will! Now look at me," and he assumed a solemn expression, and
drew himself up with an air of dignity. "I am all attention! Consider me
your father-confessor. Miss Güldmar, and explain the reason of this
'bad, fierce' temper of yours."
She peeped at him shyly from under her silken lashes.
"It is more dreadful than you think," she answered in a low tone. "Mr.
Dyceworthy asked me to marry him."
Lorimer's keen eyes flashed with indignation. This was beyond a
jest,--and he clenched his fist as he exclaimed--
"Impudent donkey! What a jolly good thrashing he deserves! . . . and I
shouldn't be surprised if he got it one of these days! And so, Miss
Güldmar,"--and he studied her face with some solicitude--"you were very
angry with him?"
"Oh yes!" she replied, "but when I told him he was a coward, and that he
must go away, he said some very cruel things--" she stopped, and blushed
deeply; then, as if seized by some sudden impulse, she laid her small
hand on Lorimer's and said in the tone of an appealing child, "you are
very good and kind to me, and you are clever,--you know so much more
than I do! You must help me,--you will tell me, will you not? . . . if it
is wrong of me to like you all,--it is as if we had known each other a
long time and I have been very happy with you and your friends. But you
must teach me to behave like the girls you have seen in London,--for I
could not bear that Sir Philip should think me wicked!"
"Wicked!" and Lorimer drew a long breath. "Good heavens! If you knew
what Phil's ideas about you are, Miss Güldmar--"
"I do not wish to know," interrupted Thelma steadily. "You must quite
understand me,--I am not clever to hide my thoughts, and--and--, _you_
are glad when you talk sometimes to Sir Philip, are you not?" He nodded,
gravely studying every light and shadow on the fair, upturned, innocent
face.
"Yes!" she continued with some eagerness, "I see you are! Well, it is
the same with me,--I do love to hear him speak! You know how his voice
is like music, and how his kind ways warm the heart,--it is pleasant to
be in his company--I am sure you also find it so! But for me,--it seems
it is wrong,--it is not wise for me to show when I am happy. I do not
care what other people say,--but I would not have _him_ think ill of me
for all the world!"
Lorimer took her hand and held it in his with a most tender loyalty and
respect. Her naïve, simple words had, all unconsciously to herself, laid
bare the secret of her soul to his eyes,--and though his heart beat with
a strange sickening sense of unrest that flavored of despair, a gentle
reverence filled him, such as a man might feel if some little snow-white
shrine, sacred to purity and peace, should be suddenly unveiled before
him.
"My dear Miss Güldmar," he said earnestly, "I assure you, you have no
cause to be uneasy! You must not believe a word Dyceworthy says--every
one with a grain of common sense can see what a liar and hypocrite he
is! And as for you, you never do anything wrong,--don't imagine such
nonsense! I wish there were more women like you!"
"Ah, that is very kind of you!" half laughed the girl, still allowing
her hand to rest in his. "But I do not think everybody would have such a
good opinion." They both started, and their hands fell asunder as a
shadow darkened the room, and Sir Philip stood before them.
"Excuse me!" he said stiffly, lifting his hat with ceremonious
politeness. "I ought to have knocked at the door--I--"
"Why?" asked Thelma, raising her eyebrows in surprise.
"Yes--why indeed?" echoed Lorimer, with a frank look at his friend.
"I am afraid,"--and for once the generally good-humored Errington looked
positively petulant--"I am afraid I interrupted a pleasant
conversation!" And he gave a little forced laugh of feigned amusement,
but evident vexation.
"And if it was pleasant, shall you not make it still more so?" asked
Thelma, with timid and bewitching sweetness, though her heart beat very
fast,--she was anxious. Why was Sir Philip so cold and distant? He
looked at her, and his pent-up passion leaped to his eyes and filled
them with a glowing and fiery tenderness,--her head drooped suddenly,
and she turned quickly, to avoid that searching, longing gaze. Lorimer
glanced from one to the other with, a slight feeling of amusement.
"Well Phil," he inquired lazily, "how did you get here so soon? You must
have glided into the garden like a ghost, for I never heard you coming."
"So I imagine!" retorted Errington, with, an effort to be sarcastic, in
which he utterly failed as he met his friend's eyes,--then after a
slight and somewhat embarrassed pause he added more mildly! "Duprèz
cannot get on very fast,--his wound still bleeds, and he feels rather
faint now and then. I don't think we bandaged him up properly, and I
came on to see if Britta could prepare something for him."
"But you will not need to ask Britta," said Thelma quietly, with a
pretty air of authority, "for I shall myself do all for Mr. Duprèz. I
understand well how to cure his wound, and I do think he will like me as
well as Britta." And, hearing footsteps approaching, she looked out at
the window. "Here they come!" she exclaimed. "Ah, poor Monsieur Pierre!
he does look very pale! I will go and meet them."
And she hurried from the room, leaving the two young men together.
Errington threw himself into Olaf Güldmar's great arm-chair, with a
slight sigh.
"Well?" said Lorimer inquiringly.
"Well!" he returned somewhat gruffly.
Lorimer laughed, and crossing the room, approached him and clapped a
hand on his shoulder.
"Look here, old man!" he said earnestly, "don't be a fool! I know that
'love maketh men mad,' but I never supposed the lunacy would lead you to
the undesirable point of distrusting your friend,--your true friend,
Phil,--by all the Gods of the past and present!"
And he laughed again,--a little huskily this time, for there was a
sudden unaccountable and unwished-for lump in his throat, and a moisture
in his eyes which he had not bargained for. Philip looked up,--and
silently held out his hand, which Lorimer as silently clasped. There was
a moment's hesitation, and then the young baronet spoke out manfully.
"I'm ashamed of myself, George! I really am! But I tell you, when I came
in and saw you two standing there,--you've no idea what a picture you
made! . . . by Jove! . . . I was furious!" And he smiled. "I suppose I was
jealous!"
"I suppose you were!" returned Lorimer amusedly.
"Novel sensation, isn't it? A sort of hot, prickly,
'have-at-thee-villain' sort of thing; must be frightfully exhausting!
But why you should indulge this emotion at _my_ expense is what I
cannot, for the life of me, understand!"
"Well," murmured Errington, rather abashed, "you see, her hands were in
yours--"
"As they will be again, and yet again, I trust!" said Lorimer with
cheery fervor. "Surely you'll allow me to shake hands with your wife?"
"I say, George, be quiet!" exclaimed Philip warningly, as at that moment
Thelma passed the window with Pierre Duprèz leaning on her arm, and her
father and Macfarlane following.
She entered the room with the stately step of a young queen,--her tall,
beautiful figure forming a strong contrast to that of the
narrow-shouldered little Frenchman, upon whom she smiled down with an
air of almost maternal protection.
"You will sit here, Monsieur Duprèz," she said, leading him to the
_bonde's_ arm-chair which Errington instantly vacated, "and father will
bring you a good glass of wine. And the pain will be nothing when I have
attended to that cruel wound. But I am so sorry,--so very sorry, to see
you suffer!"
Pierre did indeed present rather a dismal spectacle. There was a severe
cut on his forehead as well as his cheek; his face was pale and streaked
with blood, while the hastily-improvised bandages which were tied under
his chin, by no means improved his personal appearance. His head ached
with the pain, and his eyes smarted with the strong sunlight to which he
had been exposed all the day, but his natural gaiety was undiminished,
and he laughed as he answered--
"_Chère Mademoiselle_, you are too good to me! It is a piece of good
fortune that Sigurd threw that stone--yes! since it brings me your pity!
But do not trouble; a little cold water and a fresh handkerchief is all
I need."
But Thelma was already practicing her own simple surgery for his
benefit. With deft, soft fingers she laid bare the throbbing
wound,--washed and dressed it carefully and skillfully,--and used with
all such exceeding gentleness, that Duprèz closed his eyes in a sort of
rapture during the operation, and wished it could last longer. Then
taking the glass of wine her father brought in obedience to her order,
she said in a tone of mild authority--
"Now, you will drink this Monsieur Pierre, and you will rest quite still
till it is time to go back to the yacht; and to-morrow you will not feel
any pain, I am sure. And I do think it will not be an ugly scar for
long."
"If it is," answered Pierre, "I shall say I received it in a duel! Then
I shall be great--glorious! and all the pretty ladies will love me!"
She laughed,--but looked grave a moment afterwards.
"You must never say what is not true," she said. "It is wrong to deceive
any one,--even in a small matter."
Duprèz gazed up at her wonderingly, feeling very much like a chidden
child.
"Never say what is not true!" he thought. "Mon Dieu! what would become
of my life?"
It was a new suggestion, and he reflected upon it with astonishment. It
opened such a wide vista of impossibilities to his mind.
Meanwhile old Güldmar was engaged in pouring out wine for the other
young men, talking all the time.
"I tell thee, Thelma mine," he said seriously, "something must be very
wrong with our Sigurd. The poor lad has always been gentle and
tractable, but to-day he was like some wild animal for mischief and
hardihood. I grieve to see it! I fear the time may come when he may no
longer be a safe servant for thee, child!"
"Oh, father!"--and the girl's voice was full of tender anxiety--"surely
not! He is too fond of us to do us any harm--he is so docile and
affectionate!"
"Maybe, maybe!" and the old farmer shook his head doubtfully. "But when
the wits are away the brain is like a ship without ballast--there is no
safe sailing possible. He would not mean any harm, perhaps,--and yet in
his wild moods he might do it, and be sorry for it directly afterwards.
'Tis little use to cry when the mischief is done,--and I confess I do
not like his present humor."
"By-the-by," observed Lorimer, "that reminds me! Sigurd has taken an
uncommonly strong aversion to Phil. It's curious but it's a fact.
Perhaps it is that which upsets his nerves?"
"I have noticed it myself," said Errington, "and I'm sorry for it, for
I've done him no harm that I can remember. He certainly asked me to go
away from the Altenfjord, and I refused,--I'd no idea he had any serious
meaning in his request. But it's evident he can't endure my company."
"Ah, then!" said Thelma simply and sorrowfully, "he must be very
ill,--because it is natural for every one to like you."
She spoke in perfect good faith and innocence of heart; but Errington's
eyes flashed and he smiled--one of those rare, tender smiles of his
which brightened his whole visage.
"You are very kind to say so, Miss Güldmar!"
"It is not kindness; it is the truth!" she replied frankly.
At that moment a very rosy face and two sparkling eyes peered in at the
door.
"Yes, Britta!" Thelma smiled; "we are quite ready!"
Whereupon the face disappeared, and Olaf Güldmar led the way into the
kitchen, which was at the same time the dining-room, and where a
substantial supper was spread on the polished pine table.
The farmer's great arm-chair was brought in for Duprèz, who, though he
declared he was being spoilt by too much attention, seemed to enjoy it
immensely,--and they were all, including Britta, soon clustered round
the hospitable board whereon antique silver and quaint glasses of
foreign make sparkled bravely, their effect enhanced by the snowy
whiteness of the homespun table-linen.
A few minutes set them all talking gaily. Macfarlane vied with the
ever-gallant Duprèz in making a few compliments to Britta, who was
pretty and engaging enough to merit attention, and who, after all, was
something more than a mere servant, possessing, as she did, a great deal
of her young mistress's affection and confidence, and being always
treated by Güldmar himself as one of the family. There was no reserve or
coldness in the party, and the hum of their merry voices echoed up to
the cross-rafters of the stout wooden ceiling and through the open door
and window, from whence a patch of the gorgeous afternoon sky could be
seen, glimmering redly, like a distant lake of fire. They were in the
full enjoyment of their repast, and the old farmer's rollicking "Ha, ha,
ha!" in response to a joke of Lorimer's, had just echoed jovially
through the room, when a strong, harsh voice called aloud--"Olaf
Güldmar!"
There was a sudden silence. Each one looked at the other in surprise.
Again the voice called--"Olaf Güldmar!"
"Well!" roared the _bonde_ testily, turning sharply round in his chair,
"who calls me?"
"I do!" and the tall, emaciated figure of a woman advanced and stood on
the threshold, without actually entering the room. She dropped the black
shawl that enveloped her, and, in so doing, disordered her hair, which
fell in white, straggling locks about her withered features, and her
dark eyes gleamed maliciously as she fixed them on the assembled party.
Britta, on perceiving her, uttered a faint shriek, and without
considering the propriety of her action, buried her nut-brown curls and
sparkling eyes in Duprèz's coat-sleeve, which, to do the Frenchman
justice, was exceedingly prompt to receive and shelter its fair burden.
The _bonde_ rose from his chair, and his face grew stern.
"What do you here, Lovisa Elsland? Have you walked thus far from Talvig
to pay a visit that must needs be unwelcome?"
"Unwelcome I know I am," replied Lovisa, disdainfully noting the terror
of Britta and the astonished glances if Errington and his
friends--"unwelcome at all times,--but most unwelcome at the hour of
feasting and folly,--for who can endure to receive a message from the
Lord when the mouth is full of savory morsels, and the brain reels with
the wicked wine? Yet I have come in spite of your iniquities. Olaf
Güldmar,--strong in the strength of the Lord, I dare to set foot upon
your accursèd threshold, and once more make my just demand. Give me back
the child of my dead daughter! . . . restore to me the erring creature
who should be the prop of my defenceless age, had not your pagan spells
alienated her from me,--release her,--and bid her return with me to my
desolate hearth and home. This done,--I will stay the tempest that
threatens your habitation--I will hold back the dark cloud of
destruction--I will avert the wrath of the Lord,--yes! for the sake of
the past--for the sake of the past!"
These last words she muttered in a low tone, more to herself than to
Güldmar; and, having spoken, she averted her eyes from the company, drew
her shawl closely about her, and waited for an answer.
"By all the gods of my fathers!" shouted the _bonde_ in a towering
passion. "This passes my utmost endurance! Have I not told thee again
and again, thou silly soul! . . . that thy grandchild is no slave? She
is free--free to return to thee an' she will; free also to stay with us,
where she has found a happier home than thy miserable hut at Talvig,
Britta!" and he thumped his fist on the table. "Look up, child! Speak
for thyself! Thou hast a spirit of thine own. Here is thy one earthly
relation. Wilt go with her? Neither thy mistress nor I will stand in the
way of thy pleasure."
Thus adjured Britta looked up so suddenly that Duprèz,--who had rather
enjoyed the feel of her little nestling head hidden upon his arm,--was
quite startled, and he was still more so at the utter defiance that
flashed into the small maiden's round, rosy face.
"Go with _you_!" she cried shrilly, addressing the old woman, who
remained standing in the same attitude, with an air of perfect
composure. "Do you think I have forgotten how you treated my mother, or
how you used to beat me and starve me? You wicked old woman! How dare
you come here? I'm ashamed of you! You frightened my mother to
death--you know you did! . . . and now you want to do the same to me!
But you won't--I can tell you! I'm old enough to do as I like, and I'd
rather die than live with you!"
Then, overcome by excitement and temper, she burst out crying, heedless
of Pierre Duprèz's smiling nods of approval, and the admiring remarks he
was making under his breath, such as--"_Brava, ma petite! C'est bien
fait! c'est joliment bien dit! Mais je crois bien!_"
Lovisa seemed unmoved; she raised her head and looked, at Güldmar.
"Is this your answer?" she demanded.
"By the sword of Odin!" cried the _bonde_, "the woman must be mad! _my_
answer? The girl has spoken for herself,--and plainly enough too! Art
thou deaf, Lovisa Elsland? or are thy wits astray?"
"My hearing is very good," replied Lovisa calmly, "and my mind, Olaf
Güldmar, is as clear as yours. And, thanks to your teaching in mine
early days,"--she paused and looked keenly at him, but he appeared to
see no meaning in her allusion,--"I know the English tongue, of which we
hear far too much,--too often! There is nothing Britta has said that I
do not understand. But I know well it is not the girl herself that
speaks--it is a demon in her,--and that demon shall be cast forth before
I die! Yea, with the help of the Lord I shall--" She stopped abruptly
and fixed her eyes, glowing with fierce wrath, on Thelma. The girl met
her evil glance with a gentle surprise. Lovisa smiled malignantly.
"You know me, I think!" said Lovisa. "You have seen me before?"
"Often," answered Thelma mildly. "I have always been sorry for you."
"Sorry for me!" almost yelled the old woman. "Why--why are you sorry for
me?"
"Do not answer her, child!" interrupted Güldmar angrily. "She is mad as
the winds of a wild winter, and will but vex thee."
But Thelma laid her hand soothingly on her father's, and smiled
peacefully as she turned her fair face again towards Lovisa.
"Why?" she said. "Because you seem so very lonely and sad--and that must
make you cross with every one who is happy! And it is a pity, I think,
that you do not let Britta alone--you only quarrel with each other when
you meet. And would you not like her to think kindly of you when you are
dead?"
Lovisa seemed choking with anger,--her face worked into such hideous
grimaces, that all present, save Thelma, were dismayed at her repulsive
aspect.
"When I am dead!" she muttered hoarsely. "So you count upon that
already, do you? Ah! . . . but do you know which of us shall die first!"
Then raising her voice with an effort she exclaimed--
"Stand forth, Thelma Güldmar! Let me see you closely--face to face!"
Errington said something in a low tone, and the _bonde_ would have again
interfered, but Thelma shook her head, smiled and rose from her seat at
table.
"Anything to soothe her, poor soul!" she whispered, as she left
Errington's side and advanced towards Lovisa till she was within reach
of the old woman's hand. She looked like some grand white angel, who had
stepped down from a cathedral altar, as she stood erect and stately with
a gravely pitying expression in her lovely eyes, confronting the
sable-draped, withered, leering hag, who fixed upon her a steady look of
the most cruel and pitiless hatred.
"Daughter of Satan!" said Lovisa then, in intense piercing tones that
somehow carried with them a sense of awe and horror. "Creature, in whose
veins the fire of hell burns without ceasing,--my _curse_ upon you! My
curse upon the beauty of your body--may it grow loathsome in the sight
of all men! May those who embrace you, embrace misfortune and ruin!--may
love betray you and forsake you! May your heart be broken even as mine
has been!--may your bridal bed be left deserted!--may your children
wither and pine from their hour of birth! Sorrow track you to the
grave!--may your death be lingering and horrible! God be my witness and
fulfill my words!"
And, raising her arms with wild gesture, she turned and left the house.
The spell of stupefied silence was broken with her disappearance. Old
Güldmar prepared to rush after her and force her to retract her evil
speech,--Errington was furious, and Britta cried bitterly. The lazy
Lorimer was excited and annoyed.
"Fetch her back," he said, "and I'll dance upon her!"
But Thelma stood where the old woman had left her--she smiled faintly,
but she was very pale. Errington approached her,--she turned to him and
stretched out her hands with a little appealing gesture.
"My friend," she said softly, "do you think I deserve so many curses? Is
there something about me that is evil?"
What Errington would have answered is doubtful,--his heart beat
wildly--he longed to draw those little hands in his own, and cover them
with passionate kisses,--but he was intercepted by old Güldmar, who
caught his daughter in his arms and hugged her closely, his silvery
beard mingling with the gold of her rippling hair.
"Never fear a wicked tongue, my bird!" said the old man fondly. "There
is naught of harm that would touch thee either on earth or in
heaven,--and a foul-mouthed curse must roll off thy soul like water from
a dove's wing! Cheer thee, my darling--cheer thee! What! Thine own creed
teaches thee that the gentle Mother of Christ, with her little white
angels round her, watches over all innocent maids,--and thinkest thou
she will let an old woman's malice and envy blight thy young days? No,
no! _Thou_ accursed?" And the _bonde_ laughed loudly to hide the tears
that moistened his keen eyes. "Thou art the sweetest blessing of my
heart, even as thy mother was before thee! Come, come! Raise thy pretty
head--here are these merry lads growing long-faced,--and Britta is
weeping enough salt water to fill a bucket! One of thy smiles will set
us all right again,--ay, there now!"--as she looked up and, meeting
Philip's eloquent eyes, blushed, and withdrew herself gently from her
father's arms,--"Let us finish our supper and think no more of yonder
villainous old hag--she is crazy, I believe, and knows not what she says
half her time. Now, Britta, cease thy grunting and sighing--'twill spoil
thy face and will not mend the hole in thy grandmother's brain!"
"Wicked, spiteful, ugly old thing!" sobbed Britta; "I'll never, never,
never forgive her!" Then, running to Thelma, she caught her hand and
kissed it affectionately. "Oh, my dear, my dear! To think she should
have cursed you, what dreadful, dreadful wickedness! Oh!" and Britta
looked volumes of wrath. "I could have beaten her black and blue!"
Her vicious eagerness was almost comic--every one laughed, including
Thelma, though she pressed the hand of her little servant very warmly.
"Oh fie!" said Lorimer seriously. "Little girls mustn't whip their
grandmothers; it's specially forbidden in the Prayer-book, isn't it,
Phil?"
"I'm sure I don't know!" replied Errington merrily. "I believe there is
something to the effect that a man may not marry his grandmother--perhaps
that is what you mean?"
"Ah, no doubt!" murmured Lorimer languidly, as, with the others, he
resumed his seat at the supper-table. "I knew there was a special
mandate respecting one's particularly venerable relations, with a view
to self-guidance in case they should prove troublesome, like Britta's
good grand-mamma. What a frightfully picturesque mouthing old lady she
is!"
"She is _la petroleuse_ of Norway!" exclaimed Duprèz. "She would make an
admirable dancer in the Carmagnole!"
Macfarlane, who had preserved a discreet silence throughout the whole
scene, here looked up.
"She's just a screech-owl o' mistaken piety," he said. "She minds me o'
a glowerin' auld warlock of an aunt o' mine in Glasgie, wha sits in her
chair a' day wi' ae finger on the Bible. She says she's gaun straight to
heaven by special invitation o' the Lord, leavin' a' her blood relations
howlin' vainly after her from their roastin' fires down below. Ma
certes! she'll give ye a good rousin' curse if ye like! She's cursed me
ever since I can remember her,--cursed me in and out from sunrise to
sunset,--but I'm no the worse for't as yet,--an' it's dootful whether
she's any the better."
"And yet Lovisa Elsland used to be as merry and lissom a lass as ever
stepped," said Güldmar musingly. "I remember her well when both she and
I were young. I was always on the sea at that time,--never happy unless
the waves tossed me and my vessel from one shore to another. I suppose
the restless spirit of my fathers was in me. I was never contented
unless I saw some new coast every six months or so. Well! . . . Lovisa
was always foremost among the girls of the village who watched me leave
the Fjord,--and however long or short a time I might be absent, she was
certain to be on the shore when my ship came sailing home again. Many a
joke I have cracked with her and her companions--and she was a bonnie
enough creature to look at then, I tell you,--though now she is like a
battered figure-head on a wreck. Her marriage, spoiled her temper,--her
husband was as dark and sour a man as could be met with in all Norway,
and when he and his fishing-boat sank in a squall off the Lofoden
Islands, I doubt if she shed many tears for his loss. Her only
daughter's husband went down in the same storm,--and he but three months
wedded,--and the girl,--Britta's mother,--pined and pined, and even when
her child was born took no sort of comfort in it. She died four years
after Britta's birth--her death was hastened, so I have heard, through
old Lovisa's harsh treatment,--anyhow the little lass she left behind
her had no very easy time of it all alone with her grandmother,--eh
Britta?"
Britta looked up and shook her head emphatically.
"Then," went on Güldmar, "when my girl came back the last time from
France, Britta chanced to see her, and, strangely enough,"--here he
winked shrewdly--"took a fancy to her face,--odd, wasn't it? However,
nothing would suit her but that she must be Thelma's handmaiden, and
here she is. Now you know her history,--she would be happy enough if her
grandmother would let her alone; but the silly old woman thinks the girl
is under a spell, and that Thelma is the witch that works it;"--and the
old farmer laughed. "There's a grain of truth in the notion too, but not
in the way she has of looking at it."
"All women are witches!" said Duprèz. "Britta is a little witch
herself!"
Britta's rosy cheeks grew rosier at this, and she tossed her chestnut
curls with an air of saucy defiance that delighted the Frenchman. He
forgot his wounded cheek and his disfiguring bandages in the
contemplation of the little plump figure, cased in its close-fitting
scarlet bodice, and the tempting rosy lips that were in such close
proximity to his touch.
"If it were not for those red hands!" he thought. "Dieu! what a charming
child she would be! One would instantly kill the grandmother and kiss
the granddaughter!"
And he watched her with admiration as she busied herself about the
supper-table, attending to every one with diligence and care, but
reserving her special services for Thelma, whom she waited on with a
mingled tenderness, and reverence, that were both touching and pretty to
see.
The conversation now became general, and nothing further occurred to
disturb the harmony and hilarity of the party--only Errington seemed
somewhat abstracted, and answered many questions that were put to him at
haphazard, without knowing, or possibly caring, whether his replies were
intelligible or incoherent. His thoughts were dreamlike and brilliant
with fairy sunshine. He understood at last what poets meant by their
melodious musings, woven into golden threads of song--he seemed to have
grasped some hitherto unguessed secret of his being--a secret that
filled him with as much strange pain as pleasure. He felt as though he
were endowed with a thousand senses,--each one keenly alive and
sensitive to the smallest touch,--and there was a pulsation in his blood
that was new and beyond his control,--a something that beat wildly in
his heart at the sound of Thelma's voice, or the passing flutter of her
white garments near him. Of what use to disguise it from himself any
longer? He loved her! The terrible, beautiful tempest of love had broken
over his life at last; there was no escape from its thunderous passion
and dazzling lightning glory.
He drew a sharp quick breath--the hum of the gay voices around him was
more meaningless to his ears than the sound of the sea breaking on the
beach below. He glanced at the girl--the fair and innocent creature who
had, in his imagination, risen to a throne of imperial height, from
whence she could bestow on him death or salvation. How calm she seemed!
She was listening with courteous patience to a long story of
Macfarlane's whose Scotch accent rendered it difficult for her to
understand. She was pale, Philip thought, and her eyes were heavy; but
she smiled now and then,--such a smile! Even so sweetly might the
"kiss-worthy" lips of the Greek Aphrodite part, could that eloquent and
matchless marble for once breathe into life. He looked at her with a
sort of fear. Her hands held his fate. What if she could not love him?
What if he must lose her utterly? This idea overpowered him; his brain
whirled, and he suddenly pushed away his untasted glass of wine, and
rose abruptly from the table, heedless of the surprise his action
excited.
"Hullo, Phil, where are you off to?" cried Lorimer. "Wait for me!"
"Tired of our company, my lad?" said Güldmar kindly, "You've had a long
day of it,--and what with the climbing and the strong air, no doubt
you'll be glad to turn in."
"Upon my life, sir," answered Errington, with some confusion, "I don't
know why I got up just now! I was thinking,--I'm rather a dreamy sort of
fellow sometimes, and--"
"He was asleep, and doesn't want to own it!" interrupted Lorimer
sententiously. "You will excuse him; he means well! He looks rather
seedy. I think, Mr. Güldmar, we'll be off to the yacht. By the way,
you're coming with us to-morrow, aren't you?"
"Oh yes," said Thelma. "We will sail with you round by Soroe,--it is
weird and dark and grand; but I think it is beautiful. And there are
many stories of the elves and berg-folk, who are said to dwell there
among the deep ravines. Have you heard about the berg-folk?" she
continued, addressing herself to Errington, unaware of the effort he was
making to appear cool and composed in her presence. "No? Then I must
tell you to-morrow."
They all walked out of the house into the porch, and while her father
was interchanging farewells with the others, she looked at Sir Philip's
grave face with some solicitude.
"I am afraid you are very tired, my friend?" she asked softly, "or your
head aches,--and you suffer?"
He caught her hands swiftly and raised them to his lips.
"Would you care much,--would you care at all, if I suffered?" he
murmured in a low tone.
Then before she could speak or move, he let go her hands again, and
turned with his usual easy courtesy to Güldmar. "Then we may expect you
without fail to-morrow, sir! Good night!"
"Good night, my lad!"
And with many hearty salutations the young men took their departure,
raising their hats to Thelma as they turned down the winding path to the
shore. She remained standing near her father,--and, when the sound of
their footsteps had died away, she drew closer still and laid her head
against his breast.
"Cold, my bird?" queried the old man. "Why, thou art shivering,
child!--and yet the sunshine is as warm as wine. What ails thee?"
"Nothing, father!" And she raised her eyes, glowing and brilliant as
stars. "Tell me,--do you think often of my mother now!"
"Often!" And Güldmar's fine resolute face grew sad and tender. "She is
never absent from my mind! I see her night and day, ay! I can feel her
soft arms clinging round my neck,--why dost thou ask so strange a
question, little one? Is it possible to forget what has been once
loved?"
Thelma was silent for many minutes. Then she kissed her father and said
"good night." He held her by the hand and looked at her with a sort of
vague anxiety.
"Art thou well, my child?" he asked. "This little hand burns like
fire,--and thine eyes are too bright, surely, for sleep to visit them?
Art sure that nothing ails thee?"
"Sure, quite sure," answered the girl with a strange, dreamy smile. "I
am quite well,--and happy!"
And she turned to enter the house.
"Stay!" called the father. "Promise me thou wilt think no more of
Lovisa!"
"I had nearly forgotten her," she responded. "Poor thing! She cursed me
because she is so miserable, I suppose--all alone and unloved; it must
be hard! Curses sometimes turn to blessings, father! Good night!"
And she ascended the one flight of wooden stairs in the house to her own
bedroom--a little three-cornered place as clean and white as the
interior of a shell. Never once glancing at the small mirror that seemed
to invite her charms to reflect themselves therein, she went to the
quaint latticed window and knelt down by it, folding her arms on the
sill while she looked far out to the Fjord. She could see the English
flag fluttering from the masts of the _Eulalie_; she could almost hear
the steady plash of the oars wielded by Errington and his friends as
they rowed themselves back to the yacht. Bright tears filled her eyes,
and brimmed over, falling warmly on her folded hands.
"Would I care if you suffered?" she whispered. "Oh, my love! . . . my
love!"
Then, as if afraid lest the very winds should have heard her
half-breathed exclamation, she shut her window in haste, and a hot blush
crimsoned her cheeks.
Undressing quickly, she slipped into her little white bed and, closing
her eyes, fancied she slept, though her sleep was but a waking dream of
love in which all bright hopes reached their utmost fulfillment, and yet
were in some strange way crossed with shadows which she had no power to
disperse. And later on, when old Güldmar slumbered soundly, and the
golden mid-night sunshine lit up every nook and gable of the farmhouse
with its lustrous glory, making Thelma's closed lattice sparkle like a
carven jewel,--a desolate figure lay prone on the grass beneath her
window, with meagre pale face, and wide-open wild blue eyes upturned to
the fiery brilliancy of the heavens. Sigurd had come home;--Sigurd was
repentant, sorrowful, ashamed,--and broken-hearted.