"O Love! O Love! O Gateway of Delight!
Thou porch of peace, thou pageant of the prime
Of all God's creatures! I am here to climb
Thine upward steps, and daily and by night
To gaze beyond them and to search aright
The far-off splendor of thy track sublime."
ERIC MACKAY'S _Love-letters of a Violinist_.
On the following morning the heat was intense,--no breath of wind
stirred a ripple on the Fjord, and there was a heaviness in the
atmosphere which made the very brightness of the sky oppressive. Such
hot weather was unusual for that part of Norway, and according to
Valdemar Svensen, betokened some change. On board the _Eulalie_
everything was ready for the trip to Soroe,--steam was getting up prior
to departure,--and a group of red-capped sailors stood prepared to weigh
the anchor as soon as the signal was given. Breakfast was
over,--Macfarlane was in the saloon writing his journal, which he kept
with great exactitude, and Duprèz, who, on account of his wound, was
considered something of an invalid, was seated in a lounge chair on
deck, delightedly turning over a bundle of inflammatory French political
journals received that morning. Errington and Lorimer were pacing the
deck arm in arm, keeping a sharp look-out for the first glimpse of the
returning boat which had been sent off to fetch Thelma and her father.
Errington looked vexed and excited,--Lorimer bland and convincing.
"I can't help it, Phil!" he said. "It's no use fretting and fuming at
me. It was like Dyceworthy's impudence, of course,--but there's no doubt
he proposed to her,--and it's equally certain that she rejected him. I
thought I'd tell you you had a rival,--not in me, as you seemed to think
yesterday,--but in our holy fat friend."
"Rival! pshaw!" returned Errington, with an angry laugh. "He is not
worth kicking!"
"Possibly not! Still I have a presentiment that he's the sort of fellow
that won't take 'no' for an answer. He'll dodge that poor girl and make
her life miserable if he can, unless--"
"Unless what?" asked Philip quickly.
Lorimer stopped in his walk, and, leaning against the deck-railings,
looked his friend straight in the eyes.
"Unless you settle the matter," he said with a slight effort. "You love
her,--tell her so!"
Errington laid one hand earnestly on his shoulder.
"Ah, George, you don't understand!" he said in a low tone, while his
face was grave and full of trouble. "I used to think I was fairly brave,
but I find I am a positive coward. I dare not tell her! She--Thelma--is
not like other women. You may think me a fool,--I dare say you do,--but
I swear to you I am afraid to speak, because--because, old boy,--if she
were to refuse me,--if I knew there was no hope--well, I don't want to
be sentimental,--but my life would be utterly empty and worthless,--so
useless, that I doubt if I should care to live it out to the bitter
end!"
Lorimer heard him in silence,--a silence maintained partly out of
sympathy, and partly that he might keep his own feelings well under
control.
"But why persist in looking at the gloomy side of the picture?" he said
at last. "Suppose she loves you?"
"Suppose an angel flew down from Heaven!" replied Philip, with rather a
sad smile. "My dear fellow, who am I that I should flatter myself so
far? If she were one of those ordinary women to whom marriage is the
be-all and end-all of existence, it would be different--but she is not.
Her thoughts are like those of a child or a poet,--why should I trouble
them by the selfishness of my passion? for all passion _is_ selfish,
even at its best. Why should I venture to break the calm friendship she
may have for me, by telling her of a love which might prove unwelcome!"
Lorimer looked at him with gentle amusement depicted in his face.
"Phil, you are less conceited than I thought you were," he said, with a
light laugh, "or else you are blind--blind as a bat, old man! Take my
advice,--don't lose any more time about it. Make the 'king's daughter of
Norroway' happy, . . ." and a brief sigh escaped him. "You are the man to
do it. I am surprised at your density; Sigurd, the lunatic, has more
perception. He sees which way the wind blows,--and that's why he's so
desperately unhappy. He thinks--and thinks rightly too--that he will
lose his 'beautiful rose of the northern forest,' as he calls her,--and
that you are to be the robber. Hence his dislike to you. Dear me!" and
Lorimer lit a cigarette and puffed at it complacently. "It seems to me
that my wits are becoming sharper as I grow older, and that yours, my
dear boy,--pardon me! . . . are getting somewhat blunted, otherwise you
would certainly have perceived--" he broke off abruptly.
"Well, go on!" exclaimed Philip eagerly, with flashing eyes. "Perceived
what?"
Lorimer laughed. "That the boat containing your Sun-empress is coming
along very rapidly, old fellow, and that you'd better make haste to
receive her!"
This was the fact, and Duprèz had risen from his chair and was waving
his French newspaper energetically to the approaching visitors.
Errington hastened to the gangway with a brighter flush than usual on
his handsome face, and his heart beating with a new sense of
exhilaration and excitement. If Lorimer's hints had any foundation of
truth--if Thelma loved him ever so little--how wild a dream it seemed!
. . . why not risk his fate? He resolved to speak to her that very day
if opportunity favored him,--and, having thus decided, felt quite
masterful and heroic about it.
This feeling of proud and tender elation increased when Thelma stepped
on deck that morning and laid her hands in his. For, as he greeted her
and her father, he saw at a glance that she was slightly changed. Some
restless dream must have haunted her--or his hurried words beneath the
porch, when he parted from her the previous evening, had startled her
and troubled her mind. Her blue eyes were no longer raised to his in
absolute candor,--her voice was timid, and she had lost something of her
usual buoyant and graceful self-possession. But she looked lovelier than
ever with that air of shy hesitation and appealing sweetness. Love had
thrown his network of light about her soul and body till, like Keats's
"Madeleine,"
"She seemed a splendid angel newly drest
Save wings, for heaven!"
As soon as the Güldmars were on board, the anchor was weighed with many
a cheery and musical cry from the sailors; the wheel revolved rapidly
under Valdemar Svensen's firm hand,--and with a grand outward sweeping
curtsy to the majestic Fjord she left behind her, the _Eulalie_ steamed
away, cutting a glittering line of white foam through the smooth water
as she went, and threading her way swiftly among the clustering
picturesque islands,--while the inhabitants of every little farm and
hamlet on the shores, stopped for a while in their occupations to stare
at the superb vessel, and to dreamily envy the wealth of the English
_Herren_ who could afford to pass the summer months in such luxury and
idleness. Thelma seated herself at once by Duprèz, and seemed glad to
divert attention from herself to him.
"You are better, Monsieur Duprèz, are you not?" she asked gently. "We
saw Sigurd this morning; he came home last night. He is very, very sorry
to have hurt you!"
"He need not apologize," said Duprèz cheerfully. "I am delighted he gave
me this scar, otherwise I am confident he would have put out the eye of
Phil-eep. And that would have been a misfortune! For what would the
ladies in London say if _le beau_ Errington returned to them with one
eye! _Mon Dieu!_ they would all be en desespoir!"
Thelma looked up. Philip was standing at some little distance with Olaf
Güldmar and Lorimer, talking and laughing gaily. His cap was slightly
pushed off his forehead, and the sun shone on his thick dark-chestnut
curls; his features, warmly colored by the wind and sea, were lit up
with mirth, and his even white teeth sparkled in an irresistible smile
of fascinating good-humor. He was the beau-ideal of the best type of
Englishman, in the full tide of youth, health and good spirits.
"I suppose he is a great favorite with all those beautiful ladies?" she
asked very quietly.
Something of gentle resignation in her tone struck the Frenchman's sense
of chivalry; had she been like any ordinary woman, bent on conquest, he
would have taken a mischievous delight in inventing a long list of fair
ones supposed to be deeply enamored of Errington's good looks,--but this
girl's innocent inquiring face inspired him with quite a different
sentiment.
"_Mais certainement!_" he said frankly and emphatically. "Phil-eep is a
favorite everywhere! Yet not more so with women than with men. I love
him extremely--he is a charming boy! Then you see, _chère Mademoiselle_,
he is rich,--very rich,--and there are so many pretty girls who are very
poor,--naturally they are enchanted with our Errington--_voyez-vous_?"
"I do not understand," she said, with a puzzled brow. "It is not
possible that they should like him better because he is rich. He would
be the same man without money as with it--it makes no difference!"
"Perhaps not to you," returned Duprèz, with a smile; "but to many it
would make an immense difference! _Chère Mademoiselle_, it is a grand
thing to have plenty of money,--believe me!"
Thelma shrugged her shoulders. "Perhaps," she answered indifferently.
"But one cannot spend much on one's self, after all. The nuns at Arles
used to tell me that poverty was a virtue, and that to be very rich was
to be very miserable. They were poor,--all those good women,--and they
were always cheerful."
"The nuns! _ah, mon Dieu!_" cried Duprèz. "The darlings know not the
taste of joy--they speak of what they cannot understand! How should they
know what it is to be happy or unhappy, when they bar their great
convent doors against the very name of love!"
She looked at him, and her color rose.
"You always talk of _love_," she said, half reproachfully, "as if it
were so common a thing! You know it is sacred--why will you speak as if
it were all a jest?"
A strange emotion of admiring tenderness stirred Pierre's heart--he was
very impulsive and impressionable.
"Forgive me!" he murmured penitently. Then he added suddenly, "You
should have lived ages ago, _ma belle_,--the world of to-day will not
suit you! You will be made very sorrowful in it, I assure you,--it is
not a place for good women!"
She laughed. "You are morose," she said. "That is not like you! No one
is good,--we all live to try and make ourselves better."
"What highly moral converse is going on here?" inquired Lorimer,
strolling leisurely up to them. "Are you giving Duprèz a lecture, Miss
Güldmar? He needs it,--so do I. Please give me a scolding!"
And he folded his hands with an air of demure appeal.
A sunny smile danced in the girl's blue eyes. "Always you will be
foolish!" she said. "One can never know you because I am sure you never
show your real self to anybody. No,--I will not scold you, but I should
like to find you out!"
"To find me out!" echoed Lorimer. "Why, what do you mean?"
She nodded her bright head with much sagacity.
"Ah, I do observe you often! There is something you hide; it is like
when my father has tears in his eyes; he pretends to laugh, but the
tears are there all the time. Now I see in you--" she paused, and her
questioning eyes rested on his, seriously.
"This is interesting!" said Lorimer, lazily drawing a camp-stool
opposite to her, and seating himself thereon. "I had no idea I was a
human riddle. Can you read me, Miss Güldmar?"
"Yes," she answered slowly and meditatively. "Just a little. But I will
not say anything; no--except this--that you are not altogether what you
seem."
"Here, Phil!" called Lorimer, as he saw Errington approaching, arm in
arm with Olaf Güldmar, "come and admire this young lady's power of
perception. She declares I am not such a fool as I look!"
"Now," said Thelma, shaking her forefinger at him, "you know very well
that I did not put it in that way. But is it not true, Sir Philip--" and
she looked up for a moment, though her eyes drooped again swiftly under
his ardent gaze, "is it not true that many people do hide their
feelings, and pretend to be quite different to what they are?"
"I should say it was a very common fault," replied Errington. "It is a
means of self-defense against the impertinent curiosity of outsiders.
But Lorimer is free from it,--he has nothing to hide. At any rate, he
has no secrets from me,--I'm sure of that!" And he clapped his hand
heartily on his friend's shoulder.
Lorimer flushed slightly, but made no remark, and at that moment
Macfarlane emerged from the saloon, where the writing of his journal had
till now detained him. In the general handshaking and salutations which
followed, the conversation took a different turn, for which Lorimer was
devoutly thankful. His face was a tell-tale one,--and he was rather
afraid of Philip's keen eyes. "I hope to Heaven he'll speak to her
to-day," he thought, vexedly. "I hate being in suspense! My mind will be
easier when I once know that he has gained his point,--and that there's
not the ghost of a chance for any other fellow!"
Meanwhile the yacht skimmed along by the barren and rocky coast of
Seiland; the sun was dazzling; yet there was a mist in the air as though
the heavens were full of unshed tears. A bank of nearly motionless
clouds hung behind the dark, sharp peaks of the Altenguard mountains,
which now lay to the southward, as the vessel pursued her course. There
was no wind; the flag on the mast flapped idly now and then with the
motion of the yacht; and Thelma found herself too warm with her pretty
crimson hood,--she therefore unfastened it and let the sunshine play on
the uncovered gold of her hair. They had a superb view of the jagged
glacier of Jedkè,--black in some parts, and in others white with
unmelted snow,--and seeming, as it rose straight up against the sky, to
be the majestic monument of some giant Viking. Presently, at her earnest
request, Errington brought his portfolio of Norwegian sketches for
Thelma to look at; most of them were excellently well done, and elicited
much admiration from the _bonde_.
"It is what I have wondered at all my life," said he, "that skill of the
brush dipped in color. Pictures surprise me as much as poems. Ah, men
are marvellous creatures, when they are once brought to understand that
they _are_ men,--not beasts! One will take a few words and harmonize
them into a song or a verse that clings to the world for ever; another
will mix a few paints and dab a brush in them, and give you a picture
that generation after generation shall flock to see. It is what is
called genius,--and genius is a sort of miracle. Yet I think it is
fostered by climate a good deal,--the further north, the less
inspiration. Warmth, color, and the lightness of heart that a generally
bright sky brings, enlarges the brain and makes it capable of creative
power."
"My dear sir," said Lorimer, "England does not possess these climatic
advantages, and yet Shakespeare was an Englishman."
"He must have travelled," returned Güldmar positively. "No one will make
me believe that the man never visited Italy. His Italian scenes prove
it,--they are full of the place and the people. The whole of his works,
full of such wonderful learning, and containing so many types of
different nations, show,--to _my_ mind, at least,--that countries were
his books of study. Why I, who am only a farmer and proprietor of a bit
of Norwegian land,--I have learned many a thing from simply taking a
glance at a new shore each year. That's the way I used to amuse myself
when I was young,--now I am old, the sea tempts me less, and I am fonder
of my arm-chair; yet I've seen a good deal in my time--enough to provide
me with memories for my declining days. And it's a droll thing, too," he
added, with a laugh, "the further south you go, the more immoral and
merry are the people; the further north, the more virtuous and
miserable. There's a wrong balance somewhere,--but where, 'tis not easy
to find out."
"Weel," said Macfarlane, "I can give ye a direct contradeection to your
theory. Scotland lies to the north, and ye'll not find a grander harvest
o' sinfu' souls anywhere between this an' the day o' judgment. I'm a
Scotchman, an' I'm just proud o' my country--I'd back its men against a'
the human race,--but I wadna say much for the stabeelity o' its women. I
wad just tak to my heels and run if I saw a real, thumpin', red-cheeked,
big-boned Scotch lassie makin' up to me. There's nae bashfulness in they
sort, and nae safety."
"I will go to Scotland!" said Duprèz enthusiastically. "I feel that
those--what do you call them, _lassies_?--will charm me!"
"Scotland I never saw," said Güldmar. "From all I have heard, it seems
to me 'twould be too much like Norway. After one's eyes have rested long
on these dark mountains and glaciers, one likes now and then to see a
fertile sunshiny stretch of country such as France, or the plains of
Lombardy. Of course there may be exceptions, but I tell you climatic
influences have a great deal to do with the state of mind and morals.
Now, take the example of that miserable old Lovisa Elsland. She is the
victim of religious mania--and religious mania, together with
superstition of the most foolish kind, is common in Norway. It happens
often during the long winters; the people have not sufficient to occupy
their minds; no clergyman--not even Dyceworthy--can satisfy the height
of their fanaticism. They preach and pray and shriek and groan in their
huts; some swear that they have the spirit of prophecy,--others that
they are possessed of devils,--others imagine witchcraft, like
Lovisa--and altogether there is such a howling on the name of Christ,
that I am glad to be out of it,--for 'tis a sight to awaken the laughter
and contempt of a pagan such as I am!"
Thelma listened with a slight shadow of pain on her features.
"Father is not a pagan," she declared, turning to Lorimer. "How can one
be pagan if one believes that there is good in everything,--and that
nothing happens except for the best?"
"It sounds to me more Christian than pagan," averred Lorimer, with a
smile. "But it's no use appealing to _me_ on such matters, Miss Güldmar.
I am an advocate of the Law of Nothing. I remember a worthy philosopher
who,--when he was in his cups,--earnestly assured me it was all
right--'everything was nothing, and nothing was everything.' 'You are
sure that is so?' I would say to him. 'My dear young friend--_hic_--I am
positive! I have--_hic_--worked out the problem with--_hic_--care!' And
he would shake me by the hand warmly, with a mild and moist smile, and
would retire to bed walking sideways in the most amiable manner. I'm
certain his ideas were correct as well as luminous."
They laughed, and then looking up saw that they were passing a portion
of the coast of Seiland which was more than usually picturesque. Facing
them was a great cavernous cleft in the rocks, tinted with a curious
violet hue intermingled with bronze,--and in the strong sunlight these
colors flashed with the brilliancy of jewels, reflecting themselves in
the pale slate-colored sea. By Errington's orders the yacht slackened
speed, and glided along with an almost noiseless motion,--and they were
silent, listening to the dash and drip of water that fell invisibly from
the toppling crags that frowned above, while the breathless heat and
stillness of the air added to the weird solemnity of the scene. They all
rose from their chairs and leaned on the deck-rails, looking, but
uttering no word.
"In one of these islands," said Thelma at last, very softly--"it was
either Seiland or Soroe--they once found the tomb of a great chief.
There was an inscription outside that warned all men to respect it, but
they laughed at the warning and opened the tomb. And they saw, seated in
a stone chair, a skeleton with a gold crown on its head and a great
carved seal in its hand, and at its feet there was a stone casket. The
casket was broken open, and it was full of gold and jewels. Well, they
took all the gold and jewels, and buried the skeleton--and now,--do you
know what happens? At midnight a number of strange persons are seen
searching on the shore and among the rocks for the lost treasure, and it
is said they often utter cries of anger and despair. And those who
robbed the tomb all died suddenly."
"Served them right!" said Lorimer. "And now they are dead, I suppose the
wronged ghosts don't appear any more?"
"Oh yes, they do," said Güldmar very seriously. "If any sailor passes at
midnight, and sees them or hears their cries, he is doomed."
"But _does_ he see or hear them?" asked Errington, with a smile.
"Well, I don't know," returned Güldmar, with a grave shake of his head.
"I'm not superstitious myself, but I should be sorry to say anything
against the berg-folk. You see they _may_ exist, and it's no use
offending them."
"And what do ye mean by the berg-folk?" inquired Macfarlane.
"They are supposed to be the souls of persons who died impenitent," said
Thelma, "and they are doomed to wander, on the hills till the day of
judgment. It is a sort of purgatory."
Duprèz shook his fingers emphatically in the air.
"Ah, bah!" he said; "what droll things remain still in the world! Yes,
in spite of liberty, equality, fraternity! You do not believe in foolish
legends, Mademoiselle? For example,--do you think you will suffer
purgatory?"
"Indeed yes!" she replied. "No one can be good enough to go straight to
heaven. There must be some little stop on the way in which to be sorry
for all the bad things one has done."
"'Tis the same idea as ours," said Güldmar. "We have two places of
punishment in the Norse faith; one, _Nifleheim_, which is a temporary
thing like the Catholic purgatory; the other _Nastrond_, which is the
counterpart of the Christian hell. Know you not the description of
_Nifleheim_ in the _Edda_?--'tis terrible enough to satisfy all tastes.
'Hela, or Death rules over the Nine Worlds of Nifleheim. Her hall is
called Grief. Famine is her table, and her only servant is Delay. Her
gate is a precipice, her porch Faintness, her bed Leanness,--Cursing and
Howling are her tent. Her glance is dreadful and terrifying,--and her
lips are blue with the venom of Hatred.' These words," he added, "sound
finer in Norwegian, but I have given the meaning fairly."
"Ma certes!" said Macfarlane chuckling. "I'll tell my aunt in Glasgie
aboot it. This Nifleheim wad suit her pairfectly,--she wad send a' her
relations there wi' tourist tickets, not available for the return
journey!"
"It seems to me," observed Errington, "that the Nine Worlds of Nifleheim
have a resemblance to the different circles of Dante's Purgatory."
"Exactly so," said Lorimer. "All religions seem to me to be more or less
the same,--the question I can never settle is,--which is the right one?"
"Would you follow it if you knew?" asked Thelma, with a slight smile.
Lorimer laughed.
"Well, upon my life, I don't know!" he answered frankly, "I never was a
praying sort of fellow,--I don't seem to grasp the idea of it somehow.
But there's one thing I'm certain of,--I can't endure a bird without
song,--a flower without scent, or a _woman_ without religion--she seems
to me no woman at all."
"But _are_ there any such women?" inquired the girl surprised.
"Yes, there are undoubtedly! Free-thinking, stump-orator,
have-your-rights sort of creatures. _You_ don't know anything about
them, Miss Güldmar--be thankful! Now, Phil, how long is this vessel of
yours going to linger here?"
Thus reminded, Errington called to the pilot, and in a few minutes the
_Eulalie_ resumed her usual speed, and bore swiftly on towards Soroe.
This island, dreary and dark in the distance, grew somewhat more
inviting in aspect on a nearer approach. Now and then a shaft of
sunlight fell on some glittering point of felspar or green patch of
verdure.--and Valdemar Svensen stated that he knew of a sandy creek
where, if the party chose, they could land and see a small cave of
exquisite beauty, literally hung all over with stalactites.
"I never heard of this cave," said Güldmar, fixing a keen eye on the
pilot. "Art thou a traveller's guide to all such places in Norway?"
Somewhat to Errington's surprise, Svensen changed color and appeared
confused; moreover, he removed his red cap altogether when he answered
the _bonde_, to whom he spoke deferentially in rapid Norwegian. The old
man laughed as he listened, and seemed satisfied; then, turning away, he
linked his arm through Philip's, and said,
"You must pardon him, my lad, that he spoke in your presence a tongue
unfamiliar to you. No offense was meant. He is of my creed, but fears to
make it known, lest he should lose all employment--which is likely
enough, seeing that so many of the people are fanatics. Moreover, he is
bound to me by an oath,--which in olden days would have made him my
serf,--but which leaves him free enough just now,--with one exception."
"And that exception?" asked Errington with some interest.
"Is, that should I ever demand a certain service at his hands, he dare
not refuse it. Odd, isn't it? or so it seems to you," and Güldmar
pressed the young man's arm lightly and kindly; "but our Norse oaths,
are taken with great solemnity, and are as binding as the obligation of
death itself. However, I have not commanded Valdemar's obedience yet,
nor do I think I am likely to do so for some time. He is a fine,
faithful fellow,--though too much given to dreams."
A gay chorus of laughter here broke from the little group seated on
deck, of which Thelma was the centre,--and Güldmar stopped in his walk,
with an attentive smile on his open, ruddy countenance.
"'Tis good for the heart to hear the merriment of young folks," he said.
"Think you not my girl's laugh is like the ripple of a lark's song? just
so clear and joyous?"
"Her voice is music itself!" declared Philip quickly and warmly. "There
is nothing she says, or does, or looks,--that is not absolutely
beautiful!"
Then, suddenly aware of his precipitation, he stopped abruptly. His face
flushed as Güldmar regarded him fixedly, with a musing and doubtful air.
But whatever the old man thought, he said nothing. He merely held the
young baronet's arm a little closer, and together they joined the
others,--though it was noticeable that during the rest of the day the
_bonde_ was rather abstracted and serious,--and that every now and then
his eyes rested on his daughter's face with an expression of tender
yearning and melancholy.
It was about two hours after luncheon that the _Eulalie_ approached the
creek spoken of by the pilot, and they were all fascinated by the
loveliness as well as by the fierce grandeur of the scene. The rocks on
that portion of Soroe appeared to have split violently asunder to admit
some great in-rushing passage of the sea, and were piled up in toppling
terraces to the height of more than two thousand feet above the level of
the water. Beneath these wild and craggy fortresses of nature a shining
stretch of beach had formed itself, on which the fine white sand, mixed
with crushed felspar, sparkled like powdered silver. On the left-hand
side of this beach could be distinctly seen the round opening of the
cavern to which Valdemar Svensen directed their attention. They decided
to visit it--the yacht was brought to a standstill, and the long-boat
lowered. They took no sailors with them, Errington and his companions
rowing four oars, while Thelma and her father occupied the stern. A
landing was easily effected, and they walked toward the cavern, treading
on thousands of beautiful little shells which strewed the sand beneath
their feet. There was a deep stillness everywhere--the island was so
desolate that it seemed as though the very seabirds refused to make
their homes in the black clefts of such steep and barren rocks.
At the entrance of the little cave Güldmar looked back to the sea.
"There's a storm coming!" he announced. "Those clouds we saw this
morning have sailed thither almost as quickly as ourselves!"
The sky had indeed grown darker, and little wrinkling waves disturbed
the surface of the water. But the sun as yet retained his sovereignty,
and there was no wind. By the pilot's advice, Errington and his friends
had provided themselves each with a pine torch, in order to light up the
cavern as soon as they found themselves within it. The smoky crimson
flare illuminated what seemed at a first glance to be a miniature fairy
palace studded thickly with clusters of diamonds. Long pointed
stalactites hung from the roof at almost mathematically even distances
from one another,--the walls glistened with varying shades of pink and
green and violet,--and in the very midst of the cave was a still pool of
water in which all the fantastic forms and hues of the place mirrored
themselves in miniature. In one corner the stalactites had clustered
into the shape of a large chair overhung by a canopy, and Duprèz
perceiving it, exclaimed--he listened, and seemed satisfied; then,
turning away, he linked his arm through Philip's, and said,
"_Voilà!_ A queen's throne! Come Mademoiselle Güldmar, you must sit in
it!"
"But I am not a queen," laughed Thelma. "A throne is for a king--will
not Sir Phillip sit there?"
"There's a compliment for you, Phil!" cried Lorrimer, waving his torch
enthusiastically. "Let us awaken the echoes with the shout of 'Long live
the King!'"
But Errington approached Thelma, and taking her hand in his, said
gently--
"Come! let us see you throned in state, Queen Thelma! To please
me,--come!"
She looked up--the flame of the bright torch he carried illumined his
face, on which love had written what she could not fail to read,--but
she trembled as with cold, and there was a kind of appalling wonder in
her troubled eyes. He whispered, "come, Queen Thelma!" As in a dream,
she allowed him to lead her to the stalactite chair, and when she was
seated therein, she endeavored to control the rapid beating of her
heart, and to smile unconcernedly on the little group that surrounded
her with shouts of mingled mirth and admiration.
"Ye look just fine!" said Macfarlane with undisguised delight. "Ye'd
mak' a grand picture, wouldn't she, Errington?"
Phillip gazed at her, but said nothing--his head was too full. Sitting
there among the glittering, intertwisted, and suspended rocks,--with the
blaze from the torches flashing on her winsome face and luxuriant
hair,--with that half-troubled, half-happy look in her eyes, and an
uncertain shadowy smile quivering on her sweet lips, the girl looked
almost dangerously lovely,--Helen of Troy could scarce have fired more
passionate emotion among the old-world heroes than she unconsciously
excited at that moment in the minds of all who beheld her. Duprèz for
once understood what it was to reverence a woman's beauty, and decided
that the flippant language of compliment was out of place--he therefore
said nothing, and Lorrimer, too, was silent battling bravely against the
wild desires that were now, in his opinion, nothing but disloyalty to
his friend. Old Güldmar's hearty voice roused and startled them all.
"Now Thelma, child! If thou art a queen, give orders to these lads to be
moving! 'Tis a damp place to hold a court in, and thy throne must needs
be a cold one. Let us out to the blessed sunshine again--maybe we can
climb one of yon wild rocks and get a view worth seeing."
"All right, sir!" said Lorimer, chivalrously resolving that now
Errington should have a chance. "Come on, Mac! _Allons,
marchons_,--Pierre! Mr. Güldmar exacts our obedience! Phil, you take
care of the queen!"
And skillfully pushing on Duprèz and Macfarlane before him, he followed
Güldmar, who preceded them all,--thus leaving his friend in a momentary
comparative solitude with Thelma. The girl was a little startled as she
saw them thus taking their departure, and sprang up from her stalactite
throne in haste. Sir Philip had laid aside his torch in order to assist
her with both hands to descend the sloping rocks; but her embarrassment
at being left almost alone with him made her nervous and uncertain of
foot,--she was hurried and agitated and anxious to overtake the others,
and in trying to walk quickly she slipped and nearly fell. In one second
she was caught in his arms and clasped passionately to his heart.
"Thelma! Thelma!" he whispered, "I love you, my darling--I love you!"
She trembled in his strong embrace, and strove to release herself, but
he pressed her more closely to him, scarcely knowing that he did so, but
feeling that he held the world, life, time, happiness, and salvation in
this one fair creature. His brain was in a wild whirl--the glitter of
the stalactite cave turned to a gyrating wheel of jewel-work, there was
nothing any more--no universe, no existence--nothing but love, love,
love, beating strong hammer-strokes through every fibre of his frame. He
glanced up, and saw that the slowly retreating forms of his friends had
nearly reached the outer opening of the cavern. Once there, they would
look back and--
"Quick, Thelma!" and his warm breath touched her cheek. "My darling! my
love! if you are not angry,--kiss me! I shall understand."
She hesitated. To Philip that instant of hesitation seemed a cycle of
slow revolving years. Timidly she lifted her head. She was very pale,
and her breath came and went quickly. He gazed at her in speechless
suspense,--and saw as in a vision the pure radiance of her face and
star-like eyes shining more and more closely upon him. Then came a
touch,--soft and sweet as a roseleaf pressed against his lips,--and for
one mad moment he remembered nothing,--he was caught up like Homer's
Paris in a cloud of gold, and knew not which was earth or heaven.
"You love me, Thelma?" he murmured in a sort of wondering rapture. "I
cannot believe it, sweet! Tell me--you love me?"
She looked up. A new, unspeakable glory flushed her face, and her eyes
glowed with the mute eloquence of awakening passion.
"Love you?" she said in a voice so low and sweet that it might have been
the whisper of a passing fairy. "Ah, yes! more than my life!"