"Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, sweet eyes, sweet mouth;
Each singly wooed and won!"
DANTE ROSETTI.
"Hallo, ho!" shouted Güldmar vociferously, peering back into the shadows
of the cavern from whence the figures of his daughter and Errington were
seen presently emerging. "Why, what kept you so long, my lad? We thought
you were close behind us. Where's your torch?"
"It went out," replied Philip promptly, as he assisted Thelma with grave
and ceremonious politeness to cross over some rough stones at the
entrance, "and we had some trouble to find our way."
"Ye might hae called to us i' the way o' friendship," observed
Macfarlane somewhat suspiciously, "and we wad hae lighted ye through."
"Oh, it was no matter!" said Thelma, with a charming smile. "Sir Philip
seemed well to know the way, and it was not so very dark!"
Lorimer glanced at her and read plainly all that was written in her
happy face. His heart sank a little; but, noticing that the old _bonde_
was studying his daughter with a slight air of vexation and surprise, he
loyally determined to divert the general attention from her bright
blushes and too brilliantly sparkling eyes.
"Well! . . . here you both are, at any rate," he said lightly, "and I
should strongly advise that we attempt no more exploration of the island
of Soroe to-day. Look at the sky; and just now there was a clap of
thunder."
"Thunder?" exclaimed Errington. "I never heard it!"
"I dare say not!" said Lorimer, with a quiet smile. "Still _we_ heard it
pretty distinctly, and I think we'd better make for the yacht."
"All right!" and Sir Philip sprang gaily into the long-boat to arrange
the cushions in the stern for Thelma. Never had he looked handsomer or
more high-spirited, and his elation was noticed by all his companions.
"Something joyous has happened to our Phil-eep," said Duprèz in a
half-whisper. "He is in the air!"
"And something in the ither way has happened vera suddenly to Mr.
Güldmar," returned Macfarlane. "Th' auld man is in the dumps."
The _bonde's_ face in truth looked sad and somewhat stern. He scarcely
spoke at all as he took his place in the boat beside his daughter,--once
he raised her little hand, looked at it, and kissed it fondly.
They were all soon on their way back to the _Eulalie_ over a sea that
had grown rough and white-crested during their visit to the stalactite
cave. Clouds had gathered thickly over the sky, and though a few shafts
of sunlight still forced a passage through them, the threatening
darkness spread with steady persistency, especially to the northern side
of the horizon, where Storm hovered in the shape of a black wing edged
with coppery crimson. As they reached the yacht a silver glare of
lightning sprang forth from beneath this sable pinion, and a few large
drops of rain began to fall. Errington hurried Thelma on deck and down
into the saloon. His friends, with Güldmar, followed,--and the vessel
was soon plunging through waves of no small height on her way back to
the Altenfjord. A loud peal of thunder like a salvo of artillery
accompanied their departure from Soroe, and Thelma shivered a little as
she heard it.
"You are nervous, Mademoiselle Güldmar?" asked Duprèz, noticing her
tremor.
"Oh no," she answered brightly. "Nervous? That is to be afraid,--I am
not afraid of a storm, but I do not like it. It is a cruel, fierce
thing; and I should have wished to-day to be all sunshine--all
gladness!" She paused, and her eyes grew soft and humid.
"Then you have been happy to-day?" said Lorimer in a low and very gentle
voice.
She smiled up at him from the depths of the velvet lounge in which
Errington had placed her.
"Happy? I do not think I have ever been so happy before!" She paused,
and a bright blush crimsoned her cheeks; then, seeing the piano open,
she said suddenly "Shall I sing to you? or perhaps you are all tired,
and would rather rest?"
"Music _is_ rest," said Lorimer rather dreamily, watching her as she
rose from her seat,--a tall, supple, lithe figure,--and moved towards
the instrument. "And _your_ voice. Miss Güldmar, would soothe the most
weary soul that ever dwelt in clay."
She glanced round at him, surprised at his sad tone.
"Ah, you are very, very tired, Mr. Lorimer, I am sure! I will sing you a
Norse cradle-song to make you go to sleep. You will not understand the
words though--will that matter?"
"Not in the least!" answered Lorimer, with a smile. "The London girls
sing in German, Italian, Spanish, and English. Nobody knows what they
are saying: they scarcely know themselves--but it's all right, and quite
fashionable."
Thelma laughed gaily. "How funny!" she exclaimed. "It is to amuse
people, I suppose! Well,--now listen." And, playing a soft prelude, her
rich contralto rippled forth in a tender, passionate, melancholy
melody,--so sweet and heart-penetrating that the practical Macfarlane
sat as one in a dream,--Duprèz forgot to finish making the cigarette he
was daintily manipulating between his fingers, and Lorimer had much ado
to keep tears from his eyes. From one song she glided to another and yet
another; her soul seemed possessed by the very spirit of music.
Meanwhile Errington, in obedience to an imperative sign from old
Güldmar, left the saloon, with him,--once outside the doors the _bonde_
said in a somewhat agitated voice--
"I desire to speak to you, Sir Philip, alone and undisturbed, if such a
thing be possible."
"By all means!" answered Philip. "Come to my 'den' on deck. We shall be
quite solitary there."
He led the way, and Olaf Güldmar followed him in silence.
It was raining fiercely, and the waves, green towers of strength, broke
every now and then over the sides of the yacht with a hissing shower of
salt white spray. The thunder rolled along the sky in angry
reverberating echoes,--frequent flashes of lightning leaped out like
swords drawn from dark scabbards,--yet towards the south the sky was
clearing, and arrowy beams of pale gold fell from the hidden sun, with a
soothing and soft lustre on the breast of the troubled water.
Güldmar looked about him, and heaved a deep sigh of refreshment. His
eyes rested lovingly on the tumbling billows,--he bared his white head
to the wind and rain.
"This is the life, the blood, the heart of a man!" he said, while a sort
of fierce delight shone in his keen eyes. "To battle with the
tempest,--to laugh at the wrath of waters,--to set one's face against
the wild wind,--to sport with the elements as though they were children
or serfs,--this is the joy of manhood! A joy," he added slowly, "that
few so-called men of to-day can ever feel."
Errington smiled gravely. "Perhaps you are right, sir," he said; "but
perhaps, at the same time, you forget that life has grown very bitter to
all of us during the last hundred years or so. Maybe the world is
getting old and used up, maybe the fault is in ourselves,--but it is
certain that none of us nowadays are particularly happy, except at rare
intervals when--"
At that moment, in a lull of the storm, Thelma's voice pealed upwards
from the saloon. She was singing a French song, and the refrain rang out
clearly--
"Ah! le doux son d'un baiser tendre!"
Errington paused abruptly in his speech, and turning towards a little
closed and covered place on deck which was half cabin, half
smoking-room, and which he kept as his own private sanctum, he unlocked
it, saying--
"Will you come in here, sir? It's not very spacious, but I think it's
just the place for a chat,--especially a private one."
Güldmar entered, but did not sit down,--Errington shut the door against
the rain and beating spray and also remained standing. After a pause,
during which the _bonde_ seemed struggling with some inward emotion, he
said resolutely--
"Sir Philip, you are a young man, and I am an old one. I would not
willingly offend you--for I like you--yes!" And the old man looked up
frankly: "I like you enough to respect you--which is more than I can say
to many men I have known! But I have a weight on my heart that must be
lifted. You and my child have been much together for many days,--and I
was an old fool not to have foreseen the influence your companionship
might have upon her. I may be mistaken in the idea that has taken hold
of me--some wild words let fall by the poor boy Sigurd this morning,
when he entreated my pardon for his misconduct of yesterday, have
perhaps misled my judgment,--but--by the gods! I cannot put it into
suitable words! I--"
"You think I love your daughter?" said Sir Philip quietly. "You are not
mistaken, Sir! I love her with my whole heart and soul! I want you to
give her to me as my wife."
A change passed over the old farmer's face. He grew deathly pale, and
put out one hand feebly as though to seek some support. Errington caught
it in his own and pressed it hard.
"Surely you are not surprised, Sir?" he added with eagerness. "How can I
help loving her! She is the best and loveliest girl I have ever seen!
Believe me,--I would make her happy!"
"And have you thought, young man," returned Güldmar slowly, "that you
would make me desolate?--or, thinking it, have you cared?"
There was an infinite pathos in his voice, and Errington was touched and
silent. He found no answer to this reproach. Güldmar sat down, leaning
his head on his hand.
"Let me think a little," he said. "My mind is confused a bit. I was not
prepared for--"
He paused and seemed lost in sorrowful meditation. By-and-by he looked
up, and meeting Errington's anxious gaze, he broke into a short laugh.
"Don't mind me, my lad!" he said sturdily. "'Tis a blow, you see! I had
not thought so far as this. I'll tell you the plain truth, and you must
forgive me for wronging you. I know what young blood is, all the world
over. A fair face fires it--and impulse makes it gallop beyond control.
'Twas so with me when I was your age,--though no woman, I hope, was ever
the worse for my harmless lovemaking. But Thelma is different from most
women,--she has a strange nature,--moreover, she has a heart and a
memory,--if she once learns the meaning of love, she will never unlearn
the lesson. Now, I thought, that like most young men of your type, you
might, without meaning any actual evil, trifle with her--play with her
feelings--"
"I understand, Sir," said Philip coolly, without displaying any offense.
"To put it plainly, in spite of your liking for me, you thought me a
snob."
This time the old man laughed heartily and unforcedly.
"Dear, dear!" he exclaimed. "You are what is termed in your own land, a
peppery customer! Never mind--I like it. Why, my lad, the men of to-day
think it fair sport to trifle with a pretty woman now and then--"
"Pardon!" interrupted Philip curtly. "I must defend my sex. We _may_
occasionally trifle with those women who show us that they wish to be
trifled with--but never with those who, like your daughter, win every
man's respect and reverence."
Güldmar rose and grasped his hand fervently.
"By all the gods, I believe you are a true gentleman!" he said. "I ask
your pardon if I have offended you by so much as a thought. But
now"--and his face grew very serious--"we must talk this matter over. I
will not speak of the suddenness of your love for my child, because I
know, from my own past experience, that love is a rapid impulse--a flame
ignited in a moment. Yes, I know that well!" He paused, and his voice
trembled a little, but he soon steadied it and went on--"I think,
however, my lad, that you have been a little hasty,--for instance, have
you thought what your English friends and relatives will say to your
marrying a farmer's daughter who,--though she has the blood of kings in
her veins,--is, nevertheless, as this present world would judge, beneath
you in social standing? I say, have you thought of this?"
Philip smiled proudly. "Certainly, sir, I have _not_ thought of any such
trifle as the opinion of society,--if that is what you mean. I have no
relatives to please or displease--no friends in the truest sense of the
world except Lorimer. I have a long list of acquaintances
undoubtedly,--infinite bores, most of them,--and whether they approve or
disapprove of my actions is to me a matter of profound indifference."
"See you!" said the _bonde_ firmly and earnestly. "It would be an ill
day for me if I gave my little one to a husband who might--mind! I only
say _might_,--in the course of years, regret having married her."
"Regret!" cried Philip excitedly, then quieting down, he said gently.
"My good friend, I do not think you understand me. You talk as if Thelma
were beneath _me_. Good God! It is _I_ who am infinitely beneath _her_!
I am utterly unworthy of her in every way, I assure you--and I tell you
so frankly. I have led a useless life, and a more or less selfish one. I
have principally sought to amuse and interest myself all through it.
I've had my vices too, and have them still. Beside Thelma's innocent
white soul, mine looks villainous! But I can honestly say I never knew
what love was till I saw her,--and now--well! I would give my life away
gladly to save her from even a small sorrow."
"I believe you--I thoroughly believe you!" said Güldmar. "I see you love
the child. The gods forbid that I should stand in the way of her
happiness! I am getting old, and 'twas often a sore point with me to
know what would become of my darling when I was gone,--for she is fair
to look upon, and there are many human wolves ready to devour such
lambs. Still, my lad, you must learn all. Do you know what is said of me
in Bosekop?"
Errington smiled and nodded in the affirmative.
"You do?" exclaimed the old man, somewhat surprised. "You know they say
I killed my wife--my wife! the creature before whom my soul knelt in
worship night and day--whose bright head was the sunlight of life! Let
me tell you of her, Sir Philip--'tis a simple story. She was the child
of my dearest friend, and many years younger than myself. This friend of
mine, Erik Erlandsen, was the captain of a stout Norwegian barque,
running constantly between these wild waters and the coast of France. He
fell in love with, and married a blue-eyed beauty from the Sogne Fjord,
he carried her secretly away from her parents, who would not consent to
the marriage. She was a timid creature, in spite of her queenly ways,
and, for fear of her parents, she would never land again on the shores
of Norway. She grew to love France,--and Erik often left her there in
some safe shelter when he was bound on some extra long and stormy
passage. She took to the Catholic creed, too, in France, and learned to
speak the French tongue, so Erik said, as though it were her own. At the
time of the expected birth of her child, her husband had taken her far
inland to Arles, and there business compelled him to leave her for some
days. When he returned she was dead!--laid out for burial, with flowers
and tapers round her. He fell prone on her body insensible,--and not for
many hours did the people of the place dare to tell him that he was the
father of a living child--a girl, with the great blue eyes and white
skin of her mother. He would scarce look at it--but at last, when roused
a bit, he carried the little thing in his arms to the great Convent at
Arles, and, giving the nuns money, he bade them take it and bring it up
as they would, only giving it the name of Thelma. Then poor Erlandsen
came home--he sought me out:--he said, 'Olaf, I feel that I am going on
my last voyage. Promise you will see to my child--guard her, if you can,
from an evil fate! For me there is no future!' I promised, and strove to
cheer him--but he spoke truly--his ship went down in a storm on the Bay
of Biscay, and all on board were lost. Then it was that I commenced my
journeyings to and fro, to see the little maiden that was growing up in
the Convent at Arles. I watched her for sixteen years--and when she
reached her seventeenth birthday, I married her and brought her to
Norway."
"And she was Thelma's mother?" said Errington with interest.
"She was Thelma's mother," returned the _bonde_, "and she was more
beautiful than even Thelma is now. Her education had been almost
entirely French, but, as a child, she had learnt that I generally spoke
English, and as there happened to be an English nun in the Convent, she
studied that language and mastered it for the love of me--yes!" he
repeated with musing tenderness, "all for the love of me,--for she loved
me, Sir Philip--ay! as passionately as I loved her, and that is saying a
great deal! We lived a solitary happy life,--but we did not mix with our
neighbors--our creeds were different,--our ways apart from theirs. We
had some time of perfect happiness together. Three years passed before
our child was born, and then"--the _bonde_ paused awhile, and again
continued,--"then my wife's health grew frail and uncertain. She liked
to be in the fresh air, and was fond of wandering about the hills with
her little one in her arms. One day--shall I ever forget it! when Thelma
was about two and a half years old, I missed them both, and went out to
search for them, fearing my wife had lost her way, and knowing that our
child could not toddle far without fatigue. I found them"--the _bonde_
shuddered-"but how? My wife had slipped and fallen through a chasm in
the rocks,--high enough, indeed, to have killed her,--she was alive, but
injured for life. She lay there white and motionless--little Thelma
meanwhile sat smilingly on the edge of the rock, assuring me that her
mother had gone to sleep '_down there_.' Well!" and Güldmar brushed the
back of his hand across his eyes, "to make a long story short, I carried
my darling home in my arms a wreck--she lingered for ten years of
patient suffering, ten long years! She could only move about on
crutches,--the beauty of her figure was gone--but the beauty of her face
grew more perfect every day! Never again was she seen on the hills,--and
so to the silly folks of Bosekop she seemed to have disappeared. Indeed,
I kept her very existence a secret,--I could not endure that others
should hear of the destruction of all that marvellous grace and queenly
loveliness! She lived long enough to see her daughter blossom into
girlhood,--then,--she died. I could not bear to have her laid in the
damp, wormy earth--you know in our creed earth-burial is not
practiced,--so I laid her tenderly away in a king's tomb of
antiquity,--a tomb known only to myself and one who assisted me to lay
her in her last resting-place. There she sleeps right royally,--and now
is your mind relieved, my lad? For the reports of the Bosekop folk must
certainly have awakened some suspicions in your mind?"
"Your story has interested me deeply, sir," said Errington; "but I
assure you I never had any suspicions of you at all. I always disregard
gossip--it is generally scandalous, and seldom true. Besides, I took
your face on trust, as you took mine."
"Then," declared Güldmar, with a smile, "I have nothing more to
say,--except"--and he stretched out both hands--"may the great gods
prosper your wooing! You offer a fairer fate to Thelma than I had
dreamed of for her--but I know not what the child herself may say--"
Philip interrupted him. His eyes flashed, and he smiled.
"She loves me!" he said simply. Güldmar looked at him, laughed a little,
and sighed.
"She loves thee?" he said, relapsing into the _thee_ and _thou_ he was
wont to use with his daughter. "Thou hast lost no time, my lad? When
didst thou find that out?"
"To-day!" returned Philip, with that same triumphant smile playing about
his lips. "She told me so--yet even now I cannot believe it!"
"Ah, well, thou mayest believe it truly," said Güldmar, "for Thelma says
nothing that she does not mean! The child has never stooped to even the
smallest falsehood."
Errington seemed lost in a happy dream. Suddenly he roused himself and
took Güldmar by the arm.
"Come," he said, "let us go to her! She will wonder why we are so long
absent. See! the storm has cleared--the sun is shining. It is
understood? You will give her to me?"
"Foolish lad!" said Güldmar gently. "What have I to do with it? She has
given herself to thee! Love has overwhelmed both of your hearts, and
before the strong sweep of such an ocean what can an old man's life
avail? Nothing--less than nothing! Besides, I _should_ be happy--if I
have regrets,--if I feel the tooth of sorrow biting at my heart--'tis
naught but selfishness. 'Tis my own dread of parting with her"--his
voice trembled, and his fine face quivered with suppressed emotion.
Errington pressed his arm. "Our house shall be yours, sir!" he said
eagerly. "Why not leave this place and come with us?"
Güldmar shook his head. "Leave Norway!" he said--"leave the land of my
fathers--turn my back on these mountains and fjords and glaziers? Never!
No, no, my lad, you're kind-hearted and generous as becomes you, and I
thank you from my heart. But 'twould be impossible! I should be like a
caged eagle, breaking my wings against the bars of English
conventionalities. Besides, young birds must make their nest without
interference from the old ones."
He stepped out on deck as Errington opened the little cabin door, and
his features kindled with enthusiasm as he looked on the stretch of dark
mountain scenery around him, illumined by the brilliant beams of the sun
that shone out now in full splendor, as though in glorious defiance of
the retreating storm, which had gradually rolled away in clouds that
were tumbling one over the other at the extreme edge of the northern
horizon, like vanquished armies taking to hasty flight.
"Could I stand the orderly tameness of your green England, think you,
after this?" he exclaimed, with a comprehensive gesture of his hand.
"No, no! When death comes--and 'twill not be long coming--let it find me
with my face turned to the mountains, and nothing but their kingly
crests between me and the blessed sky! Come, my lad!" and he relapsed
into his ordinary tone. "If thou art like me when I was thy age, every
minute passed away from thy love seems an eternity! Let us go to her--we
had best wait till the decks are dry before we assemble up here again."
They descended at once into the saloon, where they found Thelma being
initiated into the mysteries of chess by Duprèz, while Macfarlane and
Lorimer looked idly on. She glanced up from the board as her father and
Errington entered, and smiled at them both with a slightly heightened
color.
"This is such a wonderful game, father!" she said. "And I am so stupid,
I cannot understand it! So Monsieur Pierre is trying to make me remember
the moves."
"Nothing is easier!" declared Duprèz. "I was showing you how the bishop
goes, so--cross-ways," and he illustrated his lesson. "He is a dignitary
of the Church, you perceive. _Bien!_ it follows that he cannot go in a
straight line,--if you observe them well, you will see that all the
religious gentlemen play at cross purposes. You are very quick,
Mademoiselle Güldmar,--you have perfectly comprehended the move of the
Castle, and the pretty plunge of the knight. Now, as I told you, the
queen can do anything--all the pieces shiver in their shoes before her!"
"Why?" she asked, feeling a little embarrassed, as Sir Philip came and
sat beside her, looking at her with an undoubtedly composed air of
absolute proprietorship.
"Why? _Enfin_, the reason is simple!" answered Pierre. "The queen is a
woman,--everything must give way to her wish!"
"And the king?" she inquired.
"Ah! _Le pauvre Roi!_ He can do very little--almost nothing! He can only
move one step at a time, and that with much labor and hesitation--he is
the wooden image of Louis XVI!"
"Then," said the girl quickly, "the object of the game is to protect a
king who is not worth protecting!"
Duprèz laughed. "Exactly! And thus, in this charming game, you have the
history of many nations! Mademoiselle Güldmar has put the matter
excellently! Chess is for those who intend to form republics. All the
worry and calculation--all the moves of pawns, bishops, knights,
castles, and queens,--all to shelter the throne which is not worth
protecting! Excellent! Mademoiselle, you are not in favor of
monarchies!"
"I do not know," said Thelma; "I have never thought of such things. But
kings should be great men,--wise and powerful, better and braver than
all their subjects, should they not?"
"Undoubtedly!" remarked Lorimer; "but, it's a curious thing, they seldom
are. Now, our queen, God bless her--"
"Hear, hear!" interrupted Errington, laughing good-humoredly. "I won't
have a word said against the dear old lady, Lorimer! Granted that
she hates London, and sees no fun in being stared at by vulgar crowds, I
think she's quite right,--and I sympathize heartily with her liking for
a cup of tea in peace and quiet with some old Scotch body who doesn't
care whether she's a queen or a washerwoman."
"I think," said Macfarlane slowly, "that royalty has its duties, ye see,
an' though I canna say I object to Her Majesty's homely way o' behavin',
still there are a few matters that wad be the better for her pairsonal
attention."
"Oh bother!" said Errington gaily. "Look at that victim of the nation,
the Prince of Wales! The poor fellow hasn't a moment's peace of his
life,--what with laying foundation stones, opening museums, inspecting
this and visiting that, he is like a costermonger's donkey, that must
gee-up or gee-wo as his master, the people bid. If he smiles at a woman,
it is instantly reported that he's in love with her,--if he frankly says
he considers her pretty, there's no end to the scandal. Poor royal
wretch! I pity him from my heart! The unwashed, beer-drinking,
gin-swilling classes, who clamor for shortened hours of labor, and want
work to be expressly invented for their benefit, don't suffer a bit more
than Albert Edward, who is supposed to be rolling idly in the very lap
of luxury, and who can hardly call his soul his own. Why, the man can't
eat a mutton-chop without there being a paragraph in the papers headed,
'Diet of the Prince of Wales.' His life is made an infinite bore to him,
I'm positive!"
Güldmar looked thoughtful. "I know little about kings or princes," he
said, "but it seems to me, from what I _do_ know, that they have but
small power. They are mere puppets. In olden times they possessed
supremacy, but now--"
"I will tell you," interrupted Duprèz excitedly, "who it is that rules
the people in these times,--it is the _Pen_--_Madame La Plume_. A little
black, sharp, scratching devil she is,--empress of all nations! No crown
but a point,--no royal robe save ink! It is certain that as long as
_Madame la Plume_ gambols freely over her realms of paper, so long must
kings and autocrats shake in their shoes and be uncertain of their
thrones. Mon Dieu! if I had but the gift of writing, I would conquer the
world!"
"There are an immense number of people writing just now, Pierre,"
remarked Lorimer, with a smile, "yet they don't do much in the
conquering line."
"Because they are afraid!" said Duprèz. "Because they have not the
courage of their opinions! Because they dare not tell the truth!"
"Upon my life, I believe you are right!" said Errington. "If there were
a man bold enough to declare truths and denounce lies, I should imagine
it quite possible that he might conquer the world,--or, at any rate,
make it afraid of him."
"But is the world so full of lies?" asked Thelma timidly.
Lorimer looked at her gravely. "I fear so, Miss Güldmar! I think it has
a tolerable harvest of them every year,--a harvest, too, that never
fails! But I say, Phil! Look at the sun shining! Let us go up on
deck,--we shall soon be getting back to the Altenfjord."
They all rose, threw on their caps, and left the saloon with the
exception of Errington, who lingered behind, watching his opportunity,
and as Thelma followed her father he called her back softly--
"Thelma!"
She hesitated, and then turned towards him,--her father saw her
movement, smiled at her, and nodded kindly, as he passed through the
saloon doors and disappeared. With a beating heart, she sprang quickly
to her lover's side, and as he caught her in his arms, she whispered--
"You have told him?"
"Your father? Yes, my darling!" murmured Philip, as he kissed her sweet,
upturned lips. "Be quite happy--he knows everything. Come, Thelma! tell
me again you love me--I have not heard you say it properly yet!"
She smiled dreamily as she leaned against his breast and looked up into
his eyes.
"I cannot say it properly!" she said. "There is no language for my
heart! If I could tell you all I feel, you would think it foolish, I am
sure, because it is all so wild and strange,"--she stopped, and her face
grew pale,--"oh!" she murmured with a slight tremor; "it is terrible!"
"What is terrible, my sweet one?" asked Errington drawing her more
closely, and folding her more tightly in his arms.
She sighed deeply. "To have no more life of my own!" she answered, while
her low voice quivered with intense feeling. "It has all gone--to you!
And yours has come to me!--is it not strange and almost sad? How your
heart beats, poor boy!--I can hear it throb, throb--so fast!--here,
where I am resting my head." She looked up, and her little white hand
caressed his cheek. "Philip," she said very softly, "what are you
thinking about? Your eyes shine so brightly--do you know you have
beautiful eyes?"
"Have I?" he murmured abstractedly, looking down on that exquisite,
innocent, glowing face, and trembling with the force of the restrained
passion that kindled through him. "I don't know about that!--yours seem
to me like two stars fallen from heaven! Oh, Thelma, my darling!--God
make me worthy of you."
He spoke with intense fervor,--kissing her with a tenderness, in which
there was something of reverence as well as fear. The whole soul of the
man was startled and roused to inexpressible devotion, by the absolute
simplicity and purity of her nature--the direct frankness with which she
had said her life was his--his!--and in what way was HE fitted to be the
guardian and possessor of this white lily from the garden of God? She
was so utterly different to all women as he had known them--as different
as a bird of paradise to a common house-sparrow. Meanwhile, as these
thoughts flitted through his brain, she moved gently from his embrace
and smiled proudly, yet sweetly.
"Worthy of me?" she said softly and wonderingly. "It is I that will pray
to be made worthy of _you_! You must not put it wrongly, Philip!"
He made no answer, but looked at her as she stood before him, majestic
as a young empress in her straight, unadorned white gown.
"Thelma!" he said suddenly, "do you know how lovely you are?"
"Yes!" she answered simply; "I know it, because I am like my mother. But
it is not anything to be beautiful,--unless one is loved,--and then it
is different! I feel much more beautiful now, since you think me
pleasant to look at!"
Philip laughed and caught her hand. "What a child you are!" he said.
"Now let me see this little finger." And he loosened from his
watch-chain a half-hoop ring of brilliants. "This belonged to _my_
mother, Thelma," he continued gently, "and since her death I have always
carried it about with me. I resolved never to part with it, except to--"
He paused and slipped it on the third finger of her left hand, where it
sparkled bravely.
She gazed at it in surprise. "You part with it now?" she asked, with
wonder in her accents. "I do not understand!"
He kissed her. "No? I will explain again, Thelma!--and you shall not
laugh at me as you did the very first time I saw you! I resolved never
to part with this ring, I say, except to--my promised wife. _Now_ do you
understand?"
She blushed deeply, and her eyes dropped before his ardent gaze.
"I do thank you very much, Philip,"--she faltered timidly,--she was
about to say something further when suddenly Lorimer entered the saloon.
He glanced from Errington to Thelma, and from Thelma back again to
Errington,--and smiled. So have certain brave soldiers been known to
smile in face of a death-shot. He advanced with his usual languid step
and nonchalant air, and removing his cap, bowed gravely and courteously.
"Let me be the first to offer my congratulations to the future Lady
Errington! Phil, old man! . . . I wish you joy!"