“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.
CHAPTER XIII.
“O Love! O Love! O Gateway of Delight!
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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.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 92