“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!”
CHAPTER XIV.
“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 thund
er 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.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 94