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Full text of "Thelma : a Norwegian princess"

THE LIBRARY 

OF 

THE UNIVERSITY 

OF CALIFORNIA 

LOS ANGELES 



Thelma ^^^^^^^^^ A 
Norwegian Princess ^ ^ ^ ^ 

By^^^^^^^ Marie Corelli 




Chicago and New York * «  
Rand, McNally & Company 






THELMA. 

]book: I. 

THE LAND OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 



CHAPTER I. 



Dream by dream shot through her eyes, and each 
Outshone the last that lightened, 

Swinburne. 

Midnight — without darlcness, without stars! Midnight — 
and the unwearied sun stood, yet visible in the heavens, like 
a victorious king throned on a dais of royal purple bordered 
with gold. The sky above him — his canopy — gleamed with a 
cold yet lustrous blue, while across it slowly flitted a few 
wandering clouds of palest amber, deepening, as they sailed 
along, to a tawny orange. A broad stream of light falling, as 
it were, from the center of the magnificent orb, shot length- 
wise across the Alten Fjord, turning its waters to a mass of 
quivering and shifting color that alternated from bronze to 
copper — from copper to silver and azure. The surrounding 
hills glowed with a warm, deep violet tint, flecked here and 
there with touches of bright red, as though fairies were light- 
ing tiny bonfires on their summits. Away in the distance a 
huge mass of rock stood out to view, its rugged lines trans- 
figured into ethereal loveliness by a misty veil of tender rose 
pink — a hue curiously suggestive of some other and smaller 
sun that might have just set. Absolute silence prevailed. 
Not even the cry of a sea-mew or kittiwake broke the almost 
death-like stillness — no breath of wind stirred a ripple on the 
glassy water. The whole scene might well have been the 



6 THELMA. 

fantastic dream of some imaginative painter, whose ambition 
soared beyond the limits of human skill. Yet it was only one 
of those million wonderful effects of sky and sea which are 
common in Norway, especially on the Alten Fjord, where, 
though beyond the Arctic circle, the climate in summer is 
that of another Italy, and the landscape a living poem fairer 
than the visions of Endymion. 

There was one solitary watcher of the splendid spectacle. 
This was a man of refined features and aristocratic appear- 
ance, who, reclining on a large rug of skins which he had 
thrown down on the shore for that purpose, was gazing at the 
pageant of the midnight sun and all its stately surroundings, 
with an earnest and rapt expression in his clear hazel eyes. 

"Glorious! beyond all expectation, glorious!" he murmured 
half aloud, as he consulted his watch and saw that the hands 
marked exactly twelve on the dial. "I believe I'm having the 
best of it, after all. Even if those fellows get the 'Eulalie' 
into good position, they will see nothing finer than this." 

As he spoke he raised his field-glass and swept the horizon 
in search of a vessel — his own pleasure yacht — which had 
taken three of his friends, at their special desire, to the op- 
posite island of Seiland — Seiland, rising in weird majesty 
three thousand feet above the sea, and boasting as its chief 
glory "the great peak of Jedke, the most northern glacier in all 
the wild Norwegian land. There was no sign of a returning 
sail, and he resumed his study of the sumptuous sky, the 
colors of which were now deepening and burning with increas- 
ing luster, while an array of clouds of the deepest purple hue 
swept gorgeously together beneath the sun as though to form 
his footstool. 

"One might imagine that the trump of the Eesurrection had 
sounded, and that all this aerial pomp — this strange silence 
— was just the pause, the supreme moment before the angels 
descended," he mused, with a half smile at his own fancy, for 
though something of a poet at heart, he was much more of a 
cynic. He was too deeply imbued with modem fashionable 
atheism to think seriously about angels or Eesurrection 
trumps, but there was a certain love of mysticism and romance 
in his nature, which not even his Oxford experiences and the 
chilly dullness of English materialism had been able to eradi- 
cate. And there was something impressive in the sight of the 
majestic orb holding such imperial revel at midnight — some- 



THELMA. 7 

thing almost unearthly in the light and life of the heavens, as 
compared with the reverential and seemingly worshiping 
silence of the earth — that, for a few moments, awed him into 
a sense of the spiritual and unseen. Mythical passages from 
the poets he loved came into his memory, and stray fragments 
of old songs and ballads he had known in his cliildhood re- 
turned to him with haunting persistence. It was, for him, one 
of those sudden halts in life which we all experience — an in- 
stant when time and the world seem to stand still, as though 
to permit us easy breathing; a brief space — in which we are 
allowed to stop and wonder awhile at the strange unaccount- 
able force within us, that enables us to stand with such calm, 
smiling audacity on our small pin's point of the present, be- 
tween the wide dark gaps of past and future; a small hush — 
in which the gigantic engines of the ^^niverse appear to re- 
volve no more, and the immortal soul of man itself is subjected 
and overruled by supreme and eternal thought. Drifting 
away on those delicate imperceptible lines that lie between 
reality and dream-land, the watcher of the midnight sun gave 
himself up to the half-painful, half-delicious sense of being 
drawn in, absorbed, and lost in infinite imaginings, when the 
intense stillness around him was broken by the sound of a 
voice singing — a full, rich contralto, that rang through the air 
with the clearness of a golden bell. The sweet, liquid notes 
were those of an old Norwegian mountain melody, one of 
those wildly pathetic folk-songs that seem to hold all the sor- 
row, wonder, wistfulness, and indescribable yearning of a 
heart too full for other speech than music. He started to his 
feet and looked around him for the singer. There was no one 
visible. The amber streaks in the sky were leaping into 
crimson flame; the fjord glowed like the burning lake of 
Dante's vision ; one solitary sea-gull winged its graceful, noise- 
less flight far above, its white pinions shimmering like jewels 
as it crossed the radiance of the heavens. Other sign of animal 
life there was none. Still the hidden voice rippled on in a 
stream of melody, and the listener stood amazed and en- 
chanted at the roundness and distinctness of every note that 
fell from the lips of the unseen vocalist. 
"A woman's voice," he thought; "but where is the woman?" 
Puzzled, he looked to the right and left, then out to the 
shining fjord, half expecting to see some fisher-maiden row- 
ing along, and singing as she rowed, but there was no sign of 



8 T HELM A. 

any living creature. While he waited, the voice suddenly 
ceased, and the song was replaced by the sharp grating of a 
keel on the beach. Turning in the direction of this sound, he 
perceived a boat being pushed out by invisible hands toward 
the water's edge from a rocky cave that jutted upon the fjord, 
and, full of curiosity, he stepped toward the arched entrance, 
when — all suddenly and unexpectedly — a girl sprung out from 
the dark interior, and, standing erect in her boat, faced the 
intruder. A girl of about nineteen she seemed, taller than 
most women — with a magnificent uncovered mass of hair, the 
color of the midnight sunshine, tumbled over her shoulders, 
and flashing against her flushed cheeks and dazzlingly fair 
skin. Her deep blue eyes had an astonished and certainly in- 
dignant expression in them, while he, utterly unprepared for 
such a vision of loveliness at such a time and in such a place, 
was for a moment taken aback and at a loss for words. Ee- 
covering his habitual self-possession quickly, however, he 
raised his hat, and, pointing to the boat, which was more than 
half-way out of the cavern, said simply: 

"May I assist you?" , 

She was silent, eying him with a keen glance which had 
something in it of disfavor and suspicion. 

"I suppose she doesn't understand English," he thought, 
"and I can't speak a word of Norwegian. I must talk by 
signs." 

And forthwith he went through a labored pantomime of 
gesture, sufficiently ludicrous in itself, yet at the same time 
expressive of its meaning. The girl broke into a laugh — a 
laugh of sweet amusement which brought a thousand new 
sparkles of light into her lovely eyes. 

"That is very well done," she observed graciously, speaking 
English with something of a foreign accent. "Even the Lapps 
would understand you, and they are very stupid, poor things!" 

Half vexed by her laughter, and feeling that he was some- 
how an object of ridicule to this tall, bright-haired maiden, 
he ceased his pantomimic gestures abruptly and stood looking 
at her with a slight flush of embarrassment on his features. 

"I know your language," she resumed quietly, after a brief 
pause, in which she had apparently considered the stranger's 
appearance and general bearing. "It was rude of me not to 
have answered you at once. You can help me if you will. 
The keel has caught among the pebbles, but we can easily 



THELMA. 9 

move it between us." And, jumping lightly out of her boat, 
she grasped its edge firmly with her strong white hands, ex- 
claiming gayly as she did so: "Push!" 

Thus adjured, he lost no time in complying with her re- 
quest, and, using his great strength and muscular force to 
good purpose, the light little craft was soon well in the water, 
swaying to and fro as though with impatience to be gone. 
The girl sprung to her seat, discarding his eagerly proffered 
assistance, and, taking both oars, laid them in their respective 
rowlocks, and seemed about to start, when she paused and 
asked abruptly: 

"Are you a sailor?" 

He smiled. "Not I! Do I remind you of one?" 

"You are strong, and you manage a boat as though you 
were accustomed to the work. Also you look as if you had 
been at sea." 

"Eightly guessed!" he replied, still smiling; "I certainly 
have been at sea; I have been coasting all about your lovely 
land. My yacht went across to Seiland this afternoon." 

She regarded him more intently, and observed, with the 
critical eye of a woman, the refined taste displayed in his 
dress, from the very cut of his loose traveling coat to the lux- 
urious rug of fine fox-skins that lay so carelessly cast on the 
shore at a little distance from him. Then she gave a gesture 
of hauteur and half contempt. 

"You have a yacht? Oh! then you are a gentleman. You 
do nothing for your living?" 

"Nothing, indeed!" and he shrugged his shoulders with a 
mingled air of weariness and self-pity, "except one thing — I 
live!" 

"Is that hard work?" she inquired, wonderingly. 

"Very." 

They were silent then, and the girl's face grew serious as 
she rested on her oars and still surveyed him with a straight, 
candid gaze, that, though earnest and penetrating, had noth- 
ing of boldness in it. It was the look of one in whose past 
there were no secrets — the look of a child who is satisfied with 
the present and takes no thought for the future. Few women 
look so after they have entered their teens. Social artifice, 
affectation, and the insatiate vanity that modem life encour- 
ages in the feminine nature — all these things soon do away 
with the pellucid clearness and steadfastness of the eye — the 



10 THELMA. 

beautiful, true, untamed expression, which, though so rare, is, 
when seen, infinitely more bewitching than all the bright 
arrows of coquetry and sparkling invitation that flash from the 
glances of well-bred society dames, who have taken care to 
educate their eyes — if not their hearts. This girl was evi- 
dently not trained properly; had she been so, she would have 
dropped a curtain over those wide, bright windows of her 
soul; she would have remembered that she was alone with a 
strange man at midnight — at midnight, though the sun shone; 
she would have simpered and feigned embarrassment, even if 
she could not feel it. As it happened, she did nothing of the 
kind, only her expression softened and became more wistful 
and earnest, and when she spoke again her voice was mellow 
with a suave gentleness that had something in it of com- 
passion. 

"If you do not love life itself," she said, "you love the beau- 
tiful things of life, do you not? See yonder! There is what 
we call the meeting of night and morning. One is glad to be 
alive at such a moment. Look quickly! The light soon 
fades." 

She pointed toward the east. Her companion gazed in that 
direction, and uttered an exclamation — almost a shout — of 
wonder and admiration. Within the space of the past few 
minutes the aspect of the heavens had completely changed. 
The burning scarlet and violet hues had all melted into a 
transparent yet brilliant shade of pale mauve — as delicate as 
the inner tint of a lilac blossom — and across this stretched two 
wing-shaped gossamer clouds of watery green, fringed with 
soft primrose. Between these cloud-wings, as opaline in lus- 
ter as those of a dragon-fly, the face of the sun shone like a 
shield of polished gold, while his rays, piercing spear-like 
through the varied tints of emerald — brought an unearthly 
radiance over the landscape — a luster as though the moon 
were, in some strange way, battling with the sun for mastery 
over the visible universe, though, looking southward, she 
could dimly be perceived, the ghost of herself — a poor, faint- 
ing, pallid goddess — a perishing Diana. 

Bringing his glance down from the skies, the young man 
turned it to the face of the maiden near him, and was startled 
at her marvelous beauty — beauty now heightened by the 
effect of the changeful colors that played around her. The 
very boat in which she sat glittered with a bronze-like, metal- 



THELMA. 11 

lie brightness as it heaved gently to and fro on the silvery 
green water; the midnight sunshine bathed the falling glory 
of her long hair, till each thick tress, each clustering curl, 
appeared to emit an amber spark of light. The strange, weird 
effect of the sky seemed to have stolen into her eyes, making 
them shine with witch-like brilliancy — the varied radiance 
flashing about her brought into strong relief the pureness of 
her profile, drawing as with a fine pencil the outlines of her 
noble forehead, sweet mouth, and rounded chin. It touched 
the scarlet of her bodice, and brightened the quaint old silver 
clasps she wore at her waist and throat, till she seemed no 
longer an earthly being, but more like some fair wandering 
sprite from the legendary Norse kingdom of Alfheim, the 
"abode of the Luminous Genii." 

She was gazing upward — heavenward — and her expression 
was one of rapt and almost devotional intensity. Thus she 
remained for some moments, motionless as the picture of an 
expectant angel painted by Eaphael or Correggio; then reluc- 
tantly and with a deep sigh she turned her eyes toward earth 
again. In so doing she met the fixed and too visibly admiring 
gaze of her companion. She started, and a wave of vivid color 
flushed her cheeks. Quickly recovering her serenity, however, 
she saluted him slightly, and, moving her oars in unison, was 
on the point of departure. 

Stirred by an impulse he could not resist, he laid one hand 
detainingly on the rim of her boat. 

"Are you going now?" he asked. 

She raised her eyebrows in some little surprise and smiled. 

"Going?" she repeated. "Why, yes. I shall be late in 
getting home as it is." 

"Stop a moment," he said, eagerly, feeling that he could 
not let this beautiful creature leave him as utterly as a mid- 
summer night's dream without some clew as to her origin and 
destination. "Will you not tell me your name?" 

She drew herself erect with a look of indignation. 

"Sir, I do not know you. The maidens of Norway do not 
give their names to strangers." 

"Pardon me," he replied, somewhat abashed. "I mean no 
offence. We have watched the midnight sun together, and — 
and — I thought — " 

He paused, feeling very foolish, and unable to conclude his 
sentence. 



12 THELMA. 

She looked at him demurely from under her long, curling 
lashes. 

"You will often find a peasant girl on the shores of the 
Alten Fjord watching the midnight sun at the same time as 
yourself," she said, and there was a suspicion of laughter in 
her voice. "It is not unusual. It is not even necessary that 
you should remember so little a thing." 

"Necessary or not, I shall never forget it," he said, with 
sudden impetuosity. "You are no peasant! Come; if I give 
you my name will you still deny me yours?" 

Her delicate brows drew together in a frown of haughty and 
decided refusal. "No names please my ears save those that 
are familiar," she said, with intense coldness. "We shall not 
meet again. Farewell!" 

And without further word or look, she leaned gracefully to 
the oars, and pulling with a long, steady, resolute stroke, the 
little boat darted away as lightly and swiftly as a skimming 
swallow out on the shimmering water. He stood gazing after 
it till it became a distant speck sparkling like a diamond in 
the light of sky and wave, and when he could no more watch 
it with unassisted eyes, he took up his field-glass and followed 
its course attentively. He saw it cutting along as straightly 
as an arrow, then suddenly it dipped round to the westward, 
apparently making straight for some shelving rocks that pro- 
jected far into the fjord. It reached them; it grew less and 
less — ^it disappeared. At the same time the luster of the 
heavens gave way to a pale, pearl-like uniform gray tint, that 
stretched far and wide, folding up as in a mantle all the regal 
luxury of the sun-king's palace. The subtle odor and delicate 
chill of the coming dawn stole freshly across the water. A 
light haze rose and obscured the opposite islands. Something 
of the tender melancholy of autumn, though it was late June, 
toned down the aspect of the before brilliant landscape. A 
lark rose swiftly from its nest in an adjacent meadow, and, 
soaring higher and higher, poured from its tiny throat a cas- 
cade of delicious melody. The midnight sun no longer shone 
at midnight; his face smiled with a sobered serenity through 
the faint early mists of approaching morning. 



THELMA. 13 



CHAPTEE II. 

Viens done — je te chanterai des chansons que les esprits des 
cimetifires m'ont apprises! — Matukin. 

"Baffled!" he exclaimed, with a slight vexed laugh, as the 
boat vanished from his sight. "By a woman, too! Who 
would have thought it?" 

Who would have thought it, indeed! Sir Philip Bruce- 
Errington, baronet, the wealthy and desirable parti for whom 
many match-making mothers had stood knee-deep in the chilly 
though sparkling waters of society, ardently plying rod and 
line with patient persistence, vainly hoping to secure him as 
a husband for one of their highly proper and passionless 
daughters — he, the admired, long-sought-after "eligible," was 
suddenly rebuffed, flouted — by whom? A stray princess, or a 
peasant? he vaguely wondered, as he lighted a cigar and 
strolled up and down on the shore, meditating, with a puzzled, 
almost annoyed expression on his handsome features. He 
was not accustomed to slights of any kind, however trifling, 
his position being commanding and enviable enough to at- 
tract flattery and friendship from most people. He was the 
only son of a baronet as renowned for eccentricity as for 
wealth. He had been the spoiled darling of his mother; and 
now, both his parents being dead, he was alone in the world, 
heir to his father's revenues and entire master of his own 
actions. And as part of the penalty he had to pay for being 
rich and good-looking to boot, he was so much run after by 
women that he found it hard to understand the haughty in- 
difference with which he had just been treated by one of the 
most fair, if not the fairest of her sex. He was piqued, and 
his amour propre was wounded. 

"Pm sure my question was harmless enough," he mused, 
half crossly. "She might have answered it." 

He glanced out impatiently over the fjord. There was no 
sign of his returning yacht as yet. 

"What a time those fellows are!" he said to himself. "If 
the pilot were not on board, I should begin to think they had 
run the 'Eulalie' aground." 



14 THELMA. 

He finished his cigar and threw the end of it into the water; 
then he stood moodily watching the ripples as they rolled 
softly up and caressed the sliining brown shore at his feet, 
thinking all the while of that strange girl, so wonderfully 
lovely in face and form, so graceful and proud of bearing, with 
her great blue eyes and masses of dusky gold hair. 

His meeting with her was a sort of adventure in its way — 
the first of the kind he had had for some time. He was sub- 
ject to fits of weariness or caprice, and it was in one of these 
that he had suddenly left London in the height of the season, 
and had started for Norway on a yachting cruise with three 
chosen companions, one of whom, George Lorimer, once an 
Oxford fellow-student, was now his "chum" — the Pythias to 
his Damon, the Jidus Achates of his closest confidence. 
Through the unexpected wakening up of energy in the latter 
young gentleman, who was usually of a most sleepy and in- 
dolent disposition, he happened to be quite alone on this par- 
ticular occasion, though, as a general rule, he was accompanied 
in his rambles by one if not all three of his friends. Utter 
solitude was with him a rare occurrence, and his present ex- 
perience of it had chanced in this wise. Lorimer the languid, 
liorimer the lazy, Lorimer who had remained blandly un- 
moved and drowsy through all the magnificent panorama of 
the Norwegian coast, including the Sogne Fjord and the top- 
pling peaks of the Justedal glaciers; Lorimer who had slept 
peacefully in a hammock on deck, even while the yacht was 
passing under the looming splendors of Melsnipa; Lorimer, 
now that he had arrived at the Alten Fjord, then at its loveli- 
est in the full glory of the continuous sunshine, developed a 
new turn of mind, and began to show sudden and abnormal 
interest in the scenery. In this humor he expressed his desire 
to "take a sight" of the midnight sun from the i?land of Sei- 
land, and also declared his resolve to try the nearly impossible 
ascent of the great Jedke glacier. 

Errington laughed at the idea. "Don't tell me," he said, 
"that you are going in for climbing. And do you suppose I 
believe that you are interested — you of all people — in the 
heavenly bodies?" 

"Why not?" asked Lorimer, with a candid smile, "I'm not 
in the least interested in earthly bodies, except my own. The 
sun's a jolly fellow. I sympathize with him in his present 
condition. He's in his cups — that's what's the matter — and 



THBJLMA. 15 

he can't be persuaded to go to bed. I know his feelings per- 
fectly; and I want to survey his gloriously inebriated face 
from another point of view. Don't laugh, Phil; I'm in earnest! 
And I really have quite a curiosity to try my skill in amateur 
mountaineering. Jedke's the very place for a first effort. It 
offers diflficulties, and" — this with a slight yawn — "I like to 
surmount difficulties; it's rather amusing." 

His mind was so evidently set upon the excursion that Sir 
Philip made no attempt to dissuade him from it, but excused 
himself from accompanying the party on the plea that he 
wanted to finish a sketch he had recently begun. So that 
when the "Eulalie" got up her steam, weighed anchor, and 
swept gracefully away toward the coast of the adjacent is- 
lands, her owner was left, at his desire, to the seclusion of a 
quiet nook on the shore of the Alten Fjord, where he suc- 
ceeded in making a bold and vivid picture of the scene before 
him. The colors of the sky had, however, defied his palate, 
and after one or two futile attempts to transfer to his canvas a 
few of the gorgeous tints that illumined the landscape, he 
gave up the task in despair, and resigned himself to the dolce 
far niente of absolute enjoyment. From his half-pleasing, 
half-melancholy reverie the voice of the unknown maiden had 
startled him, and now — now she had left him to resume it 
if he chose — left him, in chill displeasure, with a cold yet 
brilliant flash of something like scorn in her wonderful eyes. 

Since her departure the scenery, in some unaccountable 
way, seemed less attractive to him, the songs of the birds, who 
were all awake, fell on inattentive ears; he was haunted by 
her face and voice, and he was, moreover, a little out of humor 
with himself for having been such a blunderer as to give her 
offense, and thus leave an unfavorable impression on her 
mind. 

"I suppose I was rude," he considered after awhile. "She 
seemed to think so, at any rate. By Jove! what a crushing 
look she gave me! A peasant? Not she! If she had said she 
was an empress I shouldn't have been much surprised. But 
a common peasant, with that regal figure and those white 
hands! I don't believe it. Perhaps our pilot, Valdemar, 
knows who she is; I must ask him." 

All at once he bethought himself of the cave whence she 
had emerged. It was close at hand — a natural grotto, arched 
and apparently lofty. He resolved to explore it. Glancing 



16 THELMA. 

at ids -watcli lie saw it was not yet one o'clock in the morning, 
yet the voice of the cuckoo called shrilly from the neighbor- 
ing hills, and a circhng group of swallows flitted around him, 
their lovely wings gUstening like jewels in the warm light of 
the ever-wakeful sun. Going to the entrance of the cave, he 
looked in. It was formed of rough rock, hewn out by the 
silent work of the water, and its floor was strewn thick with 
loose pebbles and polished stones. Entering it, he was able 
to walk upright for some few paces; then suddenly it seemed 
to shrink in size and to become darker. The light from the 
opening gradually narrowed into a slender stream too small 
for him to see clearly where he was going; thereupon he struck 
a fusee. At first he could observe no sign of human habita- 
tion, not even a rope, or chain, or hook, to intimate that it 
was a customary shelter for a boat. The fusee went out 
quickly, and he lighted another. Looking more carefully and 
closely about him, he perceived on a projecting shelf of rock, a 
small antique lamp, Etruscan in shape, made of iron and 
wrought with curious letters. There was oil in it, and a half- 
burned wick; it had evidently been recently used. He availed 
himself at once of this useful adjunct to his explorations, and, 
lighting it, was able by the clear and steady flame it emitted, 
to see everything very distinctly. Eight before him was an 
uneven flight of steps leading down to a closed door. 

He paused and listened attentively. There was no sound 
but the slow lapping of the water near the entrance; within, 
the thickness of the cavern walls shut out the gay caroling of 
the birds, and all the cheerful noises of awakening nature. 
Silence, chillness and partial obscurity are depressing influ- 
ences, and the warm blood flowing through his veins ran a 
trifle more slowly and coldly as he felt the sort of uncomfort- 
able eerie sensation which is experienced by the jolliest and 
most careless traveler when he first goes down to the cata- 
combs in Eome. A sort of damp, earthy shudder creeps 
through the system, and a dreary feeling of general hopeless- 
ness benumbs the faculties; a morbid state of body and mind 
which is only to be remedied by a speedy return to the warm 
sunlight, and a draught of generous wine. 

Sir Philip, however, held the antique lamp aloft, and de- 
scended the clumsy steps cautiously, counting twenty steps in 
all, at the bottom of which he found himself face to face with 
the closed door. It was made of hard wood, so hard as to be 



THBLMA. 17 

almost like iron. It was black with age, and covered with 
quaint carvings and inscriptions, but in the middle, standing 
out in bold relief among the numberless Eunic figures and 
devices, was written in large well-cut letters the word — 

THELMA. 

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I have it! The girl's name, of 
course! This is some private retreat of hers, I suppose — a 
kind of boudoir like my Lady Winsleigh's, only with rather a 
difference." 

And he laughed aloud, thinking of the dainty gold-satin 
hangings of a certain room in a certain great mansion in Park 
Lane, where an aristocratic and handsome lady-leader of fash- 
ion had as nearly made love to him as it was possible for her 
to do without losing her social dignity. 

His laugh was echoed back with a weird and hollow sound, 
as though a hidden demon of the cave were mocking him, a 
demon whose merriment was intense but also horrible. He 
heard the unpleasantly jeering repetition with a kind of care- 
less admiration. 

"That echo would make a fortune in *Faust,' if it could be 
persuaded to back up Mephistopheles with that truly fiendish 
'Ha, ha!' " he said, resuming his examination of the name on 
the door. Then an odd fancy seized him, and he called loudly : 

"Thelma!" 

"Thelma!" shouted the echo. 

"Is that her name?" 

"Her name!" replied the echo. 

"I thought so." And Philip laughed again, while the echo 
laughed wildly in answer. "Just the sort of name to suit a 
Norwegian nymph or goddess. Thelma is quaint and appro- 
priate, and as far as I can remember there's no rhyme to it in 
the English language. Thelma!" and he lingered on the pro- 
nunciation of the strange word with a curious sensation of 
pleasure. "There is something mysteriously suggestive about 
the sound of it; like a chord of music played softly in the 
distance. Now, can I get through this door, I wonder?" 

He pushed it gently. It yielded very slightly, and he tried 
again and yet again. Finally he put down the lamp and set 
his shoulder against the wooden barrier with all his force. A 
dull creaking sound rewarded bis efforts, and inch by inch the 
huge door opened into what at first appeared immeasurable 



18 THELMA. 

darkness. Holding up the light he looked in, and uttered a 
smothered exclamation. A sudden gust of wind rushed from 
the sea through the passage and extinguished the lamp, leav- 
ing him in profound gloom. Nothing daunted, he sought his 
fusee-case; there was just one left in it. This he hastily 
struck, and shielding the glow carefully with one hand, re- 
lighted his lamp, and stepped boldly into the mysterious 
grotto. 

The murmur of the wind and waves, like spirit-voices in 
unison, followed him as he entered. He found himself in a 
spacious winding corridor, that had evidently been hollowed 
out in the rocks and fashioned by human hands. Its construc- 
tion was after the ancient Gothic method, but the wonder of 
the place consisted in the walls, which were entirely covered 
with shells — shells of every shape and hue — some delicate as 
rose-leaves, some rough and prickly, others polished as ivory, 
some gleaming with a thousand iridescent colors, others pure 
white as the foam on high billows. Many of them were turned 
artistically in such a position as to show their inner sides 
glistening with soft tints like the shades of fine silk or satin — 
others glittered with the opaline sheen of mother-o'-pearl. 
All were arranged in exquisite patterns, evidently copied from 
fixed mathematical designs — there were stars, crescents, roses, 
sun-flowers, hearts, crossed daggers, ships and implements of 
war, all faithfully depicted with extraordinary neatness and 
care, as though each particular emblem had served some spe- 
cial purpose. 

Sir Philip walked along very slowly, delighted with his dis- 
covery, and — pausing to examine each panel as he passed — 
amused himself with speculations as to the meaning of this 
beautiful cavern, so fancifully yet skillfully decorated. 

"Some old place of worship, I suppose," he thought. "There 
must be many such hidden in different parts of Norway. It 
has nothing to do with the Christian faith, for among all these 
devices I don't perceive a single cross." 

He was right. There were no crosses; but there were many 
designs of the sun — the sun rising, the sun setting, the sun in 
full glory, with all his rays embroidered round him in tiny 
shells, some of them no bigger than a pin's head. 

"What a waste of time and labor," he mused. "Who would 
undertake such a thing nowadays? Fancy the patience an^l 
delicacy of finger required to fit all these shells in their 



THBLMA. 19 

places! and they are imbedded in strong mortar, too, as if the 
work were meant to be indestructible." 

Full of pleased interest, he pursued his way, winding in and 
out through different arches, all more or less richly orna- 
mented, till he came to a tall, round column, which seemingly 
supported the whole gallery, for all the arches converged 
toward it. It was garlanded from top to bottom with roses and 
their leaves, all worked in pink and lilac shells, interspersed 
with small pieces of shining amber and polished malachite. 
The flicker of the lamp he carried made it glisten like a mass 
of jewel-work, and, absorbed in his close examination of this 
unique specimen of ancient art. Sir Philip did not at once per- 
ceive that another light beside his own glimmered from out the 
furthest archway a little beyond him — an opening that led 
into some recess he had not as yet explored. A peculiar luster 
sparkling on one side of the shell-work, however, at last at- 
tracted his attention, and, glancing up quickly, he saw, to his 
surprise, the reflection of a strange radiance, rosily tinted and 
brilliant. 

Turning in its direction, he paused, irresolute. Could there 
be some one living in that furthest chamber to which the long 
passage he had followed evidently led? some one who would 
perhaps resent his intrusion as an impertinence? some eccen- 
tric artist or hermit who had made the cave his home? Or 
was it perhaps a refuge for smugglers? He listened anxiously. 
There was no sound. He waited a minute or two, then boldly 
advanced, determined to solve the mystery. 

This last archway was lower than any of those he had 
passed through, and he was forced to take off his hat and 
stoop as he went under it. When he raised his head he re- 
mained uncovered, for he saw at a glance that the place was 
sacred. He was in the presence, not of Life, but Death. The 
chamber in which he stood was square in form, and more 
richly ornamented with shell designs than any other portion 
of the grotto he had seen, and facing the east was an altar 
hewn out of the solid rock, and studded thickly with amber, 
malachite and mother-o'-pearl. It was covered with the in- 
comprehensible emblems of a by-gone creed worked in most 
exquisite shell patterns, but on it — as though in solemn pro- 
test against the past — stood a crucifix of ebony and carved 
ivory before Avhicb burned steadily a red lamp. 

The meaning of the mysterious light was thus explained, 



20 - THELMA. 

but what chiefly interested Errington was the central object 
of the place — a colfin — or rather a plain granite sarcophagus 
which was placed on the floor lying from north to south. 
Upon it — in strange contrast to the somber coldness of the 
stone — reposed a large wreath of poppies freshly gathered. 
The vivid scarlet of the flowers, the gleam of the shining 
shells on the walls, the mournful figure of the ivory Christ 
stretched on the cross among all those pagan emblems — the 
intense silence broken only by the slow drip, drip of water 
trickling somewhere behind the cavern — and more than these 
outward things — his own impressive conviction that he was 
with the imperial Dead — imperial because past the sway of 
empire — all made a powerful impression on his mind. Over- 
coming by degrees his first sensations of awe, he approached 
the sarcophagus and examined it. It was solidly closed and 
mortared all round, so that it might have been one compact 
coffin-shaped block of stone so far as its outward appearance 
testified. Stooping more closely, however, to look at the 
brilliant poppy wreath, he started back with a slight exclama- 
tion. Cut deeply in the hard granite he read for the second 
time that odd name — 

THELMA, 

It belonged to some one dead, then — not to the lovely living 
woman who had so lately confronted him in the burning glow 
of the midnight sun? He felt dismayed at his unthinking pre- 
cipitation — he had, in his fancy, actually associated her, so 
full of radiant health and beauty, with what was probably a 
moldering corpse in that hermetically sealed tenement of 
stone. This idea was unpleasant, and jarred upon his feel- 
ings. Surely she, that golden-haired nymph of the fjord, had 
nothing to do with death. He had evidently found his way 
into some ancient tomb. "Thelma" might be the name or 
title of some long-departed queen or princess of Norway, yet 
if so, how came the crucifix there — the red lamp, the flowers? 

He lingered, looking curiously about him, as if he fancied 
the shell-embroidered walls might whisper some answer to his 
thoughts. The silence ofl'ered no suggestions. The plaintive 
figure of the tortured Christ suspended on the cross maintained 
an immovable watch over all things, and there was a subtle, 
faint odor floating about as of crushed spices or herbs. While 
he still stood there absorbed in perplexed conjectures, he be- 



THELMA. 21 

came oppressed by want of air. The red hue of the poppy 
wreath mingled with the softer glow of the lamp on the altar 
— the moist glitter of the shells and polished pebbles seemed 
to dazzle and confuse his eyes. He felt dizzy and faint — and 
hastily made his way out of that close death-chamber into the 
passage, where he leaned for a few minutes against the great 
central column to recover himself. A brisk breath of wind 
from the fjord came careering through the gallery, and blew 
coldly upon his forehead. Eefreshed by it, he rapidly over- 
came the sensation of giddiness, and began to retrace his 
steps through the winding arches, thinking with some satis- 
faction as he went, what a romantic incident he would have to 
relate to Lorimer and his other friends, when a sudden glare 
of light illumined the passage, and he was brought to an 
abrupt stand-still by the sound of a wild "Halloo!" The light 
vanished; it reappeared. It vanished again, and again ap- 
peared, flinging a strong flare upon the shell-worked walls as 
it approached. Again the fierce "Halloo!" resounded through 
the hollow cavities of the subterranean temple, and he re- 
mained motionless, waiting for an explanation of this un- 
looked-for turn to the events of the morning. 

He had plenty of physical courage, and the idea of any 
addition to his adventure rather pleased him than otherwise. 
Still, with all his bravery, he recoiled a little when he first 
caught sight of the extraordinary being that emerged from 
the darkness — a wild, distorted figure that ran toward him 
with its head downward, bearing aloft in one skinny hand a 
smoking pine-torch, from which the sparks flew like so many 
fire-flies. This uncanny personage, wearing the semblance of 
man, came within two paces of Errington before perceiving 
him, then, stopping short in his headlong career, the creature 
flourished his torch and uttered a defiant yell. 

Philip surveyed him coolly and without alarm," though so 
weird an object might well have aroused a pardonable distrust, 
and even timidity. He saw a misshapen dwarf, not quite four 
feet high, with large, ungainly limbs out of all proportion to 
his head, which was small and compact. His features were of 
almost feminine fineness, and from under his shaggy brows 
gleamed a restless pair of large, full, wild blue eyes. His 
thick, rough, flaxen hair was long and curly, and hung in dis- 
ordered profusion over his deformed shoulders. His dress 
was of reindeer skin, very fancifully cut, and ornamented with 



22 THELMA. 

beads of different colors, and twisted about him, as though in 
an effort to be artistic, was a long strip of bright scarlet 
woolen material, which showed up the extreme pallor and ill- 
health of the meager countenance, and the brilliancy of the 
eyes that now sparkled with rage as they met those of Erring- 
ton. He, from his superior height, glanced down with pity on 
the unfortunate creature, whom he at once took to be the 
actual owner of the cave he had explored. Uncertain what to 
do, whether to speak or remain silent, he moved slightly as 
though to pass on, but the shock-headed dwarf leaped lightly 
in his way, and, planting himself firmly before him, shrieked 
some unintelligible threat, of which Errington could only 
make out the last words, "Nifieheim" and "Nastrond." 

"I believe he is commending me to the old Norwegian 
inferno," thought the young baronet, with a smile, amused at 
the little man's evident excitement. "Very polite of him, I'm 
sure. But, after all, I had no business here. I'd better apolo- 
gize." And forthwith he began to speak in the simplest Eng- 
lish words he could choose, taking care to pronounce them 
very slowly and distinctly. 

"I can not understand you, my good sir, but I see you are 
angry. I came here by accident. I am going away now at 
once." 

His explanation had a strange effect. The dwarf drew 
nearer, twirled himself rapidly round three times as though 
waltzing, then, holding his torch a little to one side, turned up 
his thin, pale countenance, and, fixing his gaze on Sir Philip, 
studied every feature of his face with absorbing interest. Then 
he burst into a violent fit of laughter. 

"At last — at last!" he cried in fluent English. "Going now? 
Going, you say? Never! never! You \vill never go away any 
more. No, not without something stolen. The dead have 
summoned you here. Their white bony fingers have dragged 
you across the deep. Did you not hear their voices, cold and 
hollow as the winter wind, calling, calling you, and saying: 
'Come, come, proud robber, from over the far seas; come and 
gather the beautiful rose of the northern forest?' Yes, yes! 
You have obeyed the dead — the dead who feign sleep, but are 
ever wakeful — you have come as a thief in the golden mid- 
night, and the thing you seek is the life of Sigurd. Yes — yes, 
it is true. The spirit can not lie. You must kill, you must 
steal. See how the blood drips, drop by drop, from the heart 



THELMA. 23 

of Sigurd! And the jewel you steal — ah, what a jewel! — you 
shall not find such another in Norway!" 

His excited voice sunk by degrees to a plaintive and forlorn 
whisper, and dropping his torch with a gesture of despair on 
the ground, he looked at it burning, with an air of mournful 
and utter desolation. Profoundly touched, as he immediately 
understood the condition of his companion's wandering wits, 
Errington spoke to him soothingly. 

"You mistake me," he said, in gentle accents; "I would not 
steal anything from you, nor have I come to kill you. See," 
and he held out his hand, "I wouldn't harm you for the world. 
I didn't know this cave belonged to you. Forgive me for 
having entered it. I am going to rejoin my friends. Good- 
bye!" 

The strange, half-crazy creature touched his outstretched 
hand timidly and with a sort of appeal. 

"Good-bye, good-bye!" he muttered. "That is what they 
all say — even the dead — good-bye, but they never go — never, 
never! You can not be different to the rest. And you do not 
wish to hurt poor Sigurd ?" 

"Certainly not, if you are Sigurd," said Philip, half laugh- 
ing; "I should be very sorry to hurt you." 

"You are sure?" he persisted, with a sort of obstinate eager- 
ness. "You have eyes which tell truths; but there are other 
things which are truer than eyes — things in the air, in the 
grass, in the waves, and they talk very strangely of you. I 
know you, of course. I knew you ages ago — long before I saw 
you dead on the field of battle, and the black-haired Val- 
kyrie galloped with you to Valhalla. Yes, I knew you long 
before that, and you knew me, for I was your king, and you 
were my vassal, wild and rebellious — not the proud, rich 
Englishman you are to-day." 

Errington started. How could this Sigurd, as he called 
himself, be aware of either his wealth or nationality? 

The dwarf observed his movement of surprise with a cun- 
ning smile. 

"Sigurd is wise — Sigurd is brave. Who shall deceive him? 
He knows you well; he will always know you. The old gods 
teach Sigurd all his wisdom — the gods of the sea and the wind 
— the sleepy gods that lie in the hearts of the flowers — the 
small spirits that sit in shells and sing all day and all night." 



24 THELMA. 

He paused, and his eyes filled with a wistful look of attention. 
He drew closer. 

"Come/' he said, earnestly, "come, you must listen to my 
music; perhaps you can tell me what it means." 

He picked up his smouldering torch and held it aloft again, 
then, beckoning Errington to follow him, he led the way to a 
small grotto, cut deeply into the wall of the cavern. Here 
there were no shell patterns. Little green ferns grew thickly 
out of the stone crevices, and a minute runlet of water trickled 
slowly from above, freshening the delicate frondage as it fell. 
With quick, agile fingers he removed a loose stone from this 
aperture, and as he did so a low shuddering wail resounded 
through the arches — a melancholy moan that rose and sunk, 
and rose again in weird, sorrowful minor echoes. 

"Hear her," murmured Sigurd, plaintively. "She is always 
complaining; it is a pity she can not rest. She is a spirit, you 
know. I have often asked her what troubles her, but she will 
not tell me; she only weeps." 

His companion looked at him compassionately. The sound 
that so afl^ected his disordered imagination was nothing but 
the wind blowing through the narrow hole formed by the re- 
moval of the stone, but it was useless to explain this simple 
fact to one in his condition. 

"Tell me," and Sir Philip spoke very gently, "is this your 
home?" 

The dwarf surveyed him almost scornfully. "My home!" 
he echoed. "My home is everywhere — on the mountains, in 
the forests, on the black rocks and barren shores. My soul 
lives between the sun and the sea; my heart is with Thelma!" 

Thelma! Here was perhaps a clew to the mystery. 

"Who is Thelma?" asked Errington, somewhat hurriedly. 

Sigurd broke into violent and derisive laughter. "Do you 
think I will tell you?" he cried loudly. "You — one of that 
strong, cruel race who must conquer all they see; who covet 
everything fair under heaven, and will buy it, even at the cost 
of blood and tears. Do you think I will unlock the door of 
my treasure to you? 'No, no; besides," and his voice sunk 
lower, "what should you do with Thelma? She is dead." 

And, as if possessed by a sudden access of frenzy, he bran- 
dished his pine-torch wildly above his head till it showered a 
rain of bright sparks above him, and exclaimed, furiously: 

"Away, away, and trouble me not. The days are not yet 



THELMA. 25 

fulfilled — the time is not yet ripe. Why seek to hasten my 
end? Away, away, I tell you. Leave me in peace. I will 
die when Thelma bids me, but not till then." 

And he rushed down the long gallery and disappeared in 
the furthest chamber, where he gave vent to a sort of long 
sobbing cry, which rang dolefully through the cavern and 
then subsided into utter silence. 

Feeling as if he were in a chaotic dream, Errington pursued 
his interrupted course through the winding passages with a 
bewildered and wondering mind. What strange place had he 
inadvertently lighted on, and who were the still stranger 
beings in connection with it ? First the beautiful girl herself; 
next the mysterious coffin, hidden in its fanciful shell temple; 
and now this deformed madman, with the pale face and fine 
eyes, whose utterances, though incoherent, savored somewhat 
of poesy and prophecy. And what spell was attached to that 
name of Thelma? The more he thought of his morning's ad- 
ventiire the more puzzled he became. As a rule, he believed 
more in the commonplace than in the romantic — most people 
do. But truth to tell, romance is far more common than the 
commonplace. There are few who have not, at one time or 
other of their lives, had some strange or tragic episode woven 
into the tissue of their every-day existence, and it would be 
difficult to find one person, even among humdrum individuals, 
who, from birth to death, has experienced nothing out of the 
common. 

Errington generally dismissed all tales of adventure as mere 
exaggerations of heated fancy, and had he read in some book 
of a respectable nineteenth century yachtsman having such an 
interview with a madman in a sea cavern he would have 
laughed at the affair as an utter improbability, though he 
could not have explained why he considered it improbable. 
But now it had occurred to himself, he was both surprised and 
amused at the whole circumstance; moreover, he was suffi- 
ciently interested and curious to be desirous of sifting the 
matter to its foundation. 

It was, however, somewhat of a relief to him when he again 
reached the outer cavern. He replaced the lamp on the shelf 
where he had found it, and stepped once more into the bril- 
liant light of the very early dawn, which then had all the 
splendor of full morning. There was a deliciously balmy 
wind, the blue sky was musical with a chorus of larks, and 



26 THELMA. 

every breath of air that waved aside the long grass sent forth 
a thousand odors from hidden beds of wild thyme and bog- 
myrtle. 

He perceived the "Eulalie" at anchor in her old place on 
the fjord; she had returned while he was absent on his ex- 
plorations. Gathering together his rug and painting materi- 
als, he blew a whistle sharply three times; he was answered 
from the yacht, and presently a boat, manned by a couple of 
sailors, came skimming over the water toward him. It soon 
reached the shore, and entering it, he was speedily rowed away 
from the scene of his morning's experience back to his floating 
palace, where as yet, none of his friends were stirring. 

"How about Jedke?" he inquired of one of his men. "Did 
they climb it?" 

A slow grin overspread the sailor's brown face. 

"Lord bless you, no, sir. Mr. Lorimer, he just looked at it 
and sat down in the shade; the other gentlemen played pitch- 
and-toss with pebbles. They was main hungry too, and eat a 
mighty sight of 'am and pickles. They came on board and all 
turned in at once." 

Errington laughed. He was amused at the utter failure of 
Lorimer's recent sudden energy, but not surprised. His 
thoughts were, however, busied with something else, and he 
next asked: 

"Where's our pilot?" 

"Valdemar Svensen, sir? He went down to his bunk as soon 
as we anchored, for a snooze, he said." 

"All right. If he comes on deck before I do, just tell him 
not to go ashore for anything till I see him. I want to speak 
to him after breakfast." 

"Ay, ay, sir." 

Whereupon Sir Philip descended to his private cabin. He 
drew the blind at the port-hole to shut out the dazzling sun- 
light, for it was nearly three o'clock in the morning, and 
quickly undressing, he flung himself into his berth with a 
slight, not altogether unpleasant, feeling of exhaustion. To 
the last as his eyes closed drowsily he seemed to hear the slow 
drip, drip of the water behind the rocky cavern, and the deso- 
late cry of the incomprehensible Sigurd, while through these 
sounds that mingled with the gurgle of little waves lapping 
against the sides of the "Eulalie," the name of "Thelma" 
murmured itself in his ears till slumber drowned his senses in 
oblivion. 



THELMA. 27 



CHAPTEE III. 

Hast any mortal name, 

Fit appellation for this dazzling frame, 

Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth? 

Keats. 

"This is positively absurd," murmured Lorimer, in mildly 
injured tones, seven hours later, as he sat on the edge of his 
berth, surveying Errington, who, fully dressed and in the 
highest spirits, had burst in to upbraid him for his laziness 
while he was yet but scantily attired. "I tell you, my good 
fellow, there are some things which the utmost stretch of 
friendship will not stand. Here am I in shirt and trousers 
with only one sock on, and you dare to say you have had an ad- 
venture. Why, if you had cut a piece out of the sun you 
ought to wait till a man is shaved before mentioning it." 

"Don't be snappish, old boy," laughed Errington, gayly. 
"Put on that other sock and listen. I don't want to tell those 
other fellows just yet; they might go making inquiries about 
her—" 

"Oh, there is a 'her' in the case, is there?" said Lorimer, 
opening his eyes rather widely. "Well, Phil! I thought you 
had had enough, and something too much, of women." 

"This is not a woman!" declared Philip, with heat and 
eagerness, "at least not the sort of woman I have ever known. 
This is a forest-empress, a sea-goddess, or sun-angel. I don't 
know what she is, upon my life!" 

Lorimer regarded him with an air of reproachful offense. 

"Don't go on — please don't!" he implored. "I can't stand 
it — I really can't! Incipient verse-mania is too much for me. 
Forest-empress, sea-goddess, sun-angel — by Jove! what next? 
You are evidently in a very bad way. If I remember rightly, 
you had a flask of that old green Chartreuse with you. Ah! 
that accounts for it! Nice stuff, but a little too strong." 

Errington laughed, and, unabashed by his friend's raillery, 
proceeded to relate with much vivacity and graphic fervor the 
occurrences of the morning. Lorimer listened patiently with 
a forbearing smile on his open, ruddy countenance. When 
he had heard everything he looked up and inquired, calmly: 

"This is not a yarn, is it?" 



28 THELMA. 

"A yarn!" exclaimed Philip. "Do you think I would in- 
vent such a thing?" 

"Can't say/' returned Lorimer, imperturbably. "You are 
quite capable of it. It's a verj^ creditable crammer, due to 
Chartreuse. Might have been designed by Victor Hugo; it's 
in his style. Scene, Norway — midnight. Mysterious maiden 
steals out of a cave and glides away in a boat over the water; 
man, the hero, goes into cave, finds a stone coffin, says — 
'Qu''est-ce que c^est? Dieu! C'est la mort!' Spectacle 

ajfreux! Staggers back perspiring, meets mad dwarf with 
torch; mad dwarf talks a good deal — mad people always do — 
then yells and runs away. Man comes out of cave and — and 
— goes home to astonish his friends; one of them won't be 
astonished — that's me." 

"I don't care," said Errington. "It's a true story for all 
that. Only, I say, don't talk of it before the others; let's 
keep our own counsel — " 

"No poachers allowed on the Sun-Angel Manor!" inter- 
rupted Lorimer, gravely. Phihp went on without heeding 
him. 

"I'll question Valdemar Svensen after breakfast. He knows 
everybody about here. Come and have a smoke on deck when 
I give you the sign, and we'll cross-examine him." 

Lorimer still looked incredulous. "What's the good of it?" 
he inquired, languidly. Even if it's all true you had much 
better leave this goddess, or whatever you call her, alone, 
especially if she has any mad connections. What do you 
want with her?" 

"jSTothing!" declared Errington, though his color height- 
ened. "Nothing, I assure you! It's just a matter of curiosity 
\^dth me. I should like to know who she is — that's all. The 
aifair won't go any further." 

"How do you know?" and Lorimer began to brush his stiff 
curly hair with a sort of vicious vigor. "How can you tell? 
I'm not a spiritualist, nor any sort of a humbug at all, I hope, 
but I sometimes indulge in presentiments. Before we started 
on this cruise I was haunted by that dismal old ballad of Sir 
Patrick Spens — 

" 'The king's daughter of Norroway 
'Tis thou maun bring her hame!' 



THELMA. 29 

And here you have found her, or so it appears. What's to 
come of it, I wonder?" 

"Nothing's to come of it; nothing will come of it!" laughed 
Philip. "As I told you, she said she was a peasant. There's 
the breakfast-bell! Make haste, old boy. I'm as hungry as 
a hunter!'^ 

And he left his friend to finish dressing, and entered the 
saloon, where he greeted his two other companions, Alec, or, 
as he was oftener called, Sandy Macfarlane, and Pierre Du- 
prez; the former an Oxford student — the latter a young fellow 
whose acquaintance he had made in Paris, and with whom he 
had kept up a constant and friendly intercourse. A greater 
contrast than these two presented could scarcely be imagined. 
Macfarlane was tall and ungainly, with large loose joints that 
seemed to protrude angularly out of him in every direction — 
Duprez was short, slight and wiry, with a dapper and by no 
means ungraceful figure. The one had formal, gauche man- 
ners, a never-to-be-eradicated Glasgow accent, and a slow, 
infinitely tedious method of expressing himself — the other was 
full of restless movement and pantomimic gesture, and being 
proud of his English, plunged into that language recklessly, 
making it curiously light and flippant, though picturesque, 
as he went. Macfarlane was destined to become a shining 
light of the established Church of Scotland, and therefore 
took life very seriously — Duprez was the spoiled only child of 
an eminent French banker, and had very little to do but enjoy 
himself, and that he did most thoroughly, without any calcu- 
lation or care for the future. " On all points of taste and opin- 
ion they differed widely; but there was no doubt about their 
both being good-hearted fellows, without any affectation of 
abnormal vice or virtue. 

"So you did not climb Jedke after all!" remarked Errington, 
laughingly, as they seated themselves at the breakfast table. 

"My friend, what would you!" cried Duprez. "I have not 
said that I will climb it; no! I never say that I will do any- 
thing, because I'm not sure of myself. How can I be? It is 
that cher enfant, Lorimer, that said such brave words. See! — 
we arrive; we behold the shore — all black, great, vast! — rocks 
like needles, and, higher than all, this most fierce Jedke — bah ! 
what a name! — straight as the spire of a cathedral. One must 
be a fly to crawl up it, and we, we are not flies — ma foil no! 
Lorimer, he laugh, he yawn — so! He say, 'Not for me to- 



30 THBLMA. 

day; I very much thank you!' And then, we watch the sun. 
Ah! that was grand, glorious, beautiful!" And Duprez kissed 
the tips of his fingers in ecstasy. 

"What did you think about it, Sandy?" asked Sir Philip. 

"I didna think much," responded Macfarlane, shortly. "It's 
no sae grand a sight as a sunset in Skye. And it's an uncanny 
business to see the sun losin' a' his poonctooality, and re- 
mainin' stock still, as it were, when it's his plain duty to set 
below the horizon. Mysel', I think it's been fair overrated. 
It's unnatural an' oot o' the common, say what ye like." 

"Of course it is," agreed Lorimer, who just then sauntered 
in from his cabin. "Nature is most unnatural. I always 
thought so. Tea for me, Phil, please; coffee wakes me up too 
suddenly. I say, what's the programme to-day?" 

"Fishing in the Alten," answered Errington, promptly. 

"That suits me perfectly," said Ijorimer, as he leisurely 
sipped his tea. "I'm an excellent fisher. I hold the line and 
generally forget to bait it. Then — while it trails harmlessly 
in the water, I doze; thus both the fish and I are happy." 

"And this evening," went on Errington, "we must return 
the minister's call. He's been to the yacht twice. We're 
bound to go out of common politeness." 

"Spare us, good Lord!" groaned Lorimer. 

"What a delightfully fat man is that good religious!" cried 
Duprez. "A living proof of the healthiness of Norway!" 

"He's not a native," put in Macfarlane; "he's frae York- 
shire. He's only been a matter of three months here, filling 
the place o' the settled meenister who's awa' for a change of 



air." 



"He's a precious specimen of a humbug, anyhow," sighed 
Lorimer, drearily. "However, I'll be civil to him as long as 
he doesn't ask me to hear him preach. At that suggestion I'll 
fight him. He's soft enough to bruise easily." 

"Ye're just too lazy to fight onybody," declared Macfarlane. 

Lorimer smiled sweetly. "Thanks, awfully! I dare say 
3'ou're right. I've never found it worth while as yet to exert 
myself in any particular direction. No one has asked me to 
exert myself; no one wants me to exert myself; therefore, why 
should i?" 

"Don't ye want to get on in the world?" asked Macfarlane, 
almost brusquely. 

"Dear me, no! What an exhausting idea! Get on in the 



THELMA. 31 

world — what for? I have five hundred a year, and when my 
mother goes over to the majority (long distant be that day, 
for I'm very fond of the dear old lady) I shall have five thou- 
sand — more than enough to satisfy any sane man who doesn't 
want to speculate on the Stock Exchange. Your case, my 
good Mac, is different. You will he a celebrated Scotch di- 
vine. You will preach to a crowd of pious numskulls about 
predestination, and so forth. You will be stump-orator for 
the securing of seats in paradise. Now, now, keep calm! — 
don't mind me. It's only a figure of speech! And the num- 
skulls will call you a 'rare powerfu' rousin' preacher' — isn't 
that the way they go on? and when you die — for die you must, 
most unfortunately — they will give you a three-cornered block 
of granite (if they can make up their minds to part with the 
necessary bawbees) ^vith your name prettily engraved thereon. 
That's all very nice; it suits some people. It wouldn't suit 
me." 

"What would suit you?" queried Errington. "You find 
everything more or less of a bore." 

"Ah, my good little boy!" broke in Duprez. "Paris is the 
place for you. You should live in Paris. Of that you would 
never fatigue yourself." 

"Too much absinthe, secret murder and suicidal mania," 
returned Lorimer, meditatively. "That was a neat idea about 
the coffins though. I never hoped to dine off a coffin." 

"Ah! you mean the Taverne de I'Enfer?" exclaimed Du- 
prez. "Yes; the divine waitresses wore winding-sheets, and 
the wine was served in imitation skulls. Excellent! I re- 
member; the tables were shaped like coifins." 

"Gude Lord Almighty!" piously murmured Macfarlane. 
"What a fearsome sicht!" 

As he pronounced these words with an unusually marked 
accent, Duprez looked inquiring. 

"What does our Macfarlane say?" 

"He says it must have been a 'fearsome sicht,' " repeated 
Lorimer, with even a stronger accent than Sandy's own, 
"which, mon cher Pierre, means all the horrors in your lan- 
guage; ajfreux, epouvantable, navrant — anything you like 
that is sufficiently terrible." 

"Mais, point du tout!" cried Duprez, energetically. "It was 
charming! It made us laugh at death — so much better than 
to cry! And there was a delicious child in a winding-sheet; 



32 THELMA. 

brown curls, laughing eyes and little mouth; ha, ha! but she 
was well worth kissing!" 

"I'd rather follow my own funeral than kiss a lass in a 
winding sheet/' said Sandy, in solemn and horrified tones. 
"It's just awfu' to think on." 

"But see, my friend," persisted Duprez, "you would not be 
permitted to follow your own funeral, not possible — woila! 
Y ou are permitted to kiss the pretty one in the winding-sheet. 
It is possible. Behold the difference!" 

"Never mind the Taverne de I'Enf er just now," said Erring- 
ton, who had finished his breakfast hurriedly. "It's time for 
you fellows to get your fishing toggery on. I'm off to speak 
to the pilot." 

And away he went, followed more slowly by Lorimer, who, 
though he pretended indifference, was rather curious to know 
more, if possible, concerning his friend's adventure of the 
morning. They found the pilot, Valdemar Svensen, leaning 
at his ease against the idle wheel, with his face turned toward 
the eastern sky. He was a stalwart specimen of Norse man- 
hood, tall and strongly built, with thoughtful, dignified fea- 
tures, and keen, clear hazel eyes. His chestnut hair, plenti- 
fully sprinkled with gray, clustered thickly over a broad brow, 
that was deeply furrowed with many a line of anxious and 
speculative thought, and the forcible brown hand that rested 
lightly on the spokes of the wheel told its own tale of hard 
and honest labor. Neither wife nor child, nor living relative 
had Valdemar; the one passion of his heart was the sea. Sir 
Philip Errington had engaged him at Christiansund, hearing 
of him there as a man to whom the intricacies of the fjords 
and the dangers of rock-bound coasts were more familiar than 
a straight road on dry land, and since then the management 
of the "Eulalie" had been entirely intrusted to him. Though 
an eminently practical sailor, he was half a mystie, and be- 
lieved in the wildest legends of his land with more implicit 
faith than many so-called Christians believe in their sacred 
doctrines. He doffed his red cap respectfully now as Erring- 
ton and Lorimer approached, smilingly wishing them "a fair 
day." Sir Philip offered him a cigar, and, coming to the point 
at once, asked abruptly: 

"I say, Svensen, are there any pretty girls in Bosekop?" 

The pilot drew the newly lighted cigar from his mouth, and 



THELMA. 33 

passed his rough hand across his forehead in a sort of grave 
perplexity. 

"It is a matter in which I am foohsh," he said at last, "for 
my ways have always gone far from the ways of women. 
Girls there are plenty, 1 suppose, but — " he mused with pon- 
dering patience for awhile. Then a broad smile broke like 
sunshine over his imbrowned countenance, as he continued: 
"Now, gentlemen, I do remember well, it is said that at Bose- 
kop yonder are to be found some of the homeliest wenches in 
all Norway." 

Errington's face fell at this reply. Lorimer turned away to 
hide the mischievous smile that came on his lips at his friend's 
discomfiture. 

"I know it was that Chartreuse," he thought to himself. 
"That and the midnight sun-eflects. Nothing else!" 

"What!" went on Philip. "No good-looking girls at all 
about here, eh?" 

Svensen shook his head, still smiling. 

"Not at Bosekop, sir, that I ever heard of." 

"I say!" broke in Lorimer, "are there any old tombs or sea- 
eaves, or places of that sort close by worth exploring?" 

Valdemar Svensen answered this question readily, almost 
eagerly. 

"No, sir! There are no antiquities of any sort; and as for 
caves there are plenty, but only the natural formations of the 
sea, and none of these are curious or beautiful on this side of 
the fjord." 

Lorimer poked his friend secretly in the ribs. 

"You've been dreaming, old fellow!" he whispered, slyly. 
"I knew it was a crammer!" 

Errington shook him off good-humoredly. 

"Can you tell me," he said, addressing Valdemar again in 
distinct accents, "whether there is any place, person, or thing 
near here called Thelma?" 

The pilot started; a look of astonishment and fear came into 
his eyes; his hand went instinctively to his red cap, as though 
in deference to the name. 

"The Froken Thelma!" he exclaimed, in low tones. "Is it 
possible that you have seen her?" 

"Ah, George, what do you say now?" cried Errington, de- 
lightedly. "Yes, yes, Valdemar; the Froken Thelma, as you 

8 



34 THELMA. 

call her. Who is she? What is she? — and how can there be 
no pretty girls in Bosekop if such a beautiful creature as she 
lives there?" 

Valdemar looked troubled and vexed. 
"Truly, I thought not of the maiden," he said, gravely. 
" 'Tis not for me to speak of the daughter of Olaf ," here his 
voice sunk a little, and his face grew more and more somber. 
"Pardon me, sir, but how did you meet her?" 

"By accident," replied Errington, promptly, not caring to 
relate his morning's adventure for the pilot's benefit. "Is she 
some great personage here?" 

Svensen sighed, and smiled somewhat dubiously. 
"Great? Oh, no; not what you would call great. Her fath- 
er, Olaf Guldmar, is a bonde — that is, a farmer in his own 
right. He has a goodly house, and a few fair acres well 
planted and tilled — also he pays his men freely — but those 
that work for him are all he sees — neither he nor his daughter 
ever visit the town. They dwell apart, and have nothing in 
common with their neighbors." 

"And where do they live?" asked Lorimer, becoming as in- 
terested as he had formerly been incredulous. 

The pilot leaned lightly over the rail of the deck and pointed 
toward the west. 

"You see that great rock shaped like a giant's helmet, and 
behind it a high green knoll, clustered thick with birch and 
pine?" 

They nodded assent. 

"At the side of the knoll is the bonde's house, a good eight- 
mile walk from the outskirts of Bosekop. Should you ever 
seek to rest there, gentlemen," and Svensen spoke with quiet 
resolution, "I doubt whether you will receive a pleasant wel- 
come." 

And he looked at them both with an inquisitive air, as 
though seeking to discover their intentions. 

"Is that so?" drawled Lorimer, lazily, giving his friend an 
expressive nudge. "Ah! We sha'n't trouble them! Thanks 
for your information, Valdemar! We don't intend to hunt up 
the — what d'ye call him? — the bonde, if he's at all surly. 
Hospitality that gives you greeting and a dinner for nothing 
— that's what suits me." 

"Our people are not without hospitality," said the pilot, 
with a touch of wistful and appealing dignity. "All along 



THELMA. 35 

your journey, gentlemen, you have been welcomed gladly, as 
you know. But Olaf Guldmar is not like the rest of us; he has 
the pride and fierceness of olden days; his manners and cus- 
toms are different; and few like him. He is much feared." 

"You know him then?" inquired Errington, carelessly. 

"I know him," returned Valdemar, quietly. "And his 
daughter is fair as the sun and the sea. But it is not my 
place to speak of them — " he broke off, and after a slightly 
embarrassed pause, asked: "Will theHerren wish to sail to- 
day?" 

"No, Valdemar," answered Errington, indifferently. "Not 
till to-morrow, when we'll visit the Kaa Fjord if the weather 
keeps fair." 

"Very good, sir," and the pilot, tacitly avoiding any further 
converse with his employer respecting the mysterious Thelma 
and her equally mysterious father, turned to examine the 
wheel and compass as though something there needed his 
earnest attention. Errington and Lorimer strolled up and 
down the polished white deck arm in arm, talking in low 
tones. 

"You didn't ask him about the coffin and the dwarf," said 
Lorimer. 

"No; because I believe he knows nothing of either, and it 
would be news to him which I'm not bound to give. If I can 
manage to see the girl again the mystery of the cave may ex- 
plain itself." 

"Well, what are you going to do?" 

Errington looked meditative. "Nothing at present. We'll 
go fishing with the others. But, I tell you what, if you're up 
to it, we'll leave Duprez and Macfarlane at the minister's 
house this evening and tell them to wait for us there — once 
they all begin to chatter they never know how time goes. 
Meanwhile you and I will take the boat and row over in search 
of this farmer's abode. I believe there's a short cut to it by 
water; at any rate I know the way she went." 

" 'I know the way she went home with her maiden posy!' " 
quoted Lorimer, with a laugh. "You are hit, Phil, 'a very 
palpable hit!' Who would have thought it! Clara Winsleigh 
needn't poison her husband after all in order to marry you, 
for nothing but a sun-empress will suit you now." 

"Don't be a fool, George," said Errington, half vexedly, as 
the hot color mounted to his face in spite of himself. "It is 



36 THELMA. 

all idle curiosity, nothing else. After what Svensen told us, 
I'm quite as anxious to see this gruft* old bonde as his daugh- 
ter." 

Lorimer held up a reproachful finger. "Now, Phil, don't 
stoop to duplicity— not with me, at any rate. Why disguise 
your feelings? Why, as the tragedians say, endeavor to crush 
the noblest and best emotions that ever warm the boozum of 
man? CMvalrous sentiment and admiration for beauty — 
chivalrous desire to pursue it and catch it and call it your 
own— I understand it all, my dear boy! But my prophetic 
soul tells me you will have to strangle the excellent Olaf Guld- 
mar — heavens! what a name! — before you will be allowed to 
make love to his fair chee-ild. Then don't forget the mad- 
man with the torch — he may turn up in the most unexpected 
fashion and give you no end of trouble. But, by Jove, it is a 
romantic affair, positively quite stagey! Something will come 
of it, serious or comic. I wonder which?" 

Errington laughed, but said nothing in reply, as their two 
companions ascended from the cabin at that moment, in full 
attire for the fishing expedition, followed by the steward bear- 
ing a large basket of provisions for luncheon — and all private 
conversation came to an end. Hastening the rest of their 
preparations, within twenty minutes they were skimming 
across the fjord in a long boat manned by four sailors, who 
rowed with a will and sent the light craft scudding through 
the water with the swiftness of an arrow. Landing, they 
climbed the dewy hills spangled thick with forget-me-nots 
and late violets, till they reached a shady and secluded part of 
the river, where, surrounded by the songs of hundreds of 
sweet-throated birds, they commenced their sport, which kept 
them well employed till a late hour in the afternoon. 



CHAPTEE IV. 

Thou art violently carried away from grace; there is a devil 
haunts thee in the likeness of a fat old man— a tun of man is thy 
companion. — Shakespeabe. 

The Eeverend Charles Dyceworthy sat alone in the small 
dining-room of his house at Bosekop, finishing a late tea, and 
disposing of round after round of hot buttered toast with that 



THELMA. 37 

buave alacrity he always displayed in the consumption of suc- 
culent eatables. He was a largely made man, very much on 
the wrong side of fifty, with accumulations of unwholesome 
fat on every available portion of his body. His round face 
was cleanly shaven and shiny, as though its flabby surface were 
frequently polished with some sort of luminous grease instead 
of the customary soap. His mouth was absurdly small and 
pursy for so broad a countenance — his nose seemed endeavor- 
ing to retreat behind his puffy cheeks as though painfully 
aware of its own insignificance — and he had little, sharp, fer- 
ret-like eyes of a dull mahogany brown, which were utterly 
destitute of even the faintest attempt at any actual expression. 
They were more like glass beads than eyes, and glittered under 
their scanty fringe of pale-colored lashes with a sort of shal- 
low cunning which might mean malice or good-humor — no 
one looking at them could precisely determine which. His 
hair was of an indefinite shade, neither light nor dark, some- 
what of the tinge of a dusty potato before it is washed clean. 
It was neatly brushed and parted in the middle with mathe- 
matical precision, while from the back of his head it was 
brought in two projections, one on each side, like budding 
wings behind his ears. It was impossible for the most fastidi- 
ous critic to find fault with the lieverend Mr. Dyceworthy's 
hands. He had beautiful hands, white, soft, plump and well- 
shaped — his delicate filbert nails were trimmed with punctil- 
ious care, and shone with a pink luster that was positively 
charming. He was evidently an amiable man, for he smiled 
to himself over his tea — he had a trick of smiling — ill-natured 
people said he did it on purpose, in order to widen his mouth 
and make it more in proportion to the size of his face. Such 
remarks, however, emanated only from the spiteful and envious 
who could not succeed in winning the social popularity that 
everywhere attended Mr. Dyceworthy's movements. For he 
was undoubtedly popular — no one could deny that. In the 
small Yorkshire town where he usually had his abode, he came 
little short of being adored by the women of his own particular 
sect, who crowded to listen to his fervent discourses, and 
came away from them on the verge of hysteria, so profoundly 
moved were their sensitive souls by his damnatory doctrines. 
The men were more reluctant in their admiration, yet even 
they were always ready to admit "that he was an excellent fel- 
low, with his heart in the right place." 



38 THELMA. 

He had a convenient way of getting ill at the proper seasons, 
and of requiring immediate change of air, whereupon his grate- 
ful flock were ready and willing to subscribe the money neces- 
sary for their beloved preacher to take repose and relaxation 
in any part of the world he chose. This year, however, they 
had not been asked to furnish the usual funds for traveling 
expenses, for the resident minister of Bosekop, a frail, gentle 
old man, had been seriously prostrated during the past winter 
with an affection of the lungs, which necessitated his going 
to a different climate for change and rest. Knowing Dyce- 
worthy as a zealous member of the Lutheran persuasion, and, 
moreover, as one who had in his youth lived for some years in 
C'hristiania — thereby gaining a knowledge of the Norwegian 
tongue — he invited him to take his place for his enforced time 
of absence, offering him his house, his servants, his pony-car- 
riage and an agreeable pecuniary douceur in exchange for his 
services — proposals which the Eeverend Charles eagerly ac- 
cepted. Though Norway was not exactly new to him, the 
region of the Alien Fjord was, and he at once felt, though he 
knew not why, that the air there would be the very thing to 
benefit his delicate constitution. Besides, it looked well for 
at least one occasion, to go away for the summer without ask- 
ing his congregation to pay for his trip. It was generous on 
his part, almost noble. 

The ladies of his flock wept at his departure and made him 
socks, comforters, slippers, and other consoling gear of like 
description to recall their sweet memories to his saintly mind 
during his absence from their society. But, truth to tell, Mr. 
Dyceworthy gave little thought to these fond and regretful 
fair ones; he was much too comfortable at Bosekop to look 
back with any emotional yearning to the ugly, precise little 
provincial town he had left behind him. The minister's quaint, 
pretty house suited him perfectly; the minister's servants were 
most punctual in their services; the minister's phaeton conven- 
iently held his cumbrous person, and the minister's pony was 
a quiet beast, that trotted good-temperedly wherever it was 
guided, and shied at nothing. Yes, he was thoroughly com- 
fortable — as comfortable as a truly pious fat man deserves to 
be, and all the work he had to do was to preach twice on Sun- 
days, to a quiet, primitive, decently ordered congregation, who 
listened to his words respectfully though without displaying 
any emotional rapture. Their stolidity, however, did not affect 



THELMA. 39 

him — he preached to please himself — loving above all things 
to hear the sound of his own voice, and never so happy as 
when thundering fierce denunciations against the Church of 
Rome. His thoughts seemed tending in that direction now, 
as he poured himself out his third cup of tea and smilingly 
shook his head over it, while he stirred the cream and sugar 
in — for he took from his waistcoat pocket a small glittering 
object and laid it before him on the table, still shaking his 
head and smiling with a patient, yet reproachful air of super- 
ior wisdom. It was a crucifix of mother-o'-pearl and silver, 
the symbol of the Christian faith. But it seemed to carry no 
sacred suggestions to the soul of Mr. Dyceworthy. On the con- 
trary, he looked at it with an expression of meek ridicule — 
ridicule that bordered on contempt. 

"A Eoman," he murmured placidly to himself, between two 
large bites of toast. "The girl is a Roman, and thereby hope- 
lessly damned." 

And he smiled again — more sweetly than before, as though 
the idea of hopeless damnation suggested some peculiarly 
agreeable reflections. And folding his fine cologne-scented 
cambric handkerchief, he carefully wiped his fat white fingers 
free from the greasy marks of the toast, and, taking up the 
objectionable cross gingerly, as though it were red-hot, he 
examined it closely on all sides. There were some words en- 
graved on the back of it, and after some trouble Mr. Dyce- 
worthy spelled them out. They were "Passio Christi, conforta 
me. Thelma" 

He shook his head with a sort of resigned cheerfulness. 

"Hopelessly danmed," he murmured again, gently, "un- 
less — " 

What alternative suggested itself to his mind was not pre- 
cisely apparent, for his thoughts suddenly turned in a more 
frivolous direction. Rising from the now exhausted tea-table, 
he drew out a small pocket-mirror and surveyed himself there- 
in with mild approval. With the extreme end of his handker- 
chief he tenderly removed two sacrilegious crumbs that pre- 
sumed to linger in the corners of his piously pursed mouth. 
In the same way he detached a morsel of congealed butter that 
clung pertinaciously to the end of his bashfully retreating 
nose. This done, he again looked at himself with increased 
satisfaction, and putting by his pocket-mirror rang the bell. 
It was answered at once by a tall, strongly built woman, with 



40 THELMA. 

colorless, stolid countenance — that might have been carved 
out of wood for any expression it had in it. 

"Ulrika," said Mr. Dyceworthy, blandly, "you can clear the 
table." 

Ulrika, without answering, began to pack the tea-things to- 
gether in a methodical way, without clattering so much as a 
plate or spoon, and, piling them compactly on the tray, was 
about to leave the room, when Mr. Dyceworthy called to her: 
"Ulrika!" 

"Sir?" 

"Did you ever see a thing like this before?" and he held up 
the crucifix to her gaze. 

The woman shuddered, and her dull eyes lighted up with a 
sudden terror. 

"It is the witch's charm!" she muttered, thickly, while her 
pale face grew yet paler. "Burn it, sir! — burn it, and the 
power will leave her." 

Mr. Dyceworthy laughed indulgently. "My good woman, 
you mistake," he said, suavely. "Your zeal for the true gos- 
pel leads you into error. There are thousands of misguided 
persons who worship such a thing as this. It is often all of 
our dear Lord they know. Sad, very sad! But still, though 
they, alas! are not of the elect, and are plainly doomed to per- 
dition — they are not precisely what are termed witches, Ul- 
rika." 

"She is," replied the woman with a sort of ferocity; "and 
if I had my way, I would tell her so to her face, and see what 
would happen to her then!" 

"Tut, tut!" remarked Mr. Dyceworthj'-, amiably. "The days 
of witchcraft are past. You show some little ignorance, Ul- 
rika. You are not acquainted with the great advancement of 
recent learning." 

"May be, may be," and Ulrika turned to go: but she mut- 
tered sullenly as she went: "There be them that know and 
could tell, and them that will have her yet." 

She shut the door behind her with a sharp clang, and, left 
to himself, Mr. Dyceworthy again smiled — such a benignant, 
fatherly smile! He then walked to the window and looked 
out. It was past seven o'clock, an hour that elsewhere would 
have been considered evening, but in Bosekop at that season it 
still seemed afternoon. 

The sun was shining brilliantly, and in the minister's front 



THELMA. 41 

garden the roses were all wide awake. A soft moisture glit- 
tered on every tiny leaf and blade of grass. The penetrating 
and delicious odor of sweet violets scented each puff of wind, 
and now and then the call of the cuckoo pierced the air with a 
subdued, far-olf shrillness. 

From his position Mr. Dyceworthy could catch a glimpse 
through the trees of the principal thoroughfare of Bosekop — a 
small, primitive street enough, of little low houses, which, 
though unpretending from without, were roomy and comfort- 
able within. The distant, cool sparkle of the waters of the 
fjord, the refreshing breeze, the perfume of the flowers, and 
the satisfied impression left on his mind by recent tea and 
toast — all these things combined had a soothing effect on Mr. 
Dyceworthy, and with a sigh of absolute comfort he settled 
his large person in a deep easy-chair and composed himself for 
pious meditation. 

He meditated long — with fast-closed eyes and open mouth, 
while the earnestness of his inward thoughts was clearly dem- 
onstrated now and then by an irrepressible — almost trium- 
phant — cornet-blast from that trifling elevation of his counte- 
nance called by courtesy a nose, when his blissful reverie was 
suddenly broken in upon by the sound of several footsteps 
crunching slowly along the garden path, and, starting up from 
his chair, he perceived four individvials clad in white flannel 
costumes and wearing light straw hats trimmed with flutter- 
ing blue ribbons, who were leisurely sauntering up to his 
door, and stopping occasionally to admire the flowers on their 
way. Mr. Dyceworthy's face reddened visibly with excite- 
ment. 

"The gentlemen from the yacht," he murmured to himself, 
hastily settling his collar and cravat, and pushing up his 
cherubic wings of hair more prominently behind his ears. "I 
never thought they would come. Dear me! Sir Philip Er- 
rington himself, too! I must have refreshments instantly." 

And he hurried from the room, calling his orders to IJlrika 
as he went, and before the visitors had time to ring, he had 
thrown open the door to them himself, and stood smiling 
urbanely on the threshold, welcoming them with enthusiasm 
— and assuring Sir Philip especially how much honored he felt 
by his thus visiting, familiarly and unannounced, his humble 
dwelling. Errington waved his many compliments good- 
humoredly aside, and allowed himself and his friends to be 



42 THELMA. 

marshaled into the best parlor, the draAving-room of the house, 
a pretty little apartment whose window looked out upon a 
tangled yet graceful wilderness of flowers. 

"Nice, cozy place this," remarked Lorimer, as he seated 
himself negligently on the arm of the sofa. "You must be 
pretty comfortable here?" 

Their perspiring and affable host rubbed liis soft white 
hands together gently. 

"I thank Heaven it suits my simple needs," he answered, 
meekly. "Luxuries do not become a poor servant of God." 

"Ah, then you are different to many others who profess to 
serve the same Master," said Duprez, A\-ith a sourire /?w that 
had the devil's own mockery in it. "llonsietcr le bon Dieu is 
very impartial! Some serve Him by constant overfeeding, 
others by constant overstarving; it is all one to Him appar- 
ently! How do you know which among His servants He likes 
best, the fat or the lean?" 

Sandy Macfarlane, though slightly a bigot for his own form 
of doctrine, broke into a low chuckle of irrepressible laughter 
at Duprez's levity, but Mr. Dyceworthy's flabby face betok- 
ened the utmost horror. 

"Sir," he said, gravely, "there are subjects concerning which 
it is not seemly to speak without due reverence. He knoweth 
His own elect. He hath chosen them out from the beginning. 
He summoned forth from the million, the glorious apostle of 
reform, Martin Luther — " 

'' Lehon gaillarcW laughed Duprez, "Tempted by a pretty 
nun! What man could resist! Myself, I would try to upset 
all the creeds of this world if I saw a pretty nun worth my 
trouble. Yes, truly! A pity, though, that the poor Luther 
died of overeating; his exit from life was so undignified!" 

"Shut up, Duprez," said Errington, severely. "You don't 
please Mr. Dyceworthy by your fooling." 

"Oh, pray do not mention it, Sir Philip," murmured the 
reverend gentleman with a mild patience. "We must accus- 
tom ourselves to hear Avith forbearance the opinions of all 
men, howsoever contradictory, otherwise our vocation is of 
no avail. Yet is it sorely grievous to me to consider that 
there should be any person or persons existent who lack the 
necessary faith requisite for the performance of God's prom- 



ises." 



'Ye must understand, Mr. Dyceworthy," said Macfarlane in 



THELMA. 43 

his slow, deliberate manner, "that ye have before ye a young 
Frenchman who doesna believe in onything except himsel' — 
and even as to whether lie himsel' is a mon or a myth, he has 
his doots — verra grave doots." 

Duprez nodded delightedly. "That is so!" he exclaimed. 
"Our dear Sandy puts it so charmingly! To be a myth seems 
original — to be a mere man quite ordinary. I believe it is 
possible to find some good scientific professor who would prove 
me to be a myth — the moving shadow of a dream — imagine! — 
how perfectly poetical!" 

"Yoa talk too much to be a dream, my boy," laughed Er- 
rington, and turning to Mr. Dyceworthy, he added: "I'm 
afraid you must think us a shocking set. We are really none 
of us very religious, I fear, though," and he tried to look seri- 
ous; "if it had not been for Mr. Lorimer, we should have 
come to church last Sunday. Mr. Lorimer was, unfortunately, 
rather indisposed." 

"Ya-as!" drawled that gentleman, turning from the little 
window where he had been gathering a rose for his button- 
hole. "I was knocked up; had fits, and all that sort of thing; 
took these three fellows all their time Sunday to hold me 
down!" 

"Dear me!" and Mr. Dyceworthy was about to make further 
inquiries concerning Mr. Lorimer's present state of health, 
when the door opened, and Ulrika entered, bearing a large 
tray laden with wine and other refreshments. As she set it 
down, she gave a keen covert glance round the room, as though 
rapidly taking note of the appearance and faces of all the 
young men, then, with a sort of stiff courtesy, she departed as 
noiselessly as she had come — not, however, without leaving 
a disagreeable impression on Errington's mind. 

"Eather a stern Phyllis, that waiting-maid of yours," he re- 
marked, watching his host, who was carefully drawing the cork 
from one of the bottles of wine. 

Mr. Dyceworthy smiled. "Oh, no, no! not stern at all," he 
answered, sweetly. "On the contrary, most affable and kind- 
hearted. Her only fault is that she is a little zealous — over- 
zealous for the purity of the faith; and she has suffered much; 
but she is an excellent woman, really excellent. Sir Philip, 
will you try this Lacrima Christi?" 

"Lacrima Christi!" exclaimed Duprez. "You do not surely 
get that in Norway?" 



44 THELMA. 

"It seems strange, certainly," replied Mr. Dyceworthy, "but 
it is a fact that the Italian or Papist wines are often used here. 
The minister whose place I humbly endeavor to fill has his 
cellar stocked with them. The matter is easy of comprehen- 
sion when once explained. The benighted inhabitants of 
Italy, a land lost in the darkness of error, still persist in their 
fasts, notwithstanding the evident folly of their ways — and 
the Norwegian sailors provide them with large quantities of 
fish for their idolatrous customs, bringing back their wines in 
exchange." 

"A very good idea," said Lorimer, sipping the Lacrima with 
evident approval — "Phil, I doubt if your brands on board the 
'Eulalie' are better than this." 

"Hardly so good," replied Errington, with some surprise, as 
he tasted the wine and noted its delicious flavor. "The min- 
ister must be a fine connoisseur. Are there many other fami- 
lies about here, Mr. Dyceworthy, who know how to choose 
their wines so well?" 

Mr. Dyceworthy smiled with a dubious air. 

"There is one other household that in the matter of choice 
liquids is almost profanely particular," he said. "But they 
are people who are ejected with good reason from respectable 
society, and — it behooves me not to speak of their names." 

"Oh, indeed!" said Errington, while a sudden and inexplica- 
ble thrill of indignation fired his blood and sent it in a wave 
of color up to his forehead. "May I ask — " 

But he was interrupted by Lorimer, who, nudging him slyly 
on one side, muttered: "Keep cool, old fellow! You can't 
tell whether he's talking about the Guldmar folk! Be quiet 
— you don't want every one to know your little game." 

Thus adjured, Philip swallowed a large gulp of wine to 
keep down his feelings, and strove to appear interested in the 
habits and caprices of bees, a subject into which Mr. Dyce- 
worthy had just inveigled Duprez and Macfarlane. 

"Come and see my bees," said the Reverend Charles almost 
pathetically. "They are emblems of ever-working and patient 
industry — storing up honey for others to partake thereof." 

"They wudna store it up at a', perhaps, if they knew that," 
observed Sandy, significantly. 

Mr. Dyceworthy positively shone all over with beneficence. 

"They would store it up, sir; yes, they would, even if they 



THELMA. 45 

knew! It is God's will that they should store it up; it is God's 
will that they should show an example of unselfishness, that 
they should tlit from flower to flower sucking therefrom the 
sweetness to impart into strange palates unlike their own. It 
is a beautiful lesson; it teaches us who are the ministers of the 
Lord to likewise suck the sweetness from the flowers of the 
living gospel and impart it gladly to the unbelievers who shall 
find it sweeter than the sweetest honey." 

And he shook his head piously several times, while the 
pores of his fat visage exuded holy oil. Duprez sniggered 
secretly. Macfarlane looked preternaturally solemn. 

"Come," repeated the reverend gentleman, with an inviting 
smile. "Come and see my bees — also my strawberries! I 
shall be delighted to send a basket of the fruit to the yacht, if 
Sir Philip will permit me?" 

Errington expressed his thanks with due courtesy, and has- 
tened to seize the opportunity that presented itself for break- 
ing away from the party. 

"If you will excuse us for twenty minutes or so, Mr. Dyce- 
worthy," he said, "Lorimer and I want to consult a fellow 
here in Bosekop about some new fishing-tackle. We shan't 
be gone long, Mac, you and Duprez wait for us here. Don't 
commit too many depredations on Mr. Dyceworthy's straw- 
berries." 

The reason for their departure was so simply and naturally 
given that it was accepted without any opposing remarks. 
Duprez was delighted to have the chance of amusing himself 
by harassing the Reverend Charles with open professions of 
utter atheism, and Macfarlane, who loved an argument more 
than he loved whisky, looked forward to a sharp discussion 
presently concerning the superiority of John Knox, morally 
and physically, over Martin Luther. So that when the others 
went their way their departure excited no suspicion in the 
minds of their friends, and most unsuspecting of all was the 
placid Mr. Dyceworthy, who, had he imagined for an instant 
the direction in which they were going, would certainly not 
have discoursed on the pleasures of bee-keeping with the calm- 
ness and placid conviction that always distinguished him when 
holding forth on any subject that was attractive to his mind. 
Leading the way through his dewy, rose-grown garden, and 
conversing amicably as he went, he escorted Macfarlane and 
Duprez to what he called with a gentle humor his "Bee- 



46 THELMA. 

Metropolis/' while Errington and Lorimer returned to the 
shore of the fjord, where they had left their boat moored to a 
small, clumsily constructed pier — and entering it, they set 
themselves to the oars and pulled away together with the long, 
steady, sweeping stroke rendered famous by the exploits of 
the Oxford and Cambridge men. After some twenty minutes' 
rowing, Lorimer looked up and spoke as he drew his blade 
swiftly through the bright green water. 

"I feel as though I were aiding and abetting you in some 
crime, Phil. You know, my first impression of this business 
remains the same. You had much better leave it alone." 

"Why?" asked Errington, coolly. 

"Well, 'pon my life I don't know why. Except that, from 
long experience, I have proved that it's always dangerous and 
troublesome to run after a woman. Leave her to run after 
you — she'll do it fast enough." 

"Wait till you see her. Besides I'm not running after any 
woman," averred Philip with some heat. 

"Oh, I beg your pardon — I forgot. She's not a woman; 
she's a sun-angel! You are rowing, not running, after a sun- 
angel. Is that correct? I say, don't drive through the water 
like that; you'll pull the boat round." 

Errington slackened his speed and laughed. "It's only curi- 
osity," he said, lifting his hat, and pushing back the cluster- 
ing dark-brown curls from his brow. "I bet you that sleek 
Dyceworthy fellow meant the old bonde and his daughter, 
when he spoke of persons who were 'ejected' from the social 
circles of Bosekop. Fancy Bosekop society presuming to be 
particular! — what an absurd idea!" 

"My dear fellow, don't pretend to be so deplorably ignorant! 
Surely you know that a trumpery village or a twopenny town 
is much more choice and exclusive in its 'sets' than a great 
city? I wouldn't live in a small place for the world. Every 
inhabitant would know the cut of my clothes by heart, and 
the number of buttons on my waistcoat. The grocer would 
copy the pattern of my trousers — the butcher would carry a 
cane like mine. It would be simply insufferable. To change 
the subject, may I ask you if you know which way you are 
going, for it seems to me we're bound straight for a smash on 
that uncomfortable-looking rock, where there is certainly no 
landing-place." 

Errington stopped pulling, and, standing up in the boat. 



THELMA. 47 

began to examine the surroundings with keen interest. They 
were close to the great crag "shaped like a giant's helmet," as 
Valdemar Svensen had said. It rose sheer out of the water, 
and its sides were almost perpendicular. Some beautiful star- 
shaped sea anemones clung to it in a vari-colored cluster on 
one projection, and the running ripple of the small waves 
broke on its jagged corners with a musical splash and sparkle 
of white foam. Below them, in the emerald mirror of the 
fjord, it was so clear that they could see the fine white sand 
lying at the bottom, sprinkled thick with shells and lithe 
moving creatures of all shapes, while every now and then there 
streamed past them brilliantly tinted specimens of the me- 
dusae, with their long feelers or tendrils, looking like torn 
skeins of crimson and azure floss silk. 

The place was very silent; only the sea-gulls circled round 
and round the summit of the great rock, some of them occa- 
sionally swooping down on the unwary fishes their keen eyes 
perceived in the waters beneath, then up again they soared, 
swaying their graceful wings and uttering at intervals that 
peculiar wild cry that in solitary haunts sounds so intensely 
mournful. Errington gazed about him in doubt for some 
minutes, then suddenly his face brightened. He sat down 
again in the boat and resumed his oar. 

"Eow quietly, George," he said, in a subdued tone. "Quietly 
— round to the left." 

The oars dipped noiselessly, and the boat shot forward — 
then swerved sharply round in the direction indicated — and 
there before them lay a small sandy creek, white and shining 
as though sprinkled with powdered silver. From this, a small 
but strongly built wooden pier ran out into the sea. It was 
carved all over with fantastic figures, and in it, at equal dis- 
tances, were fastened iron rings, such as are used for the safe 
mooring of boats. One boat was there already, and Errington 
recognized it with delight. It was that in which he had seen 
the mysterious maiden disappear. High and dry on the sand, 
and out of reach of the tides, was a neat sailing vessel; its 
name was painted round the stern — "The Valkyrie." 

As the two friends ran their boat on shore, and fastened it 
to the farthest ring of the convenient pier, they caught the 
distant sound of the plaintive "coo-cooing" of turtle doves. 

"You've done it this time, old boy," said Lorimer, speaking 
in a whisper, though he knew not why. "This is the old 



48 THELMA. 

bonde's own private landing-place evidently, and here's a 
footpath leading somewhere. Shall we follow it?" 

Philip emphatically assented, and, treading softly, like the 
trespassers they felt themselves to be, they climbed the as- 
cending narrow way that guided them up from the sea-shore, 
round through a close thicket of pines, where their footsteps 
fell noiselessly on a thick carpet of velvety green moss, dotted 
prettily here and there with the red gleam of ripening wild 
strawberries. Everything was intensely still, and as yet there 
seemed no sign of human habitation. Suddenly a low whir- 
ring sound broke upon their ears, and Errington, who was a 
little in advance of his companion, paused abruptly with a 
smothered exclamation, and drew back on tiptoe, catching 
Lorimer by the arm. 

"By Jove!" he whispered, excitedly, "we've come right up 
to the very windows of the house. Look!" 

Lorimer obeyed, and for once the light Jest died upon his 
lips. Surprise and admiration held him absolutely silent. 



CHAPTER V. 

Elle filait et souriait — et je crois qu'elle enveloppa mon coeur 
avec son fil. — Heine. 

Before them, close enough for their outstretched hands to 
have touched it, was what appeared to be a framed picture, 
exquisitely painted — a picture perfect in outline, matchless in 
color, faultless in detail — but which was in reality nothing but 
a large latticed window thrown wide open to admit the air. 
They could now see distinctly through the shadows cast by 
the stately pines a long, low, rambling house, built roughly, 
but strongly, of wooden rafters, all overgrown with green and 
blossoming creepers; but they scarcely glanced at the actual 
building, so strongly was their attention riveted on the one 
window before them. It was surrounded by an unusually 
broad frame-work, curiously and elaborately carved, and black 
as polished ebony. Flowers grew all about it — sweet pease, 
mignonette, and large purple pansies — while red and white 
climbing roses rioted in untrained profusion over its wide sill. 
Above it was a quaintly built dove-cote, where some of the 



THELMA. 49 

strutting fan-tailed inhabitants were perched, swelling out 
their snowy breasts and discoursing of their domestic trials in 
notes of dulcet melancholy; while lower down, three or four 
ring-doves nestled on the roof in a patch of sunlight, spread- 
ing up their pinions like miniature sails, to catch the warmth 
and luster. 

Within the deep, shadowy embrasure, like a jewel placed 
on dark velvet, was seated a girl spinning — no other than the 
mysterious maiden of the shell cavern. She was attired in a 
plain, straight gown, of some soft, white woolen stuff, cut 
squarely at the throat; her round, graceful arms were partially 
bare, and as the wheel turned swiftly, and her slender hands 
busied themselves with the flax, she smiled, as though some 
pleasing thought had touched her mind. Her smile had the 
effect of sudden sunshine in the dark room where she sat and 
spun — it was radiant and mirthful as the smile of a happy 
child. Yet her dark-blue eyes remained pensive and earnest, 
and the smile soon faded, leaving her fair face absorbed and 
almost dreamy. The whirr-whirring of the wheel grew less 
and less rapid — it slackened — it stopped altogether — and, as 
though startled by some unexpected sound, the girl paused 
and listened, pushing away the clustering masses of her rich 
hair from her brow. Then rising slowly from her seat, she 
advanced to the window, put aside the roses with one hand, 
and looked out — thus forming another picture as beautiful, if 
not more beautiful, than the first. 

Lorimer drew his breath hard. ''1 say, old fellow," he 
whispered; but Errington pressed his arm with vise-like firm- 
ness, as a warning to him to be silent, while they both stepped 
further back into the dusky gloom of the pine-boughs. 

The girl, meanwhile, stood motionless, in a half-expectant 
attitude, and, seeing her there, some of the doves on the roof 
flew down and strutted on the ground before her, coo-cooing 
proudly, as though desirous of attracting her attention. One 
of them boldly perched on the window-sill; she glanced at the 
bird musingly, and softly stroked its opaline wings and shining 
head without terrifying it. It seemed delighted to be noticed, 
and almost lay down under her hand in order to be more con- 
veniently caressed. Still gentl}^ smoothing its feathers, she 
leaned further out among the clambering wealth of blossoms, 
and called in a low, penetrating tone: "Father! father! is that 
you?" 



50 THBLMA. 

There was no answer; and, after waiting a minute or two, 
she moved and resumed her former seat — the stray doves flew 
back to their customary promenade on the roof, and the 
drowsy whirr-whirr of the sjDinning-wheel murmured again its 
monotonous hum upon the air. 

"Come on, Phil," whispered Lorimer, determined not to be 
checked this time; "I feel perfectly wretched! It's mean of 
us to be skulking about here, as if we were a couple of low 
thieves waiting to trap some of those birds for a pigeon-pie. 
Come away — ^you've seen her; that's enough." 

Errington did not move. Holding back a branch of pine, 
he watched the movements of the girl at her wheel with ab- 
sorbed fascination. 

Suddenly her sweet lips parted, and she sung a weird, wild 
melody, that seemed, like a running torrent, to have fallen 
from the crests of the mountains, bringing with it echoes from 
the furthest summits, mingled with soft wailings of a mourn- 
ful wind. 

Her voice was pure as the ring of fine crystal — deep, liquid 
and tender, with a restrained passion in it that stirred Erring- 
ton's heart and filled it with a strange unrest and feverish 
yearning — emotions which were new to him, and which, while 
he realized their existence, moved him to a sort of ashamed 
impatience. He would have willingly left his post of observa- 
tion now, if only for the sake of shaking off his unwonted 
sensations; and he took a step or two backward for that pur- 
pose, when Lorimer, in his turn, laid a detaining hand on his 
shoulder. 

"For Heaven's sake, let us hear the song through!" he said 
in subdued tones. "What a voice! A positive golden flute!" 

His rapt face betokened his enjoyment, and Errington, 
nothing loath, still lingered, his eyes fixed on the white-robed 
slim figure framed in the dark old rose-wreathed window — the 
figure that swayed softly with the motion of the wheel and the 
rhythm of the song — while flickering sunbeams sparkled now 
and then on the maiden's dusky gold hair, or touched up a 
warmer tint on her tenderly flushed cheeks and fair neck, more 
snowy than the gown she wore. Music poured from her lips as 
from the throat of a nightingale. The words she sung 
were Norwegian, and her listeners understood nothing of 
them; but the melody — the pathetic, appealing melody — soul- 
moving as all true melody must be, touched the very core of 



THELMA. 51 

their hearts and entangled them in a web of delicious reveries. 

"Talk of Ary Sclieii'er's Gretchen!" murmured Lorimer, 
with a sigh. "What a miserable, pasty, milk-and- watery young 
person she is beside that magniiicent, unconscious beauty! 1 
give in, Phil! I admit your taste. I'm willing to swear that 
she's a sun-angel if you like. Her voice has convinced me of 
that." 

At that instant the song ceased. Errington turned and re- 
garded him steadfastly. 

"Are you hit, George?" he said softly, with a forced smile. 

Lorimer's face flushed, but he met his friend's eyes frankly. 

"I am no poacher, old fellow," he answered in the same 
quiet accents; "I think you know that. If that girl's mind is 
as lovely as her face, I say go in and win!" 

Sir Philip smiled. His brow cleared and an expression of 
relief settled there. The look of gladness was unconscious, 
but Lorimer saw it at once, and noted it. 

"Nonsense!" he said, in a mirthful under-tone. "How can 
I go in and win, as you say? What am I to do? I can't go up 
to that window and speak to her — she might take me for a 
thief." 

"You look like a thief," replied Lorimer, surveying his 
friend's athletic figure, clad in its loose but well-cut yachting 
suit of white flannel, ornamented with silver anchor-buttons, 
and taking a comprehensive glance from the easy pose of the 
fine head and handsome face, down to the trim foot with the 
high and well-arched instep. "Very much like a thief! I 
wonder I haven't noticed it before. Any London policeman 
would arrest you on the mere fact of your suspicious appear- 
ance." 

Errington laughed. "Well, my boy, whatever my looks may 
testify, I am at this moment an undoubted trespasser on 
private property — and so are you for that matter. What shall 
we do?" 

"Find the front door and ring the bell," suggested George, 
promptly. "Say we are beniglited travelers and have lost our 
way. The bonde can but flay us. The operation, I believe, is 
painful, but it can not last long." 

"George, you are incorrigible. Suppose we go back and try 
the other side of this pine wood? That might lead us to the 
front of the house." 

"I don't see why we shouldn't walk coolly past that win- 



52 THELMA, 

dow/' said Lorimer. "If any observation is made by the fair 
Marguerite yonder, we can boldly say we have come to see 
the bonde.'' 

Unconsciously they had both raised their voices a little dur- 
ing the latter part of their hasty dialogue, and at the instant 
when Lorimer uttered the last words, a heavy hand was laid 
on each of their shoulders — a hand that turned them round 
forcibly away from the window they had been gazing at, and 
a deep, resonant voice addressed them. 

"The bonde? Truly, young men, you need seek no further 
—I am Olaf Guldmar/' 

Had he said, "I am an emperor," he could not have spoken 
with more pride. 

Errington and his friend were for a moment speechless — 
partly from displeasure at the summary manner in which they 
had been seized and twisted round like young uprooted sap- 
lings, and partly from surprise and involuntary admiration for 
the personage who had treated them with such scant courtesy. 
They saw before them a man somewhat above the middle 
height, who might have served an aspiring sculptor as a per- 
fect model for a chieftain of old Gaul, or a dauntless Viking. 
His frame was firmly and powerfully built, and seemed to be 
exceptionally strong and muscular, yet an air of almost courtly 
grace pervaded his movements, making each attitude he as- 
sumed more or less picturesque. He was broad-shouldered 
and deep-chested; his face was full and healthily colored, 
while his head was truly magnificent. Well-poised and 
shapely, it indicated power, will and wisdom, and was further- 
more adorned by a rough, thick mass of snow-white hair that 
shone in the sunlight like spun silver. His beard was short 
and curly, trimmed after the fashion of the warriors of old 
Rome, and, from under his fierce fuzzy, gray eyebrows a pair 
of sentinel eyes, that were keen, clear and bold as an eagle's, 
looked out with a watchful steadiness — steadiness, that, like 
the sharp edge of a diamond, seemed warranted to cut through 
the brittle glass of a lie. Judging by his outward appearance, 
his age might have been guessed at as between fifty-eight and 
sixty, but he was, in truth, seventy-two, and more strong, 
active and daring than many another man whose years are not 
counted past the thirties. He was curiously attired, after 
something of the fashion of the Highlander, and something 
yet more of the ancient Greek, in a tunic, vest and loose 



THELMA. 53 

jacket all made of reindeer skin, thickly embroidered with 
curious designs worked in coarse thread and colored beads; 
while thrown carelessly over his shoulders and knotted at his 
waist was a broad scarf of white woolen stuff or wadmel, very 
soft looking and warm. In his belt he carried a formidable 
hunting-knife, and as he faced the two intruders on his ground 
he rested one hand lightly yet suggestively on a weighty staff 
of pine, which was notched all over with quaint letters and 
figures, and terminated in a cui-ved handle at the top. Ho 
waited for the young men to speak, and finding they remained 
silent he glanced at them half angrily and again repeated his 
words: 

"I am the bonde — Olaf Guldmar. Speak your business and 
take your departure; my time is brief." 

Lorimer looked up with his usual nonchalance — a faint 
smile playing about his lips. He saw at once that the old 
farmer was not a man to be trifled with, and he raised his cap 
with a ready grace as he spoke. 

"Fact is," he said, frankly, "we've no business here at all — 
not the least in the world. We are perfectly aware of it. We 
are trespassers, and we know it. Pray don't be hard on us, 
Mr. — Mr. Guldmar." 

The bonde glanced him over with a quick lightening of the 
eyes, and the suspicion of a smile in the depths of his curly 
beard. He turned to Errington. 

"Is this true? You came here on purpose, knowing the 
ground was private property?" 

Errington, in his turn, lifted his cap from his clustering 
brown curls with that serene and stately court manner which 
was to him second nature. 

"We did," he confessed, quietly following Lorimer's cue, 
and seeing also that it was best to be straightforward. "We 
heard you spoken of in Bosekop, and we came to see if you 
would permit us the honor of your acquaintance." 

The old man struck his pine staff violently into the ground 
and his face flushed wrathfully. 

"Bosekop!" he exclaimed. "Talk to me of a wasp's nest! 
Bosekop! You shall hear of me there enough to satisfy your 
appetite for news. Bosekop! In the days when my race 
ruled the land such people as they that dwell there would 
have been put to sharpen my sword on the grindstone, or to 



54 THELMA. 

wait, hungry and humble, for the refuse of the food left from 
my table." 

He spoke with extraordinary heat and passion — it was evi- 
dently necessary to soothe him. Lorimer took a covert glance 
backward over his shoulder toward the lattice window, and saw 
that the white figure at the spinning-wheel had disappeared. 

"My dear Mr. Guldmar," he then said, with polite fervor, 
"1 assure you I think the Bosekop folk by no means deserve 
to sharpen your sword on the grindstone, or to enjoy the re- 
mains of your dinner! Myself, I despise them. My friend 
here, Sir Philip Errington, despises them — don't you, Phil?" 

Errington nodded demurely. 

"What my friend said just now is perfectly true," continued 
Lorimer. "We desire the honor of your acquaintance — it will 
charm and delight us above all things." 

And his face beamed with a candid, winning, boyish smile, 
which was very captivating in its own way, and which cer- 
tainly had its effect on the old bonde, for his tone softened, 
though he said, gravely: 

"My acquaintance, young men, is never sought by any. 
Those who are wise keep away from me. I love not strangers; 
it is best you should know it. I freely pardon your trespass; 
take your leave, and go in peace." 

The two friends exchanged disconsolate looks. There really 
seemed nothing for it but to obey this unpleasing command. 
Errington made one more venture. 

"May I hope, Mr. Guldmar," he said, with persuasive cour- 
tesy, "that you will break through your apparent rule of 
seclusion for once and visit me on board my yacht? You have 
no doubt seen her — the 'Eulalie' — she lies at anchor in the 
fjord." 

The bonde looked him straight in the eyes. "I have seen 
her. A fair toy vessel to amuse an idle young man's leisure. 
You are he that in that fool's hole of a Bosekop is known as 
the 'rich Englishman' — an idle trifler with time — an aimless 
wanderer from those dull shores where they eat gold till they 
die of surfeit. I have heard of you — a mushroom knight, a 
fungus of nobility — an ephemeral growth on a grand decaying 
old tree, whose roots lie buried in the annals of a far-forgotten 
past." 

The rich, deep voice of the old man quivered as he spoke, 
and a shadow of melancholy flitted across his brow. Erring- 



THELMA. 55 

ton listened with unruffled patience. He heard himself, his 
pleasures, his wealth, his rank thus made light of without the 
least offense. He met the steady gaze of the bonde quietly, 
and slightly bent his head as though in deference to his 
remarks. 

"You are quite right," he said, simply. "We modern men 
are but pygmies compared with the giants of old time. Royal 
blood itself is tainted nowadays. But, for myself, I attach no 
importance to the mere appurtenances of life — the baggage 
that accompanies one on that brief journey. Life itself is 
quite enough for me." 

"And for me, too," averred Lorimer, delighted that his 
friend had taken the old farmer's scornful observations so 
good-naturedly. "But do you know, Mr. Guldmar, you are 
making life unpleasant for us just now by turning us out? 
The conversation is becoming interesting. Why not prolong 
it? We have no friends in Bosekop, and we are to anchor 
here for some days. Surely you will allow us to come and 
see you again?" 

Olaf Guldmar was silent. He advanced a step nearer, and 
studied them both with such earnest and searching scrutiny 
that as they remembered the real attraction that had drawn 
them thither, the conscious blood mounted to their faces, 
flushing Errington's forehead to the very roots of his curly 
brown hair. Still the old man gazed as though he sought to 
read their very souls. He muttered something to himself in 
Norwegian, and finally, to their utter astonishment, he drew 
his hunting-knife from its sheath and with a rapid, wild ges- 
ture threw it on the ground and placed his foot upon it. 

"Be it so!" he said, briefly. "I cover the blade! You are 
men; like men, you speak truth. As such I receive you. Had 
you told me a lie concerning your coming here — had you 
made pretense of having lost your way, or other such shifty 
evasion, your path would never have again crossed mine. As 
it is — welcome." 

And he held out his hand with a sort of royal dignity, still 
resting one foot on the fallen weapon. The young men, 
struck by his action and gratified by his change of manner 
and the genial expression that now softened his rugged feat- 
ures, were quick to respond to his friendly greeting, and the 
bonde, picking up and resheathing his hunting-knife as if he 
had done nothing at all out of the common, motioned them 



56 THELMA. 

toward the very window on which their eyes had been so long 
and so ardently fixed. 

"Come!" he said. "You must drain a cup of wine with me 
before you leave. Your unguided footsteps led you by the 
wrong path — I saw your boat moored to my pier, and won- 
dered who had been venturesome enough to trample through 
my woodland. I might have guessed that only a couple of idle 
boys like yourselves, knowing no better, would have pushed 
their way to a spot that all worthy dwellers in Bosekop, and 
all true followers of the Lutheran devilry, avoid as though the 
plague were settled in it." 

And the old man laughed, a splendid, mellow laugh, with 
the ring of true Jollity in it — a laugh that was infectious, for 
Errington and Lorimer Joined in it heartily without precisely 
knowing why. Lorimer, however, thought it seemly to protest 
against the appellation "idle boys." 

"What do you take us for, sir?" he said, with lazy good 
nature. "I carry upon my shoulders the sorrowful burden of 
twenty-six years — Philip, there, is painfully conscious of being 
thirty — may we not therefore dispute the word 'boys' as being 
derogatory to our dignity? You called us 'men' awhile ago 
— remember that." 

Olaf Guldmar laughed again. His suspicious gravity had 
entirely disappeared, leaving liis face a beaming mirror of 
beneficence and good humor. 

"So you are men," he said, cheerily, "men in the bud, like 
leaves on a tree. But you seem boys to a tough old stump 
of humanity such as I am. That is my way — my child 
Thelma, though they tell me she is a woman grown, is always 
a babe to me. 'Tis one of the many privileges of the old to 
see the world about them always young and full of children." 

And he led the way past the wide-open lattice, where they 
could dimly perceive the spinning-wheel standing alone, as 
though thinking deeply of the fair hands that had lately left 
it idle, and so round to the actual front of the house, which 
was exceedingly picturesque, and literally overgrown with 
roses from ground to roof. The entrance door stood open; 
it was surrounded by a wide, deep porch richly carved and 
grotesquely ornamented, having two comfortable seats within 
it, one on each side. Through this they went, involuntarily 
brushing down as they passed a shower of pink and white 
rose-leaves, and stepped into a wide passage, where upon walls 



THELMA. 57 

of dark polished pine hung a large collection of curiously 
shaped weapons, all of primitive manufacture, such as stone 
darts and rough axes, together with bows and arrows and two- 
handled swords, huge as the fabled weapon of William Wal- 
lace. 

Opening a door to the right, the bonde stood courteously 
aside and bade them enter, and they found themselves in the 
very apartment where they had seen the maiden spinning. 

"Sit down, sit down," said their host, hospitably. "We 
will have wine directly, and Thelma shall come hither. 
Thelma! Thelma! Where is the child? She wanders hither 
and thither like a mountain sprite. Wait here, my lads, I shall 
return directly." 

And he strode away, leaving Errington and Lorimer de- 
lighted at the success of their plans, yet somewhat abashed, 
too. There was a peace and gentle simplicity about the little 
room in which they were that touched the chivalrous senti- 
ment in their natures and kept them silent. On one side of it 
half a dozen broad shelves supported a goodly row of well- 
bound volumes, among which the time-honored golden names 
of Shakespeare and Scott glittered invitingly, together with 
such works as Chapman's "Homer," Byron's "Childe Harold," 
the "Poems of John Keats," Gibbon's "Eome," and Plutarch; 
while mingled with these were the devotional works in French 
of Alphonse de Liguori, the "Imitation," also in French — and 
a number of books with titles in Norwegian — altogether a 
heterogeneous collection of literature, yet not without interest 
as displaying taste and culture on the part of those to whom 
it belonged. Errington, himself learned in books, was sur- 
prised to see so many standard works in the library of one 
who professed to be nothing but a Norwegian farmer, and his 
respect for the sturdy old bonde increased. There were no 
j)ictures in the room — the wide lattice window on one hand, 
looking out on the roses and the pine wood, and the other 
smaller one, close to the entrance door, from which the fjord 
was distinctly visible, were sufficient pictures in themselves 
to need no others. The furniture was roughly made of pine 
and seemed to have been carved by hand — some of the chairs 
were very quaint and pretty, and would have sold in a bric-a- 
brac shop for more than a sovereign apiece. On the wide 
mantel-shelf was a quantity of curious old china that seemed 
to have been picked up from all parts of the world — most of it 



58 THELMA. 

was undoubtedly valuable. In one dark corner stood an an- 
cient harp, then there was the spinning-wheel — itself a curi- 
osity fit for a museum — testifying dumbly of the mistress of 
all these surroundings, and on the floor there was something 
else — something that both the young men were strongly in- 
clined to take possession of. It was only a bunch of tiny 
meadow daisies, fastened together with a bit of blue silk. It 
had fallen — they guessed by whom it had been worn — but 
neither made any remark, and both, by some strange instinct, 
avoiding looking at it, as though the innocent little blossoms 
carried within them some terrible temptation. They were 
conscious of a certain embarrassment, and making an effort 
to break through it, Lorimer remarked, softly: 

"By Jove, Phil! if this old Guldmar really knew what you 
are up to I believe he would bundle you out of this place like 
a tramp. Didn't you feel a sneak when he said we had told the 
truth like men?" 

Philip smiled dreamily. He was seated in one of the 
quaintly carved chairs, half absorbed in what was evidently a 
pleasing reverie. 

"No, not exactly," he replied. "Because we did tell him 
the truth; we did want to know him, and he's worth knowing, 
too. He is a magnificent-looking fellow; don't you think so?" 

"Kather!" assented Lorimer, with emphasis. "I wish there 
were any hope of my becoming such a fine old buffer in my 
decadence — it would be worth living for, if only to look at my- 
self in the glass now and then. He rather startled me when 
he threw down that knife, though. I suppose it is some old 
Norwegian custom?" 

"I suppose so," Errington answered, and then was silent, 
for at that moment the door opened, and the old farmer re- 
turned, followed by a girl bearing a tray glittering with flasks 
of Italian wine, and long graceful glasses shaped like round 
goblets, set on particularly slender stems. The sight of the 
girl disappointed the eager visitors, for though she was un- 
deniably pretty, she was not Thelma. She was short and 
plump, with rebellious nut-brown locks, that rippled about 
her face and from under her close white cap with persistent 
untidiness. Her cheeks were as round and red as love-apples, 
and she had dancing blue eyes that appeared forever engaged 
in good-natured efforts to outsparkle each other. She wore 
a spotless apron, lavishly trimmed with coquettish little 



THELMA. 59 

starched frills — her hands were, unfortunately, rather large 
and coarse — but her smile, as she set down the tray and 
courtesied respectfully to the young men, was charming, dis- 
closing, as it did, tiny teeth as even and white as a double 
row of small pearls. 

"That is well, Britta," said Guldmar, speaking in English, 
and assisting her to place the glasses. "Now, quick! — run 
after thy mistress to the shore — her boat cannot yet have left 
the creek — bid her return and come to me — tell her there are 
friends here who will be glad of her presence." 

Britta hurried away at once, but Errington's heart sunk. 
Thelma had gone — gone, most probably, for one of those er- 
ratic journeys across the fjord to the cave where he had first 
seen her. She would not come back, he felt certain; not even 
at her father's request would that beautiful, proud maiden 
consent to alter her plans. What an unlucky destiny was his! 
Absorbed in disappointed reflections, he scarcely heard the 
enthusiastic praises Lorimer was diplomatically bestowing on 
the bonde's wine. He hardly felt its mellow flavor on his own 
palate, though it was in truth delicious, and fit for the table 
of a monarch. Guldmar noticed the young baronet's abstrac- 
tion, and addressed him with genial kindness. 

"Are you thinking. Sir Philip, of my rough speeches to you 
yonder? No offense was meant, no offense — " the fellow 
paused, and laughed over his wine-glass. "Yet I may as well 
be honest about it. Offense was meant; but when I found 
that none was taken, my humor changed." 

A slight, half-weary smile played on Errington's lips. "I 
assure you, sir," he said, "I agreed with you then, and agree 
with you now, in every word you uttered. You took my 
measure very correctly, and allow me to add that no one can 
be more conscious of my own insignificance than I am myself. 
The days we live in are insignificant; the chronicle of our 
paltry doings will be skipped by future readers of the coun- 
try's history. Among a society of particularly useless men, I 
feel myself to be one of the most useless. If you could show 
me any way to make my life valuable — " 

He paused abruptly, and his heart beat with inexplicable 
rapidity. A light step and the rustle of a dress was heard 
coming through the porch; another perfumed shower of rose- 
leaves fell softly on the garden path; the door of the room 
opened, and a tall, fair, white-robed figure shone forth from 



60 THELMA. 

the dark background of the outer passage — a figure that hesi- 
tated on the threshold, and then advanced noiselessly and 
with a reluctant shyness. The old bonde turned around in his 
chair with a smile. 

"Ah, here she is!" he said, fondly. "Where hast thou 
been, my Thelma?" 



CHAPTER VI. 

And Sigurd the Bishop said, 
"The old gods are not dead. 
For the great Thor still reigns, 
And among the Jarls and Thanes 
The old witchcraft is spread." 

Longfellow's Saga of King Olaf. 

The girl stood silent, and a faint blush crimsoned her 
cheeks. The young men had risen at her entrance, and in 
one fleeting glance she recognized Errington, though she gave 
no sign to that effect. 

"See, my darling," continued her father, "here are English 
visitors to Norway. This is Sir Philip Errington, who travels 
through our wild waters in the great steam yacht now at 
anchor in the fjord; and this is his friend, Mr. — Mr. Lorimer — 
have I caught your name rightly, my lad?" he continued, 
turning to George Lorimer with a kindly smile. 

"You have, sir," answered that gentleman promptly, and 
then he was mute, feeling curiously abashed in the presence 
of this royal-looking young lady, who, encircled by her father's 
arm, raised her deep, dazzling blue eyes, and serenely bent her 
stately head to him as his name was mentioned. 

The old farmer went on: "Welcome them, Thelma mine! 
— friends are scarce in these days, and we must not be un- 
grateful for good company. What! what! I know honest lads 
when I see them! Smile on them, my Thelma! — and then we 
will warm their hearts with another cup of wine." 

As he spoke the maiden advanced with a graceful, even 
noble air, and extending both her hands to each of the visitors 
in turn, she said: 

"I am your servant, friends; in entering this house you do 
possess it. Peace and heart's greeting!" 



THELMA. 61 

The words were a literal translation of a salutation perfectly 
common in many parts of Norway — a mere ordinary expres- 
sion of politeness; but, uttered in the tender, penetrating tones 
of the most musical voice they had ever heard, and accom- 
panied by the warm, frank, double hand-clasp of those soft, 
small, daintily shaped hands, the effect on the minds of the 
generally self-possessed, fashionably bred young men of the 
world was to confuse and bewilder them to the last degree. 
What could they answer to this poetical, quaint formula of 
welcome? The usual platitudes, such as "Delighted, I'm 
sure;" or, "Most happy — aw, charmed to meet you?" No; 
these remarks deemed intelligent by the lady rulers of London 
drawing-rooms, would, they felt, never do here. As well put a 
gentleman in modern evening dress en face with a half -nude, 
scornfully beautiful statue of Apollo, as trot out threadbare, 
insincere commonplaces in the hearing of this clear-eyed child 
of nature, whose pure, perfect face seemed to silently repel 
the very passing shadow of a falsehood. Philip's brain whirled 
round and about in search of some suitable reply, but could 
find none; and Lorimer felt himself blushing like a school-boy, 
as he stammered out something incoherent and eminentlv 
foolish, though he had sense enough left to appreciate the 
pressure of those lovely hands as long as it lasted. 

Thelma, however, appeared not to notice their deep em- 
barrassment — she had not yet done with them. Taking the 
largest goblet on the table, she filled it to the brim with wine, 
and touched it with her lips — then with a smile, in which a 
thousand radiating sunbeams seemed to quiver and sparkle, 
she lifted it toward Errington. The grace of her attitude and 
action wakened him out of his state of dreamy bewilderment 
— in his soul he devoutly blessed these ancient family cus- 
toms, and rose to the occasion like a man. Clasping with a 
tender reverence the hands that upheld the goblet, he bent 
his handsome head and drank a deep draught, while his dark 
curls almost touched her fair ones — and then an insane jeal- 
ousy possessed him for a moment, as he watched her go 
through the same ceremony with Lorimer. 

She next carried the now more than half-emptied cup to the 
bonde, and said, as she held it, laughing softly: 

"Drink it all, father! — if you leave a drop, you know these 
gentlemen will quarrel with us, or you with them." 

"That is true!" said Olaf Guldmar, with great gravity; "but 



62 THELMA. 

it will not be my fault, child, nor the fault of wasted wine." 

And he drained the glass to its dregs and set it upside down 
on the table with a deep sigh of satisfaction and refreshment. 
The ceremony concluded, it was evidence the ice of reserve 
was considered broken, for Thelma seated herself like a young 
queen, and motioned her visitors to do the same with a ges- 
ture of gracious condescension. 

"How did you find your way here?" she asked, with sweet 
yet direct abruptness, giving Sir Philip a quick glance, in 
which there was a sparkle of mirth, though her long lashes 
veiled it almost instantly. 

Her entire lack of stiffness and reserve set the young men 
at their ease, and they fell into conversation freely, though 
Errington allowed Lorimer to tell the story of their trespass 
in his own fashion without interference. He instinctively felt 
that the young lady who listened with so demure a smile to 
that plausible narrative knew well enough the real motive 
that had brought them hither, though she apparently had her 
own reasons for keeping silence on the point, as whatever she 
may have thought, she said nothing. 

Lorimer skillfully avoided betraying the fact that they had 
watched her through the window, and had listened to her 
singing. And Thelma heard all the explanations patiently 
till Bosekop was mentioned, and then her fair face grew cold 
and stern. 

"From whom did you hear of us there?" she inquired. "We 
do not mix with the people — why should they speak of us?" 

"The truth is," interposed Errington, resting his eyes with 
a sense of deep delight on the beautiful rounded figure and 
lovely features that were turned toward him, "I heard of you 
first through my pilot — one Valdemar Svensen." 

"Ha, ha!" cried old Guldmar, Avith some excitement, "there 
is a fellow who can not hold his tongue! What have I said to 
thee, child? A bachelor is no better than a gossiping old 
woman. He that is always alone must talk, if it be only to 
woods and waves. It is the married men who know best how 
excellent it is to keep silence." 

They all laughed, though Thelma's eyes had a way of look- 
ing pensive even when she smiled. 

"You would not blame poor Svensen because he is alone, 
father?" she said. "Is he not to be pitied? Surely it is a 



THELMA. 63 

cruel fate to have none to love in all the wide world. Noth- 
ing can be m^re cruel!" 

Guldmar surveyed her humorously, "Hear her!" he said. 
"She talks as if she knew all about such things; and if ever a 
child was ignorant of sorrow, surely it is my Thelma! Every 
flower and bird in the place loves her. Yes; I have thought 
sometimes the very sea loves her. It must; she is so much 
ujjon it. And as for her old father" — he laughed a little, 
though a suspicious moisture softened his keen yes — "why, 
he doesn't love her at all. Ask her! She knows it." 

Thelma rose quickly and kissed him. How deliciously 
those sweet lips pouted, thought Errington, and what an un- 
reasonable and extraordinary grudge he seemed to bear toward 
the venerable bonde for accepting that kiss with so httle ap- 
parent emotion! 

"Hush, father!" she said. "These friends can see too plain- 
ly how much you spoil me. Tell me" — and she turned with a 
sudden pretty imperiousness to Lorimer, who started at her 
voice as a race-horse starts at its rider's touch — "what person 
in Bosekop spoke of us?" 

Lorimer was rather at a loss, inasmuch as no one in the 
small town had actually spoken of them, and Mr. Dyce- 
worthy's remarks concerning those who were "ejected with 
good reason from respectable society" might not, after all, 
have applied to the Guldmar family. Indeed, it now seemed 
an absurd and improbable supposition. Therefore he replied 
cautiously: 

"The Reverend Mr. Dyceworthy, I think, has some knowl- 
edge of you. Is he not a friend of yours ?" 

These simple words had a most unexpected effect. Olaf 
Guldmar sprung up from his seat flaming with wrath. It was 
in vain that his daughter laid a restraining hand upon his arm. 
The name of the Lutheran divine had sufficed to put him in a 
towering passion, and he turned furiously upon the astonished 
Errington. 

"Had I known you came from the devil, sir, you should 
have returned to him speedily, with hot words to hasten your 
departure! I would have split that glass to atoms before I 
would have drained it after you! The friends of a false heart 
are no friends of mine — the followers of a pretended sanctity 
find no welcome under my roof! Why not have told me at 
once that you came as spies, hounded on by the liar Dyce- 



64 THELMA. 

worthy? Why not have confessed it openly, — and not have 
played the thief's trick on an old fool, who, for once, misled 
by your manly and upright bearing, consented to lay aside the 
rightful suspicions he at first entertained of your purpose? 
Shame on you, young men! shame!" 

The words coursed impetuously from his lips; his face 
burned with indignation. He had broken away from his 
daughter's hold, while she, pale and very still, stood leaning 
one hand upon the table. His white hair was tossed back 
from his brow; his eyes flashed; his attitude, though vengeful 
and threatening, was at the same time so bold and command- 
ing that Lorimer caught himself lazily admiring the contour 
of his figure and wondering how he would look in marble as 
an infuriated Viking. 

One excellent thing in the dispositions of both Errington 
and Lorimer was that they never lost temper. Either they 
were too lazy or too well-bred. Undoubtedly they both con- 
sidered it "bad form." This indifference stood them in good 
stead now. They showed no sign whatever of offense, though 
the old farmer's outbreak of wrath was so sudden and un- 
looked for that they remained for a moment silent out of sheer 
surprise. Then, rising with unruffled serenity, they took up 
their caps preparatory to departure. Errington's gentle, re- 
fined voice broke the silence. 

"You are in error, Mr. (Juldmar," he said, in chilly but 
perfectly polite tones. "1 regret you should be so hasty in 
your judgment of us. If you accepted us as 'men' when you 
first met us, I can not imagine why you should now take us 
for spies. The two terms are by no means synonymous. I 
know nothing of Mr. Dyceworthy beyond that he called upon 
me, and that I, as in duty bound, returned his call. I am 
ignorant of his character and disposition. I may add that I 
have no desire to be enlightened respecting them. I do not 
often take a dislike to anybody, but it so happens that I have 
done so in the case of Mr. Dyceworthy. I know Lorimer 
doesn't care for him, and I don't think my other two friends 
are particularly attached to him. I have nothing more to say, 
except that I fear we have outstayed our welcome. Permit 
us now to wish you good evening. And you" — he hesitated, 
and turned with a low bow to Thelma, who had listened to 
his words with a gradually dawning brightness on her face — 
"you will, I trust, exonerate us from any intentional offense 



THELMA. 65 

toward A^our father or yourself? Our visit has proved unlucky, 
but-" 

Thelma interrupted him by laying her fair little hand on his 
arm with a wistful, detaining gesture, which, though seem- 
ingly familiar, was yet perfectly sweet and natural. The 
light touch thrilled his blood, and sent it coursing through his 
veins at more than customary speed. 

"Ah, then, you also will be foolish!" she said, with a naive, 
protecting air of superior dignity. "Do you not see my 
father is sorry? Have we all kissed the cup for nothing, or 
was the wine wasted? Not a drop was spilled; how then, if 
we are friends, should we part in coldness ? Father, it is you 
to be ashamed — not these gentlemen, who are strangers to 
the Alten Fjord, and know nothing of Mr. Dyceworthy or any 
other person dwelling here. And when their vessel sails 
away again over the wide seas to their own shores, how will 
you have them think of you? As one whose heart was all 
kindness, and who helped to make their days pass pleasantly? 
or as one who, in unreasonable anger, forgot the duties of 
sworn hospitahty?" 

The bonde listened to her full, sweet, reproachful voice as a 
tough old lion might listen to the voice of its tamer, uncertain 
whether to yield or spring. He wiped his heated brow and 
stared around him shamefacedly. Finally, as though swallow- 
ing his pride with a gulp, he drew a long breath, took a couple 
of determined strides forward, and held out his hands, one to 
Errington, and the other to Lorimer, by whom they were 
warmly grasped. 

"There, my lads," he said, rapidly. "I'm sorry I spoke! 
Forgive and forget! That is the worst of me — my blood is up 
in a minute, and old though I am, I'm not old enough yet to 
be patient. And when I hear the name of that sneak Dyce- 
worthy — by the gates of Valhalla, I feel as if my own house 
would not hold me! No, no; don't go yet! Nearly ten? 
Well, no matter, the night is like the day here, you see — it 
doesn't matter when one goes to bed. Come and sit in the 
porch awhile; I shall get cool out there. Ah, Thelma, child! 
I see thee laughing at thy old father's temper! Never mind, 
never mind; is it not for thy sake, after all?" 

And, holding Errington by the arm, he led the way into the 
fine old porch, Lorimer following with rather a flushed face, 
for he, as he passed out of the room, had managed to pick up 
6 



66 THELMA. 

and secrete the neglected little bunch of daisies, before noticed 
as having fallen on the floor. He put them quickly in his 
breast pocket with a curious sense of satisfaction, though he 
had no intention of keeping them, and leaned idly against the 
clambering roses, watching Thelma, as she drew a low stool 
to her father's feet and sat there. A balmy wind blew in 
from the fjord, and rustled mysteriously among the pines; the 
sky was flecked here and there with fleecy clouds, and a num- 
ber of birds were singing in full chorus. Old Guldmar heaved 
a sigh of relief, as though his recent outburst of passion had 
done him good. 

"I will tell you, Sir Philip," he said, ruffling his daughter's 
curls as he spoke — "I will tell you why I detest the villain 
Dyceworthy. It is but fair you should know it. Now, 
Thelma! — why that push to my knee? You fear I may offend 
our friends again? Nay, I will take good care. And so, flrst 
of all, I ask you, what is your religion? Though I know you 
cannot be Lutherans." 

Errington was somewhat taken aback by the question. He 
smiled. 

"My dear sir," he replied at last; "to be frank with you, I 
really do not think I have any religion. If I had, I suppose I 
should call myself a Christian, though, judging from the be- 
havior of Christians in general, I cannot be one of them after 
all — for I belong to no sect, I go to no church, and I have 
never read a tract in my life. I have a profound reverence 
and admiration for the character and doctrine of Christ, and I 
believe if I had had the privilege of knowing and conversing 
with Him, I should not have deserted Him in extremity as 
His timorous disciples did. I believe in an all-wise Creator; 
so you see I am not an atheist. My mother was an Austrian 
and a Catholic, and I have a notion that, as a small child, I 
was brought up in that creed; but I'm afraid I don't know 
much about it now." 

The bonde nodded gravely. "Thelma, here," he said, "is a 
Catholic, as her mother was — " He stopped abruptly, and a 
deep shadow of pain darkened his features. Thelma looked 
up — her large, blue eyes filled with sudden tears, and she 
pressed her father's hand between her own, as though in sym- 
pathy with some undeclared grief; then she looked at Erring- 
ton with a sort of wistful appeal. Philip's heart leaped as 
he met that soft, beseeching glance, which seemed to en- 



THELMA. 67 

treat liis patience with the old man for her sake — he felt Mm- 
self drawn into a bond of union with her thoughts, and in his 
innermost soul he swore as knightly a vow of cliivalry and 
reverence for the fair maiden who thus took him into her 
silent confidence, as though he were some gallant Crusader of 
old time, pledged to defend his lady's honor unto death. Olaf 
Guldmar, after a long and apparently sorrowful pause, re- 
sumed his conversation. 

"Yes," he said, "Thelma is a Catholic, though here she has 
scarcely any opportunity for performing the duties of her re- 
ligion. It is a pretty and a graceful creed — well fitted for wom- 
en. As for me, I am made of sterner stuff, and the maxims 
of that gentle creature, Christ, find no echo in my soul. But 
you, young sir," he added, turning suddenly on Lorimer, who 
was engaged in meditatively smoothing out on his palm one 
of the fallen rose-petals — "you have not spoken. What faith 
do you profess ? It is no curiosity that prompts me to ask — I 
only seek not to offend." 

Lorimer laughed languidly. "Upon my life, Mr. Guldmar, 
you really ask too much of me. I haven't any faith at all; 
not a shred! It's been all knocked out of me. I tried to hold 
on to a last remaining bit of Christian rope in the universal 
shipwreck, but that was torn out of my hands by a scientific 
professor who ought to know what he is about, and — and — 
now I drift along anyhow!" 

Guldmar smiled dubiously; but Thelma looked at the speak- 
er with astonished, regretful eyes. 

"I am sorry," she said, simply. "You must be often un- 
happy." 

Lorimer was not disconcerted, though her evident pity 
caused an unwonted fiush on his face. 

"Oh, no," he said, in answer to her, "I am not a miserable 
sort of fellow by any means. For instance, I'm not afraid of 
death — lots of very religious people are horribly afraid of it, 
though they all the time declare it's the only path to heaven. 
They're not consistent at all. You see I believe in nothing — 
I came from nothing — I am nothing — I shall be nothing. That 
being plain, I am all right." 

Guldmar laughed. "You are an odd lad," he said good- 
humoredly. "You are in the morning of life; there are always 
mists in the morning as there are in the evening. In the light 
of your full manhood you will see these things differently. 



68 THELMA. 

Your creed of Nothing provides no moral law— no hold on 
the conscience, no restraint on the passions— don't you see 

^^ Lorimer smiled with a very winning and boyish candor. 
"You are exceedingly good, sir, to credit me with a con- 
science! I don't think I have one— I'm sure I have no pas- 
sions. I have always been too lazy to encourage them, and 
as for moral law— I adhere to morality with the greatest strict- 
ness, because if a fellow is immoral he ceases to be a gentle- 
man. Now, as there are very few gentlemen nowadays, I fancy 
I'd like to be one as long as I can." 

Errington here interposed. "You mustn't take him seri- 
ously, Mr. Guldmar," he said; "he's never serious himself. 
I'll give you his character in a few words. He belongs to no 
religious party, it's true— but he's a first-rate fellow— the best 
fellow I know!" 

Lorimer glanced at him quietly with a gratified expression 
on his_ face. But he said nothing, for Thelma was regarding 
him with a most bewitching smile. 

"Ah!" she said, shaking a reproachful finger at him, "you 
do love all nonsense, that I can see! You would make every 
person laugh, if you could — is it not so?" 

"Well, yes," admitted George, "I think I would! But it's a 
herculean task sometimes. If you had ever been to London, 
Miss Guldmar, you would understand how difficult it is to 
make people even smile — and when they do the smile is not a 
very natural one." 

"Why?" she exclaimed. "Are they all so miserable?" 

"They pretend to be, if they're not," said Lorimer; "it is 
the fashion there to find fault with everything and every- 
body." 

"That is so," said Guldmar, thoughtfully. "I visited Lon- 
don once and thought I was in hell. Nothing but rows of 
hard, hideously built houses, long streets, and dirty alleys, 
and the people had weary faces all, as though Nature had re- 
fused to bless them. A pitiful city — doubly pitiful to the eyes 
of a man like myself, whose life has been passed among fjords 
and mountains such as these. Well, now, as neither of you 
are Lutherans — in fact, as neither of you seem to know what 
you are," and he laughed — "I can be frank, and speak out as 
to my own belief. I am proud to say I have never deserted 
the faith of my fathers — the faith that makes a man's soul 



THELMA. 69 

strong and fearless, and defiant of evil — the faith that is sup- 
posed to be crushed out among us, but that is still alive and 
rooted in the hearts of many who can trace back their lineage 
to the ancient Vikings as I can — yes! — rooted firm and fast — 
and however much some of the more timorous feign to con- 
ceal it in the tacit acceptance of another creed, there are those 
who can never shake it off, and who never desire to forsake it. 
I am one of these few. Shame must fall on the man who 
willfully deserts the faith of his warrior-ancestry! Sacred to 
me forever be the names of Odin and Thor!" 

He raised his hand aloft with a proud gesture, and his eyes 
flashed. Errington was interested, but not surprised; the old 
bonde's declaration of his creed seemed eminently fitted to his 
character. Lorimer's face brightened — here was a novelty — 
a man who, in all the conflicting storms of modern opinion, 
sturdily clung to the traditions of his forefathers. 

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, eagerly, "I think the worship of 
Odin would suit me perfectly! It's a rousing, fighting sort of 
religion — I'm positive it would make a man of me. Will you 
initiate me into the mysteries, Mr. Guldmar? There's a fel- 
low in London who writes poetry on Indian subjects, and who, 
it is said, thinks Buddhism might satisfy his pious yearnings 
— but I think Odin would be a personage to command more 
respect than Buddha — at any rate, I should like to try him. 
Will you give me a chance?" 

Olaf Guldmar smiled gravely, and rising from his seat, 
pointed to the western sky. 

"See yonder threads of filmy white," he said, "that stretch 
across the wide expanse of blue! They are the lingering, fad- 
ing marks of light clouds — and even while we watch them 
they shall pass and be no more. Such is the emblem of your 
life, young man — you that would, for an idle jest or pastime, 
presume to search into the mysteries of Odin! For you they 
are not — your spirit is not of the stern mold that waits for 
death as gladly as the bridegroom waits for the bride! The 
Christian heaven is an abode for girls and babes — Valhalla is 
the place for men! I tell you, my creed is as divine in its 
origin as any that ever existed on the earth! The Rainbow 
Bridge is a fairer pathway from death to life than the doleful 
Cross — and better far the dark summoning eyes of a beauteous 
Valkyrie than the grinning skull and cross-bones, the Chris- 
tian emblem of mortalitv. Thelma thinks — and her mother 



70 THELMA. 

before her thought also — that different as my way of beUef is 
to the accepted creeds of to-day, it will be all right with me 
in the next world — that I shall have as good a place in heaven 
as any Christian, It may be so — I care not! But see you — 
the key-note of all civilization of to-day is discontent, while I 
— thanks to the gods of my fathers — am happy, and desire 
nothing that I have not." 

He paused and seemed absorbed. The young men watched 
his fine inspired features with lively interest. Thelma's head 
was turned away from them so that her face was hidden. By 
and by he resumed, in quieter tones : 

"Now, my lads, you know what we are — both of us accursed 
in the opinion of the Lutheran community. My child belongs 
to the so-called idolatrous Church of Eome. I am one of the 
very last of the 'heathen barbarians' " — and the old fellow 
smiled sarcastically — "though, truth to tell, for a barbarian, I 
am not such a fool as some folks would have you think. If 
the snuffling Dyceworthy and I competed at a spelling exami- 
nation, I'm pretty sure 'tis I would have the prize! But, as I 
said — you know us — and if our ways are likely to offend you, 
then let us part good friends before the swords are fairly 
drawn." 

"No sword will be drawn on my side, I assure you, sir," 
said Errington, advancing and laying one hand on the bonde's 
shoulder. "I hope you will believe me when I say I shall 
esteem it an honor and a privilege to know more of you." 

"And though you won't accept me as a servant of Odin," 
added Lorimer, "you really can not prevent me from trying 
to make myself agreeable to you. I warn you, Mr. Guldmar, 
I shall visit you pretty frequently! Such men as you are not 
often met with." 

Olaf Guldmar looked surprised. "You really mean it?" he 
said. "Nothing that I have told you affects you? You still 
seek our friendship?" 

They both earnestly assured him that they did, and as they 
spoke Thelma rose from her low seat and faced them with a 
bright smile. 

"Do you know," she said, "that you are the first people 
who, on visiting us once, have ever eared to come again? Ah, 
you look surprised, but it is so, is it not, father?" 

Guldmar nodded a grave assent. 

"Yes," she continued, demurely counting on her little white 



THELMA. 71 

fingers, "we are three things — first, we are accursed; secondly, 
we have the evil eye; thirdly, we are not respectable!" 

And she broke into a peal of laughter, ringing and sweet as 
a chime of bells. The young men joined her in it; and, still 
with an amused expression on her lovely face, leaning her 
head back against a cluster of pale roses, she went on: 

"My father dislikes Mr. Dyceworthy so much because he 
wants to — to — oh, what is it they do to savages, father? Yes, 
I know — to convert us — to make us Lutherans. And when he 
finds it all no use, he is angry; and, though he is so religious, 
if he hears any one telling some untruth about us in Bosekop, 
he will add another thing equally untrue, and so it grows and 
grows, and — why! what is the matter with you?" she ex- 
claimed in surprise as Errington scowled and clinched his fist 
in a peculiarly threatening manner. 

"I should like to knock him down!" he said briefly, under 
his breath. 

Old Guldmar laughed and looked at the young baronet ap- 
provingly. 

"Who knows, who knows!" he said, cheerfully. "You may 
do it some day! It will be a good deed! I will do it myself 
if he troubles me much more. And now let us make some 
arrangement with you. When will you come and see us 
again?" 

"You must visit me first," said Sir Philip, quickly. "If you 
and your daughter will honor me with your company to-mor- 
row, I shall be proud and pleased. Consider the yacht at your 
service/' 

Thelma, resting among the roses, looked across at him with 
serious, questioning eyes — eyes that seemed to be asking his 
intentions toward both her and her father. 

Guldmar accepted the invitation at once, and, the hour for 
their visit next day being fixed and agreed upon, the young 
men began to take their leave. As Errington clasped Thel- 
ma's hand in farewell, he made a bold venture. He touched 
a rose that hung just above her head almost dropping on her 
hair. 

"May I have it ?" he asked, in a low tone. 

Their eyes met. The girl flushed deeply, and then grew 
pale. She broke off the flower and gave it to him — then 
turned to Lorimer to say good-bye. They left her then, 
standing under the porch, shading her brow with one hand 



72 THELMA. 

from the glittering sunlight as she watched them descending 
the winding path to the shore, accompanied by her father, 
who hospitably insisted on seeing them into their boat. They 
looked back once or twice, always to see the slender, tall 
white figure standing there like an angel resting in a bower 
of roses, with the sunshine flashing on a golden crown of 
hair. At the last turn in the pathway Philip raised his hat 
and waved it, but whether she condescended to wave her hand 
in answer he could not see. 

Left alone, she sighed, and went slowly into the house to 
resume her spinning. Hearing the whirr of the wheel, the 
servant Britta entered. 

"You are not going in the boat, Froken?" she asked, in a 
tone of mingled deference and aft'ection. 

Thelma looked up, smiled faintly, and shook her head in 
the negative. 

"It is late, Britta, and I am tired." 

And the deep-blue eyes had an intense dreamy light within 
them as they wandered from the wheel to the wide-open win- 
dow, and rested on the majestic darkness of the overshadow- 
ing, solemn pines. 



CHAPTEK VII. 

In mezzo del mio core c'e una spina; 
Non c'e barbier che la possa levare — 
Solo 11 mio amore colla sua manina. 

Rime Popolari. 

Errington and Lorimer pulled away across the fjord in a 
silence that lasted for many minutes. Old Guldmar stood 
on the edge of his little pier to watch them out of sight. So, 
till their boat turned the sharp corner of the projecting rock 
that hid the landing-place from view, they saw his picturesque 
figure and gleaming silvery hair outlined clearly against the 
background of the sky — a sky now tenderly flushed with pink 
like the inside of a delicate shell. When they could no longer 
perceive him they still rowed on, speaking no word — the 
measured, musical plash of the oars through the smooth, dark 
olive-green water alone breaking the stillness around them. 
There was a curious sort of hushed breathlessness in the air; 



THELMA. 73 

fantastic, dream-like lights and shadows played on the little 
wrinkling waves; sudden flushes of crimson came and went in 
the western horizon, and over the high summits of the sur- 
rounding mountains mysterious shapes, formed of purple and 
gray mist, rose up and crept softly downward, winding in and 
out deep valleys and dark ravines, like wandering spirits sent 
on some secret and sorrowful errand. After awhile Errington 
said, almost vexedly: 

"Are you struck dumb, George? Haven't you a word to 
say to a fellow?" 

"Just what I was about to ask you," replied Lorimer, care- 
lessly; "and I was also going to remark that we hadn't seen 
your mad friend up at the Guldmar residence." 

"No. Yet I can't help thinking he has something to do 
with them, all the same," returned Errington, meditatively. 
"I tell you, he swore at me by some old Norwegian infernal 
place or other. I dare say he's an Odin worshiper, too. 
But never mind him. What do you think of her?" 

Lorimer turned lazily round in the boat, so that he faced his 
companion. 

"Well, old fellow, if you ask me frankly, I think she is the 
most beautiful woman I ever saw, or, for that matter, ever 
heard of. And I am an impartial critic — perfectly impartial." 
And, resting on his oar, he dipped the blade musingly in and 
out of the water, watching the bright drops fall with an oil- 
like smoothness as they trickled from the polished wood and 
glittered in the late sunshine like vari-colored jewels. Then 
he glanced curiously at Philip, who sat silent, but whose face 
was very grave and earnest — even noble, with that shade of 
profound thought upon it. He looked like one who had sud- 
denly accepted a high trust, in which there was not only pride, 
but tenderness. Lorimer shook himself together, as he him- 
self would have expressed it, and touched his friend's arm 
half playfully. 

"You've met the king's daughter of Norroway after all, 
Phil;" and his light accents had a touch of sadness in them; 
"and you'll have to bring her home, as the old song says. I 
believe the 'eligible' is caught at last. The 'woman' of the 
piece has turned up, and your chum must play second fiddle — 
eh, old boy?" 

Errington flushed hotly, but caught Lorimer's hand and 
pressed it with tremendous fervor. 



74 THEL-MA. 

"By Jove, I'll wring it off your wrist if you talk in that 
fashion, George!" he said, with a laugh. "You'll always be 
the same to me, and you know it. I tell you," and he pulled 
his mustache doubtfully, "I don't know quite what's the mat- 
ter with me. That girl fascinates me! I feel a fool in her 
presence. Is that a sign of being in love, I wonder?" 

"Certainly not!" returned George, promptly; "for I feel a 
fool in her presence, and I'm not in love." 

"How do you know that?" And Errington glanced at him 
keenly and inquiringly. 

"How do I know? Come, I like that! Have I studied my- 
self all these years for nothing? Look here" — and he carefully 
drew out the little withering bunch of daisies he had pur- 
loined — "these are for you. I knew you wanted them, though 
you hadn't the impudence to pick them up, and I had. I 
thought you might like to put them under your pillow, and 
all that sort of thing, because if one is resolved to become love- 
lunatic, one may as well do the thing properly out and out — 
I hate all half -measures. Now, if the remotest thrill of senti- 
ment were in me, you can understand, I hope, that wild horses 
would not have torn this adorable posy from my possession! 
I should have kept it, and you would never have known of it," 
and he laughed softly. "Take it, old fellow! You're rich now, 
with the rose she gave you besides. What is all your wealth 
compared with the sacred preciousness of such blossoms! 
There, don't look so awfully ecstatic, or I shall be called upon 
to ridicule you in the interests of common sense. Say you're 
in love with the girl at once, and have done with it. Don't 
beat about the bush!" 

"I'm not sure about it," said Philip, taking the daisies 
gratefully, however, and pressing them in his pocket-book. "I 
don't believe in love at first sight!" 

"I do," returned Lorimer, decidedly. "Love is electricity. 
Two telegrams are enough to settle the business — one from 
the eyes of the man, the other from those of the woman. You 
and Miss Guldmar must have exchanged a dozen such mes- 
sages at least." 

"And you?" inquired Errington, persistently. "You had 
the same chance as myself." 

George shrugged his shoulders. "My dear boy, there are 
no wires of communication between the sun-angel and myself; 
nothing but a blank, innocent landscape, over which, perhaps, 



THELMA. 75 

some day the mild luster of friendship may heam. The girl 
is beautiful — extraordinarily so; but I'm not a '^man o' wax/ 
as Juliet's gabbling old nurse says — not in the least impres- 
sionable." 

And forthwith he resumed his oar, saying, briskly, as he did 
so: 

"Phil, do you know those other fellows must be swearing 
at us pretty forcibly for leaving them so long with Dyce- 
worthy. We've been away two hours!" 

"Not possible!" cried Errington, amazed, and wielding his 
oar vigorously. "They'll think me horribly rude. By Jove, 
they must be bored to death!" 

And, stimulated by the thought of the penance their 
friends were enduring, they sent the boat spinning swiftly 
through the water, and rowed as though they were trying 
for a race, when they were suddenly pulled up by a loud 
"Halloo!" and the sight of another iDoat coming slowly out 
from Bosekop, wherein two individuals were standing up, ges- 
ticulating violently. 

"There they are!" exclaimed Lorimer. "I say, Phil, they've 
hired a special tub, and are coming out to us." 

So it proved. Duprez and Macfarlane had grown tired of 
waiting for their truant companions, and had taken the first 
clumsy wherry that presented itself, rowed by an even clum- 
sier Norwegian boatman, whom they had been compelled to 
engage also, as he would not let his ugly punt out of his 
sight, for fear some harm might chance to befall it. Thus at- 
tended, they were on their way back to the yacht. With a few 
long, elegant strokes, Errington and Lorimer soon brought 
their boat alongside, and their friends gladly jumped into it, 
delighted to be free of the company of the wooden-faced mari- 
ner they had so reluctantly hired, and who now, on receiving 
his fee, paddled awkwardly away in his ill-constructed craft, 
without either a word of thanks or salutation. Errington be- 
gan to apologize at once for his long absence, giving as a 
reason for it the necessity he found himself under of making 
a call on some persons of importance in the neighborhood, 
whom he had, till now, forgotten. 

"My dear Phil-eep!" cried Duprez, in his cheery sing-song 
accent, "why apologize? We have amused ourselves! Our 
dear Sandy has a vein of humor that is astonishing! We have 
not wasted our time. No! We have made Mr. Dyceworthy 



76 THELMA. 

our slave; we have conquered him; we have abased him! He 
is what we please — he is for all gods or for no god — just as we 
pull the string! In plain words, mon clier, that amiable re- 
ligious is drunk!" 

"Drunk!" cried Errington and Lorimer together. "Jove! 
you don't mean it?" 

Macfarlane looked up with a twinkle of satirical humor in 
his deep-set gray eyes. 

"Ye see/' he said, seriously, "the Lacrima, or Papist wine, 
as he calls it, was strong — we got him to take a good dose o't 
— a vera fair dose indeed. Then, doun he sat, an' fell to con- 
vairsing vera pheelosophically o' mony things — it wad hae 
done ye gude to hear him — he was fair lost in the mazes o' 
his metapheesics, for twa flies took a bit saunter through the 
pleasant dewy lanes o' his forehead, an' he never raised a 
finger to send them awa' aboot their beeziness. Then I thocht 
I wad try him wi' the whusky — I had ma pocket-flask wi' me 
— an' oh, mon! he was sairly glad and gratefu' for the flrst 
snack o't! He said it was deevilish fine stuff, an' so he took 
ane drappikie, an' anither drappikie, and yet anither drappi- 
kie" — Sandy's accent got more and more pronounced as he 
went on — "an' after a bit, his heed dropt doun, an' he took a 
wee snoozle of a minute or twa — then he woke up in a' his 
strength an' just grappit the flask in his twa hands an' took the 
hale o't off at a grand, rousin' gulp! Ma certes! after it ye 
shuld ha' seen him laughin' like a feckless fule, an' rubbin' 
an' rubbin' his heed, till his hair was like the straw kicked 
roond by a mad coo!" 

Lorimer lay back in the stern of the boat and laughed up- 
roariously at this extraordinary picture, as did the others. 

"But that is not all," said Duprez, with delighted mischief 
sparkling in his wicked little dark eyes; "the dear religious 
opened his heart to us. He spoke thickly, but we could 
understand him. He was very impressive! He is quite of 
my opinion. He says all religion is nonsense, fable, impost- 
ure — Man is the only god, Woman his creature and subject. 
Again — man and woman, conjoined, make up divinity, neces- 
sity, law. He was quite clear on that point. Why did he 
preach what he did not believe, we asked? He almost wept. 
He replied that the children of this world liked fairy-stories, 
and he was paid to tell them. It was his bread and butter — 
would we wish him to have no bread and butter? We assured 



THELMA. 77 

him SO cruel a thought had no place in our hearts! Then he 
is amorous — yes! the good fat man is amorous. He would 
have become a priest, but on close examination of the con- 
fessionals he saw there was no possibility of seeing, much less 
kissing, a lady penitent through the grating. So he gave up 
that idea! In his form of faith he can kiss, he says^ — he does 
kiss! — always a holy kiss, of course! He is so ingenuous — so 
delightfully frank — it is quite charming!" 

They laughed again. Sir Philip looked somewhat dis- 
gusted. 

"What an old brute he must be!" he said. "Somebody 
ought to kick him — a holy kick, of course, and therefore more 
intense and forcible than other kicks." 

"You begin, Phil," laughed Lorimer, "and we'll all follow 
suit. He'll be like that Indian in 'Vathek' who rolled himself 
into a ball; no one could resist kicking as long as the ball 
bounded before them — we, similarly, shall not be able to re- 
sist, if Dyceworthy's fat person is once left at our mercy." 

"That was a grand bit he told us, Errington," resumed 
Macfarlane. "Ye should ha' heard him talk aboot his love- 
affair! — the saft jelly of a man that he is, to be making up to 
ony woman." 

At that moment they ran alongside of the "Eulalie" and 
threw up their oars. 

"Stop a bit," said Errington. "Tell us the rest on board." 

The ladder was lowered; they mounted it, and their boat 
was hauled up to its place. 

"Go on!" said Lorimer, throwing himself lazily into a deck 
arm-chair and lighting a cigar, while the others leaned against 
the yacht rails and followed his example. "Go on, Sandy — 
this is fun! Dyceworthy's amours must be amusing. I sup- 
pose he's after t4iat ugly wooden block of a woman we saw at 
his house who is so zealous for the 'true gospel'?" 

"Not a bit of it," replied Sandy, with imn^ense gravity. 
"The auld Silenus has better taste. He says there's a young 
lass running after him, fit to break her heart aboot him — puir 
thing, she must have vera little choice o' men! He hasna 
quite made up his mind, though he admeets she's as fine a lass 
as ony man need require. He's sorely afraid she has set her- 
self to catch him, as he says she's an eye like a warlock for a 
really strong, good-looking fellow like himself," and Macfar- 
lane chuckled audibly. "May be he'll take pity on her, may 



78 THELMA. 

be he won't; the misguided lassie will be sairly teased by him 
from a' he tauld us in his cups. He gave us her name — the 
oddest in a' the warld for sure — I canna just remember it." 

"I can," said Duprez, glibly. "It struck me as quaint and 
pretty — Thelma Guldmar!" 

Errington started so violently and flushed so deeply that 
Lorimer was afraid of some rash outbreak of wrath on his 
part. But he restrained himself by a strong effort. He 
merely took his cigar from his mouth and puffed a light cloud 
of smoke into the air before replying, then he said, coldly: 

"I should say Mr. Dyceworthy, besides being a drunkard, is 
a most consummate liar. It so happens that the Guldmars 
are the very people I have just visited — highly superior in 
every way to anybody we have yet met in Norway. In fact, 
Mr. and Miss Guldmar will come on board to-morrow. I have 
invited them to dine with us; you will then be able to judge 
for yourselves whether the young lady is at all of the descrip- 
tion Mr. Dyceworthy gives of her." 

Duprez and Macfarlane exchanged astonished looks. 

"Are ye quite sure," the latter ventured to remark, cautious- 
ly, "that ye're prudent in what ye have done? Eemember 
ye have asked no pairson at a' to dine with ye as yet — it's a 
vera sudden an' exceptional freak o' hospitality." 

Errington smoked on peacefully and made no answer. Du- 
prez hummed a verse of a French chansonnette under his 
breath and smiled. Lorimer glanced at him with a lazy amuse- 
ment. 

"Unburden yourself, Pierre, for Heaven's sake!" he said. 
"Your mind is as uncomfortable as a loaded camel. Let it 
lie down, while you take off its packages, one by one, and 
reveal their contents. In short, what's up?" 

Duprez made a rapid, expressive gesture with his hands. 

"Mon cher, I fear to displease Phil-eep! He has invited 
these people; they are coming — Men! there is no more to say." 

"I disagree with ye," interposed Macfarlane. "I think 
Errington should hear what we ha' heard; it's fair an' just to 
a mon that he should understand what sort o' folk are gaun 
to pairtake wi' him at his table. Ye see, Errington, ye should 
ha' thocht a wee before inviting pairsons o' unsettled an' 
dootful chairacter — " 

"Who says they are?" demanded Errington, half angrily. 
"The drunken Dyceworthy?" 



THELMA. 79 

"He was no sae drunk at the time he tauld us," persisted 
Macfarlane, in his most obstinate, most dictatorial manner. 
Ye see, it's just this way — " 

"Ah, pardon!" interrupted Duprez, briskly. "Our dear 
Sandy is an excellent talker, but he is a little slow. Thus it 
is, mon cher Errington. This gentleman named Guldmar had 
a most lovely wife — a mysterious lady, with an evident secret. 
The beautiful one was never seen in the church or in any 
town or village; she was met sometimes on hills, by rivers, in 
valleys, carrying her child in her arms. The people grew 
afraid of her; but, now, see what happens! Suddenly she 
appears no more; some one ventures to ask this Monsieur 
Guldmar: 'What has become of madame?' His answer is 
brief. 'She is dead!' Satisfactory so far, yet not quite; for, 
madame being dead, then what has become of the corpse of 
madame? It was never seen — no coffin was ever ordered — 
and apparently it was never buried! Bien! What follows? 
The good people of Bosekop draw the only conclusion possible 
— Monsieur Guldmar, who is said to have a terrific temper, 
killed madame, and made away with her body. Voila!" 

And Duprez waved his hand with an air of entire satisfac- 
tion. 

Errington's brow grew somber. "This is the story, is it?" 
he asked at last. 

"It is enough, is it not?" laughed Duprez. "But, after all, 
what matter? It will be novel to dine with a mur — " 

"Stop!" said Philip, fiercely, with so much authority that 
the sparkling Pierre was startled. "Call no man by such a 
name till you know he deserves it. If Guldmar was suspected, 
as you say, why didn't somebody arrest him on the charge?" 

"Because, ye see," replied Macfarlane, "there was not suffi- 
cient proof to warrant such a proceeding. Moreover, the 
actual meenister of the parish declared it was a' richt, an' 
said this Guldmar was a mon o' vera queer notions, an,' may 
be, had buried his wife wi' certain ceremonies peculiar to him- 
self — What's wrong wi' ye now?" 

For a light had flashed on Errington's mind, and with the 
quick comprehension it gave him, his countenance cleared. 
He laughed. 

"That's very likely," he said; "Mr. Guldmar is a character. 
He follows the faith of Odin, and not even Dyceworthy can 
convert him to Christianity!" 

Macfarlane stared with a sort of stupefied solemnity. 



80 THELMA. 

"Mon!" he exclaimed, "you never mean to say there's an 
actual puir human creature that in this blessed, enlightened 
nineteenth century of ours is so far misguidit as to worship 
the fearfu' gods o' the Scandinavian meethology?" 

"Ah!" yawned Lorimer, "you may wonder away, Sandy, 
but it's true enough! Old Guldmar is an Odinite. In this 
blessed, enlightened nineteenth century of ours, when Chris- 
tians amuse themselves by despising and condemning each 
other, and thus upsetting all the precepts of the Master they 
profess to follow, there is actually a man who sticks to the 
traditions of his ancestors. Odd, isn't it? In this delightful, 
intellectual age, when more than half of us are discontented 
with life and yet don't want to die, there is a fine old gentle- 
man, living beyond the Arctic circle, who is perfectly satisfied 
with his existence — not only that, he thinks death the great- 
est glory that can befall him. Comfortable state of things 
altogether! I'm half inclined to be an Odinite too." 

Sandy still remained lost in astonishment. "Then ye don't 
believe that he made awa' wi' his wife?" he inquired, slowly. 

"Not in the least!" returned Lorimer, decidedly; "neither 
will you, to-moiTOw, when you see him. He's a great deal 
better up in literature than you are, my boy, I'd swear, judging 
from the books he has. And when he mentioned his wife, as 
he did once, you could see in his face he had never done her 
any harm. Besides, his daughter — " 

"Ah! but I forgot," interposed Duprez again. "The daugh- 
ter, Thelma, was the child the mysteriously vanished lady 
carried in her arms, wandering with it all about the woods and 
hills. After her disappearance, another thing extraordinary 
happens. The child also disappears, and Monsieur Guldmar 
lives alone, avoided carefully by every respectable person. 
Suddenly the child returns, grown to be nearly a woman — and, 
they say, lovely to an almost impossible extreme. She lives 
with her father. She, like her strange mother, never enters a 
church, town, or village — nowhere, in fact, where persons are 
in any numbers. Three years ago, it appears, she vanished 
again, but came back at the end of ten months, lovelier than 
ever. Since then she has remained quiet — composed — but 
always apart — she may disappear at any moment. Droll, is 
it not, Errington? and the reputation she has is natural!" 

"Pray state it," said Philip, with freezing coldness. "The 
reputation of a woman is nothing nowadays. Fair game — go 
on!" 



THELMA. 81 

liut his face was pale, and his eyes blazed dangerously. 
Almost unconsciously his hand toyed with the rose Thelma 
liad given him, that still ornamented his button-hole. 

"Mon Dieu! cried Duprez, in amazement. "But look not 
at me like that! It seems to displease you, to put you en 
ficreur, what I say! It is not my story — it is not I — I know 
not Mademoiselle Guldmar. But as her beauty is considered 
superhuman, they say it is the devil who is \\sx parfumenr, her 
coiffeur y and who sees after her complexion; in brief, she is 
thought to be a witch in full practice, dangerous to life and 
Hmb." 

Errington laughed loudly, he was so much relieved. 

"Is that all?" he said, with light contempt. "By Jove! 
what a pack of fools they must be about here — ugly fools too, 
if they think beauty is a sign of witchcraft. I wonder Dycc- 
worthy isn't scared out of his skin if he positively thinks the 
so-called witch is setting her cap at him." 

"Ah, but he means to convairt her," said Macfarlane, seri- 
ously. "To draw the evil oot o' her, as it were. He said he 
wad do't by fair means or foul." 

Something in these latter words struck Lorimer, for, rais- 
ing himself in his seat, he asked: "Surely Mr. Dyceworthy, 
with all his stupidity, doesn't carry it so far as to believe in 
witchcraft?" 

"Oh, indeed he does," exclaimed Duprez; "he believes in 
it a la lettre! He has Bible authority for his belief. He is a 
very firm — firmest when drunk!" And he laughed gayly. 

Errington muttered something not very flattering to Mr. 
Dyce worthy's intelligence, which escaped the hearing of his 
friends; then he said: 

"Come along, all of you, down into the saloon. We want 
something to eat. Let the Guldmars alone; I'm not a bit 
sorry I've asked them to come to-morrow. I believe you'll 
all like them immensely." 

They all descended the stairway leading to the lower part 
of the yacht, and Macfarlane asked, as he followed his host: 

"Is the lass vera bonny, did ye say ?" 

"Benny's not the word for it this time," said Lorimer, 
coolly answering instead of Errington. "Miss Guldmar is a 
magnificent woman. You never saw such a one, Sandy, my 
boy; she'll make you sing small with one look; she'll wither 
you up into a kippered herring! And as for you, Duprez," 

6 



82 THELMA. 

and he regarded the little Frenchman critically, "let me see- 



you may possibly reach up to her shoulder — certainly not be- 
yond it." 

''Fas possible!" cried Duprez. "Mademoiselle is a giantess." 

"She needn't be a giantess to overtop you, mon ami," 
laughed Lorimer, with a lazy shrug. "By Jove, I am sleepy, 
Errington, old boy; are we never going to bed? It's no good 
waiting till it's dark here, you know." 

"Have something first," said Sir Philip, seating himself at 
the saloon table, where his steward had laid out a tasty cold 
collation. "We've had a good deal of climbing about and 
rowing; it's taken it out of us a little." 

Thus hospitably adjured, they took their places, and man- 
aged to dispose of an excellent supper. The meal concluded, 
Duprez helped himself to a tiny liqueur glass of Chartreuse, as 
a wind-up to the exertions of the day, a mild luxury in which 
the others joined him, with the exception of Macfarlane, who 
was wont to declare that a "mon without his whusky was nae 
mon at a'," and who, therefore, persisted in burning up his 
interior mechanism with alcohol, in spite of the doctrines of 
hygiene, and was now absorbed in the work of mixing his 
lemon, sugar, hot water, and poison — his usual preparation 
for a night's rest. 

Lorimer, usually conversational, watched him in abstracted 
silence. Eallied on this morose humor, he rose, shook him- 
self like a retriever, yawned, and sauntered to the piano that 
occupied a dim corner of the saloon, and began to play with 
that delicate, subtle touch which, though it does not always 
mark the brilliant pianist, distinguishes the true lover of 
music, to whose ears a rough thump on the instrument or a 
false note would be most exquisite agony. Lorimer had no 
pretense to musical talent; when asked he confessed he could 
"strum a little," and he hardly seemed to see the evident 
wonder and admiration he awakened in the minds of many to 
whom such "strumming" as his was infinitely more delightful 
than more practiced, finished playing. Just now he seemed 
undecided — he commenced a dainty little prelude of Chopin's, 
then broke suddenly off, and wandered into another_ strain, 
wild, pleading, pitiful and passionate — a melody so weird and 
dreamy that even the stolid Macfarlane paused in his toddy- 
sipping, and Duprez looked round in some wonderment. 

"Comme c' esfieau, ca!" he murmured. 



THELMA. 83 

Errington said nothing; he recognized the tune as that 
which Thelma had sung at her spinning-wheel, and his bold 
bright eyes grew pensive and soft as the picture of the fair 
face and form rose up again before his mind. Absorbed in a 
reverie, he almost started when Lorimer ceased playing, and 
said, lightly: 

"By by, boys! I'm off to bed! Phil, don't wake me so 
abominably early as you did this morning. If you do, friend- 
ship can hold out no longer — we must part." 

"All right!" laughed Errington, good-humoredly, watching 
his friend as he sauntered out of the saloon; then seeing Du- 
prez and Macfarlane rise from the table, he added, cour- 
teously, "Don't hurry away on Lorimer's account, you two. 
I'm not in the least sleepy — I'll sit up with you to any hour." 

"It is droll to go to bed in broad daylight," said Duprez. 
"But it must be done. Cher Philippe, your eyes are heavy. 
'To bed, to bed,' as the excellent Madame Macbeth says. Ah! 
quelle femme! What an exciting wife she was for a man! 
Come, let us follow our dear Lorimer — his music was delicious. 
Good-night, or good-morning. I know not which it is in this 
strange land where the sun shines always. It is confusing." 

They shook hands and separated. Errington, however, un- 
able to compose his mind to rest, went into his cabin merely 
to come out of it again and betake himself to the deck, where 
he decided to walk up and down till he felt sleepy. He wished 
to be alone with his own thoughts for awhile — to try and re- 
solve the meaning of this strange new emotion that possessed 
him — a feeling that was half pleasing, half painful, and that 
certainly moved him to a sort of shame. A man, if he be 
strong and healthy, is always more or less ashamed when love, 
with a single effort, proves him to be weaker than a blade of 
grass swaying in the wind. What! all his dignity, all his 
resoluteness, all his authority swept down by the light touch 
of a mere willow wand? For the very sake of his own man- 
hood and self-respect, he can not help but be ashamed. It is as 
though a little nude, laughing child mocked at a lion's 
strength and made him a helpless prisoner with a fragile daisy 
chain. So the god Eros begins his battles, which end in per- 
petual victory — first fear and shame — then desire and pas- 
sion — then conquest and possession. And afterward? Ah — 
afterward the pagan deity is powerless — a higher God, a grand- 
er force, a nobler creed must carry love to its supreme and best 
fulfillment. 



84 THELMA. 



CHAPTEK VIII. 

Le vent qui vient a travers la montagne 
M'a rendu fou! 

VicTOB Hugo. 

It was half an hour past midnight. Sir PhiHp was left in 
absolute solitude to enjoy his meditative stroll on deck, for 
the full radiance of light that streamed over the sea and land 
was too clear and brilliant to necessitate the attendance of any 
of the sailors for the purpose of guarding the "Eulalie." She 
was safely anchored and distinctly visible to all boats or 
fishing craft crossing the fjord, so that unless a sudden gale 
should blow, which did not seem probable in the present state 
of the weather, there was nothing for the men to do that need 
deprive them of their lawful repose. Errington paced up and 
down slowly, his yachting shoes making no noise even as they 
left no scratch on the spotless white deck, that shone in the 
night sunshine like polished silver. The fjord was very calm 
— on one side it gleamed like a pool of golden oil in which the 
outline of the "Eulalie" was precisely traced, her delicate 
masts and spars and drooping flag being drawn in black lines 
on the yellow water as though with a finely pointed pencil. 
There was a curious light in the western sky; a thick bank of 
clouds, dusky brown in color, were swept together and piled 
one above the other in mountainous ridges that rose up per- 
pendicularly from the very edge of the sea-line, while over 
their dark summits a glimpse of the sun, like a giant's eye, 
looked forth, darting dazzling descending rays through the 
sullen smoke-like masses, tinging them with metallic green 
and copper hues as brilliant and sifting as the bristhng points 
of lifted spears. Away to the south a solitary wreath of pur- 
ple vapor floated slowly as though lost from some great moun- 
tain height, and through its faint, half-disguising veil the pale 
moon peered sorrowfully, like a dying prisoner lamenting joy 
long past, but unforgotten. 

A solemn silence reigned, and Errington, watching the sea 
and sky, grew more and more absorbed and serious. The 
scornful words of the proud old Olaf Guldmar rankled in his 



THELMA. 85 

mind and stung him. "An idle trifler with time — an aimless 
wanderer!" Bitter, but, after all, true. He looked back on 
his life with a feeling akin to contempt. What had he done 
that was at all worth doing? He had seen to the proper 
management of his estates — well! any one with a grain of 
self-respect and love of independence would do the same. He 
had traveled and amused himself — he had studied languages 
and literature — he had made many friends, but after all said 
and done, the bonde's cutting observations had described him 
correctly enough. The do-nothing, care-nothing tendency, 
common to the very wealthy in this age, had crept upon him 
unconsciously; the easy, cool, indifferent nonchalance com- 
mon to men of his class and breeding was habitual with him, 
and he had never thought it worth while to exert his dormant 
abilities. Why, then, should he now begin to think it was 
time to reform aM this — to rouse himself to an effort — to gain 
for himself some honor, some distinction, some renown that 
should mark him out as different to other men? why was he 
suddenly seized with an insatiate desire to be something more 
than a mere "mushroom knight, a fungus of nobility"? why, 
if not to make himself worthy of — ah! There he had struck a 
suggestive key-note. Worthy of what? of whom? here was 
no one in all the world, excepting perhaps Lorimer, who cared 
what became of Sir Philip Errington, Baronet, in the future, 
so long as he would, for the present, entertain and feast his 
numerous acquaintances and give them all the advantages, 
social and political, his wealth could so easily obtain. Then 
why, in the name of well-bred indolence, should he muse with 
such persistent gloom on his general unworthiness at this par- 
ticular moment? Was it because this Norwegian maiden's 
frand blue eyes had met his with such beautiful trust and 
candor? 

He had known many women, queens of society, titled beau- 
ties, brilliant actresses, sirens of the world with all their 
witcheries in full play, and he had never lost his self-posses- 
sion or his heart; with the loveliest of them he had always 
felt himself master of the situation, knowing that in their 
opinion he was always "a catch," an "eligible," and, therefore, 
well worth winning. Now, for the first time, he became aware 
of his utter insignificance — this tall, fair goddess knew none 
of the social slang — and her fair, pure face, the mirror of 
a fair, pure soul, showed that the "eligibility" of a man from 



86 THELMA. 

a pecuniary point of view was a consideration that would 
never present itself to her mind. What she would look at 
would be the man himself — not his pocket. And, studied 
from such an exceptional height — a height seldom climbed by 
modern marrying women — Philip felt himself unworthy. It 
was a good sign; there are great hopes of any man who is 
honestly dissatisfied with himself. Folding his arms, he 
leaned idly on the deck-rails and looked gravely and musingly 
down into the motionless water, where the varied hues of the 
sky were clearly mirrored, when a slight creaking, cracking 
sound was heard, as of some obstacle grazing against or 
bumping the side of the yacht. He looked, and saw, to his 
surprise, a small rowing boat close under the gunwale, so 
close indeed that the slow motion of the tide heaved it every 
now and then into a jerky collision with the lower frame-work 
of the "Eulalie" — a circumstance which explained the sound 
which had attracted his attention. The boat was not unoccu- 
pied — there was some one in it lying straight across the seats, 
with face turned upward to the sky — and, walking noiselessly 
to a better post of observation, Errington's heart beat with 
some excitement as he recognized the long, fair, unkempt 
locks and eccentric attire of the strange personage who had 
confronted him in the cave — the crazy little man who had 
called himself "Sigurd." There he was, beyond a doubt, ly- 
ing flat on his back with his eyes closed. Asleep or dead? He 
might have been the latter — his thin face was so pale and 
drawn — his lips were so set and colorless. Errington, aston- 
ished to see him there, called, softly: 

"Sigurd! Sigurd!" There was no answer. Sigurd's form 
seemed inanimate — his eyes remained fast shut. 

"Is he in a trance?" thought Sir Philip, wonderingly; "or 
has he fainted from some physical exhaustion?" 

He called again, but again received no reply. He now ob- 
served in the stern of the boat a large bunch of pansies, dark 
as velvet, and evidently freshly gathered — proving that Sigurd 
had been wandering in the deep valleys and on the sloping 
sides of the hills, where these flowers may be frequently 
found in Norway during the summer. He began to feel rather 
uncomfortable, as he watched that straight, stiff figure in the 
boat, and was Just about to swing down the companion-ladder 
for the purpose of closer inspection, when a glorious burst of 
light streamed radiantly over the fjord — the sun conquered 



THELMA. 87 

the masses of dark cloud that had striven to conceal his 
beauty — and now, like a warrior clad in golden armor, sur- 
mounted and trod down his enemies, shining forth in all his 
splendor. With that rush of brilliant effulgence, the appar- 
ently lifeless Sigurd stirred — he opened his eyes, and as they 
were turned upward, he naturally, from his close vicinity to 
the side of the "Eulalie," met Errington's gaze fixed inquir- 
ingly and somewhat anxiously upon him. He sprung up with 
such sudden and fierce haste that his frail boat rocked danger- 
ously, and Philip involuntarily cried out: 

"Take care!" 

Sigurd stood upright in his swaying skiff and laughed 
scornfully. 

"Take care!" he echoed, derisively. "It is you who should 
take care! You — poor miserable moth on the edge of a mad 
storm! It is you to fear — not I! See how the light rains over 
the broad sky. All for me! Yes, all the light, all the glory 
for me; all the darkness, all the shame for you!" 

Errington listened to these ravings with an air of patience 
and pitying gentleness; then he said, with perfect coolness: 

"You are quite right, Sigurd! You are always right, I am 
sure. Come up here and see me; I won't hurt you! Come 
along!" 

The friendly tone and gentle manner appeared to soothe the 
unhappy dwarf, for he stared doubtfully, then smiled — and 
finally, as though acting under a spell, he took up an oar and 
propelled himself skillfully enough to the gangway, where 
Errington let down the ladder and with his own hand assisted 
his visitor to mount, not forgetting to fasten the boat safely 
to the steps as he did so. Once on deck, Sigurd gazed about 
him perplexedly. He had brought his bunch of pansies with 
him, and he fingered their soft leaves thoughtfully. Suddenly 
his eyes flashed. 

"You are alone here?" he asked, abruptly. 

Fearing to scare his strange guest by the mention of his 
companions, Errington answered simply: 

"Yes, quite alone Just now, Sigurd." 

Sigurd took a step closer toward him. "Are you not afraid ?" 
he said, in an awe-struck, solemn voice. 

Sir PhiHp smiled. "I never was afraid of anything in my 
life!" he answered. 

The dwarf eyed him keenlv- "You are not afraid," he went 
on, "that I shall kill you?" 



88 THELMA. 

"Not in the least/' returned Errington, calmly. "You would 
not do anything so foolish, my friend." 

Sigurd laughed. "Ha, ha ! you call me 'friend.' You think 
that word a safeguard! I tell you, no! There are no friends 
now; the world is a great field of battle — each man fights the 
other. There is no peace — none anywhere! The wind fights 
with the forests; you can hear them slashing and slaying all 
night long — when it is night — the long, long night! The sun 
fights with the sky, the light with the dark, and life with 
death. It is all a bitter quarrel; none are satisfied, none shall 
know friendship any more; it is too late! We can not be 
friends!" 

"Well, have it your own way," said Philip good-naturedly, 
wishing that Lorimer were awake to interview this strange 
specimen of human wit gone astray; "we'll fight if you like. 
Anything to please you!" 

"We are fighting," said Sigurd, with intense passion in his 
voice. "You may not know it; but I know it! I have felt the 
thrust of your sword; it has crossed mine. Stay!" and his 
eyes grew vague and dreamy. "Why was I sent to seek you 
out — let me think — let me think!" 

And he seated himself forlornly on one of the deck chairs 
and seemed painfully endeavoring to put his scattered ideas 
in order. Errington studied him with a gentle forbearance; 
inwardly he was very curious to know whether this Sigurd 
had any connection with the Guldmars, but he refrained from 
asking too many questions. He simply said, in a cheery tone: 

"Yes, Sigurd — why did you come to see me? I'm glad you 
did; it's very kind of you, but I don't think you even know 
my name." 

To his surprise, Sigurd looked up with a more settled and 
resolved expression of face, and answered almost as connected- 
ly as any sane man could have done. 

"I know your name very well," he said, in a low, composed 
manner. "You are Sir Philip Errington, a rich English noble- 
man. Fate led you to her grave — a grave that no strange 
feet have ever passed, save yours — and so I know you are the 
man for whom her spirit has waited — she has brought you 
hither. How foolish to think she sleeps under the stone, wheu 
she is always awake and busy — always at work opposing me! 
Yes, though I pray her to lie still, slie will not!" 

His voice grew wild again, and Philip asked, quietly: 

"Of whom are you speaking, Sigurd!" 



THELMA. 89 

His steady tone seemed to have some compelling influence 
on the confused mind of the half-witted creature, who an- 
swered, readily and at once: 

"Of whom should I speak hut Thelma? Thelma, the beau- 
tiful rose of the northern forest — Thelma — " 

He broke off abruptly with a long shuddering sigh, and 
rocking himself drearily to and fro gazed wistfully out to the 
sea. Errington hazarded a guess as to the purpose of that 
coffin hidden in the shell cavern. 

"Do you mean Thelma living — or Thelma dead?" 

"Both," answered Sigurd, promptly. "They are one and 
the same — you can not part them. Mother and child — rose 
and rosebud! One walks the earth with the step of a queen, 
the other floats in the air like a silvery cloud; but I see them 
join and embrace and melt into each other's arms till they 
unite in one form fairer than the beauty of angels! And you 
— you know this as well as I do — you have seen Thelma, you 
have kissed the cup of friendship with her; but remember! — 
not with me — not with me!" 

He started from his seat, and, running close up to Errington, 
laid one meager hand on his chest. 

"How strong you are — how broad and brave!" he exclaim- 
ed, with a sort of childish admiration. "And can you not be 
generous too?" 

Errington looked down upon him compassionately. He had 
learned enough from his incoherent talk to clear up what had 
seemed a mystery. The scandalous reports concerning Olaf 
Guldmar were incorrect — he had evidently laid the remains of 
his wife in the shell-cavern, for some reason connected with 
his religious belief, and Thelma's visits to the sacred spot 
were now easy of comprehension. No doubt it was she who 
placed fresh flowers there every day, and kept the little lamp 
burning before the crucifix, as a sign of the faith her departed 
mother had professed, and which she herself followed. But 
who was Sigurd, and what was he to the Guldmars? Thinking 
this, he replied to the dwarfs question by a counter-inquiry. 

"How shall I be generous, Sigurd? Tell me! What can I 
do to please you?" 

Sigurd's wild blue eyes sparkled with pleasure. 

"Do!" he cried. "You can go away, swiftly swiftly over the 
seas, and the Alten Fjord need know you no more! Spread 
your white sails!" and he pointed excitedly up to the tall taper- 



90 THELMA. 

ing masts of the "Eulalie." "You are king here. Command 
and you are obeyed! Go from us, go! What is there here to 
delay you? Our mountains are dark and gloomy — the fjelds 
are wild and desolate — there are rocks, glaciers and shrieking 
torrents that hiss like serpents gliding into the sea! Oh, 
there must be fairer lands than this one — lands where ocean 
and sky are like twin jewels set in one ring — where there are 
sweet flowers and fruits and bright eyes to smile on you all 
day — yes! for you are as a god in your strength and beauty — 
no woman will be cruel to you! Ah! say you will go away!" 
and Sigurd's face was transfigured into a sort of pained 
beauty as he made his appeal. "That is what I came to seek 
you for — to ask you to set sail quickly and go, for why should 
you wish to destroy me? I have done you no harm as yet. Go! 
— and Odin himself shall follow your path with blessings!" 

He paused almost breathless with his own earnest plead- 
ing. Errington was silent. He considered the request a mere 
proof of the poor creature's disorder. The very idea that- 
Sigurd seemed to entertain of his doing him any harm showed 
a reasonless terror and foreboding that was simply to be set 
down as caused by his unfortunate mental condition. To such 
an appeal there could be no satisfactory reply. 

To sail away from the Alten Fjord and its now most fasci- 
nating attractions, because a madman asked him to do so, was 
a proposition impossible of acceptance, so Sir Philip said 
nothing. Sigurd, however, watching his face intently, saw, 
or thought he saw, a look of resolution in the Englishman's 
clear, deep gray eyes — and with the startling quickness com- 
mon to many whose brains, like musical instruments, are 
jarred yet not quite unstrung, he grasped the meaning of that 
expression instantly. 

"Ah! cruel and traitorous!" he exclaimed, fiercely. "You 
will not go; you are resolved to tear my heart out for your 
sport! I have pleaded with you as one pleads with a king, 
and all in vain — all in vain! You will not go? Listen, see 
what you will do," and he held up the bunch of purple pan- 
sies, while his voice sunk to an almost feeble faintness. "Look!" 
and he fingered the flowers, "look! — they are dark and soft as 
a purple sky — cool and dewy and fresh; they are the thoughts 
of Thelma; such thoughts! So wise and earnest, so pure and 
full of tender shadows! — no hand has grasped them rudely, no 
rough touch has spoiled their smoothness! They open full- 



THELMA. 91 

faced to the sky, they never droop or languish; they have no 
secrets, save the marvel of their beauty. Now you have come, 
you will have no pity — one by one you will gather and play 
with her thoughts as though they were these blossoms — your 
burning hand will mar their color — they will wither and furl 
up and die, all of them — and you — what will you care? Noth- 
ing! no man ever cares for a flower that is withered — not even 
though his own hand slew it." 

The intense melancholy that vibrated through Sigurd's 
voice touched his listener profoundly. Dimly he guessed 
that the stricken soul before him had formed the erroneous 
idea that he, Errington, had come to do some great wrong to 
Thelma or her belongings, and he pitied the poor creature for 
his foolish self-torture. 

"Listen to me, Sigurd," he said, with a certain imperative- 
ness; "I can not promise you to go away, but I can promise 
that I will do no harm to you or to — to — Thelma. Will that 
content you?" 

Sigurd smiled vacantly and shook his head. He looked at 
the pansies wistfully and laid them down very gently on one 
of the deck benches. 

"I must go," he said in a faint voice: "she is calling me." 

"Who is calling you?" demanded Errington, astonished. 

"She is," persisted Sigurd, walking steadily to the gang- 
way. "I can hear her! There are the roses to water, and the 
doves to feed, and many other things." He looked steadily 
at Sir Philip, who, seeing he was bent on departure, assisted 
him to descend the companion-ladder into his little boat. 
"You are sure you will not sail away?" 

Errington balanced himself lightly on the ladder and smiled. 

"I am sure, Sigurd! I have no wish to sail away. Are you 
all right there?" 

He spoke cheerily, feeling in his own mmd that it was 
scarcely safe for a madman to be quite alone in a cockle-shell 
of a boat on a deep fjord, the shores of which were indented 
with dangerous rocks as sharp as the bristling teeth of fabled 
sea-monsters, but Sigurd answered him almost contemptu- 
ously. 

"All right!" he echoed. "That is what the English say 
always. All right! As if it were ever wrong with me and 
the sea! We know each other— we do each other no harm. 
You may die on the sea, but I shall not! No, there is another 
way to Valhalla!" 



92 THELMA. 

"Oh, I dare say there are no end of ways/' said Erring- 
ton, good-temperedly, still poising himself on the ladder, and 
holding on to the side of his yacht, as he watched his late 
visitor take the oars and move off. "Good-bye, Sigurd! Take 
care of yourself! Hope I shall see you again soon." 

But Sigurd replied not. Bending to the oars, he rowed 
swiftly and strongly, and Sir Philip, pulling up the ladder and 
closing the gangway, saw the little skiff flying over the water 
like a bird in the direction of the Guldmars' landing-place. 
He wondered again and again what relationship, if any, this 
half-crazed being bore to the bonde and his daughter. That he 
knew all about them was pretty evident; but how? Catching 
sight of the pansies left on the deck bench, Errington took 
them, and, descending to the saloon, set them on the table in a 
tumbler of water. 

"Thelma's thoughts, the poor little fellow called them," he 
mused, with a smile. "A pretty fancy of his, and linked with 
the crazy imaginings of Ophelia, too. 'There's pansies, that's 
for thoughts,' she said, but Sigurd's idea is different; he be- 
lieves they are Thelma's own thoughts in flower. 'No rough 
touch has spoiled their smoothness,' he declared; he's right 
there, I'm sure. And shall I ruffle the sweet leaves? shall I 
crush the tender petals? or shall I simply transform them 
from pansies into roses — from the dream of love into love 
itself?" 

His eyes softened as he glanced at the drooping rose he 
wore, which Thelma herself had given him, and as he went to 
his sleeping cabin, he carefully detached it from his button- 
hole, and taking down a book — one which he greatly prized, 
because it had belonged to his mother — he prepared to press 
the flower within its leaves. It was the "Imitation of Christ," 
bound quaintly and fastened with silver clasps, and as he was 
about to lay his fragrant trophy on the first page that opened 
naturally of itself, he glanced at the words that there pre- 
sented themselves to his eyes. 

"Nothing is sweeter than love, nothing stronger, nothing 
higher, nothing wider, nothing more pleasant, nothing fuller 
or better in heaven or in earth!" And with a smile, and a 
warmer flush of color than usual on his handsome face, he 
touched the rose lightly yet tenderly with his lips and shut it 
reverently within its sacred resting-place. 



THELMA. 93 



CPIAPTEK IX. 

Our manners are infinitely corrupted, and wonderfully incline to 
the worse; of our customs, there are many barbarous and mon- 
strous. — Montaigne. 

The next day was very warm and bright, and that pious 
Lutheran divine, the Eev. Charles Dyeeworthy, was seriously 
incumbered by his own surplus flesh material, as he wearily 
rowed himself across the fjord toward Olaf Guldmar's private 
pier. As the perspiration bedewed his brow, he felt that 
Heaven had dealt with him somewhat too liberally in the way 
of fat — he was provided too amply with it ever to excel as an 
oarsman. The sun was burning hot, the water was smooth 
as oil, and very weighty — it seemed to resist every stroke of his 
dumsily wielded blades. Altogether it was hard, uncongenial 
work — and, being rendered somewhat flabby and nerveless by 
his previous evening's carouse with Macfarlane's whisky, Mr. 
Dyeeworthy was in a plaintive and injured frame of mind. 
He was bound on a mission — a holy and edifying errand, 
which would have elevated any minister of his particular sect. 
He had found a crucifix with the name of Thelma engraved 
thereon — he was now about to return it to the evident rightful 
owner, and in returning it he purposed denouncing it as an 
emblem of the "Scarlet Woman, that sitteth on the Seven 
Hills," and threatening all those who dared to hold it sacred 
as doomed to eternal torture, "where the worm dieth not." 
He had thought over all he meant to say; he had planned 
several eloquent and roimded sentences, some of which he 
murmured placidly to himself as he propelled his slow boat 
along. 

"Yea!" he observed, in a mild sotto voce — "ye shall be cut 
off root and branch! Ye shall be scorched even as stubble — 
and utterly destroyed." Here he paused and mopped his 
streaming forehead with his clean, perfumed handkerchief. 
"Yea!" he resumed, peacefully, "the worshipers of idolatrous 
images are accursed; they shall have ashes for food and gall 
for drink! Let them turn and repent themselves, lest the 
wrath of God consume them as straw whirled on the wind. 



94 THELMA. 

Kepent! — or ye shall be cast into everlasting fire. Beauty 
shall avail not, learning shall avail not, meekness shall avail 
not; for the fire of hell is a searching, endless, destroying — " 
here Mr. Dyceworthy, by plunging one oar with too much 
determination into the watery depths, caught a crab, as the 
saying is, and fell violently backward in a somewhat undigni- 
fied posture. Recovering himself slowly, he looked about 
him in a bewildered way, and for the first time noticed the 
vacant, solitary appearance of the fjord. Some object was 
missing; he realized what it was immediately — the English 
yacht "Eulalie" was gone from her point of anchorage. 

"Dear me!" said Mr. Dyceworthy, half aloud, "what a very 
sudden departure! I wonder now if those young men have 
gone for good, or whether they are coming back again ? Pleas- 
ant fellows — very pleasant! flippant, perhaps, but pleasant." 

And he smiled benevolently. He had no remembrance of 
what had occurred after he had emptied young Macfarlane's 
flask of Glenlivet; he had no idea that he had been almost 
carried from his garden into his parlor, and there flung on the 
sofa and left to sleep off the effects of his strong tipple; least 
of all did he dream that he had betrayed any of his inten- 
tions toward Thelma Guldmar, or given his religious opinions 
with such free and undisguised candor. Blissfully ignorant on 
these points, he resumed his refractory oars, and after nearly 
an hour of laborious effort succeeded at last in reaching his 
destination. Arrived at the little pier, he fastened up his 
boat, and with the lofty air of a thoroughly moral man, he 
walked deliberately up to the door of the bonde's house. Con- 
trary to custom, it was closed, and the place seemed strangely 
silent and deserted. The afternoon heat was so great that the 
song-birds were hushed and in hiding under the cool green 
leaves — the clambering roses round the porch hung down their 
bright heads for sheer faintness — and the only sounds to be 
heard were the subdued coo-cooing of the doves on the roof, 
and the soft trickling rush of a little mountain stream that 
flowed through the grounds. Somewhat surprised, though 
not abashed, at the evident "not-at-home" look of the farm- 
house, Mr. Dyceworthy rapped loudly at the rough oaken door 
with his knuckles, there being no such modern convenience 
as a bell or a knocker. He waited some time before he was 
answered, repeating his summons violently at frequent inter- 
vals, and swearing irreligiously under his breath as he did so. 



THELMA. 95 

But at last the door was flung sharply open, and the tangle- 
haired, rosy-cheeked liritta confronted him with an aspect 
which was by no means encouraging or polite. Her round 
blue eyes sparkled saucily, and she placed her bare, plump 
red arms, wet with recent soap-suds, akimbo on her sturdy 
little liips, with an air that was decidedly impertinent. 

"Well, what do you want?" she demanded, with rude ab- 
ruptness. 

Mr. Dyceworthy regarded her in speechless dignity. Vouch- 
safing no reply, he attempted to pass her and enter the house. 
But Britta settled her arms more defiantly than ever, and her 
voice had a sharper ring as she said: 

"It's no use your coming in! There's no one here but me. 
The master has gone out for the day." 

"Young woman," returned Mr. Dyceworthy, with polite 
severity, "I regret to see that your manners stand in sore need 
of improvement. Your master's absence is of no importance 
to me. It is with the Froken Thelma I desire to speak." 

Britta laughed and tossed her rough brown curls back from 
her forehead. Mischievous dimples came and went at the 
corners of her mouth — indications of suppressed fun. 

"The Froken is out too," she said, demurely. "It's time 
she had a little amusement; and the gentlemen treat her as if 
she were a queen!" 

Mr. Dyceworthy started, and his red visage became a trifle 
paler. 

"Gentlemen? What gentlemen?" he demanded, with some 
impatience. 

Britta's inward delight evidently increased. 

"The gentlemen from the yacht, of course," she said. 
"What other gentlemen are there?" This with a contemptu- 
ous up-and-down sort of look at the Lutheran minister's port- 
ly form. "Sir Philip Errington was here with his friend yes- 
terday evening and stayed a long time — and to-day a fine boat 
with four oars came to fetch the master and Froken Thelma, 
and they are all gone for a sail to the Kaa Fjord, or some 
other place near here — I can not remember the name. And I 
am so glad!" went on Britta, clasping her plump hands in 
ecstasy. "They are the grandest, handsomest Herren I have 
ever seen — and one can tell they think wonders of the Froken 
— nothing is too good for her!" 

Mr. Dyceworthy's face was the picture of dismay. This was 



96 THELMA. 

a new turn to the course of events, and one, moreover, that he 
had never once contemplated. Britta watched him amusedly. 

"Will you leave any message for them when they return?" 
she asked. 

"No," said the minister, dubiously. "Yet, stay; yes! I 
will! Tell the Froken that I have found something which be- 
longs to her, and that when she wishes to have it I will myself 
bring it." 

Britta looked across. "If it is hers you have no business to 
keep it," she said, brusquely. "Why not leave it — whatever it 
is — with me?" 

Mr. Dyceworthy regarded her with a bland and lofty air. 

"I trust no concerns of mine or hers to the keeping of a paid 
domestic," he said. "A domestic, moreover, who deserts the 
ways of her own people — who hath dealings with the dwellers 
in darkness — who even bringeth herself to forget much of her 
own native tongue, and who devoteth herself to — " 

What he would have said was uncertain, as at that moment 
he was nearly thrown down by a something that slipped 
agilely between his legs, pinching each fat calf as it passed — 
a something that looked like a ball, but proved to be a human 
creature — no other than the crazy Sigurd, who, after accom- 
plishing his uncouth gambol successfully, stood up, shaking 
back his streaming fair locks and laughing wildly. 

"Ha, ha!" he exclaimed. "That was good; that was clever! 
If I had upset you, now, you would have said your prayers 
backward! What are you here for? This is no place for you! 
They are all gone out of it. She has gone — all the world is 
empty! There is nothing anywhere but air, air, air! — no 
birds, no flowers, no trees, no sunshine! All gone with her 
on the sparkling, singing water!" and he swung his arms 
round violently, and snapped his fingers in the minister's face. 
"What an ugly man you are," he exclaimed, with refreshing 
candor. "I think you are uglier than I am! You are straight 
— but you are like a load of peat — heavy and barren and fit to 
burn. Now, I — I am the crooked bough of a tree, but I have 
bright leaves where a bird hides and sings all day! You — 
you have no song, no foliage; only ugly and barren and fit to 
bum!" He laughed heartily, and, catching sight of Britta 
where she stood in the door-way entirely unconcerned at his 
eccentric behavior, he went up to her and took hold of the 
corner of her apron. "Take me in, Britta dear — pretty 



THELMA. 97 

Britta!" lie said, coa-xingly. "Sigurd is hungry! Britta, 
sweet little Britta — come and talk to me and sing! Good-bye, 
fat man!" he added, suddenly, turning round once more on 
Dyceworthy. "You will never overtake the big ship that has 
gone away with Thelma over the water. Thelma will come 
back — yes! — but one day she will go never to come back." He 
dropped his voice to a mysterious whisper. "Last night I saw 
a little spirit come out of a rose — he carried a tiny golden 
hammer and nail, and a ball of cord like a rolled-up sunbeam. 
He flew away so quickly I could not follow him; but I know 
where he went! He fastened the nail in the heart of Thelma, 
deeply, so that the little drops of blood flowed — but she felt no 
pain; and then he tied the gold cord to the nail and left her, 
carrying the other end of the string with him — to whom? 
Some other heart must be pierced! Whose heart?" Sigurd 
looked infinitely cunning as well as melancholy, and sighed 
deeply. 

The Rev. Mr. Dyceworthy was impatient and disgusted. 

"It is a pity," he said, with an air of solemn patience, "that 
this hapless creature, accursed of God and man, is not placed 
in some proper abode suitable to the treatment of his affliction. 
You, Britta, as the favored servant of a — a — well, let us say, 
of a peculiar mistress, should persuade her to send this — this 
— ^person away, lest his vagaries become harmful." 

Britta glanced very kindly at Sigurd, who still held her 
apron with the air of a trustful child. 

"He's no more harmful than you are," she said, promptly, 
in answer to the minister's remark. "He's a good fellow, and 
if he talks strangely he can make himself useful — which is 
more than can be said of certain people. He can saw and 
chop the wood, make hay, feed the cattle, pull a strong oar, 
and sweep and keep the garden — can't you, Sigurd?" She 
laid her hand on Sigurd's shoulder, and he nodded his head 
emphatically, as she enumerated his different talents. "And 
as for climbing — he can guide you anywhere over the hills, or 
up the streams to the big waterfalls — no one better. And if 
you mean by peculiar — that my mistress is different to other 
people, why, I know she is, and am glad of it — at any rate, she's 
a great deal too kind-hearted to shut this poor boy up in a 
house for madmen! He'd die if he couldn't have the fresh 
air." She paused, out of breath with her rapid utterance, and 
Mr. Dyceworthy held up his hands in dignified astonishment. 
7 



98 THELMA. 

"You talk too glibly, young woman/' he said. "It is neces- 
sary that I should instruct you without loss of time as to how 
you should be sparing of your words in the presence of your 
superiors and betters — " 

Bang! The door was closed with a decision that sent a 
sharp echo through the silent, heated air, and Mr. Dyceworthy 
was left to contemplate it at his leisure. Full of wrath, he 
was about to knock peremptorily and insist that it should be 
reopened; but on second thoughts he decided that it was be- 
neath his dignity to argue with a servant, much less with a 
declared lunatic like Sigurd — so he made the best of his way 
back to his boat, thinking gloomily of the hard labor awaiting 
him in the long pull back to Bosekop. 

Other thoughts, too, tortured and harassed his brain, and 
as he again took the oars and plied them wearily through the 
water he was in an exceedingly unchristian humor. Though 
a specious hypocrite, he was no fool. He knew the ways of 
men and women, and he thoroughly realized the present posi- 
tion of affairs. He was quite aware of Thelma Guldmar's ex- 
ceptional beauty — and he felt pretty certain that no man 
could look upon her without admiration. But up to this time, 
she had been, as it were, secluded from all eyes — a few hay- 
makers and fishermen were the only persons of the male sex 
who had ever been within the precincts of Olaf Guldmar's 
dwelling, and with the exception of himself, Dyceworthy — 
who, being armed with a letter of introduction from the actual 
minister of Bosekop, whose place he for the present filled, had 
intruded his company frequently and persistently on the bonde 
and his daughter, though he knew himself to be entirely unwel- 
come. He had gathered together as much as he could all the 
scraps of information concerning them: how Olaf Guldmar 
was credited with having made away with his wife by foul 
means; how nobody ever knew where his wife had come from; 
how Thelma had been mysteriously educated, and had learned 
strange things concerning foreign lands, which no one else in 
the place understood anything about; how she was reputed to 
be a witch, and was believed to have cast her spells on the 
unhappy Sigurd, to the destruction of his reason — and how 
nobody could tell where Sigurd himself had come from. 

All this Mr. Dyceworthy had heard with much interest, and 
as the sensual part of his nature was always more or less pre- 
dominant, he had resolved in his own mind that here was a 



THELMA. 99 

field of action suitable to his abilities. To tame and break 
the evil spirit in the reputed witch; to convert her to the holy 
and edif3dng Lutheran faith; to save her soul for the Lord, 
and take her beautiful body for himself — these were Mr. 
Dyceworthy's laudable ambitions. There was no rival to op- 
pose him, and he had plenty of time to mature his plans. So 
he had thought. He had not bargained for the appearance of 
Sir Philip Bruce-Errington on the scene — a man, young, 
handsome, and well-bred, with vast wealth to back up his pre- 
tensions, should he make any. 

"How did he find her out?" thought the Eev. Charles, as he 
dolefully pulled his craft along. "And that brutal pagan 
Guldmar, too, who pretends he can not endure strangers!" 

And as he meditated, a flush of righteous indignation crim- 
soned his flabby features. 

"Let her take care," he half muttered, with a smile that was 
not pleasant; "let her take care! There are more ways than 
one to bring down her pride! Sir Philip Errington must be 
too rich and popular in his own country to think of wishing to 
marry a girl who is only a farmer's daughter after all. He 
may trifle with her; yes! — and he will help me by so doing. 
The more mud on her name, the better for me; the more dis- 
grace, the more need of rescue, and the more grateful she will 
have to be. Just a word to Ulrika — and the scandal will 
spread. Patience — patience!" 

And somewhat cheered by his own reflections, though still 
wearing an air of offended dignity, he rowed on, glancing up 
every now and then to see if the "Eulalie" had returned, but 
her place was still empty. 

Meanwhile, as he thought and planned, other thoughts and 
plans were being discussed at a meeting which was held in a 
little ruined stone hut, situated behind some trees on a dreary 
hill just outside Bosekop. It was a miserable place, barren of 
foliage — the ground was dry and yellow, and the hut itself 
looked as if it had been struck by lightning. The friends 
whose taste had led them to select this dilapidated dwelling 
as a place of conference were two in number, both women — 
one of them no other than the minister's servant, the drear- 
faced Ulrika. She was crouched on the earth floor in an atti- 
tude of utter debasement, at the feet of her companion — an 
aged dame of tall and imposing appearance, who, standing 
erect, looked down upon her with an air of mingled contempt 



100 THELMA. 

and malevolence. The hut was rather dark, for the roof was 
not sufficiently destroyed to have the advantage of being open 
to the sky. 

The sunhght fell through holes of different shapes and sizes 
— one specially bright patch of radiance illumining the stately 
form and strongly marked, though withered features of the 
elder woman, whose eyes, deeply sunken in her head, glittered 
with a hawk-like and evil luster, as they rested on the pros- 
trate figure before her. When she spoke, her accents were 
harsh and commanding. 

"How long?" she said, "how long must I wait? How long 
must I watch the work of Satan in the land? The fields are 
barren and will not bring forth; the curse of bitter poverty is 
upon us all; and only he, the pagan Guldmar, prospers and 
gathers in harvest, while all around him starve! Do I not 
know the devil's work when I see it? — I, the chosen servant 
of the Lord!" And she struck a tall staff she held violently 
into the ground to emphasize her words. "Am I not left de- 
serted in my age? The child Britta — sole daughter of my sole 
daughter — is she not stolen, and kept from me ? Has not her 
heart been utterly turned away from mine? All through that 
vile witch — accursed of God and man ! She it is who casts the 
blight on our land; she it is who makes the hands and hearts 
of our men heavy and careless, so that even luck has left the 
fishing; and yet you hesitate — you delay, you will not fulfill 
your promise! I tell you, there are those in Bosekop who, at 
my bidding, would cast her naked into the fjord, and leave 
her there, to sink or swim according to her nature!" 

"I know," murmured Ulrika, humbly, raising herself slight- 
ly from her kneeling posture; "I know it well! — but, good 
Lovisa, be patient! I work for the best! Mr. Dyceworthy 
will do more for us than we can do for ourselves; he is wise 
and cautious — " 

Lovisa interrupted her with a fierce gesture. "Fool!" she 
cried: "What need of caution? A witch is a witch — burn her, 
drown her! There is no other remedy! But two days since 
the child of my neighbor Engla passed her on the fjord; and 
now the boy has sickened of some strange disease, and 'tis 
said he will die. Again, the drove of cattle owned by Hild- 
mar Bjom were herded home when she passed by. Now they 
are seized by the murrain plague! Tell your good saint 



THELMA. 101 

Dyceworthy these things; if he can find no cure, 1 can — and 
will." 

Ulrika shuddered slightly as she rose from the ground and 
stood erect, drawing her shawl closely about her. 

"You hate her so much, Lovisa?" she asked, almost timidly. 

Lovisa's face darkened, and her yellow, claw-like hand 
closed round her strong staff in a cruel and threatening man- 
ner. 

"Hate her!" she muttered; "I have hated her ever since she 
was born! I hated her mother before her! A nest of devils, 
every one of them; and the curse will always be upon us while 
they dwell here." 

She paused and looked at Ulrika steadily. 

"Eemember!" she said, with an evil leer on her lips, "I hold 
a secret of yours that is worth the keeping! I give you two 
weeks more; within that time you must act! Destroy the 
witch — bring back, to me my grandchild Britta, or else — it will 
be my turn!" 

And she laughed silently. Ulrika's face grew paler, and 
the hand that grasped the folds of her shawl trembled vio- 
lently. She made an effort, however, to appear composed, as 
she answered: 

"I have sworn to obey you, Lovisa — and I will. But tell 
me one thing — how do you know that Thelma Guldmar is in- 
deed a witch?" 

"How do I know?" almost yelled Lovisa. "Have I lived all 
these years for nothing? Look at her! Am I like her? Are 
you like her? Are any of the honest women of the neighbor- 
hood hke her? Meet her on the hills with knives and pins — 
prick her, and see if the blood will flow! I swear it will not 
— not one drop! Her skin is too white; there is no blood in 
those veins — only fire! Look at the pink in her cheeks — the 
transparency of her flesh — the glittering light in her eyes, the 
gold of her hair — it is all devil's work, it is not human, it is 
not natural! I have watched her — I used to watch her mother, 
and curse her every time I saw her — ay! curse her till I was 
breathless with cursing — " 

She stopped abruptly. Ulrika gazed at her with as much 
wonder as her plain, heavy face was capable of expressing. 
Lovisa saw the look and smiled darkly. 

"One would think you had never known what love is!" she 
said, with a sort of grim satire in her tone. "Yet even your 



102 THELMA. 

dull soul was on fire once! But I — when I was young, I had 
beauty such as you never had, and I loved — Olaf Guldmar." 

Ulrika uttered an exclamation of astonishment. "You! and 
yet you hate him now?" 

Lovisa raised her hand with an imperious gesture. 

"I have grown hate like a flower in my breast," she said, 
with a sort of stern impressiveness. "I have fostered it year 
after year, and now — it has grown too strong for me! When 
Olaf Guldmar was young he told me I was fair; once he kissed 
my cheek at parting! For those words — for that kiss — I loved 
him then — for the same things I hate him now! When I knew 
he had married, I cursed him; on the day of my own marriage 
with a man I despised, I cursed him! I have followed him 
and all his surroundings with more curses than there are hours 
in the day! I have had some little revenge — yes!" — and she 
laughed grimly — "but I want more! For Britta has been 
caught by his daughter's evil spell. Britta is mine, and I 
must have her back. Understand me well! — do what you 
have to do without delay! Surely it is an easy thing to ruin 
a woman!" 

Ulrika stood as though absorbed in meditation, and said 
nothing for some moments. At last she murmured, as though 
to herself: 

"Mr. Dyceworthy could do much — if — " 

"Ask him, then," said Lovisa, imperatively. "Tell him 
the village is in fear of her. Tell him that if he will do noth- 
ing, we will. And if all fails, come to me again; and remem- 
ber! — I shall not only act — I shall speak!" 

And emphasizing the last word as a sort of threat, she 
turned and strode out of the hut. 

Ulrika followed more slowly, taking a different direction to 
that in which her late companion was seen rapidly disappear- 
ing. On returning to the minister's dwelling, she found that 
Mr. Dyceworthy had not yet come back from his boating ex- 
cursion. She gave no explanation of her absence to her two 
fellow-servants, but went straight up to her own room — a bare 
attic in the roof — where she deliberately took off her dress 
and bared her shoulders and breast. Then she knelt down on 
the rough boards, and clasping her hands, began to writhe 
and wrestle as though she were seized with a sudden convul- 
sion. She groaned and tortured the tears from her eyes; she 
pinched her own flesh till it was black and blue, and scratched 



THBLMA. 103 

it with her nails till it bled — and she prayed inaudibly, but 
with evident desperation. Sometimes her gestures were fran- 
tic, sometimes appealing; but she made no noise that was 
loud enough to attract attention from any of the dwellers in 
the house. Her stolid features were contorted with anguish — 
and had she been an erring nun of the creed she held in such 
bitter abhorrence, who, for some untold crime, endured a self- 
imposed penance, she could not have punished her own flesh 
much more severely. 

She remained some quarter of an hour or twenty minutes 
thus; then rising from her knees, she wiped the tears from her 
eyes and reclothed herself, and with her usual calm, immov- 
able aspect — though smarting sharply from the injuries she 
had inflicted on herself — she descended to the kitchen, there 
to prepare Mr. Dyceworthy's tea with all the punctilious care 
and nicety befitting the meal of so good a man and so perfect 
a saint. 



CHAPTER X. 

She believed that by dealing nobly with all, all would show 
themselves noble; so that whatsoever she did became her.— Hafiz. 

As the afternoon lengthened, and the sun lowered his glitter- 
ing shield toward that part of the horizon where he rested a 
brief while without setting, the '"^Eulalie" — her white sails 
spread to the cool, refreshing breeze — swept gracefully and 
swiftly back to her old place on the fjord, and her anchor 
dropped with musical clank and splash, just as Mr. Dyce- 
worthy entered his house, fatigued, perspiring, and ill-tem- 
pered at the non-success of his day. All on board the yacht 
were at dinner — a dinner of the most tasteful and elegant de- 
scription, such as Sir Philip Errington well knew how to order 
and superintend — and Thelma, leaning against the violet vel- 
vet cushions that were piled behind her for her greater ease, 
looked — as she indeed was — the veritable queen of the feast. 
Macfarlane and Duprez had been rendered astonished and 
bashful by her excessive beauty. From the moment she came 
on board with her father, clad in her simple white gown, with 
a deep crimson hood drawn over her fair hair, and tied under 
her rounded chin, she had taken them all captive — they were 



104 THBLMA. 

her abject slaves in heart, though they put on very creditable 
airs of manly independence and nonchalance. Each man in 
his different way strove to amuse or interest her, except, 
strange to say, Errington himself, who, though deeply courte- 
ous to her, kept somewhat in the background, and appeared 
more anxious to render himself agreeable to old Olaf Guldmar 
than to win the good graces of his lovely daughter. The girl 
was delighted with everything on board the yacht — she ad- 
mired its elegance and luxury with child-like enthusiasm; she 
gloried in the speed with which its glittering prow cleaved 
the waters; she clapped her hands at the hiss of the white 
foam as it split into a creaming pathway for the rushing ves- 
sel; and she was so unaffected and graceful in all her actions 
and attitudes that the slow blood of the cautious Macfarlane 
began to warm up by degrees to a most unwonted heat of ad- 
miration. When she had first arrived, Errington, in receiving 
her, had seriously apologized for not having some lady to meet 
her, but she seemed not to understand his meaning. Her 
naive smile and frankly uplifted eyes put all his suddenly 
conceived notions of social stifi^ness to flight. 

"Why should a lady come?" she asked, sweetly. "It is not 
necessary?" 

"Of course it isn't!" said Lorimer, promptly and delight- 
edly. "I am sure we shall be able to amuse you, Miss 
Guldmar." 

"Oh — for that!" she replied, with a little shrug that had 
something French about it. "I amuse myself always! I am 
amused now — you must not trouble yourselves!" 

As she was introduced to Duprez and Macfarlane, she gave 
them each a quaint, sweeping courtesy, which had the effect 
of making them feel the most ungainly, lumbersome fellows 
on the face of the earth. Macfarlane grew secretly enraged 
at the length of his legs — while Pierre Duprez, though his bow 
was entirely Parisian, decided in his own mind that it was 
jerky, and not good style. She was perfectly unembarrassed 
with all the young men; she laughed at their jokes and turned 
her glorious eyes full on them with the unabashed sweetness 
of innocence; she listened to the accounts they gave her of 
their fishing and climbing excursions with the most eager in- 
terest — and in her turn, she told them of fresh nooks and 
streams and waterfalls, of which tliey bad never even heard 
the names. Not only were they enchanted with her, but they 



THELMA. 105 

were thoroughly delighted with her father, Olaf Guldmar. 
The sturdy old pagan was in the best of humors, and seemed 
determined to be pleased with everything; he told good stories 
and laughed that rollicking, jovial laugh of his with such un- 
forced heartiness that it was impossible to be dull in his com- 
pany — and not one of Errington's companions gave a thought 
to the reports concerning him and his daughter which had 
been so gratuitously related by Mr. Dyceworthy. 

They had had a glorious day's sail, piloted by Valdemar 
Svensen, whose astonishment at seeing the Guldmars on board 
the "Eulalie" was depicted in his face, but who prudently 
forbore from making any remarks thereon. The bonde hailed 
him good-humoredly as an old acquaintance — much in the 
tone of a master addressing a servant — and Thelma smiled 
kindly at him; but the boundary line between superior and 
inferior was in this case very strongly marked, and neither 
side showed any intention of overstepping it. In the course 
of the day Duprez had accidentally lapsed into French, where- 
upon, to his surprise, Thelma had answered him in the same 
tongue — though with a different and much softer pronuncia- 
tion. Her "hienzoli!" had the mellifluous sweetness of the 
Provencal dialect, and on his eagerly questioning her, he 
learned that she had received her education in a large convent 
at Aries, where she had learned French from the nuns. Her 
father overheard her talking of her school-days, and he added: 

"Yes, I sent my girl away for her education, though I know 
the teaching is good in Christiania. Yet it did not seem good 
enough for her. Besides, your modern 'higher education' is 
not the fit thing for a woman — it is too heavy and common- 
place. Thelma knows nothing about mathematics or algebra. 
She can sing and read and write — and, what is more, she can 
spin and sew; but even these things were not the first con- 
sideration with me. I wanted her disposition trained, and her 
bodily health attended to. I said to those good women at 
Aries: 'Look here — here's a child for you! I don't care how 
much or how little she knows about accomplishments. I want 
her to be sound and sweet from head to heel — a clean mind in 
a wholesome body. Teach her self-respect, and make her 
prefer death to a lie. Show her the curse of a shrewish tem- 
per and the blessing of cheerfulness. That will satisfy me!' 
I dare say, now I come to think of it, those nuns thought me 
an odd customer; but, at any rate, they seemed to understand 



106 THELMA. 

me. Thelma was very happy with them, and considering all 
things" — the old man's eyes twinkled fondly — "she hasn't 
turned out so badly!" 

They laughed — and Thelma blushed as Emngton's dreamy 
eyes rested on her with a look, which, though he was uncon- 
scious of it, spoke passionate admiration. The day passed too 
quickly with them all — and now, as they sat at dinner in the 
richly ornamented saloon, there was not one among them who 
could contemplate without reluctance the approaching break- 
up of so pleasant a party. Dessert was served, and as Thelma 
toyed with the fruit on her plate and sipped her glass of cham- 
pagne, her fair face grew serious and absorbed — even sad — and 
she scarcely seemed to hear the merry chatter of tongues 
around her, till Errington's voice asking a question of her 
father roused her into a swift attention. 

"Do you know any one of the name of Sigurd?" he was say- 
ing, "a poor fellow whose wits are in heaven, let us hope — for 
they certainly are not on earth." 

Olaf Guldmar's fine face softened with pity, and he replied: 

*'Sigurd? Have you met him, then? Ah, poor boy, his is a 
sad fate! He has wit enough, but it works wrongly; the brain 
is there, but 'tis twisted. Yes, we know Sigurd well enough 
— his home is with us, in default of a better. Ay, ay! we 
snatched him from death — perhaps unwisely — yet he has a 
good heart and finds pleasure in his life." 

"He is a kind of poet in his own way," went on Errington, 
watching Thelma as she listened intently to their conversa- 
tion. "Do you know he actiially visited me on board here 
last night, and begged me to go away from the Alten Fjord 
altogether? He seemed afraid of me, as if he thought I meant 
to do him some harm." 

"How strange!" murmured Thelma. "Sigurd never speaks 
to visitors — he is too shy. I can not understand his motive!" 

"Ah, my dear!" sighed her father. "Has he any motive at 
all? — and does he ever understand himself? His fancies 
change with every shifting breeze! I will tell you," he con- 
tinued, addressing himself to Errington, "how he came to be, 
as it were, a bit of our home. Just before Thelma was born, 
I was walking with my wife one day on the shore, when we 
both caught sight of something bumping against our little 
pier, like a large box or basket. I managed to get hold of it 
with a boat-hook and drag it in; it was a sort of creel such as 



THELMA. 107 

is used to pack fish in, and in it was the naked body of a half- 
drowned cliild. It was an ugly little creature — a newly born 
infant deformity — and on its chest there was a horrible scar 
in the shape of a cross, as though it had been gashed deeply 
with a pen-knife. I thought it was dead, and was for throw- 
ing it back into the fjord, but my wife — a tender-hearted 
angel — took the poor wretched little wet body in her arms, 
and found that it breathed. She warmed it, dried it, and 
wrapped it in her shawl — and after awhile the tiny monster 
opened its eyes and stared at her. Well! — somehow, neither 
of us could forget the look it gave us — such a solemn, warn- 
ing, pitiful, appealing sort of expression! There was no re- 
sisting it — so we took the foundling and did the best we could 
for him. We gave him the name of Sigurd — and when Thelma 
was born, the two babies used to play together all day, and 
we never noticed anything wrong with the boy, except his 
natural deformity, till he was about ten or twelve years old. 
Then we saw to our sorrow that the gods had chosen to play 
havoc with his wits. However, we humored him tenderly, 
and he was always manageable. Poor Sigurd! He adored 
my wife; I have known him listen for hours to catch the sound 
of her footstep; he would actually deck the threshold with 
flowers in the morning that she might tread on them as she 
passed by," 

The old bonde sighed and rubbed his hand across his eyes 
with a gesture half of pain, half of impatience. "And now 
he is Thelma's slave — a regular servant to her. She can 
manage him best of us all — he is as docile as a lamb, and will 
do anything she tells him." 

"I am not surprised at that," said the gallant Duprez; "there 
is reason in such obedience!" 

Thelma looked at him inquiringly, ignoring the implied 
compliment. 

"You think so?" she said, simply. "I am glad! I always 
hope that he will one day be well in mind — and every little 
sign of reason in him is pleasant to me." 

Duprez was silent. It was evidently no use making even 
an attempt at flattering this strange girl; surely she must be 
dense not to understand compliments that most other women 
compel from the lips of men as their right? He was confused 
— his Paris breeding was no use to him — in fact he had been 
at a loss all day, and his conversation had, even to himself, 



108 THELMA. 

seemed particularly shallow and frothy. This Mile. Guldmar, 
as he called her, was by no means stupid; she was not a mere 
moving statue of lovely flesh and perfect color whose outward 
beauty was her only recommendation — she was, on the con- 
trary, of a most superior intelligence — she had read much and 
thought more — and the dignified elegance of her manner and 
bearing would have done honor to a queen. After all, thought 
Duprez, musingly, the social creeds of Paris might he wrong 
— it was just possible! There might be women who were 
womanly — there might be beautiful girls who were neither 
vain nor frivolous — there might even be creatures of the femi- 
nine sex beside whom a trained Parisian coquette would seem 
nothing more than a painted fiend of the neuter gender. 
These were new and startling considerations to the feather- 
light mind of the Frenchman — and unconsciously, his fancy 
began to busy itself with the old romantic histories of the 
ancient French chivalry, when faith and love and loyalty kept 
white the lilies of France, and the stately courtesy and un- 
flinching pride of the ancien regime made its name honored 
throughout the world. An odd direction indeed for Pierre 
Duprez's reflections to wander in — he, who never reflected on 
either past or future, but was content to fritter away the pres- 
ent as pleasantly as might be — and the only reason to which 
his unusually serious reverie could be attributed was the pres- 
ence of Thelma. She certainly had a strange influence on 
them all, though she herself was not aware of it — and not only 
Errington, but each one of his companions, had been deeply 
considering during the day that, notwithstanding the unhe- 
roic tendency of modern living, life itself might be turned to 
good and even noble account, if only an effort were made in 
the right direction. 

Such was the compelling effect of Thelma's stainless mind, 
reflected in her pure face, on the different dispositions of all 
the young men; and she, perfectly unconscious of it, smiled 
at them and conversed gayly — little knowing, as she talked in 
her own sweet and unaffected way, that the most profound 
resolutions were being formed, and the most noble and un- 
selfish deeds were being planned in the souls of her listeners 
— all forsooth! because one fair, innocent woman had, in the 
clear, grave glances of her wondrous sea-blue eyes, suddenly 
made them aware of their own utter unworthiness. Macfar- 
lane, meditatively watching the girl from under his pale eye- 



THELMA. 109 

lashes, thought of Mr. Dyceworthy's matrimonial pretensions 
with a humorous smile hovering on his thin lips. 

"Ma certes! the fellow has an unco' gude opeenion o' 
himsel'," he mused. "lie might as well offer his hand in 
marriage to the queen while he's aboot it — he wad hae just as 
muckle chance o' acceptance." 

Meanwhile, Errington, having learned all he wished to 
know concerning Sigurd, was skillfully drawing out old Olaf 
Guldmar, and getting him to give his ideas on things in gen- 
eral, a task in which Lorimer joined. 

"So you don't think we're making any progress nowadays ?" 
inquired the latter, with an appearance of interest and a lazy 
amusement in his blue eyes as he put the question. 

"Progress!" exclaimed Guldmar. "Not a bit of it! It is all 
a going backward; it may not seem apparent, but it is so. 
England, for instance, is losing the great place she once held 
in the world's history — and these things always happen to all 
nations when money becomes more precious to the souls of the 
people than honesty and honor. I take the universal wide- 
spread greed of gain to be one of the worst signs of the times 
— the forewarning of some great upheaval and disaster, the 
effects of which no human mind can calculate. I am told that 
America is destined to be the dominating power of the future 
— but I doubt it! Its politics are too corrupt — its people live 
too fast and burn their candle at both ends, which is unnat- 
ural and most unwholesome; moreover, it is almost destitute of 
Art in its highest forms — and is not its confessed watchword 
'the Almighty Dollar'? And such a country as that expects 
to arrogate to itself the absolute sway of the world? I tell 
you, no — ten thousand times no! It is destitute of nearly 
everything that has made nations great and all-powerful in 
historic annals — and my belief is that what has been will be 
again — and that what has never been, will never be." 

"You mean by that, I suppose, that there is no possibility 
of doing anything new — no way of branching out in some bet- 
ter and untried direction?" asked Errington. 

Olaf Guldmar shook his head emphatically. "You can't do 
it," he said, decisively. "Everything in every way has been 
begun and completed and then forgotten over and over in 
this world — to be begun and completed and forgotten again, 
and so on to the end of the chapter. No one nation is better 
than another in this respect — there is, there can be, nothing 



110 THELMA. 

new. Norway, for example, has had its day; whether it will 
ever have another I know not — at any rate, I shall not live to 
see it. And, yet, what a past — !" He broke oft' and Ms eyes 
grew meditative. 

Lorimer looked at him. "You would have been a Viking, 
Mr. Guldmar, had you lived in the old days," he said, with a 
smile. 

"I should indeed!" returned the old man, with an uncon- 
sciously haughty gesture of his head; "and no better could 
have befallen me! To sail the seas in hot pursuit of one's 
enemies or in search of further conquest — to feel the very 
wind and sun beating up the blood in one's veins — to live the 
life of a man — a true man! — ^in all the pride and worth of 
strength and invincible vigor! — how much better than the 
puling, feeble, sickly existence led by the majority of men 
to-day! I dwell apart from them as much as I can — I steep 
my mind and body in the joys of nature and the free fresh air 
— but often I feel that the old days of the heroes must have 
been best — when Gorm the Bold and the fierce Siegfried 
seized Paris, and stabled their horses in the chapel where 
Charlemagne lay buried!" 

Pierre Duprez looked up with a faint smile. "Ah, pardon! 
But that was surely a very long time ago!" 

"True!" said Guldmar, quietly. "And no doubt you will 
not believe the story at this distance of years. But the day 
is coming when people will look back on the little chronicle of 
your empire — your commvme — your republic, all your little 
affairs and will say: 'Surely these things are myths; they 
occurred — if they occurred at all — a very long time ago!'" 

"Monsieur is a philosopher!" said Duprez, with a good- 
humored gesture; "I would not presume to contradict him." 

"You see, my lad," went on Guldmar, more gently, "there 
is much in our ancient Norwegian history that is forgotten or 
ignored by students of to-day. The travelers that come hither 
come to see the glories of our glaciers and fjords — but they 
think little or nothing of the vanished tribe of heroes who 
once possessed the land. If you know your Greek history, 
you must have heard of Pythias, who lived three hundred and 
fifty-six years before Christ, and who was taken captive by a 
band of Norsemen and carried away to see 'the place where 
the sun slept in winter.' Most probably he came to this very 
spot, the Alten Fjord — at any rate, the ancient Greeks had 



THELMA. Ill 

good words to say for the 'Outside Northwinders/ as they 
called us Norwegians, for they reported us to be 'persons liv- 
ing in peace with their gods and themselves.' Again, one of 
the oldest tribes in the world came among us in times past 
— the Phoenicians — there are traces among us still of their 
customs and manners. Yes! we have a great deal to look 
back upon with pride as well as sorrow; and much as I hear of 
the wonders of the New World, the marvels and the go-ahead 
speed of American manners and civilization, I would rather 
be a Norseman than a Yankee." And he laughed. 

"There's more dignity in the name, at any rate," said Lori- 
mer. "But I say, Mr. Guldmar, you are 'up' in history much 
better than I am. The annals of my country were grounded 
into my tender soul early in life, but I have a very hazy recol- 
lection of them. I know Henry VIII. got rid of his wives 
expeditiously and conveniently — and I distinctly remember 
that Queen Elizabeth wore the first pair of silk stockings, and 
danced a kind of jig in them with the Earl of Leicester; these 
things interested me at the time — and they now seem firmly 
impressed on my memory to the exclusion of everything else 
that might possibly be more important." 

Old Guldmar smiled, but Thelma laughed outright, and her 
eyes danced mirthfully. 

"Ah, I do know you now!" she said, nodding her fair head 
at him wisely. "You are not anything that is to be believed! 
So I shall well understand you — that is, you are a very great 
scholar — but that it pleases you to jDretend you are a dunce!" 

Lorimer's face brightened into a very gentle and winning 
softness as he looked at her. 

"I assure you. Miss Guldmar, I am not pretending in the 
least. I'm no scholar. Errington is, if you like! If it hadn't 
been for him, I should never have learned anything at Oxford 
at all. He used to leap over a difficulty while I was looking 
at it. Phil, don't interrupt me — you know you did! I tell 
you he's up to everything: Greek, Latin, and all the rest of it 
— and, what's more, he writes well; I believe — though he'll 
never forgive me for mentioning it — that he has even pub- 
lished some poems." 

"Be quiet, George!" exclaimed Errington, with a vexed 
laugh. "You are boring Miss Guldmar to death!" 

"What is boring?" asked Thelma, gently, and then turning 
her eyes full on the young baronet, she added, "I like to hear 



112 THELMA. 

that you will pass your days sometimes without shooting the 
birds and killing the fish; it can hurt nobody for you to write." 
And she smiled that dreamy, pensive smile of hers that was so 
infinitely bewitching. "You must show me all your sweet 
poems!" 

Errington colored hotly. "They are all nonsense. Miss 
Guldmar," he said quickly. "There's nothing 'sweet' about 
them, I tell you frankly. All rubbish, every line of them!" 

"Then you should not write them," said Thelma, quietly. 
"It is only a pity and a disappointment." 

"I wish every one were of your opinion," laughed Lorimer; 
"it would spare us a lot of indifl:erent verse." 

"Ah! you have the chief Skald of all the world in your 
land!" cried Guldmar, bringing his fist down with a Jovial 
thump on the table. "He can teach you all that you need to 
know." 

"Skald?" queried Lorimer, dubiously, "Oh, you mean 
bard. I suppose you allude to Shakespeare?" 

"I do," said the old bonde, enthusiastically, "he is the only 
glory of your country I envy! I would give anything to prove 
bim a Norwegian. By Valhalla! had he but been one of the 
bards of Odin the world might have followed the grand old 
creed still! If anything could ever persuade me to be a 
Christian, it would be the fact that Shakespeare was one. If 
England's name is rendered imperishable, it will be through 
the fame of Shakespeare alone — just as we have a kind of 
tenderness for degraded modern Greece, because of Homer. 
Ay, ay! countries and nations are worthless enough; it is only 
the great names of heroes that endure, to teach the lesson that 
is never learned sufficiently, namely, that man and man alone 
is fitted to grasp the prize of immortality." 

"Ye believe in immortality?" inquired Macfarlane, seriously. 

Guldmar's keen eyes lighted on him with fiery impetuous- 
ness. 

"Believe in it? I possess it! How can it be taken from me? 
As well make a bird without wings, a tree without sap, an 
ocean without depth, as expect to find a man without an im- 
mortal soul! What a question to ask! Do you not possess 
Heaven's gift? and why should not I?" 

"No offense," said Macfarlane, secretly astonished at the 
old bonde's fervor — for had not he, though himself intending 
to become a devout minister of the Word — had not he now and 
then felt a creeping doubt as to whether, after all, there was 



THELMA. 113 

any truth in the doctrine of another life than this one? "I 
only thocht ye might have perhaps questioned the probabeel- 
ity o't, in your own mind." 

"I never question Divine authority," replied Olaf Guldmar; 
"I pity those that do!" 

"And this Divine authority/' asked Duprez, suddenly, with 
a delicate sarcastic smile, "how and where do you perceive it?" 

"In the very Law that compels me to exist, young sir," said 
Guldmar — "in the mysteries of the universe about me — the 
glory of the heavens — the wonders of the sea! You have per- 
haps lived in cities all your life, and your mind is cramped a 
bit. No wonder — you can hardly see the stars above the roofs 
of a wilderness of houses. Cities arc men's work — the gods 
have never had a finger in the building of them. Dwelling in 
them, I suppose you can not help forgetting Divine authority 
altogether; but here — here among the mountains, you would 
soon remember it! You should live here — it would make a 
man of you!" 

"And you do not consider me a man?" inquired Duprez, 
with imperturbable good humor. 

Guldmar laughed. "Well, not quite!" he admitted can- 
didly; "there's not enough muscle about you. I confess I like 
to see strong fellows — fellows fit to rule the planet on which 
they are placed. That's my whim! — but you're a neat little 
chap enough, and I dare say you can hold your own!" 

And his eyes twinkled good-temperedly as he filled himself 
another glass of his host's fine Burgundy and drank it off, 
while Duprez, with a half-plaintive, half-comical shrug of res- 
ignation to Guldmar's verdict on his personal appearance, 
asked Thelma if she would favor them with a song. She rose 
from her seat instantly, without any affected hesitation, and 
went to the piano. She had a delicate touch, and accompanied 
herself with great taste; but her voice — full, penetrating, rich 
and true — was one of the purest and most sympathetic ever 
possessed by woman, and its freshness was unspoiled by any 
of the varied "systems" of torture invented by singing-masters 
for the ingenious destruction of the delicate vocal organ. She 
sung a Norwegian love-song in the original tongue, which 
might be roughly translated as follows: 

"Lovest thou me for my beauty's sake? 
Love me not then! 
Love the victorious, glittering Sun, 
The fadeless, deathless, marvelous One! 
8 



114 THBLMA. 

"Lovest thou me for my youth's sake? 
Love me not then! 
Love the triumphant, unperishing Spring, 
Who every year new charms doth bring! 

"Lovest thou me for treasure's sake? 
Oh, love me not then! 
Love the deep, the wonderful Sea, 
Its jewels are worthier love than me! 

"Lovest thou me for Love's own sake? 
Ah, sweet, then love me! 
More than the Sun and the Spring and the Sea, 
Is the faithful heart I will yield to thee!" 

A silence greeted the close of her song. Though the young 
men were ignorant of the meaning of the words till old Guld- 
mar translated them for their benefit, they could feel the in- 
tensity of the passion vibrating through her ringing tones — 
and Errington sighed involuntarily. She heard the sigh, and 
turned round on the music-stool laughing. 

"Are you so tired, or sad, or what is it?" she asked, merrily. 
"It is too melancholy a tune ? And I was foolish to sing it — 
because you can not understand the meaning of it. It is all 
about love — and of course love is always sorrowful." 

"Always?" asked Lorimer, with a half smile. 

*'I do not know," she said, frankly, with a pretty, depreca- 
tory gesture of her hands — "but all books say so! It must be 
a great pain and also a great happiness. Let me think what I 
can sing to you now — but perhaps you will yourself sing?" 

"Not one of us has a voice, Miss Guldmar," said Erring- 
ton. "I used to think I had, but Lorimer discouraged my 
efforts." 

"Men shouldn't sing," observed Lorimer. "If they only 
knew how awfully ridiculous they look, standing up in dress- 
coats and white ties, pouring forth inane love-ditties that 
nobody wants to hear, they wouldn't do it. Only a woman 
looks pretty while singing." 

"Ah, that is very nice!" said Thelma, with a demure smile. 
"Then I am agreeable to you when I sing?" 

Agreeable? This was far too tame a word — they all rose 
from the table and came toward her, with many assurances of 
their delight and admiration; but she put all their compli- 
ments aside with a little gesture that was both incredulous 
and peremptory. 



THELMA. 115 

"You must not say so many things in praise of me," she 
said, with a swift upward glance at Errington, where he leaned 
on the piano regarding her. "It is nothing to be able to sing. 
It is only like the birds; but we can not understand the words 
they say, just as you can not understand Norwegian. Listen 
— here is a little ballad you will all know," and she played a 
soft prelude, while her voice, subdued to a plaintive murmur, 
rippled out in the dainty verses of Sainte-Beuve: 

"Sur ma lyre, I'autre fois 

Dans un bois, 
Ma main pr6Iudait k peine; 
Une colombe descend 

En passant, 
Blanche sur le luth d'6b6ne. 

"Mais au lieu d'accords touchants, 
De doux chants. 
La colombe gSmissante 
Me demande par pitie 

Sa moiti6 
Sa moitie loin d'elle absente!" 

She sung this seriously and sweetly till she came to the last 
three lines, when, catching Errington's earnest gaze, her voice 
quivered and her cheeks flushed. She rose from the piano as 
soon as she had finished, and said to the bonde, who had been 
watching her with proud and gratified looks: 

"It is growing late, father. We must say good-bye to our 
friends and return home." 

"Not yet!" eagerly implored Sir Philip. "Come up on deck 
— we will have coffee there, and afterward you shall leave us 
when you will." 

Guldmar acquiesced in this arrangement before his daugh- 
ter had time to raise any objection, and they all went on deck, 
where a comfortable lounging-chair was placed for Thelma, 
facing the most gorgeous portion of the glowing sky, which on 
this evening was like a moving mass of molten gold, split 
asunder here and there by angry, ragged-looking rifts of crim- 
son. The young men grouped themselves together at the 
prow of the vessel in order to smoke their cigars without an- 
noyance to Thelma. Old Guldmar did not smoke, but he 
talked — and Errington, after seeing them all fairly absorbed 
in an argument on the best methods of spearing salmon, moved 
quietly away to where the girl was sitting, her great pensive 
eyes fixed on the burning splendors of the heavens. 



116 THBLMA. 

"Are you warm enough there?" he asked, and there was an 
unconscious tenderness in his voice as he asked the question; 
"or shall I fetch you a wrap ?" 

She smiled. "I have my hood," she said. "It is the warm- 
est thing I ever wear, except, of course, in winter." 

Philip looked at the hood as she drew it more closely over 
her head, and thought that surely no more becoming article of 
apparel ever was designed for woman's wear. He had never 
seen anything like it either in color or texture — ^it was of a 
peculiarly warm, rich crimson, like the heart of a red damask 
rose, and it suited the bright hair and tender, thoughtful eyes 
of its owner to perfection. 

"Tell me," he said, drawing a little nearer and speaking in 
a lower tone, "have you forgiven me for my rudeness the first 
time I saw you?" 

She looked a little troubled. 

"Perhaps also I was rude," she said, gently. "I did not 
know you. I thought — " 

"You were quite right," he eagerly interrupted her. "It 
was very impertinent of me to ask you for your name. I 
should have found it out for myself, as I have done." 

And he smiled at her as he said the last words with marked 
emphasis. She raised her eyes wistfully. 

"And you are glad?" she asked, softly and with a sort of 
wonder in her accents. 

"Glad to know your name? glad to know you! Of course! 
Can you ask such a question?" 

"But why?" persisted Thelma. "It is not as if you were 
lonely— you have friends already. We are nothing to you. 
Soon you will go away, and you will think of the Alten Fjord 
as a dream — and our names will be forgotten. That is nat- 
ural!" 

What a foolish rush of passion filled his heart as she spoke 
in those mellow, almost plaintive accents— what wild words 
leaped to his Kps, and what an effort it cost him to keep them 
back! The heart and impetuosity of Eomeo— whom up to the 
present he had been inclined to consider a particularly stupid 
youth — was now quite comprehensible to his mind, and he, 
the cool, self-possessed Englishman, was ready at that mo- 
ment to rival Juliet's lover in his utmost excesses of amorous 
folly. In spite of his self-restraint, his voice quivered a little 
as he answered her: 



THELMA. , 117 

"I shall never forget the Altcn Fjord or you, Miss Guld- 
mar. Don't yon know there are some things that can not be 
forgotten? — sucli as a sudden glimpse of fine scenery, a beau- 
tiful song, or a pathetic poem." She bent her head in assent. 
"And here there is so much to remember — the light of the 
midnight sun — the glorious mountains, the loveliness of the 
whole land!" 

"Is it better than other countries you have seen?" asked the 
girl, with some interest. 

"Much better!" returned Sir Philip, fervently. "In fact, 
there is no place like it, in my opinion." He paused at the 
sound of her pretty laughter. 

"You are — what is it? — ecstatic!" she said, mirthfully. "Tell 
me, have you been to the south of France and the Pyrenees?" 

"Of course I have," he replied. "I have been all over the 
Continent — traveled about it till I'm tired of it. Do you like 
the south of France better than Norway?" 

"No — not so very much better," she said, dubiously. "And 
yet a little. It is so warm and bright there, and the people 
are gay. Here they are stern and sullen. My father loves to 
sail the seas, and when I first went to school at Aries, he took 
me a long and beautiful voyage. We went from Christiansund 
to Holland, and saw all those pretty Dutch cities with their 
canals and quaint bridges. Then we went through the Eng- 
lish Channel to Brest — then by the Bay of Biscay to Bayonne. 
Bayonne seemed to me very lovely, but we left it soon, and 
traveled a long way by land, seeing all sorts of wonderful 
things, till we came to Aries. And though it is such a long 
route, and not one for many persons to take, I have traveled 
to Aries and back twice that way, so all there is familiar to 
me — and in some things I do think it better than Norway." 

"What induced your father to send you so far away from 
him?" asked Philip, rather curiously. 

The girl's eyes softened tenderly. "Ah, that is easy to un- 
derstand!" she said. "My mother came from Aries." 

"She was French, then?" he exclaimed, with some surprise. 

"No," she answered, gravely. "She was Norwegian, be- 
cause her father and mother both were of this land. She was 
what they call 'born sadly.' You must not ask me any more 
about her, please!" 

Errington apologized at once with some embarrassment, and 
a deeper color than usual on his face. She looked up at him 
quite frankly. 



118 THELMA. 

"It is possible I will tell you her history some day/' she said, 
"when we shall know each other better. I do like to talk to 
you very much! I suppose there are not many Englishmen 
like you?*' 

Philip laughed. "I don't think I am at all exceptional! 
Why do you ask?" 

She shrugged her shoulders. "I have seen some of them," 
she said, slowly, "and they are stupid. They shoot, shoot — 
fish, fish, all day, and eat a great deal." 

"My dear Miss Guldmar, I also do all these things!" declared 
Errington, amusedly. "These are only our surface fiinlts. 
Englishmen are the best fellows to be found anywhere. You 
mustn't judge them by their athletic sports or their vulgar 
appetites. You must appeal to their hearts when you want to 
know them." 

"Or to their pockets, and you will know them still better!" 
said Thelma, almost mischievously, as she raised herself in 
her chair to take a cup of coffee from the tray that was then 
being handed to her by the respectful steward. "Ah, how 
good this is! It reminds me of our coffee luncheon at Aries!" 

Errington watched her with a half smile, but said no more, 
as the others now came up to claim their share of her company. 

"I say!" said Lorimer, lazily throwing himself full length 
on the deck and looking up at her, "come and see us spear a 
salmon to-morrow. Miss Guldmar. Your father is going to 
show us how to do it in proper Norse style." 

"That is for men," said Thelma, loftily. "Women must 
know nothing about such things." 

"By Jove!" and Lorimer looked profoundly astonished. 
"Why, Miss Guldmar, women are going in for everything now- 
adays! Hunting, shooting, bull-fighting, dueling, horsewhip- 
ping, lecturing — Heaven knows what! They stop at nothing 
— salmon-spearing is a mere trifle in the list of modem femi- 
nine accomplishments." 

Thelma smiled down upon him benignly. "You will always 
be the same," she said, with a sort of indulgent air. "It is 
your delight to say things upside down! But you shall not 
make me believe that women do all these dreadful things. 
Because, how is it possible? The men would not allow them!" 

Errington laughed, and Lorimer appeared stupefied with 
surprise. 

"The men — would — not — allow them?" he repeated, slowly. 



THELMA. 119 

"Oh, Miss Guldmar, little do you realize the state of things at 
the present day! The glamour of Viking memories clings 
about you still! Don't you know the power of man has passed 
away, and that ladies do exactly as they like? It is easier to 
control the thunder-bolt than to prevent a woman having her 
own way/' 

"All that is nonsense!" said Thelma, decidedly. "Where 
there is a man to rule, he must rule, that is certain." 

"Is that positively your opinion?" and Lorimer looked more 
astonished than ever. 

"It is everybody's opinion, of course!" averred Thelma. 
"How fooKsh it would be if women did not obey men! The 
world would be all confusion! Ah, you see you can not make 
me think your funny thoughts; it is no use!" And she laugh- 
ed and rose from her chair, adding, with a gentle, persuasive 
air: "Father, dear, is it not time to say good-bye?" 

"Truly I think it is!" returned Guldmar, giving himself a 
shake like an old lion, as he broke off a rather tedious conver- 
sation he had been having with Macfarlane. "We shall have 
Sigurd coming to look for us, and poor Britta will think we 
have left her too long alone. Thank you, my lad!" this to Sir 
Pliilip, who instantly gave orders for the boat to be lowered. 
"You have given us a day of thorough, wholesome enjoyment. 
I hope I shall be able to return it in some way. You must let 
us see as much of you as possible." 

They shook hands cordially, and Errington proposed to 
escort them back as far as their own pier, but this offer Guld- 
mar refused. 

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed, cheerily. "With four oarsmen 
to row us along, why should we take you away from your 
friends? I won't hear of such a thing! And now, regarding 
the great fall of Njedegorze: Mr. Macfarlane here says you 
have not visited it yet. Well, the best guide you can have 
there is Sigurd. We'll make up a party and go when it is 
agreeable to you; it is a grand sight — well worth seeing. To- 
morrow we shall meet again for the salmon-spearing — I war- 
rant I shall be able to make the time pass quickly for you! 
How long do you think of staying here?" 

"As long as possible!" answered Errington, absently, his 
eyes wandering to Thelma, who was just then shaking hands 
with his friends and bidding them farewell. 

Guldmar laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "That 



120 THELMA. 

means till you are tired of the place," he said, good-hiimored- 
ly. "Well, you shall not be dull if I can prevent it! Good- 
bye, and thanks for your hospitality." 

"Ah, yes!" added Thelma, gently, coming up at that mo- 
ment and laying her soft hand in his. "I have been so happy 
all day, and it is all your kindness! I am very grateful!" 

"It is I who have cause to be grateful," said Errington, hur- 
riedly, clasping her hand warmly, "for your company and that 
of your father. I trust we shall have many more pleasant days 
together." 

"I hope so too!" she answered, simply, and then, the boat 
being ready, they departed. Errington and Lorimer leaned 
on the deck-rails, waving their hats and watching them dis- 
appear over the gleaming water, till the very last glimpse of 
Thelma's crimson hood had vanished, and they turned to 
rejoin their companions, who were strolling up and down 
smoking. 

"BeUecomine un ange!" said Duprez, briefly. "In short, I 
doubt if the angels are so good looking!" 

"The auld pagan's a fine scholar," added Macfarlane, medi- 
tatively. "He corrected me in a bit o' Latin." 

"Did he, indeed?" And Lorimer laughed indolently. "I 
suppose you think better of him now, Sandy?" 

Sandy made no reply, and as Errington persisted in turning 
the conversation away from the merits or demerits of their 
recent guests, they soon entered on other topics. But that 
night, before retiring to rest, Lorimer laid a hand on his 
friend's shoulder, and said, quietly, with a keen look: 

"Well, old man, have you made up your mind? Have I 
seen the future Lady Bruce-Errington?" 

Sir Philip smiled — then, after a brief pause, answered, 
steadily: 

"Yes, George, you have! That is — if I can win her!" 

Lorimer laughed a little and sighed. "There's no doubt 
about that, Phil." And eyeing Errington's fine figure and 
noble features musingly, he repeated again, thoughtfully: 
"No doubt about that, my boy!" Then, after a pause, he said 
somewhat abruptly: "Time to turn in — good-night!" 

"Good-night, old fellow!" And Errington wrung his hand 
warmly, and left him to repose. 

But Lorimer had rather a bad night — he tossed and tumbled 



THELMA. 121 

a good deal, and had dreaiiLs — unusual visitors with him — and 
once or twice he muttered in his sleep: "No doubt about it — 
not the least in the world — and if there were — " 
But the conclusion of this sentence was inaudible. 



CHAPTER XI. 

Tu vas faire un beau reve, 
Et t'enivrer d'un plaisir dangereux. 

Sur ton chemin I'^toile qui se leve 
Longtemps encore eblouira tes yeux! 

De Musset. 

A fortnight passed. The first excursion in the "Eulalie" 
had been followed by others of a similar kind, and Errington's 
acquaintance with the Guldmars was fast ripening into a pleas- 
ant intimacy. It had grown customary for the young men to 
spend that part of the day which, in spite of persistent sun- 
shine, they still called evening, in the comfortable, quaint 
parlor of the old farm-house — looking at the view through the 
rose-wreathed windows — listening to the fantastic legends of 
Norway as told by Olaf Guldmar — or watching Thelma's pict- 
uresque figure as she sat pensively apart in her shadowed 
corner spinning. They had fraternized with Sigurd too — 
that is, as far as he would permit them — for the unhappy 
dwarf was uncertain of temper, and if at one hour he were do- 
cile and yielding as a child, the next he would be found excited 
and furious at some imaginary slight that he fancied had been 
inflicted upon him. Sometimes, if good-humored, he would 
talk almost rationally — only allowing his fancy to play with 
poetical ideas concerning the sea, the flowers or the sunlight 
— but he was far more often sullen and silent. He would draw 
a low chair to Thelma's side, and sit there with half-closed 
eyes and compressed lips, and none could tell whether he lis- 
tened to the conversation around him, or was utterly indiffer- 
ent to it. He had taken a notable fancy to Lorimer, but he 
avoided Errington in the most marked and persistent manner. 
The latter did his best to overcome this unreasonable dislike, 
but his efforts were useless — and deciding in his own mind 
that it was best to humor Sigurd's vagaries, he soon let him 
alone, and devoted his attention more entirely to Thelma. 



122 THELMA. 

One evening, after supper at the farm-house, Lorimer, who 
for some time had been watching Phihp and Thelma convers- 
ing together in low tones near the open window, rose from his 
seat quietly, without disturbing the hilarity of the bonde, who 
was in the middle of a rollicking sea-story, told for Macfar- 
lane's entertainment, and sUpped out into the garden, where 
he strolled along rather absently till he found himself in the 
little close thicket of pines — the very same spot where he and 
Philip had stood on the first day of their visit thither. He 
threw himself down on the soft emerald moss and lighted a 
cigar, sighing rather drearily as he did so. 

"Upon my life/' he mused, with a half smile, "I am very 
nearly being a hero — a regular stage-martyr — the noble creat- 
ure of the piece! By Jove, I wish I were a soldier! I'm cer- 
tain I could stand the enemy's fire better than this! Self- 
denial? Well, no wonder the preachers make such a fuss 
about it. It's a tough, uncomfortable duty. But am I self- 
denying? Not a bit of it! Look here, George Lorimer" — 
here he tapped himself very vigorously on his broad chest — 
"don't you imagine yourself to be either virtuous or magnani- 
mous! If you were anything of a man at all you would never 
let your feelings get the better of you — you would be sublimely 
indifferent, stoically calm — and, as it is, you know what a 
sneaking, hang-dog state of envy you were in Just now when 
you came out of that room! Aren't you ashamed of yourself 
— rascal ?" 

The inner self he thus addressed was most probably abashed 
by this adjuration, for his countenance cleared a little, as 
though he had received an apology from his own conscience. 
He puffed lazily at his cigar, and felt somewhat soothed. 
Light steps below him attracted his attention, and, looking 
down from the little knoll on which he lay, he saw Thelma 
and Philip pass. They were walking slowly along a little 
winding path that led to the orchard, which was situated at 
some little distance from the house. The girl's head was 
bent, and Philip was talking to her with evident eagerness. 
Lorimer looked after them earnestly, and his honest eyes were 
full of trouble. 

"God bless them both !" he murmured, half aloud. "There's 
no harm in saying that, anyhow! Dear old Phil! I wonder 
whether — " 

What he would have said was uncertain, for at that moment 



THBLMA. 123 



he was considerably startled by the sight of a meager, pale 
face peering through the parted pine-boughs — a face in which 
two wild eyes shone with a blue-green glitter like that of new- 
ly sharpened steel. 

"Halloo, Sigurd!" said Lorimer, good-naturedly, as he rec- 
ognized his visitor. "What are you up to? Going to climb 
a tree?" 

Sigurd pushed aside the branches cautiously and approach- 
ed. He sat down by Lorimer, and, taking his hand, kissed it 
deferentially. 

"I followed you. I saw you go away to grieve alone. I 
came to grieve also!" he said with a patient gentleness. 

Lorimer laughed languidly. "By Jove, Sigurd, you're too 
clever for your age! Think I came away to grieve, eh? Not 
so, my boy — came away to smoke! There's a come-down for 
you! I never grieve — don't know how to do it. What is 

grief?" 

"To love!" answered Sigurd, promptly. "To see a beauti- 
ful elf with golden wings come fluttering, fluttering gently 
down from the sky — you open your arms to catch her — so! — 
and just as you think you have her, she leans only a little bit 
on one side and falls, not into your heart — no! — ^into the heart 
of some one else! That is grief, because, when she has gone, 
no more elves come down from the sky — for you, at any rate; 
good things may come for others — but for you the heavens are 
empty!" 

Lorimer was silent looking at the speaker curiously. 

"How do you get all this nonsense into your head, eh?" he 
inquired, kindly. 

"I do not know," replied Sigurd, with a sigh. "It comes! 
But, tell me" — and he smiled wistfully — "it is true, dear 
friend — good friend — it is all true, is it not? For you the 
heavens are empty? You know it!" 

Lorimer flushed hotly, and then grew strangely pale. After 
a pause, he said, in his usual indolent way: 

"Look here, Sigurd; you're romantic! I'm not. I know 
nothing about elves or empty heavens. I'm all right! Don't 
you bother yourself about me." 

The dwarf studied his face attentively, and a smile of 
almost fiendish cunning suddenly illumined his thin features. 
He laid his weak-looking white hand on the young man's arm 
and said, in a lower tone : 



124 THELMA. 

"I will tell you what to do. Kill him!" 

The last two words were uttered with such intensity of 
meaning that Lorimer positively recoiled from the accents and 
the terrible look which accompanied them. 

"I say, Sigurd, this won't do," he remonstrated, gravely. 
"You mustn't talk about Idlling, you know! It's not good for 
you. People don't kill each other nowadays so easily as you 
seem to think. It can't be done, Sigurd! Nobody wants to 
do it." 

"It can be done!" reiterated the dwarf, imperatively. "It 
must be done and either you or I will do it! He shall not rob 
U8 — he shall not steal the treasure of the golden midnight. 
He shall not gather the rose of all roses — " 

"Stop!" said Lorimer, suddenly. "Who are you talking 
about?" 

"Who?" cried Sigurd, excitedly. "Surely you know. Of 
him — that tall, proud, gray-eyed Englishman — your foe, your 
rival; the rich, cruel Errington!" 

Lorimer's hand fell heavily on his shoulder, and his voice 
M'as very stern. 

"What nonsense, Sigurd! You don't know what you are 
talking about to-day. Errington my foe! Good heavens! 
Why, he's my best friend! Do you hear?" 

Sigurd stared up at liim in vacant surprise, but nodded 
feebly. 

"Well, mind you remember it! The spirits tell lies, my 
boy, if they say that he is my enemy. I would give my life 
to save his!" 

He spoke quietly, and rose from his seat on the moss as he 
finished his words, and his face had an expression that was 
both noble and resolute. 

Sigurd still gazed upon him. "And you — you do nut love 
Thelma?" he murmured. 

Lorimer started, but controlled himself instantly. His 
frank English eyes met the feverishly brilliant ones fixed so 
appealingly upon him. 

"Certainly not!" he said, calmly, with a serene smile. 
"What makes you think of such a thing? Quite wrong, Sig- 
urd — the spirits have made a mistake again! Come along — let 
us join the others." 

But Sigurd would not accompany him. He sprung away 
like a frightened animal, in haste, and abruptly plunging into 



THELMA. 125 

the depths of a wood that bordered on Olaf Guldmar's 
grounds, was soon lost to sight. Lorimer looked after him in 
a little perplexity. 

"I wonder if he ever gets dangerous?" he thought. "A fel- 
low with such queer notions might do some serious harm with- 
out meaning it. I'll keep an eye on him!" 

And once or twice during that same evening he felt inclined 
to speak to Errington on the subject, but no suitable oppor- 
tunity presented itself — and after a while, with his habitual 
indolence, he partly forgot the circumstance. 

On the following Sunday afternoon Thelma sat alone under 
the wide blossom-covered porch, reading. Her father and 
Sigurd — accompanied by Errington and his friends — had all 
gone for a mountain ramble, promising to return for supper, 
a substantial meal which Britta was already busy preparing. 
The afternoon was very warm — one of those long, lazy 
stretches of heat and brilliancy in which Nature herself seems 
to have lain down to rest like a child tired of play, sleeping in 
the sunshine with drooping flowers in her hands. The very 
ripple of the stream seemed hushed, and Thelma, though her 
eyes were bent seriously on the book she held, sighed once or 
twice heavily as though she were tired. There was a change 
in the girl — an indefinable something seemed to have passed 
over her and toned down the redundant brightness of her 
beauty. She was paler, and there were darker shadows than 
usual under the splendor of her eyes. Her very attitude, as 
she leaned her head against the dark, fantastic carving of the 
porch, had a touch of listlessness and indifference in it; her 
sweetly arched lips drooped with a plaintive little line at the 
comers, and her whole air was indicative of fatigue mingled 
with sadness. She looked up now and then from the printed 
page, and her gaze wandered over the stretch of the scented, 
flower-filled garden to the little silvery glimmer of the fjord, 
from whence arose, like delicate black streaks against the 
sky, the slender masts of the "Eulalie" — and then she would 
resume her reading with a slight movement of impatience. 

The volume she held was Victor Hugo's "Orientales," and 
though her sensitive imagination delighted in poetry as much 
as in sunshine, she found it for once hard to rivet her attention 
as closely as she wished to do on the exquisite wealth of lan- 
guage and glow of color that distinguishes the writings of the 
Shakespeare of France. Within the house Britta was singing 



125 THELMA. 

cheerily at her work, and the sound of her song alone disturbed 
the silence. Two or three pale-blue butterflies danced drowsi- 
ly in and out a cluster of honeysuckle that trailed downward, 
nearly toucliing Thelma's shoulder, and a diminutive black 
kitten, with a pink ribbon round its neck, sat gravely on the 
garden path, washing its face with its tiny velvety paws in 
that deliberate and precise fashion common to the spoiled and 
petted members of its class. Everything was still and peace- 
ful as became a Sunday afternoon — so that when the sound of 
a heavy, advancing footstep disturbed the intense calm, the 
girl was almost nervously startled, and rose from her seat with 
so much precipitation that the butterflies, who had possibly 
been considering whether her hair might not be some new 
sort of sunflower, took fright and flew far upward, and the 
demure kitten, scared out of its absurd self-consciousness, 
scrambled hastily up the nearest little tree. The intruder on 
the quietude of Guldmar's domain was the Eev. Mr. Dyce- 
worthy — and as Thelma, standing erect in the porch, beheld 
him coming, her face grew stem and resolute, and her eyes 
flashed disdainfully. 

Ignoring the repellent, almost defiant dignity of the girl's 
attitude, Mr. Dyceworthy advanced, rather out of breath and 
somewhat heated, and smiling benevolently, nodded his head 
by way of greeting, without removing his hat. 

"Ah, Froken Thelma!" he observed, condescendingly. "And 
how are you to-day? You look remarkably well — remarkably 
so, indeed!" And he eyed her with mild approval. 

"I am well, I thank you," she returned, quietly. "My fath- 
er is not in, Mr. Dyceworthy." 

The Eeverend Charles wiped his hot face, and his smile 
grew wider. 

"What matter?" he inquired, blandly. "We shall, no doubt, 
entertain ourselves excellently without him! It is with you 
alone, Froken, that I am desirous to hold converse." 

And, without waiting for her permission, he entered the 
porch and settled himself comfortably on the bench opposite 
to her, heaving a sigh of relief as he did so. Thelma remained 
standing, and the Lutheran minister's covetous eye glanced 
greedily over the sweeping curves of her queenly figure, the 
dazzling whiteness of her slim, arched throat, and the glitter 
of her rich hair. She was silent — and there was something in 
her manner as she confronted him that made it difiicult for 



THELMA. 127 

Mr. Dyceworthy to speak. He hummed and hawed several 
times, and settled his stiff collar once or twice as though it 
hurt him; finally he said, with an evident effort: 

"I have found a — a — trinket of yours — a trifling toy which, 
perhaps, you would be glad to have again." And he drew 
carefully out of his waistcoat pocket a small parcel wrapped 
up in tissue-paper, which he undid with his fat fingers, thus 
displaying the little crucifix he had kept so long in his posses- 
sion. "Concerning this," he went on, holding it up before 
her, "I am grievously troubled — and would fain say a few 
necessary words — " 

She interrupted him, reaching out her hand for the cross as 
she spoke. 

"That was my mother's crucifix," she said, in solemn, in- 
finitely tender accents, with a mist as of unshed tears in her 
sweet blue eyes. "It was round her neck when she died. I 
knew I had lost it, and was very unhappy about it. I do thank 
you with all my heart for bringing it back to me!" 

And the hauteur of her face relaxed, and her smile — that 
sudden sweet smile of hers — shone forth like a gleam of sun- 
shine athwart a cloud. 

Mr. Dyceworthy 's breath came and went with curious rapid- 
ity. His visage grew pale, and a clammy dew broke out upon 
his forehead. He took the hand she held out — a fair, soft 
hand with a pink palm like an upcurled shell — and laid the 
little cross within it, and still retaining his hold of her, he 
stammeringly observed: 

"Then we are friends, Froken Thelma! — good friends, I 
hope?" 

She withdrew her fingers quickly from his hot, moist clasp, 
and her bright smile vanished. 

"I do not see that at all!" she replied, frigidly. "Friend- 
ship is very rare. To be friends, one must have similar tastes 
and sympathies — many things which we have not — and which 
we shall never have. I am slow to call any person my friend." 

Mr. Dyceworthy's small, pursy mouth drew itself into a 
tight, thin line. 

"Except," he said, with a suave sneer, "except when 'any 
person' happens to be a rich Englishman with a handsome 
face and easy manners! — then you are not slow to make 
friends, Froken — on the contrary, you are remarkably quick!" 



128 THELMA. 

The cold, haughty stare with which the girl favored him 
might have frozen a less conceited man to a pillar of ice. 

"What do you mean/' she asked abruptly, and with an air 
of surprise. 

The minister's little ferret-like eyes dropped under their 
puffy Uds, and he fidgeted on the seat with uncomfortable em- 
barrassment. He answered her in the mildest of mild voices. 

"You are unlike yourself, my dear Fro ken!" he said, with a 
soothing gesture of one of his well-trimmed white hands. 
"You are generally frank and open, but to-day I find you just 
a little — well! — what shall I say — secretive? Yes, we will call 
it secretive! Oh, fy!" and Mr. Dyeeworthy laughed a gentle 
little laugh; "you must not pretend ignorance of what I mean! 
All the neighborhood is talking of you and the gentlemen you 
are so often seen with. ISTotably concerning Sir Philip Erring- 
ton — the evil tongue of rumor is busy — for, according to his 
first plans, when his yacht arrived here, he was bound for 
the North Cape — and should have gone there days ago. Tru- 
ly, I think — and there are others who think also in the same 
spirit of interest for you — that the sooner this young man 
leaves our peaceful fjord the better — and the less he has to 
do with the maidens of the district, the safer we shall be 
from the risk of scandal." And he heaved a pious sigh. 

Thelma turned her eyes upon him in wonderment. 

"I do not understand you," she said, coldly. "Why do you 
speak of others? No others are interested in what I do. Why 
should they be? Why should you be? There is no need!" 

Mr. Dyeeworthy grew slightly excited. He felt like a run- 
ner nearing the winning-post. 

"Oh, you wrong yourself, my dear Froken," he murmured, 
softly, with a sickly attempt at tenderness in his tone. "You 
really wrong yourself! It is impossible — for me, at least — not 
to be interested in you — even for our dear Lord's sake. It 
troubles me to the inmost depths of my soul to behold in you 
one of the foolish virgins whose light hath been extinguished 
for lack of the saving oil — to see you wandering as a lost sheep 
in the paths of darkness and error, without a hand to rescue 
your steps from the near and dreadful precipice! Ay, truly! 
my spirit yeameth for you as a mother for an own babe — fain 
would I save you from the devices of the Evil One — fain would 
1—" here the minister drew out his handkerchief and pressed 
it lightly to his eyes — then, as if with an effort, overcoming 



THELMA. 129 

his emotion, he added, with the gravity of a butcher present- 
ing an extortionate bill, "But first — before my own humble 
desires for your salvation — first, ere I go further in converse, 
it behooveth me to enter on the Lord's business!" 

Thelma bent her head shghtly, with an air as though she 
said, "Indeed; pray do not be long about it!" And, leaning 
back against the porch, she waited somewhat impatiently. 

"The image I have just restored to you," went on Mr. Dyce- 
worthy, in his most pompous and ponderous manner, "you say 
belonged to your unhappy mother — " 

"She was not unhappy," interposed the girl, calmly. 

"Ay, ay!" and the minister nodded with a superior air of 
wisdom. "So you imagine, so you think — you must have 
been too young to judge of these things. She died — " 

"I saw her die," again she interrupted, with a musing ten- 
derness in her voice. "She smiled and kissed me — then she 
laid her thin white hand on this crucifix, and closing her eyes, 
she went to sleep. They told me it was death; since then I 
have known that death is beautiful!" 

Mr. Dyceworthy coughed — a little cough of quiet incredu- 
lity. He was not fond of sentiment in any form, and the 
girl's dreamy, pensive manner annoyed him. Death "beauti- 
ful"? Faugh! it was the one thing of all others that he 
dreaded; it was an unpleasant necessity concerning which he 
thought as little as possible. Though he preached frequently 
on the peace of the grave and the joys of heaven, he was far 
from believing in either — he was nervously terrified of illness, 
and fled like a frightened hare from the very rumor of any in- 
fectious disorder, and he had never been known to attend a 
death-bed. And now, in answer to Thelma, he nodded piously 
and rubbed his hands, and said: 

"Yes, yes; no doubt, no doubt! All very proper on your 
part, I am sure! But concerning this same image of which I 
came to speak — it is most imperative that you should be 
brought to recognize it as a purely carnal object, unfitting a 
maiden's eyes to rest upon. The true followers of the Gospel 
are those who strive to forget the sufferings of our dear Lord 
as much as possible — or to think of them only in spirit. The 
minds of sinners, alas! are easily influenced — and it is both 
unseemly and dangerous to gaze freely upon the carved sem- 
blance of the Lord's limbs! Yea, truly, it hath oft been con- 
sidered as damnatory to the soul — more especially in the cases 
9 



130 THELMA. 

of women mmmred as nuns, who encourage themselves in an 
undue familiarity with our Lord by gazing long and earnestly 
upon his body nailed to the accursed tree." 

Here Mr. Dyceworthy paused for breath. Thelma was si- 
lent, but a faint smile gleamed on her face, 

"therefore," he went on, ''I do abjure you, as you desire 
grace and redemption, to utterly cast from you the vile trinket 
I have — Heaven knows how reluctantly! — returned to your 
keeping — to trample upon it, and renounce it as a device of 
Satan — " He stopped, surprised and indignant, as she raised 
the much-abused emblem to her lips and kissed it reverently. 

''Tt is the sign of peace and salvation,'' she said, steadily; 
"to me, at least. You waste your words, Mr. Dyceworthy; 
I am a Catholic." 

"Oh, say not so!" exclaimed the minister, now thoroughly 
roused to a pitch of unctuous enthusiasm. "Say not so! Poor 
child! who knowest not the meaning of the word used. Cath- 
olic signifies universal. God forbid a imiversal papacy! You 
are not Catholic — no! You are a Eoman — by which name 
we understand all that is most loathsome and unpleasing tmto 
God! But I will wrestle for your soul — yea, night and day 
will I bend my spiritual sinews to the task — I will obtain the 
victory — I will exorcise the fiend! Alas, alas! you are on the 
brink of hell — think of it!" and Mr. Dyceworthy stretched out 
his hand with his favorite ptdpit gesture, "Think of the 
roasting and burning — the scorching and withering of souls! 
Imagine, if you can, the hopeless, bitter, eternal damnation" 
— and here he smacked his lips as though he were tasting 
something excellent — "from which there is no escape! — for 
which there shall be no remedy!" 

"It is a gloomy picture," said Thelma, with a quiet sparkle 
in her eye. 'T. am sorry — for you. But I am happier — my 
faith teaches of purgatory — there is always a little hope!" 

"There is none, there is none!" exclaimed the minister, ris- 
ing in excitement from his seat, and swaying ponderously to 
and fro as he gesticulated with hands and head. "You' are 
doomed — doomed! There is no middle course between hell 
and heaven. It must be one thing or the other; God deals not 
in half measures! Pause, oh, pause! ere you decide to fall! 
Even at the latest hour the Lord desires to save your soul — 
the Lord yearns for your redemption, and maketh me to yearn 
also, Froken Thelma!" and Mr. Dyceworthy's voice deep- 



THELMA. 131 

ened in solemnity, "there is a way which the Lord hath whis- 
pered in mine ears — a way that pointeth to the white robe and 
the crown of glory — a way by which you shall possess the in- 
ner peace of the heart with bliss on earth as the forerunner of 
bliss in heaven!" 

She looked at him steadfastly, "And that way is — what?" 
she inquired. 

lilr. Dyceworthy hesitated, and wished with all his heart 
that this girl was not so thoroughly self-possessed. Any sign 
of timidity in her would have given him an increase of hardi- 
hood. But her eyes were coldly brilliant, and glanced him 
over without the smallest embarrassment. He took refuge in 
his never-faiUng remedy, his benevolent smile — a smile that 
covered a multitude of hypocrisies. 

"You ask a plain question, Froken," he said, sweetly, "and 
I should be loath not to give you a plain answer. That way — 
that glorious way of salvation for you is — through me!" 

And his countenance shone with self-satisfaction as he 
spoke, and he repeated, softlv: "Yes, yes; that way is through 
me!" 

She moved with a slight gesture of impatience. 'TLt is a 
pity to talk any more,'* she said, rather wearily. "It is all no 
use! Why do you wish to change me in my reUgion? I do 
not wish to change you. I do not see why we should speak of 
such things at all." 

"Of course!" replied Mr. Dyceworthy, blandly. "'Of course 
you do not see. And why? Because you are blind." 

Here he drew a little nearer to her, and looked covetously 
at the curve of her full, firm waist. 

"Oh, why!" he resumed in a sort of rapture — "why should 
we say it is a pity to talk any more? Why should we say it is 
all no use? It is of use — it is noble, it is edifying to converse 
of the Lord's good pleasure! And what is His good pleasure 
at this moment? To unite two souls in His service! Yea, He 
hath turned my desire toward you, Froken Thelma — even as 
Japob's desire was toward Rachel! Let me see this hand!" 
He made a furtive grab at the white taper fingers that played 
listlessly with the jasmine leaves on the porch, but the girl 
dextrously withdrew them from his clutch and moved a little 
further back, her face flushing proudly. "Oh, will it not 
come to me? Cruel hand!" and he rolled his little eyes with 
an absurdlv sentimental air of reproach. "It is shy — it will 



132 THELMA. 

not clasp the hand of its protector! Do not be afraid, Froken! 
— I, Charles Dyceworthy, am not the man to trifle with your 
young affections! Let them rest where they have flown! I 
accept them! Yea — in spite of wrath and error and moral 
destitution — my spirit inclineth toward you — in the language 
of carnal men, I love you! More than this, I am willing to 
take you as my lawful wife — " 

He broke off abruptly, somew-hat startled at the bitter scorn 
of the flashing eyes that, like two quivering stars, were blaz- 
ing upon him. Her voice, clear as a bell ringing in frosty air, 
cut through the silence like the sweep of a sword-blade. 

"How dare you!" she said, with a wrathful thrill in her low, 
intense tones. "How dare you come here to insult me!" 

Insult her! He — the Reverend Charles Dyceworthy — con- 
sidered guilty of insult in offering honorable marriage to a 
mere farmer's daughter! He could not believe his own ears — 
and in his astonishment he looked up at her. Looking, he 
recoiled and shrunk into himself, like a convicted "knave before 
some queenly accuser. The whole form of the girl seemed to 
dilate with indignation. From her proud mouth, arched like 
a bow, sprung barbed arrows of scorn that flew straightly and 
struck home. 

"Always I have guessed what you wanted," she went on, in 
that deep, vibrating tone which had such a rich quiver of 
anger within it; "but I never thought you would — " She 
paused, and a little disdainful laugh broke from her lips. 
"You would make me your wife — me? You think me likely to 
accept such an offer?" And she drew herself up with a superb 
gesture, and regarded him fixedly. 

"Oh, pride, pride!" murmured the unabashed Dyceworthy, 
recovering from the momentary abasement into which he had 
been thrown by her look and manner. "How it overcometh 
our natures and mastereth our spirit! My dear, my dearest 
Froken — I fear you do not understand me! Yet it is natural 
that you should not; you were not prepared for the offer of 
my — my affections" — and he beamed all over with benevolence 
— "and I can appreciate a maidenly and becoming coyness, 
even though it assume the form of a repellant and unreason- 
able anger. But take courage, my — my dear girl! — our Lord 
forbid that I should wantonly play with the delicate emotions 
of your heart! Poor little heart! does it flutter?" and Mr. 
Dyceworthy leered sweetly. "I will give it time to recover 



THELMA. 183 

itself! Yes, yes! a little time! and then you will put that 
pretty hand in mine" — here he drew nearer to her — "and with 
one kiss we will seal the compact!" 

And he attempted to steal his arm around her waist, but the 
girl sprang back indignantly, and pulling down a thick branch 
of the clambering prickly roses from the porch, held it in front 
of her by way of protection. Mr. Dyceworthy laughed indul- 
gently. 

"Very pretty — very pretty indeed!" he mildly observed, 
eying her as she stood at bay barricaded by the roses. "Quite 
a picture! There, there! do not be frightened — such shyness 
is very natural! We will embrace in the Lord another day! 
In the meantime one little word — the word — will suffice me — 
yea, even one little smile — to show me that you understand 
my words — that you love me" — here he clasped his plump 
hands together in flabby ecstasy — "even as you are loved!" 

His absurd attitude — the weak, knock-kneed manner in 
which his clumsy legs seemed, from the force of sheer senti- 
ment, to bend under his weighty body, and the inanely ama- 
tory expression of his puffy countenance would have excited 
most women to laughter — and Thelma was perfectly conscious 
of his utterly ridiculous appearance, but she was too thorough- 
ly indignant to take the matter in a humorous light. 

"Love you!" she exclaimed, with a movement of irrepres- 
sible loathing. "You must be mad! I would rather die than 
marry you!" 

Mr. Dyceworthy's face grew livid and his little eyes spark- 
led vindictively; but he restrained his inward rage, and mere- 
ly smiled, rubbing his hands softly one against the other. 

"Let us be calm!" he said, soothingly. "Whatever we do, 
let us be calm! Let us not provoke one another to wrath! 
Above all things, let us, in a spirit of charity and patience, 
reason out this matter without undue excitement. My ears 
have most painfully heard your last words, which, taken liter- 
ally, might mean that you reject my honorable ofi:er. The 
question is, do they mean this? I can not — I will not believe 
that you would foolishly stand in the way of your own salva- 
tion" — and he shook his head with doleful gentleness. "More- 
over, Froken Thelma, though it sorely distresses me to speak 
of it — ^it is my duty, as a minister of the Lord, to remind you 
that an honest marriage — a marriage of virtue and respect- 



134 THELMA. 

ability such as I propose, is the only way to restore your rep- 
utation — which, alas! is sorely damaged, and — " 

Mr. Dyceworthy stopped abruptly, a little alarmed, as she 
suddenly cast aside her barrier of roses and advanced toward 
him, her blue eyes blazing. 

"My reputation!" she said, haughtily. "Who speaks of it?" 

"Oh, dear, dear me!" moaned the minister, pathetically. 
"Sad! — very sad — to see so ungovernable a temper — so wild 
and untrained a disposition! Alas, alas! how frail we are with- 
out the Lord's support — without the strong staff of the Lord's 
mercy to lean upon! Not I, my poor child, not I, but 
the whole village speaks of you; to you the ignorant people 
attribute all the sundry evils that of late have fallen sorely 
upon them — bad harvests, ill-luck with the fishing, poverty, 
sickness" — here Mr. Dyceworthy pressed the tips of his fin- 
gers delicately together, and looked at her with a benevolent 
compassion — "and they call it a withcraft — yes! strange, very 
strange! But so it is — ignorant as they are, such ignorance 
is not easily enlightened — and though I," he sighed, "have 
done my poor best to disabuse their minds of the suspicions 
against you, I find it is a matter in which I, though an humble 
mouthpiece of the Gospel, am powerless — quite powerless!" 

She relaxed her defiant attitude, and moved away from him; 
the shadow of a smile was on her lips. 

"It is not my fault if the people are foolish," she said, 
coldly; "I have never done harm to any one that I know of." 
And turning abruptly, she seemed about to enter the house, 
but the minister dextrously placed himself in her way, and 
barred her passage. 

"Stay, oh stay!" he exclaimed, with unctuous fervor. 
"Pause, unfortunate girl, ere you reject the strong shield and 
buckler that the Lord has, in His great mercy, offered you in 
my person! For I must warn you — Froken Thelma, I must 
warn you seriously of the danger you run! I will not pain 
you by referring to the grave charges brought against your 
father, who is, alas! in spite of my spiritual wrestling with 
the Lord for his sake, still no better than a heathen savage; 
no! I will say nothing of this. But what — what shall I say" — 
here he lowered his voice to a tone of mysterious and weighty 
reproach — "what shall I say of your most unseemly and indis- 
creet companionship with these worldly young men who are 
visiting the fjord for their idle pastime? Ah, dear, dear! 



THELMA. 135 

This is indeed a heavy scandal and a sore burden to my soul — 
for up to this time I have, in spite of many faults in your dis- 
position, considered you were at least of a most maidenly and 
decorous deportment — but now — now! to think that you 
should, of your own free will and choice, consent to be the 
plaything of this idle stroller from the wicked haunts of fash- 
ion — the hour's toy of this Sir Philip Errington! Froken 
Thelma, I would never have believed it of you!" And he 
drew himself up with ponderous and sorrowful dignity. 

A burning blush had covered Thelma's face at the mention 
of Errington's name, but it soon faded, leaving her very pale, 
She changed her position so that she confronted Mr. Dyee- 
worthy — her clear blue eyes regarded him steadfastly. 

"Is this what is said of me?" she asked, calmly. 

"It is — it is, most unfortunately!" returned the minister, 
shaking his bullet-like head a great many times; then, with a 
sort of elephantine cheerfulness, he added: "But what mat- 
ter? There is time to remedy these things. I am willing to 
set myself as a strong barrier against the evil noises of rumor! 
Am I selfish or ungenerous? The Lord forbid it! No matter 
how I am compromised, no matter how I am misjudged — I 
am still willing to take you as my lawful wife, Froken Thelma 
— but," and here he shook his forefinger at her with a pre- 
tended playfulness, "I will permit no more converse with Sir 
Philip Errington; no, no! I can not allow it! — I can not, 
indeed!" 

She still looked straight at him — her bosom rose and fell 
rapidly with her passionate breath, and there was such an 
eloquent breath of scorn in her face that he winced under it as 
though struck by a sharp scourge. 

"You are not worth my anger!" she said, slowly, this time 
without a tremor in her rich voice. "One must have some- 
thing to be angry with, and you — you are nothing! Neither 
man nor beast — for men are brave, and beasts tell no lies! 
Your wife! I!" and she laughed aloud — then with a gesture 
of command: "Go!" she exclaimed, "and never let me see 
your face again!" 

The clear, scornful laughter — the air of absolute authority 
with which she spoke — would have stung the most self-opin- 
ionated of men, even though his conscience were enveloped 
in a moral leather casing of hypocrisy and arrogance. And, 
notwithstanding his invariable air of mildness, Mr. Dyce- 



136 THELrMA. 

worthy had a temper. That temper rose to a white heat just 
now — every drop of blood receded from his countenance — and 
his soft hands clinched themselves in a particularly ugly and 
threatening manner. Yet he managed to preserve his suave 
composure. 

"Alas, alas!" he murmured. "How sorely my soul is af- 
flicted to see you thus, Froken! I am amazed — I am dis- 
tressed! Such language from your lips! oh, fy, fy! And has 
it come to this! And must I resign the hope I had of saving 
your poor soul? and must I withdraw my spiritual protection 
from you?" This he asked with a suggestive sneer on his prim 
mouth— and then continued: "I must— alas, I must! My 
conscience will not permit me to do more than pray for you! 
And as is my duty, I shall, in a spirit of forbearance and char- 
ity, speak warningly to Sir Philip concerning — " 

But Thelma did not permit him to finish his sentence. She 
sprung forward like a young leopardess, and with a magnifi- 
cent outward sweep of her arm motioned him down the garden 
path. 

"Out of my sight — coward!" she cried, and then stood wait- 
ing for him to obey her, her whole frame vibrating with in- 
dignation like a harp struck too roughly. She looked so 
terribly beautiful, and there was such a suggestive power in 
that extended bare white arm of hers that the minister, 
though quaking from head to heel with disappointment and 
resentment, judged it prudent to leave her. 

"Certainly, I will take my departure, Froken!" he said, 
meekly, while his teeth glimmered wolfishly through his pale 
lips, in a snarl more than a smile. "It is best you should be 
alone to recover yourself — from this — this undue excitement! 
I shall not repeat my — my — offer; but I am sure your good 
sense wall — in time — show you how very unjust and hasty you 
have been in this matter — and — and you will be sorry! Yes, 
indeed! I am quite sure you will be sorry! I wish you good- 
day, Froken Thelma!" 

She made him no reply, and he turned from the house and 
left her, strolling down the flower-bordered path as though he 
were in the best of all possible moods with himself and the 
universe. But, in truth, he muttered a heavy oath under his 
breath — an oath that was by no means in keeping with his 
godly and peaceful disposition. Once, as he walked, he looked 
back, and saw the woman he coveted now more than ever. 



THELMA. 137 

standing erect in the porch, tall, fair, and royal in her attitude, 
looking like some proud empress who had just dismissed an 
unworthy vassal. A farmer's daughter! and she had refused 
Mr. Dyceworthy with disdain! He had much ado to prevent 
himself shaking his fist at lier! 

"The lofty shall be laid low, and the stiff-necked shall be 
humbled," he thought, as with a vicious switch of his stick he 
struck off a fragrant head of purple clover. "Conceited fool 
of a girl! Hopes to be 'my lady,' does she? She had better 
take care!" 

Here he stopped abruptly in his walk as if a thought had 
struck him — a malignant joy sparkled in his eyes, and he 
flourished his stick triumphantly in the air. "I'll have her 
yet!" he exclaimed, half aloud. "I'll set Lovisa on her!" 
And his countenance cleared; he quickened his pace lik© a 
man having some pressing business to fulfill, and was soon in 
his boat, rowing toward Bosekop with unaccustomed speed 
and energy. 

Meanwhile Thelma stood motionless where he had left her; 
she watched the retreating form of her portly suitor till he had 
altogether disappeared, then she pressed one hand on her 
bosom, sighed, and laughed a little. Glancing at the crucifix 
so lately restored to her, she touched it with her lips and fast- 
ened it to a small silver chain she wore, and then a shadow 
crept over her fair face that made it strangely sad and weary. 
Her lips quivered pathetically; she shaded her eyes with her 
curved fingers as though the sunlight hurt her — then with 
faltering steps she turned away from the warm stretch of gar- 
den, brilliant with blossom, and entered the house. There 
was a sense of outrage and insult upon her, and though in her 
soul she treated Mr. Dyceworthy's observations with the con- 
tempt they deserved, his coarse allusion to Sir Philip Erring- 
ton had wounded her more than she cared to admit to herself. 

Once in the quiet sitting-room, she threw herself on her 
knees by her father's arm-chair, and laying her proud little 
golden head down on her folded arms, she broke into a passion 
of silent tears. 

Who shall unravel the mystery of a woman's weeping? Who 
shall declare whether it is a pain or a relief to the overcharged 
heart? The dignity of a crowned queen is capable of utterly 
dissolving and disappearing in a shower of tears, when Love's 
burning finger touches the pulse and marks ite slow or rapid 



123 THBLMA. 

beatings. And Thelma wept as many of her sex weep, with- 
out knowing why, save that all suddenly she felt herself most 
lonely and forlorn like Sainte Beuve's — 

"Colombe gemissante, 
Qui demande par pitiS 

Sa moiti6, 
Sa moiti6 loin d'elle absente!" 



CHAPTER XII. 

"A wicked will, 
A woman's will; a cankered grandam's will!" 

King John. 

"By Jove!" 

And Lorimer, after uttering this unmeaning exclamation, 
was silent out of sheer dismay. He stood hesitating and look- 
ing in at the door of the Guldmars' sitting-room, and the 
alarming spectacle he saw was the queenly Thelma down on 
the floor in an attitude of grief — Thelma giving way to little 
smothered sobs of distress — Thelma actually crying! He 
drew a long breath and stared, utterly bewildered. It was a 
sight for which he was unprepared — he was not accustomed to 
women's tears. What should he do? Should he cough gently 
to attract her attention, or should he retire on tiptoe and leave 
her to indulge her grief as long as she would, without making 
any attempt to console her? The latter course seemed almost 
brutal, yet he was nearly deciding upon it, when a slight creak 
of the door against which he leaned caused her to look up 
suddenly. Seeing him, she rose quickly from her desponding 
position and faced him, her cheeks somewhat deeply flushed 
and her eyes glittering feverishly. 

"Mr. Lorimer!" she exclaimed, forcing a faint smile to her 
quivering lips. "You here? Why, where are the others?" 

"They are coming on after me," replied Lorimer, advancing 
into the room and diplomatically ignoring the girl's efforts to 
hide the tears that still threatened to have their way. "But 
I was sent in advance to tell you not to be frightened. There 
has been a slight accident — " 

She grew very pale. "Is it my father?" she asked, trem- 
blingly. "Sir Philip— " 



THELMA. 139 

''No, no!" answered Lorimer, reassuringly, "It is nothing 
serious, really, upon my honor! Your father's all right — so is 
Phil — our lively friend Pierre is the victim. The fact is, we've 
had some trouble with Sigurd. I can't think what has come 
to the boy! He was as amiable as possible when we started, 
but after we had climbed about half-way up the mountain, he 
took it into his head to throw stones about rather recklessly. 
It was only fun, he said. Your father tried to make him leave 
off, but he was obstinate. At last, in a particularly bright 
access of playfulness, he got hold of a large flint and nearly 
put Phil's eye out with it — Phil dodged it, and it flew straight 
at Duprez, splitting open his cheek in rather an unbecoming 
fashion — Don't look so horrified. Miss Gruldmar — it is really 
nothing!" 

"Oh, but indeed it is something!" she said, with true wom- 
anly anxiety in her voice. "Poor fellow! I am so sorry! 
Is he much hurt? Does he suffer?" 

"Pierre? Oh, no, not a bit of it! He's as jolly as possible! 
We bandaged him up in a very artistic fashion; he looks quite 
interesting, I assure you. His beauty's spoiled for a time, 
that's all. Phil thought you might be alarmed when you saw 
us bringing home the wounded — that is why I came on to tell 
you all about it." 

"But what can be the matter with Sigurd?" asked the girl, 
raising her hand furtively to dash off a few tear-drops that 
still hung on her long lashes. "And where is he?" 

"Ah! that I can't tell you!" answered Lorimer. "He is 
perfectly incomprehensible to-day. As soon as he saw the 
blood flowing from Duprez's cheek, he uttered a howl as if 
some one had shot him, and away he rushed into the woods 
as fast as he could go. We called him, and shouted his name 
till we were hoarse — all no use! He wouldn't come back. I 
suppose he'll find his way home by himself?" 

"Oh, yes," said Thelma, gravely. "But when he comes I 
will scold him very much! It is not like him to be so wild 
and cruel. He will understand me when I tell him how wrong 
he has been." 

"Oh, don't break his heart, poor little chap!" said Lorimer, 
easily. "Your father has given him a terrible scolding already. 
He hasn't got his wits about him, you know — he can't help 
being queer sometimes. But what have you been doing with 
yourself during our absence?" And he regarded her with 



140 THELMA. 

friendly scrutiny. "You were crying when I came in. Now, 
weren't you?" 

She met his gaze quite frankly. "Yes!" she replied, with a 
plaintive thrill in her voice. "I could not help it! My heart 
ached and the tears came. Somehow I felt that everything 
was wrong and that it was all my fault — " 

"Your fault!" murmured Lorimer, astonished. "My dear 
Miss Guldmar, what do you mean? What is your fault?" 

"Everything!" she answered, sadly, with a deep sigh. "I 
am very foolish; and I am sure I often do wrong without 
meaning it: Mr. Dyceworthy has been here and — " she 
stopped abruptly, and a wave of color flushed her face. 

Lorimer laughed lightly. "Dyceworthy!" he exclaimed. 
"The mystery is explained! You have been bored by 'the 
good seligious,' as Pierre calls him. You know what boring 
means now, Miss Guldmar, don't you?" She smiled slightly, 
and nodded. "The first time you visited the 'Eulalie,' you 
didn't understand the word, I remember — ah!" and he shook 
his head — "if you were in London society, you'd find that ex- 
pression very convenient — ^it would come to your lips pretty 
frequently, I can tell you!" 

"I shall never see London," she said, with a sort of resigned 
air. "You will all go away very soon, and I — I shall be 
lonely — " 

She bit her lips in quick vexation, as her blue eyes filled 
again with tears in spite of herself. 

Lorimer turned away and pulled a chair to the open window. 

"Come and sit down here," he said, invitingly. "We shall 
be able to see the others coming down the hill. Nothing like 
fresh air for blowing away the blues." Then, as she obeyed 
him, he added: "What has Dyceworthy been saying to you?" 

"He told me I was wicked," she murmured, "and that all 
the people here think very badly of me. But that was not the 
worst" — and a little shudder passed over her — "there was 
something else — something that made me very angry — so 
angry!" — and here she raised her eyes with a gravely penitent 
air — "Mr. Lorimer, I do not think I have ever had so bad and 
fierce a temper before!" 

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Lorimer, with a broad smile. 
"You alarm me. Miss Guldmar! I had no idea you were a 'bad, 
fierce' person — I shall get afraid of you — I shall, really!" 



THELMA. 141 

"Ah, you laugh!" and she spoke half reproachfully. "You 
will not be serious for one little moment!" 

"Yes, I will! Now look at me," and he assumed a solemn 
expression, and drew himself up with an air of dignity. "I 
am all attention! Consider me your father-confessor, Miss 
Guldmar, and explain the reason of this 'bad, fierce' temper 
of yours." 

She peeped at him shyly from under her silken lashes. 

"It is more dreadful than you think," she answered, in a 
low tone. "Mr. Dyceworthy asked me to marry him." 

Lorimer's keen eyes flashed with indignation. This was 
beyond a jest — and he clinched his fist as he exclaimed: 

"Impudent donkey! What a jolly good thrashing he de- 
serves! — and I shouldn't be surprised if he got it one of these 
days! And so. Miss Guldmar" — and he studied her face with 
some solicitude — "you were very angry with him?" 

"Oh, yes!" she replied, "but when I told him he was a cow- 
ard, and that he must go away, he said some very cruel things" 
— she stopped, and blushed deeply; then, as if seized by some 
sudden impulse, she laid her small hand on Lorimer's, and 
said, in the tone of an appealing child: "You are very good 
and kind to me, and you are clever — you know so much more 
than I do! You must help me — you will tell me, will you not, 
if it is wrong of me to like you all? It is as if we had known 
each other a long time, and I have been very happy with you 
and your friends. But you must teach me to behave like the 
girls you have seen in London — for I could not bear that Sir 
Philip should think me wicked!" 

"Wicked!" and Lorimer drew a long breath. "Good heav- 
ens! If you knew what Phil's ideas about you are. Miss 
Guldmar — " 

"I do not wish to know," interrupted Thelma, steadily. 
"You must quite understand me — I am not clever to hide my 
thoughts, and — and — you are glad when you talk sometimes 
to Sir Phihp, are you not?" He nodded, gravely studying 
every fight and shadow on the fair, upturned, innocent face. 

"Yes!" she continued, with some eagerness, "I see you are! 
Well, it is the same thing with me — I do love to hear him 
speak! You know how his voice is like music, and how his 
kind ways warm the heart — it is pleasant to be in his company 
— I am sure you also find it so! But for me — it seems it is 
wrong — it is not wise for me to show when I am happy. I do 



142 THELMA. 

not care what other people say — bxit I would not have him 
think ill of me for all the world!" 

Lorimer took her hand and held it in his with a most tender 
loyalty and respect. Her naive, simple words had, all un- 
consciously to herself, laid bare the secret of her soul to his 
eyes — and though his heart beat with a strange sickening sense 
of unrest that flavored of despair, a gentle reverence filled 
him, such as a man might feel if some little snow-white shrine, 
sacred to purity and peace, should be suddenly unveiled be- 
fore him. 

"My dear Miss Guldmar," he said, earnestly. "I assure you 
you have no cause to be uneasy! You must not believe a 
word Dyceworthy says — every one with a grain of common 
sense can see what a liar and hypocrite he is! And as for you, 
you never do anything wrong — don't imagine such nonsense! 
I wish there were more women like you!" 

"Ah, that is very kind of you!" half laughed the girl, still 
allowing her hand to rest in his. "But I do not think every- 
body would have such a good opinion." They both started, 
and their hands fell asunder as a shadow darkened the room, 
and Sir Philip stood before them. 

"Excuse me!" he said, stiffly, lifting his hat with ceremoni- 
ous politeness. "I ought to have knocked at the door — I — " 

"Why?" asked Thelma, raising her eyebrows in surprise. 

"Yes — why, indeed?" echoed Lorimer, with a frank look at 
his friend. 

"I am afraid" — and for once the generally good-humored 
Errington looked positively petulant — "I am afraid I inter- 
rupted a pleasant conversation!" And he gave a little forced 
laugh of feigned amusement, but evident vexation. 

"And if it was pleasant, shall you not make it still more 
so?" asked Thelma, with timid and bewitching sweetness, 
though her heart beat very fast — she was anxious. Why was 
Sir Philip so cold and distant? He looked at her, and his 
pent-up passion leaped to his eyes and filled them with a 
glowing and fiery tenderness — her head drooped suddenly, and 
she turned quickly to avoid that searching, longing gaze. 
Lorimer glanced from one to the other with a slight feeling 
of amusement. 

"Well, Phil," he inquired, lazily, "how did you get here so 
soon? You must have glided into the garden like a ghost, for 
I never heard you coming." 



THELMA. 143 

"So I imagine!" retorted Errington, with an effort to be 
sarcastic, in which he utterly failed as he met his friend's eyes 
— then after a slight and somewhat embarrassed pause he 
added, more mildly: "Duprez can not get on very fast — his 
wound still bleeds, and he feels rather faint now and then. 
I don't think we bandaged him up properly, and I came on to 
see if Britta could prepare something for him." 

"But you will not need to ask Britta," said Thelma, quietly, 
with a pretty air of authority, "for I shall myself do all for 
Mr. Duprez. I understand well how to cure his wound, and 
I do think he will like me as well as Britta." And, hearing 
footsteps approaching, she looked out at the window. "Here 
they come!" she exclaimed. "Ah, poor Monsieur Pierre! he 
does look very pale! I will go and meet them." 

And she hurried from the room, leaving the two young men 
together. Errington threw himself into Olaf Guldmar's great 
arm-chair with a slight sigh. 

"Well?" said Lorimer, inquiringly. 

"Well!" he returned, somewhat gruffly. 

Lorimer laughed, and crossing the room, approached him 
and clapped a hand on his shoulder. 

"Look here, old man!" he said, earnestly, "don't be a fool! 
I know that 'love maketh men mad,' but I never supposed the 
lunacy would lead you to the undesirable point of distrusting 
your friend — your true friend, Phil — by all the gods of the 
past and present!" 

And he laughed again — a little huskily this time, for there 
was a sudden unaccountable and unwished-for lump in his 
throat, and a moisture in his eyes which he had not bargained 
for. Philip looked up, and silently held out his hand, which 
Lorimer as silently clasped. There was a moment's hesita- 
tion, and then the young baronet spoke out manfully. 

"I'm ashamed of myself, George! I really am! But I tell 
you, when I came in and saw you two standing there — you've 
no idea what a picture you made! — by Jove! I was furious!" 
And he smiled. "I suppose I was jealous!" 

"I suppose you were!" returned Lorimer, amusedly. "Novel 
sensation, isn't it? A sort of hot, prickly, 'have-at-thee-vil- 
lain' sort of thing; must be frightfully exhausting! But why 
you should indulge this emotion at my expense is what I can 
not, for the life of me, understand!" 



144 THELMA. 

"Well," murmured Errington, rather abashed, "you see, her 
hands were in yours — " 

"As they will be again, and yet again, I trust!" said Lori- 
nier, with cheery fervor. "Surely you'll allow me to shake 
hands with your wife?" 

"I say, George, be quiet!" exclaimed Philip, warningly, as 
at that moment Thelma passed the window with Pierre Du- 
prez leaning on her arm, and her father and Macfarlane follow- 
ing. 

She entered the room with the stately step of a young 
queen — her tall, beautiful figure forming a strong contrast to 
that of the narrow-shouldered little Frenchman, upon whom 
she smiled down with an air of almost maternal protection. 

"You will sit here. Monsieur Duprez," she said, leading him 
to the bonde's arm-chair which Errington instantly vacated, 
"and father will bring you a good glass of wine. And the 
pain will be nothing when I have attended to that cruel wound. 
But I am so sorrj^ — so very sorry, to see you suffer." 

Pierre did indeed present rather a dismal spectacle. There 
was a severe cut on his forehead as well as his cheek; his face 
was pale and streaked with blood, while the hastily impro- 
vised bandages which were tied under his chin by no means 
improved his personal appearance. His head ached with the 
pain, and his eyes smarted Avith the strong sunlight to which 
he had been exposed all the day, but his natural gayety was 
undiminished, and he laughed as he answered: 

"Chere ^nademoiselle, you axe too good to me! It is a piece 
of good fortune that Sigurd threw that stone — yes! since it 
brings me your pity! But do not trouble; a little cold water 
and a fresh handkerchief is all I need." 

But Thelma was already practicing her own simple surgery 
for his benefit. With deft, soft fingers she laid bare the 
throbbing wound — washed and dressed it carefully and skillr 
fully — and used, withal, such exceeding gentleness that Du- 
prez closed his eyes in a sort of rapture during the operation, 
and wished it could last longer. Then taking the glass oi 
wine her father brought in obedience to her order, she said, 
in a tone of mild authority: 

"Now, you will drink this. Monsieur Pierre, and you will 
rest quite still till it is time to go back to the yacht; and to- 
morrow you will not feel any pain, I am sure. And I do think 
it will not be an ugly scar for long." 



THELMA. 145 

"If it is/' answered Pierre, "I shall say I received it in a 
duel! Then I shall be great — glorious! — and all the pretty 
ladies will love me!" 

She laughed — but looked grave a moment afterward. 

"You must never say what is not true," she said. "It is 
wrong to deceive any one — even in a small matter." 

Duprez gazed up at her wonderingly, feeling very much like 
a chidden child. 

"Never say what is not true!" he thought. "Mon Dieu! 
what would become of my life?" 

It was a new suggestion, and he reflected upon it with as- 
tonishment. It opened such a wide vista of impossibilities to 
his mind. 

Meanwhile old Guldmar was engaged in pouring out wine 
for the other young men, talking all the time. 

"I tell thee, Thelma mine," he said, seriously, "something 
must be very wrong with our Sigurd. The poor lad has al- 
ways been gentle and tractable, but to-day he was like some 
wild animal for mischief and hardihood. I grieve to see it! 
I fear the time may come when he may no longer be a safe 
servant for thee, child." 

"Oh, father!" — and the girl's voice was full of tender anxiety 
— "surely not! He is too fond of us to do us any harm — he is 
so docile and affectionate!" 

"May be, may be!" and the old farmer shook his head doubt- 
fully. "But when the wits are away the brain is like a ship 
without ballast — there is no safe sailing possible. He would 
not mean any harm, perhaps — and yet in his wild moods he 
might do it, and be sorry for it directly afterward. 'Tis little 
use to cry when the mischief is done — and I confess I do not 
like his present humor." 

"By the bye," observed Lorimer, "that reminds me! Sigurd 
has taken an uncommonly strong aversion to Phil. It's curi- 
ous, but it's a fact. Perhaps it is that which upsets his 
nerves?" 

"I have noticed it myself," said Errington, "and I'm sorry 
for it, for I've done him no harm that I can remember. He 
certainly asked me to go away from the Alten Fjord, and I re- 
fused — I'd no idea he had any serious meaning in his request. 
But it's evident he can't endure my company." 

"Ah, then!" said Thelma, simply and sorrowfully, "he must 
be very ill — because it is natural for every one to like you." 
io 



148 THBLMA. 

She spoke in perfect good faith and innocence of heart; but 
Errington's eyes flashed and he smiled — one of those rare, ten- 
der smiles of his which brightened his whole visage. 

"You are very kind to say so, Miss Guldmar!" 

"It is not kindness; it is the truth!" she replied, frankly. 

At that moment a very rosy face and two sparkling eyes 
peered inquiringly in at the door. 

"Yes, Britta!" Thelma smiled; "we are quite ready!" 

Whereupon the face disappeared, and Olaf Guldmar led the 
way into the kitchen, which was at the same time the dining- 
room, and where a substantial supper was spread on the pol- 
ished pine table. The farmer's great arm-chair was brought 
in for Duprez, who, though he declared he was being spoiled 
by too much attention, seemed to enjoy it immensely; and 
they were all, including Britta, soon clustered round the hos- 
pitable board whereon antique silver and quaint glasses of 
foreign make sparkled bravely, their effect enhanced by the 
snowy whiteness of the homespun table-linen. 

A few minutes set them all talking gayly. Macfarlane vied 
with the ever-gallant Duprez in making a few compliments to 
Britta, who was pretty and engaging enough to merit atten- 
tion, and who, after all, was something more than a mere ser- 
vant, possessing, as she did, a great deal of her young mis- 
tress's affection and confidence, and being always treated by 
Guldmar himself as one of the family. There was no reserve 
or coldness in the party, and the hum of their merry voices 
echoed up to the cross-rafters of the stout wooden ceiling 
and through the open door and window, from whence a patch 
of the gorgeous afternoon sky could be seen, glimmering redly, 
like a distant lake of fire. They were in the full enjoyment 
of their repast, and the old farmer's rollicking "Ha, ha, ha!" 
in response to a joke of Lorimer's, had just echoed jovially 
through the room, when a strong, harsh voice called aloud : 

"Olaf Guldmar!" 

There was a sudden silence. Each one looked at the other 
in surprise. Again the voice called: 

"Olaf Guldmar!" 

"Well!" roared the bonde, testily, turning sharply round in 
his chair. "Who calls me?" 

"I do!" and the tall, emaciated figure of a woman advanced 
and stood on the threshold, without actually entering the 



THELMA. 147 

room. She dropped the black shawl that enveloped her, and 
in so doing disordered her hair, which fell in white, straggling 
locks about her withered features, and her dark eyes gleamed 
maliciously as she fixed them on the assembled party. Britta, 
on perceiving her, uttered a faint shriek, and without con- 
sidering the propriety of her action, buried her nut-brown 
curls and sparkling eyes in Duprez's coat-sleeve, which, to do 
the Frenchman justice, was exceedingly prompt to receive 
and shelter its fair burden. The bonde rose from his chair, 
and his face grew stern. 

"What do you here, Lovisa Elsland? Have you walked 
thus far from Talvig to pay a visit that must needs be un- 
welcome?" 

"Unwelcome I know I am," replied Lovisa, disdainfully 
noting the terror of Britta and the astonished glances of 
Errington and his friends — "unwelcome at all times — but 
most unwelcome at the hour of feasting and folly — for who 
can endure to receive a message from the Lord when the 
mouth is full of savory morsels and the brain reels with the 
wicked wine? Yet I have come in spite of your iniquities, 
Olaf Guldmar— strong in the strength of the Lord, I dare to 
set foot upon your accursed threshold, and once more make 
my Just demand. Give me back the child of my dead daugh- 
ter! — restore to me the erring creature who should be the 
prop of my defenseless age, had not your pagan spells alien- 
ated her from me — release her, and bid her return with me to 
my desolate hearth and home. This done, I will stay the 
tempest that threatens your habitation — I will hold back the 
dark cloud of destruction — I will avert the wrath of the Lord 
— yes! for the sake of the past — for the sake of the past!" 

These last words she muttered in a low tone, more to her- 
self than to Guldmar; and, having spoken, she averted her 
eyes from the company, drew her shawl closely about her, and 
waited for an answer. 

"By all the gods of my fathers!" shouted the bonde, in a 
towering passion. "This passes my utmost endurance! Have 
I not told thee again and again, thou silly soul! — that thy 
grandchild is no slave? She is free — free to return to thee 
an she will; free also to stay with us, where she has found a 
happier home than thy miserable hut at Talvig. Britta!" and 
he thumped his fist on the table. "Look up, child! Speak 
for thyself! Thou hast a spirit of thine own. Here is thy 



148 THBLMA. 

one earthly relation. Wilt go with her? Neither thy mistress 
nor I will stand in the way of thy pleasure." 

Thus adjured, Britta looked up so suddenly that Duprez — 
who had rather enjoyed the feel of her little nestling head 
hidden upon his arm — was quite startled, and he was still 
more so at the utter defiance that flashed into the small maid- 
en's round, rosy face. 

"Go with you!" she cried, shrilly, addressing the old 
woman, who remained standing in the same attitude, with an 
air of perfect composure. "Do you think I have forgotten 
how you treated my mother, or how you used to beat me and 
starve me? You wicked old woman! How dare you come 
here? I'm ashamed of you! You frightened my mother to 
death — you know you did! — and now you want to do the same 
to me! But you won't — I can tell you! I'm old enough to 
do as I like, and I'd rather die than live with you!" 

Then, overcome by excitement and temper, she burst out 
crying, heedless of Pierre Duprez's smiling nods of approval 
and the admiring remarks he was making under his breath, 
such as: "Brava, ma petite! C'est hien fait! C'est joliment 
Men dit! Mais je crois Men!" 

Lovisa seemed unmoved; she raised her head and looked at 
Guldmar. 

"Is this your answer?" she demanded. 

"By the sword of Odin!" cried the bonde, "the woman must 
be mad! My answer? The girl has spoken for herself — and 
plainly enough too! Art thou deaf, Lovisa Elsland? or are 
thy wits astray?" 

"My hearing is very good," replied Lovisa, calmly, "and 
my mind, Olaf Guldmar, is as clear as yours. And, thanks to 
your teaching in mine early days" — she paused and looked 
keenly at him, but he appeared to see no meaning in her allu- 
sion — "I know the English tongue, of wliich we hear far too 
much — too often! There is nothing Britta has said that I do 
not understand. But I know well it is not the girl herself 
that speaks — it is a demon in her — and that demon shall be 
cast forth before I die! Yea, with the help of the Lord I 
shall—" 

She stopped abruptly and fixed her eyes, glowing with fierce 
wrath, on Thelma. The girl met her evil glance with a gen- 
tle surprise. Lovisa smiled malignantly. 



THELMA. 149 

"You know me, I think!" said Lovisa. "You have seen me 
before?" 

"Often," answered Thelma, mildly. "I have always been 
sorry for you." 

"Sorry for me!" almost yelled the old woman. "Why — 
why are you sorry for me?" 

"Do not answer her, child!" interrupted Guldmar, angrily. 
"She is as mad as the winds of a wild winter, and will but vex 
thee." 

But Thelma laid her hand soothingly on her father's, and 
smiled peacefully as she turned her fair face again toward 
Lovisa. 

"Why?" she said. "Because you seem so very lonely and 
sad — and that must make you cross with every one who is 
happy! And it is a pity, I think, that you do not let Britta 
alone — you only quarrel with each other when you meet. 
And would you not like her to think kindly of you when you 
are dead?" 

Lovisa seemed choking with anger — her face worked into 
such hideous grimaces, that all present, save Thelma, were 
dismayed at her repulsive aspect. 

"When I am dead!" she muttered, hoarsely. "So you count 
upon that already, do you? Ah! But do you know which of 
us shall die first!" Then raising her voice with the effort she 
exclaimed: 

"Stand forth, Thelma Guldmar! Let me see you closely — 
face to face!" 

Errington said something in a low tone, and the bonde 
would have again interfered, but Thelma shook her head, 
smiled and rose from her seat at the table. 

"Anything to soothe her, poor soul!" she whispered, as she 
left Errington's side and advanced toward Lovisa, till she was 
within reach of the old woman's hand. She looked like some 
grand white angel who had stepped down from a cathedral 
altar, as she stood erect and stately with a gravely pitying 
expression in her lovely eyes, confronting the sable-draped, 
withered, leering hag who fixed upon her a steady look of the 
most cruel and pitiless hatred. 

"Daughter of Satan!" said Lovisa, then, in intense piercing 
tones that somehow carried with them a sense of awe and 
horror — "creature in whose veins the fire of hell burns without 
ceasing — my curse upon you! My curse upon the beauty of 



150 THELMA. 

your body — may it grow loathsome in the sight of all men! 
May those who embrace you embrace misfortune and ruin! — 
may love betray you and forsake you! May your heart be 
broken even as mine has been! — may your bridal bed be left 
deserted! — may your children wither and pine from their hour 
of birth! Sorrow track you to the grave! — may your death be 
lingering and horrible! God be my witness and fulfill my 
words!" 

And, raising her arms with a wild gesture, she turned and 
left the house. The spell of stupefied silence was broken 
with her disappearance. Old Guldmar prepared to rush after 
her and force her to retract her evil speech — Errington was 
furious, and Britta cried bitterly. The lazy Lorimer was ex- 
cited and annoyed. 

"Fetch her back," he said, "and I'll dance upon her!" 

But Thelma stood where the old woman had left her — she 
smiled faintly, but she was very pale. Errington approached 
her — she turned to him and stretched out her hands with a 
little appealing gesture. 

"My friend," she said softly, "do you think I deserve so 
many curses? Is there something about me that is evil?" 

What Errington would have answered is doubtful — ^his heart 
beat wildly — he longed to draw those little hands in his own, 
and cover them with passionate kisses — but he was intercepted 
by old Guldmar, who caught his daughter in his arms and 
hugged her closely, his silvery beard mingling with the gold 
of her rippling hair. 

"Never fear a wicked tongue, my bird!" said the old man, 
fondly. "There is naught of harm that would touch thee 
either on earth or in heaven — and a foul-mouthed curse hiul;!. 
roll off thy soul like water from a dove's wing! Cheer thee, 
my darling, cheer thee! What! Thine own creed teaches 
thee that the gentle Mother of Christ, with her little whito 
angels round her, watches over all innocent maids — and 
thinkest thou she will let an old woman's malice and envy 
blight thy young days? No, no! Thou accursed?" And the 
bonde laughed loudly to hide the tears that moistened his keen 
eyes. "Thou art the sweetest blessing of my heart, even as 
thy mother was before thee! Come, come! Eaise thy pretty 
head — here are these merry lads growing long-faced — and 
Britta is weeping enough salt water to fill a bucket! One of 
thy smiles will set us all right again — ay, there now!" — as she 



THELMA. 151 

looked up and, meeting Philip's eloquent eyes, blushed, and 
withdrew herself gently from her father's arms — "Let us finish 
our supper and think no more of yonder villainous old hag — 
she is crazy, I believe, and knows not what she says half her 
time. Now, Britta, cease thy grunting and sighing — 'twill 
spoil thy face and will not mend the hole in thy grandmother's 
brain!" 

"Wicked, spiteful, ugly old thing!" sobbed Britta; "I'll 
never, never, never forgive her!" Then, running to Thelma, 
she caught her hand and kissed it affectionately. "Oh, my 
dear, my dear! To think she should have cursed you, what 
dreadful, dreadful wickedness! Oh!" and Britta looked vol- 
umes of wrath. "I could have beaten her black and blue!" 

Her vicious eagerness was almost comic — every one laughed, 
including Thelma, though she pressed the hand of her little 
servant very warmly. 

"Oh, fy!" said Lorimer, seriously. "Little girls mustn't 
whip their grandmothers; it's specially forbidden in the 
prayer-book, isn't it Phil?" 

"I'm sure I don't know!" replied Errington, merrily. "I 
believe there is something to the effect that a man may not 
marry his grandmother — perhaps that is what you mean?" 

"Ah, no doubt!" murmured Lorimer, languidly, as, with 
the others, he resumed his seat at the supper-table. "I knew 
there was a special mandate respecting one's particularly 
venerable relations with a view to self-guidance in case they 
should prove troublesome like Britta's good grandmamma. 
What a frightfully picturesque mouthing old lady she is!" 

"She is lapetroletise of Norway!" exclaimed Duprez. "She 
would make an admirable dancer in the Carmagnole!" 

Macfarlane, who had preserved a discreet silence, through- 
out the whole scene, here looked up. 

"She's just a screech-owl o' mistaken piety," he said. "She 
minds me o' a glowerin' auld warlock of an aunt o' mine in 
Glasgie, wha sits in her chair a' day wi' ae finger on the 
Bible. She says she's gaun straight to heaven by special in- 
vitation o' the Lord, leavin' a' her blood relations howlin' 
vainly after her from their roastin' fires down below. Ma 
certes! she'll give ye a good rousin' curse if ye like! She's 
cursed me ever since I can remember her — cursed me in and 
out from sunrise to sunset — but I'm no the worst for 't as yet 
— an' it's dootful whether she's any the better." 



152 THELMA. 

"And yet Lovisa Elsland used to be as merry and lissome a 
lass as ever stepped," said Guldmar, musingly. "I remember 
her well when both she and I were young, I was always on 
the sea at that time — never happy unless the waves tossed me 
and my vessel from one shore to another. I suppose the rest- 
less spirit of my fathers was in me. I was never contented 
unless I saw some new coast every six months or so. Well, 
Lovisa was always foremost among the girls of the village 
who watched me leave the fjord — and however long or short a 
time I might be absent, she was certain to be on the shore 
when my ship came sailing home again. Many a joke I have 
cracked with her and her companions — and she was a bonny 
enough creature to look at then, I tell you — though now she is 
like a battered figure-head on a wreck. Her marriage spoiled 
her temper — her husband was as dark and sour a man as could 
be met with in all Norway, and when he and his fishing-boat 
sunk in a squall off the Lofoden Islands, I doubt if she shed 
many tears for his loss. Her only daughter's husband went 
down in the same storm — and he but three months wedded — 
and the girl — Britta's mother — pined and pined, and even 
when her child was born took no sort of comfort in it. She 
died four years after Britta's birth — her death was hastened, 
so I have heard, through old Lovisa's harsh treatment — any- 
how the little lass she left behind her had no very easy time of 
it all alone with her grandmother — eh, Britta?" 

Britta looked up and shook her head emphatically. 

"Then," went on Guldmar, "when my girl came back the 
last time from France, Britta chanced to see her, and, 
strangely enough" — here he winked shrewdly — "took a fancy 
to her face — odd, wasn't it? However, nothing would suit 
her but that she must be Thelma's handmaiden, and here she 
is, Now you know her history — she would be happy enough 
if her grandmother would let her alone; but the silly old 
woman thinks the girl is under a spell, and that Thelma is the 
witch that works it" — and the old farmer laughed, "There's 
a grain of truth in the notion, too — but not in the way she has 
of looking at it." 

"All women are witches!" said Duprez. "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 disfigur- 



THELMA. 153 

ing 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 hap-hazard, without 
knowing, or possibly caring, whether his replies were intelligi- 
ble or incoherent. His thoughts were dream-like and bril- 
liant 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 pass- 
ing 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 imagina- 
tion, 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 



154 THELMA. 

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, heed- 
less of the surprise his action excited. 

"Halloo, Phil, where are you off to?" cried Lorimer. "Wait 
for me!" 

"Tired of our company, my lads?" said Guldmar, 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 con- 
fusion, "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. Guldmar, 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 beau- 
tiful. 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 suf- 
fered?" 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 Guldmar. 
"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 



THELMA. 155 

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?" 

I "Often!" And Guldmar'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 
bums 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 Eng- 
lish 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. 



156 THELMA. 

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 Guldmar slumbered soundly, and the 
golden midnight sunshine lighted up every nook and gable of 
the farm house 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 meager pale 
face, and wide-open wild blue eyes upturned to the fiery bril- 
liancy of the heavens. Sigurd had come home — Sigurd was 
repentant, sorrowful, ashamed — and broken-hearted. 



CHAPTEE XIII. 

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 heavi- 
ness 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 



THELMA. 157 

he kept with great exaetitiide, and Duprez, 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 lookout for the first glimpse of 
the returning boat which had been sent ofi: to fetch Thelma 
and her father. Errington looked vexed and excited — Lori- 
mer bland and convincing. 

"I can't help it, Phil!" he said. "It's no use fretting and 
fuming at me. It's like Dyceworthy's impudence, of course — 
but there's no doubt he proposed to her — and it's equally cer- 
tain 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 
refuge 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 feel- 
ings well under control. 

"But why persist in looking at the gloomy side of the pic- 
ture?" he said, at last. "Suppose she loves you?" 

"Suppose an angel flew down from heaven!" replied Philip, 



158 THELMA. 

with rather a sad smile. "My dear fellow, who am I that I 
should flatter myself so far? If she were one of those ordi- 
nary women to whom marriage is the be-all and the end-all of 
existence, it would be diif erent — 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 friend- 
ship she may have for me by telling her of a love which might 
prove unwelcome?" 

Lorimer looked at him with a 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 per- 
ception. 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 for- 
est,' as he calls her — and that you are to be the robber. Hence 
his dislike to you. Dear me!" and Lorimer lighted 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 Duprez had risen from his chair and 
was waving his French newspaper energetically to the ap- 
proaching 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. 



THELMA. 159 

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 Guldmars 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 courtesy 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 inhabi- 
tants of every little farm and hamlet on the shores stopped for 
awhile 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 Duprez, and seemed glad to 
divert attention from herself to him. 

"You are better. Monsieur Duprez, 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 Duprez, cheerfully. '1 am 
delighted he gave me this scar, otherwise I am confident he 
would have put out the eye of the Phil-eep. And that would 
have been a misfortune! For what would the ladies in Lon- 
don say if le beau Errington returned to them with one eye! 
Mon Dieu! they would all be au desespoirr 

Thelma looked up. Philip was standing at some little dis- 
tance with Olaf Guldmar and Lorimer, talking and laughing 
gayly. His cap was pushed slightly off his forehead, and the 



160 THELMA, 

sun shone on his thick dark chestnut curls; his features, 
warmly colored by the wind and sea, were lighted 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 ordi- 
nary woman, bent on conquest, he would have taken mis- 
chievous 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 differ- 
ent sentiment. 

''Mais certainement!" he said, frankly and emphatically. 
*Thil-eep is a favorite everywhere! Yet not more so with 
women than with men. I love him extremely — he is a charm- 
ing boy! Then you see, chere 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 
vousf" 

"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 Duprez, with a smile; "but 
to many it would make an immense difference! Chere made- 
moiselle, it is a grand thing to have plenty of money — ^believe 
me!" 

Thelma shrugged her shoulders. "Perhaps," she answered, 
indifferently. "But one can not spend much on one's self, 
after all. The nuns at Aries 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 al- 
ways cheerful." 

"The nuns! ah, mon Dieu!" cried Duprez. "The darlings 
know not the taste of joy — they speak of what they can not 
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. 



THELMA. 161 

"You always talk of love/' she said, half reproachfully, "as 
if it were so common a tiling! 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 Mle — 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 our- 
selves better." 

"What highly moral converse is going on here?" inquired 
Lorimer, strolling leisurely up to them. "Are you giving 
Duprez a lecture, Miss Guldmar? 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 Guldmar?" 

"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 ap- 
proaching, arm in arm with Olaf Guldmar, "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 
11 



162 THELMA. 

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 Erring- 
ton. "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 
am 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 writ- 
ing of his journal had till now detained him. In the general 
hand-shaking and salutations which followed, the conversa- 
tion took a different turn, for wliich Lorimer was devoutly 
thankful. Her 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 sus- 
pense! 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 Jedke — 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 marvelous creatures, when they 
are once brought to understand that they are men — not 



THELMA. 163 

beasts! One will take a few words and harmonize them into a 
song or a verse that clings to the world forever; another will 
mix a few paints and daub 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 Eng- 
lishman." 

"He must have traveled," returned Guldmar, 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 wonder- 
ful 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 contradeec- 
tion 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 Duprez, enthusiastically. "I 
feel that those — what do you call them, lassies? — will charm 
me!" 

"Scotland I never saw," said Guldmar. "From all I have 



164 THELMA. 

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 Math 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 win- 
ters; 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 Lori- 
mer, with a smile. "But it's no use appealing to me on such 
matters. Miss Guldmar. 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 — 'every- 
thing was nothing, and nothing was everything.' 'You are 
sure that is so?' I would say to him. 'My dear young friend 
— hie — I am positive! I have — hie — worked out the problem 
with — hie — 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 that 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 



THELMA. 165 

slate-colored sea. By Errington's orders the yacht slackened 
speed, and glided along with an almost noiseless motion — and 
they were silent, hstening 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 skele- 
ton — 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 Guldmar, 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 Guldmar, 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 you mean by the berg-folk?" inquired Mac- 
farlane. 

"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 purga- 
tory." 

Duprez shook his fingers emphatically in the air. 

"Ah, bah!" he said, "what droll things remain still in the 
world! Yes, in spite of hberty, equality, fraternity! You do 
not beheve in foolish legends, mademoiselle? For example — 
do you think you will suffer purgatory?" 



166 THELMA. 

"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 Guldmar. "We have two 
places of punishment in the Norse faith; one, Nifleheim, 
which is a temporary thing Uke the Catholic purgatory; the 
other Nastrond, which is the counterpart of the Christian hell. 
Know you not the description of Nifieheim in the Edda? — 'tis 
terrible enough to satisfy all tastes. 'Hela, or Death, rules 
over the Nine Worlds of Nifieheim. 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 — Curs- 
ing 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 Nifieheim 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 Nifieheim have a resemblance to the different cir- 
cles 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 fiower without scent, 
or a woman without religion — she seems to me no woman 
at all." 

"But are there any such women?" asked the girl, sur- 
prised. 

'TTes, there are undoubtedly! Free-thinking, stump-orator, 
have-your-rights sort of creatures. You don't know anything 
about them. Miss Guldmar — 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 



THBLMA. 167 

minutes the "Eulalie" resumed her usual speed, and bore 
swiftly on toward Soroe. This island, dreary and dark in the 
distance, grew somewhat more inviting in aspect on a nearer 
approach. Now and then a shaft fell on some glittering point 
of feldspar 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, liter- 
ally hung all over with stalactites. 

"I never heard of this cave," said Guldmar, fixing a keen 
eye on the pilot. "Art thou a traveler'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 pres- 
ence 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 Guldmar pressed the young man's arm Hghtly 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 center — and Guld- 
mar 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 



168 THELMA. 

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 Guldmar regarded him fixedly, 
with a musing and doubtful air. But whatever the old man 
thought, he said nothing. He merely held the young bar- 
onet's arm a Httle 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 expres- 
sion 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 gran- 
deur of the scene. The rocks on that portion of Soroe ap- 
peared 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 for- 
tresses of nature a shining stretch of beach had formed itself, 
on which the fine white sand mixed with crushed feldspar 
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 thou- 
sands 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 sea birds 
refused to make their homes in the black clefts of such steep 
and barren rocks. 

At the entrance of the little cave Guldmar 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 



THELMA. 169 

pilot's advice, Errington and his friends had provided them- 
selves 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 dia- 
monds. 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 Duprez perceiving it, exclaimed: 

'^Voila! A queen's throne! Come, Mademoiselle Guldmar, 
you must sit in it!" 

"But I am not a queen," laughed Thelma. "A throne is for 
a king, also — will not Sir Philip sit there?" 

"There's a compliment for you, Phil!" cried Lorimer, wav- 
ing 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 me 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 — hut she trembled as with cold, and there was 
a kind of appealing wonder in her troubled eyes. He drew 
closer and pressed her hand more tightly; again 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 sur- 
rounded her with shouts of mingled mirth and admiration. 

"Ye just look fine!" said Macfarlane with undisguised de- 
light. "She'd mak' a grand picture, wouldn't she, Erring- 
ton?" 

Philip gazed at her, but said nothing — his heart was too full. 
Sitting there among the glittering, intertwisted and suspended 
rocks — ^with the blaze from the torches flashing on her win- 
some face and luxuriant hair — with that half-troubled, half- 
happy look in her eyes, and an uncertain shadowy smile 



170 THELMA. 

quivering on her sweet lips, the girl looked almost danger- 
ously 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. Duprez 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 Lorimer, too, was silent, battling bravely against 
wild desires that were now, in his opinion, nothing but dis- 
loyalty to his friend. Old Guldmar's hearty voice aroused 
and startled them all. 

"ISTow, 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 — may be 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! Al- 
lans, marcho7is — Pierre! Mr. Guldmar exacts our obedience! 
Phil, you take care of the queen!" 

And skillfully pushing on Duprez and Macfarlane before 
him, he followed Guldmar, 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 sprung 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 



THELMA. 171 

fiber 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 rose-leaf 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 wonder- 
ing rapture, "I can not 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!" 



CHAPTEE XIV. 

Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, sweet eyes, sweet mouth; 
Each singly wooed and won! 

Dante Rossetti. 

"Halloo, ho!" shouted Guldmar, 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 



173 THELMA. 

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," ob- 
served 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 sunk 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 gayly 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 
Duprez, in a half whisper. "He is in the air!" 

"And something in the ither way has happened vera sud- 
denly to Mr. Guldmar/' 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 ^s he took his place in the boat beside 
his daughter — once he raised her little hand, looked at it, and 
kissed it fondty. 

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 pas- 
sage through them, the threatening darkness spread with 
steady persistency, especially to the northern side of the hori- 
zon, where Storm hovered in the shape of a black wing 



THELMA. 173 

odged with coppery crimson. As they reached the yacht a 
silver glare of lightning sprung 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 Guldmar, followed — and the vessel was soon 
plunging through waves of no small height on her way back 
to the Alten Fjord. 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 Guldmar?" asked Duprez, 
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 toward the instrument. "And your voice. Miss Guld- 
mar, 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 gayly. "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 



174 THELMA. 

— Duprez 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 Guldmar, left the saloon with 
him. Once outside the door, 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 Guldmar 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 toward the south the sky was clearing, and arrowy 
beams of pale gold fell from the hidden sun with a soothing 
and soft luster on the breast of the troubled water. 

Guldmar looked about him, and heaved a deep sigh of re- 
freshment. 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 ele- 
ments 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. May be the world is getting old and used up, may be 
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 upward from the saloon. She was singing a French 
song, and the refrain rang out clearly: 

"Ah: le doux son d'un baiser tendre!" 



THELMA. 175 

Errington paused abruptly in his speech, and turning 
toward 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." 

Guldmar 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 
companionsliip 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 can not put it into suit- 
able 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 eager- 
ness. "How can I help loving her! She is the best and love- 
liest girl I have ever seen! Believe me — I would make her 
happy!" 

"And have you thought, young man," returned Guldmar, 
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. 
Guldmar 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 — " 



17ft THELMA. 

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 love-making. 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 tim.e 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 rever- 
ence." 

Guldmar 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 



THBLMA. 177 

—is, nevertheless, as this present world would judge, beneath 
you in social standing? I say, have you thought of this?" 

Phihp 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 word 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, re- 
gret 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 Guldmar. 
"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 dar- 
ling 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 my 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 bark, running constantly between these wild 

12 



178 THBLMA. 

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 Aries, 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 Aries, 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 cbeer 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 joumey- 
ings to and fro, to see the little maiden that was growing up 
in the convent at Aries. 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 in- 
terest. 

"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 
learned that I generally spoke English, and as there happened 
to be an English nun in the convent, she studied that lan- 
guage 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 



THELMA. 179 

that is saying a great deal! We lived a solitary happy life — 
hut 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 saCt 
smilingly on the edge of the rock, assuring me that her mother 
had gone to sleep 'down there.' Well!" and Guldmar 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 marvelous 
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 Guldmar, with a smile, "I have nothing 



180 THELMA. 

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. Guldmar 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, vnth. that same triumphant 
smile playing about his lips. "She told me so — yet even now 
I can not believe it!" 

"Ah, well, thou mayst believe it truly," said Guldmar, "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 Guldmar 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 Guldmar, gently. "What have I to do 
with it? She has given herself to thee! Love has over- 
whelmed 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 re- 
grets — 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 sup- 
pressed emotion. 

Errington pressed his arm. "Our house shall be yours, sir!" 
he said eagerly. "Why not leave this place and come with 
us?" 

Guldmar shook his head. "Leave Norway!" he said — 
"leave the land of my fathers — turn my back on these moun- 
tains and fjords and glaciers? 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 



THELMA. 181 

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 rolled gradually away in clouds that were 
tumbling one over the other at the extreme edge of the north- 
ern 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 eter- 
nity! 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 Duprez, 
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 can not understand it! So Monsieur Pierre is 
trying to make me remember the moves." 

"Nothing is easier!" declared Duprez. "I was showing 
you how the bishop goes, so — crossways," and he illustrated 
his lesson. "He is a dignitary of the Church, you perceive. 
Bien! it follows that he can not go in a straight line — if you 
observe them well, you will see that all the religious gentle- 
men play at cross purposes. You are very quick. Mademoi- 
selle Guldmar — 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! LepauvreRoi! He can do very little — almost noth- 



182 THELMA. 

ing! 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!" 

Duprez laughed. "Exactly! And thus, in this charming 
game, you have the history of many nations! Mademoiselle 
Guldmar has put the matter excellently! Chess is for those 
who intend to form republics. All the worry and calculation 
— all the moves and pawns, bishops, knights, castles, and 
queen — 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 power- 
ful, better and braver than all their subjects, should thev 
not?" 

"Undoubtedly!" remarked Lorimer, "but it's a curious 
thing, they seldom are. Now, our queen, God bless her — " 

"Hear, hear!" interrupted Eri'ington, laughing good-humor- 
edly. "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 queen or a washer-woman." 

"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, gayly. "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 un- 
washed, beer-drinking, gin-swilling classes who clamor for 
shortened hours of labor, and want work to be expressly in- 
vented for their benefit, don't suffer a bit more than Albert 
Edward, who is supposed to be rolling idle in the very lap of 



THBLMA. 183 

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!" 

Guldmar 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 — " 

"1 will tell you," interrupted Duprez, excitedly, "who it is 
that rules the people in these times — it is the Pe7i — Madame 
la Pliwie! A little black, sharp, scratching devil she is — em- 
press of all nations! No crown but a point, no royal robe 
save ink! It is certain that as long as Madame la Plume gam- 
bols 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 Duprez. "Because they 
have not the courage of their opinions! Because they dare 
not tell the truth!" 

"Upon my hfe 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 Guldmar! 
I think it has a tolerable harvest of them every year — a har- 
vest, 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 Alten Fjord." 

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 toward him — her father saw 
her movement, smiled at her, and nodded kindly, as he passed 
through the saloon doors and disappeared. With a beating 



184 THELMA. 

heart, she sprung 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 hreast and 
looked up into his eyes. 

"I can not say it properly!" she said. "There is no lan- 
guage for my heart! If I co"uld 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, draw- 
ing her more closely, and holding 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 trembhng 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 in- 
expressible 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 



THELMA. 185 

his brain, she moved gently from his embrace and smiled 
proudly^ yet sweetly. 

"Worthy of me?" she said softly and wonderingiy. "It is 1 
that will pray to be made worthy of you! You must not put 
it wTongly, Philip!" 

He made no answer, but looked at her as she stood before 
Mm, 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 simpl)^, "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 beau- 
tiful 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 accent. "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 Lori- 
mer 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 the face of a death-shot. He advanced with his usual lan- 
guid 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!" 



186 THELMA. 



CHAPTEE XV. 

Why, sir, in the universal game of double-dealing, shall not the 
cleverest tricksters play each other false by hap-hazard, and so be- 
tray their closest secrets, to their own and their friends' infinite 
amazement? — Congkeve. 

When Olaf Giildmar and his daughter left the yacht that 
evening, Errington aceompanied them, in order to have the 
satisfaction of escorting his beautiful betrothed as far as her 
own door. They were all three very silent — the bonde was 
pensive, Thelma shy, and Errington himself was too happy for 
speech. Arriving at the farm-house, they saw Sigurd curled 
up under the porch, playing idly with the trailing rose 
branches, but, on hearing their footsteps, he looked up, utter- 
ed a wild exclamation, and tied. Guldmar tapped his own fore- 
head significantly. 

"He grows worse and worse, the poor lad!" he said, some- 
what sorrowfully. "And yet there is a strange mingling of 
foresight and wit with his wild fancies. Wouldst thou believe 
it, Thelma, child" — and here he turned to his daughter and 
encircled her waist with his arm — "he seemed to know how 
matters were with thee and Philip when I was yet in the dark 
concerning them!" 

This was the first allusion her father had made to her en- 
gagement, and her head drooped with a sort of sweet shame. 

"Nay, now, why hide thy face?" went on the old man 
cheerily. "Didst thou think I would grudge my bird her 
summer-time? Not I! And little did I hope for thee, my 
darling, that thou wouldst find a shelter worthy of thee in this 
wild world!" He paused a moment, looking tenderly down 
upon her, as she nestled in mute afi'ection against his breast — 
then addressing himself to Errington, he went on: 

"We have a story in our Norse religion, my lad, of two 
lovers who declared their passion to each other on one stormy 
night in the depth of winter. They were together in a deso- 
late hut on the mountains, and around them lay unbroken 
tracts of frozen snow. They were descended from the gods. 



THELMA. 187 

and therefore the gods protected them — and it happened that 
after they had sworn their troth, the doors of the snow-bound 
hut flew suddenly open, and lo! the landscape had changed — 
the hills were gay with grass and flowers — the sky was blue 
and brilliant, the birds sung, and everywhere was heard the 
ripple of waters let loose from their icy fetters, and gambohng 
down the rocks in the joyous sun. This was the work of the 
goddess Friga — the first kiss exchanged by the lovers she 
watched over, banished Winter from the land, and Spring 
came instead. 'Tis a pretty story, and true all the world over 
— true for all men and women of all creeds! It must be an 
ice-bound heart indeed that will not warm to the touch of love 
— and mine, though aged, grows young again in the Joy of my 
children." He put his daughter gently from him toward 
Philip, saying with more gravity, "Go to him, child — go — with 
thy old father's blessing! And take with thee the three best 
virtues of a wife — truth, humihty, and obedience. Good- 
night, my son!" and he wrung Errington's hand with fervor. 
"You'll take longer to say good-night to Thelma," and he 
laughed, "so I'll go in and leave you to it!" 

And with a good-natured nod, he entered the house, whis- 
tling a tune as he went, that they might not think he imagined 
himself lonely or neglected — and the two lovers paced slowly 
up and down the garden path together, exchanging those first 
confidences which to outsiders seem so eminently foolish, but 
which to those immediately concerned are most wonderful, 
delightfully strange, and enchanting beyond all description. 
Where, from a practical point of view, is the sense of such 
questions as these — "When did you love me first?" "What 
did you feel when I said so-and-so?" "Have you dreamed of 
me often?" "Will you love me always, always, always?" and 
so on ad infinitum. "Kidiculous rubbish!" exclaims the 
would-be strong-minded but secretly savage old maid — and 
the selfishly matter-of-fact but privately fidgety and lonely 
old bachelor. Ah! but there are those who could tell you 
that at one time or another of their lives this "ridiculous rub- 
bish" seemed far more important than the decline and fall of 
empires — more necessary to existence than light and air — 
more fraught with hope, fear, suspense, comfort, despair, and 
anxiety than anything that could be invented or imagined! 
Philip and Thelma — man and woman in the full flush of youth, 
health, beauty, and happiness — had just entered their Paradise 



188 THELMA. 

— their fairy garden — and everj' little flower and leaf on the 
way had special, sweet interest for them. Love's indefinable 
glories — Love's proud possibilities — Love's long ecstasies — 
these, like so many spirit-figures, seemed to smile and beckon 
them on, on, on, through golden seas of sunlight — through 
flower-filled fields of drowsy entrancement — through winding 
ways of rose-strewn and lily-scented leafage — on, on, with 
eyes and hearts absorbed in one another — unseeing any end to 
the dream-like wonders that, like some heavenly picture- 
scroll, unrolled slowly and radiantly before them. And so 
they murmur those unwise, tender things which no wisdom 
in the world has ever surpassed, and when Philip at last said 
"Good-night!" with more reluctance than Komeo, and pressed 
his parting kiss on his love's sweet, fresh mouth — the riddle 
with which he had puzzled himself so often was resolved at 
last — life was worth living, worth cherishing, worth ennobling. 
The reason of all things seemed clear to him — Love, and Love 
only, supported, controlled, and grandly completed the uni- 
verse! He accepted this answer to all perplexities — his heart 
expanded with a sense of large content — his soul was satisfied. 

Meanwhile, during his friend's absence from the yacht, 
Lorimer took it upon himself to break the news to Duprez and 
Macfarlane. These latter young gentlemen had had their 
suspicions already, but they were not quite prepared to hear 
them so soon confirmed. Lorimer told the matter in his own 
way. 

"I say, you fellows!'' he remarked, carelessly, as he sat 
smoking in their company on deck, "you'd better look out! 
If you stare at Miss Guldmar too much, you'll have Phil down 
upon you!" 

"Ha, ha!" exclaimed Duprez, slyly, "the dear Phil-eep is in 
love?" 

"Something more than that," said Lorimer, looking absently 
at the cigarette he held between his fingers. "He's an en- 
gaged man." 

"Engaged!" cried Macfarlane, excitedly. "Ma certes! He 
has the deevil's own luck! He's just secured for himself the 
grandest woman in the world!" 

*'Je lecrois Men!'' said Duprez, gravely; nodding his head 
several times. "Phil-eep is a wise boy! He is the fortunate 
one! I am not for marriage at all — no! not for myself — it is 
to tie one's hands, to become a prisoner — and that would not 



THELMA. 189 

suit me; but if I were inclined to captivity, 1 should like 
Mademoiselle Guldmar for my beautiful jailer. And beauti- 
ful she is, mon Dieu! — beyond all comparison!" 

Lorimer was silent, so was Macfarlane. After a pause, Du- 
prez spoke again. 

"And do you know, cher Lorimer, when our Phil-eep will 
marry?" 

"I haven't the slightest idea," returned Lorimer. "I know 
he's engaged, that's all." 

Suddenly Macfarlane broke into a chuckling laugh. 

"I say, Lorimer," he said, with his deep-set, small gray eyes 
sparkling with mischief. " 'Twould be grand fun to see auld 
Dyceworthy's face when he hears o't. By the Lord! He'll 
fall to cursin' an' swearin' like ma pious aunt in Glasgie, or 
that auld witch that cursed Miss Thelma yestreen!" 

"An eminently unpleasant old woman she was!" said Lori- 
mer, musingly. "I wonder what she meant by it!" 

"She meant, mon cher," said Duprez, airily, "that she knew 
herself to be ugly and venerable, while mademoiselle was 
youthful and ravishing — it is a sufficient reason to excite 
profanity in the mind of a lady!" 

"Here comes Errington!" said Macfarlane, pointing to the 
approaching boat that was coming swiftly back from the Guld- 
mars' pier. "Lorimer, are we to congratulate him?" 

"If you like!" returned Lorimer. "I dare say he won't 
object." 

So that as soon as Sir Philip set foot on the yacht, his hands 
were cordially grasped, and his friends outvied each other in 
good wishes for his happiness. He thanked them simply and 
with a manly straightforwardness, entirely free from the usual 
affected embarrassment that some modern young men think 
it seemly to adopt under similar circumstances. 

"The fact is," he said frankly, "I congratulate myself — I'm 
more lucky than I deserve, I know!" 

"What a sensation she will make in London, Phil!" said 
Lorimer suddenly. "I've just thought of it! Good heavens! 
Lady Winsleigh will cry for sheer spite and vexation!" 

PhiHp laughed. "I hope not," he said. "I should think it 
would need immense force to draw a tear from her ladyship's 
cold bright eyes.'* 

"She used to like you awfully, Phil!" said Lorimer. "You 
were a great favorite of hers." 



190 THELMA. 

"All men are her favorites with the exception of one — ^her 
husband!" observed Errington, gayly. "Come along, let's 
have some champagne to celebrate the day! We'll propose 
toasts and drink healths — we've got a fair excuse for Jollity 
this evening." 

They all descended into the saloon, and had a merry time 
of it, singing songs and telling good stories, Lorimer being 
the gayest of the party, and it was long past midnight when 
they retired to their cabins, without looking at the wonders of 
perhaps the most gorgeous sky that had yet shone on their 
travels — a sky of complete rose-color, varying from the deep- 
est shade up to the palest, in which the sun glowed with a 
subdued radiance like an enormous burning ruby. 

Thelma saw it, standing vmder her house-porch, where her 
father had joined her — Sigurd saw it — he had come out from 
some thicket where he had been hiding, and he now sat, in a 
humble, crouching posture at Thelma's feet. All three were 
silent, reverently watching the spreading splendor of the 
heavens. Once Guldmar addressed his daughter in a soft 
tone. 

"Thou art happy, my bird?" 

She smiled — the expression of her face was almost divine in 
its rapture. 

"Perfectly happy, my father!" 

At the sound of her dulcet voice, Sigurd looked up. His 
large blue eyes were full of tears, he took her hand and held 
it in his meager and wasted one. 

"Mistress!" he said suddenly, "do you think I shall soon 
die?" 

She turned her pitying eyes down upon him, startled by the 
vibrating melancholy of his tone. 

"Thou wilt die, Sigurd," answered Guldmar, gently, "when 
the gods please — not one second sooner or later. Art thou 
eager to see Valhalla?" 

Sigurd nodded dreamily. "They will understand me there!" 
he murmured. "And I shall grow straight and strong and 
brave! Mistress, if you meet me in Valhalla, you will love 
me!" 

She stroked his wild fair locks. "I love you now, Sigurd," 
she said, tenderly. "But perhaps we shall all love each other 
better in heaven." 

"Yes, yes!" exclaimed Sigurd, patting her hand caressingly. 



THELMA. 191 

"When we are all dead, dead! When our bodies crumble 
away and turn to flowers and birds and butterflies — and our 
souls come out like white and red flames — yes! then we shall 
love each other and talk of such strange, strange things!" He 
paused and laughed wildly. Then his voice sunk again into 
melancholy monotony — and he added: "Mistress, you are 
killing poor Sigurd!" 

Thelma's face grew very earnest and anxious. "Are you 
vexed with me, dear?" she asked, soothingly. "Tell me what 
it is that troubles you." 

Sigurd met her eyes with a look of speechless despair, and 
shook his head. 

"I can not tell you!" he muttered. "All my thoughts have 
gone to drown themselves one by one in the cold sea! My 
heart was buried yesterday, and I saw it sealed down into its 
coffin. There is something of me left — something that dances 
before me like a flame — but it will not rest, it does not obey 
me. I call it, but it will not come! And I am getting tired, 
mistress — very, very tired!" His voice broke, and a low sob 
escaped him — he hid his face in the folds of her dress. Guld- 
mar looked at the poor fellow compassionately. 

"The wits wander further and further away!" he said to his 
daughter, in a low tone. " 'Tis a mind hke a broken rainbow, 
split through by storm — 'twill soon vanish. Be patient with 
him, child — it can not be for long!" 

"No, not for long!" cried Sigurd, raising his head brightly. 
"That is true — not for long! Mistress, will you come to-mor- 
row with me and gather flowers? You used to love to wander 
with your poor boy in the fields — but you have forgotten — and 
I can not find any blossoms without you! They will not show 
themselves unless you come! Will you, dear, beautiful mis- 
tress! will you come?" 

She smiled, pleased to see him a little more cheerful. "Yes, 
Sigurd," she said; "I will come. We will go together early 
to-morrow morning and gather all the flowers we can find. 
Will that make you happy?" 

"Yes!" he said, softly kissing the hem of her dress. "It 
will make me happy — for the last time." 

Then he rose in an attitude of attention, as though he had 
been called by some one at a distance — and with a grave, pre- 
occupied air, he moved away, walking on tiptoe as though he 



192 THELMA. 

feared to interrupt the sound of some soft invisible music. 
Guldmar sighed as he watched him disappear. 

"May the gods make us thankful for a clear brain when we 
have it!" he said, devoutly; then turning to his daughter, he 
bade her good-night, and laid his hands on her golden head in 
silent but fervent blessing. "Child," he said, tremulously, 
"in the new joys that await thee, never forget how thy father 
loves thee!" 

Then, not trusting himself to say more, he strode into the 
house and betook himself to slumber. Thelma followed his 
example, and the old farm-house was soon wrapped in the 
peace and stillness of the strange night — a night of glittering 
sunshine. Sigurd alone was wakeful — he lay at the foot of 
one of the tallest pine-trees, and stared persistently at the 
radiant sky through the net-work of dark branches. Now and 
then he smiled as though he saw some beatific vision — some- 
times he plucked fitfully at the soft long moss on which he had 
made his couch, and sometimes he broke into a low, crooning 
song. God alone knew the broken ideas, the dim fancies, the 
half-born desires, that glimmered like pale ghosts in the desert 
of his brain — God alone, in the great Hereafter, could solve 
the problem of his sorrows and throw light on his soul's 
darkness. 

It was past six in the morning when he arose, and smoothing 
back his tangled locks, went to Thelma's window and sat 
down beneath it, in mute expectancy. He had not long to 
wait — at the expiration of ten or fifteen minutes, the little 
lattice was thrown wide open, and the girl's face^ fresh as a 
rose, framed in a shower of amber locks, smiled down upon 
him. 

"I am coming, Sigurd!" she cried softly and joyously. 
"How lovely the morning is! Stay for me there! I shall not 
be long." 

And she disappeared, leaving her window open. Sigurd 
heard her singing little scraps of song to herself, as she moved 
about in the interior of her room. He listened, as though his 
soul were drawn out of him by her voice — but presently the 
rich notes ceased, and there was a sudden silence. Sigurd 
knew or guessed the reason of that hush — Thelma was at her 
prayers. Instinctively the poor forlorn lad folded his wasted 
hands — most piteously and most imploringly he raised his 
bewildered eyes to the blue and golden glory of the sky. His 



THELMA. 193 

conception of God was indefinable; his dreams of heaven, 
chaotic minglings of fairy-land with Valhalla — but he some- 
how felt that wherever Thelma's holy aspirations turned, 
there the angels must be listening. 

Presently she came out of the house, looking radiant as the 
morning itself — her luxuriant hair was thrown back over her 
shoulders and fell loosely about her in thick curls, simply 
confined by a knot of blue ribbon. She carried a large osier 
basket, capacious, and gracefully shaped. 

"Kow, Sigurd," she called, sweetly, " I am ready! Where 
shall we go?" 

Sigurd hastened to her side, happy and smiling. 

"Across there," he said, pointing toward the direction of 
Bosekop. "There is a stream under the trees that laughs to 
itself all day — you know it, mistress? And the poppies are in 
the field as you go — and by the banks there are the hearts- 
ease flowers — ^we can not have too many of them! Shall we 
go?" 

"Wherever you like, dear," answered Thelma, tenderly, 
looking down from her stately height on the poor stunted 
creature at her side, who held her dress as though he were a 
child clinging to her as his sole means of guidance. "All the 
land is pleasant to-day." 

They left the farm and its boundaries. A few men were at 
work on one of Guldmar's fields, and these looked up — half in 
awe, half in fear — as Thelma and her fantastic servitor passed 
along. 

" 'Tis a fine wench!" said one man, resting on his spade, and 
following with his eyes the erect, graceful figure of his em- 
ployer's daughter. 

"May be, may be!" said another, gruffly; "but a fine wench is 
a snare of the devil! Do ye mind what Lovisa Elsland told 
us?" 

"Ay, ay," answered the first speaker, "Lovisa knows — 
Lovisa is the wisest woman we have in these parts — that's 
true! The girl's a witch, for sure!" 

And they resumed their work in gloomy silence. Not one 
of them would have willingly labored on Olaf Guldmar's land 
had not the wages he offered them been above the usual rate of 
hire — and times were bad in Norway. But otherwise, the 
superstitious fear of him was so great that his fields might 
have gone untilled and his crops ungathered — however, as 
13 



194 THELMA. 

matters stood, none of them could deny that he was a good 
paymaster, and just in his dealings with those whom he em- 
ployed. 

Thelma and Sigurd took their way in silence across a per- 
fumed stretch of meadow-land — the one naturally fertile spot 
in that somewhat barren district. Plenty of flowers blossomed 
at their feet, but they did not pause to gather these, for Sigurd 
was anxious to get to the stream where the purple pansies 
grew. They soon reached it — it was a silvery clear ribbon of 
water that unrolled itself in bright folds through green trans- 
parent tunnels of fern and waving grass — leaping now and 
then with a swift dash over a smooth block of stone or jagged 
rock — but for the most part gliding softly, with a happy, self- 
satisfied murmur, as though it were some drowsy spirit 
dreaming joyous dreams. Here nodded the grave, purple- 
leaved pansies — legendary consolers of the heart — their little, 
quaint, expressive physiognomies turned in every direction 
up to the sky, as though absorbing the sunlight — down to the 
ground, with an almost severe air of meditation, or curled 
sideways on their stems in a sort of sly reflectiveness. 

Sigurd was among them at once — they were his friends — ^his 
playmates, his favorites — and he gathered them quickly yet 
tenderly, murmuring as he did so: "Yes, you must all die; 
but death does not hurt; no! life hurts, but not death! See! 
as I pluck you, you all grow wings and fly away — away to 
other meadows, and bloom again." He paused, and a puzzled 
look came into his eyes. He turned toward Thelma, who had 
seated herself on a little knoll just above the stream: "Tell 
me, mistress," he said, "do the flowers go to heaven?" 

She smiled. "I think so, dear Sigurd," she said; "I hope 
so! I am almost sure they do." 

Sigurd nodded with an air of satisfaction. 

"That is right," he observed. "It would never do to leave 
them behind, you know! They would be missed, and we 
should have to come down again and fetch them — " A crack- 
ling among the branches of some trees startled him — ^he looked 
round, and uttered a peculiar cry like the cry of a wild animal, 
and exclaimed: "Spies, spies! Ha! ha! secret, wicked faces 
that are afraid to show themselves! Come out! Mistress, 
mistress! make them come out!" 

Thelma rose, surprised at his gesticulations, and came 
toward him; to her utter astonishment she found herself con- 



THELMA. 195 

fronted by old Lovisa Elsland and the Eev. Mr. Dyceworthy's 
servant, Ulrika. On both women's faces there was a curious 
expression of mingled fear, triumph, and malevolence. Lo- 
visa was the first to break the silence. 

"At last!" she croaked, in a sort of slow, monotonous tone. 
"At last, Thelma Guldmar, the Lord has delivered you into 
my hands!" 

Thelma drew Sigurd close to her, and slipped one arm round 
him. 

"Poor soul!" she said, softly, with sweet, pitying eyes fixed 
fearlessly on the old hag's withered, evil visage. "You must be 
tired, wandering about on the hills as you do! If you are her 
friend," she added, addressing Ulrika, "why do you not make 
her rest at home and keep warm? She is so old and feeble!" 

"Feeble!" shrieked Lovisa; "feeble!" And she seemed chok- 
ing with passion. "If I had my fingers at your throat, you 
should then see if I am feeble! I — " Ulrika pulled her by the 
arm, and whispered something which had the effect of calming 
her a little. "Well," she said, "you speak then! I can wait!" 

Ulrika cleared her husky voice, and fixed her dull eyes on 
the girl's radiant countenance. 

"You must go away," she said coldly and briefly. "You 
and your father and this creature," and she pointed contempt- 
uously to the staring Sigurd. "Do you understand? You 
must leave the Alten Fjord! The people are tired of you — 
tired of bad harvests, ill-luck, sickness, and continued poverty. 
You are the cause of all our miseries — and we have resolved 
you shall not stay among us. Go quickly — take the blight 
and pestilence of your presence elsewhere! Go! or if you 
will not—" 

"We shall burn, burn, burn, and utterly destroy!" inter- 
rupted Lovisa, with a sort of eldritch shriek. "The strong 
pine rafters of Olaf Guldmar's dwelling shall be kindled into 
flame to light the hills with crimson, far and near! N"ot a 
plank shall be spared! — not a vestige of his pride be left — " 

"Stop!" said Thelma, quietly. "What do you mean? You 
must both be very mad or very wicked! You want us to go 
away — you threaten to set fire to our home — why? We have 
done you no harm. Tell me, poor soul!" and she turned with 
queenly forbearance to Lovisa, "is it for Britta's sake that you 
would burn the house she lives in? That is not wise! You 



196 THELMA. 

cursed me the other day — and why? What have I done that 
3'ou should hate me?" 

The old woman regarded her with steadfast, cruel eyes. 

"You are your mother's child!" she said. "I hated her — I 
hate you! You are a witch! — the village knows it — Mr. Dyce- 
worthy knows it! Mr. Dyceworthy says we shall be justified 
in the Lord's sight for wreaking evil upon you! Evil, evil be 
on those of evil deeds!" 

"Then shall the evil fall on Mr. Dyceworthy," said the girl, 
calmly. "He is wicked in himself — and doubly wicked to 
encourage you in wickedness. He is ignorant and false — why 
do you believe in such a man?" 

"He is a saint — a saint!" cried Lovisa, wildly. "And shall 
the daughter of Satan withstand his power?" And she clapped 
her hands in a sort of fierce ecstasy. 

Thelma glanced at her pityingly and smiled. "A saint! 
Poor thing, how little you know him!" she said. "And it is 
a pity you should hate me, for I have done you no wrong. 
I would do good to all if I knew how. Tell me, can I comfort 
you, or make your life more cheerful ? It must be hard to be 
so old and all alone!" 

"Your death would comfort me!" returned Lovisa, grimly. 
"Why do you keep Britta from me?" 

"I do not keep her," Thelma answered. "She stays with 
me because she is happy. Why do you grudge her her happi- 
ness? And as for burning my father's house, surely you would 
not do so wicked and foolish a thing! — but still, you must do 
as you choose, for it is not possible that we shall leave the 
Alten Fjord to please you." 

Here Ulrika started forward angrily. "You defy us!" she 
cried. "You will not go?" And in her excitement she seized 
Thelma's arm roughly. 

This action was too much for Sigurd; he considered it an 
attack on the person of his beloved mistress, and he resented 
it at once in his own fashion. Throwing himself on Ulrika 
with sudden ferocity, he pushed and beat her back as though 
he were a wolf-hound struggling with refractory prey; and 
though the ancient Lovisa rushed to the rescue, and Thelma 
imploringly called upon her zealous champion to desist, all 
remonstrances were unavailing, till Sigurd had reduced his 
enemy to the most abject and whimpering terror. 

"A demon — a demon!" she sobbed and moaned, as the val- 



THELMA. 197 

iant dwarf at last released her from his clutches; and, tossing 
his long, fair locks over his misshapen shoulders, laughed 
loudly and triumphantly with delight at his victory. "Lovisa! 
Lovisa Elsland! this is your doing; you brought this upon 
me! I may die now, and you will not care! Oh, I^ord, Lord, 
have mercy — " 

Suddenly she stopped; her eyes dilated — her face grew pale 
with the sickening pallor of fear. Slowly she raised her hand 
and pointed to Sigurd — his fantastic dress had become dis- 
ordered in the affray, and his jacket was torn open, and on 
his chest a long red scar in the shape of a cross was distinctly 
visible. "That scar!" she muttered. "How did he get that 
scar?" 

Lovisa stared at her in impatient derision. Thelma was 
too surprised to answer immediately, and Sigurd took it upon 
himself to furnish what he considered a crushing reply. 

"Odin's mark!" he said, patting the scar with much elation. 
"No wonder you are afraid of it! Everybody knows it — birds, 
flowers, trees and stars! Even you — you are afraid!" 

And he laughed again, and snapped his fingers in her face. 
The woman shuddered violently. Step by step she drew to 
the wondering Thelma, and spoke in low and trembling ac- 
cents, without a trace of her former anger. 

"They say you are wicked," she said, slowly, "and that the 
devil has your soul already, before you are dead! But I am 
not afraid of you. No; I will forgive you, and pray for you, 
if you will tell me — " She paused, and then continued, as 
with a strong effort. "Yes — tell me who is this Sigurd?" 

"Sigurd is a foundling," answered Thelma, simply. "He 
was floating about in the fjord in a basket, and my father 
saved him. He was quite a baby. He had this scar on his 
chest then. He has lived with us ever since." 

Ulrika looked at her searchingly — then bent her head — 
whether in gratitude or despair it was difficult to say. 

"Lovisa Elsland," she said, monotonously, "I am going 
home. I can not help you any longer! I am tired — ill," 
Here she suddenly broke down, and, throwing up her arms 
with a wild gesture, she cried: "Oh, God, God! oh, God!" 
and burst into a stormy passion of sobs and tears. 

Thelma, touched by her utter misery, would have offered 
consolation, but Lovisa repelled her with a fierce gesture. 

"Go!" said the old woman, harshly. "You have cast your 



198 THELMA. 

spells upon her — ^I am witness of your work! And shall you 
escape just judgment? No; not wliile there is a God in 
heaven, and I, Lovisa Elsland, live to perform His bidding! 
Go — white devil that you are! — go and carry misfortune upon 
misfortune to your fine gentleman-lover! Ah!" and she 
chuckled maliciously as the girl recoiled from her, her proud 
face growing suddenly paler, "have I touched you there? Lie 
in his breast, and it shall be as though a serpent stung him 
— kiss his lips, and your touch shall be poison — live in 
doubt, and die in misery! Go! and may all evil follow 
you!" 

She raised her staff and waved it majestically, as though 
she drew a circle in the air — Thelma smiled pityingly, but 
deigned no answer to her wild ravings. 

"Come, Sigurd!" she said, simply, "let us return home. It 
is growing late — father will wonder where we are." 

"Yes, yes," agreed Sigurd, seizing the basket full of the 
pansies he had plucked. "The sunshine is slipping away, and 
we can not live with shadows! These are not real women, 
mistress; they are dreams — black dreams. I have often fought 
with dreams, and I know how to make them afraid! See how 
the one weeps because she knows me — and the other is just 
going to fall into a grave. I can hear the clods thrown on her 
head — thump — thump! It does not take long to bury a 
dream. Come, mistress, let us follow the sunshine!" 

And, taking the hand she extended toward him, he turned 
away, looking back once, however, to call out loudly: 

"Good-bye, bad dreams!" 

As they disappeared behind the trees, Lovisa turned angrily 
to the still sobbing Ulrika. 

"What is this folly?" she exclaimed, striking her staff 
fiercely into the ground. "Art mad or bewitched?" 

Ulrika looked up — her plain face swollen and stained with 
weeping. 

"Oh, Lord, have mercy upon me! Oh, Lord, forgive me!" 
she moaned. "I did not know it — ^how could I know?" 

Lovisa grew so impatient that she seized her by the shoul- 
der and shook her violently. 

"Know what?" she cried; *Tmow what?" 

"Sigurd is my son!" said Ulrika, with a sort of solemn 
resignation — then, with a sudden gesture, she threw her hand 
above her head, crying: "My son, my son! The child I 



THELMA. 199 

thousjht I had killed! The Lord be praised I did not murder 
him!" 

Lovisa Elsland seemed stupefied with surprise. "Is this 
the truth?" she asked at last, slowly and incredulously. 

"The truth, the truth!" cried Ulrika, passionately. "It is 
always the truth that comes to light! He is my child, I tell 
you! I gave him that scar!" She paused, shuddering, and 
continued in a lower tone, "I tried to kill him with a knife, 
but when the blood flowed, it sickened me, and I could not! 
He was an infant abortion — the evil fruit of an evil deed — and 
I threw him out to the waves — as I told you long ago. You 
have had good use of my confession, Lovisa Elsland; you have 
held me in your power by means of my secret, but now — " 

The old woman interrupted her with a low laugh of con- 
tempt and malice. 

"As the parents are, so are the children!" she said, scorn- 
fully. "Your lover must have been a fine man, Ulrika, if the 
son is like his father!" 

Ulrika glared at her vengefully, then drew herself up with 
an air of defiance. 

"I care nothing for your taunts, Lovisa Elsland!" she said. 
"You can do me no harm! All is over between us! I will 
help in no mischief against the Guldmars. Whatever their 
faults, they saved — my child!" 

"Is that so great a blessing?" asked Lovisa, ironically. 

"It makes your threat useless," answered Ulrika. "You 
can not call me murderess again!" 

"Coward and fool!" shrieked Lovisa. "Was it your intent 
that the child should live? Were you not glad to think it 
dead? And can not I spread the story of your infamy through 
all the villages where you are known? Is not the wretched 
boy himself a living witness of the attempt you made to kill 
him? Does not that scar speak against you? Would not Olaf 
Gruldmar relate the story of the child's rescue to any one that 
asked him? Would you like all Bosekop to know of your 
intrigue with an escaped criminal, who was afterward caught 
and hung? The virtuous Ulrika — the zealous servant of the 
Gospel — the pious, pra)dng Ulrika!" and the old woman trem- 
bled with rage and excitement. "Out of my power? Never, 
never! As long as there is breath in my body I will hold you 
down! Not a murderess, you say — " 

"No," said Ulrika, very calmly, with a keen look, "I am not 
— but you are!" 



200 THELMA. 



CHAPTEE XVI. 

II n'y a personne qui ait eu autant k souffrir k votre sujet que 
moi depuis ma naissance! aussi je vous supplie k deux genoux et 
au nom de Dieu, d'avoir pitie de moi!— Old Breton Ballad. 

In a few more days Thelma's engagement to Sir Philip 
Briice-Errington was the talk of the neighborhood. The news 
spread gradually, having been, in the first place, started by 
Britta, whose triumph in her mistress' happiness was charm- 
ing to witness. It reached the astonished and reluctant ears 
of the Eev. Mr. Dyceworthy, whose rage was so great that it 
destroyed his appetite for twenty-four hours. But the general 
impression in the neighborhood, where superstition main- 
tained so strong a hold on the primitive an^ prejudiced minds 
of the people, was that t*lie reckless young Englishman would 
rue the day on which he wedded "the white witch of the Alten 
Fjord." 

Guldmar was regarded with more suspicion than ever as 
having used some secret and diabolical influence to promote 
the match; and the whole party were, as it seemed, tabooed, 
and looked upon as given up to the most unholy practices. 

Needless to say, the opinions of the ^^llagers had no effect 
whatever on the good spirits of those who were thus unfavor- 
ably criticised, and it would have been difficult to find a 
merrier group than that assembled one fine morning in front 
of Guldmar's house, all equipped from top to toe for some 
evidently unusually lengthy and arduous mountain excursion. 
Each man carried a long, stout stick, portable flask, knapsack, 
and rug — the latter two articles strapped together and slung 
across the shoulder — and they all presented an eminently pic- 
turesque appearance, particularly Sigurd, who stood a little 
distance from the others, leaning on his tall staff and gazing at 
Thelma with an air of peculiar pensiveness and abstraction. 

She was at that moment busied in adjusting Errington's 
knapsack more comfortably, her fair, laughing face turned up 
to his, and her bright eyes alight with love and tender solici- 
tude. 



THELMA. 201 

"I've a good mind not to go at all," he whispered in her ear. 
"I'll come back and stay with you all day." 

"You foolish boy!" she answered, merrily. "You would 
miss seeing the grand fall — all for what! To sit with me and 
watch me spinning, and you would grow so very sleepy! 
Now, if I were a man, I would go with you." 

"I'm very glad you're not a man!" said Errington, pressing 
the little hand that had just buckled his shoulder-strap. 
"Though I wish you were going with us. But I say, Thelma, 
darling, won't you be lonely?" 

She laughed gayly. "Lonely? I! Why, Britta is with me 
— besides, I am never lonely now." She uttered the last word 
softly, with a shy, upward glance. "I have so much to think 
about^ — " She paused and drew her hand away from her 
lover's close clasp. "Ah," she resumed, with a mischievous 
smile, "you are a conceited boy! You want to be missed! 
You wish me to say that I shall feel most miserable all the 
time you are away! If I do, I shall not tell you!" 

"Thelma, child!" called Olaf Guldmar, at this juncture, 
"keep the gates bolted and doors barred while we are absent. 
Eemember, thou and Britta must pass the night alone here — 
we can not be at home till late in the evening of to-morrow. 
Let no one inside the garden, and deny thyself to all comers. 
Dost thou hear?" 

"Yes, father," she responded, meekly. 

"And let Britta keep good guard that her crazy hag of a 
grandam come not hither to disturb or fright thee with her 
croaking — for thou hast not even Sigurd to protect thee!" 

"Not even Sigurd!" said that personage, with a meditative 
smile. "No, mistress; not even poor Sigurd!" 

"One of us might remain behind," suggested Lorimer, with 
a side-look at his friend. 

"Oh, no, no!" exclaimed Thelma, anxiously. "It would 
vex me so much! Britta and I have often been alone before. 
We are quite safe, are we not, father?" 

"Safe enough!" said the old man, wdth a laugh. "I know of 
no one save Lovisa Elsland who has the courage to face thee, 
child! Still, pretty witch as thou art, 'twill not harm thee to 
put the iron bar across the house door, and to lock fast the 
outer gate when we have gone. This done, I have no fear of 
thy safety. Now," and he kissed his daughter heartily, "now, 



202 THEL.MA. 

lads, 'tis time we were on the march! Sigurd, my boy, 
lead on!" 

"Wait!" cried Sigurd, springing to Thelma's side. "I must 
say good-bye!" And he caught the girl's hand and kissed it 
— then plucking a rose, he left it between her fingers. "That 
will remind you of Sigurd, mistress! Think of him once to- 
day! — once again when the midnight glory shines. Good-bye, 
mistress! that is what the dead say! Good-bye!" 

And with a passionate gesture of farewell he ran and placed 
himself at the head of the little group that waited for him, 
saying exultingly: 

"Now follow me! Sigurd knows the way! Sigurd is the 
friend of all the wild water-falls! Up the hills — across the 
leaping stream — through the sparkling foam!" And he began 
chanting to himself a sort of wild mountain song. 

Macfarlane looked at him dubiously. "Are ye sure?" he 
said to Guldmar. "Are ye sure that wee chap kens whaur he's 
gaun? He'll no lead us into a ditch an' leave us there, mis- 
takin'itforthefall?" 

Guldmar laughed heartily. "Never fear! Sigurd's the best 
guide you can have, in spite of his fancies. He knows all the 
safest and surest paths; and Njedegorze is no easy place to 
reach, I can tell you!" 

"Pardon! How is it called?" asked Duprez, eagerly. 

"Njedegorze." 

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. "I give it up!" he 
said, smilingly. "Mademoiselle Guldmar, if anything happens 
to me at tliis cascade with the name unpronounceable, you 
will again be my doctor, will you not?" 

Thelma laughed as she shook hands with him. "Nothing 
will happen," she rejoined; "unless, indeed, you catch cold 
by sleeping in a hut all night. Father, you must see that they 
do not catch cold!" 

The bonde nodded, and motioned the party forward, Sigurd 
leading the way. Errington, however, lingered behind on 
pretense of having forgotten something, and, drawing his be- 
trothed to his arms, kissed her fondly. 

"Take care of yourself, darling!" he murmured — and then 
hurrying away he rejoined his friends, who had discreetly re- 
frained from looking back, and therefore had not seen the 
lovers embrace. 

Sigurd, however, had seen it, and the sight apparently gave 



THELMA. 202 

fresh impetus to his movements, for he sprung up the adjacent 
hill with so much velocity that those who followed had some 
dilhculty to keep up with him — and it was not till they were 
out of sight of the farm-house that he resumed anything like 
a reasonable pace. 

As soon as they had disappeared, Thelma turned into the 
house and seated herself at her spinning-wheel. Britta soon 
entered the room, carrying the same graceful implement of 
industry, and the two maidens sat together for some time in a 
silence unbroken save by the low melodious whirring of the 
two wheels, and the mellow complaints of the strutting doves 
on the window-sill. 

^'Froken Thelma!" said Britta at last, timidly. 

"Yes, Britta?" And her mistress looked up inquiringly. 

"Of what use is it for you to spin now?" queried the little 
handmaid. "You will be a great lady, and great ladies do not 
work at all!" 

Thelma's wheel revolved more and more slowly, till at last 
it stopped altogether. 

"Do they not?" she said, half inquiringly and musingly. "I 
think you must be wrong, Britta. It is impossible that there 
should be people who are always idle. I do not know what 
great ladies are like." 

"I do!" And Britta nodded her curly head sagaciously. 
"There was a girl from Hammerfest who went to Christiania 
to seek serAace — she was handy at her needle, and a fine 
spinner, and a great lady took her right away from Norway to 
London. And the lady bought her spinning-wheel for a curi- 
osity, she said — and put it in the corner of a large parlor, and 
used to show it to her friends, and they would all laugh and 
say: 'How pretty!' And Jansena — that was the girl — never 
spun again — she wore linen that she got from the shops — 
and it was always falling into holes, and Jansena was always 
mending, mending, and it was no good!" 

Thelma laughed. "Then it is better to spin, after all, 
Britta— is it not?" 

Britta looked dubious. "I do not know," she answered; 
"but I am sure great ladies do not spin. Because, as I said to 
you, Froken, this Jansena's mistress was a great lady, and she 
never did anything — no! nothing at all — but she put on won- 
derful dresses, and sat in her room, or was driven about in a 
carriage. And that is what you will do also, Froken!" 



204 THELMA. 

"Oh, no, Britta/' said Thelma, decisively, "I could not be 
so idle. Is it not fortunate I have so much linen ready? 
I have quite enough for marriage/' 

The little maid looked wistful. "Yes, dear Froken," she 
murmured, hesitatingly; "but I was thinking if it is right for 
you to wear what you have spun. Because, you see, Jansena's 
mistress had wonderful things all trimmed with lace — and 
they would all come back from the washing torn and hanging 
in threads, and Jansena had to mend those as well as her own 
clothes. You see, they do not last at all — and they cost a large 
sum of money; but it is proper for great ladies^ to wear 
them.'' 

"I am not sure of that, Britta," said Thelma, still musingly. 
*'But still, it may be — my bridal things may please Philip. If 
you know anything about it, you must tell me what is right." 

Britta was in a little perplexity. She had gathered some 
idea from her friend Jansena concerning life in London — she 
had even a misty notion of what was meant by a "trousseau" 
with all its dainty, expensive, and often useless fripperies; 
but she did not know how to explain herself to her young mis- 
tress, whose simple, almost severe tastes would, she instinct- 
ively felt, recoil from anything like ostentation in dress, so 
she was discreetly silent. 

"You know, Britta," continued Thelma, gently, "I shall be 
Philip's wife, and I must not vex him in any little thing. 
But I do not quite understand. I have always dressed in the 
same way — and he has never said that he thought me wrongly 
clothed." 

And she looked down with quite a touching pathos at her 
straight, white woolen gown, and smoothed its folds doubt- 
fully. The impulsive Britta sprung to her side and kissed 
her with girlish and unaffected enthusiasm. 

"My dear, my dear! You are more lovely and sweet than 
anybody in the world!" she cried. "And I am sure Sir Philip 
thinks so, too!" 

A beautiful roseate flush suffused Thelma's cheeks, and she 
smiled. 

"Yes, I know he does!" she replied, softly. "And after all 
it does not matter what one wears." 

Britta was meditating — she looked lovingly at her mistress' 
rippling wealth of hair. 

"Diamonds!" she murmured to herself in a sort of satisfied 



THBLMA. 205 

soliloquy. "Diamonds, like those you have on your finger, 
Froken — diamonds all scattered among your curls like dew- 
drops! And white satin, all shining, sliining! — people would 
take you for an angel!" 

Thelma laughed merrily. "Britta, Britta! You are talking 
such nonsense! Nobody dresses so grandly except queens in 
fairy tales." 

"Do they not?" and the wise Britta looked more profound 
than ever. "Well, we shall see, dear Froken — we shall see!" 

"We?" queried Thelma with surprised emphasis. 

Her little maid blushed vividly, and looked down demurely, 
twisting and untwisting the string of her apron. 

"Yes, Froken," she said in a low tone. "I have asked Sir 
Philip to let me go with you when you leave ISTorway." 

"Britta!" Thelma's astonishment was too great for more 
than this exclamation. 

"Oh, my dear! don't be angry with me!" implored Britta, 
with sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks, and excited tongue all plead- 
ing eloquently together, "I should die here without you! I 
told the bonde so; I did, indeed! And then I went to Sir 
Philip — he is such a grand gentleman — so proud and yet so 
kind — and I asked him to let me still he your servant. I said 
I knew all great ladies had a maid, and if I was not clever 
enough I could learn, and — and" — here Britta began to sob — 
"I said I did not want any wages — only to live in a little cor- 
ner of the same house where you were — to sew for you, and see 
you, and hear your voice sometimes — " Here the poor little 
maiden broke down altogether, and hid her face in her apron, 
crying bitterly. 

The tears were in Thelma's eyes, too, and she hastened to 
put her arm around Britta's waist, and tried to soothe her by 
every loving word she could think of. 

"Hush, Britta, dear! you must not cry!" she said, tenderly. 
"What did PhiKp say?" 

"He said," jerked out Britta, convulsively, "that I was a 
g-good little g-girl, and that he was g-glad I wanted to g-go!" 
Here her two sparkling wet eyes peeped out of the apron 
inquiringly, and seeing nothing but the sweetest affection on 
Thelma's attentive face, she went on more steadily. "He 
p-pinched my cheek, and he laughed — and he said he would 
rather have me for your maid than anybody — there!" 

And this last exclamation was uttered with so much defiance 



206 THELMA. 

that she dashed away the apron altogether, and stood erect in 
self-congratulatory glory, with a particularly red little nose 
and very trembling lips. Thelma smiled, and caressed the 
tumbled brown curls, 

"I am very glad, Britta!" she said, earnestly. "Nothing 
could have pleased me more! I must thank Philip. But it is 
of father I am thinking — what will father and Sigurd do ?" 

"Oh, that is all settled, Froken," said Britta, recovering 
herself rapidly from her outburst. "The bonde means to go 
for one of his long voyages in the 'Valkyrie' — it is time she 
was used again, I'm sure — and Sigurd wall go with him. It 
will do them both good — and the tongues of Bosekop can wag- 
gle as much as they please, none of us will be here to mind 
them!" 

"And you will escape your grandmother!" said Thelma, 
amusedly, as she once more set her spinning-wheel in motion. 

Britta laughed delightedly. "Yes! she will not find her 
way to England without some trouble!" she exclaimed. "Oh, 
how happy I shall be! And you" — she looked pleadingly at 
her mistress — "you do not dislike me for your servant?" 

"Dislike!" and Thelma gave her a glance of mingled re- 
proach and tenderness. "You know how fond I am of you, 
Britta! It will be like having a little bit of my old home 
always with me." 

Silently Britta kissed her hand, and then resumed her work. 
The monotonous murmur of the two wheels recommenced — 
this time pleasantly accompanied by the rippling chatter of 
the two girls who, after the fashion of girls all the world over, 
indulged in many speculations as to the new and strange life 
that lay before them. 

Their ideas were of the most primitive character — Britta 
had never been out of Norway, and Thelma's experiences, 
apart from her home life, extended merely to the narrow and 
restricted bounds of simple and severe convent discipline, 
where she had been taught that the pomps and vanities of the 
world were foolish and transient shows, and that nothing 
could please God more than purity and rectitude of soul. Her 
character was formed, and set upon a firm basis — firmer than 
she herself was conscious of. The nuns who had been en- 
trusted with her education had fulfilled their task with more 
than their customary zeal — they were interested in the beauti- 
ful Norwegian child for the sake of her mother, who had also 



THELMA. 207 

been their charge. One venerable nun, in particular, had 
bestowed a deep and lasting benefit on her, for, seeing her 
extraordinary beauty, and forestalling the dangers and temp- 
tations into which the possession of such exceptional charms 
might lead her, she adopted a wise preventive course that 
cased her as it were in armor, proof against all the assailments 
of flattery. She told the girl quite plainly that she was beau- 
tiful — but at the same time made her aware that beauty was 
common — that she shared it alike with birds, flowers, trees, 
and all the wonderful objects of nature — moreover, that it was 
nothing to boast of, being so perishable. 

"Suppose a rose foolish enough to boast of its pretty leaves," 
said the gentle religieuse on one occasion. "They all fall to 
the ground in a short time, and become decayed and yellow — 
it is only the fragrance, or the soul, of the rose that lasts." 
Such precepts, that might have been wasted on a less sensi- 
tive and thoughtful nature, sunk deeply into Thelma's mind — 
she accepted them not only in theory, but in practice, and the 
result was that she accepted her beauty as she accepted her 
health — as a mere natural occurrence — no more. She was 
taught that the three principal virtues of a woman were chas- 
tity, hujnility and obedience — these were the laws of God, 
fixed and immutable, which no one dared break without com- 
mitting grievous and unpardonable sin. So she thought, and 
according to her thoughts she lived. What a strange world, 
then, lay before her in the contemi)latcd change that was 
about to take place in the even tenor of her existence! A 
world of intrigue and folly — a world of infidelity and false- 
hood! — how would she meet it? It was a question she never 
asked herself — she thought London a sort of magnified Chris- 
tiania, or at best, the Provencal town of Aries on a larger 
scale. She had heard her father speak of it, but only in a 
vague way, and she had been able to form no just idea even to 
herself of the enormous metropolis crowded to excess with its 
glad and soiTOwful, busy and idle, rich and poor millions. 
England itself floated before her fancy as a green, fertile, 
embowered island where Shakespeare had lived — and it de- 
lighted her to know that her future home, Errington Manor, 
was situated in Warwickshire, Shakespeare's county. Of the 
pociety that awaited her, she had no notion — she was pre- 
pared to "keep house" for her husband in a very simple way — 
to spin his household linen, to spare him all trouble and ex- 



208 THELMA. 

pense, and to devote herself body aud soul to his service. As 
may be well imagined, the pictures she drew of her future 
married hfe, as she sat and spun with Britta on that peaceful 
afternoon, were widely different to the destined reality that 
every day approached her more nearly. 

Meanwhile, while the two girls were at home and undis- 
turbed in the quiet farm-house, the mountaineering party, 
headed by Sigurd, were well on their way toward the great fall 
of Njedegorze. They had made a toilsome ascent of the hills 
by the side of the Alten Eiver — ^they had climbed over craggy 
bowlders and slippery rocks, sometimes wading knee-deep in 
the stream, or pausing to rest and watch the salmon leap and 
turn gHttering somersaults in the air close above the diamond- 
clear water — and they had beguiled their fatigue with songs 
and laughter and the telling of fantastic legends and stories, 
in which Sigurd had shone at his best — ^indeed, this unhappy 
being was in a singularly clear and rational frame of mind, 
disposed, too, to be agreeable even toward Errington. Lori- 
mer, who for reasons of his own had kept a close watch on 
Sigurd ever since his friend's engagement to Thelma, was 
surprised and gratified at this change in his former behavior 
and encouraged him in it, while Errington himself responded 
to the dwarf's proffered friendship, and walked beside him, 
chattering cheerfully during the most part of the excursion to 
the fall. It was a long and exceedingly difficult journey — and 
in some parts dangerous — but Sigurd proved himself worthy 
of the commendations bestowed on him by the bonde, and 
guided them by the easiest and most secure paths, till at last, 
about seven o'clock in the evening, they heard the rush and 
roar of the rapids below the fall, and with half an hour's more 
exertion, came in sight of them, though not as yet of the fall 
itself. Yet the rapids were grand enough to merit attention 
— and the whole party stopped to gaze on the whirling wonder 
of waters that, hissing furiously, circled round and round 
giddily in wheels of white foam, and then, as though enraged, 
leaped high over obstructing stones and branches, and rushed 
onward and downward to the smoother length of the river. 

The noise was deafening — they could not hear each other 
speak unless by shouting at the top of their voices, and even 
then the sounds were rendered almost indistinct by the riotous 
uproar. Sigurd, however, who knew all the ins and outs of 
the place, sprung lightly on a jutting crag, and, putting both 



THBLMA, 209 

hands to his mouth, uttered a peculiar, shrill, and far-reaching 
cry. Clear above the turmoil of the restless waters, that cry 
was echoed back eight distinct times from the surrounding 
rocks and hills. Sigurd laughed triumphantly. 

"You see!" he exclaimed, as he resumed his leadership of 
the party, "they all know me! They are obliged to answer 
me when I call — they dare not disobey!" And his blue eyes 
flashed with that sudden wild fire that generally foretold some 
access of his particular mania. 

Errington saw this and said soothingly: "Of course not, 
Sigurd! No one would dream of disobeying you! See how 
we follow you to-day — we all do exactly what you tell us." 

"We are sheep, Sigurd," added Lorimer, lazily; "and you 
are the shepherd." 

Sigurd looked from one to the other half doubtingly, half 
cunningly. He smiled. 

"Yes!" he said. "You will follow me, will you not? Up 
to the very top of the fall?" 

"By all means!" answered Sir Philip, gayly. "Anywhere 
you choose to go!" 

Sigurd seemed satisfied, and lapsing into the calm, com- 
posed manner which had distinguished him all day, he led the 
way as before, and they resumed their march, this time in 
silence, for conversation was well-nigh impossible. The 
nearer they came to the yet invisible fall, the more thunder- 
ous grew the din — it was as though they approached some 
vast battle-field where opposing armies were in full action, 
with all the tumult of cannonade and musketry. The ascent 
grew steeper and more difficult — at times the high barriers of 
rocks seemed almost impassable — often they were compelled 
to climb over confused heaps of huge stones through which 
the eddying water pushed its way with speed and fury — ^but 
Sigurd's precision was never at fault — he leaped crag after 
crag swiftly and skillfully, always lighting on a sure foothold, 
and guiding the others to do the same. At last, at a shar]i 
turn of one of these rocky eminences, they perceived an enor- 
mous cloud of white vapor rising up hke smoke from the earth 
and twisting itself as it rose in swaying, serpentine folds, as 
though some giant spirit-hand were shaking it to and fro like a 
long flowing veil in the air. Sigurd paused and pointed for- 
ward. 

"NJedegorze!" he cried. 

14 



210 THELMA. 

They all pressed on with some excitement. The ground 
vibrated beneath their feet with the shock of the falling tor- 
rent, and the clash and roar of the disputing waters rolled 
in their ears like the grand, sustained bass of some huge 
cathedral organ. Almost blinded by the spray that dashed its 
disdainful drops in their faces, deafened by the majestic, loud, 
and ceaseless eloquence that poured its persuasive force into 
the splitting hearts of the rock around them — breathless with 
climbing, and well-nigh tired out, they struggled on, and 
broke into one unanimous shout of delight and triumph when 
they at last reached the small hut that had been erected for 
the convenience of travelers who might choose that way to 
journey to the Alton Fjord — and stood face to face with the 
magnificent cascade, one of the grandest in Norway. What a 
sublime spectacle it was! — that tempest of water sweeping 
sheer down the towering rocks in one straight, broad, un- 
broken sheet of foam! A myriad rainbows flashed in the 
torrent and vanished, to reappear again instantly with re- 
doubled luster — while the glory of the evening sunlight glit- 
tering on one side of the fall made it gleam like a sparkling 
shower of molten gold. 

"Njedegorze!" cried Sigurd, again, giving a singularly musi- 
cal pronunciation to the apparently uncouth name. "Come! 
still a little further — to the top of the fall!" 

Olaf Guldmar, however, paid no attention to this invitation. 
He was already beginning to busy himself with preparations 
for passing the night comfortably in the hut before mentioned. 
Stout old Norseman as he was, there were limits to his endur- 
ance, and the arduous exertions of the long day had brought 
fatigue to him as well as to the rest of the party. 

Macfarlane was particularly exhausted. His frequent pulls 
at the whisky flask had been of little or no avail as a support 
to his aching limbs, and, now he had reached his destination, 
he threw himself full length on the turf in front of the hut 
and groaned most dismally. 

Lorimer surveyed him amusedly, and stood beside him, the 
very picture of a cool young Briton whom nothing could pos- 
sibly discompose. 

"Done up — eh, Sandy?" he inquired. 

"Done up!" growled Macfarlane. "D'ye think I'm a Norse- 
man or a jumping Frenchy?" This with a look of positive 
indignation at the lively Duprez, who, if tired, was probably 



THELMA. 211 

too vain to admit it, for he was strutting about, giving vent to 
his genuine admiration of the scene before him with the 
utmost freshness and enthusiasm. "I'm just a plain Scotch- 
man, an' no such a fule at chmbin' either! Why, man, I've 
been up Goatfell in Arran, an' Ben Lomond an' Ben Nevis — 
there's a mountain for ye, if ye hke ! But a brae hke this, wi' 
a' the stanes lyin' helter-skelter, an' crags that ye can barely 
hold on to — and a mad chap guidin' ye on at the speed o' a 
leapin' goat — I tell ye, I havena been used to 't." Here he 
drew out his flask and took another extensive pull at it. Then 
he added, suddenly: "Just look at Errington! He'll be in a 
fair way to break his neck if he follows yon wee crazy loon 
any further." 

At these words Lorimer turned sharply round, and perceived 
his friend following Sigurd step by step up a narrow footing 
in the steep ascent of some rough, irregular crags that ran 
out and formed a narrow ledge, ending in a sharp point jutting 
directly over the full fury of the water-fall. He watched the 
two climbing figures for an instant without any anxiety — then 
he suddenly remembered that Philip had promised to go with 
Sigurd "to the top of the fall." Acting on a rapid impulse 
which he did not stop to explain to himself, Lorimer at once 
started off after them — but the ascent was difficult; they were 
some distance ahead, and though he shouted vociferously, the 
roar of the cascade rendered his voice inaudible. Gaining 
on them, however, by slow degrees, he was startled when 
all at once they disappeared at the summit — and, breathless 
with his rapid climb, he paused, bewildered. By and by he 
saw Sigurd creeping cautiously out along the rocky shelf that 
overhung the tumbling torrent — his gaze grew riveted with a 
sort of deadly fascination on the spot. 

"Good God!" he muttered under his breath. "Surely Phil 
will not follow him there!" 

He watched with strained eyes — and a smothered cry 
escaped him as Errington's tall figure, erect and bold, appeared 
on that narrow and dangerous platform! He never knew how 
he clambered up the rest of the slippery ascent. A double 
energy seemed given to his active limbs. He never paused 
again for one second till he also stood on the platform, without 
being heard or perceived by either Sigurd or Philip. Their 
backs were turned to him, and he feared to move or speak, 
lest a sudden surprised movement on their parts should have 



212 THELMA. 

the fatal result of precipitating one or both into the fall. He 
remained, therefore, behind them, silent and motionless — 
looking, as they looked, at the terrific scene below. From 
that point, Xjedegorze was as a huge boiling caldron, from 
which arose twisted wreaths and coiling lengths of white 
vapor, faintly colored with gold and silvery blue. Dispersing 
in air. these mists took all manner of fantastic forms — ghostly 
arms seemed to wave and beckon, ghostly hands to unite in 
prayer — and fluttering creatures in gossamer draperies of green 
and crimson appeared to rise and float and retire and shrink 
to nothingness again in the rainbow drift and sweep of wliirl- 
ing foam. Errington gazed unconcernedly down on the 
seething abyss. He pushed back his cap from liis brow, and 
let the fresh wind play among his dark, clustering curls. His 
nerves were steady, and he surveyed the giddily twisting 
wheels of sliining water without any corresponding giddiness 
in his own brain. He had that sincere delight in a subhme 
natural spectacle which is the heritage of all who possess a 
poetic and artistic temperament; and though he stood on a 
frail ledge of rock, from which one false or unwan" st^p might 
send him to certain destruction, he had not the slightest sense 
of possible danger in his position, Withdrawing his eyes 
from the fall, he looked kindly down at Sigurd, who in turn 
was staring up at him with a wild fixity of regard. 

"Well, old boy,'' he said, cheerfully, "this is a fine sight! 
Have you had enough of it? Shall we go back?" 

Sigurd drew imperceptibly nearer. Lorimer, from his point 
of vantage beliind a huge bowlder, drew nearer also. 

"Go back?" echoed Sigurd. "Why should we go back?" 

"Why, indeed!" laughed Errington, lightly balancing liim- 
self on the trembling rocks beneath him. "Except that I 
should scarcely think this is the best place on which to pass 
the night! Xot enough room, and too much noise! What 
say you?" 

"Oh, brave, brave fool!" cried the dwarf in sudden excite- 
ment, ''Are you not afraid?" 

The vounff baronet's keen eves glanced him over with 
amused wonder. 

"Wliat of?" he demanded, coolly. Still nearer came Sigurd 
— nearer also came the watchful, though almost invisible 
Lorimer. 

"Look down there!" continued Sigurd, in shrill tones. 



THELMA. 213 

pointing to the foaming gulf. "Look at the Elf-danz — see the 
beautiful spirits with the long pale green hair and glittering 
wings! See how they beckon, beckon, beckon I They want 
some one to join them — look how their white arms wave — 
they throw back their golden veils and smile at us! They call 
to you — ^you with the strong figure and the proud eyes — why 
do you not go to them? They will kiss and caress you — they 
have sweet lips and snow-white bosoms — they will love you 
and take care of you — they are as fair as Thelma!" 

"Are they? I doubt it!" and Errington smiled dreamily as 
he turned his head again toward the fleecy whirl of white 
water, and saw at once with an artist's quick eye what his sick- 
brain companion meant by the Elf-danz, in the fantastic twist- 
ing, gliding shapes tossed up in the vaporous mist of the fall. 
"But I'll take your word, Sigurd, without making the elves' 
personal acquaintance ! Come along — this place is bad for you 
— we'll dance with the green-haired nymphs another time." 

And with a light laugh he was about to turn away, when he 
was surprised by a sudden, strange convulsion of Sigurd's 
countenance — his blue eyes flashed wath an almost phosphor- 
escent luster — his pale skin flushed darkly red, and the veins 
in his forehead started into swelled and knotted prominence. 

"Another time!" he screamed loudly; "no, no! Now — now! 
Die, robber of Thelma's love! Die — die — die!" 

Repeating these words like quick gasps of fury, he twisted 
his meager arms tightly round Errington, and thrust him 
fiercely with all his might toward the edge of the fall. For 
one second Philip strove against him — the next, he closed his 
eyes — Thelma's face smiled on his mind in that darkness as 
though in white farewell — the surging blood roared in his ears 
with more thunder than the terrific tumble of the torrent — 
"God!" he muttered, and then — then he stood safe on the 
upper part of the rocky platform with Lorimer's strong hand 
holding him in a vice-like grasp, and Lorimer's face, pale, but 
looking cheerfully into his. For a moment he was too bewil- 
dered to speak. His friend loosened him and laughed rather 
forcedly — a slight tremble of his lips was observable under his 
fair mustache. 

"By Jove, Pliil," he remarked in his usual nonchalant man- 
ner, "that was rather a narrow shave! Fortunate I happened 
to be there!" 

Errington gazed about him confusedly. "Where's Sigurd?" 
he asked. 



214 THELMA. 

"Gone! Ean off like a 'leapin' goat/ as Sandy elegantly 
describes Mm. I tliought at first he meant to jump over the 
fall, in Avhich case I should have been compelled to let him 
have his own way, as my hands were full. But he's taken a 
safe landward direction." 

"Didn't he try to push me over?" 

"Exactly! He was quite convinced that the mermaids 
wanted you. But I considered that ]\iiss Thelma's wishes 
had a prior claim on my regard." 

"Look here, old man," said Errington, suddenly, "don't jest 
about it! You saved my life!" 

"Well!" and Lorimer laughed. "Quite by accident, I assure 
you." 

"Not by accident!" and Philip flushed up, looking very 
handsome and earnest. "I beheve you followed us up here 
thinking something might happen. Now didn't you?" 

^ "Suppose I did," began Lorimer, but he was interrupted by 
his friend, who seized his hand and pressed it with a warm, 
close, affectionate fervor. Their eyes met — and Lorimer 
blushed as though he had performed some action meriting 
blame rather than gratitude. "That'll do, old fellow," he 
said, almost nervously. "As we say in polite society when 
some one crushes our favorite corn under his heel — don't 
mention it! You see Sigurd is cracked — there's- not the 
slightest doubt about that — and he's hardly accountable for 
his vagaries. Then I know something about him that perhaps 
you don't. He loves your Thelma!" 

They were making the descent of the rocks together, and 
Errington stopped short in surprise. 

"Loves Thelma! You mean as a brother — " 

"Oh, no, I don't! I mean that he loves her as brothers 
often love other people's sisters — his affection is by no means 
fraternal — if it were only that — " 

"I see!" and Philip's eyes filled with a look of grave com- 
passion. "Poor fellow! I understand his hatred of me now. 
Good heavens! how he must suffer! I forgive him with all 
my heart. But — I say, Thelma has no idea of this!" 

"Of course not! And you'd better not tell her. What's the 
good of making her unhappy?" 

"But how did you learn it?" inquired Philip, with a look of 
some curiosity at his friend. 

"Oh, I!" and Lorimer laughed carelessly; "I was always an 



THELMA. 215 

observing sort of fellow — fond of putting two and two together 
and making four of them when 1 wasn't too exhausted and the 
weather wasn't too hot for the process. Sigurd's rather at- 
tached to me — indulges me with some specially private rav- 
ings now and then. I soon found out his secret, though I 
believe the poor little chap doesn't understand his own feel- 
ings himself." 

"Well," said Errington, thoughtfully, "under the circum- 
stances you'd better not mention this affair of the fall to 
Guldmar. It will only vex him. Sigurd won't try such a 
prank again." 

"I'm not so sure of that," replied Lorimer; "but you know 
enough now to be on your guard with him." He paused and 
looked up with a misty softness in his frank blue eyes — then 
went on in a subdued tone — "When I saw you on the edge of 
that frightful chasm, Phil — " He broke off as if the recollec- 
tion were too painful, and exclaimed, suddenly: "Good God! 
If I had lost you!" 

Errington clapped one hand on his shoulder. 

"Well! What if you had?" he asked mirthfully, though 
there was a suspicious tremble in his ringing voice. 

"I should have said with Horatio, 'I am more an antique 
Roman than a Dane' — and gone after you," laughed Lorimer. 
"And who knows what a jolly banquet we might not have 
been enjoying in the next world by this time? If I believe in 
anything at all, I believe in a really agreeable heaven — nectar 
and ambrosia, and all that sort of thing, and Hebes to wait 
upon you." 

As he spoke they reached the sheltering hut, where Guld- 
mar, Duprez, and Macfarlane were waiting rather impatiently 
for them. 

"Where's Sigurd?" cried the bonde. 

"Gone for a ramble on his own account," answered Erring- 
ton, readily. "You know his fancies!" 

"I wish his fancies would leave him," grumbled Guldmar. 
"He promised to light a fire and spread the meal — and now, 
who knows whither he has wandered?" 

"Never mind, sir," said Lorimer. "Engage me as a kitchen- 
boy. I can light a fire, and can also sit beside it when it is 
properly kindled. More I can not promise. As the house- 
maids say when they object to assist the cook — it would be 
beneath me." 



216 THELMA. 

"Cook!" cried Duprez, catching at this word. "I can cook! 
Give me anything to broil. I will broil it! You have coffee 
— I will make it!" And in the twinkling of an eye he Jiad 
divested himself of his coat, turned up his cuffs, and manu- 
factured the cap of a chef out of a newspaper which he stuck 
jauntily on his head. "Behold me, messieurs, a voire 
service!" 

His liveliness was infectious; they all set to work with a 
will, and in a few moments a crackling wood fire blazed 
cheerily on the ground, and the gypsy preparations for the 
al-fresco supper went on apace amid peals of laughter. Soon 
the fragrance of steaming coffee arose and mingled itself with 
the resinous odors of the surrounding pine trees — while Mac- 
farlane distinguished himself by catching a fine salmon trout 
in a quiet nook of the rushing river, and this Duprez cooked 
in a style that would have done honor to a cordon bleu. They 
made an excellent meal, and sung songs in turn and told 
stories — Olaf Guldmar, in particular, related eerie legends of 
the Dovre-f jelde, and many a striking story of ancient origin, 
full of terror and superstition — concerning witches, devils, 
and spirits both good and evil, who are still believed to have 
their abode on the Norwegian hills — for, as the bonde re- 
marked with a smile, "when civilization has driven these 
unearthly beings from every other refuge in the world, they 
will always be sure of a welcome in Norway." 

It was eleven o'clock when they at last retired within the 
hut to rest for the night, and the errant Sigurd had not re- 
turned. The sun shone brilliantly, but there was no window 
to the small shed, and light and air came only through the 
door, which was left wide open. The tired travelers lay down 
on their spread-out rugs and blankets, and wishing each other 
a cheerful "good-night," were soon fast asleep. Errington 
was rather restless, and lay awake for some little time, listen- 
ing to the stormy discourse of the fall; but at last his eyelids 
yielded to the heaviness that oppressed them, and he sunk 
into a light slumber. 

Meanwhile the imperial sun rode majestically downward to 
the edge of the horizon — and the sky blushed into the pale tint 
of a wild rose, that deepened softly and steadily with, an ever- 
increasing fiery brilliance as the minutes glided noiselessly 
on to the enchanted midnight hour. A wind began to rustle 
mysteriously among the pines — then gradually growing 



THELMA. 217 

wrathful, strove to whistle a loud defiance to the roar of the 
tumbling waters. Through the little nooks and crannies of 
the roughly constructed cabin where the travelers slept, it 
uttered small wild shrieks of warning or dismay — and, sud- 
denly, as though touched by an invisible hand, Sir Philip 
awoke. A crimson glare streaming through the open door 
dazzled his drowsy eyes — was it a forest on fire? He started 
up in dreamy alarm — then he remembered where he was. 
Kealizing that there must be an exceptionally fine sky to cast 
so ruddy a reflection on the ground, he threw on his cloak and 
went outside. 

What a wondrous, almost unearthly scene greeted him? 
His first impulse was to shout aloud in sheer ecstasy — his 
next to stand silent in reverential awe. The great fall was no 
longer a sweeping flow of white foam — it had changed to a 
sparkling shower of rubies, as though some great genii, tired 
of his treasures, were flinging them away by giant handfuls, 
in the most reckless haste and lavish abundance. From the 
bottom of the cascade a crimson vapor arose, like smoke from 
flame, and the whirling rapids, deeply red for the most part, 
darkened here and there into an olive green flecked with gold, 
while the spray, tossed high over interrupting rocks and 
bowlders, glittered as it fell like small fragments of broken 
opal. The sky was of one dense uniform rose-color from west 
to east — soft and shimmering as a broad satin pavilion freshly 
unrolled — the sun was invisible, hidden behind the adjacent 
mountains, but his rays touched some peaks in the distance, 
on which white wreaths of snow lay, bringing them into near 
and sparkling prominence. 

The whole landscape was transformed — the tall trees rus- 
tlino; and swavino; in the now boisterous wind took all flicker- 
ing tints of color on their trunks and leaves — the gray stones 
and pebbles turned to lumps of gold and heaps of diamonds, 
and on the other side of the rapids, a large tuft of heather in 
a cleft of the rocks glowed with extraordinary vividness and 
warmth like a suddenly kindled fire. A troop of mtches 
dancing wildly on the sward — a ring of fairies — kelpies trip- 
ping from crag to crag — a sudden chorus of sweet-voieed 
water-nymphs — nothing unreal or fantastical would have sur- 
prised Errington at that moment. Indeed, he almost expected 
something of the kind — the scene was so eminently fitted for 
it. 



218 THELMA. 

"Positively, I must wake Lorimer," he thought to himself. 
"He oughtn't to miss such a gorgeous spectacle as tliis." 

He moved a little more in position to view the fall. What 
was that small dark object running swiftly yet steadily along 
on the highest summit of those jutting crags? He rubbed his 
eyes amazedly — was it — could it be Sigurd? He watched it 
for a moment — then uttered a loud cry as he saw it pause on 
the very ledge of rock from which but a short while since he 
himself had been so nearly precipitated. The figure was now 
distinctly visible, outlined in black against the flaming crim- 
son of the sky — it stood upright and waved its arms with a 
frantic gesture. There was no mistaking it — it was Sigurd. 

Without another second's hesitation Errington hurried back 
to the hut and awoke, with clamorous alarm, the rest of the 
party. His brief explanation sufficed — they all hurried forth 
in startled excitement. Sigurd still occupied his hazardous 
position, and as they looked at him he seemed to dance wildly 
nearer the extreme edge of the rocky platform. Old Guldmar 
turned pale. "The gods preserve him!" he muttered in his 
Itieard — then turning, he began resolutely to make the ascent 
of the rocks with long, rapid strides— the young men followed 
him eager and almost breathless, each and all bent upon sav- 
ing Sigurd from the danger in which he stood, and trying by 
different ways to get more quickly near the unfortunate lad 
and call, or draw him back by force from his point of immi- 
nent deadly peril. They were more than half-way up, when 
a piercing cry rang clearly above the thunderous din of the 
fall — a cry that made them pause for a moment. 

Sigurd caught sight of the figures advancing to his rescue, 
and was waving them back with eloquent gestures of anger 
and defiance. His small misshapen body was alive with wrath 
— it seemed as though he were some dwarf king ruling over 
the glittering crimson torrent, and grimly forbidding stran- 
gers to enter on the boundaries of his magic territory. They, 
however, pressed on with renewed haste — and they had nearly 
reached the summit when another shrill cry echoed over the 
sunset-colored foam. 

Once more they paused — they were in full view of the dis- 
traught Sigurd, and he turned his head toward them, shaking 
back his long fair hair with his old favorite gesture and laugh- 
ing in apparent glee. Then he suddenly raised his arms, and, 



THELMA. 219 

clasping his hands together, poised himself as though he were 
some winged thing about to fly. 

"Sigurd! Sigurd!" shouted Guldmar, his strong voice trem- 
ulous with anguish. "Come back! come back to Thelma!" 

At the sound of that beloved name, the unhappy creature 
seemed to hesitate, and, profiting by that instant of irresolu- 
tion, Errington and Lorimer rushed forward — Too late! 
Sigurd saw them coming, and glided with stealthy caution to 
the very brink of the torrent, where there was scarcely any 
foothold — there he looked back at his would-be rescuers with 
an air of mystery and cunning, and broke into a loud derisive 
laugh. 

Then still with clasped hands and smiling face — unheeding 
the shout of horror that broke from those who beheld him — he 
leaped, and fell! Down, down into the roaring abyss! For 
one half second — one lightning flash — his twisted figure, like 
a slight black speck, was seen against the wide roseate glory 
of the tumbling cascade — then — it disappeared, ingulfed and 
lost forever! Gone — with all his wild poet fancies and wan- 
dering dreams — gone, with his unspoken love and unguessed 
sorrows — gone where dark things shall be made hght — and 
where the broken or tangled chain of the soul's intelligence 
shall be mended and made perfect by the tender hands of the 
All-Wise and the All-Loving One, whose ways are too glori- 
ously vast for our finite comprehension. 

"Gone, mistress!" as he would have said to the innocent 
cause of his heart's anguish. "Gone where I shall grow 
straight and strong and brave! Mistress, if you meet me in 
Valhalla, you will love me!" 



CHAPTEE XVII. 

Do not, I pray you, think evilly of so holy a man! He has a sore 
combat against the flesh and the devil! — Tlie Maid fo Honor. 

The horror-stricken spectators of the catastrophe stood for 
a minute inert and speechless — stupefied by its suddenness 
and awful rapidity. Then with one accord they hurried down 
to the level shore of the torrent, moved by the unanimous idea 
that they might possibly succeed 4n rescuing Sigurd's frail 



220 THELMA. 

corpse from the sharp teeth of the jagged rocks, that, piercing 
upward through the foam of the roaring rapids, were certain 
to bruise, tear, and disfigure it beyond all recognition. But 
even this small satisfaction was denied them. There was no 
sign of a floating or struggling body anywhere visible. And 
while they kept an eager lookout the light in the heavens 
slowly changed. From burning crimson it softened to a ten- 
der amethyst hue, as smooth and delicate as the glossy pale 
tint of the purple clematis — and with it the rosy foam of the 
fall graduated to varying tints of pink, from pink to tender 
green, and lastly, it became as a shower of amber wine. Guld- 
mar spoke first in a voice broken by deep emotion. 

" 'Tis all over with him, poor lad!" he said, and tears glit- 
tered thickly in his keen old eyes. "And — though the gods, 
of a surety, know best — this is an end I looked not for! A 
mournful home-returning shall we have — for how to break the 
news to Thelma is more than I can tell!" 

And he shook his head sorrowfully while returning the 
warm and sympathizing pressure of Errington's hand. 

"You see," he went on, with a wistful look at the grave and 
compassionate face of his accepted son-in-law — "the boy was 
no boy of mine, 'tis true — and the winds had more than their 
share of his wits — yet — we knew him from a baby — and my 
wife loved him for his sad estate, which he was not to blame 
for. Thelma, too — he was her first playmate — " 

The bonde could trust himself to say no more, but turned 
abruptly away, brushing one hand across his eyes, and was 
silent for many minutes. The young men, too, were silent — 
Sigurd's determined suicide had chilled and sickened them. 
Slowly they returned to the hut to pass the remaining hours 
of the night — though sleep was, of course, after what they had 
witnessed, impossible. They remained awake, therefore, talk- 
ing in low tones of the fatal event, and listening to the 
solemn sough of the wind through the pines, that sounded to 
Errington's ears like a monotonous forest dirge. He thought 
of the first time he had ever seen the unhappy creature whose 
wandering days had just ended— of that scene in the mysteri- 
ous shell cavern — of the wild words he had then uttered — how 
strangely they came back to Philip's memory now! 

"You have come as a thief in the golden midnight, and the 
thing you seek is the life of Sigurd! Yes— yes! it is true— the 
spirit "cannot lie! You nlust kill, you must steal— see how 



THELMA. 221 

the blood drips, drop by drop, from the heart of Sigurd! and 
the jewel you steal — ah! what a jewel! You shall not find 
such another in Norway!" Was not the hidden meaning of 
these incoherent phrases rendered somewhat clear now? 
though how the poor lad's disordered imagination had been 
able thus promptly to conjure up with such correctness an idea 
of Errington's future relations with Thelma was a riddle im- 
possible of explanation. He thought, too, with a sort of gen- 
erous remorse, of that occasion when Sigurd had visited him 
on board the yacht to implore him to leave the Alten Fjord. 
He realized everything — the inchoate desires of the desolate 
being, who, though intensely capable of loving, felt himself in 
a dim, sad way, unworthy of love — the struggling passions in 
him that clamored for utterance — the instinctive dread and 
jealousy of a rival, while knowing that he was both physically 
and mentally unfitted to compete with one — all these things 
passed through Philip's mind, and filled him with a most pro- 
found pity for the hidden sufferings, the tortures and in- 
explicable emotions which had racked Sigurd's darkened soul. 
And, still busy with these reflections, he turned on his arm as 
he lay, and whispered softly to his friend who was close by him: 

"I say, Lorimer — I feel as if I had been to blame somehow 
in this affair! If I had never come on the scene, Sigurd would 
still have been happy in his own way." 

Lorimer was silent. After a pause, Errington went on still 
in the same low tone. 

"Poor little fellow! Do you know, I can't imagine anything 
more utterly distracting than having to see such a woman as 
Thelma day after day — loving her all the time, and knowing 
such love to be absolutely hopeless! Why, it was enough to 
make him crazier than ever!" 

Lorimer moved restlessly. *^es, it must have been hard 
on him!" he answered, at last, in a gentle, somewhat sad tone. 
"Perhaps it's as well he's out of it all. Life is infinitely per- 
plexing to many of us. By this time he's no doubt wiser than 
you or I, Phil — he could tell us the reason why love is such a 
blessing to some men, and such a curse to others!" 

Errington made no answer, and they relapsed into silence — 
silence which was almost unbroken save by an occasional deep 
sigh from Olaf Guldmar, and a smothered exclamation such as, 
"Poor lad, poor lad! Who would have thought it?" 

With the eaxly dawn they were all up and ready for the 



222 THELMA. 

homeward journey — though with very different feelings to 
those with which they had started on their expedition. The 
morning was dazzlingly bright and clear — and the cataract of 
Njedegorze rolled down in glittering folds of creamy white 
and green, uttering its ceaseless psalm of praise to the Creator 
in a jubilant roar of musical thunder. They paused and 
looked at it for the last time before leaving — it had assumed 
for them a new and solemn aspect- — it was Sigurd's grave. 
The bonde raised his cap from his rough white hair — instinct- 
ively the others followed his example. 

"]\Iay the gods grant him good rest!" said the old man, 
reverently. "In the wildest waters they say there is a calm 
under-flow — may be the lad has found it and is glad to sleep." 
He paused and stretched his hands forth with an eloquent and 
touching gesture. "Peace be with him!" 

Then, without more words, as though disdaining his own 
emotion, he turned abruptly away, and began to descend the 
stony and precipitous hill up which Sigurd had so skillfully 
guided them the day before. Macfarlane and Duprez followed 
him close — Macfarlane casting more than once a keen look- 
over the rapids. 

" 'Tis a pity we couldna find his body," he said in a low 
tone. 

Duprez shrugged his shoulders. Sigurd's death had shocked 
him considerably by its suddenness, but he was too much of a 
volatile Frenchman to be morbidly anxious about securing 
the corpse. 

"I think not so at all," he said. "Of what use would it be? 
To grieve mademoiselle? to make her cry? That would be 
cruel — I would not assist in it! A dead body is not a sight for 
ladies — believe me, things are best as they are." 

They went on, while Errington and Lorimer lingered yet a 
moment longer. 

"A magnificent sepulcher!" said Lorimer, dreamily eying for 
the last time the sweeping flow of the glittering torrent. "Bet- 
ter than all the monuments ever erected! Upon my life, I 
would not mind having such a grave myself! Say what you 
like, Phil, there was something grand in Sigurd's choice of a 
death. AVe all of us have to get out of life somehow one day 
— that's certain — but few of us have the chance of making such 
a triumphant exit!" 

Errington looked at him with a grave smile. "How you 



THELMA. 223 

talk, George!" he said, half reproachfully. "One would think 
you envied the end of that unfortunate, half-witted fellow! 
You've no reason to be tired of your life, I'm sure — all your 
bright days are before you." 

"Are they?" And Lorimer's blue eyes looked slightly 
melancholy. "Well, I dare say they are! Let's hope so at 
all events. There need be something before me — there isn't 
much behind except wasted opportunities. Come on, Phil!" 

They resumed their walk, and soon rejoined the others. 
The journey back to the Alten Fjord was continued all day 
with but one or two interruptions for rest and refreshment. It 
was decided that on reaching home, old Guldmar should pro- 
ceed a little in advance, in order to see his daughter alone 
first, and break to her the news of the tragic event that had 
occurred — so that when, after a long and toilsome journey, 
they caught sight, at about eight in the evening, of the famil- 
iar farm-house through the branches of the trees that sur- 
rounded and sheltered it, they all came to a halt. 

The young men seated themselves on a pleasant knoll 
under some tall pines, there to wait a quarter of an hour or so, 
while the bonde went forward to prepare Thelma. On second 
thoughts, the old man asked Emngton to accompany him — a 
request to which he very readily acceded, and these two, 
leaving the others to follow at their leisure, went on their 
way rapidly. They arrived at, and entered the garden — their 
footsteps made a crunching noise on the pebbly path — but no 
welcoming face looked forth from any of the windows of the 
house. The entrance door stood wide open — there was not a 
living soul to be seen but the kitten asleep in a corner of the 
porch, and the doves drowsing on the roof in the sunshine. 
The deserted air of the place was unmistakable, and Guldmar 
and Errington exchanged looks of wonder not unmixed with 
alarm. 

"Thelma! Thelma!" called the bonde, anxiously. There 
was no response. He entered the house and threw open the 
kitchen door. There was no fire — and not the sHghtest sign 
of any of the usual preparations for supper. 

"Britta!" shouted Guldmar. Still no answer. "By the 
gods!" he exclaimed, turning to the astonished Phihp, "this is 
a strange thing! Where can the girls be? I have never 
known both of them to be absent from the house at the same 
time. Go down the shore, my lad, and see if Thelma's boat 
is missing, while I search the garden." 



224 THELMA. 

Errington obeyed— hurrying off on his errand with a heart 
beating fast from sudden fear and anxiety. For he knew 
Thelma was not likely to have gone out of her own accord at 
the very time she would have naturally expected her father 
and his friends back, and the absence of Britta, too, was, to say 
the least of it, extraordinary. He reached the pier very 
speedily, and saw at a glance that the boat was gone. He 
hastened back to report this to Guldmar, who was making the 
whole place resound with his shouts of "Thelma!" and 
"Britta!" though he shouted altogether in vain. 

"May be," he said, dubiously, on hearing of the missing 
boat— "May be the child has gone on the fjord— 'tis often her 
custom— but, then, where is Britta? Besides, they must have 
expected us — they would have prepared supper — they would 
have been watching for our return. No, no! there is some- 
thing wrong about this — 'tis altogether unusual." 

And he looked about him in a bewildered way, while Sir 
Philip, noting his uneasiness, grew more and more uneasy 
himself. 

"Let me go and search for them, sir," he said, eagerly. 
"They may be in the woods, or up toward the orchard." 

Guldmar shook his head and drew his fuzzy white brows 
together m a puzzled meditation — suddenly he started and 
struck his staff forcibly on the ground. 

"I have it!" he exclaimed. "That old hag Lovisa is at the 
bottom of this!" 

"By Jove!" cried Errington. "I believe you're right! 
What shall we do?" 

At that moment Lorimer, Duprez, and Macfarlane came on 
the scene thinking they had kept aloof long enough — and the 
strange disappearance of the two girls was rapidly explained to 
them. They listened, astonished and almost incredulous, but 
agreed with the bonde as to Lo visa's probable share in the 
matter. 

"Look here!" said Lorimer, excitedly. "I'm not in the 
least tired — show me the way to Talvig, where that old 
screech-owl lives, and I'll go there straight as a gun! 
Shouldn't wonder if she has not forced away her grandchild, 
in which case Miss Thelma may have gone after her." 

"I'll come with you!" said Errington. "Let's lose no time 
about it." 

But Guldmar shook his head. " 'Tis a long way, my lads — 



THELMA. 225 

and you do not know the road. No — 'twill be better we 
should take the boat and pull over to Bosekop; there we can 
get a carriole to take two of us at least to Talvig — " 

He stopped, interrupted by Macfarlane, who looked particu- 
larly shrewd. 

"I should certainly advise ye to try Bosekop first," he re- 
marked cautiously. "Mr. Dyceworthy might be able to pro- 
vide ye with valuable information." 

"Dyceworthy!" roared the bonde, becoming inflammable at 
once. "He knows little of me or mine, thank the gods! and 
I should not by choice step within a mile of his dwelhng. 
What makes you think of him, sir?" 

Lorimer laid a hand soothingly on his arm. 

"Now, my dear Mr. Guldmar, don't get excited! Mac is 
right. I dare say Dyceworthy knows as much in his way as 
the ancient Lovisa. At any rate it isn't his fault if he does 
not. Because you see — " Lorimer hesitated and turning to 
Errington, "You tell him, Phil! you know all about it." 

"The fact is," said Errington, while Guldmar gazed from 
one to the other in speechless amazement, "Thelma hasn't 
told you because she knew how angry you'd be — but Dyce- 
worthy asked her to marr}' him. Of course she refused him, 
and I doubt if he's taken his rejection very resignedly." 

The face of the old farmer as he heard these words was a 
study. Wonder, contempt, pride, and indignation struggled 
for the mastery on his rugged features. 

"Asked — her — to — marry — him!" he repeated, slowly. "By 
the sword of Odin! Had I known it I would have throttled 
him!" His eyes blazed and he clinched his hand. "Throttled 
him, lads! I would! Give me the chance and I'll do it now! 
I tell you, the mere look of such a man as that is a desecration 
to my child — liar and hypocrite as he is! May the gods con- 
found him!" He paused — then suddenly bracing himself up, 
added: "I'll away to Bosekop at once — they've been afraid 
of me there for no reason — I'll teach them to be afraid of me 
in earnest! Who'll come with me?" 

All eagerly expressed their desire to accompany him with 
the exception of one — Pierre Duprez — he had disappeared. 

"Why, where has he gone?" demanded Lorimer in some 
surprise. 

"I canna tell," replied Macfarlane. "He just slipped awa' 
15 



226 THELMA. 

while ye were haverin' about Dyceworthy — he'll may be join 
us at the shore." 

To the shore they at once betook themselves, and were soon 
busied in unmooring Guldmar's own rowing-boat, which, as 
it had not been used for some time, was rather a tedious busi- 
ness — moreover, they noted with concern that the tide was 
dead against them. 

Duprez did not appear — the truth is, that he had taken it 
into his head to start off for Talvig on foot without waiting 
for the others. He was fond of an adventure, and here was 
one that suited him precisely — to rescue distressed damsels 
from the grasp of persecutors. He was tired, but he managed 
to find the road — and he trudged on determinedly, humming 
a song of Beranger's as he walked to keep him cheerful. But 
he had not gone much more than a mile when he discerned 
in the distance a carriole approaching him — and approaching 
so swiftly that it appeared to swing from side to side of the road 
at imminent risk of upsetting altogether. There seemed to 
be one person in it — an excited person, too, who lashed the 
stout little pony and urged it on to fresh exertions with ges- 
ticulations and cries. That plump buxom figure — that tum- 
bled brown hair streaming wildly on the breeze — that round 
rosy face — why! it was Britta! Britta, driAdng all alone, with 
the reckless daring of a Norwegian peasant girl accustomed to 
the swaying. Jolting movement of the carriole as well as the 
rough roads and sharp turnings. Nearer she came and nearer 
— and Duprez hailed her with a shout of welcome. She saw 
him, answered his call, and drove still faster — soon she came 
up beside him, and without answering his amazed questions, 
she cried breathlessly: 

"Jump in — jump in! We must go on as quickly as possible 
to Bosekop! Quick — quick! Oh, my poor Froken! The old 
villain! Wait till I get at him!" 

"But, my lee-tle child!" expostulated Pierre, climbing up 
into the queer vehicle, "what is all this? I am in astonish- 
ment — I understand not at all! How comes it that you are 
run away from home and mademoiselle also?" 

Britta only waited till he was safely seated, and then lashed 
the pony with redoubled force. Away they clattered at a 
break-neck pace, the Frenchman having much ado to prevent 
himself from being Jolted out again on the road. 

"It is a wicked plot!" she then exclaimed, panting with ex- 



THELMA. 227 

citement — "a wicked, wicked plot! This afternoon JVIr. Dyce- 
worthy's servaiii came and brouglit Sir Philip's card. It said 
that he had met with an accident and had been brought back 
to Bosekop, and that he wished the Froken to come to Mm at 
once. Of course, the darling believed it all — and she grew so 
pale, so pale! And she went straight away in her boat all by 
herself! Oh, my dear — my dear!" 

Britta gasped for breath, and Duprez soothingly placed an 
arm round her waist, an action which the little maiden seemed 
not to be aware of. She resumed her story: "Then the 
Froken had not been gone so ver}^ long, and I was watching 
for her in the garden, when a woman passed by — a friend of 
my grandmother's. She called out — 'Hey, Britta! Do you 
know they have got your mistress down at Talvig, and they'll 
burn her for a witch before they sleep!' 'She has gone to 
Bosekop,' I answered, 'so I knoAV you tell a lie.' 'It is no lie,' 
said the old woman, 'old Lovisa has her this time for sure.' 
And she laughed and went away. Well, I did not stop to 
think twice about it — I started off for Talvig at once^ — I ran 
nearly all the way. I found my grandmother alone — I asked 
her if she had seen the Froken? She screamed and clapped 
her hands like a mad woman! she said that the Froken was 
with Mr. Dyceworthy — Mr. Dyceworthy would know what to 
do with her!" 

"Sapristi!" ejaculated Duprez. "This is serious!" 

Britta glanced anxiously at him, and went on. "Then she 
tried to shut the doors upon me and beat me — but I escaped. 
Outside I saw a man I knew with his carriole, and I borrowed 
it of him and came back as fast as I could — but oh! I am so 
afraid — my grandmother said such dreadful things!" 

"The others have taken a boat to Bosekop," said Duprez, to 
reassure her. "They may be there by now." 

Britta shook her head. "The tide is against them — no! we 
shall be there first. But," and she looked wistfully at Pierre, 
"my grandmother said Mr. Dyceworthy had sworn to ruin the 
Froken. What did she mean, do you think?" 

Duprez did not answer — he made a strange grimace and 
shrugged his shoulders. Then he seized the whip and lashed 
the pony. 

"Faster, faster, mo7i cher!" he cried to that much-astonished, 
well-intentioned animal. "It is not a time to sleep, mafotr 
Then to Britta — "My little one, you shall see. We shall dis- 



228 THELMA. 

turb the good clergyman at his peaceful supper — yes, indeed! 
Be not afraid!" 

And with such reassuring remarks he beguiled the rest of 
the way, which to both of them seemed unusually long, though 
it was not much past nine when they rattled into the httle 
village called by courtesy a town, and came to a halt within 
a few paces of the minister's residence. Everything was very 
quiet — the inhabitants of the place retired to rest early — and 
the one principal street was absolutely deserted. Duprez 
alighted. 

"Stay you here, Britta," he said lightly, kissing the hand 
that held the pony's reins, "I will make an examination of the 
windows of the house. Yes — before knocking at the door! 
You wait with patience. I will let you know everything!" 

And with a sense of pleasurable excitement in his mind, 
he stole softly along on tiptoe — entered the minister's garden, 
fragrant with roses and mignonette, and then, attracted by the 
sound of voices, went up straight to the parlor window. The 
blind was down, and he could see nothing, but he heard Mr. 
Dyceworthy's bland persuasive tones, echoing out with a soft 
sonorousness, as though he were preaching to some refractory 
parishioner. He listened attentively. 

"Oh, strange, strange!" said Mr. Dyceworthy. "Strange 
that you will not s.ee how graciously the Lord hath deUvered 
you into my hands! Yea — and no escape is possible! For lo, 
you yourself, Froken Thelma," Duprez started, "you yourself 
came hither unto my dwelling, a woman all unprotected, to a 
man equally unprotected — and who, though an humble minis- 
ter of saving grace, is not proof against the offered surrender 
of your charms! Make the best of it, my sweet girl — make 
the best of it! You can never undo what you have done to- 
night!" 

"Coward! coward!" and Thelma's rich low voice caused 
Pierre to almost leap forward from the place where he stood 
concealed. "You — you made me come here — you sent me that 
card — ^you dared to use the name of my betrothed husband to 
gain your vile purpose! You have kept me locked in this 
room all these hours — and do you think you will not be pun- 
ished? I will let the whole village know of your treachery 
and falsehood!" 

Mr. Dyceworthy laughed gently. "Dear me, dear me!" he 
remarked, sweetly. "How pretty we look in a passion, to be 



THELMA. 229 

sure! And we talk of our 'betrothed husband/ do we? Tut 
tut! Put that dream out of your mind, my dear girl — Sir 
Philip Bruce-Errington will have nothing to do with you after 
your little escapade of to-night! Your honor is touched — yes, 
yes! and honor is everything to such a man as he. As for the 
'card' you talk about, I never sent a card — not I!" Mr. Dyce- 
worthy made this assertion in a tone of injured honesty. 
"Why should I! No — no! You came here of your own ac- 
cord — that is certain, and" — here he spoke more slowly and 
with a certain malicious glee, "I shall have no difficulty in 
proving it to be so should the young man Errington ask me 
for an explanation! Now you had better give me a kiss and 
make the peace! There's not a soul in the place who will 
believe anything you say against me; you, a reputed witch, 
and I, a minister of the gospel. For your father I care noth- 
ing, a poor sinful pagan can never injure a servant of the 
Lord. Come, now, let me have that kiss! I have been very 
patient — I am sure I deserve it!" 

There was a sudden rushing movement in the room, and a 
slight cry. 

"If you touch me!" cried Thelma, "I will kill you! I will! 
God will help me!" 

Again Mr. Dyceworthy laughed sneeringly. "God will help 
you!" he exclaimed as though in wonder. "As if God ever 
helped a Roman! Froken Thelma, be sensible. By your 
strange visit to me to-night you have ruined your already 
damaged character — I say you have ruined it — and if anything 
remains to be said against you, I can say it — moreover, I 
will!" 

A crash of breaking window-glass followed these words, and 
before Mr. Dyceworthy could realize what had happened, he 
was pinioned against his own wall by an active, wiry, excited 
individual, whose black eyes sparkled with gratified rage, and 
whose clinched fist was dealing him severe thumps all over 
his fat body. 

"Ha, ha! You will, will you?" cried Duprez, literally 
dancing up against him and squeezing him as though he were 
a jelly. "You will tell lies in the service of le Bon Die^i? No 
— not quite, not yet!" And still pinioning him with one hand, 
he dragged at his collar with the other till he succeeded, in 
spite of the minister's unwieldy efforts to defend himself, in 
rolling him down upon the floor, where he knelt upon him in 



230 THELMA. 

triumph. ** Voila! Je saisfaire la hoxe, moi!" Then turning 
to Thelma, who stood an amazed spectator of the scene, her 
flushed cheeks and tear-swollen eyes testifying to the misery 
of the hours she had passed, he said, "Run, mademoiselle, run! 
The little Britta is outside, she has a pony-cart — she will drive 
you home. I will stay here till Phil-eep comes. I shall enjoy 
myself! I will begin — Phil-eep will finish! Then we will 
return to you." 

Thelma needed no more words, she rushed to the door, 
threw it open, and vanished hke a bird in air. Britta's Joy at 
seeing her was too great for more than an exclamation of wel- 
come — and the carriole, with the two girls safely in it, was 
soon on its rapid way back to the farm. Meanwhile, Olaf 
Guldmar, with Errington and the others, had just landed at 
Bosekop after a heavy pull across the fjord, and they made 
straight for Mr. Dyceworthy's house — the bonde working him- 
self up as he walked into a positive volcano of wrath. Find- 
ing the street-door open as it had just been left by the escaped 
Thelma, they entered, and on the threshold of the parlor 
stopped abruptly, in amazement, at the sight that presented 
itself. Two figures were rolling about on the floor, appar- 
ently in a close embrace — one large and cumbrous, the other 
small and slight. Sometimes they shook each other — some- 
times they lay still — sometimes they recommenced rolling. 
Both were perfectly silent, save that the larger personage 
seemed to breathe somewhat heavily. Lorimer stepped into 
the room to secure a better view — then he broke into an 
irrepressible laugh. 

"It's Duprez," he cried for the benefit of the others that 
stood at the door. "By Jove! How did he get here, I 
wonder?" 

Hearing his name, Duprez looked up from that portion of 
Mr. Dyceworthy's form in which he had been burrowing and 
smiled radiantly. 

"Ah, cJier Lorimer! Put your knee here, will you? So! 
that is well — I will rest myself!" And he rose, smoothing his 
roughened hair with both hands, while Lorimer in obedience 
to his request, kept one knee artistically pressed on the re- 
cumbent figure of the minister. "Ah! and there is our Phil- 
eep, and Sandy, and Monsieur Guldmar! But I do not think," 
here he beamed all over, "there is much more to be done! 
He is one bruise, I assure you! He will not preach for many 



THELMA. 231 

Sundays — it is bad to be so fat — he will be so exceedingly 
suffering!" 

Errington could not forbear smiling at Pierre's equa- 
nimity. 

"But what has happened!" he asked. "Is Thelma here?" 

"She was here," answered Duprez. "The religious had de- 
coyed her here by means of some false writing — supposed to 
be from you. He kept her locked up here the whole after- 
noon. When I came he was making love and frightening her 
— I am pleased I was in time. But" — and he smiled again — 
"he is well beaten!" 

Sir Philip strode up to the fallen Dyceworthy, his face 
darkening with Avrath. 

"Let him go, Lorimer," he said, sternly — then, as the rever- 
end gentleman slowly struggled to his feet, moaning with 
pain, he demanded, "What have you to say for yourself, sir? 
Be thankful if I do not give you the horsewhipping you de- 
serve, you scoundrel !" 

"Let me get at him!" vociferated Guldmar at this juncture, 
struggling to free himself from the close grasp of the prudent 
Macfarlane. "I have longed for such a chance! Let me get 
at him!" 

But Lorimer assisted to restrain him from springing forward 
— and the old man chafed and swore by his gods in vain. 

Mr. Dyceworthy meanwhile meekly raised his eyes, and 
folded his hands with a sort of pious resignation. 

"I have been set upon and cruelly abused," he said, mourn- 
fully, "and there is no part of me without ache and soreness!" 
He sighed deeply. "But I am punished rightly for yielding 
unto carnal temptation put before me in the form of the 
maiden who came hither unto me with delusive entrance- 
ments — " 

He stopped, shrinking back in alarm from the suddenly 
raised fist of the young baronet. 

"You'd better be careful!" remarked Philip, coolly, with 
dangerously flashing eyes; "there are four of us here, 
remember!" 

Mr. Dyceworthy coughed, and resumed an air of outraged 
dignity. 

"Truly, I am aware of it!" he said; "and it surpriseth me 
not at all that the number of the ungodly outweigheth that of 
the righteous! Alas! '^why do the heathen rage so furiously 



232 THELMA. 

together?' Why, indeed! Except that 'in their hearts they 
imagine a vain thing!' I pardon you, Sir Philip, I freely par- 
don you! And you also, sir," turning gravely to Duprez, who 
received his forgiveness with a cheerful and delighted bow. 
"You can indeed injure — and you have injured this poor body 
of mine — but you can not touch the soul! No, nor can you 
hinder that freedom of speech" — here his malignant smile was 
truly diabolical — "which is my glory, and which shall forever 
be uphfted against all manner of evil-doers, whether they be 
fair women and witches, or misguided pagans — " 

Again he paused, rather astonished at Errington's scornful 
laugh. 

"You low fellow!" said the baronet. "From Yorkshire, are 
you? Well, I happen to know a good many people in that 
part of the world — and I have some influence there, too. Now, 
understand me — I'll have you hounded out of the place! You 
shall find it too hot to hold you — that I swear! Remember! 
I'm a man of my word ! And if you dare to mention the name 
of Miss Guldmar disrespectfully, I'll thrash you within an inch 
of your life!" 

Mr. Dyceworthy blinked feebly, and drew out his hand- 
kerchief. 

"I trust. Sir Philip," he said, mildly, "you will reconsider 
your words! It would ill beseem you to strive to do me harm 
in the parish where my ministrations are welcome, as appeal- 
ing to that portion of the people who follow the godly Luther. 
Oh, yes!" — and he smiled cheerfully — "you will reconsider 
your words. In the meantime — I — I" — he stammered slightly 
— "I apologize! I meant naught but good to the maiden — but 
I have been misunderstood, as is ever the case with the ser- 
vants of the Lord. Let us say no more about it! I forgive! — 
let us all forgive! I will even extend my pardon to the pagan 
yonder — " 

But the "pagan" at that moment broke loose from the 
friendly grasp in which he had been hitherto held, and strode 
up to the minister, who recoiled like a beaten cur from the 
look of that fine old face flushed with just indignation, and 
those clear blue eyes fiery as the flash of steel. 

"Pagan, you call me!" he cried. "I thank the gods for it — 
I am proud of the title! I would rather be the veriest savage 
that ever knelt in untutored worship to the great forces of 
Nature than such a thing as you — a slinking, unclean animal. 



THELMA. 233 

crawling coward-like between earth and sky, and daring to 
call itself a Christian! Faugh! Were I the Christ, I should 
sicken at sight of you!" 

Dyceworthy made no reply, but his little eyes glittered 
evilly. 

Errington, not desiring any further prolongation of the 
scene, managed to draw the irate bonde away, saying in a low 
tone: 

"We've had enough of this, sir! Let us get home to 
Thelma!" 

"I was about to suggest a move," added Lorimer. "We 
are only wasting time here." 

"Ah!" exclaimed Duprez, radiantly — "and Monsieur Dyce- 
worthy will be glad to be in bed! He will be very stiff to- 
morrow, I am sure! Here is a lady who will attend him." 

This was a courteous salute to the wooden-faced Ulrika, 
who suddenly confronted them in the little passage. She 
seemed surprised to see them, and spoke in a monotonous 
dreamy tone, as though she walked in her sleep. 

"The girl has gone?" she asked, slowly. 

Duprez nodded briskly. "She has gone! And let me tell 
you, madame, that if it had not been for you, she would not 
have come here at all. You took that card to her?" 

Ulrika frowned. "I was compelled," she said. "She made 
me take it. I promised." She turned her dull eyes slowly on 
Guldmar. "It was Lovisa's fault. Ask Lovisa about it." 
She paused, and moistened her dry lips with her tongue. 
"Where is your crazy lad?" she asked, almost anxiously. "Did 
he come with you?" 

"He is dead!" answered Guldmar, with grave coldness. 

"Dead!" And to their utter amazement, she threw up her 
arms and burst into a fit of wild laughter. "Dead! Thank 
God! Thank God! Dead! And through no fault of mine! 
The Lord be praised! He was only fit for death — never mind 
how he died — it is enough that he is dead — dead! I shall see 
him no more — he can not curse me again! — the Lord be 
thanked for all His mercies!" 

And her laughter ceased — she threw her apron over her head 
and broke into a passion of weeping. 

"The woman must be crazy!" exclaimed the bonde, thor- 
oughly mystified — then placing his arm through Errington's, 
he said impatiently: "You're right, my lad! We've had 



234 THBL.MA. 

enough of this. Let us shake the dust of this accursed place 
off our feet and get home. I'm tired out." 

They left the ministei-'s dwelling and made straight for the 
shore, and were soon well on their Journey hack to the farm 
across the fjord. This time the tide was with them — the 
evening was magnificent, and the coolness of the hreeze, the 
fresh lapping of the water against the boat, and the brilKant 
tranquillity of the landscape soon calmed their over-excited 
feehngs. Thelma was waiting for them under the porch as 
usual, looking a trifle paler than her wont, after all the worry 
and fright and suspense she had undergone — ^but the caresses 
of her father and lover soon brought back the rosy warmth on 
her fair face and restored the luster to her eyes. Nothing was 
said about Sigurd's fate just then— when she asked for her 
faithful servitor, she was told he had "gone wandering as 
usual," and it was not till Errington and his friends returned 
to their yacht that old Guldmar, left alone with his daughter, 
broke the sad news to her very gently. But the shock, so 
unexpected and terrible, was almost too much for her already 
overwrought nerves — find such tears were shed for Sigurd as 
Sigurd himself might have noted with gratitude. Sigurd — the 
loving, devoted Sigurd — gone forever! Sigurd — her play- 
mate — her servant — her worshiper — dead! Ah, how tenderly 
she mourned him! — how regretfully she thought of his wild 
words! "Mistress, you are "killing poor Sigurd!" Wistfully 
she wondered if, in her absorbing love for Phihp, she had 
neglected the poor crazed lad — his face, in all its pale piteous 
appeal, haunted her, and her grief for his loss was the greatest 
she had ever known since the day on which she had seen her 
mother sink into the last long sleep. Britta, too, wept and 
would not be comforted — she had been fond of Sigurd in her 
own impetuous little way — and it was some time before either 
she or her mistress could calm themselves sufficiently to retire 
to rest. And long after Thelma was sleeping, with tears still 
wet on her cheeks, her father sat alone under his porch, lost 
in melancholy meditation. ISTow and then he ruffled his 
white hair impatiently with his hand — his daughter's adven- 
ture in Mr. Dyceworthy's house had vexed his proud spirit. 
He knew well enough that the minister's apology meant noth- 
ing — that the whole callage would be set talking against 
Thelma, more even than before — that there was no possibility 
of preventing scandal so long as Dyceworthy was there to 



THELMA. 235 

start it. He thought and thought aiul puzzled himself with 
probabilities — till at last, when he finally rose to enter his 
dwelling for the night, he muttered, half aloud: "If it must 
be, it must! And the sooner the better now, I think, for the 
child's sake." 

The next morning Sir Philip arrived unusually early — and 
remained shut up with the bonde in private conversation for 
more than an hour. At the expiration of that time Thelma 
was called and taken into their confidence. The result of 
their mysterious discussion was not immediately evident — 
though for the next few days, the farm-house lost its former 
tranquillity, and became a scene of bustle and excitement. 
j\Ioreover, to the astonishment of the Bosekop folk, the sailing 
brig known as the "Valkyrie" belonging to Olaf Guldmar, 
which had been hauled up high and dry on the shore for many 
months, was suddenly seen afloat on the fjord, and Valdemar 
Svensen, Errington's pilot, appeared to be busily engaged 
upon her decks, putting everything in ship-shape order, it 
was no use asking him any questions — he was not the man to 
gratify impertinent curiosity. By and by a rumor got about 
in the village — Lovisa had gained her point in one particular 
— the Guldmars were going away — going to leave the Alten 
Fjord! 

At first the report was received with incredulity — ^but gained 
ground as people began to notice that several packages were 
being taken in boats from the farm-house to both the "Eulalie" 
and the "Valkyrie." These preparations excited a great deal 
of interest and inquisitiveness — but no one dared ask for in- 
formation as to what was about to happen. The Eev. Mr. 
Dyceworthy was confined to his bed "from a severe cold" — as 
he said, and therefore was unable to perform his favorite mis- 
sion of spy — so that when, one brilliant morning, Bosekop was 
st"artled by the steam-whistle of the "Eulalie" blowing furi- 
ously, and echoing far and wide across the surrounding rocky 
islands, several of the lounging inhabitants paused on the 
shore or sauntered down to the rickety pier to see what was 
the cause of the clamor. Even the long-suftering minister 
crawled out of bed and applied his fat, meek visage to his 
window, from whence he could command an almost uninter- 
rupted view of the glittering water. Great was his amaze- 
ment and discomfiture to see the magnificent yacht moving 
majestically out of the fjord, with Guldmar's brig in tow be- 



236 THELMA. 

hind her, and the English flag fluttering gayly from her mid- 
dle mast, as she courtesied her farewell to the dark mountains 
and glided swiftly over the little hissing waves. Had Mr. 
Dyceworthy been possessed of a field-glass he might have been 
able to discern on her deck the figure of a tall, fair girl, who, 
drawing her crimson hood over her rich hair, stood gazing with 
wistful, dreamy blue eyes at the fast-receding shores of the 
Alten Fjord — eyes that smiled and yet were tearful. 

"Are you sorry, Thelma?" asked Errington, gently, as he 
passed one arm tenderly round her. "Sori-y to trust your life 
to me?" 

She laid her little hand in playful reproach against his lips. 

"Sorry! you foolish boy! I am glad and grateful! But it 
is saying good-bye to one's old life, is it not? The dear old 
home! — and poor Sigurd!" 

Her voice trembled, and bright tears fell. 

"Sigurd is happy," said Errington, gravely, taking the hand 
that caressed him and reverently kissing it. "Believe me, 
love — if he had lived, some cruel misery might have befallen 
him — it is better as it is!" 

Thelma did not answer for a minute or two — then she said, 
suddenly: 

"Philip, do you remember where I saw you first?" 

"Perfectly!" he answered, looking fondly into the sweet 
upturned face. "Outside a wonderful cavern, which I after- 
ward explored." 

She started and seemed surprised. "You went inside? — you 
saw — ?" 

"Everything!" — and Philip related his adventure of that 
morning and his first interview with Sigurd. She listened 
attentively — then she whispered softly: 

"My mother sleeps there, you know — yesterday I went to 
take her some flowers for the last time. Father came with me 
— we asked her blessing. And I think she will give it, Philip 
— she must know how good you are and how happy I am." 

He stroked her silky hair tenderly and was silent. The 
"Eulalie" had reached the outward bend of the Alten Fjord 
and the station of Bosekop was rapidly disappearing. Olaf 
Guldmar and the others came on deck to take their last look 
of it. 

"I shall see the old place again, I doubt not, long before you 
do, Thelma, child," said the stout old bonde, viewing, with a 



THELMA. 237 

keen fond glance the stretch of the vanishing scenery. 
"Though when once you are safe married at Christiania, 
Valdemar Svensen and I will have a fine toss on the seas in 
the 'Valkyrie' — and I shall grow young again in the storm and 
drift of the foam and the dark wild waves! Yes — a wander- 
ing life suits me — and I am not sorry to have a taste of it once 
more. There's nothing like it — nothing like a broad ocean 
and a sweeping wind!'' 

And he lifted Ms cap and drew himself erect, inhaling the 
air like an old warrior scenting battle. The others listened, 
amused at his enthusiasm — and, meanwhile, the Alten Fjord 
altogether disappeared, and the "Eulahe" was soon plunging 
in a rougher sea. They were bound for Christiania, where it 
was decided Thelma's marriage should at once take place' — 
after which Sir Philip would leave his yacht at the disposal of 
his friends, for them to return in it to England. He himself 
intended to start directly for Germany with his bride, a trip 
in which Britta was to accompany them as Thelma's maid. 
Olaf Guldmar, as he had just stated, purposed making a voy- 
age in the "Valkyrie," as soon as he should get her properly 
manned and fitted, which he meant to do at Christiania. 

Such were their plans, and meanwhile they were all together 
on the "Eulalie" — a happy and sociable party — Errington 
having resigned his cabin to the use of his fair betrothed and 
her httle maid, whose delight at the novel change in her life 
and her escape from the persecution of her grandmother was 
extreme. Onward they sailed — past the grand Lofoden Is- 
lands and all the magnificent scenery extending thence to 
Christiansund, while the inhabitants of Bosekop looked in vain 
for their return to the Alten Fjord. 

The short summer there was beginning to draw to a close — 
some of the birds took their departure from the coast — the 
dull routine of the place went on as usual, rendered even 
duller by the absence of the "witch" element of discord — a 
circumstance that had kept the superstitious villagers more 
or less on a lively tension of religious and resentful excite- 
ment — and by and by, the rightful minister of Bosekop came 
back to his duties and released the Eev. Charles Dyceworthy, 
who straightway returned to his loving flock in Yorkshire. It 
was diflicult to ascertain whether the aged Lovisa was satis- 
fied or wrathful at the departure of the Guldmars with her 
grand-daughter Britta in their company — she kept herself 



238 THELMA. 

almost buried in her hut at Talvig, and saw no one but TJlrika, 
who seemed to grow more respectably staid than ever, and 
who, as a prominent member of the Lutheran congregation, 
distinguished herself greatly by her godly bearing and uncom- 
promising gloom. 

Little by little, the gossips ceased to talk about the dis- 
appearance of the "white witch" and her father — little by lit- 
tle they ceased to speculate as to whether the rich Englishman, 
Sir Philip Errington, really meant to marry her — a consum- 
mation of things which none of them seemed to think likely — 
the absence of their hated neighbors was felt by them as a 
relief, while the rumored fate of the crazy Sigurd was of 
course looked upon as evidence of fresh crime on the part of 
the "pagan," who was accused of having, in some way or 
other, caused the unfortunate lad's death. And the old farm- 
house on the pine-covered knoll was shut up and silent — its 
doors and windows safely barred against the wind and rain — 
and only the doves, left to forage for themselves, crooned 
upon its roof all day, or strutting on the deserted paths, ruffled 
their plumage in melancholy meditation, as though wondering 
at the absence of the fair ruling spirit of the place, whose 
smile had been brighter than the sunshine. The villagers 
avoided it as though it were haunted — the roses drooped and 
died untended — and by degrees the old homestead grew to 
look like a quaint little picture of forgotten joys, with its de- 
serted porch and fading flowers. 

Meanwhile a thrill of amazement, incredulity, disappoint- 
ment, indignation, and horror, rushed like a violent electric 
shock through the upper circles of London society, arousing 
the deepest disgust in the breasts of match-making matrons, 
and seriously ruffling the pretty feathers of certain bird-like 
beauties who had just begun to try their wings, and who "had 
expectations." The cause of the sensation was very simple. 
It was an announcement in the "Times" — ^under the head of 
"Marriages" — and ran as follows: 

"At the English Consulate, Christiania, Sir Philip Bruce- 
Errington, Bart., to Thelma, only daughter of Olaf Guldmar, 
Bonde, of the Alten Fjord, Korway. No cards." 



THELMA. 239 



^ook: II. 

THE LAND OF MOCKERY. 



CHAPTER I. 



There's nothing serious in mortality: 
All is but toys. 

Macbeth. 

"I think," said Mrs. Eush-Marvelle, deliberately, laying 
down the "Morning Post" beside her breakfast-cup, "I think 
his conduct is perfectly disgraceful!" 

Mr. Rush-Marvelle, a lean gentleman with a sallow, clean- 
shaven face and an apologetic, almost frightened manner, 
looked up hastily. 

"Of whom are you speaking, my dear?" he inquired. 

"Why, of that wretched young man, Bruce-Errington! He 
ought to be ashamed of himself!" And Mrs. Marvelle fixed 
her glasses more firmly on her small nose, and regarded her 
husband almost reproachfully. "Don't tell me, Montague, 
that you've forgotten that scandal about him! He went off 
last year, in the middle of the season, to Norway, in his yacht 
with three of the very fastest fellows he could pick out from 
his acquaintance — regular reprobates, so I'm told — and after 
leading tbe most awful life out there, making love to all the 
peasant girls in the place, he married one of them — a common 
farmer's daughter. Don't you remember? We saw the an- 
nouncement of his marriage in the 'Times.' " 



240 THELMA. 



«/ 



'Ah, yes, yes!" And Mr. Eush-Marvelle smiled a propitia- 
tory smile, intended to soothe the evidently irritated feelings 
of his better half, of whom he stood always in awe. "Of 
course, of course! A very sad 7nesallia7ice. Yes, yes! Poor 
fellow! And is there fresh news of him?" 

"Eead that" — and the lady handed the "Morning Post" 
across the table, indicating by a dent of her polished finger-nail 
the paragraph that had offended her sense of social dignity. 
Mr. Marvelle read it with almost laborious care — though it 
was remarkably short and easy of comprehension. 

"Sir Philip and Lady Bruce-Errington have arrived at their 
house in Prince's Gate from Errington Manor." 

"Well, my dear?" he inquired, with a furtive and anxious 
glance at his wife. "1 suppose — er — it — er — ^it was to be 
expected?" 

"No, it was not to be expected," said Mrs. Eush-Marvelle, 
rearing her head and heaving her ample bosom to and fro in 
rather a tumultuous manner. "Of course it was to be ex- 
pected that Bruce-Errington would behave like a fool — his 
father was a fool before him. But I say it was not to be 
expected that he would outrage society by bringing that com- 
mon wife of his to London, and expecting us to receive her! 
The thing is perfectly scandalous! He has had the decency 
to keep away from town ever since his marriage — part of the 
time he has stayed abroad, and since January he has been at 
his place in Warwickshire — and this time — observe this!" and 
Mrs. Marvelle looked most impressive — "not a soul has been 
invited to the manor — not a living soul! The house used to 
be full of people during the winter season — of course, now, he 
dare not ask anybody lest they should be shocked at his wife's 
ignorance. That's as clear as daylight! And now he has the 
impudence to actually bring her here — into society! Good 
heavens! He must be mad! He will be laughed at wherever 
he goes!" 

Mr. Eush-Marvelle scratched his bony chin perplexedly. 

"It makes it a little awkward for— for you," he remarked, 
feelingly. 

"Awkward! It is abominable!" And Mrs. Marvelle arose 
from her chair and shook out the voluminous train of her 
silken breakfast-gown, an elaborate combination of crimson 
with gray chinchilla fur. "I shall have to call on the creature 
—just imagine it! It is most unfortunate for me that I hap- 



THELMA. 241 

pen to be one of Bruce-Errington's oldest friends— otherwise I 
might have passed him over in some way — as it is I can't. 
But fancy having to meet a great coarse peasant woman, who, 
I'm certain, will only be able to talk about fish and whale-oil! 
It is really quite dreadful!" 

Mr. Ptush-Marvelle permitted himself to smile faintly. 

"Let us hope she will not turn out so badly," he said, sooth- 
ingly — "but, you know, if she proves to be — er — a common 
person of — er — a very uneducated type — you can always let 
her drop gently — quite gently!" 

And he waved his skinny hand with an explanatory flourish. 

But Mrs. Marvelle did not accept his suggestion in good 
part. 

"You know nothing about it," she said, somewhat testily. 
"Keep to your own business, Montague, such as it is. The 
law suits your particular form of brain — society does not. 
You would never be in society at all if it were not for me — 
now you know you wouldn't!" 

"My love," said Mr. Marvelle, with a look of meek admira- 
tion at his wife's majestic proportions, "I am aware of it! 
I always do you justice. You are a remarkable woman!" 

Mrs. Marvelle smiled, somewhat mollified. "Y^ou see," she 
then condescended to explain — "the whole thing is so ex- 
tremely disappointing to me. I wanted Marcia Van Clupp to 
go in for the Errington stakes — it would have been such an 
excellent match — money on both sides. And Marcia would 
have been just the girl to look after that place down in War- 
wickshire — the hoMse is going to rack and ruin, in my opin- 
ion." 

"Ah, yes!" agreed her husband, mildly. "Van Clupp is a 
fine girl — a very fine girl! No end of 'go' in her. And so 
Errington Manor needs a good deal of repairing, perhaps?" 
This query was put by Mr. Marvelle, with his head very much 
on one side, and his bilious eyes blinking drowsily. 

"I don't know about repairs," replied Mrs. Marvelle. "It is 
a magnificent place, and certainly the grounds are ravishing. 
But one of the best rooms in the house is the former Lady 
Errington's boudoir — it is full of old-fashioned dirty furniture, 
and Bruce-Errington won't have it touched — he will insist on 
keeping it as his mother left it. Now that is ridiculous — 
perfectly morbid! It's just the same thing with his father's 
library — he won't have that touched either — and the ceiling 

16 



242 THELMA. 

wants fresh paint, and the windows want new curtains — and 
all sorts of things ought to be done. Marcia would have man- 
aged all that splendidly — she'd have had everything new 
throughout — Americans are so quick, and there's no nonsensi- 
cal antiquated sentiment about Marcia." 

"She might even have had new pictures and done away with 
the old ones," observed Mr. Marvelle, with a feeble attempt 
at satire. His wife darted a keen look at him, but smiled a 
little too. She was without a sense of humor. 

"Nonsense, Montague! She knows the value of works of 
art better than many a so-called connoisseur. I won't have 
you make fun of her. Poor girl! She did speculate on Bruce- 
Errington — you know he was very attentive to her at that 
ball I gave just before he went off to Norway," 

"He certainly seemed rather amused by her," said Mr. Mar- 
velle. "Did she take it to heart when she heard he was 
married?" 

"I should think not," replied Mrs. Marvelle, loftily. "She 
had too much sense. She merely said: 'All right! I must 
stick to Masherville.' " 

Mr. Marvelle nodded blandly. "Admirable — admirable!" 
he murmured, with a soft little laugh. "A very clever girl — a 
very bright creature! And really there are worse fellows than 
Masherville! The title is old." 

"Yes, the title is all very well," retorted his wife — "but 
there's no money — or at least very little." 

"Marcia has sufficient to cover any deficit?" suggested Mr. 
Marvelle, in a tone of meek inquiry. 

"An American woman never has sufficient," declared Mrs. 
Marvelle. "You know that as well as I do. And poor dear 
Mrs. Van Clupp has so set her heart on a really brilliant 
match for her girl — and I had positively promised she should 
have Bruce-Errington. It is really too bad!" And Mrs. Mar- 
velle paced the room with a stately, sweeping movement, 
pausing every now and then to glance at herself approvingly 
in the mirror above the chimney-piece, while her husband 
resumed his perusal of the "Times." By and by she said, 
abruptly: 

"Montague!" 

Mr. Marvelle dropped his paper with an alarmed air. 

"My dear!" 

"I shall go to Clara Winsleigh this morning — and see what 



THELMA. 243 

she means to do in the matter. Poor Clara! She must be 
disgusted at the whole affair!" 

"She had rather a liking for Errington, hadn't she?" in- 
quired Mr. Marvelle, folding up the "Times" in a neat parcel, 
preparatory to taking it with liim in order to read it in peace 
on his way to the Law Courts. 

"Lildug? Well" — and Mrs. Marvelle, looking at herself once 
more in the glass, carefully arranged the ruffle of Honiton lace 
about her massive throat — "it was a little more than liking — 
though, of course, her feelings were perfectly proper and all 
that sort of thing — at least, 1 suppose they were! She had a 
great friendship for him — one of those emotional, perfectly 
spiritual and innocent attachments, I believe, which are so 
rare in this wicked world." Mrs. Marvelle sighed, then sud- 
denly becoming practical again, she continued: "Yes, I shall 
go there and stop to luncheon, and talk this thing over. Then 
I'll drive on to the Van Clupps, and bring Marcia home to 
dinner. I suppose you don't object?" 

"Object!" Mr. Marvelle made a deprecatory gesture, and 
raised his eyes in wonder. As if he dared object to anything 
whatsoever that his wife desired! 

She smiled graciously as he approached and respectfully 
kissed her smooth cool cheek before taking his departure for 
his daily work as a lawyer in the city, and when he was gone, 
she betook herself to her own small boudoir, where she busied 
herself for more than an hour in writing letters and answering 
invitations. 

She was, in her own line, a person of importance. She 
made it her business to know everything and everybody — she 
was fond of meddling with other people's domestic concerns, 
and she had a finger in every family pie. She was, moreover, 
a regular match-maker — fond of taking young ladies under 
her maternal wing, and "introducing" them to the proper 
quarters, and when, as was often the case, a distinguished 
American of many dollars but no influence offered her three 
or four hundred guineas for chaperoning his daughter into 
English society and marrying her well, Mrs. Eush-Marvelle 
pocketed the douceur quite gracefully, and did her best for the 
girl. She was a good-looking woman, tall, portly, and with 
an air of distinction about her, though her features were by 
no means strikhig, and the smallness of her nose was out of 
all proportion to the majesty of her form — but she had a very 



244 THELMA. 

charming smile, and a pleasant, taking manner, and she was 
universally admired in that particular "set" wherein she 
moved. Girls adored her, and wrote her gushing letters full 
of the most dulcet flatteries — married ladies on the verge of a 
scandal came to her to help them out of their difficulties — old 
dowagers troubled with rheumatism or refractory daughters 
poured their troubles into her sympathizing ears — in short, 
her hands were full of other people's business to such an ex- 
tent that she had scarcely any leisure to attend to her own. 
Mr. Eush-Marvelle — but why describe this gentleman at all? 
He was a mere nonentity — known simply as the husband of 
Mrs. Rash-Marvelle. He knew he was nobody — and, unlike 
many men placed in a similar position, he was satisfied with 
his lot. He admired his wife intensely, and never failed to 
flatter her vanity to the utmost excess, so that, on the whole, 
they were excellent friends, and agreed much better than 
most married people. 

It was about twelve o'clock in the day when Mrs. Eush- 
Marvelle's neat little brougham and pair stopped at Lord 
Winsleigh's great house in Park Lane. A gorgeous flunky 
threw open the door with a virtuously severe expression on 
his breakfast-flushed countenance — an expression which re- 
laxed into a smile of condescension on seeing who the visitor 
was. 

"I suppose Lady Winsleigh is at home, Briggs?" inquired 
Mrs. Marvelle, with the air of one familiar with the ways of 
the household. 

"Yes'm," replied Briggs, slowly, taking in the "style" of 
Mrs. Eush-Marvelle's bonnet, and mentally calculating its 
cost. "Her ladyship is in the boo-dwar." 

"I'll go there," said Mrs. Marvelle, stepping into the hall, 
and beginning to walk across it in her own important and self- 
assertive manner. "You needn't announce me." 

Briggs closed the street-door, settled his powdered wig, and 
looked after her meditatively. Then he shut up one eye in a 
sufficiently laborious manner and grinned. After this, he re- 
tired slowly to a small anteroom, where he found the "World" 
with its leaves uncut. Taking up his master's ivory paper- 
knife, he proceeded to remedy this slight inconvenience — and, 
yawning heavily, he seated himself in a velvet arm-chair, and 
was soon absorbed in perusing the pages of the journal in 
question. 



THELMA. 245 

Meanwhile Mrs. Marvelle, in her way across the great hall 
to the "boo-dwar" had been interrupted and nearly knocked 
down by the playful embrace of a handsome boy, who sprung 
out upon her suddenly with a shout of laughter— a boy of 
about twelve years old, with frank, bright blue eyes and clus- 
tering dark curls. 

"Halloo, Mimsey!" cried this young gentleman. "Here 
you are again! Do you want to see papa? Papa's in there!" 
—pointing to the door from which he had emerged. "He's 
correcting my Latin exercise. Five good marks to-day, and 
I'm going to the circus this afternoon! Isn't it Jolly?" 

"Dear me, Ernest!" exclaimed Mrs. Marvelle, half crossly, 
yet with an indulgent smile — "I wish you would not be so 
boisterous! You've nearly knocked my bonnet off." 

"No, I haven't," laughed Ernest. "It's as straight as — wait 
a bit!" And waving a lead pencil in the air, he drew an im- 
aginary stroke with it. "The middle feather is bobbing up 
and down just on a line with your nose — it couldn't be better!" 

"There, go along, you silly boy!" said Mrs. Marvelle, 
amused in spite of herself. "Get back to your lessons. 
There'll be no circus for you if you don't behave properly! 
I'm going to see your mother." 

"Mamma's reading," announced Ernest. "Mudie's cart has 
just been and brought a lot of new novels. Mamma wants to 
finish them all before night. I say, are you going to stop to 
lunch?" 

"Ernest, why are you making such a noise in the passage?" 
said a gentle, grave voice at this juncture. "I am waiting for 
you, you know. You haven't finished your work yet. Ah, 
Mrs. Marvelle! How do you do?" 

And Lord Winsleigh came forward and shook hands. "You 
will find her ladyship in, I believe. She will be delighted to 
see you. This young scapegrace" — here he caressed his son's 
clustering curls tenderly — "has not yet done with his lessons 
— the idea of the circus to-day seems to have turned his head!" 

"Papa, you promised you'd let me off Virgil this morning!" 
cried Ernest, slipping his arm coaxingly through his father's. 

Lord Winsleigh smiled. Mrs. Eush-Marvelle shook her 
head with a sort of mild reproachfulness. 

"He really ought to go to school," she said, feigning sever- 
ity. "You will find him too much for you, Winsleigh, in a 
little while." 



246 THELMA. 

"I think not," replied Lord Winsleigh, though an anxious 
look troubled for an instant the calm of his deep-set gray eyes. 
"We get on very well together, don't we, Ernest?" The boy 
glanced up fondly at his father's face and nodded emphatically. 
"At a public school, you see, the boys are educated on hard 
and fast lines — all ground down to one pattern — there's no 
chance of any originahty possible. But don't let me detain 
you, Mrs. Marvelle — you have no doubt much to say to Lady 
Winsleigh. Come, Ernest! If I let you off Virgil you must 
do the rest of your work thoroughly. 

And with a courteous salute the grave, kindly faced noble- 
man re-entered his library, his young son clinging to his arm 
and pouring forth boyish confidences which seemingly re- 
ceived instant attention and sympathy — while Mrs. Eush- 
Marvelle looked after their retreating figures with something 
of doubt and wonder on her placid features. But whatever 
her thoughts, they were not made manifest just then. Arriv- 
ing at a door draped richly with old gold plush and satin, she 
knocked. 

"Come in!" cried a voice that, though sweet in tone, was 
also somewhat petulant. 

Mrs. Marvelle at once entered, and the occupant of the room 
sprung up in haste from her luxurious reading chair, where 
she was having her long dark tresses brushed out by a prim- 
looking maid, and uttered an exclamation of delight. 

"My dearest Mimsey!" she cried, "this is quite too sweet 
of you! You're just the very person I wanted to see!" And 
she drew an easy fauteuil to the sparkling fire — for the weather 
was cold, with that particularly cruel coldness common to an 
English May — and dismissed her attendant. "Now sit down, 
you dear old darhng," she continued, "and let me have all the 
news!" 

Throwing herself back in her lounge, she laughed, and 
tossed her waving hair loose over her shoulders, as the maid 
had left it — then she arranged, \Wth a coquettish touch here 
and there, the folds of her pale pink dressing-gown showered 
with delicate Valenciennes. She was undeniably a lovely 
woman. Tall and elegantly formed, with an almost regal 
grace of manner, Clara, Lady Winsleigh deserved to be con- 
sidered, as she was, one of the reigning beauties of the day. 
Her full dark eyes were of a bewitching and dangerous soft- 
ness — her complexion was pale, but of such a creamy, trans- 



THELMA. 247 

parent pallor as to be almost brilliant — her mouth was small 
unci exquisitely shaped. Irue, lier long eyelashes were not 
altogether innocent of "'kohl" — true, there was a faint odor 
about her as of rare perfumes and cosmetics — true, there was 
Bomething not altogether sincere or natural even in her ravish- 
ing snhie and fascinating ways — but few, save cynics, could 
reasonably dispute her physical perfectiuns, or question the 
right she had to tempt and arouse the passions of men, or to 
trample under foot, with an air of insolent superiority, the 
feelings of women less fair and fortunate. Most of her sex 
envied her — but Mrs. Ptush-Marvelle, who was past the prime 
of life, and who, moreover, gained her social successes through 
intelligence and tact alone, was far too sensible to grudge any 
woman her beauty. On the contrary, she was a frank admirer 
of handsome persons, and she surveyed Lady VVinsleigh now 
through her glasses Avdth a smile of bland approval. 

"You are looking very well, Clara," she said. "Let me see 
— you went to Kissingen in the summer, didn't you?" 

"Of course I did," laughed her ladyship. "It was delicious! 
I suppose you know Lennie came after me there! Wasn't it 
ridiculous?" 

Mrs. Marvelle coughed dubiously. "Didn't Winsleigh put 
in an appearance at all?" she asked. 

Lady Clara's brow clouded. "Oh, yes! For a couple of 
weeks or so. Ernest came with him, of course, and they ram- 
bled about together all the time. The boy enjoyed it." 

"I remember now," said Mrs. Marvelle. "But I've not seen 
anything of you since you came back, Clara, except once in 
the park and once at the theater. You've been all the night 
at Winsleigh Court — by the bye, was Sir Francis Lennox there 
too?" 

"Why, naturally!" replied the beauty, with a cool smile. 
"He follows me everywhere like a dog. Poor Lennie!" 

Again the elder lady coughed significantly. 

Clara Winsleigh broke into a ringing peal of laughter, and 
rising from her lounge, knelt beside her visitor in a very 
pretty coaxing attitude. 

"Come, Mimsey!" she said, "you are not going to be 
'proper' at this time of day! That would be a joke! Darling, 
indulgent, good old Mimsey! — you don't mean to turn into a 
prim, prosy, cross Mrs. Clrundy! I don't believe it! And 



248 THELMA. 

you mustn't be severe on poor Lennie — he's such a docile, 
good boy, and really not bad looking!" 

Mrs. Marvelle fidgeted a little on her chair. "I don't want 
to talk about Lennie, as you call him," she said, rather testily— 
*'only I think you'd better be careful how far you go with 
him. I came to consult you on something quite different. 
What are you going to do about the Bruce-Errington business? 
You know it was in the Tost' to-day that they've arrived in 
town. The idea of Sir Philip bringing his common wife into 
society! It's too ridiculous!" 

_ Lady Winsleigh sprung to her feet, and her eyes flashed 
disdainfully. 

"What am I going to do?" she repeated, in accents of bitter 
contempt. "Why, receive them, of course! It will be the 
greatest punishment Bruce-Errington can have! I'll get all 
the best people here that I know — and he shall bring his peas- 
ant woman among them, and blush for her! It will be the 
greatest fun out! Fancy a Norwegian farmer's girl lumbering 
along with her great feet and red hands! — and, perhaps, not 
knowing whether to eat an ice with a spoon or with her fin- 
gers! I tell you, Bruce-Errington will be ready to die for 
shame — and serve him right, too!" 

Mrs. Marvelle was rather startled at the harsh, derisive 
laughter -with, which her ladyship concluded her excited obser- 
vations, but she merely observed, mildly: 

"Well, then, you will leave cards?" 

"Certainly!" 

"Very good — so shall I," and Mrs. Marvelle sighed resign- 
edly. "What must be, must be! But it's really dreadful to 
think of it all — I would never have believed Philip Errington 
could have so disgraced himself!" 

"He is no gentleman!" said Lady Winsleigh, freezingly. 
"He has low tastes and low desires. He and his friend Lori- 
mer are two cads, in my opinion!" 

"Clara!" exclaimed Mrs. Marvelle, warningly. "You were 
fond of him once! — now don't deny it!" 

"Why should I deny it?" and her ladyship's dark eyes 
blazed with concentrated fury. "I loved him! There! I 
would have done anything for him! He might have trodden 
me down under his feet! He knew it well enough — cold, 
cruel, heartless cynic as he was and is! Yes, I loved him! — 
but I hate him now!" 



THELMA. 249 

And she stamped her foot to give emphasis to her wild 
words. Mrs. Marvelle raised her hands and eyes in utter 
amazement. 

"Clara, Clara! Pray, pray be careful! Suppose any one 
else heard you going on in this manner! Your reputation 
would suffer, I assure you! Eeally, you're horribly reckless! 
Just think of your husband — " 

"My husband!" and a cold gleam of satire played round 
Lady Winsleigh's proud mouth. She paused and laughed a 
little. Then she resumed in her old, careless way — "You 
must be getting very goody-goody, Mimsey, to talk to me 
about my husband! Why don't you read me a lecture on the 
duties of wives and the education of children ? I am sure vou 
know how profoundly it would interest me!" 

She paced up and down the room slowly while Mrs. Marvelle 
remained discreetly silent. Presently there came a tap at the 
door, and the gorgeous Briggs entered. He held himself like 
an automaton, and spoke as though repeating a lesson. 

"His lordship's compliments, and will her la'ship lunch in 
the dining room to-day?" 

"No," said Lady Winsleigh, curtly. "Luncheon for myself , 
and Mrs. Marvelle can be sent up here." 

Briggs still remained immovable. "His lordship wished 
to know if Master Hernest was to come to your la'ship before 
goin' out?" 

"Certainly not!" and Lady Winsleigh's brows drew together 
in a frown. "The boy is a perfect nuisance!" 

Briggs bowed and vanished. Mrs. Eush-Marvelle grew 
more and more restless. She was a good-hearted woman, and 
there was something in the nature of Clara Winsleigh that, in 
spite of her easy-going conscience, she could not altogether 
approve of. 

"Do you never luncheon with your husband, Clara?" she 
asked at last. 

Lady Winsleigh looked surprised. "Very seldom. Only 
when there is company, and I am compelled to be present. A 
domestic meal would be too ennuyant! I wonder you can 
think of such a thing! And we generally dine out." 

Mrs. Marvelle was silent again, and, when she did speak, it 
was on a less delicate matter. 

"When is your great 'crush,' Clara?" she inquired. "You 
sent me a card, but I forget the date." 



250 THELMA. 

"On the twenty-fifth," replied Lady Winsleigh. "This is 
the fifteenth. I shall call on Lady Bruce-Errington" — here 
she smiled scornfully — "this afternoon — and to-morrow I shall 
send them their invitations. My only fear is whether they 
mayn't refuse to come. I would not miss the chance for the 
world! I want my house to be the first in which her peasant- 
ladyship distinguishes herself by her blunders!" 

"I'm afraid it'll be quite a scandal!" sighed Mrs. Eush- 
Marvelle. "Quite! Such a pity! Bruce-Errington was such 
a promising, handsome young man!" 

At that moment Briggs appeared again with an elegantly 
set luncheon-tray, which was placed on the table with a 
flourish. 

"Order the carriage at half-past three," commanded Lady 
Winsleigh. "And tell Mrs. Maxvelle's coachman that he 
needn't wait — I'll drive her home myself." 

"But, my dear Clara," remonstrated Mrs. Marvelle, "I must 
call at the Van Clupps'— " 

"I'll call there with you. I owe them a visit. Has Marcia 
caught young Masherville yet?" 

"Well," hesitated Mrs. Marvelle, "he is rather slippery, you 
know — so undecided and wavering!" 

Lady Winsleigh laughed. "Never mind that! Marcia's a 
match for him! Eather a taking girl — only what an accent! 
My nerves are on edge whenever I hear her speak." 

"It's a pity she can't conquer that defect," agreed Mrs. Mar- 
velle. "I know she has tried. But, after all, they're not the 
best sort of Americans — " 

"The best sort! I should think not! But they're of the 
richest sort, and that's something, Mimsey! Besides, though 
everybody knows what Van Clupp's father was, they niake a 
good pretense of being well-born — they don't cram their low 
connections down your throat, as Bruce-Errington wants to 
do with his common wife. They ignore all their vulgar be- 
longings delightfully! They've been cruelly 'cut' by Mrs. 
Eippington — she's American — but then she's perfect style. 
Do you remember that big 'at home' at the Van Clupps' 
when they had a band to play in the back-yard, and every- 
body was deafened by the noise? Wasn't it quite too 
ridiculous?" 

Lady Winsleigh laughed over this reminiscence, and then 
betook herself to the consideration of lunch — a tasty meal 



THELMA. 251 

which both she and Mrs. Marvelle evidently enjoyed, flavored 
as it was with the high spice of scandal concerning their most 
immediate and mutual friends, who were, after much interest- 
ing discussion, one by one condemned as of "questionable" 
repute and uncertain position. Then Lady Winsleigh sum- 
moned her maid and was arrayed cap-a-pie in "carriage toilet/' 
while Mrs. Marvelle amused herself by searching the columns 
of "Truth" for some new tit-bit of immorality connected with 
the royal nobility of England. And at half-past three pre- 
cisely, the two ladies drove off together in an elegant victoria, 
drawn by a dashing pair of grays, with a respectable apoplec- 
tic coachman on the box, supported by the stately Briggs, in 
all the glory of the olive-green and gold liveries which distin- 
guished the Winsleigh equipage. By her ladyship's desire, 
they were driven straight to Prince's Gate. 

"We may as well leave our cards together," said Clara, with 
a malicious little smile, "though I hope to goodness the crea- 
ture won't be at home." 

Bruce-Errington's town house was a very noble looking 
mansion — refined and simple in outer adornment, with a broad 
entrance, deep portico, and lofty windows — windows which 
fortunately were not spoiled by gaudy hangings of silk or 
satin in "aesthetic" colors. The blinds were white — and, what 
could be seen of the curtains from the outside, suggested the 
richness of falling velvets and gold-woven tapestries. The 
drawing-room balconies were full of brilliant flowers, shaded 
by quaint awnings of Oriental pattern, thus giving the place 
an air of pleasant occupation and tasteful elegance. 

Lady Winsleigh's carriage drew up at the door, and Briggs 
descended. 

"Inquire if Lady Bruce-Errington is at home," said his mis- 
tress. "And if not, leave these cards." 

Briggs received the scented glossy bits of pasteboard in his 
yellow-gloved hand with due gravity, and rang the bell 
marked "Visitors" in his usual ponderous manner, with a force 
that sent it clanging loudly through the corridors of the 
stately mansion. The door was instantly opened by a respect- 
able man with gray hair and a gentle, kindly face, who was 
dressed plainly in black, and who eyed the gorgeous Briggs 
with the faintest suspicion of a smile. He was Errington's 
butler, and had served the family for twenty-five years. 

"Her ladyship is driving in the park," he said, in response 



252 THELMA. 

to the condescending inquiries of Briggs. "She left the house 
about half an hour ago!" 

Briggs thereupon handed in the cards, and forthwith re- 
ported the result of his interview to Lady Winsleigh, who 
said, with some excitement: 

"Turn into the park and drive up and down till I give 
further orders." 

Briggs mutely touched his hat, mounted the box, and the 
carriage rapidly bowled in the required direction, while Lady 
Winsleigh remarked laughingly to Mrs. Marvelle: 

"Philip is sure to be with his treasure! If we can catch a 
glimpse of her, sitting staring open-mouthed at everything, it 
will be amusing! We shall then know what to expect." 

Mrs. Marvelle said nothing, though she too was more or less 
curious to see the "peasant" addition to the circle of fashion- 
able society — and when they entered the park, both she and 
Lady Winsleigh kept a sharp lookout for the first glimpse of 
the quiet gray and silver of the Bruce-Errington liveries. 
They watched, however, in vain — ^it was not yet the hour for 
the crowding of the Row — and there was not a sign of the 
particular equipage they were so desirous to meet. Presently 
Lady Winsleigh's face flushed — she laughed — and bade her 
coachman come to a halt. 

"It is only Lennie," she said in answer to Mrs. Marvelle's 
look of inquiry. "I must speak to him a moment!" 

And she beckoned coquettishly to a slight, slim young man 
with a dark mustache and rather handsome features, who was 
idling along on the footpath, apparently absorbed in a reverie, 
though it was not of so deep a character that he failed to be 
aware of her ladyship's presence — in fact he had seen her as 
soon as she appeared in the park. He saw everything appar- 
ently without looking — he had lazily drooping eyes, but a swift 
under-glance which missed no detail of whatever was going 
on. He approached now with an excessively languid air, 
raising his hat slowly, as though the action bored him. 

"How do, Mrs. Marvelle!" he drawled, lazily addressing 
himself first to the elder lady, who responded somewhat curtly 
— then leaning his arms on the carriage door, he fixed Lady 
Winsleigh with a sleepy stare of admiration. "And how is 
our Clara? Looking charming, as usual! By Jove! Why 
weren't you here ten minutes ago? You never saw such a 



THELMA. 253 

sight in your life! Thought the whole Eow was going crazy, 
'pon my soul!" 

"Why, what happened?" asked Lady Winsleigh, smiling 
graciously upon him. "Anything extraordinary?" 

"Well, I don't know what you'd call extraordinary;" and 
Sir Francis Lennox yawned and examined the handle of his 
cane attentively. "I suppose if Helen of Troy came driving 
full pelt down the Eow all of a sudden there'd be some slight 
sensation!" 

"Dear me!" said Clara Winsleigh, pettishly. "You talk in 
enigmas to-day. What on earth do you mean?" 

Sir Francis condescended to smile. "Don't be waxy, 
Clara!" he urged — "I mean what I say — a new Helen appeared 
here to-day, and instead of 'tall Troy' being on fire, as Dante 
Eossetti puts it, the Eow was in a burning condition of excite- 
ment — fellows on horseback galloped the whole length of the 
park to take a last glimpse of her — her carriage dashed off to 
Eichmond after taking only four turns. She is simply 
magnificent!" 

"Who is she?" and in spite of herself. Lady Winsleigh's 
smile vanished and her lips quivered. 

"Lady Bruce-Errington," answered Francis, readily. "The 
loveliest woman in the world, I should say! Phil was beside 
her — he looks in splendid condition — and that meek old secre- 
tary fellow sat opposite — ISTeville — isn't that his name? Any- 
how they seemed as jolly as pipers — as for that woman, she'll 
drive everybody out of their wits about her before half the 
season's over." 

"But she's a mere peasant!" said Mrs. Marvelle, loftily. 
"Entirely uneducated — a low, common creature!" 

"Ah, indeed!" and Sir Francis again yawned extensively. 
"Well, I don't know anything about that! She was ex- 
quisitely dressed, and she held herself like a queen. As for 
her hair — I never saw such wonderful hair — there's every 
shade of gold in it." 

"Dyed!" said Lady Winsleigh, with a sarcastic little laugh. 
"She's been in Paris. I dare say a good coiffeur has done it 
for her there artistically!" 

This time Sir Francis' smile was a thoroughly amused one. 

"Commend me to a woman for spite!" he said, carelessly. 
"But I'll not presume to contradict you, Clara! You know 
best, I dare say! Ta-ta! I'll come for you to-night — ^you know 



254 THELMA. 

we're bound for the theater together. By-bye, Mrs. Marvelle! 
You look younger than ever!" 

And Sir Francis Lennox sauntered easily away, leaving the 
ladies to resume their journey through the park. Lady Wins- 
leigh looked vexed — Mrs. Marvelle bewildered. 

"Do you think?" inquired the latter, "she can really be so 
wonderfully lovely?" 

"No, I don't!" answered Clara, snappishly. "I dare say 
she's a plump creature with a high color — men like fat 
women with brick-tinted complexions — they think it's 
healthy. Helen of Troy indeed! Pooh! Lennie must be 
crazy." 

The rest of their drive was very silent — they were both 
absorbed in their own reflections. On arriving at the Van 
Clupps', they found no one at home — not even Marcia — so 
I^dy Winsleigh drove her "dearest Mimsey" back to her own 
house in Kensington, and there left her with many expressions 
of tender endearment — then, returning home, proceeded to 
make an elaborate and brilliant toilet for the enchantment 
and edification of Sir Francis Lennox that evening. She 
dined alone, and was ready for her admirer when he called for 
her in his private hansom, and drove away with him to the 
theater, where she was the cynosure of many eyes; meanwhile 
her husband, Lord Winsleigh, was pressing a good-night kiss 
on the heated forehead of an excited boy, who, plunging about 
in his little bed and laughing heartily, was evidently desirous 
of emulating the gambols of the clown who had delighted him 
that afternoon at Hengler's. 

"Papa, could you stand on your head and shake hands with 
your foot?" demanded this young rogue, confronting his father 
with tousled curls and flushed cheeks. 

Lord Winsleigh laughed. "Really, Ernest, I don't think I 
could!" he answered, good-naturedly. "Haven't you talked 
enough about the circus by this time? I thought you were 
ready for sleep, otherwise I should not have come up to say 
good-night." 

Ernest studied the patient, kind features of his father for a 
moment, and then slipped penitently under the bed-clothes, 
settling his restless young head determinedly on the pillow. 

"I'm all right now!" he murmured with a demure, dimpling 
smile. Then, with a tender unward twinkle of his merry blue 
eyes, he added, "Good-night, papa dear! God bless you!" 



THELMA. 255 

A sort of wistful pathos softened the grave lines of Lord 
Winsleigh's countenance as he bent once more over the little 
bed and pressed his bearded lips lightly on the boy's fresh 
cheek, as cool and soft as a rose-leaf. 

"God bless you, little man!" he answered softly, and there 
was a slight quiver in his calm voice. Then he put out the 
light and left the room, closing the door after him with care- 
ful noiselessness. Descending the broad stairs slowly, his 
face changed from its late look of tenderness to one of stern 
and patient coldness, which was evidently its habitual expres- 
sion. He addressed himself to Briggs, who was lounging 
aimlessly in the hall. 

"Her ladyship is out ?" 

"Yes, my lord! Gone to the theayter with Sir Francis 
Lennox." 

Lord Winsleigh turned upon him sharply. "I did not ask 
you, Briggs, where she had gone, or who accompanied her. 
Have the goodness to answer my questions simply, without 
adding useless and unnecessary details." 

Briggs' mouth opened a little in amazement at his master's 
peremptory tone, but he answered promptly: 

"Very good, my lord!" 

Lord Winsleigh paused a moment, and seemed to consider. 
Then he said: 

"See that her ladyship's supper is prepared in the dining- 
room. She will most probably return rather late. Should 
she inquire for me, say I am at the Carlton." 

Again Briggs responded: "Very good, my lord!" And 
like an exemplary servant as he was, he lingered about the 
passage while Lord Winsleigh entered his library, and, after 
remaining there some ten minutes or so, came out again in 
hat and great-coat. The officious Briggs handed him his cane, 
and inquired: 

"'Ansom, my lord?" 

"Thanks, no. I will walk." 

It was a fine moonlight night, and Briggs stood for some 
minutes on the steps, airing his shapely calves and watch- 
ing the tall, dignified figure of his master walking, with the 
upright, stately bearing which always distinguished him, in 
the direction of Pall Mall. Park Lane was full of crowding 
carriages with twinkling lights, all bound to the different 
sources of so-called "pleasure" by which the opening of the 



256 THELMA. 

season is distinguished. Briggs surveyed the scene with lofty 
indift'erence, snifEed the cool breeze, and, finding it somewhat 
chilly, re-entered the house and descended to the servants' 
hall. Here all the domestics of the Winsleigh household were 
seated at a large table loaded with hot and savory viands — a 
table presided over by a robust and perspiring lady with a 
very red face, and sturdy arms bare to the elbow. 

"Lor', Mr. Briggs!" cried this personage, rising respectfully 
as he approached, " 'ow late you are! Wot 'ave you been 
a-doin' on? 'Ere I've been a-keepin' your lamb-chops and 
truffles 'ot all this time, and if they's dried up 'tain't my fault, 
nor that of the hoven, which is as good a hoven as you can 
wish to bake in." 

She paused breathless, and Briggs smiled blandly. 

"Now, Flopsie!" he said, in a tone of gentle severity. "Ex- 
cited again — as usual! It's bad for your 'elth — very bad! 
Hif the chops is dried, your course is plain — cook some more! 
Not that I am enny ways particular — but chippy meat is bad 
for a delicate digestion. And you would not make me hill, 
my Flopsie, would you?" 

Whereupon he seated himself, and looked condescendingly 
round the table. He was too great a personage to be familiar 
with such inferior creatures as house-maids, scullery-girls, 
and menials of that class — he was only on intimate terms with 
the cook, Mrs. Flopper, or, as he called her, "Flopsie" — the 
coachman, and Lady Winsleigh's own maid, Louise Renaud, 
a prim, sallow-faced French woman, who, by reason of her 
nationality, was called by all the inhabitants of the kitchen 
"mamzelle," as being a name both short, appropriate, and 
convenient. 

On careful examination the lamb chops turned out satisfac- 
torily — "chippiness" was an epithet that could not justly be 
applied to them — and Mr. Briggs began to eat them leisurely, 
flavoring them with a glass or two of fine port out of a decan- 
ter which he had taken the precaution to bring down from the 
dining-room sideboard. 

"I ham late," he then graciously explained — "not that I was 
detained in enny way by the people upstairs. The gay Clara 
went out early, but I was absorbed in the evenin' papers — 
Winsleigh forgot to ask me for them. But he'll see them at 
his club. He's gone there now on foot — poor fellah!" 

"I suppose she's with the same party?" grinned the fat 



THELMA. 257 

Flopsie, as she held a large piece of bacon dipped in vinegar 
on her fork, preparatory to swallowing it with a gulp. 

Briggs nodded gravely. "The same! Not a fine man at 
all, you know — no leg to speak of, and therefore no form. 
Legs — good legs — are beauty. Now, Winsleigh's not bad in 
that particular — and I dare say Clara can hold her own — but I 
wouldn't bet on little Francis." 

Flopsie shrieked with laughter till she had a "stitch in her 
side," and was compelled to restrain her mirth. 

"Lor', Mr. Briggs!" she gasped, wiping the moisture from 
her eyes, "you are a reglar one, aren't you! Mussy on us! 
you ought to put all wot you say in the papers — you'd make 
your fortin!" 

"May be, may be, Flopsie," returned Briggs, with due dig- 
nity. "I will not deny that there may be wot is called 
'sparkle' in my natur. And 'sparkle' is wot is rekwired in 
polite literatoor. Look at 'Hedmund' and ' 'Enery!' Sparkle 
again — read their magnificent productions, the 'World' and 
'Truth' — all sparkle, every line! It is the secret of success. 
Flopsie — be a sparkler, and you've got everything before 
you." 

Louise Eenaud looked across at him half defiantly. Her 
prim, cruel mouth hardened into a tight line. 

"To spark-el?" she said — "that is what we call etinceler — 
eclater. Yes, I comprehend! Miladi is one great spark-el! 
But one must be a very good jewel to spark-el always — yes — 
yes — not a sham!" 

And she nodded a great many times, and ate her salad very 
fast. Briggs surveyed her with much complacency. 

"You are a talented woman, mamzelle," he said, "very 
talented! I admire your ways — I really do!" 

Mamzelle smiled with a gratified air, and Briggs settled his 
wig, eying her anew with fresh interest. 

"Wot a witness you would be in a divorce case!" he con- 
tinued, enthusiastically. "You'd be in your helement!" 

"I should — I should indeed!" exclaimed mamzelle, with 
sudden excitement — then as suddenly growing calm, she made 
a rapid gesture with her hands: "But there will be no divorce. 
Milord Winsleigh is a fool!" 

Briggs appeared doubtful about this, and meditated for a 
long time over his third glass of port with the profound grav- 
ity of a philosopher. 

17 



258 THELMA. 

"No, mamzelle/' he said, at last, when he rose from the 
tahle to return to his duties upstairs — "No! there I must differ 
from you. I am a close ohserver. Wotever Winsleigh's 
faults — and I do not deny that they are many — he is a gentle- 
man — that I must admit — and with hevery respect for you, 
mamzelle — I can assure you he's no fool!" 

And with these words Briggs betook himself to the hbrary 
to arrange the reading-lamp and put the room in order for his 
master's return, and as he did so, he paused to look at a fine 
photograph of Lady Winsleigh that stood on the oak escritoire 
opposite her husband's arm-chair. 

"No," he muttered to himself. "Wotever he thinks of some 
goings-on, he ain't blind nor deaf — that's certain. And I'd 
stake my character and professional reputation on it — wotever 
he is, he's no fool." 

For once in his life, Briggs was right. He was generally 
wrong in his estimate of both persons and things — ^but it so 
happened on this particular occasion that he had formed a 
perfectly correct judgment. 



CHAPTER II. 

Could you not drink her gaze like wine? 

Yet in its splendor swoon 
Into the silence languidly, 

As a tune into a tune? 

Dante Rossetti. 

On the morning of the twenty-fifth of May, Thelma, Lady 
Bruce-Errington, sat at breakfast with her husband in their 
sunshiny morning room, fragrant with flowers and melodious 
with the low piping of a tame thrush in a wide gilded cage, 
who had the sweet habit of warbling his strophes to himself 
very softly now and then before venturing to give them full- 
voiced utterance. A bright-eyed feathered poet he was, and 
an exceeding favorite with his fair mistress, who occasionally 
leaned back in her low chair to look at him and murmur an 
encouraging "Sweet, sweet!" which caused the speckled plum- 
age on his plump breast to ruffle up with suppressed emotion 
and gratitude. 

Philip was pretending to read the "Times," but the huge, 



THELMA. 259 

self-important printed sheet had not the faintest interest for 
him — his eyes wandered over the top of its columns to the 
golden gleam of his wife's hair, brightened just then by the 
sunlight streaming through the window — and finally he threw 
it down beside him with a laugh. 

"There's no news/' he declared. "There never is any 
news!'^ 

Thelma smiled and her deep-blue eyes sparkled. 

"No?" she half inquired — then taking her husband's cup 
from his hand to refill it with coffee, she added: "But I think 
you do not give yourself time to find the news, Philip. You 
will never read the papers more than five minutes." 

"My dear girl," said Philip, gayly, "T. am more conscientious 
than you are, at any rate, for you never read them at all!" 

"Ah, but you must remember," she returned, gravely, "that 
is because I do not understand them. I am not clever. They 
seem to me to be all about such dull things — unless there is 
some horrible murder or cruelty or accident — and I would 
rather not hear of these. I do prefer books always — ^because 
the books last, and the news is never certain — it may not even 
be true." 

Her husband looked at her fondly; his thoughts were evi- 
dently very far away from newspapers and their contents. 

As she met his gaze the rich color flushed her soft cheeks 
and her eyes dropped shyly under their long lashes. Love, 
with her, had not yet proved an illusion — a bright toy to be 
snatched hastily and played with for a brief while, and then 
thrown aside as broken and worthless. It seemed to her a 
most marvelous and splendid gift of God, increasing each day 
in worth and beauty — widening upon her soul and dazzling 
her life in ever new and expanding circles of glory. She felt 
as if she could never sufficiently understand it — the passionate 
adoration Philip lavished upon her filled her with a sort of 
innocent wonder and gratitude — while her own overpowering 
love and worship of him sometimes startled her by its force 
into a, sweet shame and hesitating fear. To her mind he was 
all that was great, strong, noble, and beautiful — ^he was her 
master, her king — and she loved to pay him homage by her 
exquisite humility, clinging tenderness, and complete con- 
tented submission. She was neither weak nor timid — her 
character, molded on grand and simple lines of duty, saw the 
laws of nature in their true light, and accepted them without 



260 THELMA. 

question. It seemed to her quite clear that man was the 
superior, woman the inferior, creature, and she could not un- 
derstand the possibility of any wife not rendering instant and 
implicit obedience to her husband, even in trifles. 

Since her wedding-day no dark cloud had crossed her heaven 
of happiness, though she had been a little confused and be- 
wildered at first by the wealth and dainty luxury with which 
Sir Philip had delighted to surround her. She had been mar- 
ried quietly at Christiania, arrayed in one of her own simple 
white gowns, with no ornament save a cluster of pale blush- 
roses, the gift of Lorimer. The ceremony was witnessed by 
her father and Errington's friends — and when it was con- 
cluded they had all gone on their several ways — old Guldmar 
for a "toss" on the Bay of Biscay — the yacht "Eulalie," with 
Lorimer, Macfarlane, and Duprez on board, back to England, 
where these gentlemen had separated to their respective 
homes — while Errington with his beautiful bride, and Britta 
in demure and delighted attendance on her, went straight to 
Copenhagen. From there they traveled to Hamburg, and 
through Germany to the Schwarzwald, where they spent their 
honey-moon at a quiet little hotel in the very heart of the 
deep-green forest. 

Days of delicious dreaming were these — days of roaming on 
the emerald green turf under the stately and odorous pines, 
listening to the dash of the water-falls or watching the crim- 
son sunset burning redly through the darkness of the branches 
— and in the moonlight evenings sitting under the trees to 
hear the entrancing music of a Hungarian string-band, which 
played divine and voluptuous melodies of the land — "lieder" 
and "walzer" that swung the heart away on a golden thread of 
song to a paradise too sweet to name! Days of high ecstasy 
and painfully passionate joy — when "love, love!" palpitated 
in the air, and struggled for utterance in the jubilant throats 
of birds, and whispered wild suggestions in the rustling of the 
leaves! There were times when Thelma — lost and amazed 
and overcome by the strength and sweetness of the nectar 
held to her innocent lips by a smiling and flame- winged Eros — 
would wonder vaguely whether she lived indeed, or whether 
she were not dreaming some gorgeous dream, too brilliant to 
last? And even when her husband's arms most surely em- 
braced her, and her husband's kiss met hers in all the rapture 
of victorious tenderness, she would often question herself as 



THELMA. 261 

to whether she were worthy of such perfect happiness, and 
she would pray in the depths of her pure heart to be made 
more deserving of this great and wonderful gift of love — this 
supreme joy, almost too vast for her comprehension. 

On the other hand, Errington's passion for his wife was 
equally absorbing — she had become the very moving spring 
of his existence. His eyes delighted in her beaaty — ^but more 
than this, he reveled in and reverenced the crystal-clear purity 
and exquisite refinement of her soul. Life assumed for him a 
new form — studied by the light of Thelma's straightforward 
simplicity and intelligence, it was no longer, as he had once 
been inclined to think, a mere empty routine — it was a treas- 
ure of inestimable value fraught with divine meanings. Grad- 
ually, the touch of modern cynicism, that had at one time 
threatened to spoil his nature, dropped away from him like 
the husk from an ear of corn — the world arrayed itself in 
bright and varying colors — there was good — nay, there was 
glory — in everything. 

With these ideas, and the healthy satisfaction they engen- 
dered, his heart grew light and joyous — his eyes more lustrous 
— his step gay and elastic — and his whole appearance was that 
of a man at his best — man, as God most surely meant him to 
be — not a rebellious, feebly repining, sneering wretch, ready 
to scoff at the very sunlight — but a being both brave and in- 
telligent, strong and equally balanced in temperament, and 
not only contented, but absolutely glad to be alive — glad to 
feel the blood flowing through the veins — glad and grateful 
for the gifts of breathing and sight. 

As each day passed, the more close and perfect grew the 
sympathies of husband and wife — they were like two notes of 
a perfect chord, sounding together in sweetest harmony. 
Naturally, much of this easy and mutual blending of character 
and disposition arose from Thelma's own gracious and grace- 
ful submissiveness — submissiveness which, far from humiliat- 
ing her, actually placed her (though she knew it not) on a 
throne of almost royal power, before which Sir Philip was 
content to kneel — an ardent worshiper of her womanly sweet- 
ness. Always without question or demur, she obeyed his 
wishes implicitly — though, as has been before mentioned, she 
was at first a little overpowered and startled by the evidences 
of his wealth, and did not quite know what to do with all the 
luxuries and gifts he heaped upon her. Britta's wordly prog- 



262 THELMA. 

nostications had come true — the simple gowns her mistress 
had worn at the Alten Fjord were soon discarded for more 
costly apparel — though Sir Philip had an affection for his 
wife's Norwegian costumes, and in his heart thought they 
were as pretty, if not prettier, than the most perfect triumphs 
of a Parisian modiste. 

But in the social world, fashion, the capricious deity, must 
be followed, if not wholly, yet in part; and so Thelma's 
straight, plain garments were laid carefully by as souvenirs 
of the old days, and were replaced by toilets of the most 
exquisite description — some simple — some costly — and it was 
difficult to say in which of them the lovely wearer looked her 
best. She herself was indifferent in the matter — she dressed 
to please Philip — if he was satisfied, she was happy — she 
sought nothing further. It was Britta whose merry eyes 
sparkled with pride and admiration when she saw her 
"Froken" arrayed in gleaming silk or sweeping velvets, with 
the shine of rare jewels in her rippling hair — it was Britta who 
took care of all the dainty trifles that gradually accumulated 
on Thelma's dressing-table — in fact, Britta had become a very 
important personage in her own opinion. Dressed neatly in 
black, with a coquettish muslin apron and cap becomingly 
frilled, she was a very taking little maid with her demure 
rosy face and rebellious curls, though very different to the 
usual trained spy whose officious ministrations are deemed so 
necessary by ladies of position, whose lofty station in life 
precludes them from the luxury of brushing their own hair. 
Britta's duties were slight — she invented most of them — yet 
she was always busy sewing, dusting, packing, or polishing. 
She was a very wide-awake little person, too — no hint was lost 
upon her — and she held her own wherever she went with her 
bright eyes and sharp tongue. Though secretly in an un- 
bounded state of astonishment at everything new she saw, she 
was too wise to allow this to be noticed, and feigned the 
utmost coolness and indifference, even when they went from 
Germany to Paris, where the brilliancy and luxury of 
the shops almost took away her breath for sheer wonder- 
ment. 

In Paris, Thelma's wardrobe was completed — a certain 
Madame Eosine, famous for "artistic arrangements," was 
called into requisition, and viewing with a professional eye the 
superb figure and majestic carriage of her new customer, rose 



THELMA. 263 

to the occasion in all her glory, and resolved that Miladi 
Bruce-Errington's dresses should be the wonder and envy of 
all who beheld them, 

"For," said madame, with a grand air, "it is to do me jus- 
tice. That form so magnificent is worth draping — it will 
support my work to the best advantage. And persons without 
figures will hasten to me and entreat me for costumes, and 
will think that if I dress them I can make them look as well 
as miladi. And they will pay!" — Madame shook her head with 
such shrewdness — Mon Dieu! they will pay — and that they 
still look frightful will not be my fault." 

And undoubtedly madame surpassed her usual skill in all 
she did for Thelma — she took such pains, and was so success- 
ful in all her designs, that "Miladi," who did not as a rule 
show more than a very ordinary interest in her toilet, found it 
impossible not to admire the artistic taste, harmonious color- 
ing, and exquisite fit of the few choice gowns supplied to her 
from the "Maison Eosine" — and on only one occasion had she 
any discussion with the celebrated modiste. This was when 
madame herself, with much pride, brought home an evening 
dress of the very palest and tenderest sea-green silk, showered 
with pearls and embroidered in silver, a perfect chef-d'oeuvre 
of the dressmaker's art. The skirt, with its billowy train and 
peeping folds of delicate lace, pleased Thelma — ^but she could 
not understand the bodice, and she held that very small por- 
tion of the costume in her hand with an air of doubt and 
wonderment. At last she turned her grave blue eyes inquir- 
ingly on madame. 

'T^t is not finished?" she asked. "Where is the upper part 
of it and the sleeves?" 

Madame Eosine gesticulated with her hands and smiled. 

"Miladi, there is no more!" she declared. "Miladi will per- 
ceive it is for the evening wear — it is decollete — ^it is to show 
everybody miladi's most beautiful neck and arms. The effect 
will be ravishing!" 

Thelma's face grew suddenly grave — almost stem. 

"You must be very wicked!" she said severely, to the infin- 
ite amazement of the vivacious Eosine. "You think I would 
show myself to people half clothed? How is it possible? T 
would not so disgrace myself! It would bring shame to my 
husband!" 

Madame was almost speechless with surprise. What strange 



264 THELMA. 

lady was this who was so dazzlingly beautiful and graceful, 
and yet so ignorant of the world's ways? She stared — but 
was soon on the defensive. 

"Miladi is in a little error!" she said rapidly and with soft 
persuasiveness. "It is la rnode. Miladi has perhaps lived in 
a country where the fashions are different. But if she will 
ask the most amiable Sieur Bruce-Errington, she will find 
that her dress is quite in keeping with les convenances." 

A pained blush crimsoned Thelma's fair cheek. "I do not 
like to ask my husband such a thing," she said, slowly, "but 
I must. For I could not wear this dress without shame. I 
can not think he would wish me to appear in it as you have 
made it — but — " She paused, and taking up the objection- 
able bodice, she added, gently: "You will kindly wait here, 
madame, and I will see what Sir Phihp says." 

And she retired, leaving the modiste in a state of much 
astonishment, approaching resentment. The idea was out- 
rageous — a woman with such divinely fair skin — a woman with 
the bosom of a Venus, and arms of a shape to make sculptors 
rave — and yet she actually wished to hide these beauties from 
the public gaze! It was ridiculous — utterly ridiculous^ — and 
madame sat fuming impatiently and sniffing the air in wonder 
and scorn. Meanwhile Thelma, with flushing cheeks and 
lowered eyes, confided her difficulty to Philip, who surveyed 
the shocking little bodice she brought for his inspection with 
a gravely amused but very tender smile. 

"There certainly does not seem much of it, does there, dar- 
ling?" he said. "And so you don't like it?" 

"No," she confessed, frankly — "I think I should feel quite 
undressed in it. I often wear just a little opening at the 
throat — but this — ! Still, Philip, I must not displease you — 
and I will always wea^* what you wish, even if it is uncom- 
fortable to myself." 

"Look here, my pet," and he encircled her waist fondly 
with his arm, "Eosine is quite right. The thing's perfectly 
fashionable — and there isn't a woman in society who wouldn't 
be perfectly charmed with it. But your ideas are better than 
Eosine's and all society's put together. Obey your own 
womanly instinct, Thelma!" 

"But what do you wish?" she asked, earnestly — "you must 
tell me. It is to please you that I live." 



THELMA. 265 

He kissed her. "You want me to issue a command about 
this affair?" he said half laughingly. 

She smiled up into his eyes. "Yes — and I will obey!" 

"Very well! Now listen!" and he held her by both hands, 
and looked with sudden gravity into her sweet face — "Thelma, 
my wife, thus sayeth your lord and master — Despise the vul- 
gar indecencies of fashion, and you will gratify me more than 
words can say — keep your pure and beautiful self sacred from 
the profaning gaze of the multitude — sacred to me and my 
love for you, and I shall be the proudest man living! Finally" 
— and he smiled again — "give Eosine back this effort at a 
bodice, and tell her to make something more in keeping with 
the laws of health and modesty. And, Thelma — one more 
kiss! You are a darling!" 

She laughed softly and left him, returning at once to the 
irate dressmaker who waited for her. 

"I am sorry," she said very sweetly, "to have called you 
wicked! You see, I did not understand! But though this 
style of dress is fashionable, I do not wish to wear it — so you 
will please make me another bodice, with a small open square 
at the throat and elbow-sleeves — and you will lose nothing at 
all — for I shall pay you for this one just the same. And you 
must quite pardon me for my mistake and hasty words!" 

Miladi's manner was so gracious and winning that Madame 
Rosine found it impossible not to smile in a soothed and molli- 
fied way — and though she deeply regretted that so beautiful 
a neck and arms were not to be exposed to public criticism, 
she resigned herself to the inevitable, and took away the 
offending bodice, replacing it in a couple of days by one 
much prettier and more becoming by reason of its perfect 
modesty. 

On leaving Paris, Sir Philip had taken his wife straight 
home to his fine old manor in Warwickshire. Thelma's 
delight in her new abode was unbounded — the stately oaks 
that surrounded it — the rose-gardens, the conservatories — the 
grand rooms, with their fine tapestries, oak furniture, and rare 
pictures — the splendid library, the long, lofty drawing-rooms, 
furnished and decorated after the style of Louis Quinze — all 
filled her with a tender pride and wistful admiration. This 
was Philip's home! and she was here to make it bright and 
glad for him — she could imagine no fairer fate. The old ser- 
vants of the place welcomed their new mistress with marked 



266 THELMA. 

respect and evident astonishment at her beauty, though, when 
they knew her better, they marveled still more at her exceeding 
gentleness and courtesy. The housekeeper, a stately white- 
haired dame, who had served the former Lady Errington, 
declared she was "an angel" — while the butler swore pro- 
foundly that "he knew what a queen was like at last!" 

The whole household was pervaded with an affectionate 
eagerness to please her, though, perhaps, the one most dazzled 
by her entrancing smile and sweet consideration for his com- 
fort was Edward Neville, Sir Philip's private secretary and 
librarian — a meek, mild-featured man of some five-and-forty 
years old, whose stooping shoulders, grizzled hair, and weak 
eyes gave him an appearance of much greater age. Thelma 
was particularly kind to Neville, having heard his history 
from her husband. It was brief and sad. He had married a 
pretty young girl whom he had found earning a bare subsist- 
ence as a singer in provincial music halls — loving her, he had 
pitied her unprotected state, and had rescued her from the 
life she led — ^but after six months of comparative happiness, 
she had suddenly deserted him, leaving no clew as to where 
or why she had gone. His grief for her loss weighed heavily 
upon his mind — he brooded incessantly upon it — and though 
his profession was that of a music master and organist, he 
grew so abstracted and inattentive to the claims of the few 
pupils he had, that they fell away from him one by one — and, 
after a bit, he lost his post as organist to the village church as 
well. This smote him deeply, for he was passionately fond of 
music, and was, moreover, a fine player — and it was at this 
stage of his misfortunes that he met by chance Bruce-Erring- 
ton. Philip, just then, was almost broken-hearted — ^his father 
and mother had died suddenly within a week of one another — 
and he, finding the blank desolation of his home unbearable, 
was anxious to travel abroad for a time, so soon as he could 
find some responsible person in whose hands to leave the 
charge of the manor, with its invaluable books and pictures, 
during his absence. 

Hearing Neville's story through a mutual friend, he de- 
cided, with his usual characteristic impulse, that here was the 
very man for him, — a gentleman by birth, rumored to be an 
excellent scholar — and he at once offered him the post he had 
in view — that of private secretary at a salary of £200 per 
annum. The astonished Neville could not at first believe in 



THELMA. 267 

his good fortune, and began to stammer forth his gratitude 
with trembhng lips and moistening eyes — but Errington cut 
him short by declaring the whole thing settled, and desiring 
him to enter on his duties at once. He was forthwith installed 
in his position — a highly enviable one for a man of his dreamy 
meditative turn of mind. To him, literature and music were 
precious as air and light — he handled the rare volumes on the 
Errington book-shelves with lingering tenderness, and often 
pored over some difficult manuscript or dusty folio till long 
past midnight, almost forgetful of his griefs in the enchant- 
ment thus engendered. Nor did he lack his supreme com- 
forter, music — there was a fine organ at the lower end of the 
long library, and seated at his beloved instrument, he whiled 
away many an hour — steeping his soul in the divine and 
solemn melodies of Palestrina and Pergolese, till the cruel 
sorrow that had darkened his life seemed nothing but a bad 
dream, and the face of his wife, as he had first known it, fair, 
trustful, and plaintive, floated before his eyes unchanged, and 
arousing in him the old foolish throbbing emotions of rapture 
and passion that had gladdened the by-gone days. 

He never lost the hope of meeting her again, and from time 
to time he renewed his search for her, though all uselessly. 
He studied the daily papers with an almost morbid anxiety 
lest he should see the notice of her death — and he would even 
await each post with a heart beating more rapidly than usual, 
in case there should be some letter from her, imploring for- 
giveness, explaining everything, and summoning him once 
more to her side. He found a true and keenly sympathizing 
friend in Sir Philip, to whom he had become profoundly at- 
tached — to satisfy his wishes, to forward his interests, to 
attend to his affairs with punctilious exactitude — all this 
gave Neville the supremest happiness. He felt some slight 
doubt and anxiety when he first received the sudden announce- 
ment of his patron's marriage — but all forebodings as to the 
character and disposition of the new Lady Bruce-Errington 
fled like mist before sunshine when he saw Thelma's fair face 
and felt her friendly hand-clasp. 

Every morning on her way to the breakfast-room, she would 
look in at the door of his httle study, which adjoined the 
library, and he learned to watch for the first glimmer of her 
dress, and to listen for her bright "Good-morning, Mr. Ne- 
ville!" with a sensation of the kindest pleasure. It was a sort 



268 THELMA. 

of benediction on the whole day. A proud man was he when 
she asked him to give her lessons on the organ — and never did 
he forget the first time he heard her sing. He was playing 
an exquisite "Ave Maria/' hy Stradella, and she, standing 
by her husband's side, was listening, when she suddenly ex- 
claimed: 

"Why, we used to sing that at Aries!" — and her rich, round 
voice pealed forth clear, solemn, and sweet, following with 
pure steadiness the sustained notes of the organ. Neville's 
heart thrilled — he heard her with a sort of breathless wonder 
and rapture, and when she ceased it seemed as though heaven 
had closed upon him. 

"One can not praise such a voice as that!" he said. "It 
would be a kind of sacrilege. It is divine!" 

After this, many were the pleasant musical evenings they 
all passed together in the grand old library, and — as Mrs. 
Eush-Marvelle had so indignantly told her husband — no 
visitors were invited to the manor during that winter. Erring- 
ton was perfectly happy — he wanted no one but his wife, and 
the idea of entertaining a party of guests who would most 
certainly interfere with his domestic enjoyment seemed almost 
abhorrent to him. The county people called — but missed 
seeing Thelma, for during the day-time she was always out 
with her husband taking long walks, and rambling excursions 
to the different places hallowed by Shakespeare's presence — 
and when she, instructed by Sir Philip, called on the county 
people, they also seemed to be never at home. 

And so, as yet, she had made no acquaintances, and now 
that she had been married eight months and had come to Lon- 
don, the same old story repeated itself. People called on her 
in the afternoon just at the time when she went out driving — 
when she returned their visits, she, in her turn, found them 
absent. She did not as yet understand the mystery of having 
"a day" on which to receive visitors in shoals — a day on which 
to drink unlimited tea, talk platitudes, and be utterly bored 
and exhausted at the end thereof — in fact, she did not see the 
necessity of knowing many people — her husband was all-suffi- 
cient for her — to be in his society was all she cared for. She 
left her card at different houses because he told her to do so, 
but this social duty amused her immensely. 

'*It is like a game!" she declared, laughing; "some one 
comes and leaves these little cards, which explain who they 



THELMA. 269 

are, on me — then I go and leave my little card and yours, 
explaining who we are, on that some one — and we keep on 
doing this, yet we never see each other by any chancel It is 
so droll!'' 

Errington did not feel called upon to explain what was 
really the fact — namely, that none of the ladies who had left 
cards on his wife had given her the option of their "at home" 
day on which to call — he did not think it necessary to tell her 
what he knew very well, that his "set," both in county and 
town, had resolved to "snub" her in every petty fashion they 
could devise — that he had already received several invitations 
which, as they did not include her, he had left unanswered — 
and that the only house to which she had as yet been really 
asked in proper form was that of Lady Winsleigh. He was 
more amused than vexed at the resolute stand made by the 
so-called "leaders" of society against her, knowing as he did, 
most thoroughly, how she must conquer them all in the end. 
She had been seen nowhere as yet but in the park, and Philip 
had good reasons to be contented with the excitement her 
presence had created there — but he was a little astonished at 
Lady Winsleigh's being the first to extend a formal welcome 
to his unknown bride. Her behavior seemed to him a little 
suspicious — for he certainly could not disguise from himself 
that she had at one time been most violently and recklessly in 
love with him. He recollected one or two most painful scenes 
he had had with her, in which he had endeavored to recall her 
to a sense of the duty she owed to her husband — and his face 
often flushed with vexation when he thought of her wild and 
wicked abandonment of despair, her tears, her passion, and 
distracted, dishonoring words. Yet she was the very woman 
who now came forward in the very front of society to receive 
his wife — he could not quite understand it. After all, he was 
a man — and the sundry artful tricks and wiles of fashionable 
ladies were, naturally, beyond him. Thelma had never met 
Lady Winsleigh — not even for a passing glance in the park — 
and when she received the invitation for the grand reception 
at Winsleigh House she accepted it, because her husband 
wished her so to do, not that she herself anticipated any par- 
ticular pleasure from it. When the day came round at last 
she scarcely thought of it, till at the close of their pleasant 
breakfast tete-a-tete described at the commencement of this 
chapter, Philip suddenly said: 



270 THELMA. 

"By the bye, Thelma, I have sent to the bank for tlie 
Errington diamonds. They'll be here presently. I want you 
to wear them to-night." 

Thelma looked puzzled and inquiring. 

"To-night? What is it that we do? I forget! Oh! now I 
know — it is to go to Lady Winsleigh. What will it be like, 
Philip?" 

"Well, there'll be heaps of people all cramming and crowd- 
ing up the stairs and down them again — you'll see all those 
women who have called on you, and you'll be introduced to 
them — I dare say there'll be some bad music and an indigest- 
ible supper — and — and — that's all!" 

She laughed and shook her head reproachfully. 

"I can not believe you, my naughty boy!" she said, rising 
from her seat and kneeling beside him with arms round his 
neck, and soft eyes gazing lovingly into his. "You are nearly 
as bad as that very bad Mr. Lorimer, who will always see 
strange vexations in everything! I am quite sure Lady Wins- 
leigh will not have crowds up and down her stairs — that would 
be bad taste. And if she has music, it will be good — and she 
would not give her friends a supper to make them ill." 

Philip did not answer. He was studpng every delicate tint 
in his wife's dazzhng complexion and seemed absorbed. 

"Wear that one gown you got from Worth," he said, abrupt- 
ly. "I like it — it suits you." 

"Of course I will wear it if you wish," she answered, laugh- 
ing still. "But why? What does it matter? You want me 
to be something very splendid in dress to-night?" 

Philip drew a deep breath. "I want you to eclipse every 
woman in the room!" he said, with remarkable emphasis. 

She grew rather pensive. "I do not think that would be 
pleasant," she said, gravely. "Besides, it is impossible. And 
it would be wrong to wish me to make every one else dis- 
satisfied with themselves. That is not like you, my Philip!" 

He touched with tender fingers the great glistening coil of 
hair that was twisted up at the top of her graceful head. 

"Ah, darling! You don't know what a world it is, and what 
very queer people there are in it! Never mind! Don't bother 
yourself about it. You'll have a good bird's-eye view of 
society to-night, and you shall tell me afterward how you like 
it. I shall be curious to know what you think of Lady 
Winsleigh." 



THELMA. 271 

"She is beautiful, is she not?" 

"Well, she is considered so by most of her acquaintances, 
and by herself," he returned with a smile. 

"I do like to see very pretty faces," said Thelma, warmly; 
"it is as if one looked at pictures. Since I have been in Lon- 
don I have seen so many of them — it is quite pleasant. Yet 
none of these lovely ladies seem to me as if they were really 
happy or strong in health." 

"Half of them have got nervous diseases and all sorts of 
things wrong with them from overmuch tea and tight lacing," 
replied Errington, "and the few who are tolerably healthy are 
too bouncing by half, going in for hunting and such-like 
amusements till they grow blowsy and fat, and coarse as 
tom-boys or grooms. They can never hit the jtiste imlieui 
Well!" and he rose from the breakfast-table. "I'll go and see 
Neville and attend to business. We'll drive out this afternoon 
for some fresh air, and afterward you must rest, my pet — for 
you'll find an 'at home' more tiring than climbing a mountain 
in Norway." 

He kissed and left her to her usual occupations, of which 
she had many, for she had taken great pains to learn all the 
details of the work in the Errington establishment — in fact, 
she went every morning to the little room where Mistress Par- 
ton, the housekeeper, received her with much respect and 
affection, and duly instructed her on every point of the domes- 
tic management and daily expenditure, so that she was thor- 
oughly acquainted with everything that went on. 

She had very orderly quiet ways of her own, and though 
thoughtful for the comfort and well-being of the lowest ser- 
vant in her household, she very firmly checked all extrava- 
gance and waste, yet in such a gentle, unobtrusive manner 
that her control was scarcely felt — though her husband at once 
recognized it in the gradually decreasing weekly expenses, 
while to all appearance things were the same as ever. She 
had plenty of clear, good common sense — she saw no reason 
why she should waste her husband's wealth simply because 
it was abundant — so that under her mild sway, Sir Philip 
found himself getting richer without any trouble on his own 
part. His house assumed an air of lighter and more tasteful 
elegance — flowers, always arranged by Thelma herself, 
adorned the rooms — birds filled the great conservatory with 
their delicious warblings, and gradually that strange fairy- 



272 THELMA. 

sweet fabric known as "Home" rose smilingly around him. 
Formerly he had much disliked his stately town mansion — he 
had thought it dull and cold — almost gloomy — but now he 
considered it charming, and wondered he had missed so many 
of its good points before. And when the evening for Lady 
Winsleigh's "crush" came — he looked regretfully round the 
lovely luxurious drawing-room with its bright fire, deep easy- 
chairs, books and grand piano, and wished he and his wife 
could remain at home in peace. He glanced at his watch — it 
was ten o'clock. There was no hurry — he had not the least 
intention of arriving at Winsleigh House too early. He knew 
what the effect of Thelma's entrance would be — and he smiled 
as he thought of it. He was waiting for her now — he himself 
was ready in full evening dress — and remarkably handsome 
he looked. He walked up and down restlessly for a minute 
or so — then taking up a volume of Keats, he threw himself 
into an easy-chair and soon became absorbed. His eyes were 
still on the reprinted page, when a light touch on his shoulder 
startled him — a soft, half -laughing voice inquired: 

"Philip! Do I please you?" 

He sprung up and faced her — but for a moment could not 
speak. The perfection of her beauty had never ceased to 
arouse his wonder and passionate admiration — but on this 
night, as she stood before him, arrayed in a simple, trailing 
robe of ivory-tinted velvet, with his family diamonds flashing 
in a tiara of light on her hair, glistening against the whiteness 
of her throat and rounded arms, she looked angelically lovely, 
so radiant, so royal, and withal so innocently happy, that, 
wistfully gazing at her, and thinking of the social clique into 
which she was about to make her entry, he wondered vaguely 
whether he was not wrong to take so pure and fair a creature 
among the false glitter and reckless hypocrisy of modern 
fashion and folly. And so he stood silent, till Thelma grew 
anxious. 

"Ah, you are not satisfied!" she said, plaintively. "I am 
not as you wish! There is something wrong." 

He drew her closely into his arms, kissing her with an 
almost pathetic tenderness. 

"Thelma, my love, my sweet one!" and his strong voice 
trembled. "You do not know — how should you? what I think 
of you! Satisfied? Pleased? Good heavens — what little 
words those are to express my feelings! I can tell you how 



THELMA, 273 

you look, for nothing can ever make you vain. You are beau- 
tiful! — ^you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, 
and you look your very best to-night. But you are more than 
beautiful — you are good and pure and true, while society is — 
But why should I destroy your illusions? Only, my wife — we 
have been all in all to each other — and now I have a foolish 
feeling as if things were going to be different — as if we should 
not be so much together — and I wish — I wish to God I could 
keep you all to myself without anybody's interference!" 

She looked at him in wonder, though she smiled. 

"But you have changed, my boy, since the morning," she 
said. "Then you did wish me to be particular in dress — and 
to wear your jewels for this Lady Winsleigh. Now your eyes 
are sad, and you seem as if you would rather not go at all. 
Well, is it not easy to remain at home? I will take off these 
fine things, and we will sit together and read. Shall it be 
so?" 

He laughed. "I believe you would do it if I asked you!" 
he said. 

"Yes, of course! I am quite happy alone with you. I care 
nothing for this party — what is it to me if you do not wish 
to go?" 

He kissed her again. "Thelma, don't spoil me too much! 
If you let me have my own way to such an extent, who knows 
what an awful domestic tyrant I may become! No, dear — we 
must go to-night — there's no help for it. You see we've ac- 
cepted the invitation, and it's no use being churlish. Besides, 
after all" — he gazed at her admiringly — "I want them to see 
my Norwegian rose! Come along! The carriage is waiting." 

They passed out into the hall, where Britta was in attend- 
ance with a long cloak of pale blue plush lined with white fur, 
in which she tenderly enveloped her beloved "Froken," her 
rosy face beaming with affectionate adoration as she glanced 
from the fair diamond-crowned head down to the point of the 
small pearl-embroidered shoe that peeped beneath the edge of 
the rich, sheeny white robe, and saw that nothing was lacking 
to the most perfect toilet that ever woman wore. 

"Good-night, Britta!" said Thelma, kindly. "You must not 
sit up for me. You will be tired." 

Britta smiled — ^it was evident she meant to outwatch the 
stars, if necessary, rather than allow her mistress to be unat- 
tended on her return. But she said nothing — she waited at 

18 



274 THELMA. 

the door while Philip assisted his wife into the carriage — and 
still stood musingly under the wide portico after they had 
driven away. 

"Hadn't you better come in, Miss Britta?" said the butler, 
respectfully — he had a great regard for her ladyship's httle 
maid. 

Britta, recalled to herself, started, turned, and re-entered 
the hall. 

"There will be many fine folks there to-night, I suppose?" 
she asked. 

The butler rubbed his nose perplexedly. "Fine folks? At 
Winsleigh House? Well, as far as clothes go, I dare say there 
will. But there'll be no one like her ladyship — no one!" And 
he shook his gray head emphatically. 

"Of course not!" said Britta, with a sort of triumphant de- 
fiance. "We know that very well, Morris! There's no one 
like her ladyship anywhere in the wide world! But I tell you 
what — I think a great many people will be jealous of her." 

Morris smiled. "You may take your oath of that. Miss 
Britta," he said with placid conviction. "Jealous! Jealous 
isn't the word for it! Why," and he surveyed Britta's youth- 
ful countenance with fatherly interest, "you're only a child, 
as it were, and you don't know the world much. Now I've 
been five-and-twenty years in this family, and I knew Sir 
Philip's mother, the Lady Eulalie — he named his yacht after 
her. Ah! she was a sweet creature — she came from Austria, 
and she was as dark as her present ladyship is fair. Wherever 
she went, I tell you, the women were ready to cry for spite 
and envy of her good looks — and they would say anything 
against her they could invent. That's the way they go on 
sometimes in society, you know." 

"As bad as in Bosekop," murmured Britta, more to herself 
than to him, "only London is a larger place." Then raising 
her voice again, she said : "Perhaps there will be some people 
wicked enough to hate her ladyship, Morris?" 

"I shouldn't wonder," said Morris, philosophically. "I 
shouldn't wonder at all! There's a deal of hate about one way 
or another — and if a lady is as beautiful as an angel, and cuts 
out everybody wherever she goes, why you can't expect the 
other ladies to be very fond of her. "Tisn't in human nature 
— at least, not in feminine human nature. Men don't care 
much about their looks one way or the other, unless they're 



THELMA. 275 

young chaps — then one has a little patience with them and 
tbey come all right." 

But Britta had become meditative again. She went slowly 
up into her mistress' room, and began arranging the few 
trifles that had been left in disorder. 

"Just fancy!" she said to herself — "some one may hate the 
Froken even in London just as they hated her in Bosekop, 
because she is so unlike everybody else. I shall keep my eyes 
open — and I shall soon find out any wickedness against her! 
My beautiful, dear darling! I believe the world is a cruel 
place after all — but she shan't be made unhappy in it, if I can 
help it!" 

And with this emphatic declaration, she kissed a little shoe 
of Thelma's that she was just putting by — and, smoothing her 
curls, went down to her supper. 



CHAPTER III. 

Such people there are living and flourishing in the world — 
Faithless, Hopeless, Charityless— let us have at them, dear friends, 
with might and main! — Thackebay. 

Who can adequately describe the thrilling excitement at- 
tending an aristocratic "crush" — an extensive, sweeping-off- 
of-old-scores "at home" — that scene of bewildering confusion 
which might be appropriately set forth to the minds of the 
vulgar in the once-popular ditty, "Such a getting upstairs I 
never did see!" Who can paint in sufficiently brilKant colors 
the mere outside of a house thus distinguished by this strange 
festivity, in which there is no actual pleasure — this crowding 
of carriages — this shouting of small boys and policemen? — who 
can, in words, delineate the various phases of lofty indignation 
and offense on the countenances of pompous coachmen, forced 
into contention with vulgar but good-natured "eabbys" — for 
right of way? — who can sufficiently set forth the splendors of 
a striped awning avenue, lined on both sides with a collection 
of tropical verdure, hired for the occasion at so much per 
dozen pots, and illuminated with Chinese lanterns! Talk of 
orange groves in Italy and the languid Kght of a southern 
moon! What are they compared to the marvels of striped 



276 THELMA. 

awning? Mere trees — mere moonlight — (poor products of 
Nature!) do not excite either wonder or envy — but, strange to 
say, an awning avenue invariably does! As soon as it is 
erected in all its bland suggestiveness, no matter at what 
house, a small crowd of street arabs and nurse-maids collect 
to stare at it — and when tired of staring, pass and repass under 
it with peculiar satisfaction — the beggar, striving for a crust, 
lingers doubtfully near it, and ventures to inquire of the 
influenza-smitten crossing-sweeper whether it is a wedding or 
a party? And if Awning Avenue means matrimony, the beg- 
gar waits to see the guests come out — if, on the contrary, it 
stands for some evening festivity, he goes, resolving to return 
at the appointed hour, and try if he can not persuade one 
"swell" at least to throw him a penny for his night's supper. 
Yes — a great many people endure sharp twinges of discontent 
at the sight of Awning Avenue — people who can't afford to 
give parties, and who wish they could — pretty, sweet girls 
who never go to a dance in their lives, and long with all their 
innocent hearts for a glimpse — just one glimpse! — of what 
seems to them inexhaustible, fairy-like delight — lonely folks, 
who imagine in their simplicity that all who are privileged to 
pass between the lines of hired tropical foliage aforementioned 
must perforce be the best and most united of friends — hungry 
men and women who picture, with watering mouths, the 
supper-table that lies beyond the awning, laden with good 
things, of the very names of which they are hopelessly ignorant 
— while now and then a stern, dark-browed Thinker or two 
may stalk by and metaphorically shake his fist at all the 
waste, extravagance, useless luxury, humbug and hypocrisy 
Awning Avenue usually symbolizes, and may mutter in his 
beard like an old-fashioned tragedian: "A time will come!" 
Yes, Sir Thinker! — it will most undoubtedly — it must — but 
not through you — not through any mere human agency. 
Modern society contains within itself the seed of its own de- 
struction — the most utter Nihilist that ever swore deadly oath 
need but contain his soul in patience and allow the seed to 
ripen. For God's justice is as a circle that slowly surrounds an 
evil and as slowly closes on it with crushing and resistless force 
— and feverish, fretting humanity, however nobly inspired, 
can do nothing either to hasten or retard the round, perfect, 
absolute and Divine Law. So let the babes of the world play 
on, and let us not frighten them with stories of earthquakes — 



THELMA. 277 

they are miserable enough as it is, believe it! — their toys are 
so brittle, and snap in their feeble hands so easily, that one is 
inclined to pity them! And Awning Avenue, with its bor- 
rowed verdure and artificial light, is frequently erected for the 
use of some of the most wretched among the cliildren of the 
earth — children who have trifled with and lost everything — 
love, honor, hope, and faith, and who are traveling rapidly to 
the grave with no consolation save a few handf uls of base coin, 
which they must, perforce, leave behind them at the last. 

So it may be that the crippled crossing-sweeper outside 
AVinsleigh House is a very great deal happier than the master 
of that stately mansion. He has a new broom — and Master 
Ernest Winsleigh has given him two oranges, and a rather 
bulky stick of sugar-candy. He is a protege of Ernest's — that 
bright handsome boy considers it a "Jolly shame" to have only 
one leg, and has said so with much emphasis — and though the 
little sweeper himself has never regarded his affliction quite 
in that light, he is exceedingly grateful for the young gentle- 
man's patronage and sympathy thus frankly expressed. And 
on this particular night of the grand reception he stands, lean- 
ing on his broom and munching his candy, a delighted specta- 
tor of the scene in Park Lane— the splendid equipages, the 
prancing horses, the glittering liveries, the excited cabmen, 
the magnificent toilets of the ladies, the solemn and resigned 
deportment of the gentlemen — and he envies none of them — 
not he! Why should he? His oranges are in his pocket — un- 
touched as yet— and it is doubtful whether the crowding guests 
at the Winsleigh supper-table shall find anything there to 
yield them such entire enjoyment as he will presently take in 
his humble yet refreshing dessert. And he is pleased as a 
child at a pantomime— the Winsleigh "at home" is a show 
that amuses him— and he makes sundry remarks on " 'im" and 
" 'er" in a meditative sotto voce. He peeps up Awning Avenue 
heedless of the severe eye of the policeman on guard— he 
sweeps the edge of the crimson felt foot-cloth tenderly with 
his broom — and if he has a desire ungratified, it is that he 
might take a peep Just for a minute inside the front door, and 
see how "they're all a-goin' it!" 

And how are they a-goin' it? Well, not very hilariously, if 
one may Judge by the aspect of the gentlemen in the hall and 
on the stairs — gentlemen of serious demeanor, who are lean- 
ing, as though exhausted, against the balusters, with a univer- 



278 THELMA. 

sal air of profound weariness and dissatisfaction. Some of 
these are young fledglings of manhood — callow birds who, 
though by no means innocent — are more or less inexperienced 
— and who have fluttered hither to the snare of Lady Wins- 
leigh's "at home," half expecting to be allowed to make love 
to their hostess, and so have something to boast of afterward 
— others are of the middle-aged complacent type who, though 
infinitely bored, have condescended to "look in" for ten min- 
utes or so, to see if there are any pretty women worth the 
honor of their criticism — others again (and these are the most 
unfortunate) are the "nobodies" — or husbands, fathers, and 
brothers of "beauties," whom they have dutifully escorted to 
the scene of trivimph, in which they, unlucky wights! are cer- 
tainly not expected to share. A little desultory conversation 
goes on among these stair-loungers — conversation mingled 
with much dreary yawning — a trained opera-singer is shaking 
forth chromatic roulades and trills in the great drawing-room 
above — there is an incessant stream of people coming and 
going — there is the rustle of silk and satin — perfume shaken 
out of lace kerchief and bouquets oppresses the warm air — the 
heat is excessive — and there is a never-ending monotonous 
hum of voices, only broken at rare intervals by the "society 
laugh" — that unmeaning giggle on the part of the women — 
that strained "ha, ha, ha!" on the part of the men, which is 
but the faint ghostly echo of the farewell voice of true mirth. 

Presently, out of the ladies' cloak-room come two fascinat- 
ing figures — the one plump and matronly, with gray hair and 
a capacious neck glittering with diamonds — the other a slim 
girl in pale pink, with dark eyes and a ravishing complexion, 
for whom the lazy gentlemen on the stairs make immediate 
and respectful room. 

"How d'ye do, Mrs. Van Clupp?" says one of the loungers. 

"Glad to see you, Miss Marcia!" says another, a sandy- 
haired young man, with a large gardenia in his button-hole 
and a glass in his eye. 

At the sound of his voice Miss Marcia stops and regards him 
with a surprised smile. She is very pretty, is Marcia — be- 
witchingly pretty — and she has an air of demure grace and 
modesty about her that is perfectly charming. Why! oh, why 
does she not remain in that sjdph-like attitude of questioning 
silence? But she speaks — and the charm is broken. 

''Waal now! Dew tell!" she exclaims. "I thought yew 



<n 



THELMA. 279 

were in Pa-ar — ^is! Ma, would yew have concluded to find Lord 
Algy here? This is too lovely! If I'd known yew were 
coming I'd have stopped at home — yes, I would — that's so!" 

And she nods her little head, crowned with its glossy braids 
of chestnut hair, in a very coquettish manner, while her 
mother, persistently beaming a stereotyped company smile on 
all around her, begins to ascend the stairs, beckoning her 
daughter to follow. Marcia does so, and Lord Algernon 
Masherville escorts her. 

"You — you didn't mean that?" he stammers rather feebly — 
"You — you don't mind my being here, do you? I'm — I'm 
awfully glad to see you again, you know — and — er — all that 
sort of thing!" 

Marcia darts a keen glance at him — the glance of an observ- 
ant clear-headed magpie. 

"Oh, yes! I dare say!" she remarks with airy scorn. 
" 'Spect me to believe yew! Wall! Did yew have a good 
time in Pa-ar — is?" 

"Fairly so," answers Lord Masherville, indifferently. "I 
only came back two days ago. Lady Winsleigh met me by 
chance at the theater, and asked me to look in to-night for 
'some fun,' she said. Have you any idea what she meant?" 

"Of course!" says the fair New Yorker, with a little nasal 
laugh. "Don't yew know? We're all here to see the fisher- 
woman from the wilds of Norway — the creature Sir Philip 
Errington married last year. I conclude she'll give us fits all 
round, don't yew?" 

Lord Masherville, at this, appears to hesitate. His eye- 
glass troubles him, and he fidgets with its black string. He 
is not intellectual — he is the most vacillating, most meek and 
timid of mortals — but he is a gentleman in his own poor 
fashion, and has a sort of fluttering chivalry about him, which, 
though feeble, is better than none. 

"I really can not tell you, Miss Marcia," he replies almost 
nervously. "I hear — at the club — that — that Lady Bruce- 
Errington is a great beauty." 

"Dew tell!" shrieks Marcia, with a burst of laughter. "Is 
she really, though! But I guess her looks won't mend her 
grammar any way." 

He makes no reply, as by this time they have reached the 
crowded drawing-room, where Lady Winsleigh, radiant in 
ruby velvet and rose-brilliants, stands receiving her guests. 



280 THELMA. 

with a cool smile and nod for mere acquaintances — and a mean- 
ing flash of her dark eyes for her intimates, and a general air 
of haughty insolence and perfect self-satisfaction pervading 
her from head to foot. Close to her is her husband, grave, 
courtly, and kind to all comers, and fulfilling his duty as host 
to perfection — still closer is Sir Francis Lennox, who in the 
pauses of the incoming tide of guests finds occasion to whis- 
per trifling nothings in her tiny white ear, and even once ven- 
tures to arrange more tastefully a falling cluster of pale roses 
that rests lightly on the brief shoulder-strap (called by court- 
esy a sleeve) which keeps her ladyship's bodice in place. 

Mrs. Rush-Marvelle is here, too, in all her glory — her good- 
humored countenance and small nose together beam with 
satisfaction — her voluminous train of black satin showered 
with jet gets in everybody's way — her ample bosom heaves 
like the billowy sea, somewhat above the boundary line of 
transparent lace that would fain restrain it — ^but in this par- 
ticular she is prudence itself compared with her hostess, 
whose charms are exhibited with the unblushing frankness of 
a ballet-girl — and whose example is followed, it must be con- 
fessed, by most of the women in the room. Is Mr. Rush- 
Marvelle here? Oh, yes — after some little trouble we discover 
him — squeezed against the wall and barricaded by the grand 
piano — in company with a large album, over which he pores, 
feigning an almost morbid interest in the portraits of persons 
he has never seen, and never will see. Beside him is a 
melancholy short man with long hair and pimples, who sur- 
veys the increasing crowd in the room with an aspect that is 
almost tragic. Once or twice he eyes Mr. Marvelle dubiously 
as though he would speak — and, finally, he does speak, tapping 
that album-entranced gentleman on the arm with an energy 
that is somewhat startling. 

"It is to blay I am here!" he announces. "To blay ze 
biano! I am great artist!" He rolls his eyes wildly and with 
a sort of forced calmness proceeds to enumerate on his fingers 
— "Baris, Vienna, Rome, Berlin, St. Betersburg — all know 
me! All resbect me! See!" And he holds out his button- 
hole, in which there is a miniature red ribbon. "From ze 
emberor! Kaiser Wilhelm!" He exhibits a ring on his little 
finger. "From ze Czar!" Another rapid movement and a 
pompous gold watch is thrust before the bewildered gaze of 



J> 



THELMA. 281 

his listener. "From my bubils in Baris! I am bianist — I am 
here to blay!" 

And raking his fingers through liis long locks, he stares 
defiantly around him. Mr. Eush-Marvelle is a little fright- 
ened. This is an eccentric personage — he must be soothed. 
Evidently he must be soothed! 

"Yes, yes, I quite understand!" he says, nodding persua- 
sively at the excited genius. "You are here to play. Exactly! 
Yes, yes! We shall all have the pleasure of hearing you pres- 
ently. Delightful, I'm sure. You are the celebrated Herr — ' 

"Machtenklinken," adds the pianist haughtily. "Ze cele- 
brated Machtenklinken!" 

"Yes — oh — er — yes!" And Mr. Marvelle grapples desper- 
ately with this terrible name. "Oh, er — yes! I — er know you 
by reputation, Herr — er Machten — Oh, er — yes! Pray ex- 
cuse me for a moment!" 

And thankfully catching the commanding eye of his wife, 
he scrambles hastily away from the piano and joins her. She 
is talking to the Van Clupps, and she wants him to take away 
Mr. Van Clupp, a white-headed, cunning-looking old man, for 
a little conversation, in order that she may be free to talk over 
certain naughty bits of scandal with Mrs. Van Clupp and 
Marcia. 

To-night there is no place to sit down in all the grand 
extent of the Winsleigh drawing-rooms — puffy old dowagers 
occupy the sofas, ottomans and chairs, and the largest and 
most brilliant portion of the assemblage are standing, grin- 
ning into each other's faces with praiseworthy and polite per- 
tinacity, and talking as rapidly as though their lives depended 
on how many words they could utter within the space of two 
minutes. Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, ]\Irs. Van Clupp and Marcia 
make their way slowly through the gabbling, pushing, smirk- 
ing crowd till they form a part of the little coterie immediately 
round Lady Winsleigh, to whom, at the first opportunity, Mrs. 
Marvelle whispers: 

"Have they come?" 

"The modern Paris and the new Helen?" laughs Lady 
Clara, with a shrug of her snowy shoulders. "No, not yet. 
Perhaps they won't turn up at all! Marcia, dear, you look 
quite charming! Where is Lord Algy?" 

"I guess he's not a thousand miles away!" returns Marcia, 
with a knowing twinkle of her dark eyes. "He'll hang round 



282 THELMA. 

here presently! Why — there's Mr. Lorimer worrying in at 
the door-way!" 

"Worrying in" is scarcely the term to apply to the polite 
but determined manner in which George Lorimer coolly elbows 
a passage among the heaving bare shoulders, backs, fat arms, 
and long trains that seriously obstruct his passage, but after 
some trouble he succeeds in his efforts to reach his fair host- 
ess, who receives him with rather a supercilious uplifting of 
her delicate eyebrows. 

"Dear me, Mr. Lorimer, you are quite a stranger!" she ob- 
serves, somewhat satirically. "We thought you had made up 
your mind to settle in Norway!" 

"Did you really, though!" and Lorimer smiles languidly. 
"I wonder at that — for you knew I came back from that region 
in the August of last year." 

"And since then I suppose you have played the hermit?" 
inquires her ladyship, indifferently, unfurling her fan of 
ostrich feathers and waving it slowly to and fro. 

"By no means! I went off to Scotland with a friend, Alec 
Macfarlane, and had some excellent shooting. Then, as I 
never permit my venerable mamma to pass the winter in 
London, I took her to Nice, from which delightful spot we 
returned three weeks ago." 

Lady Winsleigh laughs. "I did not ask you for a categori- 
cal explanation of your movements, Mr. Lorimer," she says, 
lightly — "I'm sure I hope you enjoyed yourself?" 

He bows gravely. "Thanks! Yes — strange to say, I did 
manage to extract a little pleasure here and there out of the 
universal dryness of things." 

"Have you seen your friend. Sir Philip, since he came to 
town?" asks Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, in her stately way. 

"Several times. I have dined with him and Lady Erring- 
ton frequently. I understand they are to be here to-night." 

Lady Winsleigh fans herself a little more rapidly, and her 
full crimson lips tighten into a thin, malicious line. 

"Well, I asked them, of course — as a matter of form," she 
says, carelessly — "but I shall, on the whole, be rather relieved 
if they don't come." 

A curious amused look comes over Lorimer's face. 

"Indeed! May I ask why?" 

"I should think the reason ought to be perfectly apparent to 
you" — and her ladyship's eyes flashed angrily. "Sir Philip is 



THELMA. 283 

all very well — he is by birth a gentleman — but the person he 
has married is not a lady, and it is an exceedingly unpleasant 
duty for me to have to receive her." 

A faint tinge of color flushes Lorimer's brow. "I think," he 
says, slowly, "I think you will find yourself mistaken, Lady 
AVinsleigh. I believe — " Here he pauses, and Mrs. Kush- 
Marvelle fixes him with a stony stare. 

"Are we to understand that she is educated?" she inquires, 
freezingly. "Positively well educated?" 

Lorimer laughs. "Not according to the standard of modern 
fashionable requirements!" he replies. 

Mrs. Marvelle snifi's the air portentously — Lady Clara curls 
her lip. At that moment everybody makes respectful way for 
one of the most important guests of the evening — a broad- 
shouldered man of careless attire, rough hair, fine features, 
and keen, mischievous eyes — a man of whom many stand in 
wholesome awe — Beaufort Lovelace, or, as he is commonly 
called, "Beau" Lovelace, a brilliant novelist, critic, and piti- 
less satirist. For him society is a game — a gay humming-top 
which he spins on the palm of his hand for his own private 
amusement. Once a scribbler in an attic, subsisting bravely 
on bread and cheese and hope, he now lords it more than half 
the year in a palace of fairy-like beauty on the Lago di Como 
— and he is precisely the same person who was formerly dis- 
dained and flouted by fair ladies because his clothes were poor 
and shabby, yet for whom they now practice all the arts known 
to their sex in fruitless endeavors to charm and conciliate him. 
For he laughs at them and their pretty ways — and his laughter 
is merciless. His arrowy glance discovers the "poudre de 
riz" on their blooming cheeks — the carmine on their lips, and 
the "kohl" on their eyelashes. He knows purchased hair from 
the natural growth — and he has a cruel eye for discerning the 
artificial contour of a "made-up" figure. And like a merry 
satyr dancing in a legendary forest, he capers and gambols in 
the vast fields of Humbug — all forms of it are attacked and 
ridiculed by his powerful and pungent pen — he is a sort of 
English Heine gathering in rich and daily harvests from the 
never-perishing, incessantly growing crop of fools. And as 
he — in all the wickedness of daring and superior intellect — 
approaches. Lady Winsleigh draws herself up with the con- 
scious air of a beauty who knows she is nearly perfect — Mrs. 
Kush-Marvelle makes a faint endeavor to settle the lace more 



284 THELMA. 

modestly over her rebellious bosom — Marcia smiles coquet- 
tishly, and Mrs. Van Clupp brings her diamond pendant 
(value, a thousand guineas) more prominently forward — for as 
she thinks, poor ignorant soul! "wealth always impresses 
these literary men more than anything!" In one swift glance 
Beau Lovelace observes all these different movements — and 
the inner fountain of his mirth begins to bubble. "What 
fun those Van Clupps are!" he thinks. "The old woman's 
got a diamond plaster on her neck! Horrible taste! She's 
anxious to show how much she's worth, I suppose! Mrs. Mar- 
velle wants a shawl, and Lady Clara a bodice. By Jove! 
What sights the women do make of themselves!" 

But his face betrays none of these reflections — its expression 
is one of polite gravity, though a sudden sweetness smoothes 
it as he shakes hands with Lord Winsleigh and Lorimer — a 
sweetness that shows how remarkably handsome Beau can 
look if he chooses. He rests one hand on Lorimer's shoulder. 
"Why, George, old boy, I thought you were playing the duti- 
ful son at Nice? Don't tell me you've deserted the dear old 
lady! Where is she? You know I've got to finish that argu- 
ment with her about her beloved Byron." 

Lorimer laughs. "Go and finish it when you like. Beau," 
he answers. "My mother's all right. She's at home. You 
know she's always charmed to see you. She's delighted with 
that new book of yours." 

"Is she? She finds pleasure in trifles, then — " 

"Oh, no, Mr. Lovelace!" interrupts Lady Clara, with a win- 
ning glance. "You must not run yourself down! The book 
is exquisite! I got it at once from the library and read every 
line of it!" 

"I am exceedingly flattered!" says Lovelace, with a grave 
bow, though there is a little twinkling mockery in his glance. 
"When a lady so bewitching condescends to read what I have 
written, how can I express my emotion!" 

"The press is unanimous in its praise of you," remarks Lord 
Winsleigh, cordially. ^TTou are quite the lion of the day!" 

"Oh, quite!" agrees Beau, laughing. "And do I not roar 
*as sweet as any nightingale'? But I say, where's the new 
beauty?" 

"I really do not know to whom you allude, Mr. Lovelace," 
replies Lady Winsleigh, coldly. Lorimer smiles and is silent. 
Beau looks from one to the other amusedly. 



THELMA. 285 

"Perhaps I've made a mistake," he says, "but the Duke of 
Eoxwell is responsible. He told me that if I came here to- 
night I should see one of the loveliest women living — Lady 
Bruce-Errington. He saw her in the park. I think this gentle- 
man" — indicating Sir Francis Lennox, who bit his mustache 
vexedly — "said quite openly at the club last night that she 
was the new beauty — and that she would be here this evening." 

Lady Winsleigh darts a side glance at her "Lennie" that is 
far from pleasant. 

"Really it's perfectly absurd!" she says, with a scornful toss 
of her head. "We shall have house-maids and bar-girls 
accepted as ''quite the rage' next. I do not know Sir Philip's 
wife in the least — I hear she was a common farmer's daughter. 
I certainly invited her to-night out of charity and kindness in 
order that she might get a little accustomed to society — for, 
of course, poor creature! entirely ignorant and uneducated as 
she is, everything will seem strange to her. But she has not 
come — " 

"Sir Philip and Lady Bruce-Errington!" announces Briggs 
at this juncture. 

There is a sudden hush — a movement of excitement — and 
the group near the door fall apart staring and struck momen- 
tarily dumb with surprise, as a tall, radiant figure in dazzling 
white, with diamonds flashing on a glittering coil of gold hair, 
and wondrous sea-blue earnest eyes, passes through their midst 
with that royal free step and composed grace of bearing that 
might distinguish an empress of many nations. 

"Good heavens! What a magnificent woman!" mutters 
Beau Lovelace — "Venus realized!" 

Lady Winsleigh turns very pale — she trembles and can 
scarcely regain her usual composure as Sir Philip, with a 
proud tenderness lighting up the depths of his hazel eyes, leads 
this vision of youth and perfect loveliness up to her, saying 
simply: 

"Lady Winsleigh, allow me to introduce to you — my wife! 
Thelma, this is Lady Winsleigh!" 

There is a strange sensation in Lady Winsleigh's throat as 
though a very tight string were suddenly drawn round it to 
almost strangling point — and it is certain that she feels as 
though she must scream, hit somebody with her fan, and rush 
from the room in an undignified rage. But she chokes back 



286 THELMA. 

these purely feminine emotions — she smiles and extends her 
jeweled hand. 

"So good of you to come to-night!" she says, sweetly. "I 
have been longing to see you. Lady Errington! I dare say 
you know your husband is quite an old acquaintance of mine!" 

And a languorous glance, like fire seen through smoke, leaps 
from beneath her silky eyelashes at Sir Philip — but he sees it 
not — he is chatting and laughing gayly with Lorimer and 
Beau Lovelace. 

"Indeed, yes!" answers Thelma, in that soft, low voice of 
hers, which has such a thrilling richness within it. "And it 
is for that reason I am very glad to meet you. It is always 
pleasant for me to know my husband's friends." 

Here she raises those marvelous, innocent eyes of hers and 
smiles — why does Lady Winsleigh shrink from that frank and 
child-like openness of regard? Why does she, for one brief 
moment, hate herself? — why does she so suddenly feel herself 
to be vile and beneath contempt? God only knows! — but the 
first genuine blush that has tinged her ladyship's cheek for 
many a long day suddenly spreads a hot and embarrassing 
tide of crimson over the polished pallor of her satiny skin, and 
she says hurriedly: 

"I must find you some people to talk to. This is my dear 
friend, Mrs. Rush-Marvelle — I am sure you will like each 
other! Let me introduce Mrs. Van Clupp to you — Mrs. Van 
Clupp, and Miss Van Clupp!" 

These ladies bow stifiiy while Thelma responds to their 
prim salutations with easy grace. 

"Sir Francis Lennox" — continues Lady Winsleigh, and there 
is something like a sneer in her smile as that gentleman 
makes a deep and courtly reverence, with an unmistakable 
look of admiration in his sleepy tiger-brown ^eyes — then she 
turns to Lord Winsleigh and adds in a casual way: "My hus- 
band!" Lord Winsleigh advances rather eagerly — there is a 
charm in the exquisite nobility of Thelma's face that touches 
his heart and appeals to the chivalrous and poetical part of his 
nature. 

"Sir Philip and I have known each other for some years," 
he says, pressing her little fair hand cordially. "It is a great 
pleasure for me to see you to-night, Lady Errington — I realize 
how very much my friend deserves to be congratulated on his 
marriage!" 



THELMA. 287 

Thelma smiles. This little speech pleases her, but she does 
not accept the compliment implied to herself. 

"You are very kind. Lord Winsleigh," she answers. "I am 
glad indeed that you like Philip. I do think with you that he 
deserves every one's good wishes. It is my great desire to 
make him always happy." 

A brief shadow crosses Lord Winsleigh's thoughtful brow, 
and he studies her sweet eyes attentively. Is she sincere? 
Does she mean what she says? Or is she, like others of her 
sex, merely playing a graceful part? A slight sigh escapes 
him — absolute truth, innocent love, and stainless purity are 
written in such fair clear lines on that perfect countenance 
that the mere idea of questioning her sincerity seems a 
sacrilege. 

"Your desire is gratified, I am sure," he returns, and his 
voice is somewhat sad. "I never saw him looking so well. 
He seemed in excellent spirits." 

"Oh, for that!" and she laughs, "He is a very light hearted 
Boy! But once he would tell me very dreadful things about 
the world — how it was not at all worth living in — but I do 
think he must have been lonely. For he is very pleased with 
everything now, and finds no fault at all!" 

"I can quite understand that!" and Lord Winsleigh smiles, 
though that shadow of pain still rests on his brow. 

Mrs. Eush-Marvelle and the Van Clupps are listening to the 
conversation with straining ears. What strange person is 
this? She does not talk bad grammar, though her manner of 
expressing herself is somewhat quaint and foreign. But she 
is babyish — perfectly babyish! The idea of any well-bred 
woman condescending to sing the praises of her own husband 
in public! Absurd! "Deserves every one's good wishes!" — 
pooh! — her "great desire is to make him always happy!" — what 
utter rubbish! — and he is a "light-hearted boy!" Good gra- 
cious! — what next? Marcia Van Clupp is strongly inclined to 
giggle, and Mrs. Van Clupp is indignantly conscious that the 
Errington diamonds far surpass her own, both for size and 
luster. 

At that moment Sir Philip approaches his wife with George 
Lorimer and Beau Lovelace. Thelma's smile at Lorimer is 
the greeting of an old friend — a sun-bright glance that makes 
his heart beat a little quicker than usual. He watches her as 
she turns to be introduced to Lovelace — while Miss Van Clupp, 



288 THELMA. 

thinking of the relentless gift of satire with which that bril- 
liant writer is endowed, looks out for "some fun" — for, as she 
confides in a low tone to Mrs. Marvelle, "she'll never know 
how to talk to that man!" 

"Thelma," says Sir Philip, "this is the celebrated author, 
Beaufort Lovelace — you have often heard me speak of him." 

She extends both her hands, and her eyes deepen and flash. 
"Ah! you are one of those great men whom we all love and 
admire!" she says, with direct frankness — and the cynical 
Beau, who has never yet received so sincere a compliment, 
feels himself coloring like a school-girl. "I am so very proud 
to meet you! I have read your wonderful book, 'Azaziel,' and 
it made me glad and sorry together. For why do you draw a 
noble example and yet say at the same time that it is impossi- 
ble to follow it? Because in one breath you inspire us to be 
good, and yet you tell us we shall never become so! That is 
not right — is it?" 

Beau meets her questioning glance with a grave smile, 

"It is most likely entirely wrong from your point of view. 
Lady Errington," he said. "Some day we will talk over the 
matter. You shall show me the error of my ways. Perhaps 
you will put life, and the troublesome business of living, in 
quite a new light for me! You see, we novelists have an 
unfortunate trick of looking at the worst or most ludicrous side 
of every-thing — we can't help it! So many apparently lofty 
and pathetic tragedies turn out, on close examination, to be 
the meanest and most miserable of farces — it's no good mak- 
ing them out to be grand Greek poems when they are only 
base doggerel rhymes. Besides, it's the fashion nowadays to 
be chiffonniers in literature — to pick up the rags of life and 
sort them in all their uncomeliness before the morbid eyes of 
the public. What's the use of spending thought and care on 
the manufacture of a jeweled diadem, and offering it to the 
people on a velvet cushion, when they prefer an olla-podrida of 
cast-off-clothing, dried bones, and candle-ends? In brief, what 
would avail to write as grandly as Shakespeare or Scott, when 
society clamors for Zola and others of his school?" 

There was a little group round them by this time — men 
generally collected wherever Beau Lovelace aired his opinions 
 — and a double attraction drew them together now in the per- 
son of the lovely woman to whom he was holding forth. 
Marcia Van Clupp stared mightily — surely the Norwegian 



THELMA. 289 

peasant would not understand Beau's similes — for they were 
certainly incomprehensible to Marcia. As for his last remark 
— why! she had read all Zola's novels in the secrecy of her 
own room, and had gloated over them — no words could de- 
scribe her intense admiration of books that were so indelicately 
realistic! "He is jealous of other writers, I suppose," she 
thought; "these literary people hate each other like poison." 

Meanwhile Thelma's blue eyes looked puzzled, "I do not 
know that name," she said. "Zola ! — what is he ? He can not 
be great. Shakespeare I know — he is the glory of all the 
world, of course — I think him as noble as Homer. Then for 
Walter Scott — I love all his beautiful stories — I have read 
them many, many times, nearly as often as I have read Homer 
and the Norse Sagas. And the world must surely love such 
writings — or how should they last so long?" She laughed and 
shook her bright head archly. "CJdffonnier! Point dutoid! 
Monsieur y les divines pensees que vous avez donnees au monde 
ne sont pas des chiffons." 

Beau smiled again, and offered her his arm. "Let me find 
you a chair!" he said. "It will be rather a difficult matter — 
still I can but try. You will be fatigued if you stand too 
long." And he moved through the swaying crowd, with her 
little gloved hand resting lightly on his coat-sleeve — while 
Marcia Van Clupp and her mother exchanged looks of wonder 
and dismay. The "fisherwoman" could speak French — more- 
over, she could speak it with a wonderfully soft and perfect 
accent — the "person" had studied Homer and Shakespeare, 
and was conversant with the best literature — and, bitterest 
sting of all, the "peasant" could give every woman in the room 
a lesson in deportment, grace, and perfect taste in dress. Every 
costume looked tawdry beside her richly flowing velvet 
draperies — every low bodice became indecent compared with 
the modesty of that small square opening at Thelma's white 
throat — an opening just sufficient to display her collar of dia- 
monds — and every figure seemed either dumpy and awkward, 
too big or too fat, or too lean and too lanky — when brought 
into contrast with her statuesque outlines. 

The die was cast — the authority of Beau Lovelace was near- 
ly supreme in fashionable and artistic circles, and from the 
moment he was seen devoting his attention to the "new 
beauty," excited whispers began to flit from mouth to mouth — 
"She will be the rage this season!" — "We must ask her to 
Id 



290 THELMA. 

come to us I" — "Do ask Lady Winsleigh to introduce usl" — 
"She must come to our house!" and so on. And Lady Wins- 
leigh was neither blind nor deaf — she saw and heard plainly 
enough that her reign was over, and in her secret soul she was 
furious. . The "common farmer's daughter" was neither vul- 
gar nor uneducated — and she was surpassingly lovely — even 
Lady Winsleigh could not deny so plain and absolute a fact. 
But her ladyship was a woman of the world, and she perceived 
at once that Thelma was not. Philip had married a creature 
with the bodily loveliness of a goddess and the innocent soul 
of a child — and it was Just that child-like, pure soul looking 
serenely out of Thelma's eyes that had brought the long-for- 
gotten blush of shame to Clara Winsleigh's cheek. But that 
feeling of self-contempt soon passed — she was no better and 
no worse than other women of her set, she thought — after all, 
what had she to be ashamed of? Nothing, except — except — 
perhaps, her "little affair" with "Lennie." A new emotion 
now stirred her blood — one of malice and hatred, mingled with 
a sense of outraged love and ungratified passion — for she still 
admired Philip to a foolish excess. Her dark eyes flashed 
scornfully as she noted the attitude of Sir Francis Lennox — he 
was leaning against the marble mantel-piece, stroking his 
mustache with one hand, absorbed in watching Thelma, who, 
seated in an easy-chair which Beau Lovelace had found for 
her, was talking and laughing gayly with those immediately 
around her, a group which increased in size every moment, and 
in which the men were most predominant. 

"Fool!" muttered Lady Winsleigh to herself, apostrophizing 
"Lennie" in this uncomplimentary manner. "Fool! I won- 
der if he thinks I care! He may play hired lackey to all the 
women in London if he likes! He looks a prig compared to 
Philip!" 

And her gaze wandered — Philip was standing by his wife, 
engaged in an animated conversation with Lord Winsleigh. 
They were all near the grand piano — and Lady Clara, smooth- 
ing her vexed brow, swept her ruby velvets gracefully up to 
that quarter of the room. Before she could speak, the cele- 
brated Herr Machtenklinken confronted her with some stern- 
ness. 

"Your ladyshib vill do me ze kindness to remember," he 
said, loftily, "zat I am here to blay! Zere has been no obbor- 
tunity — ze biano could not make itself to be heard in zis fery 



THELMA. 291 

moch noise. It is bossible your ladyshib shall require not ze 
music zis efening? In zat case I shall take my fery goot 
leave/* 

Lady Winsleigh raised her eyes with much superciliousness, 

"As you please/' she said, coolly. "If you are so indifferent 
to your advantages — then all I can say is, so am I! You are, 
perhaps, known on the Continent, Herr Machtenklinken — but 
not here — and I think you ought to be more grateful for my 
influence.'' 

So saying, she passed on, leaving the luckless pianist in a 
state of the greatest indignation. 

*'Oott im Himmeir he gasped, in a sort of infuriated sotto 
voce. "Ze emberor himself would not have speak to me so! 
I come here as a favor — her ladyshib do not offer me one 
pfennig — ach! ze music is not for such beoble! I shall brefer 
to blay to bigs! Zere is no art in zis country — " 

And he began to make his way out of the room, when he 
was overtaken by Beau Lovelace, who had followed him in 
haste. 

'^here are you off to, Hermann?" he asked, good-na- 
turedly. "We want you to play. There is a lady here who 
heard 3'^ou in Paris quite recently — she admires you im- 
mensely. Won't you come and be introduced to her?" 

Herr Machtenklinken paused, and a smile softened his 
hitherto angry countenance. 

"You are fery goot, Mr. Lofelace," he remarked — "and I 
would do much for you — but her ladyshib understands me not 
— she has offend me — it is better I should take my leave." 

"Oh, bother her ladyship!" said Beau, lightly. "Come 
along — and give us something in your best style." 

So saying, he led the half -reluctant artist back to the piano, 
where he was introduced to Thelma, who gave him so sweet 
a smile that he was fairly dazzled. 

"It is you who play Schumann so beautifully," she said. 
"My husband and I heard you at one of Lamoureaux's con- 
certs in Paris. I fear," and she looked wistfully at him, "that 
you would think it very rude and selfish of me if I asked you 
to play just one little piece? Because, of course, you are here 
to enjoy yourself, and talk to your friends, and it seems unkind 
to take you away from them!" 

A strange moisture dimmed the poor German's eyes. This 
was the first time in England that the "celebrate" had been 



292 THELMA. 

treated as a friend and a gentleman. Up to this moment, at 
all the "at homes" and "assemblies," he had not been consid- 
ered as a guest at all — he was an "artist," "a good pianist" — 
"a man who had played before the Emperor of Germany" — 
and he was expected to perform for nothing, and be grateful 
for the "influence" exercised on his behalf — influence which as 
yet had not put one single extra guinea in his pocket. Now, 
here was a great lady almost apologizing for asking him to 
play, lest it should take him away from his "friends!" His 
heart swelled with emotion and gratitude — the poor fellow 
had no "friends" in London, except Beau Lovelace, who was 
kind to him, but who had no power in the musical world — and 
as Thelma's gentle voice addressed him, he eould have knelt 
and kissed her little shoe for her sweet courtesy and kindness. 

"Miladi," he said, Avith a profound reverence. "I will blay 
for you with bleasure — it will be a joy for ze music to make 
itself beautiful for you!" 

And with this fantastic attempt at a compliment, he seated 
himself at the instrument and struck a crashing chord to com- 
mand silence. 

The hum of conversation grew louder than ever — and to 
Thelma's surprise Lady Winsleigh seated herself by her and 
began to converse. Herr Machtenkhnken struck another 
chord — in vain! The deafening clamor of tongues continued, 
and Lady Winsleigh asked Thelma with much seeming inter- 
est if the scenery was very romantic in Norway. 

The girl colored deeply, and after a little hesitation, said: 

"Excuse me — I would rather not speak till the music is over. 
It is impossible for a great musician to think his thoughts out 
properly unless there is silence. Would it not be better to 
ask every one to leave off talking while this gentleman plays?" 

Clara Winsleigh looked amused. "My dear, you don't 
know them," she said, carelessly. "They would think me 
mad to propose such a thing! There are always a few who 
listen." 

Once more the pianist poised his hands over the keys of the 
instrument — Thelma looked a little troubled and grieved. 
Beau Lovelace saw it, and acting on a sudden impulse, turned 
toward the chattering crowds, and, holding up his hand, 
called, "Silence, please!" 

There was an astonished hush. Beau laughed. "We want 
to hear some music," he said, with the utmost coolness. 



THELMA. 293 

"Conversation can be continued afterward." He then nodded 
cheerfully toward Herr Machtenklinken, who, inspired by this 
open encouragement, started oif like a race-horse into one of 
ilie exquisite rambling preludes of Chopin. Gradually, as he 
played, his plain face took upon itself a noble, thoughtful, rapt 
expression — his wild eyes softened, his furrowed, frowning 
brow smoothed, and, meeting the grave, rare blue eyes of 
Thelma, he smiled. His touch grew more and more delicate 
and tender — from the prelude he wandered into a nocturne of 
plaintive and exceeding melancholy, which he played with 
thrilling and exquisite pathos — anon, he glided into one of 
those dreamily joyous yet sorrowful mazurkas that remind 
one of bright flowers growing in wild luxuriance over lonely 
and forsaken graves. The "celebrate" had reason to boast of 
himself — he was a perfect master of the instrument — and as 
his fingers closed on the final chord, a hearty burst of applause 
rewarded his efforts, led by Lovelace and Lorimer. He re- 
sponded by the usual bow — but his real gratitude was all for 
Thelma. For her he had played his best — and he had seen 
tears in her lovely eyes. He felt as proud of her appreciation 
as of the ring he had received from the Czar — and bent low 
over the fair hand she extended to him. 

"You must be very happy," she said, "to feel all those lovely 
sounds in your heart! I hope I shall see and hear you again 
some day — I thank you so very much for the pleasure you 
have given me!" 

Lady Winsleigh said nothing — and she listened to Thelma's 
words with a sort of contempt. 

"Is the girl half-witted?" she thought. "She must be, or 
she would not be so absurdly enthusiastic! The man plays 
well — but it is his profession to play well — ^it's no good prais- 
ing these sort of people — they are never grateful, and they 
always impose upon you." Aloud she asked Sir Philip: 

"Does Lady En-ington play?" 

"A little," he answered. "She sings." 

At once there was a chorus of inanely polite voices round 
the piano, "Oh, do sing. Lady Errington! Please give us one 
song!" and Sir Francis Lennox, sauntering up, fixed his lan- 
guorous gaze on Thelma's face, murmuring, "You will not be 
so cruel as to refuse us such deHght?" 

"'No, of course not!" answered the girl, greatly surprised at 
all these unnecessary entreaties. "1 am always pleased to 



294 THELMA. 

sing/' And she drew off her long loose gloves and seated her- 
self at the piano without the least affectation of reluctance. 
Then, glancing at her husband with a bright smile, she asked, 
"What song do you think will be best, Philip?" 

"One of those old Norse mountain songs," he answered. 

She played a soft minor prelude — there was not a sound in 
the room now — everybody pressed toward the piano, staring 
with a curious fascination at her beautiful face and diamond- 
crowned hair. One moment — and her voice, in all its passion- 
ate, glorious fullness rang out with a fresh vibrating tone that 
thrilled to the very heart — and the foolish crowd that gaped 
and listened was speechless, motionless, astonished, and be- 
wildered. 

A Norse mountain song, was it? How strange, and grand, 
and wild! George Lorimer stood apart — his eyes ached with 
restrained tears. He knew the melody well — and up before 
him rose the drear solemnity of the Altenguard hills, the 
glittering expanse of the fjord, the dear old farm-house behind 
its cluster of pines. Again he saw Thelma as he had seen her 
first — clad in her plain white gown, spinning in the dark em- 
brasure of the rose-wreathed window — again the words of the 
self-destroyed Sigurd came back to his recollection, "Good 
things may come for others — but for you the heavens are 
empty!" He looked at her now — Philip's wife — in all the 
splendor of her rich attire — she was lovelier than ever, and 
her sweet nature was as yet unspoiled by all the wealth and 
luxury around her. 

"Good God! what an inferno she has come into!" he 
thought, vaguely. "How will she stand these people when 
she gets to know them? The Van Clupps, the Eush-Marvelles, 
and others like them — and as for Clara Winsleigh — " He 
turned to study her ladyship attentively. She was sitting 
quite close to the piano — her eyes were cast down, but the 
rubies on her bosom heaved quickly and restlessly, and she 
furled and unfurled her fan impatiently. "I shouldn't won- 
der," he went on, meditating gravely, "if she doesn't try and 
make some mischief somehow. She looks it." 

At that moment Thelma ceased singing, and the room rang 
with applause. Herr Matchtenklinken was overcome with 
admiration. 

"It is a voice of heaven!" he said in a rapture. 

The fair singer was surrounded with people. 



THELMA. 295 



«l 



^I hope," said Mrs. Vaii Clupp, with her usual ill-bred eager- 
ness to ingratiate herself with the titled and wealthy, "I hope 
you will come and see me. Lady Errington. I am at home 
every Friday evening to my friends." 

"Oh, yes," said Thelma, simply. "But I am not your 
friend yet! When we do know each other better I will come. 
We shall meet each other many times first — and then you will 
see if you like me to be your friend. Is it not so?" 

A scarcely concealed smile reflected itself on the faces of all 
who heard this naive but indefinite acceptance of Mrs. Van 
Clupp's invitation, while Mrs. Van Clupp herself was some- 
what mortified, and knew not what to answer. This Nor- 
wegian girl was evidently quite ignorant of the usages of 
polite society, or she would at once have recognized the fact 
that an "at home" had nothing whatsoever to do with the 
obligations "of friendship — besides, as far as friendship was 
concerned, had not Mrs. Van Clupp tabooed several of her own 
blood-relations and former intimate acquaintances, for the 
very sensible reason that while she had grown richer they had 
grown poorer? But now Mrs. Eush-Marvelle sailed up in all 
her glory, with her good-natured smile and matronly air. She 
was a privileged person, and she put her arm around Thelma's 
waist. 

"You must come to me, my dear," she said with real kind- 
ness — her motherly heart had warmed to the girl's beauty and 
innocence — "I knew Philip when he was quite a boy. He will 
tell you what a dreadfully old woman I am! You must try to 
like me for his sake." 

Thelma smiled radiantly. "I always wish to like Philip's 
friends," she said, frankly. "I do hope I shall please you!" 

A pang of remorse smote Mrs. Rush-Marvelle's heart as she 
remembered how loath she had been to meet Philip's "peas- 
ant" wife — she hesitated — then, yielding to her warm impulse, 
drew the girl closer and kissed her fair rose-tinted cheek. 

"You please everybody, my child," she said, honestly. 
"Philip is a lucky man! Now I'll say good-night, for it is 
getting late — I'll write to you to-morrow and fix a day for you 
to come and lunch with me." 

"But you must also come and see Philip," returned Thelma, 
pressing her hand. 

"So I will— so I will!" and Mrs. Eush-Marvelle nodded 



296 THEL.MA. 

beamingly, and made her way up to Lady Winsleigh, saying, 
"By-by, Clara! Thanks for a most charming evening!" 

Clara pouted. "Going already, Mimsey?" she queried — 
then, in a lower tone, she said, "Well! what do you think of 
her?" 

"A beautiful child — no more!" answered Mrs. Marvelle — 
then, studying with some gravity the brilliant brunette face 
before her, she added in a whisper, "Leave her alone, Clara — 
don't make her miserable! You know what I mean! It 
wouldn't take much to break her heart!" 

Clara laughed harshly and played with her fan. 

"Dear me, Mimsey! you are perfectly outrageous! Do you 
think I'm an ogress ready to eat her up? On the contrary, I 
mean to be a friend to her." 

Mrs. Marvelle still looked grave. 

"I'm glad to hear it," she said; "only some friends are worse 
than declared enemies." 

Lady Winsleigh shrugged her shoulders. 

"Go along, Mimsey — go home to bed!" she exclaimed, im- 
patiently. "You are intense! I hate sentimental philosophy 
and copy-book platitudes!" She laughed again and folded her 
hands with an air of mock penitence. "There! I didn't mean 
to be rude! Good-night, dear old darling!" 

"Good-night, Clara!" and Mrs. Marvelle, summoning her 
timid husband from some far corner, where he had remained 
in hiding, took her departure with much stateliness. 

A great many people were going down to supper by this 
time, but Sir Philip was tired of the heat and glare and noise, 
and whispered as much to Thelma, who at once advanced to 
bid her hostess farewell. 

"Won't you have some supper?" inquired her ladyship. 
"Don't go yet!" 

But Thelma was determined not to detain her husband a 
moment longer than he wished — so Lady Winsleigh, seeing 
remonstrances were of no avail, bade them both an effusive 
good-night. 

"We must see a great deal of each other!" she said, pressing 
Thelma's hands warmly in her own; "I hope we shall be quite 
dear friends!" 

"Thank you!" said Thelma, "I do hope so too, if you wish 
it so much. Good-night, Lord Winsleigh!" 



THELMA. 297 

"Let me escort you to your carriage," said her noble host, 
at once offering her his arm. 

"And allow me to follow," added Beau Lovelace, slipping 
his arm through Errington's, to whom he whispered, "How 
dare you, sir! How dare you be such a provokingly happy 
man in this miserable old world?" Errington laughed — and the 
little group had just reached the door of the drawing-room 
when Thelma suddenly turned with a look of inquiry in her 
eyes. 

"Where is Mr. Lorimer?" she said. "I have forgotten to 
say good-night to him, Philip." 

"Here I am. Lady Errington," and Lorimer sauntered for- 
ward with rather a forced smile — a smile which altogether 
vanished, leaving his face strangely pale, as she stretched out 
her hand to him, and said laughingly: 

"You bad Mr. Lorimer! Where were you? You know it 
would make me quite unhappy not to wish you good-night. 
Ah, you are a very naughty brother!" 

"Come home with us, George," said Sir Philip, eagerly. 
"Do, there's a good fellow!" 

"I can't, Phil!" answered Lorimer, almost pathetically. "I 
can't to-night — indeed, I can't! Don't ask me!" And he 
wrung his friend's hand — and then bravely met Thelma's 
bright glance. 

"Forgive me!" he said to her. "I know I ought to have 
presented myself before — I'm a dreadfully lazy fellow, you 
know! Good-night!" 

Thelma regarded him steadfastly. 

"You look — what is it you call yourself sometimes — seedy?" 
she observed. "Not well at all. Mind you come to us to- 
morrow!" 

He promised — and then accompanied them down to their 
carriage — he and Beau Lovelace assisting to cover Thelma 
with her fur cloak, and being the last to shake hands with Sir 
Philip as he sprung in beside his wife, and called to the coach- 
man "Home!" The magic word seemed to affect the horses, 
for they started at a brisk trot, and within a couple of minutes 
the carriage was out of sight. It was a warm star-lighted 
evening — and as Lorimer and Lovelace re-entered Winsleigh 
House, Beau stole a side glance at his silent companion. 

"A plucky fellow!" he mused; "I should say he'd die game. 
Tortures won't wring his secret out of him." Aloud he said: 



298 THBLMA. 

"I say, haven't we had enough of this? Don't let ns sup here 
— nothing but unsubstantial pastry and claret-cup — ^the latter 
abominable mixture would kill me. Come on to the Club, will 
you?" 

Lorimer gladly assented — they got their overcoats from the 
officious Briggs, tipped him handsomely, and departed arm in 
arm. The last glimpse they caught of the Winsleigh festivi- 
ties was Marcia Van Clupp sitting on the stairs, polishing off 
with much gusto the wing and half breast of a capon — while 
the mild Lord Masherville stood on the step just above her, 
consoling his appetite with a spoonful of tepid yellow jelly. 
He had not been able to secure any capon for himself — he had 
been frightened away by the warning cry of "Ladies first!" 
shouted forth by a fat gentleman, who was on guard at the 
head of the supper-table, and who had already secreted five 
plates of different edibles for his own consumption in a near 
corner behind the window-curtains. Meanwhile, Sir Philip 
Bruce-Errington, proud, happy, and triumphant, drew his wife 
into a close embrace as they drove home together, and said, 
"You were the queen of the evening, my Thelma! Have you 
enjoyed yourself?" 

"Oh, I do not call that enjoyment!" she declared. "How is 
it possible to enjoy anything among so many strangers?" 

"Well, what is it?" he asked, laughingly. 

She laughed also. "I do not know indeed what it is!" she 
said. "I have never been to anything like it before. It did 
seem to me as if all the people were on show for some reason 
or other. And the gentlemen did look very tired — ^there was 
nothing for them to do. Even you, my boy! You made sev- 
eral big yawns! Did you know that?" 

Philip laughed more than ever. "I didn't know it, my pet!" 
he answered; "but I'm not surprised. Big yawns are the in- 
variable result of an 'at home.' Do you like Beau Lovelace?" 

"Very much," she answered, readily. "But, Philip, I should 
not like to have so many friends as Lady Winsleigh. I 
thought friends were rare?" 

"So they are! She doesn't care for these people a bit. 
They are mere acquaintances." 

"Whom does she care for then?" asked Thelma suddenly. 
"Of course I mean after her husband. Naturally she loves 
him best." 

"Naturally," and Philip paused, adding: "She has her son 



THELMA. 299 

— Ernest — he's a fine bright boy — he was not there to-night. 
You must see him some day. Then I think her favorite friend 
is Mrs. Kush-Marvelle." 

"I do like that lady too/' said Thelma. "She spoke very 
kindly to me and kissed me." 

"Did she really!" and Philip smiled. "I think she was 
more to be congratulated on taking the kiss than you in re- 
ceiving it! But she's not a bad old soul — only a little too 
fond of money. But, Thelma, whom do you care for most? 
You did tell me once, but I forget!" 

She turned her lovely face and star-like eyes upon him, and, 
meeting his laughing look, she smiled. 

"How often must I tell you!" she murmured, softly. "I 
do think you will never tire of hearing! You know that it is 
you for whom I care most and that all the world would be 
empty to me without you! Oh, my husband — my darling! do 
not make me try to tell you how much I love you! I can not 
 — my heart is too full!" 

The rest of their drive homeward was very quiet — there 
are times when silence is more eloquent than speech. 



CHAPTEE IV. 

A small cloud — so slight as to be a mere speck on the fair 
blue sky, was all the warning we received. — Pliny. 

After that evening great changes came into Thelma's be- 
fore peaceful life. She had conquered her enemies, or so it 
seemed — society threw down all its barricades and rushed to 
meet her with open arms. Invitations crowded upon her — 
often she grew tired and bewildered in the multiplicity of 
them all. London life wearied her — she preferred the em- 
bowered seclusion of Errington Manor, the dear old house in 
green-wooded Warwickshire. But the "season" claimed her — 
its frothy gayeties were deemed incomplete without her — no 
"at home" was considered "the" thing unless she was present. 
She became the center of a large and ever-widening social 
circle — painters, poets, novelists, wdts, savants, and celebrities 
of high distinction crowded her rooms, striving to entertain 



fc 



300 THELMA. 

her as well as themselves with that inane small talk and gos- 
sip too often practiced by the wisest among us — and thus sur- 
rounded, she began to learn many puzzling and painful things 
of which in her old Norwegian life she had been happily 
ignorant. 

For instance, she had once imagined that all the men and 
women of culture who followed the higher professions must 
perforce be a sort of "Joyous Fraternity," superior to other 
mortals not so gifted — and, under this erroneous impression, 
she was at first eager to know some of the so-called "great" 
people who had distinguished themselves in literature or the 
fine arts. She had fancied that they must of necessity be all 
refined, sympathetic, large-hearted, and noble-minded — alas! 
how grievously was she disappointed! She found, to her sor- 
row, that the tree of modern Art bore but few wholesome 
roses and many cankered buds — that the "Joyous Fraternity" 
were not joyous at all — but on the contrary, inclined to dys- 
pepsia and discontentment. She found that even poets, whom 
she had fondly deemed were the angel-guides among the chil- 
dren of this earth — were most of them painfully conceited, 
sejfish in aim and limited in thought — moreover, that they 
were often so empty of all true inspiration that they Avere 
actually able to hate and envy one another with a sort of 
womanish spite and temper — that novelists, professing to be 
in sympathy with the heart of humanity, were no sooner 
brought into contact one with another than they plainly 
showed by look, voice, and manner the contempt they enter- 
tained for each other's work — that men of science were never 
so happy as when trying to upset each other's theories — that 
men of religious combativeness were always on the alert to 
destroy each other's creeds — and that, in short, there was a 
very general tendency to mean jealousies, miserable heart- 
burnings and utter weariness all round. 

On one occasion she, in the sweetest simplicity, invited two 
lady authoresses of note to meet at one of her "at homes." She 
welcomed both the masculine-looking ladies with a radiant 
smile, and introduced them, saying gently: "You will be so 
pleased to know each other!" But the stony stare, stiff nod, 
portentous sniff, and scornful smile with which these two 
eminent females exchanged cold greetings were enough to 
daunt the most sympathetic hostess that ever lived — and when 
they at once retired to different corners of the room and sat 



THELMA. 301 

apart with their backs turned to one another for the remainder 
of the evening, their attitude was so uncompromising that it 
was no wonder the gentle Thelma felt quite dismayed and 
wretched at the utter failure of the rencontre. 

"They would not be sociable!" she afterward complained 
to Lady Winsleigh. "They tried to be as rude to each other 
as they could!" 

Lady Winsleigh laughed. "Of course!" she said. "What 
else did you expect! But if you want some fun, ask a young, 
pretty and brilliant authoress (there are a few such) to meet 
an old, ugly and dowdy one (and there are many such), and 
watch the dowdy one's face. It will be a delicious study of 
expression, I assure you!" 

But Thelma would not try this delicate experiment — in fact, 
she began rather to avoid literary people, with the exception 
of Beau Lovelace. His was a genial, sympathetic nature, 
and, moreover, he had a winning charm of manner which few 
could resist. He was not a bookworm — he was not, strictly 
speaking, a literary man — and he was entirely indifferent to 
public praise or blame. He was, as he himself expressed it, 
"a servant and worshiper of literature," and there is a wide 
gulf of difference between one who serves literature for its 
own sake and one who uses it basely as a tool to serve himself. 

But in all her new and varied experiences, perhaps Thelma 
was most completely bewildered by the women she met. Her 
simple Norse beliefs in the purity and gentleness of woman- 
hood were startled and outraged — she could not understand 
London ladies at all. Some of them seemed to have no idea 
beyond dress and show — others looked upon their husbands, 
the lawful protectors of their name and fame, with easy in- 
difference, as though they were mere bits of household furni- 
ture — others, having nothing better to do, "went in" for 
spiritualism — the low spiritualism that manifests itself in the 
turning of tables and moving of sideboards — not the higher 
spiritualism of an improved, perfected, and saint-like way of 
life — and these argued wildly on the theory of matter passing 
through matter, to the extent of declaring themselves able to 
send a letter or box through the wall without making a hole 
in it — and this with such obstinate gravity as made Thelma 
fear for their reason. Then there were the women atheists — 
creatures who had voluntarily crushed all the sweetness of the 
sex within them — foolish human flowers without fragrance. 



302 THELMA. 

that persistently turned away their faces from the sunlight 
and denied its existence, preferring to wither, profitless, on 
the dry stalk of their own theory — there were the "platform 
women," unnatural products of an unnatural age — there were 
the great ladies of the aristocracy who turned with scorn from 
a case of real necessity, and yet spent hundreds of pounds 
on private theatricals wherein they might have the chance of 
displaying themselves in extravagant costumes — and there 
were the "professional" beauties, who, if suddenly deprived 
of elegant attire and face cosmetics, turned out to be no 
beauties at all, but very ordinary, unintelligent persons. 

"What is the exact meaning of the term, 'professional 
beauty'?" Thelma had asked Beau Lovelace on one occasion, 
"I suppose it is some very poor beautiful woman who takes 
money for showing herself to the public, and having her por- 
traits sold in the shops? And who is it that pays her?" 

Lovelace broke into a laugh. "Upon my word. Lady 
Errington — you have put the matter in a most original but in- 
dubitably correct light! Who pays the 'professional beauty,' 
you ask? Well, in the case of Mrs. Smith-Gresham, whom you 
met the other day, it is a certain duke who pays her to the 
tune of several thousands a year. When he gets tired of her, 
or she of him, she'll find somebody else — or perhaps she'll go 
on the stage and swell the list of bad amateurs. She'll get on 
somehow, so long as she can find a fool ready to settle her 
dress-maker's bill." 

"I do not understand!" said Thelma — and her fair brows 
drew together in that pained grave look that was becoming 
rather frequent with her now. 

And she began to ask fewer questions concerning the vari- 
ous strange phases of social life that puzzled her — why, for 
instance, religious theorists made so little practical use of 
their theories — why there were cloudy-eyed eccentrics who 
admired the faulty drawing of Watts, and the commonplace 
sentence-writing of Walt Whitman — why members of Parlia- 
ment talked so much and did so little — why new poets, how- 
ever nobly inspired — were never accepted unless they had in- 
fluential friends on the press — why painters always married 
their models or their cooks, and got heartily ashamed of them 
afterward — and why people all round said so many things 
they did not mean. And confused by the general insincerity, 
she clung— poor child!— to Lady Winsleigh, who had the tact 



THELMA. 303 

to seem what she was not — and the cleverness to probe into 
Thelma's nature and find out how translucently clear and pure 
it was — a perfect well of sweet water into which one drop of 
poison, or better still, several drops, gradually and insidiously 
instilled, might in time taint its flavor and darken its bright- 
ness. For if a woman have an innocent, unsuspecting soul, 
as deb'cate as the curled cup of a Nile-lily, the more easily will 
it droop and wither in the heated grasp of a careless, cruel 
hand. And to this flower-crushing task Lady Winsleigh set 
herself — partly for malice prepense against Errington, whose 
coldness to herself in past days had wounded her vanity, and 
partly for private jealousy of Thelma's beauty and attractive- 
ness. 

Within a short time she had completely won the girl's con- 
fidence and affection. Sir Philip, forgetting his 'former sus- 
picions of her, was touched and disarmed by the attachment 
and admiration she openly displayed toward his young wife. 
She and Thelma were constantly seen together, and Mrs. Kush- 
Marvelle, far-sighted as she generally was, often sighed doubt- 
fully and rubbed her nose in perplexity as she confessed she 
"couldn't quite understand Clara." But Mrs. Eush-Marvelle 
had her hands full of other matters — she was aiding and abet- 
ting Marcia Van Clupp to set traps for that mild mouse Lord 
Masherville — and she was too much absorbed in this difficult 
and delicate business to attend to anything else just then. 
Otherwise, it is possible she might have scented danger for 
Thelma's peace of mind, and being good-natured, might have 
warded it off before it approached too closely — but, like police- 
men who are never within call when wanted, so friends are 
seldom at hand when their influence might be of real benefit. 

The Van Clupps were people Thelma could not get on with 
at all — she tried to do so because Mrs. Eush-Marvelle had 
assured her they were "charming" — and she liked Mrs. Mar- 
velle sufficiently well to be willing to please her. But, in 
truth, these rich and vulgar Yankees seemed to her mind less 
to be esteemed than the peasants of the Alten Fjord, who in 
many instances possessed finer tact and breeding than old Van 
Clupp, the man of many dollars, whose father had been noth- 
ing but a low navvy, but of whom he spoke now with smirking 
pride as a real descendant of the Pilgrim Fathers. An odd 
thing it is, by the way, how fond some Americans are of trac- 
ing back their ancestry to these virtuous old gentlemen! The 



304 THELMA. 

Van Clupps were of course not the best types of their country 
— they were of that class who, because they have money, 
measure everything by the money standard, and hold even a 
noble poverty in utter contempt. Poor Van Clupp! It was 
sometimes pitiable to see him trying to be a gentleman — 
"going in" for "style" — to an excess that was ludicrous — 
cramming his house with expensive furniture like an uphol- 
sterer's show-room — drinking his tea out of pure Sevres, with 
a lofty ignorance of its beauty and value — dressing his wife 
and daughter like shilling fashion-plates, and having his por- 
trait taken in precisely the same attitude as that assumed by 
the Duke of Wrigglesbury when his grace sat to the same 
photographer! It was delicious to hear him bragging of his 
pilgrim ancestor — while in the same breath he would blandly 
sneer at certain "poor gentry" who could trace back their line- 
age to Coeur de Lion! But because the Erringtons were rich 
as well as titled persons. Van Clupp and liis belongings bent 
the servile knee before them, flattering Thelma with that ill- 
judged eagerness and zealous persistency which distinguish 
inborn vulgarity, and which, far from pleasing her, annoyed 
and embarrassed her because she could not respond sincerely 
to such attentions. 

There were many others too, not dollar-crusted Americans, 
whose excessive adulation and ceaseless compliment vexed 
the sincere, frank spirit of the girl — a spirit fresh and pure as 
the wind blowing over her own Norse mountains. One of 
these was Sir Francis Lennox, that fashionable young man of 
leisure — and she had for him an instinctive though quite un- 
reasonable aversion. He was courtesy itself — he spared no 
pains to please her. Yet she felt as if his basilisk brown eyes 
were always upon her — he seemed to be ever at hand, ready 
to watch over her in trifles, such as the passing of a cup of tea, 
the offering of her wrap — the finding of a chair — the holding 
of a fan — he was always on the alert, like a remarkably well- 
trained upper servant. She could not, without rudeness, re- 
ject such unobtrusive, humble services, and yet they rendered 
her uncomfortable, though she did not quite know why. She 
ventured to mention her feeling concerning him to her friend, 
Lady Winsleigh, who heard her timid remarks with a look on 
her face that was not quite pleasant. 

"Poor Sir Francis!" her ladyship said with a slight, mocking 
laugh. "He's never happy unless he plays puppy-dog! Don't 



THELMA. 305 

mind him, Thelma! He won't bite, I assure you — he means 
no harm. It's only his little way of making himself agree- 
able!" 

George Lorimer, during this particular "London season," 
fled the field of action, and went to Paris to stay with Pierre 
Duprez. He felt that it was dangerous to confront the fair 
enemy too often, for he knew in his own honest heart that his 
passion for Thelma increased each time he saw her — so, he 
avoided her. She missed him very much from her circle of 
intimates, and often went to see his mother, Mrs. Lorimer, 
one of the sweetest old ladies in the world — who had at once 
guessed her son's secret, but, like a prudent dame, kept it to 
herself. There were few young women as pretty and charm- 
ing as old Mrs. Lorimer, with her snow-white parted hair and 
mild blue eyes, and voice as cheery as the note of a thrush in 
spring-time. After Lady Winsleigh, Thelma liked her best of 
all her new friends, and was fond of visiting her quiet little 
house in Kensington — for it was very quiet and seemed like a 
sheltered haven of rest from the great rush of frivolity and 
folly in which the fashionable world delight. 

And Thelma was often now in need of rest. As the season 
drew toward its close, she found herself strangely tired and 
dispirited. The life she was compelled to lead was all un- 
suited to her nature — it was artificial and constrained — and 
she was often unhappy. Why? Why, indeed! She did her 
best — but she made enemies everj'^where. Again, why? Be- 
cause she had a most pernicious — most unpleasant habit of 
telling the truth. Like Socrates, she seemed to say: "If any 
man should appear to me not to possess virtue, but to pretend 
that he does, I shall reproach him." This she expressed 
silently in face, voice, and manner — and, like Socrates, she 
might have added that she went about "perceiving, indeed, 
and grieving and alarmed that she was making herself odious." 
For she discovered, by degrees, that many people looked 
strangely upon her — that others seemed afraid of her — and she 
continually heard that she was considered "eccentric." So 
she became more reserved — even cold — she was content to let 
others argue about trifles and air their whims and follies with- 
out offering an opinion on any side. 

And by and by the first shadow began to sweep over the 
fairness of her married life. It happened at a time when she 
and her husband were not quite so much together — society 
20 



306 THELMA. 

and its various claims had naturally separated them a little, 
but now a question of political ambition separated them still 
more. Some well-intentioned friends had persuaded Sir Philip 
to stand for Parliament — and this idea no sooner entered his 
head than he decided with impulsive ardor that he had been 
too long without a "career" — and a "career" he must have in 
order to win distinction for his wife's sake. Therefore, sum- 
moning his secretary, Neville, to his aid, he plunged headlong 
into the seething, turgid waters of English politics, and shut 
himself up in his library day after day, studying blue-books, 
writing and answering letters, and drawing up addresses — and 
with the general proneness of the masculine mind to attend to 
one thing only at a time, he grew so absorbed in his work that 
his love for Thelma, though all unchanged and deep as ever, 
fell slightly into the background of his thoughts. Not that 
he neglected her, he simply concerned himself more with 
other things. So it happened that a certain indefinable sense 
of loss weighed upon her — a vague, uncomprehended solitude 
began to encompass her — a solitude even more keenly felt 
when she was surrounded by friends than when she was quite 
alone — and as the sweet English June drew to his end, she 
grew languid and listless, and her blue eyes often filled with 
sudden tears. Her little watch-dog, Britta, began to notice 
this and to wonder concerning the reason of her mistress's 
altered looks. 

"It is this dreadful London," thought Britta. "So hot and 
stifling — there's no fresh air for her. And all this going about 
to balls and parties and shows — no wonder she is tired out!" 

But it was something more than mere fatigue that made 
Thelma's eyes look sometimes so anxious, so gravely medita- 
tive and earnest. One day she seemed so much abstracted 
and lost in painful musings that Britta's loving heart ached, 
and she watched her for some moments without venturing to 
say a word. At last she spoke out bravely: 

"Froken!" she paused — Thelma seemed not to hear her — 
"Froken, has anything vexed or grieved you to-day?" 

Thelma started nervously. "Vexed me — grieved me?" she 
repeated. "No, Britta — why do you ask?" 

"You look very tired, dear Froken," continued Britta, 
gently. "You are not as bright as you were when we first 
came to London." 

Thelma's lips quivered. "I — I am not well, Britta," she 



THBLMA. 307 

murmured, and suddenly her self-control gave way, and she 
broke into tears. In an instant Britta was kneeling by her, 
coaxing and caressing her and calling her by every endearing 
name she could think of, while she wisely forbore from asking 
any more questions. Presently her sobs grew calmer — she 
rested her fair head against Britta's shoulder and smiled 
faintly. At that moment a light tap was heard outside, and a 
voice called: 

"Thelma! Are you there?" 

Britta opened the door, and Sir Philip entered hurriedly 
and smiling — but stopped short to survey his wife in dismay. 

"Why, my darling!" he exclaimed, distressfully. "Have 
you been crying?" 

Here the discreet Britta retired. 

Thelma sprung to her husband and nestled in his arms. 

"Philip, do not mind it!" she murmured. "I felt a little 
sad — it is nothing! But tell me — you do love me! You will 
never tire of me? You have always loved me, I am sure?" 

He raised her face gently with one hand, and looked at her 
in surprise, 

"Thelma — what strange questions from you! Love you? 
Is not every beat of my heart for you? Ave you not my life, 
^y joy — my everything in this world?" And he pressed her 
passionately in his arms and kissed her. 

"You have never loved any one else so much?" she whis- 
pered, half abashed. 

"Never!" he answered, readily. "What makes you ask such 
a thing?" 

She was silent. He looked down at her flushing cheeks and 
tear-wet lashes attentively. 

"You are fanciful to-day, my pet," he said, at last. "You've 
been tiring yourself too much. You must rest. You'd better 
not go to the Brilliant Theater to-night — it's only a burlesque, 
and is sure to be vulgar and noisy. We'll stop at home and 
spend a quiet evening together — shall we?" 

She raised her eyes half wistfully, and smiled. "I should 
like that very, very much, Philip!" she murmured; "but you 
know we did promise Clara to go with her to-night. And as 
we are so soon to leave London and return to Warwickshire, 
I should not like to disappoint her." 

"You are very fond of Clara ?" he asked, suddenly. 

"Very!" She paused and sighed slightly. "She is so kind 



308 THELMA. 

and clever — much more clever than I can ever he — and she 
knows many things about the world which I do not. And she 
admires you so much, Philip!" 

"Does she indeed?" Philip laughed and colored a little. 
"Very good of her, I'm sure! And so you'd really like to go 
to the Brilliant to-night?" 

"I think so," she said, hesitatingly. "Clara says it will he 
very amusing. And you must remember how much I enjoyed 
'Faust' and 'Hamlet.' " 

Errington smiled. "You'll find the Brilliant performance 
very different to either," he said, amusedly. "You don't know 
what a burlesque is like!" 

"Then I must be instructed," replied Thelma, smiling also. 
"I need to learn many things. I am very ignorant!" 

"Ignorant!" and he swept aside with a caressing touch the 
clustering hair from her broad, noble brow. "My darling, you 
possess the greatest wisdom — the wisdom of innocence. I 
would not change it for all the learning of the sagest philoso- 
phers!" 

"You really mean that?" she asked, half timidly. 

"I really mean that," he answered fondly. "Little skeptic! 
As if I would ever say anything to you that I did not mean! I 
shall be glad when we're out of London and back at the manor 
— then I shall have you all to myself again — for a time, at 
least." 

She raised her eyes full of sudden joy — all traces of her 
former depression had disappeared. 

"And I shall have you!" she said gladly. "And we shall 
not disappoint Lady Winsleigh to-night, PhiHp. I am not 
tired, and I shall be pleased to go to the theater." 

"All right!" responded Philip, cheerfully. "So let it be! 
Only I don't believe you'll like the piece— though it certainly 
won't make you cry. Yet I doubt if it will make you laugh, 
either. However, it will be a new experience for you." 

And a new experience it decidedly was — an experience, too, 
which brought some strange and perplexing results to Thelma 
of which she never dreamed. 

She went to the Brilliant, accompanied by Lady Winsleigh 
and her husband — Neville, the secretary, making the fourth 
in their box; and during the first and second scenes of the 
performance the stage-effects were so pretty and the dancing 
so graceful that she nearly forgot the bewildered astonishment 



THELMA. 309 

she had at first felt at the extreme scantiness of apparel worn 
by the ladies of the ballet. They represented birds, bees, 
butterflies, and other winged denizens of the forest-world — 
and the tout ensemble was so fairy-like and brilliant with swift 
movement, light, and color that the eye was too dazzled and 
confused to note objectionable details. But in the third scene, 
when a plump, athletic young woman leaped on the stage in 
the guise of a humming-bird, with a feather tunic so short that 
it was a mere waist-belt of extra width — a flesh-colored bodice 
about three inches high, and a pair of blue wings attached to 
her fat shoulders, Thelma started and half rose from her seat 
in dismay, while a hot tide of color crimsoned her cheeks. 
She looked nervously at her husband. 

"I do not think this is pleasant to see," she said, in a low 
tone. "Would it not be best to go away? I — I think I would 
rather be at home." 

Lady Winsleigh heard and smiled — a little mocking smile. 

"Don't be silly, child!" she said. "If you leave the theater 
just now you'll have every one staring at you. That woman's 
an immense favorite — she is the success of the piece. She's 
got more diamonds than either you or I." 

Thelma regarded her friend with a sort of grave wonder — 
but said nothing in reply. If Lady Winsleigh liked the per- 
formance and wished to remain, why — then politeness de- 
manded that Thelma should not interfere with her pleasure by 
taking an abrupt leave. So she resumed her seat, but with- 
drew herself far behind the curtain of the box, in a corner 
where the stage was almost invisible to her eyes. Her hus- 
band bent over her and whispered : 

"I'll take you home if you wish it, dear. Only say the 
word." 

She shook her head. 

"Clara enjoys it!" she answered, somewhat plaintively. "We 
must stay." 

Philip was about to address Lady Winsleigh on the subject, 
when suddenly Neville touched him on the arm. 

"Can I speak to you alone for a moment, Sir Philip?" he 
said in a strange, coarse whisper. "Outside the box — away 
from the ladies — a matter of importance!" 

He looked as if he were about to faint. He gasped rather 
than spoke these words; his face was white as death, and his 
eyes had a confused and bewildered stare. 



310 THELMA. 

"Certainly!" answered Philip, promptly, though not with- 
out an accent of surprise — and, excusing their absence briefly 
to his wife and Lady Winsleigh, they left the box together. 
Meanwhile the well-fed "Humming-Bird" was capering ex- 
travagantly before the foot-lights, pointing her toe in the 
delighted face of the stalls and singing in a loud, coarse 
voice the following refined ditty: 

"Oh, my ducky, oh, my darling, oh, my duck, duck, duck, 
If you love me you must have a little pluck, pluck, pluck! 
Come and put your arms around me, kiss me once, twice, thrice, 
For kissing may be naughty, but, by Jingo! it is nice! 

Once, twice, thrice, 

Nice, nice, nice! 

Bliss, bliss, bliss! 

Kiss, kiss, kiss! 
Kissing may be naughty, but it's nice!" 

There were several verses in this graceful poem, and each 
one was hailed with enthusiastic applause. The Humming- 
Bird was triumphant and when her song was concluded she 
executed a startling pas-seul full of quaint and astonishing 
surprises, reaching her superbest climax when she backed of! 
the stage on one portly leg — kicking the other in regular time 
to the orchestra. Lady Winsleigh laughed, and leaning toward 
Thelma, who still sat in her retired corner, said, with a show of 
kindness: 

"You dear little goose! You must get accustomed to this 
kind of thing — it takes with the men immensely. Why, even 
your wonderful Philip has gone down behind the scenes with 
Neville — you may be sure of that!" 

The startled, pitiful astonishment in the girl's face might 
have touched a less callous heart than Lady Winsleigh's — but 
her ladyship was prepared for it and only smiled. 

"Gone behind the scenes! To see that dreadful woman!" 
exclaimed Thelma in a low, pained tone. "Oh, no. Clara! 
He would not do such a thing. Impossible!" 

"Well, my dear, then where is he? He has been gone quite 
ten minutes. Look at the stalls — all the men are out of 
them! I tell you, Violet Vere draws everybody of the male 
sex after her! At the end of all her 'scenes' she has a regular 
reception — for men only — of course! Ladies are not ad- 
mitted!" And Clara Winsleigh laughed. "Don't look so 
shocked, for heaven's sake, Thelma — you don't want your 



THELMA. 311 

husband to be a regular nincompoop! He must have liis 
amusements as well as other people. I believe you want him 
to be like a baby, tied to your apron-string! You'll find that 
an awful mistake — he'll get tired to death of you, sweet little 
Griselda though you are!" 

Thelma's face grew very pale, and her hand closed more 
tightly on the fan she held. 

"You have said that so very, very often lately, Clara!" she 
murmured. "You seem so sure that he will get tired — that 
all men get tired. I do not think you know Philip — he is not 
like any other person I have ever met. And why should he 
go behind the scenes to such a person as Violet Vere — " 

At that moment the box-door opened with a sharp click, and 
Errington entered alone. He looked disturbed and anxious. 

"Neville is not well," he said, abruptly, addressing his wife. 
"I've sent him home. He wouldn't have been able to sit this 
thing out." And he glanced half angrily toward the stage — 
the curtain had just gone up again and displayed the wondrous 
Violet Vere still in her "humming-bird" character, swinging 
on the branch of a tree and (after the example of all humming- 
birds) smoking a cigar with brazen-faced tranquillity. 

"I am sorry he is ill," said Thelma, gently. "That is why 
you were so long away?" 

"Was I long?" returned Philip, somewhat absently. "I 
didn't know it. I went to ask a question behind the scenes." 

Lady Winsleigh coughed and glanced at Thelma, whose 
eyes dropped instantly. 

"I suppose you saw Violet Vere?" asked Clara. 

"Yes, I saw her," he replied, briefly. He seemed irritable 
and vexed — moreover,, decidedly impatient. Presently he 
said: "Lady Winsleigh, would you mind very much if we 
left this place and went home? I'm rather anxious about 
Neville — he's had a shock. Thelma doesn't care a bit about 
this piece, I know, and if you are not very much absorbed — " 

Lady Winsleigh rose instantly, with her usual ready grace. 

"My dear Sir Philip!" she said, sweetly. "As if I would 
not do anything to oblige you! Let us go by all means! 
These burlesques are extremely fatiguing!" 

He seemed relieved by her acquiescence — and smiled that 
rare sweet smile of his, which had once played such havoc 
with her ladyship's sensitive feelings. They left the theater, 
and were soon on their way home, though Thelma was rather 



312 THELMA. 

silent during the drive. They dropped Lady Winsleigh at her 
own door, and after they had bidden her a cordial good-night, 
and were going on again toward home, Philip, turning toward 
his wife, and catching sight of her face by the light of a street- 
lamp, was struck by her extreme paleness, and weary look. 

"You are very tired, my darling, I fear?" he inquired, ten- 
derly encircling her with one arm. "Lean your head on my 
shoulder — so!" 

She obeyed, and her hand trembled a little as he took and 
held it in his own warm, strong clasp. 

"We shall soon be home!" he added, cheerily. "And I 
think we must have no more theater-going this season. The 
heat and noise and glare are too much for you." 

"Philip," said Thelma, suddenly. "Did you really go be- 
hind the scenes to-night?" 

"Yes, I did," he answered, readily. "I was obliged to go on 
a matter of business — a very disagreeable and unpleasant mat- 
ter too." 

"And what was it?" she asked, timidly, yet hopefully. 

"My pet, I can't tell you! I wish I could! It's a secret I'm 
bound not to betray — a secret which involves the name of an- 
other person who'd be wretched if I were to mention it to you. 
There — don't let us talk about it any more!" 

"Very well, Philip," said Thelma, resignedly — but though 
she smiled, a sudden presentiment of evil depressed her. The 
figure of the vulgar, half-clothed, painted creature known as 
Violet Vere rose up mockingly before her eyes — and the half- 
scornful, half-jesting words of Lady Winsleigh rang persist- 
ently in her ears. 

On reaching home Philip went straight to Neville's little 
study and remained in earnest converse with him for a long 
time, while Thelma went to bed, and lay restless among her 
pillows, puzzling her brain with strange forebodings and new 
and perplexing ideas,- till fatigue overpowered her, and she 
fell asleep with a few tear-drops wet on her lashes. And that 
night Philip wondered why his sweet wife talked so plain- 
tively in her sleep — though he smiled as he Hstened to the 
drift of those dove-like murmurings. 

"No one knows how my boy loves me," sighed the dreaming 
voice. "No one in all the world! How should he tire? Love 
can never tire!" 



THELMA. 313 



Meanwhile, Lady Winsleigh, in the seclusion of her own 
boudoir, penned a brief note to Sir Francis Lennox as follows: 



"Dear Old LENNIE--I saw you in the stalls at the theater this 
evening, though you pretended not to see me. What a fickle 
creature you are! not that I mind in the very least. The vir- 
tuous Bruce-Errington left his saintly wife and me to talk little 
platitudes together, while he, decorously accompanied by his 
secretary, went down to pay court to Violet Vere. How stout 
she is getting! Why don't you men advise her to diet herself? 
I know you also went behind the scenes — of course, you are an 
ami intime — promising boy you are, to be sure! Come and 
lunch with me to-morrow if you're not too lazy. 

"Yours ever, Clara," 



She gave this missive to her maid, Louise Eenaud, to post. 
That faithful attendant took it first to her own apartment 
where she ungummed the envelope neatly by the aid of hot 
water, and read every word of it. This was not an exceptional 
action of hers — all the letters received and sent by her mis- 
tress were subjected to the same process — even these that 
were sealed with wax she had a means of opening in such a 
manner that it w^as impossible to detect that they had been, 
tampered with. 

She was a very clever French maid was Louise — one of the 
cleverest of her class. Fond of mischief, ever suspicious, 
always on the alert for evil, utterly unscrupulous and mali- 
cious, she was an altogether admirable attendant for a lady of 
rank and fashion, her skill as a coiffeur and needlewoman 
always obtaining for her the wages she so justly deserved. 
When will wealthy women reared in idleness and luxury learn 
the folly of keeping a trained spy attached to their persons? — 
a spy whose pretended calling is merely to arrange dresses and 
fripperies (half of which she invariably steals), but whose real 
delight is to take note of all her mistress' incomings and out- 
goings, tempers and tears — to watch her looks, her smiles and 
frowns — and to start scandalous gossip concerning her in the 
servants' hall, from whence it gradually spreads to the society 
newspapers — for do you think these estimable and popular 
journals are never indebted for their "reliable" information to 
the "honest" statements of a discharged footman or valet? 



314 THELMA. 

Briggs, for instance, had tried his hand at a paragraph or two 
concerning the "Upper Ten," and with the aid of a dictionary, 
had succeeded in expressing himself quite smartly, though in 
ordinary conversation his h's were often lacking or superfluous, 
and his grammar doubtful. Whether he persuaded any editor 
to accept his literary efforts is quite another matter — a ques- 
tion to which the answer must remain forever enveloped in 
mystery — but if he did appear in print (it is only an if!) he 
must have been immensely gratified to consider that his state- 
ments were received with gusto by at least half aristocratic 
London, and implicitly believed as having emanated from the 
"best authorities." And Louise Kenaud having posted her 
mistress' letter at last, went down to visit Briggs in his private 
pantry, and to ask him a question. 

"Tell me," she said, rapidly, with her tight, prim smile. 
"You read the papers — you will know. What lady is that 
of the theaters— Violet Vere?" 

Briggs laid down the paper he was perusing and surveyed 
her with a superior air. 

"What, Vi?" he exclaimed, with a lazy wink. "Ti, of the 
Hopperer-Buff? You've 'erd of 'er, surely, mamzelle? No? 
There's not a man (as is worth calling a man) about town, as 
don't know 'er! Dukes, lords, an' royal 'ighnesses — she's the 
style for 'em! Mag-ni-ficent creetur! all legs and arms! I 
won't deny but wot I 'ave an admiration for 'er myself — I 
bought a 'arf-crown portrait of 'er quite recently." And 
Briggs rose slowly and searched in a mysterious drawer which 
he invariably kept locked. 

" 'Ere she is, as large as life, mamzelle," he continued, ex- 
hibiting a "promenade" photograph of the actress in question. 
"There's a neck for you! There's form! Vi, my dear, I saloot 
you!" and he pressed a sounding kiss on the picture. "You're 
one in a million! Smokes and drinks like a trooper, mam- 
zelle!" he added, admiringly, as Louise Eenaud studied the 
portrait attentively. "But with all 'er advantages, you would 
not call 'er a lady. No — that term would be out of the ques- 
tion. She is wot we men would call an enchantin' female!" 
And Briggs kissed the tips of his fingers and waved them in 
the air as he had seen certain foreign gentlemen do when 
enthusiastic. 

"I comprehend," said the French maid, nodding emphat- 



THELMA. 315 

ically. "Then, if she is so, what makes that proud Seigneur 
Bruce-Errington visit her?" Here she shook her fingers at 
Briggs. "And leave his beautiful lady wife to go and see 
her?" Another shake. "And that miserable Sieur Lennox to 
go also? Tell me that!" She folded her arms, like Napoleon 
at St. Helena, and smiled again that smile which was nothing 
but a sneer. Briggs rubbed his nose contemplatively. 

"Little Francis can go ennywheres," he said at last. "He's 
laid out a good deal of tin on Vi and others of 'er purfession. 
You can not make ennythink of that young feller but a cad. 
I would not accept 'im for my pussonal attendant. No! But 
Sir Philip Bruce-Errington — " He paused, then continued, 
"Air you sure of your facts, mamzelle?" 

Mamzelle was so sure that the bow on her cap threatened to 
come off with the determined wagging of her head. 

**Well," resumed Briggs, "Sir Philip may, like bothers, con- 
sider it 'the thing' you know, to 'ang on as it were to Vi. But 
I 'ad thought 'im superior to it. Ah! poor 'uman natur', as 
'Uxley says!" and Briggs sighed. "Lady Errington is a sweet 
creetur, mamzelle — a very sweet creetur! Has a rule I find 
the merest nod of my 'ed a sufficient saloot to a woman of the 
aristocracy — but for 'er, mamzelle, I never fail to show 'er up 
with a court bow!" And involuntarily Briggs bowed then and 
there in his most elegant manner. Mamzelle tightened her 
thin lips a little and waved her hand expressively. 

"She is an angel of beauty!" she said, "and Miladi Wins- 
leigh is jealous — ah, Dieu! jealous to death of her! She is 
innocent too — like a baby — and she worships her husband. 
That is an error! To worship a man is a great mistake — 
she will find it so. Men are not to be too much loved — no, 
no!" 

Briggs smiled in superb self -consciousness. *^ell, well! I 
will not deny, mamzelle, that it spoils us," he said, com- 
placently. "It certainly spoils us! *When lovely woman 
stoops to folly' — the hold, hold story!" 

"You will r-r-r-emember," said mamzelle, suddenly step- 
ping up very close to him and speaking with a strong accent, 
"what I have said to-night! Monsieur Briggs, you will r-re- 
member! There will be mees-cheef! Yes — there will be 
mees-cheef to Sieur Bruce-Errington, and when there is — I 
— I, Louise Eenaud — I know who ees at the bottom of eet!" 



316 THELMA. 

So saying, with a whirl of her black silk dress and a flash of 
her white muslin apron, she disappeared. Briggs, left alone, 
sauntered to a looking-glass hanging on the wall and studied 
with some solicitude a pimple that had recently appeared on 
his clean-shaven face. 

"Mischief!" he soliloquized. "I dessay! Whenever a lot 
of women gets together, there's sure to be mischief. Dear 
creeturs! They love it like the best Cliquot! Sprightly 
young pusson is mamzelle. Knows who's at the bottom of 
'eet,' does she? Well — she's not the only one as knows the 
same thing! As long as doors 'as cracks and key'oles, it ain't 
in the least difficult to find out wot goes on inside boo-dwars 
and drorin'-rooms. And 'ighly interestin' things one 'ears 
now and then — 'ighly interestin'!" 

And Briggs leered suavely at his own reflection, and then 
resumed the perusal of his paper. He was absorlaed in the 
piquant, highly flavored details of a particularly disgraceful 
divorce case, and he was by no means likely to disturb him- 
self from his refined enjoyment for any less important reason 
than the summons of Lord Winsleigh's bell, which rang so 
seldom that, when it did, he made it a point of honor to an- 
swer immediately, for, as he said: 

"His lordship knows wot is due to me, and I knows wot is 
due to 'im — therefore it 'appens we are able to ekally respect 
each other!" 



CHAPTEE V. 



If thou wert honorable. 
Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not 
For such an end thou seek'st; as base, as strange. 
Thou wrong'st a gentleman who is as far 
From thy report, as thou from honor. 

Cymbeline. 

Summer in Shakespeare Land! Summer in the heart of 
England — summer in wooded Wanvackshire — a summer bril- 
liant, warm, radiant with flowers, melodious with the songs of 



THELMA. 317 

the heaven-aspiring larks, and the sweet, low trill of the 
forest-hidden nightingales. Wonderful and divine it is to 
heai' the wild chorus of nightingales that sing beside Como in 
the hot languorous nights of an Italian July — wonderful to 
hear them maddening themselves with love and music, and 
almost splitting their slender throats with the bursting bubbles 
of burning song — but there is something, perhaps, more 
dreamily enchanting still — to hear them warbling less pas- 
sionately but more plaintively, beneath the drooping leafage of 
those grand old trees, some of which may have stretched their 
branches in shadowy benediction over the sacred head of the 
grandest poet in the world. Why travel to Athens — why wan- 
der among the Ionian Isles for love of the classic ground? 
Surely, though the clear-brained old Greeks were the founders 
of all noble literature, they have reached their culminating 
point in the English Shakespeare — and the Warwickshire 
lanes, decked simply with hawthorn and sweet-brier roses, 
through which Mary Arden walked leading her boy-angel by 
the hand, are sacred as any portion of that earth once trodden 
by the feet of Homer and Plato. 

So, at least, Thelma thought, when, released from the 
bondage of London social life, she found herself once more at 
Errington Manor, then looking its loveliest, surrounded with 
a green girdle of oak and beech, and set off by the beauty of 
velvety lawns and terraces, and rose-gardens in full bloom. 
The depression from which she had suffered fell away from 
her completely — she grew light-hearted as a child, and flitted 
from room to room, singing to herself for pure gladness. 
Philip was with her all day now, save for a couple of hours in 
the forenoon which he devoted to letter-writing in connection 
with his parliamentary aspirations — and Philip was tender, 
adoring, and passionate as lovers may be, but as husbands 
seldom are. They took long walks together through the 
woods — they often rambled across the fragrant fields to Anne 
Hathaway's cottage, which was not very far away, and sitting 
in some sequestered nook, Philip would pull from his pocket 
a volume of the immortal plays, and read passages aloud in 
his fine mellow voice, while Thelma, making posies of the 
meadow flowers, listened entranced. Sometimes, when he was 
in a more business-like humor, he would bring out "Cicero's 
Orations," and after pondering over them for awhile would 



318 THELMA. 

talk very grandly about the way in which he meant to speak 
in Parliament. 

"They want dash and fire there," he said, "and these quali- 
ties must be united with good common sense. In addressing 
the House, you see, Thelma, one must arouse and interest the 
men — not bore them. You can't expect fellows to pass a bill 
if you've made them long for their beds all the time you've 
been talking about it." 

Thelma smiled and glanced over his shoulder at "Cicero's 
Orations." 

"And do you wish to speak to them like Cicero, my boy?" 
she said gently. "But I do not think you will find that pos- 
sible. Because when Cicero spoke it was in a different age, 
and to very different people — people who were glad to learn 
how to be wise and brave. But if you were Cicero himself, 
do you think you would be able to impress the English Par- 
liament?" 

"Why not, dear?" asked Errington with some fervor. "I 
believe that men, taken as men, puret simple, are the same in 
all ages, and are open to the same impressions. Why should 
not modern Englishmen be capable of receiving the same 
lofty ideas as the antique Eomans, and acting upon them?" 

"Ah, do not ask me why," said Thelma, with a plaintive lit- 
tle shake of her head — "for I can not tell you! But remember 
how many members of Parliament we did meet in London — 
and where were their lofty ideas? Philip, had they any ideas 
at all, do you think? There was that very fat gentleman who 
is a brewer — well, to hear him talk, would you not think all 
England was for the making of beer? And he does not care 
for the country unless it continues to consume his beer! It 
was to that very man I said something about 'Hamlet,' and he 
told me he had no interest for such nonsense as Shakespeare 
and play-going — his time was taken up at the ' 'Ouse.' You 
see, he is a member of Parliament — yet it is evident he neither 
knows the language nor the literature of his country! And 
there must be many like him, otherwise so ignorant a person 
would not hold such a position — and for such men, what 
would be the use of a Cicero?" 

Philip leaned back against the trunk of the tree under 
which they were sitting, and laughed. 

''You may be right, Thelma — I dare say you are. There's 
certainly too much beer represented in the House — I admit 



THELMA. 319 

that. But, after all, trade is the great moving-spring of na- 
tional prosperity — and it would hardly be fair to refuse seats 
to the very men who help to keep the country going." 

"I do not see that," said Thelma, gravely — "if those men are 
ignorant, why should they have a share in so important a 
thing as Government? They may know all about beer, and 
wool, and iron — but perhaps they can only judge what is good 
for themselves, not what is best for the whole country, with 
all its rich and poor. I do think that only the wisest scholars 
and most intelligent persons should be allowed to help in the 
ruling of a great nation." 

"But the people choose their own rulers," remarked Erring- 
ton, reflectively. 

"Ah, the poor people!" sighed Thelma. "They know so 
very little — and they are taught so badly! I think they never 
do quite understand what they do want — they are the same in 
all histories — like little children, they get bewildered and 
frightened in any trouble, and the wisest heads are needed to 
think for them. It is, indeed, most cruel to make them puzzle 
out all difficulty for themselves!" 

"What a little sage you are, my pet!" laughed Philip, taking 
her hand on which the marriage-ring and its accompanying 
diamond circlet glistened brilliantly in the warm sunhght. 
"Do you mean to go in for politics?" 

She shook her head. "No, indeed! That is not woman's 
work at all. The only way in which I think about such things, 
is that I feel the people can not all be wise — and that it seems 
a pity the wisest and grandest in the land should not be 
chosen to lead them rightly." 

"And so, under the circumstances, you think it's no use my 
trying to pose as a Cicero?" asked her husband, amusedly. 
She laughed — with a very tender cadence in her laughter, 

"It would not be worth your while, my boy," she said. 
"You know I have often told you that I do not see any great 
distinction in being a member of Parliament at all. What 
will you do? You will talk to the fat brewer perhaps, and 
he will contradict you — then other people will get up and 
talk and contradict each other — and so it will go on for days 
and days — meanwhile the country remains exactly as it was, 
neither better nor worse — and all the talking does no good! 
It is better to be out of it — here together, as we are to-day." 

And she raised her dreamy blue eyes to the sheltering 



320 THELMA. 

canopy of green leaves that overhung them — leaves thick 
clustered and dewy, through which the dazzling sky peeped 
in radiant patches. Philip looked at her — the rapt expression 
of her upward gaze, the calm, untroubled sweetness of her fair 
face were such as might well have suited one of Eaphael's 
divinest angels. His heart beat quickly; he drew closer to 
her, and put his arm round her. 

"Your eyes are looking at the sky, Thelma," he whispered. 
"Do you know what that is? Heaven looking into heaven! 
And do you know which of the two heavens I prefer?" She 
smiled, and, turning, met his ardent gaze with one of equal 
passion and tenderness. 

"Ah, you do know!" he went on, softly kissing the side of 
her slim, white throat. "I thought you couldn't possibly make 
a mistake!" He rested his head against her shoulder, and 
after a minute or two of lazy comfort, he resumed: "You are 
not ambitious, my Thelma! You don't seem to care whether 
your husband distinguishes himself in the ' 'Ouse,' as our 
friend the brewer calls it, or not. In fact, I don't believe you 
care for anything save — love! Am I not right, my wife?" 

A wave of rosy color flushed her transparent skin, and her 
eyes filled with an earnest, almost pathetic languor. 

"Surely of all things in the world," she said in a low tone — 
"love is best?" 

To this he made prompt answer, though not in words — his 
lips conversed with hers, in that strange, sweet language 
which, though unwritten, is everywhere comprehensible — and 
then they left their shady resting-place and sauntered home- 
ward hand in hand through the warm fields fragrant with wild 
thyme and clover. 

Many happy days passed thus with these lovers — for lovers 
they still were. Marriage had for once fulfilled its real and 
sacred meaning — it had set Love free from restraint, and had 
opened all the gate-ways of the only earthly paradise human 
hearts shall ever know — the paradise of perfect union and 
absolute sympathy with the one thing beloved on this side 
eternity. 

The golden hours fled by all too rapidly — and toward the 
close of August there came an interruption to their felicity. 
Courtesy had compelled Bruce-Errington and his wife to in- 
vite a few friends down to visit them at the manor before the 
glory of the summer-time was past — and first among the 



THELMA. 321 

guests came Lord and Lady Winsleigh and their bright boy, 
Ernest. Her ladyship's maid, Louise llenaud, of course, ac- 
companied her ladysiiip — and Briggs was also to the fore in 
the capacity of Lord Winsleigh's personal attendant. After 
these, George Lorimer arrived — he had avoided the Erring- 
tons all the season — but he could not very well refuse the 
pressing invitation now given him without seeming churlish. 
Then came Beau Lovelace, for a few days only, as with the 
commencement of September he would be off as usual to his 
villa on the Lago di Como. Sir Francis Lennox, too, made his 
appearance frequently in a casual sort of way — he "ran down," 
to use his own expression, now and then, and made himself 
very agreeable, especially to men, by whom he was well liked 
for his invariable good humor and extraordinary proficiency in 
all sports and games of skill. Another welcome visitor was 
Pierre Duprez, lively and sparkling as ever. He came from 
Paris to pass a fortnight with his ^^cher Phil-eep," and made 
merriment for the whole party. His old admiration for Britta 
had by no means decreased — he was fond of waylaying that 
demure little maiden on her various household errands, and 
giving her small posies of Jasmine and other sweet-scented 
blossoms to wear just above the left-hand corner of her apron- 
bib, close to the place where the heart is supposed to be. Olaf 
Guldmar had been invited to the manor at this period. Er- 
rington wrote many urgent letters, and so did Thelma, en- 
treating him to come, for nothing would have pleased Sir 
Philip more than to have introduced the fine old Odin wor- 
shiper among his fashionable friends, and to have heard him 
bluntly and forcibly holding his own among them, putting 
their faint and languid ways of life to shame by his manly, 
honest and vigorous utterance. But Guldmar had only just 
returned to the Alten Fjord after nearly a year's absence, and 
his hands were too full of work for him to accept his son-in- 
law's invitation. 

"The farm lands have a waste and dreary look," he wrote, 
"though I let them to a man who should verily have known 
how to till the soil trodden by his fathers — and as for the farm- 
house, 'twas like a hollow shell that has lain long on the shore 
and become brown and brittle — for thou knowest no human 
creature has entered there since we departed. However, Val- 
demar Svensen and I, for sake of company, have resolved to 
dwell together in it, and truly we have nearly settled down to 

21 



322 THELMA. 

the peaceful contemplation of our past days — so Philip, and 
thou, my child Thelma, trouble not concerning me. I am 
hale and hearty, the gods be thanked — and may live on in 
hope to see you both next spring or summer-tide. Your hap- 
piness keeps this old man young — so grudge me not the news 
of your delights wherein I am myself delighted." 

One familiar figure was missing from the manor house- 
hold — that of Edward Neville. Since the night at the Bril- 
liant, when he had left the theater so suddenly, and gone 
home on the plea of illness, he had never been quite the same 
man. He looked years older — he was strangely nervous and 
timid — and he shrunk away from Thelma as though she 
were some guilty or tainted creature. Surprised at this, she 
spoke to her husband about it — but he, hurriedly, and with 
some embarrassment, advised her to "let him alone" — his 
"nerves were shaken" — his "health was feeble" — and that it 
would be kind on her part to refrain from noticing him or 
asking him questions. So she refrained — but Neville's be- 
havior puzzled her all the same. When they left town, he 
implored, almost piteously, to be allowed to remain behind — 
he could attend to Sir Philip's business so much better in 
London, he declared, and he had his way. Errington, usually 
fond of Neville's society, made no attempt whatever to per- 
suade him against his will — so he stayed in the half-shut-up 
house in Prince's Gate through all the summer heat, poring 
over parliamentary documents and pamphlets — and Philip 
came up from the country once a fortnight to visit him, and 
transact any business that might require his personal atten- 
tion. 

On one of the last and hottest days in August, a grand 
garden-party was given at the manor. All the country people 
were invited, and they came eagerly, though, before Thelma's 
social successes in London, they had been reluctant to meet 
her. Now, they put on their best clothes, and precipitated 
themselves into the manor grounds like a flock of sheep seek- 
ing land on which to graze — all wearing their sweetest pro- 
pitiatory smirk — all gushing forth their admiration of "that 
darling Lady Errington" — all behaving themselves in the ex- 
ceptionally funny manner that county people affect — people 
who are considered somebodies in the small villages their big 
houses dominate — ^but who, when brought to reside in Lon- 
don, become less than the minnows in a vast ocean. These 



THELMA. 323 

good folks were not only anxious to see Lady Errington — they 
wanted to say they had seen her — and that she had spoken to 
them, so that they might, in talking to their neighbors, men- 
tion it in quite an easy, casual way, such as — "Oh, I was at 
Errington Manor the other day, and Lady Errington said to 
me." Or — "Sir Philip is such a charming man! I was talk- 
ing to his lovely wife, and he asked me," etc., etc. Or — 
"You've no idea what large strawberries they grow at the 
manor! Lady Errington showed me some that were just ripen- 
ing — magnificent!" And so on. For in truth this is "a. mad 
world, my masters" — and there is no accounting for the in- 
expressibly small folKes and mean toadyisms of the people in 
it. 

Moreover, all the London guests who were visiting Thelma 
came in for a share of the county magnates' servile admira- 
tion. They found the Winsleighs "so distingue" — Master 
Ernest instantly became "that dear boy!" — Beau Lovelace was 
"so dreadfully clever, you know!" — and Pierre Duprez "quite 
too delightful!" 

The grounds looked very brilliant — pink-and-white mar- 
quees were dotted here and there on the smooth velvet lawns 
— bright flags waved from different quarters of the gardens, 
signals of tennis, archery, and dancing — and the voluptuous 
waltz-music of a fine Hungarian band rose up and swayed in 
the air with the downward floating songs of the birds and the 
dash of fountains in full play. Girls in pretty light summer 
costumes made picturesque groups under the stately oaks and 
beeches — gay laughter echoed from the leafy shrubberies, and 
stray couples were seen sauntering meditatively through the 
rose-gardens, treading on the fallen scented petals, and ap- 
parently too much absorbed in each other to notice anything 
that was going on around them. Most of these were lovers, 
of course — intending lovers, if not declared ones — in fact, 
Eros was very busy that day among the roses, and shot forth 
a great many arrows, aptly aimed, out of his exhaustless 
quiver. 

Two persons there were, however — man and woman — 
who, walking in that same rose-avenue, did not seem, from 
their manner, to have much to do with the fair Greek god — 
they were Lady Winsleigh and Sir Francis Lennox. Her 
ladyship looked exceedingly beautiful in her clinging dress 
of Madras lace, with a bunch of scarlet poppies at her breast, 



324 THELMA. 



and a wreath of the same vivid iloM^ers in her picturesque 
Leghorn hat. She held a scarlet-hned parasol over her head, 
and from under the protecting shadow of this silken pavilion, 
her dark, lustrous eyes flashed disdainfully as she regarded 
her companion. He was biting an end of his brown mustache, 
and looked annoyed, yet lazily amused too. 

"Upon my life, Clara," he observed, "you are really awfully 
down on a fellow, you know! One would think you never 
cared twopence about me!" 

"Too high a figure!" retorted Lady Winsleigh, with a hard 
little laugh. "I never cared a brass farthing!" 

He stopped short in his walk and stared at her. 

"By Jove! you are cool!" he ejaculated. "Then what did 
you mean all this time?" 

"What did you mean?" she asked, defiantly. 

He was silent. After a slight, uncomfortable pause he 
shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 

"Don't let us have a scene!" he observed in a bantering 
tone. "Anything but that!" 

"Scene!" she exclaimed, indignantly. "Pray when have 
you had to complain of me on that score?" 

"Well, don't let me have to complain now," he said, coolly. 

She surveyed him in silent scorn for a moment, and her 
full, crimson lips curled contemptuously. 

"What a brute you are!" she muttered suddenly between 
her set pearly teeth. 

"Thanks, awfully!" he answered, taking out a cigarette, and 
Hghting it leisurely. "You are really charmingly candid, 
Clara! Almost as frank as Lady Errington, only less polite!" 

"I shall not learn politeness from you, at any rate," she 
sai(3^ — then altering her tone to one of studied indifference, 
she continued coldly: "What do you want of me? We've 
done with each other, as you know. I believe you wish to be- 
come gentleman-lackey to Bruce-Errington's wife, and that 
you find it difficult to obtain the situation. Shall I give you 
a character?" 

He flushed darkly, and his eyes glittered with an evil luster. 

"Gently, Clara! Draw it mild!" he said, languidly. 
"Don't irritate me, or I may turn crusty! You know, if I 
chose, I could open Bruce-Errington's eyes rather more widely 
than you'd like with respect to the devoted affection you en- 
tertain for his beautiful wife." She winced a Httle at this 



THELMA. 325 

observation — he saw it and laughed — then resumed: "At 
present I'm really in the best of humors. The reason I wanted 
to speak to you alone for a minute or two was that I'd some- 
thing to say which might possibly please you. But perhaps 
you'd rather not hear it?" 

She was silent. So was he. He watched her closely for a 
little — noting with complacency the indignant heaving of her 
breast and the flush on her cheeks — signs of the strong repres- 
sion she was putting upon her rising temper. 

"Come, Clara, you may as well be amiable," he said. "I'm 
sure you'll be glad to know that the \drtuous Philip is not 
immaculate after all. Won't it comfort you to think that he's 
nothing but a mortal man like the rest of us? — and that with 
a little patience your charms will most probably prevail with 
him as easily as they once did with me? Isn't that worth 
hearing?" 

"I don't understand you," she replied, curtly. 
"Then you are very dense, my dear girl," he remarked, 
smihngly. "Pardon me for saying so! But I'll put it plainly 
and in as few words as possible. The moral Bruce-Errington, 
like a great many other 'moral' men I know, has gone in for 
Violet Vere, and I dare say you understand what that means. 
In the simplest language, it means that he's tired of his 
domestic bliss and wants a change." 

Lady Winsleigh stopped in her slow pacing along the gravel 
walk and raised her eyes steadily to her companion's face. 
"Are you sure of this?" she asked. 

"Positive!" replied Sir Francis, flicking the light ash off 
his cigarette delicately with his little finger. "When you 
wrote me that note about the Vere, I confess I had my sus- 
picions. Since then they've been confirmed. I know for a 
fact that Errington has had several private interviews with Vi, 
and has also written her a good many letters. Some of the 
fellows in the greenroom tease her about her new conquest, 
and she grins and admits it. Oh, the whole thing's plain 
enough! Only last week, when he went up to town to see his 
man ISTeville on business he called on Vi at her own apart- 
ments in Arundell Street, Strand. She told me so herself — 
we're rather intimate, you know — though of course she re- 
fused to mention the object of his visit. Honor among 
thieves!" and he smiled half mockingly. 

Lady Winsleigh seemed absorbed, and walked on like one 



326 THELMA. 

in a dream. Just then a bend in the avenue brought them in 
full view of the broad terrace in front of the manor, where 
Thelma's graceful figure, in a close-fitting robe of white silk 
crepe, was outlined clearly against the dazzling blue of the 
sky. Several people were grouped near her — she seemed to 
be in animated conversation with some of them, and her face 
was radiant with smiles. Lady Winsleigh looked at her — then 
said suddenly in a low voice: 

"It will break her heart!" 

Sir Francis assumed an air of polite surprise. "Pardon! 
Whose heart?" 

She pointed slightly to the white figure on the terrace. 

"Hers! Surely you must know that!" 

He smiled. "Well, isn't that precisely what you desire, 
Clara? Though, for my part, I don't believe in the brittleness 
of hearts — they seem to me to be made of exceptionally tough 
material. However, if the fair Thelma's heart cracks ever so 
widely, I think I can undertake to mend it!" 

Clara shrugged her shoulders. "You!" she exclaimed, 
contemptuously. 

He stroked his mustache with feline care and nicety. 

"Yes — I! If not, I've studied women all my life for 
nothing!" 

She broke into a low peal of mocking laughter — turned, 
and was about to leave him, when he detained her by a slight 
touch on her arm. 

"Stop a bit!" he said in an impressive sotto voce. "A bar- 
gain's a bargain all the world over. If I undertake to keep 
you cognizant of Bruce-Errington's little goings-on in London 
— information which, I dare say, you can turn to good account 
— you must do something for me. I ask very little. Speak 
of me to Lady Errington — make her think well of me — flatter 
me as much as you used to do when we fancied ourselves ter- 
rifically in love with each other — (a good joke, wasn't it?) — 
and, above all, make her trust me! Do you understand?" 

"As Eed Riding-Hood trusted the Wolf and was eaten up 
for her innocence," observed Lady Winsleigh. "Very well! 
I'll do my best. As I said before, you want a character. I'm 
sure I hope you'll obtain the situation you so much desire! I 
can state that you made yourself fairly useful in your last 
place, and that you left because your wages were not high 
enough!" 



THELMA. 327 

And with another sarcastic laugh, she moved forward to- 
ward the terrace where Thelma stood. Sir Francis followed 
at some little distance with no very pleasant expression on his 
features. A stealthy step approaching him from behind made 
him start nervously. It was Louise Eenaud, who, carrying a 
silver tray on which soda-water bottles and glasses made an 
agreeable clinking, tripped demurely past him without raising 
her eyes. She came directly out of the rose-garden, and, as 
she overtook her mistress on the lawn, that lady seemed sur- 
prised, and asked: 

"Where have you been, Louise?" 

"Miladi was willing that I should assist in the attendance 
to-day," replied Louise, discreetly. "I have waited upon 
Milord Winsleigh and other gentlemen in the summer-house 
at the end of the rose-garden." 

And with one furtive glance of her black bead-like eyes at 
Lady Winsleigh's face, she made a respectful sort of half 
courtesy and went her way. 

Later on in the afternoon, when it was nearing sunset, and 
all other amusements had given way to the delight of dancing 
on the springy green turf to the swinging music of the band — 
Briggs, released for a time from the duties of assisting the 
waiters at the splendid refreshment-table (duties which were 
pleasantly lightened by the drinking of a bottle of champagne 
which he was careful to reserve for his own consumption), 
sauntered leisurely through the winding alleys and fragrant 
shrubberies which led to the most unromantic portion of the 
manor grounds — namely, the vegetable-garden. Here none of 
the butterflies of fashion found their way — the suggestions 
offered by growing cabbages, turnips, beans, and plump, 
yellow-skinned marrows were too prosaic for society bantams 
who require refined surroundings in which to crow their as- 
sertive platitudes. Yet it was a peaceful nook — and there were 
household odors of mint and thyme and sweet marjoram 
which were pleasant to the soul of Briggs, and reminded him 
of roast goose on Christmas-day, with all its attendant succu- 
lent delicacies. He paced the path slowly, the light of the 
sinking sun blazing gloriously on his plush breeches, silver 
cordons and tassels, for he was in full-dress livery in honor of 
the fete, and looked exceedingly imposing. Now and then he 
glanced down at his calves with mild approval; his silk stock- 



328 THELMA. 

ings fitted them well, and they had a very neat and shapely ap- 
pearance. 

"I 'ave developed," he murmured to himself. "There ain't 
a doubt about it! One week of country air, and I'm a differ- 
ent man; the effecks of overwork 'ave disappeared. Flopsie 
won't know these legs of mine when I get back — they've im- 
proved surprisingly," He stopped to survey a bed of carrots. 
"Plenty of Cressy there," he mused. "Cressy's a noble soup, 
and Flopsie makes it well — a man might do wuss than marry 
Flopsie. She's a widder, and a leetle old — just a leetle old for 
me — but — " Here he sniffed delicately at a sprig of thyme 
he had gathered, and smiled consciously. Presently he per- 
ceived a small, plump, pretty figure approaching him. No 
other than Britta, looking particularly charming in a very 
smart cap, adorned with pink-ribbon bows, and a very elabo- 
rately frilled muslin apron. Briggs at once assumed his most 
elegant and conquering air, straightened himself to his full 
height and kissed his hand to her with much condescension. 
She laughed as she came up to him, and the dimples in her 
round cheeks appeared in full force. 

"Well, Mr. Briggs," she said, "are you enjoying yourself?" 

Briggs smiled down upon her benevolently. "I am!" he 
responded, graciously. "I find the hair refreshing. And you, 
Miss Britta?" 

"Oh, I'm very comfortable, thank you!" responded Britta, 
demurely, edging a little away from his arm, which showed 
an unmistakable tendency to encircle her waist — then glancing 
at a basket she held full of grapes, just cut from the hot- 
house, she continued: "These are for the supper-table. I 
must be quick, and take them to Mrs. Parton." 

"Must you?" and Briggs asked this question with quite an 
unnecessary amount of tenderness, then resuming his dignity, 
he observed: "Mrs. Parton is a very worthy woman — an ex- 
cellent 'ousekeeper. But she'll no doubt excuse you for 
lingering a little, Miss Britta, — especially in my company." 

Britta laughed again, showing her pretty little white teeth 
to the best advantage. "Do you think she will?" she said, 
merrily. "Then I'll stop a minute, and if she scolds me I'll 
put the blame on you!" 

Briggs played with his silver tassels, and leaning gracefully 
against a plum-tree, surveyed her with a critical eye. 

*1 was not able," he observed, "to see much of you in town. 



THELMA. 329 

Our people were always a' visitin' each other, and yet our 
meetings were, as the poet says, 'few and far between.' " 

Britta nodded indifferently, and perceiving a particularly 
ripe gooseberry on one of the bushes close to her, gathered it 
quickly and popped it between her rosy lips. Seeing another 
equally ripe, she offered it to Briggs, who accepted it and ate 
it slowly, though he had a misgiving that by so doing he was 
seriously compromising his dignity. He resumed his conver- 
sation. 

"Since I've been down 'ere, I've 'ad more opportunity to 
observe you. I 'ope you will allov/ me to say I think very 
'ighly of you." He waved his hand with the elegance of a 
Sir Charles Grandison. "Very 'ighly indeed! Your youth is 
most becoming to you! If you only 'ad a little more chick, 
there'd be nothing left to desire!" 

"A little more — what?" asked Britta, opening her blue eyes 
very wide in puzzled amusement. 

"Chick!" replied Briggs, with persistent persuasiveness. 
"Chick, Miss Britta, is a French word much used by the aris- 
tocracy. Coming from Norway, and 'avin' perhaps a very 
limited experience, you mayn't 'ave 'erd it — but eddicated 
people 'ere find it very convenient and expressive. Chick 
means style — the thing — the go, the fashion. For example, 
everythink your lady wears is chick!" 

"Eeally!" said Britta, with a wondering and innocent air. 
"How funny! It doesn't sound like French at all, Mr. Briggs 
— it's more like English." 

"Perhaps the Paris accent isn't familiar to you yet," re- 
marked Briggs, majestically. "Your stay in the gay metrop- 
olis was probably short. • Now, I 'ave been there many times 
— ah, Paris, Paris!" he paused in a sort of ecstasy, then, with 
a side leer, continued: "You'd 'ardly believe 'ow wicked I 
am in Paris, Miss Britta! I am, indeed! It is something in 
the hair of the holly vards, I suppose! And the caffy life ex- 
cites my nerves." 

"Then you shouldn't go there," said Britta, bravely, though 
her eyes twinkled with repressed fun. "It can't be good for 
you. And, oh! I'm so sorry, Mr. Briggs, to think that you are 
ever wicked!" And she laughed. 

"It's not for long," explained Briggs, with a comically satis- 
fied, yet penitent look. "It is only a sort of breaking out — a 
fit of 'igh spirits. Hall men are so at times! It's chick to run 



330 THELMA. 

a little wild in Paris. But, Miss Britta, if you were with me I 
should never run wild!" Here his arm made another attempt 
to get round her waist — and again she skillfully, and with 
some show of anger, avoided it. 

"Ah, you're very 'ard upon me," he then observed. "Very, 
very, 'ard! But I won't complain, my — my dear gal — one day 
you'll know me better!" He stopped and looked at her very 
intently. "Miss Britta," he said, abruptly, "you've a great 
affection for your lady, 'aven't you?" 

Instantly Britta's face flushed, and she was all attention. 

"Yes, indeed!" she answered, quickly. "Why do you ask, 
Mr. Briggs?" 

Briggs rubbed his nose perplexedly. "It is not easy to ex- 
plain," he said. "To run down my own employers wouldn't 
be in my line. But I've an idea that Clara — ^by which name I 
allude to my Lord Winsleigh's lady — is up to mischief. She 
'ates your lady, Miss Britta — 'ates 'er like poison!" 

"Hates her!" cried Britta, in astonishment. "Oh, you must 
be mistaken, Mr. Briggs! She is as fond of her as she can be 
— almost like a sister to her!" 

"Clara's a fine actress," munnured Briggs, more to himself 
than his companion. "She'd beat Violet Vere on 'er own 
ground." Eaising his voice a httle, he turned gallantly to 
Britta and reheved her of the basket she held. 

"Hallow me!" he said. "We'll walk to the 'ouse together. 
On the way I'll explain— and you'll judge for yourself. The 
words of the immortal bard, whose county we are in, occur to 
me as aprerpo: 'There are more things in 'evin and erth, 
'Oratio — than even the most devoted domestic can sometimes 
be aweer of.' " 

And gently sauntering by Britta's side, Briggs began to 
converse in low and confidential tones. She listened with 
strained and eager attention, and she was soon receiving in- 
formation that startled her and set her on the alert. 

Talk of private detectives and secret service! Do private 
detectives ever discover so much as the servants of a man's 
own household?— servants who are aware of the smallest 
trifles — who know the name and position of every visitor that 
comes and goes— who easily learn to recognize the handwrit- 
ing on every letter that arrives — who laugh and talk in their 
kitchens over things that their credulous masters and mis- 
tresses imagine are unknown to all the world save themselves 



THELMA. 331 

— who will judge the morals of a duke, and tear the reputa- 
tion of a duchess to shreds for the least, the most trifling 
error of conduct! If you can stand well with your servants, 
you can stand well with the whole world — if not — carry your- 
self as haughtily as you may — your pride will not last long, 
depend upon it! 

Meanwhile, as Briggs and Britta strolled in the side paths of 
the shrubbery, the gay guests of the manor were dancing on 
the lawn. Thelma did not dance — she reclined in a low 
basket-chair, fanning herself. George Lorimer lay stretched 
in lazy length at her feet, and near her stood her husband to- 
gether with Beau Lovelace and Lord Winsleigh. At a little 
distance, under the shadow of a noble beech, sat Mrs. Eush- 
Marvelle and Mrs. Van Clupp in earnest conversation. It was 
to Mrs. Marvelle that the Van Clupps owed their invitation for 
this one day down to Errington Manor — for Thelma herself 
was not partial to them. But she did not like to refuse Mrs. 
Marvelle's earnest entreaty that they should be asked — and 
that good-natured, scheming lady having gained her point, 
straightway said to Marcia Van Clupp somewhat severely: 

"Now, Marcia, this is your last chance. If you don't hook 
Masherville at the Errington fete, you'll lose him! You mark 
my words!" 

Marcia had dutifully promised to do her best, and she was 
now having what she herself called "a good hard time of it." 
Lord Algy was in one of his most provokingly vacillating 
moods — moreover, he had a headache, and felt bilious. There- 
fore he would not dance — he would not play tennis — he did 
not understand archery — he was disinclined to sit in romantic 
shrubberies or summer-houses, as he had a nervous dread of 
spiders — so he rambled aimlessly about the grounds with his 
hands in his pockets, and perforce Marcia was compelled to 
ramble too. Once she tried what effect an opposite flirtation 
would have on his mind, so she coquetted desperately with a 
young country squire, whose breed of pigs was considered the 
finest in England — but Masherville did not seem to mind it in 
the least. Nay, he looked rather relieved than otherwise, and 
Marcia, seeing this, grew more resolute than ever. 

"I guess I'll pay him out for this!" she thought as she 
watched him feebly drinking soda-water for his headache. 
"He's a man that want's ruling, and ruled he shall be!" 

And Mrs. Eush-Marvelle and Mrs. Van Clupp observed her 



332 THELMA. 

maneuvers with maternal interest, while the cunning-faced, 
white-headed Van Clupp conversed condescendingly with Mr. 
Eush-Marvelle as being a nonentity of a man whom he could 
safely patronize. 

As the glory of the sunset paled, and the delicate, warm 
hues of the summer twilight softened the landscape, the mer- 
riment of the brilliant assembly seemed to increase. As soon as 
it was dark, the grounds were to be illuminated by electricity, 
and dancing was to be continued in-doors — the fine old pict- 
ure-gallery being the place chosen for the purpose. Nothing 
that could add to the utmost entertainment of the guests had 
been forgotten, and Thelma, the fair mistress of these pleasant 
revels, noting with quiet eyes the evident enjoyment of all 
present, felt very happy and tranquil. She had exerted her- 
self a good deal, and was now a little tired. Her eyes had a 
dreamy, far-ofi' look, and she found her thoughts wandering 
now and then away to the Alten Fjord — she almost fancied 
she could hear the sigh of the pines and the dash of the waves 
mingling in unison as they used to do when she sat at the old 
farm-house window and spun, little dreaming then how her 
life would change — how all those familiar things would be 
swept away as though they had never been. She roused her- 
self from this momentary reverie, and glancing down at the 
recumbent gentleman at her feet, touched his shoulder lightly 
with the edge of her fan. 

"Why do you not dance, you very lazy Mr. Lorimer?" she 
asked, with a smile. 

He turned up his fair, half -boyish face to hers and laughed. 

"Dance! I! Good gracious! Such an exertion would kill 
me, Lady Errington — don't you know that? I am of a sultan- 
like disposition — I shouldn't mind having slaves to dance for 
me if they did it well — but I should look on from the throne 
whereon I sat cross-legged, and smoke my pipe in peace." 

"Always the same!" she said, lightly. "Are you never 
serious?" 

His eyes darkened suddenly. "Sometimes. Awfully so! 
And in that condition I become a burden to myself and my 
friends." 

"Never be serious!" interposed Beau Lovelace, "it really 
isn't worth while! Cultivate the humor of a Socrates, and re- 
duce everything by means of close argument to its smallest 
standpoint, and the world, life, and time are no more than a 



THELMA. 333 

pinch of snuff for some great Titanic god to please his giant 
nose withal!" 

"Your fame isn't worth much then, Beau, if we're to go by 
that line of argument," remarked Errington, with a laugh. 

"Fame! By Jove! You don't suppose I'm such an arrant 
donkey as to set any store by fame!" cried Lovelace, a broad 
smile lightening up his face and eyes. "Why, because a few 
people read my books and are amused thereby — and because 
the press pats me graciously on the back, and says metaphor- 
ically, 'Well done, little 'un!' or words to that effect, am I to 
go crowing about the world as if I were the only literary 
chanticleer? My dear friend, have you read 'Esdras'? You 
will find there that a certain King of Persia wrote to one 
Rathumus, a story writer. No doubt he was famous in his 
day, but — to travestie 'Hamlet,' 'where be his stories now?' 
Learn, from the deep oblivion into which poor Eathumus's 
literary efforts have fallen, the utter mockery and uselessncss 
of so-called fame!" 

"But there must be a certain pleasure in it while you're 
alive to enjoy it," said Lord Winsleigh. "Surely you derive 
some little satisfaction from your celebrity, Mr. Lovelace?" 

Beau broke into a laugh, mellow, musical, and hearty. 

"A satisfaction shared with murderers, thieves, divorced 
women, dynamiters, and other notorious people in general," 
he said. "They're all talked about — so am I. They all get 
written about — so do I. My biography is always being care- 
fully compiled by newspaper authorities, to the delight of the 
reading public. Only the other day I learned for the first time 
that my father was a green-grocer, who went in for selling 
coals by the half-hundred and thereby made his fortune — my 
mother was an unsuccessful oyster-woman who failed igno- 
miniously at Margate — moreover, I've a great many brothers 
and sisters of tender age whom I absolutely refuse to assist. 
I've got a wife somewhere, whom my literary success causes 
me to despise — and I have deserted children. I'm charmed 
with the accuracy of the newspapers — and I wouldn't contra- 
dict them for the world — I find my biographies so original! 
They are the result of that celebrity which Winsleigh thinks 
enjoyable." 

"But assertions of that kind are libels," said Errington. 
"You could prosecute." 

"Too much trouble!" declared Beau. "Besides, five jour- 



334 THELMA. 

nals have disclosed the name of the town where I was born, 
and as they all contradict each other, and none of them are 
right, any contradiction on my part would be superfluous!" 

They laughed, and at that moment Lady Winsleigh joined 
them. 

"Are you not catching cold, Thelma?" she inquired, sweetly. 
"Sir Philip, you ought to make her put on something warm; 
I find the air growing chilly." 

At that moment the ever-ready Sir Francis Lennox ap- 
proached with a light woollen wrap he had found in the hall. 

"Permit me!" he said, gently, at the same time adroitly 
throwing it over Thelma's shoulders. 

She colored a little — she did not care for his attention, but 
she could not very well ignore it without seeming to be dis- 
courteous. So she murmured, "Thank you!" and, rising from 
her chair, addressed Lady Winsleigh. 

"If you feel cold, Clara, you will like some tea," she said. 
"Shall we go in-doors, where it is ready?" 

Lady Winsleigh assented with some eagerness — and the two 
beautiful women — the one dark, the other fair — walked side 
by side across the lawn into the house, their arms round each 
other's waists as they went. 

"Two queens — and yet not rivals?" half queried Lovelace, 
as he watched them disappearing. 

"Their thrones are secure!" returned Sir Philip, gayly. 

The others were silent. Lord Winsleigh's thoughts, what- 
ever they were, deepened the lines of gravity on his face; and 
George Lorimer, as he got up from his couch on the grass, 
caught a fleeting expression in the brown eyes of Sir Francis 
Lennox that struck him with a sense of unpleasantness. But 
he quickly dismissed the impression from his mind, and went 
to have a quiet smoke in the shrubbery. 



THELMA. 335 



CHAPTER VI. 

La rose du jardin, comme tu sais, dure peu, et la saison des 
roses est bien vite 6coul6e! — Saadi. 

Thelma took her friend Lady Winsleigh to her own boudoir, 
a room which had been the particular pride of Sir Philip's 
mother. The walls were decorated with panels of blue silk in 
which were woven flowers of gold and silver thread — and the 
furniture, bought from an old palace in Milan, was of elabo- 
rately carved wood inlaid with ivory and silver. Here a tete- 
a-tete tea was served for the two ladies, both of whom were 
somewhat fatigued by the pleasures of the day. Lady Wins- 
leigh declared she must have some rest, or she would be quite 
unequal to the gayeties of the approaching evening, and 
Thelma herself was not sorry to escape for a little from her 
duties as hostess — so the two remained together for some time 
in earnest conversation, and Lady Winsleigh then and there 
confided to Thelma what she had heard reported concerning 
Sir Philip's intimate acquaintance with the burlesque actress, 
Violet Vere. And they were both so long absent that, after 
awhile, Errington began to miss his wife, and, growing im- 
patient, went in search of her. He entered the boudoir, and, 
to his surprise, found Lady Winsleigh there quite alone. 

"Where is Thelma?" he demanded. 

"She seems not very well — a slight headache or something 
of that sort — and has gone to lie down," replied Lady Wins- 
leigh, with a faint trace of embarrassment in her manner. "I 
think the heat has been too much for her." 

"I'll go and see after her" — and he turned promptly to leave 
the room. 

"Sir Philip!" called Lady Winsleigh. He paused and looked 
back. 

"Stay one moment," continued her ladyship, softly. "I have 
been for a long time so very anxious to say something to you 
in private. Please let me speak now. You — you know" — 
here she cast down her lustrous eyes — "Tsefore you went to 
Norway I — I was very foolish — " 



336 THELMA. 

"Pray do not recall it," he said with kindly gravity. "T 
have forgotten it." 

"That is so good of you!" and a flush of color warmed her 
delicate cheeks. "For if you have forgotten, you have also 
forgiven?" 

"Entirely!" answered Errington, and touched by her plain- 
tive self-reproachful manner and trembling voice, he went up 
to her and took her hands in his own. "Don't think of the 
past, Clara! Perhaps I also was to blame a little — I'm quite 
willing to think I was. Flirtation's a dangerous amusement 
at best." He paused as he saw two bright tears on her long, 
silky lashes, and in his heart felt a sort of remorse that he had 
ever permitted himself to think badly of her. "We are the 
best of friends now, Clara," he continued, cheerfully, "and 
I hope we may always remain so. You can't imagine how 
glad I am that you love my Thelma!" 

"Who would not love her!" sighed Lady Winsleigh, gently, 
as Sir Philip released her hands from his warm clasp — then 
raising her tearful eyes to his she added wistfully: "You 
must take great care of her, Philip — she is so sensitive — I 
always fancy an unkind word would kill her." 

"She'll never hear one from me!" he returned, with so ten- 
der and earnest a look on his face that Lady Winsleigh's heart 
ached for jealousy. "I must really go and see how she is. 
She's been exerting herself too much to-day. Excuse me!" 
and with a courteous smile and bow he left the room with a 
hurried and eager step. 

Alone, Lady Winsleigh smiled bitterly. "Men are all 
alike!" she said half aloud. "Who would think he was such a 
hypocrite? Fancy his dividing his afl'ection between two such 
contrasts as Thelma and Violet Vere! However, there's no 
accounting for tastes. As for man's fidelity, I wouldn't give a 
straw for it — and for his morality — !" She finished the sen- 
tence with a scornful laugh, and left the boudoir to return to 
the rest of the company. 

Errington, meanwhile, knocked softly at the door of his 
wife's bedroom, and receiving no answer, turned the handle 
noiselessly and went in. Thelma lay on the bed, dressed as 
she was, her cheek resting on her hand, and her face partly 
hidden. Her husband approached on tiptoe, and lightly kissed 
her forehead. She did not stir — she appeared to sleep pro- 
foundly. 



TH'ELMA. 337 

"Poor girl!" he thought, "she's tired out, and no wonder, 
with all the bustle and racket of these people! A good thing 
if she can rest a little before the evening closes in." 

And he stole quietly out of the room, and meeting Britta on 
the stairs told her on no account to let her mistress be dis- 
turbed till it was time for the illumination of the grounds. 
Britta promised. Britta's eyes were red — one would almost 
have fancied she had been crying. But Thelma was not asleep 
— she had felt her husband's kiss — her heart had beat as 
quickly as the wing of a caged wild bird at his warm touch, 
and now he had gone she turned and pressed her lips passion- 
ately on the pillow where his hand had leaned. Then she 
rose languidly from her bed, and, walking slowly to the door, 
locked it against all comers. Presently she began to pace the 
room up and down — up and down. Her face was very white 
and weary, and every now and then a shuddering sigh broke 
from her lips. 

"Can I believe it? Oh, no! — I can not — I will not!" she 
murmured. "There must be some mistake — Clara has heard 
wrongly." She sighed again. "Yet — if it is so — he is not to 
blame — it is I — I who have failed to please him. Where — how 
have I failed?" 

A pained, puzzled look filled her grave blue eyes, and she 
stopped in her walk to and fro. 

"It can not be!" she said, half aloud — "it is altogether un- 
like him. Though Clara says — and she has known him so 
long! — Clara says he loved her once — long before he saw me — 
my poor Philip! — he must have suffered by that love! — per- 
haps that is why he thought life so wearisome when he first 
came to the Alten Fjord — ah! the Alten Fjord!" 

A choking sob rose in her throat, but she repressed it. "I 
must not weary him," she continued, softly — "I must have 
done so in some way, or he would not be tired. But as for 
what I have heard — it is not for me to ask him questions. I 
would not have him think that I mistrust him. No — there is 
some fault in me — something he does not like, or he would 
never go to — " She broke off and stretched out her hands 
with a sort of wild appeal. "Oh, Philip! my darling!" she 
exclaimed, in a sobbing whisper. "I always knew I was not 
worthy of you — but I thought — I hoped my love would make 
amends for all my shortcomings!" 

Tears rushed into her eyes, and she turned to a little arched 



338 THELMA. 

recess, shaded by velvet curtains — her oratory — where stood 
an exquisite white marble statuette of the Virgin and Child. 
There she knelt for some minutes, her face hidden in her 
hands, and when she rose she was quite calm, though very 
pale. She freshened her face with cold water, rearranged her 
disordered hair, and then went down-stairs, thereby running 
into the arms of her husband who was coming up again to 
look, as he said, at his "Sleeping Beauty." 

"And here she is!" he exclaimed, joyously. "Have you 
rested enough, my pet?" 

"Indeed, yes!" she answered, gently. "I am ashamed to be 
so lazy. Have you wanted me, Philip?" 

"I always want you," he declared. "I am never happy 
without you." 

She smiled and sighed. "You say that to please me," she 
saidj half wistfully. 

"I say it because it is true!" he asserted, proudly, putting 
his arm around her waist and escorting her in this manner 
down the great staircase. "And you know it, you sweet witch! 
You're Just in time to see the lighting up of the grounds. 
There'll be a good view from the picture-gallery — lots of the 
people have gone in there; you'd better come too, for it's 
chilly outside." 

She followed him obediently, and her reappearance among 
her guests was hailed with enthusiasm — Lady Winsleigh being 
particularly effusive, almost too much so. 

"Your headache has quite gone, dearest, hasn't it?" she in- 
quired, sweetly. 

Thelma eyed her gravely. "I did not suffer from headache, 
Clara," she said. "I was a little tired, but I am quite rested 
now." 

Lady Winsleigh bit her lips rather vexedly, but said no 
more, and at that moment exclamations of delight broke from 
all assembled at the brilliant scene that suddenly flashed upon 
their eyes. Electricity, that radiant sprite whose magic wand 
has lately been bent to the service of man, had in less than a 
minute played such dazzling pranks in the gardens that they 
resembled the fabled treasurehouses discovered by Aladdin. 
Every tree glittered with sparkling clusters of red, blue, and 
green light — every flower-bed was bordered with lines and cir- 
cles of harmless flame, and the fountains tossed up tall 
columns of amber, rose, and amethyst spray against the soft 



THELMA. 339 

blue darkness of the sky in which a lustrous golden moon had 
just risen. The brilliancy of the illumination showed up several 
dark figures strolhng in couples about the grounds — romantic 
persons evidently who were not to be persuaded to come in- 
doors, even for the music of the band, which just then burst 
forth invitingly through the open windows of the picture- 
gallery. 

Two of these pensive wanderers were Marcia Van Clupp and 
Lord Algernon Masherville — and Lord Algy was in a curiously 
sentimental frame of mind, and w^eak withal, "comme une 
petite queue d'agneau afflige." He had taken a good deal of 
Boda and brandy for his bilious headache, and, physically, he 
was much better — but mentally he was not quite his ordinary 
self. By this it must not be understood he was at all un- 
steadied by the potency of his medicinal tipple — he was simply 
in a bland humor — that peculiar sort of humor which finds 
strange and mystic beauty in everything, and contemplates the 
meanest trifles with emotions of large benevolence. He was 
conversational too, and inclined to quote poetry — this sort 
of susceptibleness often afl^ects gentlemen after they have 
had an excellent dinner flavored with the finest Burgundy. 
Lord Algy was as mild, as tame, and as flabby as a sleeping 
jelly fish — and in this inoffensive, almost tender mood of his, 
Marcia pounced upon him. She looked ravishingly pretty in 
the moonlight, with a white wrap thrown carelessly round her 
head and shoulders, and her bold, bird-like eyes sparkling with 
excitement (for who that knows the pleasure of sport, is not 
excited when the fox is nearly run to earth?), and she stood 
with him beside one of the smaller illuminated fountains, 
raising her small white hand every now and then to catch 
some of the rainbow drops, and then with a laugh she would 
shake them off her little pearly nails into the air again. Poor 
Masherville could not help gazing at her with a lack-luster 
admiration in his pale eyes — and Marcia, calculating every 
move in her own shrewd mind, saw it. She turned her head 
away with a petulant yet coquettish movement. 

"My patience!" she exclaimed; "yew kin stare! Yew'll 
know me again w^hen yew see me — say?" 

*T should know you anywhere," declared Masherville, nerv- 
ously fumbling with the string of his eye-glass. "It's im- 
possible to forget your face. Miss Marcia!" 

She was silent, and kept that face turned from him so long 



340 THELMA. 

that the gentle little lord was surprised. He approached her 
more closely and took her hand — the hand that had played 
with the drops in the fountain. It was such an astonishingly 
small hand — so very fragile looking and tiny, that he was al- 
most for putting up his eye-glass to survey it as if it were a 
separate object in a museum. But the faintest pressure of the 
delicate fingers he held startled him, and sent the most curious 
thrill through his body — and when he spoke he was in such a 
flutter that he scarcely knew what he was saying. 

"Miss — Miss Marcia!" he stammered, "have — have I said — 
anything to — to offend you?" 

Very slowly, and with seeming reluctance, she turned her 
head toward him, and — oh, thou mischievous Puck, that some- 
times takest upon thee the semblance of Eros, what skill is 
thine! There were tears in her eyes — real tears — bright, 
large tears that welled up and fell through her long lashes in 
the most beautiful, touching, and becoming manner! "And," 
thought Marcia to herself, "if I don't fetch him now, I never 
will!" Lord Algy was quite frightened — his poor brain grew 
more and more bewildered. 

"Why — Miss Marcia! I say! Look here!" he mumbled in 
his extremity, squeezing her little hand tighter and tighter. 
"What — what have I done! Good gracious! You — you really 
mustn't cry, you know — I say — look here! Marcia, I wouldn't 
vex you for the world!" 

*'Yew bet yew wouldn't!" said Marcia, with slow and nasal 
plaintiveness. "I like that! That's the way yew English 
talk. But yew kin hang round a girl a whole season and make 
all her folks think badly of her — and — and — break her heart 
— yes — that's so!" Here she dried her eyes with a filmy lace 
handkerchief. "But don't yew mind me! I kin bear it. I kin 
worry through!" And she drew herself np with dignified 
resignation, while Lord Algy stared wildly at her, his feeble 
mind in a whirl. Presently she smiled most seductively, and 
looked up with her dark, tear-wet eyes to the moon. 

"I guess it's a good night for lovers," she said, sinking her 
ordinary tone to an almost sweet cadence. "But we're not 
of that sort, are we?" 

The die was cast! She looked so charming — so irresistible, 
that Masherville lost all hold over his wits. Scarcely knowing 
what he did, he put his arm round her waist. Oh, what a 
warm, yielding waist! He drew her close to his breast, at the 



THBLMA. 341 

risk of breaking his most valuable eyeglass, and felt his poor 
weak soul in a quiver of excitement at this novel and delicious 
sensation. 

"We are — we are of that sort!" he declared, courageously. 
"Why should you doubt it, Marcia?" 

"I'll believe yew if yew say so," responded Marcia. "But I 
guess yew're only fooling me!" 

"Fooling you!" Lord Algy was so surprised that he released 
her quite suddenly from his embrace — so suddenly that she 
was a little frightened. Was she to lose Mm, after all? 

"Marcia," he continued mildly, yet with a certain manliness 
that did not ill become him, "I — I hope I am too much of — 
of a gentleman to — to 'fool' any woman, least of all you, after 
I have, as you say, compromised you in society by my — my 
attentions. I — I have very little to offer you — but such as it 
is, is yours. In — in short, Marcia, I — I will try to make you 
happy if you can — can care for me enough to — to — marry 
me!" 

Eureka! The game was won! A vision of Masherville 
Park, Yorkshire, that "well-timbered and highly desirable 
residence," as the auctioneers would describe it, flitted before 
Marcia's eyes — and, filled with triumph, she went straight into 
her lordly wooer's arms, and kissed him with thorough trans- 
atlantic frankness. She was really grateful to him. Ever 
since she had come to England she had plotted and schemed to 
become "my lady" with all the vigor of a purely republican 
soul — and now at last, after hard fighting, she had won the 
prize for which her soul had yearned. She would in future 
belong to the English aristocracy — that aristocracy which her 
relatives in New York pretended to despise, yet openly flat- 
tered — and with her arms round the trapped Masherville's 
neck, she foresaw the delight she would have in being toadied 
by them as far as toadyism could be made to go. 

She is by no means presented to the reader as a favorable 
type of her nation — for, of course, every one knows there are 
plenty of sweet, unselfish, guileless American girls, who are 
absolutely incapable of such unblushing marriage-scheming 
as hers — but what else could be expected from Marcia? Her 
grandfather, the navvy, had but recently become endowed 
with Pilgrim-Father Ancestry — and her maternal uncle was a 
boastful pork-dealer in Cincinnati. It was her bounden duty 
to ennoble the family somehow — surely, if any one had a 



342 THELMA. 

right to be ambitious, she was that one! And while proud 
dreams of her future passed through her brain, little Lord 
Algy quivered meekly under her kiss, and returned it with 
all the enthusiasm of which he was capable. One or two 
faint misgivings troubled him as to whether he had not been 
just a little too hasty in making a serious bona fide offer of mar- 
riage to the young lady by whose Pilgrim progenitors he was 
not deceived. He knew well enough what her antecedents 
were, and a faint shudder crossed him as he thought of the 
pork-dealing uncle, who would, by marriage, become his 
uncle also. He had long been proud of the fact that the 
house of Masherville had never, through the course of cen^ 
turies, been associated, even in the remotest manner, with 
trade — and now — 

"Yet, after all," he mused, "the Marquis of Londonderry 
openly advertises himself as a coal-merchant, and the brothers- 
in-law of the Princess Louise are in the wine trade and stock- 
JDroking business — and all the old knightly blood of England 
is mingling itself by choice with that of the lowest commoners 
—what's the use of my remaining aloof, and refusing to go 
with the spirit of the age? Besides, Marcia loves me — and it's 
pleasant to be loved!" 

Poor Lord Algy! He certainly thought there could be no 
question about Marcia's affection for him. He little dreamed 
that it was to his title and position she had become so deeply 
attached — he could not guess that after he had married her 
there would be no more Lord Masherville worth mentioning — 
that that individual, once independent, would be entirely 
swallowed up and lost in the dashing personality of Lady 
Masherville, who would rule her husband as with a rod of 
iron. 

He was happily ignorant of his future and he walked in the 
gardens for some time with his arm round Marcia's waist, in a 
very placid and romantic frame of mind. By and by he es- 
corted her into the house, where the dancing was in full swing 
— and she, with a sweet smile, bidding him wait for her in the 
refreshment-room, sought for and found her mother, who, as 
usual, was seated in a quiet corner with Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, 
talking scandal. 

"Well?" exclaimed these two ladies, simultaneously and 
breathlessly. 



THELMA. 343 

Marcia's eyes twinkled. "Guess he came in as gently as a 
lamb!" she said. 

They understood her. Mrs. Eush-Marvelle rose from her 
chair in her usual stately and expansive manner. 

"I congratulate you, my dear!" kissing Marcia affectionately 
on both cheeks. "Bruce-Errington would have been a better 
match — but, under the circumstances, Masherville is really 
about the best thing you could do. You'll find him quite easy 
to manage!" This with an air as though she were recommend- 
ing a quiet pony. 

"That's so!" said Marcia, carelessly. "I guess we'll pull to- 
gether somehow. Mar-ma," to her mother — "yew kin turn 
on the news to all the folks yew meet — the more talk the 
better! I'm not partial to secrets!" And with a laugh, she 
turned away. 

Then Mrs. Van Clupp laid her plump, diamond-ringed 
hand on that of her dear friend, Mrs. Marvelle. 

"You have managed the whole thing beautifully," she said, 
with a grateful heave of her ample bosom. "Such a clever 
creature as you are!" She dropped her voice to a mysterious 
whisper. "You shall have that check to-morrow, my love!" 

Mrs. Eush-Marvelle pressed her fingers cordially, 

"Don't hurry yourself about it!" she returned in the same 
confidential tone. "I dare say you'll want me to arrange the 
wedding and the 'crush' afterward. I can wait till then." 

"No, no! that's a separate affair," declared Mrs. Van Clupp. 
"1 must insist on your taking the promised two hundred. 
You've been really so very energetic!" 

"Well, I have worked rather hard," said Mrs. Marvelle, with 
modest self-consciousness. "You see nowadays it's so diffi- 
cult to secure suitable husbands for the girls who ought to 
have them. Men are such slippery creatures!" 

She sighed, and Mrs. Van Clupp echoed the sigh, and then 
these two ladies — the nature of whose intimacy may now be 
understood by the discriminating reader — went together to 
search out those of their friends and acquaintances who were 
among the guests that night, and to announce to them (in the 
strictest confidence, of course!) the delightful news of "dear 
Marcia's engagement." Thelma heard of it, and went at once 
to proffer her congratulations to Marcia in person. 

"I hope you will be very, very happy!" she said simply, yet 
with such grave earnestness in her look and voice that the 



344 THELMA. 

"Yankee gel" was touched to a certain softness and serious- 
ness not at all usual with her, and became so winning and 
gentle to Lord Algy that he felt in the seventh heaven of 
delight with his now position as affianced lover to so charm- 
ing a creature. 

Meanwhile George Lorimer and Pierre Duprez were chat- 
ting together in the library. It was very quiet there — the 
goodly row of books, the busts of poets and philosophers — 
the large, placid features of Pallas Athene crowning an an- 
tique pedestal — the golden pipes of the organ gleaming 
through the shadows — all these gave a solemn, almost sacred 
aspect to the room. The noise of the dancing and festivity 
in the distant picture-gallery did not penetrate here, and 
Lorimer sat at the organ, drawing out a few plaintive strains 
from its keys as he talked. 

"It's your fancy, Pierre," he said, slowly. "Thelma may 
be a little tired to-day, perhaps — but I know she's perfectly 
happy." 

"I think not so," returned Duprez. "She has not the 
brightness — the angel look — les yeux d' enfant — that we be- 
held in her at that far Norwegian fjord. Britta is anxious 
for her." 

Lorimer looked up, and smiled a little. 

"Britta? It's always Britta with you, mon cher! One 
would think — " he paused and laughed. 

"Think what you please!" exclaimed Duprez, with a defiant 
snap of his fingers. "I would not give that little person for 
all thegrandes dames here to-day! She is charming — and she 
is true! Mafoi! — to be true to any one is a virtue in this 
age! I tell you, my good boy, there is something sorrowful 
— heavy— on la belle Thelma's mind — and Britta, who sees 
her always, feels it — but she can not speak. One thing I will 
tell you — it is a pity she is so fond of Miladi Winsleigh." 

"Why?" asked Lorimer, with some eagerness. 

"Because — " he stopped abruptly as a white figure sud- 
denly appeared at the doorway, and a musical voice addressed 
them. 

"Why, what are you both doing here, away from every- 
body?" and Thelma smiled as she approached. "You are her- 
mits, or you are lazy! People are going in to supper. Will 
you not come also?" 

"Mafoi!" exclaimed Duprez; "I had forgotten! I have 



THELMA. 345 

promised your most charming mother, clier Lorimer, to take 
her in to tliis same supper. 1 must fly upon the wings of 
chivalry!" 

And with a laugh, he hurried off, leaving Thelma and Lori- 
mer alone together. She sunk rather wearily into a chair near 
the organ, and looked at him. 

"Play me something!" she said, softly. 

A strange thrill quivered through him as he met her eyes — 
the sweet, deep, earnest eyes of the woman he loved. For it 
was no use attempting to disguise it from himself — he loved 
her passionately, wildly, hopelessly; as he had loved her from 
the first. 

Obedient to her wish, his fingers wandered over the organ- 
keys in a strain of solemn, weird, yet tender melancholy — the 
grand, rich notes pealed forth sobbingly, and she listened, her 
hands clasped idly in her lap. Presently he changed the 
theme to one of more heart-appealing passion, and a strange 
wild minor air, like the rushing of the wind across the moun- 
tains, began to make itself heard through the subdued rippling 
murmur of his improvised accompaniment. To his surprise 
and fear, she started up, pressing her hands against her ears. 

"Not that — not that song, my friend!" she cried, almost im- 
ploringly. "Oh, it will break my heart! Oh, the Alten 
Fjord!" And she gave way to a passion of weeping. 

"Thelma! Thelma!" and poor Lorimer, rising from the 
organ, stood gazing at her in piteous dismay — every nerve in 
his body wrung to anguish by the sound of her sobbing. A 
mad longing seized him to catch her in his arms — to gather 
her and her sorrows, whatever they were, to his heart! and he 
had much ado to restrain himself. 

"Thelma," he presently said, in a gentle voice that trembled 
just a little, "Thelma, what is troubling you? You call me 
your brother — give me a brother's right to your confidence." 
He bent over her and took her hand. "I — I can't bear to see 
you cry like this! Tell me — what's the matter? Let me fetch 
Philip." 

She looked up with wet, wild eyes and quivering lips. 

"Oh, no — no!" she murmured, in a tone of entreaty and 
alarm. "Do not — Philip must not know. I do wish him 
always to see me bright and cheerful — and — it is nothing! It 
is that I heard something which grieved me." 



346 THELMA. 



"^ 



'What was it?" asked Lorimer, remembering Duprez's 
recent remark. 

"Oh, I would not tell you," she said eagerly, drying her eyes 
and endeavoring to smile, "because I am sure it was a mis- 
take, and all wrong — and I was foolish to fancy that such a 
thing could be, even for a moment. But when one does not 
know the worid, it seems cruel — " 

"Thelma, what do you mean?" and George surveyed her in 
some perplexity. "If any one's been bothering or vexing you, 
just you tell Phil all about it. Don't have any secrets from 
him — he'll soon put everything straight, whatever it is." 

She shook her head slightly. "Ah, you do not understand!" 
she said, pathetically; "how should you? Because you have 
not given your life away to any one, and it is all different with 
you. But when you do love — if you are at all like me — you 
will be so anxious to always seem worthy of love — and you 
will hide all your griefs away from your beloved, so that your 
constant presence shall not seem tiresome. And I would not 
for all the world trouble Philip with my silly fancies, because 
then he might grow more weary still — " 

"Weary!" interrupted Lorimer, in an accent of emphatic 
surprise. "Why, you don't suppose Phil's tired of you, 
Thelma? That is nonsense indeed! He worships you! Who's 
been putting such notions into your head?" 

She rose from her chair quite calm and very pale, and laid 
her two trembling hands in his. 

"Ah, you also will mistake me," she said, with touching 
sweetness, "like so many others who think me strange in my 
speech and manner. I am sorry I am not Hke other women — 
but I can not help it. What I do wish you to understand is 
that I never suppose an3^hing against my Philip — he is the 
noblest and best of men! And you must promise not to tell 
him that I was so foolish as to cry just now because you 
played that old song I sung to you both so often in Norway — 
it was because I felt a little sad — but it was only a fancy — 
and I would not have him troubled with such things. Will 
you promise?" 

"But what has made you sad?" persisted Lorimer, still 
puzzled. 

"Nothing — nothing indeed," she answered, with almost 
feverish earnestness. "You yourself are sometimes sad^ and 
can you tell why?" 



THELMA. 347 

Lorimer certainly could have told why — but he remained 
silent, and gently kissed the little hands he held. 

"Then I mustn't tell Philip of your sadness?" he asked 
softly, at last. "But will you tell him yourself, Thelma? 
Depend upon it, it's much better to have no secrets from him. 
The least grief of yours would affect him more than the down- 
fall of a kingdom. You know how dearly he loves you!" 

"Yes, I know!" she answered, and her eyes brightened 
slowly. "And that is why I wish him always to see me 
happy!" She paused, and then added in a lower tone, "I 
would rather die, my friend, than vex him for one hour!" 

George still held her hands and looked wistfully in her face. 
He was about to speak again, when a cold, courteous voice 
interrupted them. 

"Lady Errington, may I have the honor of taking you in to 
supper?" 

It was Sir Francis Lennox. He had entered quite noise- 
lessly, his footsteps making no sound on the thick velvet-pile 
carpet, and he stood close to Lorimer, who dropped Thelma's 
hands hastily and darted a suspicious glance at the intruder. 
But Sir Francis was the very picture of unconcerned and bland 
politeness, and offered Thelma his arm with the graceful ease 
of an accomplished courtier. She was perforce compelled to 
accept it, and she was slightly confused, though she could not 
have told why. 

"Sir Philip has been looking everywhere for you," con- 
tinued Sir Francis, amicably. "x\nd for you also," he added, 
turning slightly to Lorimer. "I trust I've not abruptly broken 
off a pleasant tete-a-tete ?" 

Lorimer colored hotly. "Not at all!" he said rather 
brusquely. "I've been strumming on the organ, and Lady 
Errington has been good enough to listen to me." 

"You do not strum," said Thelma, with gentle reproach. 
"You play very beautifully." 

"Ah! a charming accomplishment!" observed Sir Francis, 
with his under-glance and covert smile, as they all three 
wended their way out of the library. "I regret I have never 
had time to devote myself to acquiring some knowledge of the 
arts. In music I am a positive ignoramus! I can hold my 
own best in the field." 

"Yes, you're a great adept at hunting, Lennox," remarked 



348 THELMA. 

Lorimer, suddenly, with something sarcastic in his tone. "I 
suppose the quarry never escapes you?" 

"Seldom!" returned Sir Francis, coolly. "Indeed, I think I 
may say, never!" 

And with that he passed into the supper-room, elhowing a 
way for Tlielma, till he succeeded in placing her near the head 
of the table, where she was soon busily occupied in entertain- 
ing her guests and listening to their chatter; and Lorimer, 
looking at her once or twice, saw, to his great relief, that all 
traces of her former agitation had disappeared, leaving her 
face fair and radiant as a spring morning. 



CHAPTEK VII. 



A generous fierceness dwells with innocence, 
And conscious virtue is allowed some pride. 

Dryden. 

The melancholy days of autumn came on apace, and by and 
by the manor was deserted. The Bruce-Errington establish- 
ment removed again to town, where business, connected with 
his intending membership for Parliament, occupied Sir Philip 
from morning till night. The old insidious feeling of depres- 
sion returned and hovered over Thelma's mind like a black 
bird of ill omen, and though she did her best to shake it off 
she could not succeed. People began to notice her deepening 
seriousness and the wistful melancholy of her blue eyes, and 
made their remarks thereon when they saw her at Marcia Van 
Clupp's wedding, an event which came off brilliantly at the 
commencement of November, and which was almost entirely 
presided over by Mrs. Eush-Marvelle. That far-seeing matron 
had indeed urged on the wedding by every delicate expedient 
possible. 

"Long engagements are a great mistake," she told Marcia — 
then, in a warning undertone, she added: "Men are capri- 
cious nowadays — they're all so much in demand. Better take 
Masherville while he's in the humor." 

Marcia accepted this hint and took him, and Mrs. Rush- 
Marvelle heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the twain safely 



THELMA. 349 

married and ofF to the Continent on their honeymoon trip — 
Marcia all sparkling and triumphant, Lord Algy tremulous 
and feebly ecstatic. 

"Thank Heaven that's over!" she said to her polite and serv- 
ile husband. "I never had such a troublesome business in 
my life! That girl's been nearly two seasons on my hands, 
and I think five hundred guineas not a bit too much for all 
I've done." 

"Not a bit — not a bit!" agreed Mr. Marvelle, warmly. 
"Have they — have they" — here he put on a most benevolent 
side look — "quite settled with you, my dear?" 

"Every penny," replied Mrs. Marvelle, calmly. "Old Van 
Clupp paid me the last hundred this morning. And poor Mrs. 
Van Clupp is so very grateful!" She sighed placidly, and ap- 
peared to meditate. Then she smiled sweetly and, approach- 
ing Mr. Marvelle, patted his shoulder caressingly. "I think 
we'll do the Italian lakes, dear — what do you say?" 

"Charming — charming!" declared, not her lord and master, 
but her slave and vassal. "Nothing could be more delight- 
ful!" 

And to the Italian lakes accordingly they went. A great 
many people were out of town — all who had leisure and money 
enough to liberate themselves from the approaching evils of 
an English winter had departed or were departing. Beau 
Lovelace had gone to Como, George Lorimer had returned 
with Duprez to Paris, and Thelma had very few visitors ex- 
cept Lady Winsleigh, who was more often with her now than 
ever. In fact, her ladyship was more like one of the Erring- 
ton household than anything else — she came so frequently and 
stayed so long. She seemed sincerely attached to Thelma, 
and Thelma herself, too single-hearted and simple to imagine 
that such affection could be feigned, gave her in return what 
Lady Winsleigh had never succeeded in winning from any 
woman — a pure, trusting, and utterly imsuspecting love, such 
as she would have lavished on a twin-born sister. But there 
was one person who was not deceived by Lady Winsleigh's 
charm of manner and grace of speech. This was Britta. Her 
keen eyes flashed a sort of unuttered defiance into her lady- 
ship's beautiful, dark languishing ones — she distrusted her, 
and viewed the intimacy between her and the "Froken" with 
entire disfavor. Once she ventured to express something of 
her feeling on the matter to Thelma — but Thelma had looked 



350 THELMA. 

SO gently wondering and reproachful that Britta had not cour- 
age to go on. 

"I am sorry, Britta," said her mistress, "that you do not like 
Lady Winsleigh, because I am very fond of her. You must 
try to like her for my sake." 

But Britta pursed her lips and shook her head obstinately. 
However, she said no more at the time, and decided within 
herself to wait and watch the course of events. And in the 
meantime she became very intimate with Lady Winsleigh's 
maid, Louise Eenaud, and Briggs, and learned from these two 
domestic authorities many things which greatly tormented 
and puzzled her little brain — things over which she pondered 
deeply without arriving at any satisfactory conclusion. 

On her return to town, Thelma had been inexpressibly 
shocked at the changed appearance of her husband's secretary, 
Edward Neville. At first she scarcely knew him, he had 
altered so greatly. Always inclined to stoop, his shoulders 
were now bent as by the added weight of twenty years — his 
hair, once only grizzled, was now quite gray — his face was 
deeply sunken and pale, and his eyes by contrast looked large 
and wild, as though some haunting thought were driving him 
to madness. He shrunk so nervously from her gaze that she 
began to fancy he must have taken some dislike to her — and 
though she delicately refrained from pressing questions upon 
him personally she spoke to her husband about him with real 
solicitude. "Is Mr. Neville working too hard?" she asked one 
day. "He looks very ill." 

Her remarks seemed to embarrass Philip — he colored and 
seemed confused. 

"Does he? Oh, I suppose he sleeps badly. Yes, I remem- 
ber, he told me so. You see, the loss of his wife has always 
preyed on his mind — he never loses hope of — of — that is — he 
is always trying to — you know! — to get her back again." 

"But do you think he will ever find her?" asked Thelma. 
I thought you said it was a hopeless case?" 

Well — I think so, certainly — but, you see, it's no good 
dashing his hopes — one never knows — she might turn up any 
day — it's a sort of chance!" 

"I wish I could help him to search for her," she said, com- 
passionately. "His eyes do look so full of sorrow." She 
paused and added, musingly: "Almost like Sigurd's eyes 
sometimes." 






THELMA. 351 

"Oh, he's not losing his wits/' said Philip, hastily; "he's 
quite patient, and — and all that sort of thing. Don't bother 
about him, Thelma, he's all right!" 

And he fumbled hastily with some papers, and began to talk 
of something else. His embarrassed manner caused her to 
wonder a little at the time as to the reason of it — but she had 
many other things to think about, and she soon forgot a con- 
versation that might have proved a small guiding link in the 
chain of events that were soon about to follow quickly one 
upon another, shaking her life to its very foundation. Lady 
Winsleigh found it almost impossible to get her on the subject 
of the burlesque actress, Violet Vere, and Sir Philip's sup- 
posed admiration for that notorious stage siren. 

"I do not believe it," she said, firmly, "and you — you must 
not believe it either, Clara. For wherever you heard it, it is 
wrong. We should dishonor Philip by such a thought— you 
are his friend, and I am his wife — we are not the ones to be- 
lieve anything against him, even if it could be proved — and 
there are no proofs." 

"My dear," responded her ladyship, easily, "you can get 
proofs for yourself if you like. For instance, ask Sir Philip 
how often he has seen Miss Vere lately — and hear what he 
says." 

Thelma colored deeply. "I would not question my husband 
on such a subject," she said, proudly. 

"Oh, well! if you are so fastidious!" And Lady Winsleigh 
shrugged her shoulders. 

"I am not fastidious," returned Thelma, "only I do wish to 
be worthy of his love — and I should not be so if I doubted 
him. No, Clara, I will trust him to the end." 

Clara Winsleigh drew nearer to her, and took her hand. 

"Even if he were unfaithful to you?" she asked in a low, 
impressive tone. 

"Unfaithful!" Thelma uttered the word with a little cry. 
"Clara, dear Clara, you must not say such a word! Unfaith- 
ful! That means that my husband would love some one more 
than me! Ah! that is impossible!" 

"Suppose it were possible ?" persisted Lady Winsleigh, with 
a cruel light in her dark eyes. "Such things have been!" 

Thelma stood motionless, a deeply mournful expression on 
her fair, pale face. She seemed to think for a moment, then 
she spoke. 



352 THELMA. 

"1 would never believe it!" she said, solemnly. "Never, 
unless I heard it from his own lips, or saw it in his own writ- 
ing, that he was weary of me, and wanted me no more." 

"And then?" 

"Then" — she drew a quick breath — "I should know what to 
do. But, Clara, you must understand me well, even if this 
were so, I should never blame him — no — not once!" 

"Not blame him?" cried Lady Winsleigh, impatiently. 
"Not blame him for infidelity?" 

A deep blush swept over her face at the hated word "in- 
fidelity," but she answered, steadily: 

"No. Because, you see, it would be my fault, not his. 
When you hold a flower in your hand for a long time, till all 
its fragrance has gone, and you drop it because it no longer 
smells sweetly, you are not to blame; it is natural you should 
wish to have something fresh and fragrant — is it the flower's 
fault because it could not keep its scent long enough to please 
you? Now, if Philip were to love me no longer, I should be 
like that flower, and how would he be to blame? He would 
be as good as ever, but I — I should have ceased to seem pleas- 
ant to him — that is all!" 

She put this strange view of the case quite calmly, as if it 
were the only solution to the question. Lady Winsleigh 
heard her, half in contemptuous amusement, half in dismay. 
"What can I do with such a woman as this?" she thought. 
"And fancy Lennie imagining for a moment that he could 
have any power over her!" Aloud, she said: 

"Thelma, you're the oddest creature going — a regular 
heathen child from Norway! You've set up your husband as 
an idol, and you're always on your knees before him. It's 
awfully sweet of you, but it's quite absurd, all the same. 
Angelic wives always get the worst of it, and so you'll see! 
Haven't you heard that?" 

"Yes, I have heard it," she answered, smiling a little. "But 
only since I came to London. In Norway, it is taught to 
women that to be patient and obedient is best for every one. 
It is not so here. But I am not an angelic wife, Clara, and so 
the 'worst of it' will not apply to me. Indeed, I do not know 
of any 'worst' that I would not bear for Philip's sake." 

Lady Winsleigh studied the lovely face, eloquent with love 
and truth, for some moments in silence. A kind of compunc- 
tion pricked her conscience. Why destroy all that beautiful 



THELMA. 353 

faith? Why wound that grandly trusting nature? The feel- 
ing was but momentary. 

"Philip does run after the Vere," she said to herself — "it's 
true, there's no mistake about it, and she ought to know of it. 
But she won't believe without proofs. What proofs can I get, 
I wonder?" And her scheming brain set to work to solve this 
problem. 

In justice to her, it must be admitted, she had a good deal 
of seeming truth on her side. Sir Philip's name had some- 
how got connected with that of the leading actress at the Bril- 
liant, and more than Lady Winsleigh began to make jocose 
whispering comments on his stage "amour" — comments be- 
hind his back, which he was totally unaware of. Nobody knew 
quite how the rumor had first been started. Sir Francis Len- 
nox seemed to know a good deal about it, and he was an 
"intimate" of the "Vere" magic circle of attraction. And 
though they talked, no one ventured to say anything to Sir 
Philip himself; the only two among his friends who would 
have spoken out honestly were Beau Lovelace and Lorimer, 
and these were absent. 

One evening, contrary to his usual custom, Sir Philip went 
out after the late dinner. Before leaving, he kissed his wife 
tenderly, and told her on no account to sit up for him — he and 
Neville were going to attend a little matter of business which 
might detain them longer than they could calculate. After 
they had gone, Thelma resigned herself to a lonely evening, 
and, stirring the fire in the drawing-room to a cheerful blaze, 
she sat down beside it. First, she amused herself by reading 
over some letters recently received from her father — and then, 
yielding to a sudden fancy, she drew her spinning-wheel from 
the corner where it always stood, and set it in motion. She 
had little time for spinning now, but she never quite gave it 
up, and as the low, familiar whirring sound hummed pleas- 
antly on her ears, she smiled, thinking how quaint and almost 
incongruous her simple instrument of industry looked among 
all the luxurious furniture and costly knick-knacks by which 
she was surrounded. 

"I ought to have one of my old gowns on," she half mur- 
mured, glancing down at the pale blue silk robe she wore — "I 
am too fine to spin!" 

And she almost laughed as the wheel flew round swiftly 
under her graceful manipulations. Listening to its whir, 

23 



354 THELMA. 

whir, whir, she scarcely heard a sudden knock at the street 
door, and was quite startled when the servant, Morris, 
announced: 

"Sir Francis Lennox!" 

Surprised, she rose from her seat at the spinning-wheel with 
a slight air of hauteur. Sir Francis, who had never in his life 
seen a lady of title and fashion in London engaged in the 
primitive occupation of spinning, was entirely delighted with 
the picture before him — the tall, lovely woman with her gold 
hair and shimmering blue draperies, standing with such state- 
liness beside the simple wooden wheel, the antique emblem of 
household industry. Instinctively he thought of Marguerite; 
but Marguerite as a crowned queen, superior to all tempta- 
tions of either man or fiend. 

"Sir Philip is out," she said, as she suffered him to take her 
hand. 

"So I was aware!" returned Lennox, easily. "I saw him a 
little while ago at the door of the Brilliant Theater." 

She turned very pale — then controlling the rapid beating of 
her heart by a strong effort, she forced a careless smile, and 
said, bravely: 

"Did you? I am very glad — for he will have some amuse- 
ment there, perhaps, and that will do him good. He has been 
working so hard!" 

She paused. He said nothing, and she went on more cheer- 
fully still: 

"Is it not a very dismal, wet evening? Yes! — and you mvist 
be cold. Will you have some tea?" 

"Tha-anks!" drawled Sir Francis, staring at her admiringly. 
"If it's not too much trouble — " 

"Oh, no!" said Thelma. "Why should it be?" And she 
rang the bell and gave the order. Sir Francis sunk lazily back 
in an easy chair, and stroked his mustache slowly. He knew 
that his random hit about the theater had struck home — but 
she allowed the arrow to pierce and possibly wound her heart 
without showing any outward signs of discomposure. "A 
plucky woman!" he considered, and wondered how he should 
make his next move. She, meanwhile, smiled at him frankly, 
and gave a light twirl to her spinning-wheel. 

"You see," she said, "I was amusing myself this evening by 
imagining that I was once more at home in Norway." 

"Pray don't let me interrupt the amusement," he responded, 



THELMA. 355 

with a sleepy look of satisfaction shooting from beneath his 
eyelids. "Go on spinning. Lady Errington. I've never seen 
any one spin before." 

At that moment Morris appeared with the tea, and handed 
it to Sir Francis. Thelma took none, and as the servant re- 
tired, she quietly resumed her occupation. There was a short 
silence, only broken by the hum of the wheel. Sir Francis 
sipped his tea with a meditative air, and studied the fair 
woman before him as critically as he would have studied a 
picture. 

"I hope I'm not in your way?" he asked suddenly. She 
looked up surprised. 

"Oh, no — only I am sorry Philip is not here to talk to you. 
It would be so much pleasanter." 

"Would it?" he murmured, rather dubiously, and smiling. 
"Well, I shall be quite contented if you will talk to me. Lady 
Errington." 

"Ah, but I am not at all clever in conversation," responded 
Thelma, quite seriously. "I am sure you, as well as many 
others, must have noticed that. I never do seem to say exactly 
the right thing to please everybody. Is it not very unfortu- 
nate?" 

He laughed a little. "I have yet to learn in what way you 
do not please everybody," he said, dropping his voice to a low, 
caressing cadence. "Who that sees you does not admire — 
and — and love you?" 

She met his languorous gaze without embarrassment, while 
the childlike openness of her regard confused and slightly 
shamed him. 

"Admire me? Oh, yes!" she said somewhat plaintively. 
'It is that of which I am so weary! Because God has made 
one pleasant in form and face — to be stared at and whispered 
about, and have all one's dresses copied! — all that is so small 
and common and mean, and does vex me so much!" 

"It is the penalty you pay for being beautiful," said Sir 
Francis, slowly, wondering within himself at the extraordi- 
nary incongruity of a feminine creature who was actually tired 
of admiration. 

She made no reply — the wheel went round faster than be- 
fore. Presently Lennox set aside his emptied cup, and draw- 
ing his chair a little closer to hers, asked: 

"When does Errington return?" 



356 THELMA. 

"I can not tell you," she answered. "He said that he might 
be late. Mr. Neville was with him." 

There was another silence. "Lady Errington," said Sir 
Francis, abruptly, "pray excuse me — I speak as a friend, and 
in your interests. How long is this to last?" 

The wheel stopped. She raised her eyes — they were grave 
and steady. 

"I do not understand you," she returned, quietly. "What 
is it that you mean?" 

He hesitated — then went on, with lowered eyelids and a half 
smile. 

"I mean — what all our set's talking about — Errington's 
queer fancy for that actress at the Brilliant." 

Thelma gazed at him fixedly. "It is a mistake," she said, 
resolutely, "altogether a mistake. And as you are his friend. 
Sir Francis, you will please contradict this report — which is 
wrong, and may do Philip harm. It has no truth in it at 
all—" 

"No truth!" exclaimed Lennox. "It's true as Gospel! Lady 
Errington, I'm sorry for it — but your husband is deceiving 
you most shamefully!" 

"How dare you say such a thing!" she cried, springing up- 
right and facing him — then she stopped and grew very pale — 
but she kept her eyes upon him. How bright they were! 
What a chilling pride glittered in their sea-blue depths! 

"You are in error," she said, coldly. "If it is wrong to visit 
this theater you speak of, why are you so often seen there — ^and 
why is not some harm said of you? It is not your place to 
speak against my husband. It is shameful and treacherous! 
You do forget yourself most wickedly." 

And she moved to leave the room. But Sir Francis inter- 
posed. 

"Lady Errington," he said, very gently, "don't be hard upon 
me — pray forgive me! Of course I've no business to speak — 
but how can I help it? When I hear every one at the clubs 
discussing you, and pitying you, it's impossible to listen quite 
unmoved! I'm the least among your friends, I know; but I 
can't bear this sort of thing to go on; the whole affair will be 
dished up in the society papers next!" 

And he paced the room impatiently — a very well-feigned 
expression of friendly concern and sympathy on his features. 
Thelma stood motionless, a little bewildered — her head 



THELMA. 357 

throbbed achingly, and there was a sick sensation of numbness 
creeping about her. 

"I tell you it is all wrong!" she repeated, with an effort. "I 
do not understand why these people at the clubs should talk 
of me or pity me. I do not need any pity! My husband is all 
goodness and truth" — she stopped and gathered courage as 
she went on. "Yes! he is better, braver, nobler than all other 
men in the world, it seems to me! He gives me all the joy of 
my life — each day and night I thank God for the blessing of 
his love!" 

She paused again. Sir Francis turned and looked at her 
steadily. A sudden thought seemed to strike her, for she ad- 
vanced eagerly, a sweet color flushing the pallor of her skin. 

"You can do so much for me if you will!" she said, laying 
her hand on his arm. "You can tell all these people who talk 
so foolishly that they are wrong — tell them how happy I am! 
And that my Philip has never deceived me in any matter, 
great or small!" 

"Never?" he asked with a slight sneer. "You are sure?" 

"Sure!" she answered, bravely. "He would keep nothing 
from me that it was necessary or good for me to know. And 
I — oh! I might pass all my life in striving to please him, and 
yet I should never, never be worthy of all his tenderness and 
goodness! And that he goes many times to a theater without 
me — what is it? A mere nothing — a trifle to laugh at! It is 
not needful to tell me of such a small circumstance!" 

As she spoke she smiled — her form seemed to dilate with a 
sort of inner confidence and rapture. 

Sir Francis stared at her half shamed — half savage. The 
beautiful, appealing face, bright with simple trust, roused 
him to no sort of manly respect or forbearance — the very 
touch of the blossom-white hand she had laid so innocently on 
his arm stung his passion as with a lash. As he had said, he 
was fond of hunting — he had chased the unconscious deer all 
through the summer, and now that it had turned to bay with 
such pitiful mildness and sweet pleading, why not draw the 
knife across its slim throat without mercy? 

"Really, Lady Errington!" he said at last sarcastically. 
"Your wifely enthusiasm and confidence are indeed charming! 
But, unfortunately, the proofs are all against you. Truth is 
truth, however much you may wish to blind your eyes to its 
manifestations. I sincerely wish Sir Philip were present to 



358 THELMA. 

hear your eloquent praises of him instead of being where he 
most undoubtedly is — in the arms of Violet Vere!" 

As he said these words she started away from him and put 
her hands to her ears as though to shut out some discordant 
sound. Her eyes glowed feverishly, a cold shiver shook her 
from head to foot. 

"That is false — false!" she muttered in a low, choked voice. 
"How can you — how dare you?" 

She ceased, and with a swaying, bewildered movement, as 
though she were blind, she fell senseless at his feet. 

In one second he was kneeling beside her. He raised her 
head on his arm — he gazed eagerly on her fair, still features. 
A dark contraction of his brows showed that his thoughts were 
not altogether righteous ones. Suddenly he laid her down 
again gently, and, springing to the door, locked it. Eeturn- 
ing, he once more lifted her in a half-reclining position, and 
encircling her with his arms, drew her close to his breast and 
kissed her. He was in no hurry for her to recover. She 
looked very beautiful — she was helpless — she was in his power. 
The silvery ting-ting of the clock on the mantel-piece striking 
eleven startled him a little. He listened painfully — he thought 
he heard some one trying the handle of the door he had locked. 
Again — again he kissed those pale, unconscious lips! Pres- 
ently, a slight shiver ran through her frame; she sighed, and 
a little moan escaped her. Gradually, as warmth and sensa- 
tion returned to her, she felt the pressure of his embrace, and 
murmured: 

"Philip! Darling — you have come back earlier — I 
thought—" 

Here she opened her eyes and met those of Sir Francis, who 
was eagerly bending over her. She uttered an exclamation of 
alarm, and strove to rise. He held her still more closely. 

"Thelma — dear, dearest Thelma! Let me comfort you — ^let 
me tell you how much I love you!" 

And before she could divine his intent, he pressed his lips 
passionately on her pale cheek. With a cry she tore herself 
violently from his arms and sprung to her feet, trembling in 
every limb. 

"What — what is this?" she exclaimed, wrathfully. "Are 
you mad?" 

And still weak and confused from her recent attack of 



THELMA. 359 

faintness, she pushed back her hair from her brows and re- 
garded him with a sort of puzzled horror. 

He flushed deeply, and set his lips hard. 

"I dare say I am/' he answered with a bitter laugh; "in fact, 
I know I am. You see, I've betrayed my miserable secret. 
Will you forgive me, Lady Errington — Thelma?" He drew 
nearer to her, and his eyes darkened with restrained passion. 
"Matchless beauty! — adorable woman, as you are! — will you 
not pardon my crime, if crime it be — the crime of loving you? 
For I do love you! — Heaven only knows how utterly and 
desperately!" 

She stood mute, white, almost rigid, with that strange look 
of horror frozen, as it were, upon her features. Emboldened 
by her silence, he approached and caught her hand. She 
wrenched it from his grasp and motioned him from her with 
a gesture of such royal contempt that he quailed before her. 
All suddenly the flood-gates of her speech were loosened — the 
rising tide of burning indignation that in its very force had 
held her dumb and motionless, now broke forth unrestrain- 
edly. 

"Oh, God!" she cried, impetuously, a magnificent glory of 
disdain flashing in her jewel-like eyes, "what thing is this that 
calls itself a man? — this thief of honor — this pretended 
friend? What have I done, sir, that you should put such deep 
disgrace as your so-called love upon me? — what have I seemed, 
that you thus dare to outrage me by the pollution of your 
touch? I — the wife of the noblest gentleman in the land! 
Ah!" and she drew a long breath — "and it is you who speak 
against my husband — you!" She smiled scornfully, then with 
more calmness continued: "You will leave my house, sir, at 
once, and never presume to enter it again!" 

And she stepped toward the bell. He looked at her with 
an evil leer. 

"Stop a moment!" he said, coolly. "Just one moment be- 
fore you ring. Pray consider! The servant can not possibly 
enter, as the door is locked." 

"You dared to lock the door!" she exclaimed, a sudden fear 
chilling her heart as she remembered similar maneuvers on 
the part of the Eeverend Mr. Dyceworthy — then another 
thought crossed her mind, and she began to retreat toward a 
large painted panel of Venus disporting among Cupids and 
dolphins in the sea. Sir Francis sprung to her side, and 



360 THELMA. 

caught her arm in an iron grip — his face was aflame with 
baffled spite and vindictiveness. 

"Yes, I dared!" he muttered with triumphant malice. "And 
I dare do more than that! You lay unconscious in my arms 
— you beautiful, bewitching Thelma, and I kissed you — ay! 
fifty times! You can never undo those kisses! You can never 
forget that my lips, as well as your husband's, have rested on 
yours. I have had that much joy that shall never be taken 
away from me! And if I choose, even now" — and he gripped 
her more closely — "yes, even now I will kiss you, in spite of 
you! — who is to prevent me? I will force you to love me, 
Thelma—" 

Driven to bay, she struck him with all her force in the face, 
across the eyes. 

"Traitor! — liar! — coward!" she gasped, breathlessly. "Let 
me go!" 

Smarting with the pain of the blow, he unconsciously loos- 
ened his grasp. She rushed to the Venus panel, and to his 
utter discomfiture and amazement saw it open and close be- 
hind her. She disappeared suddenly and noiselessly as if by 
magic. With a fierce exclamation, he threw his whole weight 
against that secret sliding door — it resisted all his efforts. He 
searched for the spring by which it must have opened — the 
whole panel was perfectly smooth and apparently solid, and 
the painted Venus reclining on her dolphin's back seemed as 
though she smiled mockingly at his rage and disappointment. 

While he was examining it, he heard the sudden, sharp, and 
continuous ringing of an electric bell somewhere in the house, 
and with a guilty flush on his face he sprung to the drawing- 
room door and unlocked it. He was just in time, for scarcely 
had he turned the key, when Morris made his appearance. 
That venerable servitor looked round the room in evident 
surprise. 

"Did her ladyship ring?" he inquired, his eyes roving every- 
where in search of his mistress. Sir Francis collected his 
wits, and forced himself to seem composed. 

"No," he said, coolly. "I rang." He adopted this false- 
hood as a means of exit. "Call a hansom, will you?" 

And he sauntered easily into the hall, and got on his hat 
and great coat. Morris was rather bewildered — but, obedient 
to the command, blew the summoning cab-whistle, which was 
promptly answered. Sir Francis tossed him half a crown, and 



THELMA. 361 

entered the vehicle, which clattered away with him in the 
direction of Cromwell Road. Stopping at a particular house 
in a side street leading from thence, he bade the cabman wait 
and, ascending the steps, busied himself for some moments in 
scribbling something rapidly in pencil on a leaf of his note- 
book by the light of the hanging lamp in the doorway. He 
then gave a loud knock, and inquired of the servant who an- 
swered it: 

"Is Mr. Snawley-Grubbs in?" 

"Yes, sir" — the reply came rather hesitatingly — "but he's 
having a party to-night." 

And, in fact, the scraping of violins and the shuffle of danc- 
ing feet were distinctly audible overhead. 

"Oh, well, just mention my name — Sir Francis Lennox. 
Say I will not detain him more than five minutes." 

He entered, and was ushered into a small anteroom 
while the maid went to deliver her message. He caught sight 
of his own reflection in a round mirror over the mantel-piece, 
and his face darkened as he saw a dull red ridge across his 
forehead — the mark of Thelma's well-directed blow — the sign- 
manual of her scorn. A few minutes passed, and then there 
came in to him a large man in an expansive dress-suit — a man 
with a puffy, red, Silenus-like countenance — no other than Mr. 
Snawley-Grubbs, who hailed him with eftusive cordiality. 

"My dear Sir Francis!" he said in a rich, thick, comfortable 
voice. "This is an unexpected pleasure! Won't you come 
upstairs? My girls are having a little informal dance — just 
among themselves and their own young friends — quite simple 
— in fact, an unpretentious little affair!" And he rubbed his 
fat hands, on which twinkled two or three large diamond rings. 
"But we shall be charmed if you will join us!" 

"Thanks, not this evening," returned Sir Francis. "It's 
rather too late. I should not have intruded upon you at this 
hour — but I thought you might possibly like this paragraph 
for the 'Snake.' " 

And he held out with a careless air the paper on which he 
had scribbled but a few minutes previously. Mr. Snawley- 
Grubbs smiled, and fixed a pair of elegant gold-rimmed eye- 
glasses on his inflamed crimson nose. 

"I must tell you, though," he observed, before reading, "that 
it is too late for this week, at any rate. We've gone to press 
already." 



362 THELMA. 

"Never mind!" returned Sir Francis, indifferently. "Next 
week will do as well." 

And he furtively watched Mr. Snawley-Gruhbs while he 
perused the penciled scrawl. That gentleman, however, as 
editor and proprietor of the "Snake" — a new, but highly suc- 
cessful weekly "society" Journal — was far too dignified and 
self-important to allow his countenance to betray his feelings. 
He merely remarked, as he folded up the little slip very 
carefully : 

"Very smart! very smart, indeed! Authentic, of course?" 

Sir Francis drew himself up haughtily. "You doubt my 
word?" 

"Oh, dear, no!" declared Mr. Snawley-Grubbs hastily, ven- 
turing to lay a soothing hand on Sir Francis's shoulder. 
"Your position, and all that sort of thing — Naturally you 
must be able to secure correct information. You can't help it! 
I assure you, the 'Snake' is infinitely obliged to you for a great 
many well-written and socially exciting paragraphs. Only, 
you see, I myself should never have thought that so extreme 
a follower of the exploded old doctrine of noblesse oblige as Sir 
Philip Bruce-Errington would have started on such a new line 
of action at all. But, of course, we are all mortal!" And he 
shook his round, thick head with leering sagacity. "Well," 
he continued, after a pause, "this shall go in without fail next 
week, I promise you." 

"You can send me a hundred copies of the issue," said Sir 
Francis, taking up his hat to go. "I suppose you're not afraid 
of an action for libel?" 

Mr. Snawley-Grubbs laughed — nay, he roared — ^the idea 
seemed so exquisitely suited to his sense of humor. 

"Afraid? My dear fellow, there's nothing I should like 
better! It would establish the 'Snake,' and make my fortune! 
I would even go to prison with pleasure. Prison, for a first- 
class misdemeanant, as I should most probably be termed, is 
perfectly endurable." He laughed again, and escorted Sir 
Francis to the street-door, where he shook hands heartily. 
"You are sure you won't come up stairs and join us? No? 
Ah, I see you have a cab waiting. Good-night, good-night!" 

And the Snawley-Grubbs door being closed upon him, Sir 
Francis re-entered his cab, and was driven straight to his 
bachelor lodgings in Piccadilly. He was in a better humor 
with himself now — though he was still angrily conscious of a 



THELMA. 363 

smart throbbing across the eyes, where Thelma's ringed hand 
had struck him. He found a brief note from Lady Winsleigh 
awaiting him. It ran as follows: 

"You're playing a losing game this time — she will believe 
nothing without proofs — and even then it will be difficult. You 
had better drop the pursuit, I fancy — for once a woman's reputa- 
tion will escape you!" 

He smiled bitterly as he read these last words. 

"Not while a society paper exists!" he said to himself. "As 
long as there are editors who are willing to accept the word of 
a responsible man of position for any report, the chastest 
Diana that ever lived shall not escape calumny! She wants 
proofs, does she? She shall have them — by Jove! she shall!" 

And instead of going to bed, he went oil to a bijou villa in 
St. John's Wood — an elegantly appointed little place, which 
he rented and maintained — and where the popular personage 
known as Violet Vere basked in the very lap of luxury. 

Meanwhile Thelma paced up and down her own boudoir, 
into which she had escaped through the sliding panel which 
had baffled her admirer. Her whole frame trembled as she 
thought of the indignity to which she had been subjected dur- 
ing her brief unconsciousness — her face burned with bitter 
shame — she felt as if she were somehow poisonously infected 
by those hateful kisses of Lennox — all her womanly and wifely 
instincts were outraged. Her first impulse was to tell her hus- 
band everything the instant he returned. It was she who had 
rung the bell which had startled Sir Francis, and she was sur- 
prised that her summons was not answered. She rang again, 
and Britta appeared. 

"I wanted Morris," said Thelma, quickly. 

"He thought it was the drawing-room bell," responded 
Britta, meekly, for her "Froken" looked very angry. "I saw 
him in the hall just now, letting out Sir Francis Lennox." 

"Has he gone?" demanded Thelma, eagerly. 

Britta's wonder increased, "Yes, Froken!" 

Thelma caught her arm. "Tell Morris never, never to let 
him inside the house again — never!" and her blue eyes flashed 
wrathfully. "He is a wicked man, Britta! You do not know 
how wicked he is!" 

"Oh, yes, I do!" and Britta regarded her mistress stead- 
fastly. "I know quite well! But, then, I must not speak! If 
I dared, I could tell you some strange things, dear Froken — 



364 THELMA. 

but you will not hear me. You know you do not wish me to 
talk about your grand new friends, Froken, but — " she paused 
timidly. 

"Oh, Britta, dear!" said Thelma, affectionately taking her 
hand. "You know they are not so much my friends as the 
friends of Sir Philip — and for this reason I must never listen 
to anything against them. Do you not see? Of course their 
ways seem strange to us — but, then, life in London is so differ- 
ent to life in Norway — and we can not all at once under- 
stand — " she broke off, sighing a little. Then she resumed: 
"Now you will give Morris my message, Britta — and then 
come to me in my bedroom — I am tired, and Philip said I was 
not to wait up for him." 

Britta departed, and Thelma went rather slowly upstairs. 
It was now nearly midnight, and she felt languid and weary. 
Her reflections began to take a new turn. Suppose she told 
her husband all that had occurred, he would most certainly go 
to Sir Francis and punish him in some way — there might then 
be a quarrel in which Philip himself might suffer — and all 
sorts of evil consequences would perhaps result from her want 
of reticence. If, on the other hand, she said nothing, and 
simply refused to receive Lennox, would not her husband think 
such conduct on her part strange? She puzzled over these 
questions till her head ached, and finally resolved to keep her 
own counsel for the present. After what had happened. Sir 
Francis would most probably not intrude himself again into 
her presence. "I will ask Mrs. Lorimer what is best to do," 
she thought. "She is old and wise, and she will know." 

That night as she laid her head on her pillow, and Britta 
threw the warm eidredon over her, she shivered a Uttle and 
asked: 

"Is it not very cold, Britta?" 

"Very!" responded her little maid. "And it is beginning 
to snow." 

Thelma looked wistful. "It is all snow and darkness now 
at the Alten Fjord," she said. 

Britta smiled. "Yes, indeed, Froken! We are better off 
here than there." 

"Perhaps!" replied Thelma, a little musingly, and then she 
settled herself as though to sleep. 

Britta kissed her hand and retired noiselessly. When she 
had gone, Thelma opened her eyes and lay broad awake look- 



THELMA. 365 

ing at the flicker of rosy light flung on the ceihng from the 
little suspended lamp in her oratory. All snow and darkness 
at the Alten Fjord! How strange the picture seemed! She 
thought of her mother's sepulcher — how cold and dreary it 
must be. She could see in fancy the long pendent icicles 
fringing the entrance to the sea-king's tomb — the spot where 
she and Philip had first met. She could almost hear the slow, 
sullen plash of the black fjord against the shore. Her maiden 
life in Norway — her school-days at Aries — these were now 
like dreams — dreams that had passed away long, long ago. 
The whole tenor of her existence had changed — she was a wife 
— she was soon to be a mother — and with this near future of 
new and sacred joy before her, why did she to-night so per- 
sistently look backward to the past? 

As she lay quiet, watching the glimmering light upon the 
wall, it seemed as though her room were suddenly filled with 
shadowy forms — she saw her mother's sweet, sad, suffering 
face — ^then her father's sturdy figure and fine, frank features 
— then came the flitting shape of the hapless Sigurd, whose 
plaintive voice she almost imagined she could hear — and feel- 
ing that she was growing foolishly nervous, she closed her 
eyes and tried to sleep. In vain — her mind began to work 
on a far more unpleasing train of thought. Why did not 
PhiKp return? Where was he? As though some mocking 
devil had answered her, the words, "In the arms of Violet 
Vere!" as uttered by Sir Francis Lennox, recurred to her. 
Overcome by her restlessness, she started up. She determined 
to get out of bed, and put on her dressing-gown and read — 
when her quick ears caught the sound of steps coming up the 
staircase. She recognized her husband's firm tread, and under- 
stood that he was followed by Neville, whose sleeping apart- 
ment was on the floor above. She listened attentively — they 
were talking together in low tones on the landing outside her 
door. 

"I think it would be much better to make a clean breast of 
it," said Sir Philip. "She will have to know some day." 

"Your wife? For God's sake, don't tell her!" Neville's 
voice replied. "Such a disgraceful — " 

Here his words sunk to a whisper, and Thelma could not 
distinguish them. Another minute, and her husband entered 
with soft precaution, fearing to awake her. She stretched out 



366 THELMA. 

her arms to welcome him, and he hastened to her with an ex- 
clamation of tenderness and pleasure. 

"My darling! Not asleep yet?" 

She smiled — hut there was something very piteous in her 
smile had the dim light enabled him to perceive it. 

"No, not yet, Philip! And yet I think I have been dream- 
ing of — the Alten Fjord.'* 

"Ah! it must be cold there now," he answered, lightly. 
"It's cold enough here, in all conscience. To-night there is a 
bitter east wind, and snow is falling." 

She heard this account of the weather with almost morbid 
interest. Her thoughts instantly betook themselves again to 
Norway, and dwelt there. To the last — before her aching 
eyes closed in the slumber she so sorely needed — she seemed 
to be carried away in fancy to a weird stretch of gloom- 
enveloped landscape where she stood entirely alone, vaguely 
wondering at the dreary scene. "How strange it seems!" she 
murmured almost aloud. "All snow and darkness at the 
Alten Fjord!" 



CHAPTEE VIII. 

Le temps oil nous nous sommes aimes n'a gufere dur6, jeune 
fille; il a pass6 comme un coup de vent! — Old Breton Ballad. 

The next morning dawned cold and dismal, A dense yel- 
low fog hung over the metropolis like a pall — the street-lamps 
were lighted, but their flare scarcely illumined the thorough- 
fares, and the chill of the snow-burdened air penetrated into 
the warmest rooms, and made itself felt even by the side of 
the brightest fire. Sir Philip woke with an uncomfortable 
sense of headache and depression, and grumbled — as surely 
every Englishman has a right to grumble, at the uncompro- 
mising wretchedness of his country's winter climate. His 
humor was not improved when a telegram arrived before 
breakfast summoning him in haste to a dull town in one of 
the Midland counties on pressing business connected with his 
candidature for Parliament. 

"What a bore!" he exclaimed, showing the missive to his 
wife. "I must go — and I shan't be able to get back to-night. 



THELMA. 367 

You'll be all alone, Thelma. I wish you'd go to the Wins- 
leighs!" 

"Why?" said Thelma, quietly. "I shall much prefer to be 
here. I do not mind, Philip. I am accustomed to be alone." 

Something in her tone struck him as particularly sad, and 
he looked at her intently. 

"Now, my darling," he said suddenly, "if this parliamentary 
bother is making you feel worried or vexed in any way, I'll 
throw it all up — by Jove, I will!" And he drew her into his 
warm embrace. "After all," he added, with a laugh, "what 
does it matter! The country can get on without me!" 

Thelma smiled a little. 

"You must not talk so foolishly, Philip," she said, tenderly. 
"It is wrong to begin a thing of importance and not go 
through witli it. And I am not worried or vexed at all. What 
would people say of me if I, your wife, were, for my own 
selfish comfort and pleasure of having you always with me, to 
prevent you from taking a good place among the men of your 
nation? Indeed, I should deserve much blame! And so, 
though it is a gloomy day for you, poor boy, you must go to 
this place where you are wanted, and I shall think of you all 
the time you are gone, and shall be so happy to welcome you 
home to-morrow!" 

And she kissed and clung to him for a moment in silence. 
All that day Philip was haunted by the remembrance of the 
lingering tenderness of her farewell embrace. By ten o'clock 
he was gone, taking Neville with him; and after her house- 
hold duties were over, Thelma prepared herself to go and 
lunch with old Mrs. Lorimer, and see what she would advise 
concerning the affair of Sir Francis Lennox. But, at the same 
time, she resolved that nothing should make her speak of the 
reports that were afloat about her husband and Violet Vere. 

"I know it is all false," she said to herself over and over 
again. "And the people here are as silly as the peasants in 
Bosekop, ready to believe any untruth so long as it gives them 
something to talk about. But they may chatter as they please 
— I shall not say one word, not even to Philip — for it would 
seem as if I mistrusted him." 

Thus she put away all the morbid fancies that threatened 
to oppress her, and became almost cheerful. 

And while she made her simple plans for pleasantly passing 
the long, dull day of her husband's enforced absence, her 



368 THELMA. 

friend, Lady Winsleigh, was making arrangements of a very 
different nature. Her ladyship had received a telegram from 
Sir Francis Lennox that morning. The pink missive had ap- 
parently put her in an excellent humor, though after reading 
it, she crumpled it up and threw it in the waste-paper basket, 
from which receptacle, Louise Renaud, her astute attendant, 
half an hour later extracted it, secreting it in her own pocket 
for private perusal at leisure. She ordered her brougham, 
saying she was going out on business — and before departing, 
she took from her dressing-case certain bank-notes and 
crammed them hastily into her purse — a purse which, in all 
good faith, she handed to her maid to put in her sealskin 
muff-bag. Of course, Louise managed to make herself aware 
of its contents — but when her ladyship at last entered her car- 
riage her unexpected order, "To the Brilliant Theater, 
Strand," was sufficient to startle Briggs, and cause him to ex- 
change surprise signals with "mamzelle," who merely smiled 
a prim, incomprehensible smile. 

"Where did your la'ship say?" asked Briggs, dubiously. 

"Are you getting deaf, Briggs?" responded his mistress, 
pleasantly. "To the Brilliant Theater." She raised her 
voice, and spoke with distinct emphasis. There was no mis- 
taking her. Briggs touched his hat — in the same instant he 
v/inked at Louise, and then the carriage rolled away. 

At night the Brilliant Theater is a pretty little place — com- 
fortable, cozy, bright, and deserving of its name; in broad day, 
it is none of these things. A squalid dreariness seems to have 
settled upon it — it has a peculiar atmosphere of its own — an 
atmosphere dark, heavy, and strangely flavored with odors of 
escaping gas and crushed orange-peel. Behind the scenes 
these odors mingled with a chronic, all-pervading smell of 
beer — ^beer, which the stranger's sensitive nose detects direct- 
ly, in spite of the choking clouds of dust which arise from 
the boards at the smallest movement of any part of the 
painted scenery. The Brilliant had gone through much ill- 
fortune — its proprietors never realized any financial profit till 
they secured Violet Vere. With her came prosperity. Her 
utter absence of all reserve — the frankness with wMch she 
threw modesty to the winds — the vigor with which she danced 
a regular "breakdown" — roaring a comic song of the lowest 
type by way of accompaniment — the energetic manner in 
which, metaphorically speaking, she kicked at the public with 



THELMA. 369 

her shapely legs — all this overflow of genius on her part drew 
crowds to the Brilliant nightly, and the grateful and happy 
managers paid her a handsome salary, humored all her 
caprices, and stinted and snubbed for her sake all the rest of 
the company. She was immensely popular — the "golden 
youth" of London raved about her dyed hair, painted eyes, 
and carmined lips — even her voice, as coarse as that of a dust- 
man, was applauded to the echo, and her dancing excited the 
wildest enthusiasm. Dukes sent her presents of diamond 
ornaments — gifts of value which they would have possibly re- 
fused to their own wives and daughters — royal bignesses 
thought it no shame to be seen lounging near her stage dress- 
ing-room door — in short, she was in the zenith of her career, 
and, being thoroughly unprincipled, audaciously insolent, and 
wholly without a conscience — she enjoyed herself immensely. 

At the very time when Lady Winsleigh's carriage was 
nearing the Strand, the grand morning rehearsal of a new 
burlesque was "on" at the Brilliant, and Violet's harsh tones, 
raised to a sort of rough masculine roar, were heard all over 
the theater, as she issued her commands or made complaints 
according to her changeful humors. She sat in an elevated 
position above the stage on a jutting beam of wood painted to 
resemble the gnarled branch of a tree, swinging her legs to 
and fro and clicking the heels of her shoes together in time to 
the mild scraping of a violin, the player whereof was "trying 
over" the first few bars of the new "jig" in which she was ere 
long to distinguish herself. She was a handsome woman, 
with a fine, fair skin, and large, full, dark eyes — she had a 
wide mouth, which, nearly always on the grin, displayed to 
the full her strong white teeth — her figure was inclined to ex- 
cessive embonpoint, but this rather endeared her to her admir- 
ers than otherwise — many of these gentlemen being prone 
to describe her fleshly charms by the epithet "Prime!" as 
though she were a fatting pig or other animal getting ready 
for killing. 

"Tommy! Tommy!" she screeched, presently, "are you 
going to sleep? Do you expect me to dance to a dirge, you 
lazy devil!" 

Tommy, the player of the violin, paused in his efforts and 
looked up drearily. He was an old man, with a lean, long 
body and pinched features — his lips had a curious way, too, of 
trembling when he spoke, as if he were ready to cry. 

24 



370 THELMA. 

"I can't help it," he said, slowly. "I don't know it yet. I 
must practice it a bit at home. My sight's not so good as it 
used to be — " 

"Such a pair of optics, love, you've never, never seen^ 
One my mother blacked last night, the t'other it is green!" 

sung Violet, to the infinite dehght of all the unwashed-look- 
ing supernumeraries and ballet-girls who were scattered about 
the stage, talking and laughing. 

"Shut up. Tommy!" she continued. "You're always talk- 
ing about your eyesight. I warn you if you say too much 
about it you'll lose your place. We don't want blind fiddlers 
in the Brilliant. Put down your catgut screamer, and fetch 
me a pint. Ask for the Vere's own tipple — they'll twig!" 

Tommy obeyed, and shuffled off on his errand. As he de- 
parted a little man with a very red face, wearing a stove- 
pipe hat very much on one side, bounced on the stage as if 
some one had thrown him there like a ball. 

"Now, ladies, ladies!" he shouted, warningly. "Attention! 
Once again, please! The last figure once again!" 

The straggling groups scrambled hastily into something like 
order, and the httle man continued: "One, two, three! Ad- 
vance — retreat — left, right! Very well, indeed! Arms up a 
little more, Miss Jenkins — so! toes well pointed — courtesy — 
retire! One, two, three! swift slide to the left wing — for- 
ward! Round — take hands — all smile, please!" This general 
smile was apparently not quite satisfactory, for he repeated, 
persuasively: "All smile, please! So! Round again — more 
quickly — now break the circle in center — enter Miss Vere — " 
he paused, growing still redder in the face, and demanded: 
"Where is Miss Vere?" 

He was standing just beneath the painted bough of the 
sham tree, and in a second his hat was dexterously kicked off, 
and two heels met with a click round his neck. 

"Here I am, pickaninny!" retorted Miss Vere, holding him 
fast in this novel embrace amid the laughter of the supers. 
"You're getting as blind as Tommy! Steady, steady now, 
donkey! — steady — whoa!" And in a trice she stood upright, 
one foot planted firmly on each of his shoulders. "No 
weight, am I, darling?" she went on, jeeringly, and with an 
inimitably derisive air she put up an eyeglass and surveyed 



THELMA. 371 

the top of his head. "You want a wig, my dear — do you, in- 
deed! Come with me to-morrow, and I'll buy you one to suit 
your complexion. Your wife won't know you!" 

And with a vigorous jump she sprung down from her 
position, managing to give him a smart hit on the nose as she 
did so — and leaping to the center of the stage, she posed her- 
self to commence her dance, when Tommy came creeping 
back in his slow and dismal fashion, bearing something in a 
pewter pot. 

"That's the ticket!" she cried, as she perceived him. "I'm 
as dry as a whole desert! Give it here!" And she snatched 
the mug from the feeble hand of her messenger and began 
drinking eagerly. 

The little red-faced man interposed. "Now, Miss Vi," he 
said, "is that brandy?" 

"Rather so," returned the Vere, with a knowing wink, 
"and a good many things besides. It's a mixture. The 
'Vere's Own!' Ha, ha! Might be the name of a regiment!" 

And she buried her mouth and nose again in the tankard. 

"Look here," said the little man again. "Why not wait till 
after the dance? It's bad for you before." 

"Oh, is it, indeed!" screamed Violet, raising her face, which 
became suddenly and violently flushed. "Oh, good Lord! 
Are you a temperance preacher? Teach your granny! Bad 
for me? Say another word, and I'll box your ears for you! 
You braying jackass! — you sniveling idiot! Who makes the 
Brilliant draw ? You or I ? Tell me that, you staring old — " 

Here Tommy, who had for some minutes been vainly en- 
deavoring to attract her attention, raised his weak voice to a 
feeble shout. 

"I say. Miss Vere! I've been trying to tell you, but you 
won't listen! There's a lady waiting to see you!" 

"A what?" she asked. 

"A lady!" continued Tommy, in loud tones. "A lady of 
title! Wants to see you in private. Won't detain you long." 

Violet Vere raised her pewter mug once more, and drained 
off its contents. 

"Lord, ain't I honored!" she said, smacking her lips with a 
grin. "A lady of title to see me! Let her wait! Now then!" 
and snapping her fingers, she began her dance, and went 
through it to the end, with her usual vigor and frankness. 
When she had finished, she tu.rned to the red-faced man who 



372 THELMA. 

had watched her evohitions with much delight in spite of the 
abuse she had heaped upon him, and said with an affected, 
smirking drawl: 

"Show the lady of title into my dressing-room. I shall be 
ready for her in ten minutes. Be sure to mention that I am 
very shy — and unaccustomed to company!" 

And, giggling gently like an awkward school-girl, she held 
down her head with feigned bashfulness, and stepped minc- 
ingly across the stage with such a ludicrous air of prim pro- 
priety that all her associates burst out laughing and applauded 
her vociferously. She turned and courtesied to them demure- 
ly — then suddenly raising one leg in a horizontal position, she 
twirled it rapidly in their faces — then she gave a little shocked 
cough behind her hand, grinned, and vanished. 

When, in the stipulated ten minutes, she was ready to re- 
ceive her unknown visitor, she was quite transformed. She 
had arrayed herself in a trailing gown of rich black velvet, 
fastened at the side with jet clasps — a cluster of natural, inno- 
cent, white violets nestled in the fall of Spanish lace at her 
throat — her face was pale with pearl-powder, and she had 
eaten a couple of scented bonbons to drown the smell of her 
recent brandy tipple. She reclined gracefully in an easy- 
chair, pretending to read, and she rose with an admirably 
acted air of startled surprise as one of the errand boys be- 
longing to the Brilliant tapped at her door, and in answer to 
her "Come in!" announced, "Lady Winsleigh!" 

A faint, sweet, questioning smile played on the Vere's wide 
mouth. 

"I am not aware that I have the honor of — " she began, 
modulating her voice to the requirements of fashionable 

society, and wondering within herself "what the d 1" this 

woman in the silk and sable-fur costume wanted. 

Lady Winsleigh in the meantime stared at her with cold, 
critical eyes. 

"She is positively rather handsome," she thought. "I can 
quite imagine a certain class of men losing their heads about 
her." Aloud she said: 

"I must apologize for this intrusion, Miss Vere! I dare say 
you have never heard my name — I am not fortunate enough 
to be famous — as you are." This with a killing satire in her 
smile. "May I sit down? Thanks! I have called upon you 
in the hope that you may perhaps be able to give me a little 



THELMA. 373 

information in a private matter — a matter concerning the 
happiness of a very dear friend of mine." 

She paused — Violet Vere sat silent. After a minute or two, 
her ladyship continued in a somewhat embarrassed manner: 
"I believe you know a gentleman with whom I am also ac- 
quainted — Sir* Philip Bruce-Errington." 

Miss Vere raised her eyes with charming languor and a slow 
SHaile. 

"Oh, yes!" 

"He visits you, doesn't he?" 

"Frequently!" 

"I'm afraid you'll think me rude and inquisitive," continued 
Lady Winsleigh, with a coaxing air, "but — but may I ask — " 

"Anything in the world," interrupted Violet, coolly. "Ask 
away! But I'm not bound to answer." 

Lady Winsleigh reddened with indignation. "What an in- 
sulting creature!" she thought. But, after all, she had put 
herself in her present position, and she could not very well 
complain if she met with a rebuff. She made another effort. 

"Sir Francis Lennox told me," she began. 

The Vere interrupted her with a cheerful laugh. 

"Oh, you come from him, do you? Now, why didn't you 
tell me that at first? It's all right! You're a great friend of 
Lennie's, aren't you?" 

Lady Winsleigh sat erect and haughty, a deadly chill of 
disgust and fear at her heart. This creature called her quon- 
dam lover "Lennie" — even as she herself had done — and she, 
the proud, vain woman of society and fashion, shuddered at 
the idea that there should be even this similarity between her- 
self and the "thing" called Violet Vere. She replied stiffly: 

"I have known him a long time." 

"He's a nice fellow," went on Miss Vere, easily — "a leetle 
stingy sometimes, but never mind that! You want to know 
about Sir Philip Errington, and I'll tell you. He's chosen to 
mix himself up with some affairs of mine — " 

"What affairs?" asked Lady Winsleigh, rather eagerly. 

"They don't concern you," returned Miss Vere calmly, "and 
we needn't talk about them! But they concern Sir Philip 
— or he thinks they do, and insists on seeing me about them, 
and holding long conversations, which bore me excessively!" 
She yawned slightly, smothering her yawn in a dainty lace 
handkerchief, and then went on: "He's a moral young man, 



374 THELMA. 

don't you know — and I never could endure moral men! I 
can't get on with them at all!" 

"Then you don't like him?" questioned Lady Winsleigh, in 
rather a disappointed tone. 

"No, I don't!" said the Yere, candidly. "He's not my sort. 
But, Lord bless you! I know how he's getting talked about 
because he comes here — and serves him right too! He 
shouldn't meddle with my business." She paused suddenly 
and drew a letter from her pocket — laughed and tossed it 
across the table. 

"You can read that, if you like," she said, indifferently. 
"He wrote it and sent it round to me last night." 

Lady Winsleigh's eyes glistened eagerly — she recognized 
Errington's bold, clear hand at once, and as she read, an ex- 
pression of triumph played on her features. She looked up 
presently and said: 

"Have you any further use for this letter. Miss Vere? Or 
— will you allow me to keep it?" 

The Vere seemed slightly suspicious of this proposal, but 
looked amused too. 

"Why, what do you want it for?" she inquired, bluntly. 
"To tease him about me?" 

Lady Winsleigh forced a smile. "Well — perhaps!" she ad- 
mitted; then with an air of gentleness and simplicity she 
continued: "I think, Miss Vere, with you, that it is very 
wrong of Sir Philip — very absurd of him, in fact — to interfere 
with your affairs, whatever they may be — and as it is very 
likely annoying to you — " 

"It is," interposed Violet, decidedly. 

"Then, with the help of this letter — which, really — really — 
excuse me for saying it! — quite compromises him," and her 
ladyship looked amiably concerned about it, "I might perhaps 
persuade him not to — to — intrude upon you — you understand? 
But if you object to part with the letter, never mind! If I did 
not fear to offend you, I should ask you to exchange it for — 
for something more — well! let us say, something more sub- 
stantial — " 

"Don't beat about the bush!" said Violet, with a sudden 
oblivion of her company manners. "You mean money?" 

Lady Winsleigh smiled. "As you put it so frankly. Miss 
Vere — " she began. 

"Of course! I'm always frank," returned the Vere, with a 



THELMA. 375 

loud laugh. "Besides, what's the good of pretending? 
Money's the only thing worth having — it pays your butcher, 
baker, and dress-maker — and how are you to get along if you 
can't pay them, I'd hke to know! Lord! if all the letters I've 
got from fools were paying stock instead of waste-paper, I'd 
shut up shop and leave the Brilliant to look out for itself!" 

Lady Winsleigh felt she had gained her object, and she 
could now afford to be gracious. 

"That would be a great loss to the world," she remarked, 
sweetly. "An immense loss! London could scarcely get on 
without Violet Vere!" Here she opened her purse and took 
out some bank-notes, which she folded and slipped inside an 
envelope. "Then I may have the letter?" she continued. 

"You may and welcome!" returned Violet. 

Lady Winsleigh instantly held out the envelope, which she 
as instantly clutched. "Especially if you'll tell Sir Philip 
Errington to mind his own business!" She paused, and a 
dark flush mounted to her brow — one of those sudden flushes 
that purpled rather than crimsoned her face. "Yes," she re- 
peated, "as he's a friend of yours, just tell him I said he was 
to mind his own business! Lord! what does he want to come 
here and preach at me for! I don't want his sermons! 
Moral!" here she laughed rather hoarsely, "I'm as moral as any 
one on the stage! Who says I'm not? Take 'em all round — 
there's not a soul beliind the foot-lights more open and above- 
board than I am!" 

And her eyes flashed defiantly. 

"She's been drinking!" thought Lady Winsleigh, disgusted- 
ly. In fact, the "Vere's Own" tipple had begun to take its 
usual effect, which was to make the Vere herself both blatant 
and boisterous. 

"I'm sure," said her ladyship with frigid politeness, "that 
you are everything that is quite charming. Miss Vere! I have 
a great respect for the — the ornaments of the EngHsh stage. 
Society has quite thrown down its former barriers, you know 
— the members of your profession are received in the very best 
circles — " 

"I ain't!" said Violet, with ungrammatical candor. "Your 
Irvings and your Terrys, your Mary Andersons and your 
Langtrys — ^they're good enough for your fine drawing-rooms, 
and get more invitations out than they can accept. And none 



376 THELMA. 

of them have got half my talent, I tell you! Lord bless my 
soul! if they're respectable enough for you — so am I!" 

And she struck her hand emphatically on the table. Lady 
Winsleigh looked at her with a slight smile. 

"1 must really say good-bye!" she said, rising and gather- 
ing her furs about her. "I could talk with you all the morn- 
ing, Miss Vere, but I have so many engagements! Besides, I 
mustn't detain you! I'm so much obliged to you for your 
kind reception of me!" 

"Don't mention it!" and Violet glanced her over with a 
kind of sullen sarcasm. "I'm bound to please Lennie when I 
can, you know!" 

Again Lady Winsleigh shivered a little, but forced herself 
to shake hands with the notorious stage Jezebel. 

"I shall come and see you in the new piece," she said, 
graciously. "I always take a box on first nights! And your 
dancing is so exquisite! The very poetry 6t motion! So 
pleased to have met you! Good-bye!" 

And with a few more vague compliments and remarks about 
the weather, Lady Winsleigh took her departure. Left alone, 
the actress threw herself back in her chair and laughed. 

"That woman's up to some mischief," she exclaimed, sotto 
voce, "and so is Lennie! I wonder what's their little game? 
I don't care, as long as they'll keep the high and mighty 
Errington in his place. I'm tired of him! Why does he med- 
dle with my affairs?" Her brows knitted into a frown. "As 
if he or anybody else could persuade me to go back to — " she 
paused, and bit her lips angrily. Then she opened the en- 
velope Lady Winsleigh had left with her, and pulled out the 
bank-notes inside. "Let me see — five, ten, fifteen, twenty! 
Not bad pay, on the whole! It'll just cover the bill for my 
plush mantle. Halloo! Who's there?" 

Some one knocked at her door. 

"Come in!" she cried. 

The feeble Tommy presented himself. His weak mouth 
trembled more than ever, and he was apparently conscious of 
this, for he passed his hand nervously across it two or three 
times. 

"Well, what's up?" inquired the "star" of the Brilliant, 
fingering her bank-notes as she spoke. 

"Miss Vere," stammered Tommy, "I venture to ask of you a 
favor — could you kindly, very kindly lend me ten shillings till 



THELMA. 377 

to-morrow night ? I am so pressed just now — and my wife is 
ill in bed — and — " he stopped, and his eyes sought her face, 
hopefully, yet timidly. 

"You shouldn't have a wife, Tommy!" averred Violet, with 
blunt frankness. "Wives are expensive articles. Besides, I 
never lend. I never give — except to public charities where 
one's name gets m.entioned in the papers. "I'm obliged to 
do that, you know, by way of advertisement. Ten shillings! 
Why, I can't afford ten pence! My bills would frighten you, 
Tommy! There, go along, and don't cry, for goodness' sake! 
Let your fiddle cry for you!" 

"Oh, Miss Vere," once more pleaded Tommy, "if you knew 
how my wife suffers — " 

The actress rose and stamped her foot impatiently. 

"Bother your wife!" she cried, angrily, "and you too! Look 
out! or I'll tell the manager we've got a beggar at the Bril- 
liant. Don't stare at me like that! Go to the d 1 with 

you !" 

Tommy slunk off abashed and trembling, and the Vere be- 
gan to sing, or rather croak, a low comic song, while she 
threw over her shoulders a rich mantle glittering with em- 
broidered trimmings, and poised a coquettish Paris model hat 
on her uptwisted coils of hair. Thus attired, she passed 
out of her dressing-room, locking the door behind her, and 
after a brief conversation with the jocose acting manager, 
whom she met on her way out, she left the theater, and took 
a cab to the Criterion, where the young Duke of Moorlands, 
her latest conquest, had invited her to a sumptuous luncheon 
with himself and friends, all men of fashion, who were run- 
ning through what money they had as fast as they could go. 

Lady Winsleigh, on her way home, was tormented by sun- 
dry uncomfortable thoughts and sharp pricks of conscience. 
Her interview with Violet Vere had instinctively convinced 
her that Sir Philip was innocent of the intrigue imputed to 
him, and yet — the letter she had now in her possession seemed 
to prove him guilty. And though she felt herself to be play- 
ing a vile part, she could not resist the temptation of trying 
what the effect would be of this compromising document on 
Thelma's trusting mind. It was undoubtedly a very incrimi- 
nating epistle — any lawyer would have said as much while 
blandly pocketing his fee for saying it. It was written off in 
evident haste, and ran as follows: 



378 THELMA. 

"Let me see you once more on the subject you know of. Why 
will you not accept the honorable position offered to you? 
There shall be no stint of money — all the promises I have made 
I am quite ready to fulfill — you shall lose nothing by being 
gentle. Surely you can not continue to seem so destitute of 
all womanly feeling and pity? I will not believe that you 
would so deliberately condemn to death a man who has loved, 
and who loves you still so faithfully, and who, without you, is 
utterly weary of life and broken-hearted! Think once more 
— and let my words carry more weight with you! 

' 'Bruce-Ebbington. " 

This was all, but more than enough! 

"I wonder what he means," thought Lady Winsleigh, "It 
looks as if he were in love with the Vere and she refused to 
reciprocate. It must be that. And yet that doesn't accord 
with what the creature herself said about his 'preaching at 
her.' He wouldn't do that if he were in love." 

She studied every word of the letter again and again, and 
finally folded it up carefully and placed it in her pocket-book. 

"Innocent or guilty, Thelma must see it," she decided. "I 
wonder how she'll take it! If she wants a proof — it's one 
she'll scarcely deny. Some women would fret themselves to 
death over it — but I shouldn't wonder if she sat down under 
it quite calmly without a word of complaint." She frowned a 
little. "Why must she always be superior to others of her 
sex! How I detest that still, solemn smile of hers and those 
big baby-blue eyes! I think if Philip had married any other 
woman than her — a woman more like the rest of us, who'd 
have gone with her time — I could have forgiven him more 
easily. But to pick up a Norwegian peasant and set her up 
as a sort of moral finger-post to society — and then to go and 
compromise himself with Violet Vere — that's a kind of thing 
I can't stand! I'd rather be anything in the world than a 
humbug." 

Many people desire to be something they are not, and her 
ladyship quite unconsciously echoed this rather general sen- 
timent. She was, without knowing it, such an adept in 
society humbug that she even humbugged herself. She be- 
trayed herself as she betrayed others, and told little soothing 
lies to her own conscience as she told them to her friends. 
There are plenty of women like her — women of pleasant 
courtesy and fashion to whom truth is mere coarseness — and 
with whom polite lying passes for perfect breeding. She was 
not aware, as she was driven along Park Lane to her own resi- 



THELMA. 379 

dence, that she carried with her on the box of her brougham 
a private detective in the person of Briggs. Perched 
stiffly on his seat, with arms tightly folded, this respectable 
retainer was quite absorbed in meditation, so much so that he 
exchanged not a word with his friend, the coachman beside 
him. He had his own notions of propriety — he considered 
that his mistress had no business whatever to call on an actress 
of Violet Vere's repute — and he resolved that whether he were 
reproved for overofficiousness or not, nothing should prevent 
him from casually mentioning to Lord Winsleigh the object 
of her ladyship's drive that morning. 

"For,"' mused Briggs, gravely, "a lady 'as responsibilities, 
and 'owever she forgets 'erself, appearances 'as to be kep' up." 

With the afternoon, the fog which had hung over the city 
all day deepened and darkened. Thelma had lunched with 
Mrs. Lorimer, and had enjoyed much pleasant chat with that 
kindly, cheerful old lady. She had confided to her part of the 
story of Sir Francis Lennox's conduct, carefully avoiding 
every mention of the circumstance which had given rise to it 
— namely, the discussion about Violet Vere. She merely ex- 
plained that she had suddenly fainted, in which condition Sir 
Francis had taken advantage of her helplessness to insult her. 

Mrs. Lorimer was highly indignant. "Tell your husband 
all about it, my dear!" she advised. "He's big enough and 
strong enough to give that little snob a good trouncing! My 
patience! I wish George were in London — he'd lend a hand 
and welcome!" 

And the old lady nodded her head violently over the sock 
she was knitting — the making of socks for her beloved son 
was her principal occupation and amusement. 

"But I hear," said Thelma, "that it is against the law to 
strike any one, no matter how you have been insulted. If so 
— then Philip would be punished for attacking Sir Francis, 
and that would not be fair." 

^'You didn't think of that, child, when you struck Lennox 
yourself," returned Mrs. Lorimer, laughing. "And I guaran- 
tee you gave him a good hard blow — and serves him right! 
Never mind what comes of it, my dearie — just tell your hus- 
band as soon as ever he comes home, and let him take the 
matter into his own hands. He's a fine man — he'll know how 
to defend the pretty wife he loves so well!" And she smiled, 
while her shining knitting-needles clicked faster than ever. 



380 THELMA. 

Thelma's face saddened a little. "I think I am not worthy 
of his love," she said, sorrowfully. 

Mrs. Lorimer looked at her with some inquisitivenesa. 

"What makes you say that, my dear?" 

"Because I feel it so much," she replied. "Dear Mrs. Lori- 
mer, you can not, perhaps, understand, but when he married 
me, it seemed as if the old story of the king and the beggar- 
maid were being repeated over again. I sought nothing but 
his love — his love was and is my life! These riches — these 
jewels and beautiful things he surrounds me mth — I do not 
care for them at all, except for the reason that he wishes me 
to have them. I scarcely understand their value, for I have 
been poor all my life, and yet I have wanted nothing. I do 
not think wealth is needful to make one happy. But love — 
ah! I could not live without it — and now — now — " She 
paused and her eyes filled with sudden tears. 

"Now what?" asked Mrs. Lorimer, gently. 

"Now," continued the girl in a low voice, "my heart is 
always afraid! Yes, I am afraid of losing my husband's love. 
Ah, do not laugh at me, dear Mrs. Lorimer! You know peo- 
ple who are much together sometimes get tired — tired of see- 
ing the same face always — the same form — " 

"Are you tired, dearie?" asked the old lady, meaningly. 

"I! Tired of Philip? I am only happy when he is with 
me!" And her eyes deepened with passionate tenderness. "I 
would wish to live and die beside him, and I should not care 
if I never saw another human face than his!" 

"Well, and don't you think he has the same feelings for 
you?" 

"Men are different, I think," returned Thelma, musingly, 
"Now, love is everything to me — but it may not be everything 
to Philip. I do beheve that love is only part of a man's life, 
while it is all a woman's. Clara told me once that most hus- 
bands wearied of their wives, though they would not always 
confess it — " 

"Clara Winsleigh's modern social doctrines are false, my 
dear!" interrupted Mrs. Lorimer, quickly. "She isn't satis- 
fied with her own marriage, and she thinks everybody must 
be as discontented as herself. Now, my husband and I lived 
always together for five-and-twenty years, and we were lovers 
to the last day, when my darling died with his hands in mine 



THELMA. 381 

— and — and — if it hadn't been for my boy, I should have died 

too!" 

And two bright tears fell ghttering on the old lady's 

knitting. 

Thelma took her hand and kissed it fondly. '1 can under- 
stand that," she said, softly; "but still — still I do believe it 
is difficult to keep love when you have won it! It is, perhaps, 
easy to win — but I am sure it is hard to keep!" 

Mrs. Lorimer looked at her earnestly. 

"My dear child, don't let that frivolous Winsleigh woman 
put nonsense into your pretty head. You are too sensible to 
take such a morbid view of things — and you mustn't allow 
your wholesome fresh nature to be contaminated by the petu- 
lant, wrong-headed notions that clod the brains of idle, fash- 
ionable, useless women. Believe me, good men don't tire of 
their wives — and Sir PhiKp is a good man. Good wives never 
weary their husbands — and you are a good wife — and you will 
be a good, sweet mother. Think of that new dehght so soon 
coming for you, and leave all the modern, crazy, one-sided no- 
tions of human life to the French and Eussian novelists. Tut 
tut!" continued the old lady, tenderly. "A nice little ladyship 
you are — worrying yourself about nothing! Send Philip to 
me when he comes home. I'll scold him for leaving his bird 
to mope in her London cage!" 

"I do not mope," declared Thelma. "And you must not 
scold him, please! Poor boy! He is working so very hard, 
and has so much to attend to. He wants to distinguish Mm- 
self for — for my sake!" 

"That looks very much as if he were tired of you!" laughed 
Mrs. Lorimer. "Though I dare say you'd like him to stay at 
home and make love to you all day! Silly girl! You want 
the world to be a sort of Arcadia, with you as Phyllis, and Sir 
Philip as Corydon! My dear, we're living in the nineteenth 
century, and the days of fond shepherds and languishing 
shepherdesses are past!" 

Thelma laughed, too, and soon felt ashamed of her depres- 
sion. The figure of Violet Vere now and then danced before 
her like a mocking will-o'-the-wisp; but her pride forbade her 
to mention this — the actual source of all her vague troubles. 

She left Mrs. Lorimer's house, which was near Holland 
Park, about four o'clock, and as she was passing Church 
Street, Kensington, she bade her coachman drive up to the 



382 THELMA. 

Carmelite Church there, familiarly known as the "Carms." 
She entered the sacred edifice, where the service of benedic- 
tion was in progress; and, kneeling down, she listened to the 
exquisite strains of the solemn music that pealed through the 
dim and shadowy aisles, and a sense of the most perfect peace 
settled soothingly on her soul. Clasping her gentle hands, 
she prayed with innocent and heartfelt earnestness — not for 
herself — never for herself — but always, always for that dear, 
most dear one, for whom every beat of her true heart was a 
fresh vow of undying and devoted affection, 

"Dear God!" she whispered, "if I love him too much, for- 
give me! Thou who art all Love wilt pardon me this excess of 
love! Bless my darling always, and teach me how to be 
more worthy of Thy goodness and his tenderness!" 

And when she left the church, she was happier and more 
light-hearted than she had been for many a long day. She 
drove home, heedless of the fog and cold, dismal aspect of the 
weather, and resolved to go and visit Lady Winsleigh in the 
evening, so that when Philip came back on the morrow, she 
might be able to tell him that she had amused herself and had 
not been lonely. 

But when she arrived at her own door, Morris, who opened 
it, informed her that Lady Winsleigh was waiting in the 
drawing-room to see her, and had been waiting some time. 
Thelma hastened thither immediately, and held out her hands 
joyously to her friend. 

"I am so sorry you have had to wait, Clara," she began. 
"Why did you not send word and say you were coming? 
Philip is away and will not be back to-night, and I have been 
lunching with Mrs. Lorimer, and — Why, what makes you 
look so grave?" 

Lady Winsleigh regarded her fixedly. How radiantly 
lovely the young wife looked! — her cheeks had never been 
more delicately rosy or her eyes more brilliant. The dark 
fur cloak she wore with its rich sable trimmings, and the Ut- 
tle black velvet toque that rested on her fair curls, set off the 
beauty of her clear skin to perfection, and her rival, who 
stood gazing at her with such close scrutiny, envied her more 
than ever as she was once again reluctantly forced to admit to 
herself the matchless loveliness of the innocent creature 
whose happiness she now sought to destroy. 

"Do I look grave, Thelma?" she said with a slight smile. 



THELMA. 383 

"Well, perhaps I've a reason for my gravity. And so your 
husband is away?" 

"Yes. He went quite early this morning — a telegram sum- 
moned him and he was obliged to go." Here she drew up a 
chair to the fire, and began to loosen her wraps. "Sit down, 
Clara! I will ring for tea." 

"No don't ring," said Lady Winsleigh. "Not yet! I want 
to talk to you privately." She sunk languidly on a velvet 
lounge and looked Thelma straight in the eyes. 

"Dear Thelma," she continued, in a sweetly tremulous, 
compassionate voice, "can you bear to hear something very 
painful and shocking, something that I'm afraid will grieve 
you very much?" 

The color fled from the girl's fair face — her eyes grew 
startled. 

"What do you mean, Clara? Is it anything about — about 
Philip?" 

Lady Winsleigh bent her head in assent, but remained 
silent. 

"If," continued Thelma, with a little return of the rosy hue 
to her cheeks, "if it is something else about that — that person 
at the theater, indeed, Clara, I would rather not hear it! I 
think I have been wrong in listening to any such stories — it is 
so seldom that gossip of any kind is true. It is not a wife's 
duty to receive scandals about her husband. And suppose he 
does see Miss Vere, how do I know that it may not be on 
business for some friend of his? — because I do know that on 
that night when he went behind the scenes at the Brilliant he 
said it was on business. Mr. Lovelace used often to go and 
see Miss Mary Anderson, all to persuade her to take a play 
written by a friend of his — and Philip, who is always kind- 
hearted, may perhaps be doing something of the same sort. I 
feel I have been wicked to have even a small doubt of my 
husband's love — so, Clara, do not let us talk any more on a 
subject which only displeases me." 

"You must choose your own way of life, of course," said 
Lady Winsleigh, coldly. "But you draw rather foolish com- 
parisons, Thelma. There is a wide difference between Mary 
Anderson and Violet Vere. Besides, Mr. Lovelace is a bache- 
lor — he can do as he likes and go where he likes without ex- 
citing comment. However, whether you are angry with me 



384 THELMA. 

or not, I feel I should not be your true friend if I did not show 
you — this. You know your husband's writing!" 

And she drew out the fatal letter, and continued, watching 
her victim as she spoke. "This was sent by Sir Philip to 
Violet Vere last night — she gave it to me herself this morn- 
ing." 

Thelma's hand trembled as she took the paper. 

'HiVhy should I read it?" she faltered, mechanically. 

Lady Winsleigh raised her eyebrows and frowned im- 
patiently. 

"Why — why? Because it is your duty to do so! Have you 
no pride? Will you allow your husband to write such a letter 
as that to another woman — and such a woman too! without 
one word of remonstrance? You owe it to yourself — to your 
own sense of honor — to resent and resist such treatment on 
his part! Surely the deepest love can not pardon deliberate 
injury and insult." 

"My love can pardon anything," answered the girl in a low 
voice, and then slowly, very slowly she opened the folded 
sheet — slowly she read every word it contained — words that 
stamped themselves one by one on her bewildered brain and 
sent it reeling into darkness and vacancy. She felt sick and 
cold — she stared fixedly at her husband's familiar handwrit- 
ing. "A man who has loved and who loves you still, and who 
without you is utterly weary and broken-hearted!" 

Thus he wrote of himself to — to Violet Vere! It seemed 
incredible — yet it was true! She heard a rushing sound in 
her ears — the room swung round dizzily before her eyes — yet 
she sat, still, calm and cold, holding the letter and speaking 
no word. 

Lady Winsleigh watched her, irritated at her passionless 
demeanor. 

"Well!" she exclaimed at last. "Have you nothing to say?" 

Thelma looked up, her eyes burning with an intense fever- 
ish light. 

"Nothing!" she replied. 

"Nothing?" repeated her ladyship with emphatic astonish- 
ment. 

"Nothing against Philip," continued the girl, steadily. 
"For the blame is not his, but mine! That he is weary and 
heart-broken must be my fault — though I can not yet under- 
stand what I have done. But it must be something, because 



THELMA. S85 

if T were all that he wished he would not have grown so tired." 
She paused and her pale lips quivered. "I am sorry," she 
went on with dreamy pathos, "sorrier for him than for my- 
self, because now I see I am in the way of his happiness." A 
quiver of agony passed over her face — she fixed her large 
bright eyes on Lady Winsleigh, who instinctively shrunk from 
the solemn speechless despair of that penetrating gaze. 

"Who gave you this letter, Clara ?" she asked, calmly. 

"I told you before — Miss Vere herself." 

"Why did she give it to you?" continued Thelma in a dull 
sad voice. 

Lady Winsleigh hesitated and stammered a little. "Well, 
because — because I asked her if the stories about Sir Philip 
were true. And she begged me to ask him not to visit her so 
often." Then, with an additional thought of malice, she 
said softly: "She doesn't wish to wrong you, Thelma — of 
course, she's not a very good woman, but I think she feela 
sorry for you." 

The girl uttered a smothered cry of anguish, as though she 
had been stabbed to the heart. She! — to be actually pitied by 
Violet Vere, because she had been unable to keep her hus- 
band's love! This idea tortured her very soul — but she was 
silent. 

"I thought you were my friend, Clara?" she said suddenly, 
with a strange wistf ulness. 

"So I am, Thelma," murmured Lady Winsleigh, a guilty 
flush coloring her cheeks. 

"You have made me very miserable," went on Thelma 
gravely, and with pathetic simplicity, "and I am sorry indeed 
that we ever met. I was so happy till I knew you! — and yet 
I was very fond of you! I am sure you mean everything for 
the best, but I can not think it is so. And it is all so dark and 
desolate now. Why have you taken such pains to make me 
sad? Why have you so often tried to make me doubt my hus- 
band's love? Why have you come to-day so quickly to tell 
me I have lost it? But for you I might never have known this 
sorrow — I might' have died soon, in happy ignorance, believ- 
ing in my darling's truth as I believe in God!" 

Her voice broke, and a hard sob choked her utterance. For 
once Lady Winsleigh's conscience smote her — for once she felt 
ashamed, and dared not offer consolation to the innocent soul 
she had so wantonly etricken. For a minute or two there 

25 



386 THELMA. 

was silence, broken only by the monotonous ticking of the 
clock and the crackling of the fire. 

Presently Thelma spoke again. "I will ask you to go away 
now and leave me, Clara/' she said, simply. "When the 
heart is sorrowful, it is best to be alone. Good-bye!" And 
she gently held out her hand. 

"Poor Thelma!" said Lady Winsleigh, taking it with an 
affectation of tenderness. "What will you do?" 

Thelma did not answer; she sat mute and rigid. 

"You are thinking unkindly of me just now," continued 
Clara, softly; "but I felt it was my duty to tell you the worst 
at once. It's no good living in a delusion! I'm very, very 
sorry for you, Thelma!" 

Thelma remained perfectly silent. Lady Winsleigh moved 
toward the door, and, as she opened it, looked back at her. 
The girl might have been a lifeless figure for any movement 
that could be perceived about her. Her face was white as 
marble — her eyes were fixed on the sparkling fire — her very 
hands looked stiff and pallid as wax, as they lay clasped in 
her lap — the letter — the cruel letter — had fallen at her feet. 
She seemed as one in a trance of misery, and so Lady Wins- 
leigh left her. 



CHAPTEE IX. 

my lord, O Love, 

1 have laid my life at thy feet; 
Have thy will thereof 

For what shall please thee is sweet! 

SwiNBtTRNE. 

She roused herself at last. Unclasping her hands, she 
pushed back her hair from her brows and sighed heavily. 
Shivering as with intense cold, she rose from the chair she 
had so long occupied, and stood upright, mechanically gather- 
ing around her her long fur mantle that she had not as yet 
taken off. Catching sight of the letter where it lay, a gleam- 
ing speck of white on the rich dark hues of the carpet, she 
picked it up and read it through again calmly and compre- 
hensively — then folded it up carefully as though it were some- 



THELMA. 387 

thing of inestimable value. Her thoughts were a little con- 
fused — she could only realize clearly two distinct things — 
first, that Philip was unhappy — secondly, that she was in the 
way of his happiness. She did not pause to consider how this 
change in him had been effected — moreover, she never imag- 
ined that the letter he had written could refer to any one but 
himself. Hers was a nature that accepted facts as they ap- 
peared — she never sought for ulterior motives or disguised 
meanings. True, she could not understand her husband's 
admiration for Violet Vere. "But then," she thought, "many 
other men admire her too. And so it is certain there must be 
something about her that wins love — something I can not 
see!" 

And presently she put aside all other considerations and 
only pondered on one thing — how should she remove herself 
from the path of her husband's pleasure? For she had no 
doubt but that she was an obstacle to his enjoyment. He had 
made promises to Violet Vere which he was "ready to fulfill" 
— he offered her "an honorable position" — he desired her "not 
to condemn him to death" — he besought her to let his words 
"carry more weight with her." 

"It is because I am here," thought Thelma, wearily. "She 
would listen to him if I were gone!" She had the strangest 
notions of wifely duty — odd minglings of the stern Norse cus- 
toms with the gentler teachings of Christianity — yet in both 
cases the lines of woman's life were clearly defined in one 
word — obedience. Most women, receiving an apparent proof 
of a husband's infidelity, would have made what is termed a 
"scene" — would have confronted him with rage and tears, and 
personal abuse — but Thelma was too gentle for this — too gen- 
tle to resist what seemed to be Philip's wish and will, and far 
too proud to stay where it appeared evident she was not 
wanted. Moreover, she could not bear the idea of speaking 
to him on such a subject as his connection with Violet Vere. 
The hot color flushed her cheeks with a sort of shame as she 
thought of it. 

Of course, she was weak — of course, she was foolish — we 
will grant that she was anything the reader chooses to call 
her. It is much better for a woman nowadays to be defiant 
rather than yielding — aggressive, not submissive — violent, not 
meek. "We all know that! To abuse a husband well all round 
is the modern method of managing him! But poor, foolish. 



388 THELMA. 

loving, sensitive Thelma had nothing of the magnificent 
strength of mind possessed by most wives of to-day — she could 
only realize that Philip — her Philip — was "utterly weary and 
broken-hearted" — for the sake of another woman — and that 
other woman actually pitied her! She pitied herself too, a 
little vaguely — her brows ached and throbbed violently — there 
was a choking sensation in her throat, but she could not weep. 
Tears would have relieved her tired brain, but no tears fell. 
She strove to decide on some immediate plan of action. 
Philip would be home to-morrow. She recoiled at the 
thought of meeting him, knowing what she knew. Glancing 
dreamily at her own figure, reflected by the lamp-light in the 
long mirror opposite, she recognized that she was fully attired 
in out-door costume — all save her hat, which she had taken off 
at her first greeting of Lady Winsleigh, and which was still on 
the table at her side. She looked at the clock — ^it was five 
minutes to seven. Eight o'clock was her dinner-hour, and 
thinking of this, she suddenly rang the bell, Morris immedi- 
ately answered it. 

"I shall not dine at home," she said in her usual gentle 
voice. "I am going to see some friends this evening. I may 
not be back till — till late." 

"Very well, my lady," and Morris retired without seeing 
anything remarkable in his mistress' announcement. Thelma 
drew a long breath of relief as he disappeared, and, steadying 
her nerves by a strong effort, passed into her own boudoir — 
the little sanctum specially endeared to her by Philip's fre- 
quent presence there. How cozy and comfortable a home- 
nest it looked! A small fire glowed warmly in the grate, and 
Britta, whose duty it was to keep this particular room in 
order, had lighted the lamp — a rosy globe supported by a 
laughing Cupid — and had drawn the velvet curtains close at 
the window to keep out the fog and chilly air. There were 
fragrant flowers on the table — Thelma's own favorite lounge 
was drawn up to the fender in readiness for her — and opposite 
to it stood the deep, old-fashioned easy-chair in which Philip 
always sat. She looked round upon all these familiar tilings 
with a dreary sense of strangeness and desolation, and the 
curves of her sweet mouth trembled a little and drooped 
piteously. But her resolve was taken, and she did not hesi- 
tate or weep. She sat down to her desk and wrote a few 



THELMA. 389 

brief lines to her father; this letter she addressed and stamped 
ready for posting. 

Then for awhile she remained apparently lost in painful 
musings, playing with the pen she held, and uncertain what 
to do. Presently she drew a sheet of note-paper toward her, 
and began: "My darling boy." As these words appeared 
under her hand on the white page, her forced calm nearly 
gave way — a low cry of intense agony escaped from her lips, 
and, dropping the pen, she rose and paced the room restlessly, 
one hand pressed against her heart as though that action could 
still its rapid beatings. Once more she essayed the hard task 
she had set herself to fulfill — the task of bidding farewell to 
the husband in whom her life was centered. Piteous, passion- 
ate words came quickly from her overcharged and almost 
breaking heart — words, tender, touching, full of love, and 
absolutely free from all reproach. Little did she guess as she 
wrote that parting letter what desperate misery it would cause 
to the receiver! 

When she had finished it, she felt quieted — even more com- 
posed than before. She folded and sealed it, then put it out 
of sight and rang for Britta. That little maiden soon ap- 
peared, and seemed surprised to see her mistress still in 
walking costume. 

"Have you only just come in, Froken?" she ventured to 
inquire. 

"Xo, I came home some time ago," returned Thelma, 
gently. "But I was talking to Lady Winsleigh in the draw- 
ing-room, and as I am going out again this evening I shall 
not require to change my dress. I want you to post this let- 
ter for me, Britta." 

And she held out the one addressed to her father, Olaf 
Guldmar. Britta took it, but her mind still revolved the 
question of her mistress' attire. 

"If you are going to spend the evening with friends," she 
suggested, "would it not be better to change?" 

"I have on a velvet gown," said Thelma, with a rather 
wearied patience. "It is quite dressy enough for where I am 
going." She paused abruptly, and Britta looked at her in- 
quiringly. 

"Are you tired, Froken Thelma?" she asked. "You are so 
pale!" 

"I have a slight headache," Thelma answered. "It is noth- 



390 THELMA. 

ing — it will soon pass. I wish you to post that letter at once, 
Britta." 

"Very well, Froken." Britta still hesitated. "Will you 
be out all the evening?" was her next query. 
"Yes." 

"Then perhaps you will not mind if I go and see Louise, 
and take supper with her? She has asked me; and Mr. 
Briggs" — here Britta laughed — "is coming to see if I can go. 
He will escort me, he says." And she laughed again. 

Thelma forced herself to smile. "You can go, by all 
means, Britta. But I thought you did not like Lady Wins- 
leigh's French maid?" 

"I don't like her much," Britta admitted— "still, she means 
to be kind and agreeable, I think. And" — here she eyed 
Thelma with a mysterious and important air — "I want to ask 
her a question about something very particular." 

"Then, go and stay as long as you like, dear," said Thelma, 
a sudden impulse of affection causing her to caress softly her 
little maid's ruffled brown curls. "I shall not be back till— 
till quite late. And when you return from the post I shall 
be gone — so — good-bye!" 

"Good-bye!" exclaimed Britta, wonderingly. "Why, where 
are you going? One would think you were starting on a long 
journey, you speak so strangely, Froken!" 

"Do I?" and Thelma smiled kindly. "It is because my 
head aches, I suppose. But it is not strange to say good-bye, 
Britta!" 

Britta caught her hand. "Where are you going?" she 
persisted. 

"To see some friends," responded Thelma, quietly. "Now 
do not ask any more questions, Britta, but go and post my 
letter. I want father to get it as soon as possible, and you 
will lose the post if you are not very quick." 

Thus reminded, Britta hastened off, determining to run all 
the way, in order to get back before her mistress left the 
house. Thelma, however, was too quick for her. As soon as 
Britta had gone, she took the letter she had written to Philip, 
and slipped it in the pages of a small volume of poems he had 
lately been reading. It was a new book, entitled "Gladys, 
the Singer," and its leading motif was the old, never-exhausted 
subject of a woman's too faithful love, betrayal, and despair. 
As she opened it, her eyes fell by chance on a few lines of 



THELMA. 391 

hopeless yet musical melancholy, which, like a sad song heard 
suddenly, made her throat swell with rising yet restrained 
tears. They ran thus: 

"Oh! I can drown, or, like a broken lyre. 
Be thrown to earth, or cast upon a fire — 
I can be made to feel the pangs of death, 
And yet be constant to the quest of breath — 
Our poor pale trick of living through the lies 
We name existence when that 'something' dies 
Which we call Honor. Many and many a way 
Can I be struck or fettered night and day 
In some new fashion — or condemn'd the while 
To take for food the semblance of a smile — 
The left-off rapture of a slain caress — " 

"Ah!" — she caught her breath sobbingly, "the left-off rap- 
ture of a slain caress!" Yes — that would be her portion now 
if — if she stayed to receive it. But she would not stay! She 
turned over the volume abstractedly, scarcely conscious of 
the action — and suddenly, as if the poet-writer of it had been 
present to probe her soul and make her inmost thoughts pub- 
lic, she read: 

"Because I am unlov'd of thee to-day. 
And undesired as sea- weeds in the sea!'* 

Yes! — that was the "because" of everything that swayed 
her sorrowful spirit — "because" she was "unlov'd and un- 
desired." 

She hesitated no longer, but shut the book with her farewell 
letter inside it, and put it back in its former place on the little 
table beside Philip's arm-chair. Then she considered how 
she should distinguish it by some mark that should attract her 
husband's attention toward it. Loosening from her neck a 
thin gold chain on which was suspended a small diamond cross 
with the names "Philip" and "Thelma" engraved at the back, 
she twisted it round the little book, and left it so that the 
sparkle of the jewels should be seen distinctly on the cover. 
Now was there anything more to be done? She divested her- 
self of all her valuable ornaments, keeping only her wedding- 
ring and its companion circlet of brilliants — she emptied her 
purse of all money save that which was absolutely necessary 
for her journey — then she put on her hat, and began to fasten 
her long cloak slowly, for her fingers were icy cold and trsm- 



392 THELMA. 

bled very strangely. Stay— there was her husband's portrait 
—she might take that, she thought, with a sort of touching 
timidity. It was a miniature on ivory — and had been painted 
expressly for her. She placed it inside her dress, against her 
bosom. 

"He has been too good to me," she murmured; "and I have 
been too happy — happier than I deserved to be. Excess of 
happiness must always end in sorrow." 

She looked dreamily at Philip's empty chair. In fancy she 
could see his familiar figure seated there, and she sighed as 
she thought of the face she loved so well — the passion of his 
eyes — the tenderness of his smile. Softly she kissed the place 
where his head had rested — then turned resolutely away. 

She was giving up everything, she thought, to another 
woman — but then, that other woman, however incredible it 
seemed, was the one Philip loved best — his own written words 
were a proof of this. There was no choice, therefore, his 
pleasure was her first consideration — everything must yield to 
that, so she imagined — her own life was nothing, in her esti- 
mation, compared to his desire. Such devotion as hers was 
of course absurd — it amounted to weak self-immolation, and 
would certainly be accounted as supremely foolish by most 
women who have husbands, and who, when they swear to 
"obey," mean to break the vow at every convenient oppor- 
tunity; but Thelma could not alter her strange nature, and, 
with her, obedience meant the extreme letter of the law of 
utter submission. 

Leaving the room she had so lately called her own, she 
passed into the entrance hall. Morris was not there, and she 
did not summon him. She opened the street-door for herself, 
and shutting it quietly behind her, she stood alone in the cold 
street, where the fog had now grown so dense that the lamp- 
posts were scarcely visible. She walked on for a few paces 
rather be^\dldered and chilled by the piercing bitterness of the 
air — then, rallying her forces, she hailed a passing cab, and 
told the man to take her to Charing Cross Station. She was 
not familiar with London — and Charing Cross was the only 
great railway terminus she could just then think of. 

Arrived there, the glare of the electric light, the jostling 
passengers rushing to and from the trains, the shouts and 
wrangling of porters and cabmen confused her not a little — 
and the bold looks of admiration bestowed on her freely by 



THELMA. 393 

the male loungers sauntering near the doors of the restaurant 
and hotel made her shrink and tremble for shame. She had 
never traveled entirely alone before — and she began to be 
frightened at the pandemonium of sights and noises that 
surged around her. Yet she never once thought of returning 
— she never dreamed of going to any of her London friends, 
lest on hearing of her trouble they might reproach Philip — 
and this Thelma would not have endured. For the same 
reason, she had said nothing to Britta. 

In her then condition, it seemed to her that only one course 
lay open for her to follow — and that was to go quietly home 
— home to the Alten Fjord. ISTo one would be to blame for 
her departure but herself, she thought — and Philip would be 
free. Thus she reasoned — if, indeed, she reasoned at all. 
But there was such a frozen stillness in her soul; her senses 
were so numbed with pain that as yet she scarcely realized 
either what had happened or what she herself was doing. 
She was as one walking in her sleep — the awakening, bitter 
as death, was still to come. 

Presently a great rush of people began to stream toward 
her from one of the platforms, and trucks of luggage, heralded 
by shouts of "Out of the way, there!" and "By'r leave!" came 
trundling rapidly along — the tidal train from the continent 
had just arrived. 

Dismayed at the increasing confusion and uproar, Thelma 
addressed herself to an official with a gold band round his hat. 

"Can you tell me," she asked timidly, "where I shall take 
a ticket for Hull?" 

The man glanced at the fair, anxious face, and smiled good- 
humoredly. 

"You've come to the wrong station, miss," he said. "You 
want the Midland line." 

"The Midland?" Thelma felt more bewildered than ever. 

"Yes — the Midland," he repeated, rather testily. "It's a 
good way from here — you'd better take a cab." 

She moved away — but started and drew herself back into a 
shadowed corner, coloring deeply as the sound of a rich, 
mellifluous voice, which she instantly recognized, smote sud- 
denly on her ears. 

"And as I before remarked, my good fellow," the voice was 
saying, "I am not a disciple of the semi-obscure. If a man 
has a thought which is worth declaring, let him declare it 



394 THELMA. 

with a free and noble utterance — don't let him wrap it up in 
multifarious parcels of dreary verbosity! There's too much 
of that kind of thing going on nowadays — in England, at least. 
There's a kind of imitation of art which isn't art at all — a 
morbid, bilious, bad imitation. You only get close to the 
real goddess in Italy. I wish I could persuade you to come 
and pass the winter with me there!" 

It was Beau Lovelace who spoke, and he was talking to 
George Lorimer. The two had met in Paris — Lovelace was 
on* his way to London, where a matter of business summoned 
him for a few days, and Lorimer, somewhat tired of the 
French capital, decided to return with him. And here they 
were — just arrived at Charing Cross — and they walked across 
the station arm in arm, little imagining who watched them 
from behind the shelter of one of the waiting-room doors, with 
a yearning sorrow in her grave blue eyes. They stopped 
almost opposite to her to light their cigars; she saw Lorimer's 
face quite distinctly, and heard his answer to Lovelace. 

"Well, I'll see what I can do about it, Beau! You know 
my mother always likes to get away from London in winter — 
but whether we ought to inflict ourselves upon you — you 
being a literary man too — " 

"Nonsense, you won't interfere in the least with the flow of 
inky inspiration," laughed Beau. "And as for your mother, 
I'm in love with her, as you are aware! I admire her almost 
as much as I do Lady Bruce-Errington — and that's saying a 
great deal! By the bye, if Phil can get through his share of 
this country's business, he might do worse than bring his 
beautiful Thelma to the Lake of Como for awhile. I'll ask 
him!" 

And having lighted their Havanas successfully, they walked 
on and soon disappeared. For one instant Thelma felt 
strongly incUned to run after them like a little forlorn child 
that had lost its way, and unburdening herself of all her 
miseries to the sympathetic George, entreat, with tears, to be 
taken back to that husband who did not want her any more. 
But she soon overcame this emotion, and calling to mind the 
instructions of the oflicial personage whose advice she had 
sought, she hurried out of the huge, brilliantly lighted station, 
and taking a hansom, was driven, as she requested, to the 
Midland. Here the rather gloomy aspect of the place op- 
pressed her as much as the garish bustle of Charing Cross had 



THELMA. 395 

bewildered her — but she was somewhat relieved when she 
learned that a train for Hull would start in ten minutes. 
Hurrying to the ticket-office, she found there before her a 
kindly-faced woman with a baby in her arms, who was just 
taking a third-class ticket to Hull, and as she felt lonely and 
timid, Thelma at once decided to travel third-class also, and if 
possible in the same compartment with this cheerful matron, 
who, as soon as she had secured her ticket, walked away to the 
train, hushing her infant in her arms as she went. Thelma 
followed her at a little distance — and as soon as she saw her 
enter a third-class carriage, she hastened her steps and entered 
also, quite thankful to have secured some companionship for 
the long, cold journey. The woman glanced at her a little 
curiously — it was strange to see so lovely and young a crea- 
ture traveling all alone at night, and she asked, kindly: 

"Be you goin' fur, miss?" 

Thelma smiled — it was pleasant to be spoken to, she 
thought. 

"Yes," she answered. "All the way to Hull." 

" 'Tis a cold night for a journey," continued her companion. 

"Yes, indeed," answered Thelma. "It must be cold for 
your little baby." 

And unconsciously her voice softened and her eyes grew 
sad as she looked across at the sleeping infant. 

"Oh, he's as warm as toast!" laughed the mother, cheerily. 
"He gets the best of everything, he do. It's yourself that's 
looking cold, my dear — in spite of your warm cloak. Will ye 
have this shawl?" 

And she offered Thelma a homely gray woolen wrap with 
much kindly earnestness of manner. 

"I am quite warm, thank you," said Thelma, gently, accept- 
ing the shawl, however, to please her fellow-traveler. "It is 
a headache I have which makes me look pale. And I am 
very, very tired!" 

Her voice trembled a little — she sighed and closed her eyes. 
She felt strangely weak and giddy — she seemed to be slipping 
away from herself and from all the comprehension of life — she 
wondered vaguely who and what she was. Had her marriage 
with Philip been all a dream? — perhaps she had never left the 
Alten Fjord after all! Perhaps she would wake up presently 
and see the old farm-house quite unchanged, with the doves 
flying about the roof, and Sigurd wandering under the pines, 



396 THELMA. 

as was his custom. Ah, dear Sigurd! Poor Sigurd! he had 
loved her, she thought — nay, he loved her still — he could not 
be dead! Oh, yes — she must have been dreaming — she felt 
certain she was lying on her own little white bed at home, 
asleep; she would by and by open her eyes and get up and 
look through her little latticed window, and see the sun spark- 
ling on the water, and the "Eulalie" at anchor in the fjord — 
and her father would ask Sir Philip and his friends to spend 
the afternoon at the farm-house — and Philip would come and 
stroll with her through the garden and down to the shore, and 
would talk to her in that low, caressing voice of his — and 
though she loved him dearly, she must never, never let him 
know of it, because she was not worthy! She woke from these 
musings with a violent start and a sick shiver running through 
all her frame, and looking wildly about her, saw that she 
was reclining on some one's shoulder, some one was dabbling 
a wet handkerchief on her forehead — her hat was off and her 
cloak was loosened. 

"There, my dear, you're better now!" said a kindly voice 
in her ear. "Lor'! I thought you was dead — that I did! 
'Twas a bad faint indeed. And with the train jolting along 
like this too! It was lucky I had a flask of cold water with 
me. Eaise your head a little — that's it! Poor thing — you're 
as white as a sheet! You're not fit to travel, my dear — you're 
not, indeed." 

Thelma raised herself slowly, and with a sudden impulse 
kissed the good woman's honest, rosy face, to her intense 
astonishment and pleasure. 

"You are very kind to me!" she said, tremulously. "I am 
so sorry to have troubled you. I do feel ill — but it will soon 
pass." 

And she smoothed her ruffled hair, and sitting up erect, en- 
deavored to smile. Her companion eyed her pale face com- 
passionately, and taking up her sleeping baby from the shaw! 
on which she had laid it while ministering to Thelma's needs, 
began to rock it slowly to and fro. Thelma, meanwhile, be- 
came sensible of the rapid movement of the train. 

"We have left London?" she asked with an air of surprise. 

"Nearly half an hour ago, my dear." Then, after a pause, 
during which she had watched Thelma very closely, she said: 

'I think you're married, aren't you, dearie?" 



((1 



THELMA. 397 

"Yes/' Thelma answered, a slight tinge of color warming 
her fair pale cheeks. 

"Your husband, may be, will meet you at Hull?" 

"No — he is in London," said Thelma, simply. "I am going 
to see my father." 

This answer satisfied her humble friend, who, noticing her 
extreme fatigue and the effort it cost her to speak, forbore to 
ask any more questions, but good-naturedly recommended her 
to try and sleep. She slept soundly herself for the greater 
part of the journey; but Thelma was now feverishly wide 
awake, and her eyeballs ached and burned as though there 
were fire behind them. 

Gradually her nerves began to be wound up to an extreme 
tension of excitement — she forgot all her troubles in listening 
with painful intentness to the rush and roar of the train 
through the darkness. The lights of passing stations and 
signal-posts gleamed like scattered and flying stars — there 
was the frequent shriek of the engine-whistle — the serpent- 
hiss of escaping steam. She peered through the window — all 
was blackness; there seemed to be no earth, no sky — only a 
sable chaos, through which the train flew like a flame-mouthed 
demon. Always that rush and roar! She began to feel as if 
she could stand it no longer. She must escape from that con- 
tinuous, confusing sound — it maddened her brain. Nothing 
was easier; she would open the carriage-door and get out! 
Surely she could manage to jump off the step, even though 
the train was in motion! 

Danger! She smiled at that idea — there was no danger; 
and, if there was, it did not much matter. Nothing mattered 
now — now that she had lost her husband's love! She glanced 
at the woman opposite, who slept profoundly — the baby had 
slipped a little from its mother's arms, and lay with its tiny 
face turned toward Thelma. It was a pretty creature, with 
soft cheeks and a sweet little mouth. She looked at it with a 
vague, wild smile. Again, again that rush and roar surged 
like a storm in her ears and distracted her mind. She rose 
suddenly and seized the handle of the carriage door. Another 
instant and she would have sprung to certain death — when 
suddenly the sleeping baby woke, and, opening its mild blue 
eyes, gazed at her. 

She met its glance as one fascinated, and almost uncon- 
sciously her fingers dropped from the door-handle. The little 



398 THELMA. 

baby still looked at her in dream-like, meditative fashion — its 
mother slept profoundly. She bent lower and lower over the 
child. With a beating heart she ventured to touch the small, 
pink hand that lay outside its wrappings like a softly curved 
rose-leaf. With a sort of elf-like confidence and contentment 
the feeble, wee fingers closed and curved round hers — and 
held her fast! Weak as a silken thread, yet stronger in its 
persuasive force than a grasp of iron, that soft, light pressure 
controlled and restrained her. Very gradually the mists of 
her mind cleared — the rattling, thunderous dash of the train 
grew less dreadful, less monotonous, less painful to her sense 
of hearing. Her bosom heaved convulsively, and all suddenly 
her eyes filled with tears — merciful tears, which at first welled 
up slowly, and were hot as fire, but which soon began to fall 
faster and faster in large, bright drops down her pale cheeks. 
Seeing that its mother still slept, she took the baby gently 
into her own fair arms, and rocked it to and fro with many a 
sobbing murmur of tenderness; the little thing smiled drowsily 
and soon fell asleep again, all unconscious that its timely look 
and innocent touch had saved poor Thelma's life and reason. 

She, meanwhile, wept on softly, till her tired brain and 
heart were somewhat relieved of their heavy burden — the en- 
tanglement of her thoughts became unraveled — and, though 
keenly aware of the blank desolation of her life, she was able 
to raise herself in spirit to the Giver of all love and consola- 
tion, and to pray humbly for that patience and resignation 
which now alone could serve her needs. And she communed 
with herself and God in silence, as the train rushed on north- 
ward. Her fellow-traveler woke up as they were nearing 
their destination, and, seeing her holding the baby, was pro- 
fuse in her thanks for this kindness. And when they at last 
reached Hull, about half an hour after midnight, the good 
woman was exceedingly anxious to know if she could be of 
any service — ^but Thelma gently, yet firmly, refused all her 
offers of assistance. 

They parted in the most friendly manner — Thelma kissing 
the child, through whose unconscious means, as she now 
owned to herself, she had escaped a terrible death — and then 
she went directly to a quiet hotel she knew of, which was kept, 
by a native of Christiania, a man who had formerly been ac- 
quainted with her father. At first, when this worthy individ- 
ual saw a lady arrive, alone, young, richly dressed, and with- 



THELMA. 399 

out luggage, he was inclined to be suspicious; but as soon as 
she addressed him in Norwegian, and told him who she was, 
he greeted her with the utmost deference and humility. 

"The daughter of Jarl Cluldmar," he said, continuing to 
speak in his own tongue, "honors my house by entering it!" 

Thelma smiled a little. "The days of the great Jarls are 
past, Friedhof," she replied, somewhat sadly, "and my father 
is content to be what he is — a simple bonde." 

Friedhof shook his head quite obstinately. "A Jarl is 
always a Jarl," he declared. "Nothing can alter a man's birth 
and nature. And the last time I saw Valdemar Svensen — he 
who lives with your father now — he was careful always to 
speak of the Jarl, and seldom or never did he mention him in 
any other fashion. And now, noble Froken, in what manner 
can I serve you?" 

Thelma told him briefly that she was going to see her father 
on business, and that she was desirous of starting for Norway 
the next day as early as possible. 

Friedhof held up his hands in amazement. "Ah! most 
surely you forget," he exclaimed, using the picturesque ex- 
pressions of his native speech, "that this is the sleeping time 
of the sun! Even at Hardanger Fjord it is dark and silent 
— the falling streams freeze with cold on their way; and if it 
is so at the Hardanger, what will it be at the Alten? And 
there is no passenger ship going to Christiania or Bergen for 
a fortnight!" 

Thelma clasped her hands in dismay. "But I must go!" 
she cried, impatiently; "I must, indeed, good Friedhof! I 
can not stay here! Surely, surely there is some vessel that 
would take me — some fishing-boat — what does it matter how 
I travel, so long as I get away?" 

The landlord looked at her rather wonderingly. "Nay, if 
it is indeed so urgent, noble Froken," he replied, "do not 
trouble, for there is a means of making the journey. But for 
you, and in such bitter vreather, it seems a cruelty to speak of. 
A steam cargo-boat leaves for Hammerfest and the North 
Cape to-morrow — ^it will pass the Alten Fjord. No doubt you 
could go with that, if you so chose — but there will be no 
warmth or comfort, and there are heavy storms on the North 
Sea. I know the captain; and 'tis true he takes his wife with 
him, so there will be a woman on board — yet — " 



400 THELMA. 

Thelma interrupted him. She pressed two sovereigns into 
his hand. 

"Say no more, Friedhof," she said, eagerly. "You will 
take me to see this captain — you will tell him I must go with 
him. My father will thank you for this kindness to me, even 
better than 1 can." 

"It does not seem to me a kindness at all," returned Fried- 
hof with frank bluntness. "I would be loath to sail the seas 
myself in such weather. And I thought you were so grandly 
married, Froken Guldmar — though I forget your wedded 
name — how comes it that your husband is not with you?" 

"He is very busy in London," answered Thelma. "He 
knows where I am going. Do not be at all anxious, Friedhof 
— I shall make the journey very well, and I am not afraid of 
storm or wild seas." 

Friedhof still looked dubious, but finally yielded to her 
entreaties and agreed to arrange her passage for her in the 
morning. 

She stayed at his hotel that night, and with the very early 
dawn accompanied him on board the ship he had mentioned. 
It was a small, awkwardly built craft, with an ugly, crooked 
black funnel, out of which the steam was hissing and spitting 
with quite an unnecessary degree of violence — the decks were 
wet and dirty, and the whole vessel was pervaded with a sick- 
ening smell of whale-oil. The captain, a gruff, red-faced fel- 
low, looked rather surlily at his unexpected passenger, but 
was soon mollified by her gentle manner, and the readiness 
with which she paid the money he demanded for taking her. 

"You won't be very warm," he said, eying her from head 
to foot — "but I can lend you a rug to sleep in." 

Thelma smiled and thanked him. He called to his wife, 
a thin, overworked-looking creature, who put up her head 
from a window in the cabin at his summons. 

"Here's a lady going with us," he announced. "Look after 
her, will you?" The woman nodded. Then, once more ad- 
dressing himself to Thelma, he said: "We shall have nasty 
weather and a wicked sea!" 

"I do not mind!" she answered quietly, and turning to 
Friedhof, who had come to see her off, she shook hands with 
him warmly and thanked him for the trouble he had taken in 
her behalf. The good landlord bade her farewell somewhat 
reluctantly — he had a presentiment that there was something 



THELMA. 401 

wrong with the beautiful, golden-haired daughter of the Jarl 
—and that perhaps he ought to have prevented her making 
this uncomfortable and possibly perilous voyage. But it was 
too late now — and at a little before seven o'clock, the vessel — 
which rejoiced in the name of the "Black Polly" — left the 
harbor, and steamed fussily down the Humber in the teeth of 
a sudden storm of sleet and snow. 

Her departure had no interest for any one save Friedhof, 
who stood watching her till she was no more than a speck on 
the turbid water. He kept his post, regardless of the piercing 
cold of the gusty early morning air, till she had entirely dis- 
appeared, and then returned to his own house and his daily 
business in a rather depressed frame of mind. He was haunted 
by the pale face and serious eyes of Thelma — she looked veiy 
ill, he thought. He began to reproach himself — why had he 
been such a fool as to let her go? — why had he not detained 
her? — or, at any rate, persuaded her to rest a few days in 
Hull? He looked at the threatening sky and the falling flakes 
of snow with a shiver. 

"What weather!" he muttered, "and there must be a dark- 
ness as of death at the Alten Fjord!" 

Meanwhile the "Black Polly" — unhandsome as she was in 
appearance — struggled gallantly with and overcame an army 
of furious waves that rose to greet her as she rounded Spurn 
Head, and long ere Thelma closed her weary eyes in an effort 
to sleep, was plunging, shivering and fighting her slow way 
through shattering mountainous billows and a tempest of 
sleet, snow, and tossing foam across the wild North Sea. 



CHAPTER X. 



What of her glass without her? The blank gray- 
There, where the pool is blind of the moon's face — 
Her dress without her? The tossed empty space 
Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away! 

Dante G. Rossetti. 

"Good God!" cried Errington, impatiently. "What's the 
matter? Speak out!" 

He had just arrived home. He had barely set foot within 
his own door, and full of lover-like ardor and eagerness was 
26 



402 THELMA. 

about to hasten to his wife's room, when his old servant 
Morris stood in his way trembling and pale-faced, looking 
helplessly from him to Neville, who was as much astonished 
as Sir Philip at the man's woe-begone appearance. 

"Something has happened," he stammered faintly at last. 
"Her ladyship — " 

Philip started — his heart beat quickly and then seemed to 
grow still with a horrible sensation of fear. 

"What of her?" he demanded in low, hoarse tones. "Is she 
ill?" 

Morris threw up his hands with a gesture of despair. 

"Sir Philip, my dear master!" cried the poor old man, "I do 
not know whether she is ill or well — I can not guess! My lady 
went out last night at a little before eight o'clock — and — and 
she has never come home at all! We can not tell what has 
become of her! She has gone!" 

And tears of distress and anxiety filled his eyes. Philip 
stood mute. He could not understand it. All color fled from 
his face — he seemed as thougli he had received a sudden blow 
on the head which had stunned him. 

"Gone!" he said, mechanically. "Thelma — ^my wife — 
gone! Why should she go?" 

And he stared fixedly at Neville, who laid one hand sooth- 
ingly on his arm. 

"Perhaps she is with friends," he suggested. "She may be 
at Lady Winsleigh's or Mrs. Lorimer's." 

"No, no!" interrupted Morris. "Britta, who stayed up all 
night for her, has since been to every house that my lady 
visits, and no one has seen or heard of her!" 

"Where is Britta?" demanded Philip, suddenly. 

"She has gone away to Lady Winsleigh's," answered Morris. 
"She says it is there the mischief has been done; I don't 
know what she means!" 

Philip shook olf his secretary's sympathetic touch, and 
strode through the rooms to Thelma's boudoir. He put aside 
the velvet curtains of the portiere with a noiseless hand — 
somehow he felt as if, in spite of all he had just heard, she 
must be there as usual to welcome him with that serene sweet 
smile which was the sunshine of his life. The empty, deso- 
late air of the room smote him with a sense of bitter pain — 
only the plaintive warble of her pet thrush, who was singing 
to himself most mournfully in his gilded cage, broke the 



THELMA. 403 

heavy silence. He looked about him vacantly. All sorts of 
dark forebodings crowded on his mind. She must have met 
with some accident, he thought with a shudder, for that she 
would depart from him in this sudden way on her own accord 
and for no reason whatsoever seemed to him incredible — 
impossible. 

"What have I done that she should leave me?" he asked, 
half aloud and wonderingly. 

Everything that had seemed to him of worth a few hours 
ago became valueless in this moment of time. What cared 
he now for the business of Parliament — for distinction or 
honors among men? Nothing — less than nothing! Without 
her, the world was empt}' — its ambitions, its pride, its good, 
its evil, seemed but the dreariest and most foolish of trifles! 

"Not even a message!" he thought. "No hint of where she 
meant to go — no word of explanation for me! Surely I must 
be dreaming — my Thelma would never have deserted me!" 

A sort of sob rose in his throat, and he pressed his hand 
strongly over his eyes to keep down the womanish drops that 
threatened to overflow them. After a minute or two, he went 
to her desk and opened it, thinking that there perhaps she 
might have left a note of farewell. There was nothing — noth- 
ing save a little heap of money and jewels. These Thelma 
had herself placed, before her sorrowful, silent departure, in 
the corner where he now found them. 

More puzzled than ever, he glanced searchingly round the 
room, and his eyes were at once attracted by the sparkle of 
the diamond cross that lay uppermost on the cover of "Gladys, 
the Singer," the book of poems which was in its usual place 
on his own reading-table. In another second he seized it — he 
unwound the slight gold chain — he opened the little volume 
tremblingly. Yes! — there was a letter within its pages ad- 
dressed to himself. Now, now, he should know all! He tore 
it open with feverish haste — two folded sheets of paper fell 
out — one was his own epistle to Violet Vere, and this, to his 
consternation, he perceived first. Full of a sudden misgiving 
he laid it aside, and began to read Thelma's parting words. 

"My Darling Boy"— she wrote — "A friend of yours and 
mine brought me the inclosed letter, and, though, perhaps, it 
was_ wrong of me to read it, I hope you will forgive me for 
having done so. I do not quite understand it, and I can not 
bear to think about it — but it seems that you are tired of your 



404 THBLMA. 

poor Thelma! I do not blame you, dearest, for I am sure that 
in some way or other the fault is mine, and it does grieve me 
so much to think you are unhappy! I know that I am very 
ignorant of many things, and that I am not suited to this Lon- 
don life — and I fear I shall never understand its ways. But 
one thing I can do, and that is to let you be free, my Philip — 
quite free! And so I am going back to the Alten Fjord, where 
I will stay till you want me again, if you ever do. My heart 
is yours and I shall always love you till I die, and though it 
seems to me just now better that we should part, to give you 
greater ease and pleasure, still you must always remember 
that I have no reproaches to make to you. I am only sorry to 
think my love has wearied you, for you have been all goodness 
and tenderness to me. And so that people shall not talk about 
me or you, you will simply say to them that I have gone to 
see my father, and they will think nothing strange in that. 
Be kind to Britta — I have told her nothing, as it would only 
make her miserable. Do not be angry that I go away — I can 
not bear to stay here, knowing all. And so, good-bye, my 
love, my dearest one! If you were to love many women more 
than me, I still should love you best — I still would gladly die 
to serve you. Eemember this always — that, however long we 
may be parted, and though all the world should come between 
us, I am and ever shall be your faithful wife, 

Thelma." 

The ejaculation that broke from Errington's lips as he fin- 
ished reading this letter was more powerful than reverent. 
Stinging tears darted to his eyes — he pressed his lips passion- 
ately on the fair writing. 

"My darling — my darling!" he murmured. "What a miser- 
able misunderstanding!" 

Then without another moment's delay he rushed into 
Neville's studv and cried abruptly: 

"Look herel It's all your fault!" 

"My fault!" gasped the amazed secretary. 

"Yes — your fault!" shouted Errington almost beside him- 
self with grief and rage. "Your fault, and that of your 
accursed wife, Violet Vere!" 

And he dashed the letter, the cause of all the mischief, furi- 
ously down on the table. Neville shrunk and shivered — his 
gray head drooped — he stretched out his hands appealingly. 



THELMA. 405 

'Tor God's sake, Sir Philip, tell me what I've done?" he 
exclaimed, piteously. 

Errington strode up and down the room in a perfect fever 
of impatience. 

"By Heaven, it's enough to drive me mad!" he burst forth. 
"Your wife! — your wife! — confound her! When you first dis- 
covered her in that shameless actress, didn't I want to tell 
Thelma about it — that very night? — and didn't you beg me 
not to do so? Your silly scruples stood in the way of every- 
thing! I was a fool to listen to you — a fool to meddle in your 
affairs — and — and I wish to God I'd never seen or heard of 
you!" 

Neville turned very white, but remained speechless. 

"Eead that letter!" went on Philip, impetuously. "You've 
seen it before! It's the last one I wrote to your wife implor- 
ing her to see you and speak with you. Here it comes, the 
devil knows how, into Thelma's hands. She's quite in the 
dark about your secret, and fancies I wrote it on my own be- 
half! It looks like it too — looks exactly as if I were pleading 
for myself and breaking my heart over that detestable stage- 
fiend — by Jove! it's too horrible!" And he gave a gesture of 
loathing and contempt. 

Neville heard him in utter bewilderment. "Not possible!" 
he muttered. "Not possible — it can't be!" 

"Can't be? It is!" shouted Philip. "And if you'd let me 
tell Thelma everything from the first, all this wouldn't have 
happened. And you ask me what you've done! Done! 
You've parted me from the sweetest, dearest girl in the 
world!" 

And throwing himself into a chair, he covered his face with 
his hands, and a great uncontrollable sob broke from his lips. 

Neville was in despair. Of course it was his fault — he saw 
it all clearly. He painfully recalled all that had happened 
since that night at the BriUiant Theater, when, with sickening 
horror, he had discovered Violet Vere to be no other than 
Violet Neville — his own little Violet! — as he had once called 
her — his wife that he had lost and mourned as though she 
were some pure dead woman, lying sweetly at rest in a quiet 
grave. He remembered Thelma's shuddering repugnance at 
the sight of her — a repugnance which he himself had shared — 
and which made him shrink with fastidious aversion from the 
idea of confiding to any one but Sir Philip the miserable 



406 THELMA. 

secret of his connection with her. Sir Philip had humored 
him in this fancy, little imagining that any mischief would 
come of it, and the reward of his kindly sympathy was this — 
his name was compromised, his home desolate, and his wife 
estranged from him! 

In the first pangs of the remorse and sorrow that filled his 
heart, Neville could gladly have gone out and drowned him- 
self. Presently he began to think. Was there not some one 
else beside himself who might possibly be to blame for all 
this misery? For instance, who could have brought or sent 
that letter to Lady Errington? In her high station, she, so 
lofty, so pure, so far above the rest of her sex, would have 
been the last person to make any inquiries about such a 
woman as Violet Vere. How had it all happened? He looked 
imploringly for some minutes at the dejected figure in the 
chair without daring to offer a word of consolation. Presently 
he ventured to remark: 

"Sir Philip!" he stammered, "it will soon be all right — her 
ladyship will come back immediately. I myself will explain. 
It's — it's only a misunderstanding — " 

Errington moved in his chair impatiently, but said nothing. 
Only a misunderstanding! How many there are who trace 
back broken friendships and severed loves, to that one thing 
— "only a misunderstanding!" 

The tenderest relations are often the most delicate and sub' 
tie, and "trifles light as air" may scatter and utterly destroy 
the sensitive gossamer threads extending between one heart 
and another, as easily as a child's passing foot destroys the 
spider's web woven on the dewy grass in the early morning 
of spring. 

Presently Sir Philip started up — his lashes were wet and 
his face was flushed. 

"It's no good sitting here," he said, rapidly, buttoning on 
his overcoat. "I must go after her. Let all the business go 
to the devil! Write and say I won't stand for Middleborough 
— I resign in favor of the Liberal candidate. I'm off for Nor- 
way to-night." 

"To Norway!" cried Neville. "Has she gone there? At 
this season — " 

He broke off, for at that moment Britta entered, looking the 
picture of misery. Her face was pale and drawn, her eyelids 
red and swollen, and when she saw Sir Philip she gave him a 



THELMA. 407 

glance of the most despairing reproach and indignation. He 
sprung up to her. 

"Any news?" he demanded. 

Britta shook her head mournfully, the tears beginning to 
roll again down her cheeks. 

"Oh, if I'd only thought!" she sobbed. "If I'd only known 
what the dear Froken meant to do when she said good-bye 
to me last night, I could have prevented her going — I could — 
I would have told her all I knew, and she would have stayed 
to see you! Oh, Sir Philip, if you had only been here, that 
wicked, wicked Lady Winsleigh couldn't have driven her 
away!" 

At this name such a fury filled Philip's heart that he could 
barely control himself. He breathed quickly and heavily. 

"What of her?" he demanded in a low, suffocated voice. 
"What has Lady Winsleigh to do with it, Britta?" 

"Everything!" cried Britta, though as she glanced at his 
set, stern face and paling lip she began to feel a little fright- 
ened. "She has always hated the Froken, and been jealous 
of her — always! Her own maid, Louise, will tell you so — 
Lord Winsleigh's man, Briggs, will tell you so! They've 
listened at the doors, and they know all about it!" Britta made 
this statement with the most child-like candor. "And they've 
heard all sorts of wicked things. Lady Winsleigh was always 
talking to Sir Francis Lennox about the Froken — and now 
they^ve made her believe you do not care for her any more — 
they've been trying to make her believe everything bad of 
you for ever so many months — " she paused, terrified at Sir 
Philip's increasing pallor. 

"Go on, Britta," he said, quietly, though his voice sounded 
strange to himself. Britta gathered up all her remaining 
stock of courage. 

"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" she continued, desperately. "I don't 
understand London people at all, and I never shall understand 
them! Everybody seems to want to be wicked! Briggs says 
that Lady Winsleigh was fond of you. Sir Philip — then, that 
she was fond of Sir Francis Lennox — and yet she has a hus- 
band of her own all the time! It is so very strange!" And 
the little maiden's perplexity appeared to border on distrac- 
tion. "They would think such a woman quite mad in Nor- 
way. But what is worse than anything is that you — you. Sir 
Philip — oh! I won't believe it," and she stamped her foot pas- 



408 THELMA. 

sionately, "I can't believe it! — and yet ever3^body says that 
you go to see a dreadful, painted dancing woman at the 
theater, and that you like her better than the Froken — it isn't 
true, is it?" Here she peered anxiously at her master, but he 
was absolutely silent. Neville made as though he would speak, 
but a gesture from Sir Philip's hand restrained him. Britta 
went on rather dispiritedly: "Anyhow, Briggs has just told 
me that only yesterday Lady Winsleigh went all by herself to 
see this actress, and that she got some letter there which she 
brought to the Froken;" she recoiled suddenly with a little 
scream. "Oh, Sir Philip! where are you going?" 

Errington's hand came down on her shoulder, as he twisted 
her lightly out of his path and strode to the door. 

"Sir Philip — Sir Philip!" cried Neville anxiously, hastening 
after him. "Think for a moment; don't do anything rash!" 

Philip wrung his hand convulsively. "Rash! My good fel- 
low, it's a woman who has slandered me — what can I do ? Her 
sex protects her!" He gave a short, furious laugh. "But, by 
God! were she a man I'd shoot her dead!" 

And with these words, and his eyes blazing with wrath, he 
left the room. Neville and Britta confronted each other in 
vague alarm. 

"Where will he go?" half whispered Britta. 

"To Winsleigh House, I suppose," answered Neville in the 
same low tone. 

Just then the hall-door shut with a loud bang that echoed 
through the silent house. 

"He's gone!" and as Neville said this he sighed and looked 
dubiously at his companion. "How do you know all this 
about Lady Winsleigh, Britta? It may not be true — it's only 
servants' gossip." 

"Only servants' gossip!" exclaimed Britta. "And is that 
nothing? Why, in these grand houses like Lord Winsleigh's, 
the servants know everything! Briggs makes it his business 
to listen at the doors — he says it's a part of his duty. And 
Louise opens all her mistress' letters — she says she owes it 
to her own respectability to know what sort of a lady it is 
she serves. And she's going to leave, because she says her 
ladyship isn't respectable! There! Avhat do you think of that ? 
And Sir Philip will find out a great deal more than even I 
have told him — but oh! I can't understand about that 
actress!" And she shook her head despairingly. 



THELMA. 409 

"Britta," said Neville suddenly, "that actress is my wife!" 

Britta started, and her round eyes opened wide. 

"Your wife, Mr. Neville?" she exclaimed. 

Neville took off his spectacles and polished them nervously. 
"Yes, Britta — my wife!" 

She looked at him in amazed silence. Neville went on rub- 
bing his glasses, and continued in rather dreamy, tremulous 
accents: 

"Yes, I lost her years ago. I thought she was dead. But 
I found her on the stage af the Brilliant Theater. I — I never 
expected — that. I would rather she had died!" He paused 
and went on softly: "When I married her, Britta, she was 
such a dear little girl — so bright and pretty! — and I — I fancied 
she was fond of me! Yes, I did — of course I was foolish — I've 
always been foolish, I think. And when — when I saw her on 
that stage I felt as if some one had struck me a hard blow — it 
seems as if I'd been stunned ever since. And though she 
knows I'm in London, she won't see me, Britta — she won't 
let me speak to her even for a moment! It's very hard! Sir 
Philip has tried his best to persuade her to see me — he has 
talked to her and written to her about me; and that's not all — 
he has even tried to make her come back to me — but it's all 
no use — and — and that's how all the mischief has arisen — do 
you see?" 

Britta gazed at him still, with sympathy written on every 
line of her face; but a great load had been lifted from her 
mind by his words — she began to understand everything. 

"I'm so sorry for you, Mr, Neville," she said. "But why 
didn't you tell all this to the Froken?" 

"I couldn't!" murmured Neville, desperately. "She was 
there that night at the Brilliant — and if you had seen how she 
looked when she saw my wife appear on the stage! So pained, 
so sorry, so ashamed! and she wanted to leave the theater at 
once. Of course, I ought to have told her — I wish I had— but 
— somehow I never could." He paused again. "It's all my 
stupidity, of course — Sir Philip is quite blameless — ^he has 
been the kindest, the best of friends to me — " his voice trem- 
bled more and more, and he could not go on. There was a 
silence of some minutes, during which Britta appeared ab- 
sorbed in meditation, and Neville furtively wiped his eyes. 

Presently he spoke again more cheerfully. "It'll soon be 
all right again, Britta!" and he nodded encouragingly. "Sir 



410 THELMA. 

Philip says her ladyship has gone home to Norway, and he 
means to follow her to-night." 

Britta nodded gravely, but heaved a deep sigh. 

"And I posted her letter to her father!" she half mur- 
mured. "Oh, if I had only thought or guessed why it was 
written!" 

"Isn't it rather a bad time of the year for Norway?" pur- 
sued Neville. "Why, there must be snow and darkness — " 

"Snow and darkness at the Alten Fjord!" suddenly cried 
Britta, catching at his words. "That's exactly what she said 
to me the other evening! Oh, dear! I never thought of it — 
I never remembered it was the dark season!" she clasped her 
hands in dismay. "There is no sun at the Alten Fjord now — 
it is like night, and the cold is bitter! And she is not strong 
— not strong enough to travel — and there's the North Sea to 
cross. Oh, Mr. Neville!" and she broke out sobbing afresh, 
"the journey will kill her, I know it will! my poor, poor dar- 
ling! I must go after her — I'll go with Sir Philip — I won't be 
left behind!" 

"Hush, hush, Britta!" said Neville kindly, patting her 
shoulder. "Don't cry — don't cry!" 

But he was very near crying himself, poor man, so shaken 
was he by the events of the morning. And he could not help 
admitting to himself the possibility that so long and trying a 
journey for Thelma in her present condition of health meant 
little else than serious illness — perhaps death. The only com- 
fort he could suggest to the disconsolate Britta was that at 
that time of the year it was very probable there would be no 
steamer running to Christiansund or Bergen, and in that ease 
Thelma would be unable to leave England, and would, there- 
fore, be overtaken by Sir Philip at Hull. 

Meanwhile, Sir Philip himself, in a white heat of restrained 
anger, arrived at Winsleigh House, and asked to see Lord 
Winsleigh immediately. Briggs, who opened the door to him, 
was a little startled at his haggard face and blazing eyes, even 
though he knew, through Britta, all about the sorrow that 
had befallen him. Briggs was not surprised at Lady Erring- 
ton's departure — that portion of his "duty" which consisted in 
listening at doors had greatly enlightened him on many points 
— all, save one — the reported connection between Sir Philip 
and Violet Vere. This seemed to be really true according to 
all appearances. 



THELMA. 411 

"Which it puzzles me," soliloquized the owner of the shapely 
calves. "It do, indeed. Yet I feels very much for Sir Philip. 
I said to Flopsie this morning — 'Flopsie, I feels for 'im!' Yes 
— I used them very words. Only, of course, he shouldn't 'ave 
gone on with Vi. She's a fine woman certainly — but skittish 
— d — d skittish! I've alius made it a rule myself to avoid 'er 
on principle. Lor'! if I'd kep' company with 'er and the 
likes of 'er I shouldn't be the man I am!" And he smiled 
complacently. 

Lord Winsleigh, who was in his library as usual, occupied 
with his duties as tutor to his son Ernest, rose to receive Sir 
Philip with an air of more than usual gravity. 

"I was about to write to you, Errington," he began, and then 
he stopped short, touched by the utter misery expressed in 
Philip's face. He addressed Ernest with a sort of nervous 
haste: 

"Eun away, my boy, to your own room. I'll send for you 
again presently." 

Ernest obeyed. "Now," said Lord Winsleigh, as soon as 
the lad had disappeared, "tell me everything, Errington. Is it 
true that your wife has left you?" 

"Left me!" and Philip's eyes flashed with passionate anger. 
"No, Winsleigh! — she's been driven away from me by the 
vilest and most heartless cruelty. She's been made to believe 
a scandalous and abominable lie against me — and she's gone! 
I — I — by Jove! — I hardly like to say it to your face — but — " 

"I understand," a curious flicker of a smile shadowed rather 
than brightened Lord Winsleigh's stern features. "Pray speak 
quite plainly. Lady Winsleigh is to blame? I am not at all 
surprised." 

Errington gave him a rapid glance of wonder. He had 
always fancied Winsleigh to be a studious, rather dull sort of 
man, absorbed in his books and the education of his son — a 
man more than half blind to everything that went on around 
him — and, moreover, one who deliberately shut his eyes to the 
frivolous coquetry of his wife — and though he liked him fairly 
well, there had been a sort of vague contempt mingled with 
his liking. Now a new light was suddenly thrown on his 
character — there was something in his look, his manner, his 
very tone of voice which proved to Errington that there was 
a deep and forcible side of his nature of which his closest 
friends had never dreamed, and he was somewhat taken aback 



412 THELMA. 

by the discovery. Seeing that he still hesitated, Winsleigh 
laid a hand encouragingly on his shoulder, and said: 

"I repeat — Fm not at all surprised. Nothing that Lady 
Winsleigh might do would cause me the slightest astonish- 
ment. She has long ceased to be my wife, except in name — 
that she still bears that name and holds the position she has 
in the world is simply — for my son's sake! I do not wish" — 
his voice quivered slightly — "I do not wish the boy to despise 
his mother. It's always a bad beginning for a young man's 
life. I want to avoid it for Ernest, if possible, regardless of 
any personal sacrifice." He paused a moment, then resumed: 
"Now, speak out, Errington, and plainly — for if mischief has 
been done and I can repair it in any way, you may be sure I 
will." 

Thus persuaded. Sir Philip briefly related the whole story 
of the misunderstanding that had arisen concerning Neville's 
wife, Violet Vere — and concluded by saying: 

"It is, of course, only through Britta that I've just heard 
about Lady Winsleigh's having anything to do with it. Her 
information may not be correct — I hope it isn't — but — " 

Lord Winsleigh interrupted him. "Come with me," he said 
composedly. "We'll resolve this difficulty at once." 

He led the way out of the library across the hall. Erring- 
ton followed him in silence. He knocked at the door of his 
wife's room. In response to her "Come in!" they both en- 
tered. She was alone, reclining on a sofa, reading — she 
started up with a pettish exclamation at sight of her husband, 
but observing who it was that came with him, she stood mute, 
the color rushing to her cheeks with surprise and something 
of fear. Yet she endeavored to smile, and returned with her 
usual grace their somewhat formal salutations. 

"Clara," then said Lord Winsleigh, gravely, "I have to ask 
you a question on behalf of Sir Philip Errington here — a 
question to which it is necessary for you to give the plain 
answer. Did you, or did you not, procure this letter from 
Violet Vere, of the Brilliant Theater — and did you, or did you 
not, give it yourself yesterday into the hands of Lady Bruce- 
Errington?" And he laid the letter in question, which Philip 
had handed to him, down upon the table before her. 

She looked at it — then at him — then from him to Sir Philip, 
who uttered no word — and lightly shrugged her shoulders. 



THELMA. 413 

"I don't know what you are talking about," she said, 
carelessly. 

Sir Philip turned upon her indignantly. 

"Lady Winsleigh, you do know — " 

She interrupted him with a stately gesture. 

"Excuse me, Sir Philip! I am not accustomed to be spoken 
to in this extraordinary manner. You forget yourself. My 
husband, I think, also forgets himself! I know nothing what- 
ever about Violet Vere — I'm not fond of the society of 
actresses. Of course, I've heard about your admiration for 
her — that is common town-talk — though my informant on this 
point was Sir Francis Lennox." 

"Sir Francis Lennox!" cried Philip, furiously. "Thank 
God! there's a man to deal with! By Heaven, I'll choke him 
with his own lie!" 

Lady Winsleigh raised her eyebrows in well-bred surprise. 

"Dear me! It is a lie, then? Now, I should have thought 
from all accounts that it was so very likely to be true!" 

Philip turned white with passion. Her sarcastic smile, her 
mocking glance, irritated him almost beyond endurance. 

"Permit me to ask you, Clara," continued Lord Winsleigh, 
calmly, "if you — as you say, know nothing about Violet Vere, 
why did you go to the Brilliant Theater yesterday morning?" 

She flashed an angry glance at him. 

"Why? To secure a box for the new performance. Is there 
anything wonderful in that?" 

Her husband remained unmoved. "May I see the voucher 
for this box?" he inquired. 

"I've sent it to some friends," replied her ladyship, haught- 
ily. "Since when have you decided to become an inquisitor, 
my lord?" 

"Lady Winsleigh," said Philip suddenly and eagerly, "will 
you swear to me that you have said or done nothing to make 
my Thelma leave me?" 

"Oh, she has left you, has she?" and Lady Clara smiled 
maliciously. "I thought she would! Why don't you ask your 
dear friend, George Lorimer, about her? He is madly in love 
with her, as everybody knows — she is probably the same with 
him!" 

"Clara, Clara!" exclaimed Lord Winsleigh in accents of deep 
reproach. "Shame on you! Shame!" 

Her ladyship laughed amusedly. "Please don't be tragic!" 



414 THELMA. 

she said; "it's too ridiculous! Sir Philip has only himself to 
blame. Of course, Thelma knows about his frequent visits to 
the Brilliant Theater, I told her all that Sir Francis said. 
Why should she be kept in the dark? I dare say she doesn't 
mind — she's very fond of Mr. Lorimer!" 

Errington felt as though he must choke with fury. He for- 
got the presence of Lord Winsleigh — he forgot everything 
but his just indignation. 

"My God!" he cried, passionately. "You dare to speak so 
— you!" 

"Yes, I!" she returned coolly, measuring him with a glance. 
"I dare! What have you to say against me?" She drew her- 
self up imperiously. 

Then turning to her husband, she said: "Have the good- 
ness to take your excited friend away, my lord! I am going 
out — I have a great many engagements this morning, and I 
really can not stop to discuss this absurd affair any longer! 
It isn't my fault that Sir Philip's excessive admiration for 
Miss Vere has become the subject of gossip. I don't blame 
him for it! He seems extremely ill-tempered about it; but 
after all, 'ce n' est que la verite qui ilesse!' " 

And she smiled maliciouslv. 



CHAPTEE XI. 

For my mother's sake, 
For thine and hers, O Love! I pity take 
On all poor women. Jesu's will be done, 
Honor for all, and infamy for none. 
This side the borders of the burning lake. 

Eeic Mackey's Love-Letters of a Violinist. 

Lord Winsleigh did not move. Sir Philip fixed his eyes 
upon her in silence. Some occult fascination forced her to 
meet his glance, and the utter scorn of it stung her proud 
heart to its center. Not that she felt much compunction — her 
whole soul was up in arms against him, and had been so from 
the very day she was first told of his unexpected marriage. 
His evident contempt now irritated her; she was angrier witli 
him than ever, and yet she had a sort of strange triumph in 



THELMA. 415 

the petty vengeance she had designed; she had destroyed his 
happiness, for a time, at least. If she could but shake his be- 
lief in his wife! she thought, vindictively. To that end she 
had thrown out her evil hint respecting Thelma's affection for 
George Lorimer, but the shaft had been aimed uselessly. 
Errington knew too well the stainless purity of Thelma to 
wrong her by the smallest doubt, and he would have staked 
his life on the loyalty of his friend. Presently he controlled 
his anger sufficiently to be able to speak, and still eying her 
with that straight, keen look of immeasurable disdain, he said 
in cold, deliKerate accents: 

"Your ladyship is in error — the actress in question is the 
wife of my secretary, Mr. Neville. For years they have been 
estranged. My visits to her were entirely on Neville's behalf 
— my letters to her were all on the same subject. Sir Francis 
Lennox must have known the truth all along — Violet Vere has 
been his mistress for the past five years!" 

He uttered the concluding words with intense bitterness. 
A strange, bewildered horror passed over Lady Winsleigh's 
face. 

"I don't believe it," she said, rather faintly. 

"Believe it or not, it is true!" he replied, curtly. "Ask the 
manager of the Brilliant, if you doubt me. Winsleigh, it's no 
use my stopping here any longer. As her ladyship refuses to 
give any explanation — " 

"Wait a moment, Errington," interposed Lord Winsleigh, 
in his coldest but most methodical manner. "Her ladyship 
refuses — but I do not refuse! Her ladyship will not speak — 
she allows her husband to speak for her. Therefore," and he 
smiled at his astonished wife somewhat sardonically, "I may 
tell you at once that her ladyship admits to having purchased 
from Violet Vere for the sum of twenty pounds the letter 
which she afterward took with her own hands to your wife." 
Lady Winsleigh uttered an angry exclamation. "Don't inter- 
rupt me, Clara, if you please," he said, with an icy smile. 
"We have so many sympathies in common that I'm sure I 
shall be able to explain your unspoken meanings quite clearly." 
He went on, addressing himself to Errington, who stood ut- 
terly amazed. "Her ladyship desires me to assure you that 
her only excuse for her action in this matter is, that she fully 
believed the reports her friend. Sir Francis Lennox, gave her 
concerning your supposed intimacy with the actress in ques- 



416 THELMA. 

tion — and that, believing it, she made use of it as much as 
possible for the purpose of destroying your wife's peace of 
mind and confidence in you. Her object was most purely 
feminine — love of mischief, and the gratification of private 
spite! There's nothing like frankness!" and Lord Winsleigh's 
face was a positive study as he spoke. "You see" — he made 
a slight gesture toward his wife, who stood speechless, and so 
pale that her very lips were colorless — "her ladyship is not in 
a position to deny what I have said. Excuse her silence!" 

And again he smiled — that smile as glitteringly chill as a 
gleam of light on the edge of a sword. Lady Winsleigh raised 
her head, and her eyes met his with a dark expression of the 
uttermost anger. 

"Spy!" she hissed between her teeth — then without further 
word or gesture, she swept haughtily away into her dressing- 
room, which adjoined the boudoir, and closed the door of 
communication, thus leaving the two men alone together. 

Errington felt himself to be in a most painful and awkward 
position. If there was anything he more than disliked, it was 
a scene — particularly of a domestic nature. And he had just 
had a glimpse into Lord and Lady Winsleigh's married life, 
which to him was decidedly unpleasant. He could not under- 
stand how Lord Winsleigh had become cognizant of all he 
had so frankly stated — and then, why had he not told him 
everything at first, without waiting to declare it in his wife's 
presence? Unless, indeed, he wished to shame her? There 
was evidently something in the man's disposition and charac- 
ter that he, Philip, could not as yet comprehend — something 
that certainly puzzled him, and filled him with vague uneasi- 
ness. 

"Winsleigh, I'm awfully sorry this has happened," he began 
hurriedly, holding out his hand. 

Lord Winsleigh grasped it cordially. "My dear fellow, so 
am I! Heartily sorry! I have to be sorry for a good many 
things rather often. But I'm specially grieved to think that 
your beautiful and innocent young wife is the victim in this 
case. Unfortunately, I was told nothing till this morning, 
otherwise I might possibly have prevented all your unhappi- 
ness. But I trust it won't be of long duration. Here's this 
letter," he returned it as he spoke, "which in more than one 
way has cost so large a price. Possibly her ladyship may now 
regret her ill-gotten purchase." 



THELMA. 417 

"Pardon me," said Errington, curiously, "but how did you 
know?" 

"The information was pressed upon me very much," replied 
Lord Winsleigh, evasively, "and from such a source that up to 
the last moment I almost refused to believe it." He paused, and 
then went on with a forced smile: "Suppose we don't talk 
any more about it, Errington? The subject's rather painful 
to me. Only allow me to ask your pardon for my wife's share 
in the mischief!" 

Something in his manner of speaking affected Sir Phillip. 

"Upon my soul, Winsleigh," he exclaimed, with a sudden 
fervor, "I fancy you're a man greatly wronged!" 

Lord Winsleigh smiled slightly. "You only fancy?" he 
said, quietly. "Well — my good friend, we all have our 
troubles — I dare say mine are no greater than those of many 
better men." He stopped short, then asked abruptly: "I 
suppose you'll see Lennox?" 

Errington set his teeth hard. "I shall — at once!" he replied. 
"And I shall probably thrash him within an inch of his life!" 

"That's right! I shan't be sorry!" and Lord Winsleigh's 
hand clinched almost unconsciously. "I hope you understand, 
Errington, that if it hadn't been for my son, I should have 
shot that fellow long ago. I dare say you wonder, and some 
others, too, why I haven't done it. But Ernest — poor little 
chap! — he would have heard of it — and the reason of it — his 
young life is involved in mine — why should I bequeath him a 
dishonored mother's name? There — for Heaven's sake, don't 
let me make a fool of myself!" and he fiercely dashed his 
hand across his eyes. "A duel or a divorce, or a horse-whipping 
— they all come to pretty much the same thing — all involve 
public scandal for the name of the woman, who may be un- 
happily concerned — and scandal clings, like the stain on Lady 
Macbeth's hand. In your case you can act — your wife is 
above a shadow of suspicion — but I — oh, my God! how much 
women have to answer for in the miseries of this world!" 

Errington said nothing. Pity and respect for the man be- 
fore him held him silent. He was one of the martyrs of 
modern social life — a man who evidently knew himself to be 
dishonored by his wife — and who yet, for the sake of his son, 
submitted to be daily broken on the wheel of private torture 
rather than let the boy grow up to despise and slight his 
mother. Whether he were judged as wise or weak in his be- 

27 



418 THELMA. 

havior there was surely something noble about him — some- 
thing unselfish and heroic that deserved recognition. Pres- 
ently Lord Winsleigh continued, in calmer tones: 

"I've been talking too much about myself, Errington, I 
fear — forgive it! Sometimes I've thought you misunderstood 
me — " 

"I never shall again!" declared Philip, earnestly. 

Lord Winsleigh met his look of sympathy with one of 
gratitude. 

"Thanks!" he said, briefly; and with this they shook hands 
again heartily, and parted. Lord Winsleigh saw his visitor 
to the door — and then at once returned to his wife's apart- 
ments. She was still absent from the boudoir — he therefore 
entered her dressing-room without ceremony. 

There he found her — alone, kneeling on the floor, her head 
buried in an arm-chair — and her whole frame shaken with 
convulsive sobs. He looked down upon her with a strange, 
wistful pain in his eyes — pain mingled with compassion. 

"Clara!" he said gently. She started and sprung up — con- 
fronting him with flushed cheeks and wet eyes. 

"You here?" she exclaimed, angrily. "I wonder you dare 
to — " she broke off, confused by his keen, direct glance. 

"It is a matter for wonder," he said, quietly. "It's the 
strangest thing in the world that I — your husband — should 
venture to intrude myself into your presence! Nothing could 
be more out of the common. But I have something to say to 
you — something which must be said sooner or later — and I 
may as well speak now." 

He paused — she was silent, looking at him in a sort of sud- 
den fear. 

"Sit down," he continued in the same even tones. "You 
must have a little patience with me — I'll endeavor to be as 
brief as possible." 

Mechanically she obeyed him and sunk into a low fauteuil. 
She began playing with the trinkets on her silver chatelaine 
and endeavored to feign the most absolute unconcern, but her 
heart beat quickly — she could not imagine what was coming 
next — her husband's manner and tone were quite new to her. 

"You accused me just now," he went on, "of being a spy. 
I have never condescended to act such a part toward you, 
Clara. When I first married you I trusted you with my life, 
my honor, and my name, and though you have betrayed all 



THELMA. 419 

three" — she moved restlessly as his calm gaze remained fixed 
on her — "I repeat — though you have betrayed all three, I have 
deliberately shut my eyes to the ruin of my hopes, in a loyal 
endeavor to shield you from the world's calumny. Regarding 
the unhappiness you have caused the Erringtons — your own 
maid, Louise Renaud (who has given you notice of her inten- 
tion to leave you), told me all she knew of your share in what 
I may call positive cruelty toward a happy and innocent 
woman who has never injured you, and whose friend you de- 
clared yourself to be — " 

"You believe the lies of a servant?" suddenly cried Lady 
Winsleigh, wrathfully. 

"Have not you believed the lies of Sir Francis Lennox, who 
is less honest than a servant?" asked her husband, his grave 
voice deepening with a thrill of passion. "And haven't you 
reported them everywhere as truths? But as regards your 
maid — I doubted her story altogether. She assured me she 
knew what money you took out with you yesterday, and what 
you returned with — and as the only place you visited in the 
morning was the Brilliant Theater — after having received a 
telegram from Lennox, which she saw — it was easy for her to 
put two and two together, especially as she noticed you read- 
ing the letter you had purchased; moreover" — he paused — 
"she has heard certain conversations between you and Sir 
Francis, notably one that took place at the garden-party in 
summer at Errington Manor. Spy, you say? your detective 
has been paid by you — fed and kept about your own person — 
to minister to your vanity and to flatter your pride — that she 
has turned informer against you is not surprising. Be thank- 
ful that her information has fallen into no more malignant 
hands than mine!" 

Again he paused — she was still silent — but her lips trembled 
nervously. 

"And yet I was loath to believe everything," he resumed, 
half sadly — "till Errington came and showed me that letter 
and told me the whole story of his misery. Even then I 
thought I would give you one more chance — that's why I 
brought him to you and asked you the question before him. 
One look at your face told me you were guilty, though you 
denied it. I should have been better pleased had you con- 
fessed it! But why talk about it any longer? — the mischief is 
done — I trust it is not irreparable. I certainly consider that 



420 THELMA. 

before troubling that poor girl's happiness you should have 
taken the precaution to inquire a little further into the truth 
of the report you heard from Sir Francis Lennox — he is not a 
reliable authority on any question whatsoever. You may have 
thought him so" — he stopped short and regarded her with 
sorrowful sternness — "I say, Clara, you may have thought 
him so, once — but now? Are you proud to have shared his 
affections with — Violet Yere?" 

She uttered a sharp cry and covered her face with her hands 
— an action which appeared to smite her husband to the heart 
— for his voice trembled with deep feeling when he next spoke. 

"Ah, best hide it, Clara!" he said passionately. "Hide that 
fair face I loved so well — hide those eyes in which I dreamed 
of finding my life's sunshine! Clara, Clara! What can I say 
to you, fallen rose of womanhood? How can I — " he suddenly 
bent over her as though to caress her, then drew back with 
a quick, agonized sigh. "You thought me blind, Clara!" he 
went on in low tones, '^T)lind to my own dishonor — blind to 
your faithlessness. I tell you if you had taken my heart be- 
tween your hands and wrung the blood out of it drop by drop 
I could not have suffered more than I have done! Why have 
I been silent so long? — no matter why — but now, now, Clara — 
this life of ours must end!" 

She shuddered away from him. 

"End it then!" she muttered in a choked voice, 'TTou can 
do as you like — you can divorce me." 

"Yes," said Lord Winsleigh, musingly, "I can divorce you! 
There will be no defense possible — as you know. If witnesses 
are needed, they are to be had in the persons of our own 
domestics. The co-respondent in the case will not refute the 
charge against him — and I, the plaintiff, must win my just 
cause. Do you realize it all, Clara? You, the well-known 
leader of a large social circle — you, the proud beauty and 
envied lady of rank and fashion — you will be made a subject 
for the coarse jests of lawyers — the very judge on the bench 
will probably play off his stale witticisms at your expense — 
your dearest friends will tear your name to shreds — the news- 
papers will reek of your doings — and honest housemaids, 
reading of your fall from your high estat''^ will thank God that 
their souls and bodies are more chaste than yours! And last, 
not least, think when old age creeps on and your beauty 
withers, think of your son grown to manhood — the sole heir 



THELMA. 421 

to my name — think of him as having but one thing to blush 
for — the memory of his dishonored mother!" 

"Cruel — cruel!" she cried, endeavoring to check her sobs, 
and withdrawing her hands from her face. "Why do you say 
such things to me? Why did you marry me?" 

He caught her hands and held them in a fast grip, 

"Why? Because I loved you, Clara — loved you with all the 
tenderness of a strong man's heart! When I first saw you, 
you seemed to me the very incarnation of maiden purity and 
loveliness! The days of our courtship — the first few months 
of our marriage — what they were to you, I know not — to me 
they were supreme happiness. When our boy was born, my 
adoration, my reverence for you increased — you were so sacred 
in my eyes that I could have knelt and asked a benediction 
from these little hands" — here he gently loosened them from 
his clasp, "Then came the change — what changed you, I 
can not imagine — it has always seemed to me unnatural, 
monstrous, incredible! There was no falling away in my 
affection, that I can swear! My curse upon the man who 
turned your heart from mine! So rightful and deep a curse 
is it that I feel it must some day strike home," He paused 
and seemed to reflect, "Who is there more vile, more traitor- 
ous than he?" he went on. "Has he not tried to influence 
Errington's wife against her husband? For what base pur- 
pose? But, Clara, he is powerless against her purity and 
innocence; what, in the name of God, gave him power over 
you?" 

She drooped her head, and the hot blood rushed to her face. 

"You've said enough!" she murmured, sullenly. "If you 
have decided on a divorce, pray carry out your intention with 
the least possible delay. I can not talk any more! I — I am 
tired!" 

"Clara," said her husband, solemnly, with a strange light 
in his eyes, "I would rather kill you than divorce you!" 

There was something so terribly earnest in his tone that her 
heart beat fast with fear. 

"Kill me? — kill me?" she gasped, with white lips. 

"Yes!" he repeated, "kill you — as a Frenchman or an 
Italian would — and take the consequences. Yes — though an 
Englishman, I would rather do this than drag your frail poor 
womanhood through the mire of public scandal! I have 
perhaps, a strange nature, but such as I am, I am. There are 



422 THELMA. 

too many of our high-born famihes already flaunting their 
immorality and low licentiousness in the face of the mocking, 
grinning populace. I for one could never make up my mind 
to fling the honor of my son's mother to them, as though it 
were a bone for the dogs to fight over. No — I have another 
proposition to make to you — ?' He stopped short. She stared 
at him wonderingly. He resumed in methodical, unmoved, 
business-like tones: "I propose, Clara, simply — to leave you! 
I'll take the boy and absent myself from this country, so as 
to give you perfect freedom and save you all trouble. There'll 
be no possibility for scandal, for I will keep you cognizant of 
my movements, and should you require my presence at any 
time for the sake of appearances, or to shield you from 
calumny, you may rely on my returning to you at once, with- 
out delay. Ernest will gain many advantages by travel — his 
education is quite a sufficient motive for my departure, my 
interest in his young life being well known to all our circle. 
Moreover, with me — under my surveillance — he need never 
know anytliing against — against you. I have always taught 
him to honor and obey you in his heart." Lord Winsleigh 
paused a moment — then went on somewhat musingly: ^'When 
he was quite little, he used to wonder why you didn't love 
him — it was hard for me to hear him say that, sometimes. 
But I always told him that you did love him — but that you 
had so many visits to make and so many friends to entertain 
that you had no time to play with him. I don't think he quite 
understood — but still I did my best!" He was silent. She 
had hidden her face again in her hands, and he heard a sound 
of smothered sobbing. "I think," he continued, calmly, "that 
he has a great reverence for you in his young heart — a feeling 
which partakes, perhaps, more of fear than love — still it is 
better than — disdain — or — or disrespect. I shall always teacli 
him to esteem you highly — but I think, as matters stand — if I 
reheve you of all your responsibilities to husband and son — 
you — Clara! — pray don't distress yourself — there's no occasion 
for this, Clara!" 

For on a sudden impulse she had flung herself at his feet in 
an irrepressible storm of passionate weeping. 

"Kill me, Harry!" she sobbed wildly, clinging to him. 
"Kill me! don't speak to me like this! — don't leave me! Oh, 
my God! don't, don't despise me so utterly! Hate me — curse 
me — strike me — do anything, but don't leave me as if I were 



THELMA. 423 

some low thing, unfit fo'- your touch — I know I am, but oh, 
Harry — !" She clung to him more closely. "If you leave me 
I will not live — I can not! Have you no pity? Why would 
you throw me back alone — all, all alone, to die of your con- 
tempt and my shame!" 

And she bowed her head in an agony of tears. 

He looked down upon her for a moment in silence. 

"Your shame!" he murmured. "My wife — " 

Then he raised her in his arms and drew her with a strange 
hesitation of touch to his breast, as though she were some sick 
or wounded child, and watched her as she lay there weeping, 
her face hidden, her whole frame trembling in his embrace. 

"Poor soul!" he whispered, more to himself than to her. 
"Poor, frail woman! Hush, hush, Clara! The past is past! 
I'll make you no more reproaches. I — I can't hurt you, be- 
cause I once so loved you — but now — now — what is there left 
for me to do but to leave you? You'll be happier so — you'll 
have perfect liberty — you needn't even think of me — unless, 
perhaps as one dead and buried long ago — " 

She raised herself in his arms and looked at him piteously. 

"Won't you give me a chance?" she sobbed. "Not one? If 
I had but known you better — if I had understood — oh, I've 
been vile, wicked, deceitful — but I'm not happy, Harry — I've 
never been happy since I wronged you! Won't you give me 
one little hope that I may win your love again — no, not your 
love — but your pity? Oh, Harry, have I lost all — all — " 

Her voice broke — she could say no more. 

He stroked her hair gently. "You speak on impulse just 
now, Clara," he said gravely yet tenderly. "You can't know 
your own strength or weakness. God forbid that I should 
judge you harshly! As you wish it, I will not leave you yet. 
I'll wait. Whether we part or remain together shall be de- 
cided by your own actions, your own looks, your own words. 
You understand, Clara? You know my feelings. I'm content 
for the present to place my fate in your hands." He smiled 
rather sadly. "But for love, Clara, I fear nothing can be done 
to warm to life this poor perished love of ours. We can, per- 
haps, take hands and watch its corpse patiently together and 
say how sorry we are it is dead — such penitence comes always 
too late!" 

He sighed, and put her gently away from him. 
She turned up her flushed, tear-stained face to his. 

"Will you kiss me, Harry?" she asked, tremblingly. 



424 THBLMA. 

He met her eyes, and an exclamation that was almost a 
groan broke from his lips. A shudder passed through his 
frame. 

"I can't, Clara! I can't! God forgive me! Not yet!" And 
with that he bowed his head and left her. 

She listened to the echo of his firm footsteps dying away, 
and creeping guiltily to a side door she opened it, and watched 
yearningly his retreating figure till it had disappeared. 

"Why did I never love him till now?" she murmured, sob- 
bingly. "Now, when he despises me — when he will not even 
kiss me?" She leaned against the half-open door in an attitude 
of utter dejection, not caring to move, listening intently with 
a vague hope of hearing her husband's returning tread. A 
lighter step than his, however, came suddenly along from the 
other side of the passage and startled her a little — it was 
Ernest, looking the picture of boyish health and beauty. He 
was just going out for his usual ride — he lifted his cap with 
pretty courtesy as he saw her, and said: 

"Good morning, mother!" 

She looked at him with new interest — ^how handsome the 
lad was! — how fresh his face! — how joyously clear those bright 
blue eyes of his! He, on his part, was moved by a novel sen- 
sation too — his mother — his proud, beautiful, careless mother 
had been crying — he saw that at a glance, and his young heart 
beat faster when she laid her white hand, sparkling all over 
with rings, on his arm and drew him closer to her. 

"Are you going to the park?" she asked, gently. 

"Yes." Then recollecting his training in politeness and 
obedience, he added instantly: "Unless you want me." 

She smiled faintly. "I never do want you — do I, Ernest?" 
she asked, half sadly. "I never want my boy at all." Her 
voice quivered — and Ernest grew more and more astonished. 

"If you do, I'll stay," he said stoutly, filled with a chivalrous 
desire to console this so suddenly tender mother of his, what- 
ever her griefs might be. Her eyes filled again, but she tried 
to laugh. 

"No, dear, not now; run along and enjoy yourself. Come 
to me when you return — I shall be at home all day. And — 
stop! Ernest — won't you kiss me?" 

The boy opened his eyes wide in respectful wonderment, 
and his cheeks flushed with surprise and pleasure. 

"Why, mother — of course!" And his fresh, sweet lips closed 



THELMA. 425 

on hers with a frank and unaffected heartiness. She held him 
fast for a moment and looked at him earnestly. 

"Tell your father you kissed me — will you?" she said. 
"Don't forget!" 

And with that she waved her hand to him, and retreated 
again to her own apartment. The boy went on his way some- 
what puzzled and bewildered. Did his mother love him, after 
all? If so, he thought — how glad he was! — how very glad! 
and what a pity he had not known it before! 



CHAPTEE XII. 

I heed not custom, creed, nor law; 

I care for nothing that ever I saw — 

I terribly laugh with an oath and sneer. 

When I think that the hour of Death draws near! 

W. Winter. 

Errington's first idea, on leaving Winsleigh House, was to 
seek an interview with Sir Francis Lennox, and demand an 
explanation. He could not understand the man's motive for 
such detestable treachery and falsehood. His anger rose to a 
white heat as he thought of it, and he determined to "have it 
out" with him whatever the consequences might be. "No 
apology will serve his turn," he muttered. "The scoundrel! 
He has lied deliberately, and, by Jove, he shall pay for it!" 

And he started off rapidly in the direction of Piccadilly, but 
on the way he suddenly remembered that he had no weapon 
with him, not even a cane wherewith to carry out his intention 
of thrashing Sir Francis, and calling to mind a certain heavy 
horsewhip that hung over the mantel-piece in his own room, 
he hailed a hansom, and was driven back to his house in order 
to provide himself with that implement of castigation before 
proceeding further. On arriving at the door, to his surprise 
he found Lorimer,. who was just about to ring the bell. 

"Why, I thought you were in Paris?" he exclaimed. 

"I came back last night," George began, when Morris 
opened the door, and Errington, taking his friend by the arm, 
hurried him into the house. In five minutes he had unbur- 
dened himself of all his troubles, and had explained the misun- 



426 THELMA. 

derstanding about Violet Vere, and Thelma's consequent 
flight. Lorimer listened with a look of genuine pain and dis- 
tress on his honest face. 

"Phil, you have been a fool!" he said, candidly. "A posi- 
tive fool, if you'll pardon me for saying so. You ought to 
have told Thelma everything at first — she's the very last 
woman in the world who ought to be kept in the dark about 
anything. Neville's feelings? Bother Neville's feelings! De- 
pend upon it, the poor girl has heard all manner of stories. 
She's been miserable for some time — Duprez noticed it." And 
he related in a few words the little scene that had taken place 
at Errington Manor on the night of the garden-party, when 
his playing on the organ had moved her to such unwonted 
emotion. 

Philip heard him in moody silence. How had it happened, 
he wondered, that others — comparative strangers — had ob- 
served that Thelma looked unhappy, while he, her husband, 
had been blind to it? He could not make this out — and yet it 
is a thing that very commonly happens. Our nearest and 
dearest are often those who are most in the dark respecting 
our private and personal sufferings — we do not wish to trouble 
them — and they prefer to think that everything is right with 
us, even though the rest of the world can plainly perceive that 
everything is wrong. To the last moment they will refuse to 
see death in our faces, though the veriest stranger meeting us 
casually clearly beholds the shadow of the dark angel's hand. 

"Apropos of Lennox," went on Lorimer, sympathetically 
watching his friend, "I came on purpose to speak to you about 
him. I've got some news for you. He's a regular sneak and 
scoundrel. You can thrash him to your heart's content — for 
he has grossly insulted your wife." 

"Insulted her?" cried Errington, furiously. "How — 
what—" 

"Give me time to speak." And George laid a restraining 
hand on his arm. "Thelma visited my mother yesterday and 
told her that on the night before, when you had gone out, 
Lennox took advantage of your absence to come here and 
make love to her — and she actually had to struggle with him, 
and even to strike him, in order to release herself from his 
advances. My mother advised her to tell you about it — and 
she evidently then had no intention of flight, for she said she 
should inform you of everything as soon as you returned from 



THELMA. 427 

the coimtiy. And if Lady Winsleigli liadn't interfered, it's 
very probable that — I say, where are you going?" This as 
Philip made a bound for the door. 

"To get my horsewhip!" he answered. 

"All right — I approve!" cried Lorimer. "But wait one in- 
stant, and see how clear the plot becomes. Thelma's beauty 
has maddened Lennox. To gain her good opinion, as he 
thinks, he throws his mistress, Violet Vere, on your shoulders 
— (your ingenuous visits to the Brilliant Theater gave him a 
capital pretext for this) — and as for Lady Winsleigh's share 
in the mischief, it's nothing but mere feminine spite against 
you for marrying at all, and hatred of the woman whose life 
is such a contrast to her own, and who absorbs all your affec- 
tion. Lennox has used her as his tool, and the Vere also, I've 
no doubt. The thing's as clear as crystal. It's a sort of gen- 
eral misunderstanding all round — one of those eminently 
unpleasant trifles that veiy frequently upset the peace and 
comfort of the most quiet and inoffensive persons. But the 
fault lies with you, dear old boy!" 

"With me!" exclaimed Philip. 

"Certainly! Thelma's soul is as open as daylight — you 
shouldn't have had any secret from her, however trifling. 
She's not a woman 'on guard' — she can't take life as the most 
of us do, in military fashion, with ears pricked for the ap- 
proach of a spy, and prepared to expect betrayal from her 
most familiar friends. She accepts things as they appear, 
without any suspicion of mean ulterior designs. It's a pity, 
of course! — it's a pity she can't be worldly wise, and scheme 
and plot and plan and lie like the rest of us! However, your 
course is plain — first interview Lennox and then follow 
Thelma. She can't have left Hull yet — there are scarcely any 
boats running to Norway at this season. You'll overtake her, 
I'm certain." 

"By Jove, Lorimer!" said l']rrington suddenly, 'Clara Wins- 
leigh sticks at nothing. Do you know she actually had the 
impudence to suggest that you — you, of all people — were in 
love with Thelma!" 

Lorimer flushed up, but laughed lightly. "How awfully 
sweet of her! Much obliged to her, I'm sure! And how did 
you take it, Phil?" 

"Take it? I didn't take it at all," responded Philip, warmly. 



428 THELMA. 

"Of course, I knew it was only her spite — she'd say anything 
in one of her tempers." 

Lorimer looked at him with a sudden tenderness in his blue 
eyes. Then he laughed again, a little forcedly, and said: 

"Be off, old man, and get that whip of yours! We'll run 
Lennox to earth. Halloo! here's Britta!" 

The little maid entered hurriedly at that moment — she 
came to ask with quivering lips, whether she might accom- 
pany Sir Philip on his intended journey to Norway. 

"For if you do not find the Froken at Hull, you will want 
to reach the Alten Fjord," said Britta, folding her hands 
resolutely in front of her apron, "and you will not get on 
without me. You do not know what the country is like in the 
depth of winter when the sun is asleep. You must have the 
reindeer to help you — and no Englishman knows how to drive 
reindeer. And — and" — here Britta's eyes filled — "you have 
not thought, perhaps, that the journey may make the Froken 
very ill — and that when we find her — she may be — dying;" 
and Britta's strength gave way in a great big sob that broke 
from the depths of her honest, affectionate heart. 

"Don't — don't talk like that, Britta!" cried Philip, passion- 
ately. "I can't bear it! Of course, you shall go with me! I 
wouldn't leave you behind for the world! Get everything 
ready" — and in a fever of heat and impatience he began rum- 
maging among some books on a side-shelf, till he found the 
time-tables he sought. "Yes — here we are — there's a train 
leaving for Hull at five — we'll take that. Tell Morris to pack 
my portmanteau, and you bring it along with you to the Mid- 
land Railway Station this afternoon. Do you understand?" 

Britta nodded emphatically, and humed off at once to busy 
herself with these preparations, while Philip, all excitement, 
dashed off to give a few parting injunctions to Neville, and 
to get his horsewhip. 

Lorimer, left alone for a few minutes, seated himself in an 
easy-chair and began absently turning over the newspapers 
on the table. But his thoughts were far away, and presently 
he covered his eyes with one hand as though the light hurt 
them. When he removed it, his lashes were wet. 

"What a fool I am!" he muttered, impatiently. "Oh, 
Thelma, Thelma! my darling! — how I wish I could follow and 
find you and console you! — you poor, tender, resigned soul, 
going away like this because you thought you were not 



THELMA. 429 

wanted — not wanted! — my God! — if you only knew how one 
man at least has wanted and yearned for you ever since he 
saw your sweet face! Why can't I tear you out of my heart — 
why can't I love some one else? Ah, Phil! — good, generous, 
kind old Phil! — he little guesses," he rose and paced the room 
up and down restlessly. "The fact is I oughtn't to he here at 
all — I ought to leave England altogether for a long time — till 
— till I get over it. The question is, shall I ever get over it? 
Sigurd was a wise boy — he found a short way out of all his 
troubles — suppose I imitate his example? No — for a man in 
his senses that would be rather cowardly — though it might be 
pleasant!" He stopped in his walk with a pondering expres- 
sion on his face. "At any rate, I won't stop here to see her 
come back — I couldn't trust myself — I should say something 
foolish — I know I should! I'll take my mother to Italy — she 
wants to go; and we'll stay with Lovelace. It'll be a change 
— and I'll have a good stand-up fight with myself, and see if 
I can't come ofi' the conqueror somehow! It's all very well to 
kill an opponent in battle — but the question is, can a man kill 
his inner, grumbling, discontented, selfish Self? If he can't, 
what's the good of him?" 

As he was about to consider this point reflectively, Erring- 
ton entered, equipped for traveling, and whip in hand. His 
imagination had been at work during the past few minutes, 
exaggerating all the horrors and difficulties of Thelma's Jour- 
ney to the Alten Fjord, till he was in a perfect fever of irritable 
excitement. 

"Come on, Lorimer!" he cried. "There's no time to lose! 
Britta knows what to do — she'll meet me at the station. I 
can't breathe in this wretched house a moment longer — let's 
be off!" 

Plunging out into the hall, he bade Morris summon a han- 
som — and with a few last instructions to that faithful servi- 
tor, and an encouraging kind word and shake of the hand to 
Neville, who, with a face of remorseful misery, stood at the 
door to watch his departure, he was gone. The hansom con- 
taining him and Lorimer rattled rapidly toward the abode of 
Sir Francis Lennox, but on entering Piccadilly the vehicle was 
compelled to go so slowly on account of the traffic that 
Errington, who every moment grew more and more impatient, 
could not stand it. 



430 THELMA. 

"By Jove! this is like a walking funeral!" lie muttered. "I 
say, Lorimer, let's get out! We can do the rest on foot." 

They stopped the cabman and paid him his fare — then hur- 
ried along rapidly, Errington every now and then giving a 
fiercer clinch to the formidable horsewhip which was twisted 
together with his ordinar}^ walking-stick in such a manner as 
not to attract special attention. 

"Coward and liar!" he muttered, as he thought of the man 
he was about to punish. "He shall pay for his dastardly false- 
hood — by Jove, he shall! It'll be a precious long time before 
he shows himself in society any more!" 

Then he addressed Lorimer. "You may depend upon it 
he'll shout 'police! police!' and make for the door," he ob- 
served. "You keep your back against it, Lorimer! I don't 
care how many fines I've got to pay as long as I can thrash 
him soundly!" 

"All right!" Lorimer answered, and they quickened their 
pace. As they neared the chambers which Sir Francis Len- 
nox rented over a fashionable jeweler's shop, they became 
aware of a small procession coming straight toward them from 
the opposite direction. Something was being carried between 
four men who appeared to move with extreme care and gentle- 
ness — this something was surrounded by a crowd of boys and 
men whose faces were full of morbid and frightened interest — 
the whole cortege was headed by a couple of solemn policemen. 
"You spoke of a walking funeral just now," said Lorimer 
suddenly. "This looks uncommonly like one." 

Errington made no reply — he had only one idea in his mind 
— the determination to chastise and thoroughly disgrace Sir 
Francis. "I'll hound him out of the clubs!" he thought, in- 
dignantly. "His own set shall know what a liar he is — and if 
I can help it he shall never hold up his head again!" 

Entirely occupied as he was with these reflections, he paid 
no heed to anything that was going on in the street, and he 
scarcely heard Lorimer's last observation. So that he was 
utterly surprised and taken aback when he, with Lorimer, was 
compelled to come to a halt before the very door of the 
jeweler, Lennox's landlord, wbile the two policemen cleared 
a passage through the crowd, saying, in low tones, "Stand 
aside, gentlemen, please! — stand aside," thus making gradual 
way for four bearers, who, as was now plainly to be seen, car- 
ried a common wooden stretcher covered with a cloth, under 



THELMA. 431 

which lay what seemed, from its outline, to be a human figure. 

"What's the matter here?" asked Lorimer, with a curious 
cold thrill running through him as he put the simple question. 

One of the policemen answered readily enough. 

"An accident, sir. Gentleman badly hurt. Down at Cha- 
ring Cross Station — tried to jump into a train when it had 
started — foot caught — was thrown under the wheels and 
dragged along some distance — doctor says he can't live, sir." 

"Who is he — what's his name?" 

"Lennox, sir — leastways, that's the name on his card — and 
this is the address. Sir Francis Lennox, I believe it is." 

Errington uttered a sharp exclamation of horror — at that 
moment the jeweler came out of the recesses of his shop with 
uplifted hands and bewildered countenance. 

"An accident? Good heavens! — Sir Francis! Upstairs! — 
take him upstairs!" Here he addressed the bearers. "You 
should have gone round to the private entrance — he mustn't 
be seen in the shop — frightening away all my customers — 
here, pass through! — pass through, as quick as you can!" 

And they did pass through, carrying their crushed burden 
tenderly along by the shining glass cases and polished coun- 
ters, where glimmered and flashed jewels of every size and 
luster for the adorning of the children of this world. Slowly 
and carefully, step by step, they reached the upper floor, and 
there, in a luxurious apartment furnished with almost femi- 
nine elegance, they lifted the inanimate form from the 
stretcher and laid it down, still shrouded, on a velvet sofa, re- 
moving the last number of Truth and two of Zola's novels to 
make room for the heavy, unconscious head. 

Errington and Lorimer stood at the door-way, completely 
overcome by the suddenness of the event — they had followed 
the bearers upstairs almost mechanically — exchanging no word 
or glance by the way — and now they watched in almost 
breathless suspense while a surgeon who was present gently 
turned back the cover that hid the injured man's features and 
exposed them to full view. Was that Sir Francis? that blood- 
smeared, mangled creature? — that the lascivious dandy — the 
disciple of no-creed and self- worship? Errington shuddered 
and averted his gaze from that hideous face so horribly con- 
torted, yet otherwise death-like in its rigid stillness. There 
was a grave hush. The surgeon still bent over liim — touching 



432 THELMA. 

here, probing there, with tenderness and skill — but finally he 
drew back with a hopeless shake of the head. 

"Nothing can be done," he whispered. "Absolutely noth- 
ing!" 

At that moment Sir Francis stirred — he groaned and 
opened his eyes; what terrible eyes they were, filled with that 
look of intense anguish, and something worse than anguish — 
fear — frantic fear — coward fear — fear that was always more 
overpowering than his bodily suffering. 

He stared wildly at the little group assembled — strange 
faces, so far as he could make them out, that regarded him 
with evident compassion. What — what was all this — what did 
it mean? Death? No, no! he thought madly, while his brain 
reeled with the idea — death? What was death? — darkness, 
annihilation, blackness — all that was horrible — unimaginable! 
God! he would not die! God! — who was God? No matter — 
he would live; he would struggle against this heaviness — this 
coldness — this pillar of ice in which he was being slowly frozen 
— frozen — frozen! — inch by inch! He made a furious effort 
to move, and uttered a scream of agony, stabbed through and 
through by torturing pain. 

"Keep still!" said the surgeon, pityingly. 

Sir Francis heard him not. He wrestled with his bodily an- 
guish till the perspiration stood in large drops on his fore- 
head. He raised himself, gasping for breath, and glared about 
him like a trapped beast of prey. 

"Give me brandy!" he muttered, chokingly. "Quick — 
quick! Are you going to let me die like a dog? — damn you 
all!" 

The effort to move — to speak — exhausted his sinking 
strength — his throat rattled — he clinched his fists and made 
as though he would spring off his couch — when a fearful con- 
tortion convulsed his whole body — his eyes rolled up and be- 
came fixed — he fell heavily back — dead! 

Quietly the surgeon covered again what was now nothing — 
nothing but a mutilated corpse. 

"It's all over!" he announced, briefly. 

Errington heard these words in sickened silence. All over! 
Was it possible? So soon? All over! — and he had come too 
late to punish the would-be ravisher of his wife's honor — too 
late! He still held the whip in his hand with which he had 
meant to chastise that — that distorted, mangled lump of clay 



THELMA. 433 

yonder — pah! he could not bear to think of it, and he turned 
away, faint and dizzy. He felt, rather than saw, the stair- 
case, down which he dreamily went, followed by Lorimer. 

The two policemen were in the hall scribbling the cut-and- 
dry particulars of the accident in their note-books, which 
having done, they marched off, attended by a wandering, 
bilious-looking penny-a-liner who was anxious to write a suc- 
cessful account of the "Shocking Fatality," as it was called 
in the next day's newspapers. Then the bearers departed 
cheerfully, carrying with them the empty stretcher. Then the 
jeweler, who seemed quite unmoved respecting the sudden 
death of his lodger, chatted amicably with the surgeon about 
the reputation and various demerits of the deceased — and 
Errington and Lorimer, as they passed through the shop, 
heard him speaking of a person hitherto unheard of, namel}, 
Lady Francis Lennox, who had been deserted by her husband 
for the past six years, and who was living uncomplainingly 
the life of an art student in Germany witli her married sister, 
maintaining, by the work of her own hands, her one little 
child, a boy of five. 

"He never allowed her a farthing," said the conversational 
jeweler. "And she never asked him for one. Mr. Wiggins, 
his lawyer — firm of Wiggins & Whizzer, Furnival's Inn — told 
me all about his affairs. Oh, yes — he was a regular 'masher' 
— tip-top! Not worth much, I should say. He must have 
spent over a thousand a year in keeping up that little place 
at St. John's Wood for Violet Vere. He owes me five hun- 
dred. However, Mr. Wiggins will see everything fair, I've no 
doubt; I've just wired him, announcing the death. I don't 
suppose any one will regret him — except, perhaps, the woman 
at St. John's Wood. But I believe she's playing for a bigger 
stake just now." And, stimulated by this thought, he drew 
out from a handsome morocco case a superb pendant of emer- 
alds and diamonds — a work of art, that glittered as he displayed 
it like a star on a frosty night. 

"Pretty thing, isn't it?" he said, proudly. "Eight hundred 
pounds, and cheap, too! It was ordered for Miss Vere, two 
months ago, by the Duke of Moorlands. I see he sold his 
collection of pictures the other day. Luckily they fetched a 
tidy sum, so I'm pretty sure of the money for this. He'll sell 
everything he's got to please her. Queer? Oh, not at all! 
She's the rage just now. I can't see anything in her myself — 
28 



434 THELMA. 

but Fm not a duke, you see — I'm obliged to be respectable!" 
He laughed as he returned the pendant to its nest of padded 
amber satin, and Errington — sick at heart to hear such frivo- 
lous converse going on while that crushed and lifeless form 
lay in the very room above — unwatched, uncared-for — put his 
arm through Lorimer's and left the shop. 

Once in the open street, with the keen, cold air blowing 
against their faces, they looked at each other blankly, Picca- 
dilly was crowded; the hurrying people passed and repassed 
— there were the shouts of omnibus conductors and newsboys 
— the laughter of young men coming out of the St. James' 
Hall Eestaurant; all was as usual — as, indeed, why should it 
not? What matters the death of one man in a million? un- 
less, indeed, it be a man whose life, like a torch uplifted in 
darkness, has enlightened and cheered the world — but the 
death of a mere fashionable "swell" whose chief talent has 
been a trick of lying gracefully — who cares for such a one? 
Society is instinctively relieved to hear that his place is empty 
and shall know him no more. But Errington could not im- 
mediately forget the scene he had witnessed. He was over- 
come by sensations of horror — even of pity — and he walked by 
his friend's side for some time in silence. 

"I wish I could get rid of this thing!" he said suddenly, 
looking down at the horsewhip in his hand. 

Lorimer made no answer. He understood his feeling, and 
realized the situation as sufficiently grim. To be armed with 
a weapon meant for the chastisement of a man whom Death 
had so suddenly claimed was, to say the least of it, unpleas- 
ant. Yet the horsewhip could scarcely be thrown away in 
Piccadilly — such an action might attract notice and comment. 
Presently Philip spoke again. 

"He was actually married all the time!" 

"So it seems;" and Lorimer's face expressed something 
very like contempt. "By Jove, Phil! he must have been an 
awful scoundrel!" 

"Don't let's say any more about him— he's dead!" and 
Philip quickened his steps. "And what a horrible death!" 

"Horrible enough, indeed!" 

Again they were both silent. Mechanically they turned 
down toward Pall Mall. 

"George," said Errington, with a strange awe in his tones, 
"it seems to me to-day as if there were death in the air. T 



THELMA. 435 

don't believe in presentiments, but yet — yet I can not help 
thinking — what if I should find my Thelma — dead?" 

Lorimer turned very pale — a cold shiver ran through him, 
but he endeavored to smile. 

"For God's sake, old fellow, don't think of anything so ter- 
rible! Look here, you're hipped — no wonder, and you've got 
a long journey before you. Come and have lunch. It's just 
two o'clock. Afterward we'll go to the Garrick and have a 
chat with Beau Lovelace — he's a first-rate fellow for looking 
on the bright side of everything. Then I'll see you off this 
afternoon at the ]\Iidland — what do you say?" 

Errington assented to this arrangement, and tried to shake 
off the depression that had settled upon him, though dark 
forebodings passed one after the other like clouds across his 
mind. He seemed to see the Altenguard hills stretching 
drearily, white with frozen snow, around the black fjord; he 
pictured Thelma, broken-hearted, fancying herself deserted, 
returning through the cold and darkness to the lonely farm- 
house behind the now withered pines. Then he began to 
think of the shell-cave where that other Thelma lay hidden in 
her last deep sleep — the wailing words of Sigurd came freshly 
back to his ears, when the poor crazed lad had likened 
Thelma's thoughts to his favorite flowers, the pansies — "One 
by one you will gather and play with her thoughts as though 
they were these blossoms; your burning hand will mar their 
color — they will wither and furl up and die — and you — what 
will you care? Nothing! No man ever cares for a flower that 
is withered — not even though his own hand slew it!" 

Had he been to blame? he mused, with a sorrowful weight 
at his heart. Unintentionally, had he — yes, he would put it 
plainly, had he neglected her, just a little? Had he not, with 
all his true and passionate love for her, taken her beauty, her 
devotion, her obedience too much for granted — too much as 
his right? And in these latter months, when her health had 
made her weaker and more in need of his tenderness, had he 
not, in a sudden desire for political fame and worldly honor, 
left her too much alone, a prey to solitude and the often mor- 
bid musings which solitude engenders? 

He began to blame himself heartily for the misunderstand- 
ing that had arisen out of his share in Neville's unhappy 
secret. Neville had been weak and timid — he had shrunk 
nervously from avowing that the notorious Violet Vere was 



436 THELMA. 

actually the woman he had so faithfully loved and mourned — 
but he, Philip, ought not to have humored him in these fas- 
tidious scruples — ^he ought to have confided everything to 
Thelma. He remembered now that he had once or twice been 
uneasy lest rumors of his frequent visits to Miss Vere might 
possibly reach his wife's ears; but then, as his purpose was 
absolutely disinterested and harmless, he did not dwell on 
this idea, but dismissed it, and held his peace for Neville's 
sake, contenting himself with the thought that, "if Thelma 
did hear anything, she would never believe a word against 
me." 

He could not quite see where his fault had been — though a 
fault there was somewhere, as he uneasily felt — and he would 
no doubt have started indignantly had a small elf whispered 
in his ear the word "Conceit." Yet that was the name of his 
failing — that and no other. How many men, otherwise noble- 
hearted, are seriously, though often unconsciously, burdened 
with this large parcel of blown-out jSTothing! Sir Philip did 
not appear to be conceited — he would have repelled the ac- 
cusation with astonishment — not knowing that in his very 
denial of the fault the fault existed. He had never been truly 
humbled but twice in his life — once as he knelt to receive Ms 
mother's dying benediction — and again when he first loved 
Thelma and was uncertain whether his love could be returned 
by so fair and pure a creature. With these two exceptions, 
all his experience had tended to give him an excellent opinion 
of himself — and that he should possess one of the best and 
loveliest wives in the world seemed to him quite in keeping 
with the usual course of things. The feeling that it was a 
sheer impossibility for her to ever believe a word against 
him rose out of this inward self-satisfaction — this one flaw in 
his otherwise bright, honest, and lovable character — a flaw of 
which he himself was not aware. 'Now, when for the third 
time his fairy castle of perfect peace and pleasure seemed 
shaken to its foundations — when he again realized the uncer- 
tainty of life or death, he felt bewildered and wretched. His 
chief est pride was centered in Thelma, and she — was gone! 
Again he reverted to the miserable idea that, like a melan- 
choly refrain, haunted him — "What if I should find her dead!" 

Absorbed in painful reflections, he was a very silent com- 
panion for Lorimer during the luncheon which they took at a 
quiet little restaurant well known to the habitues of Pall Mall 



THELMA. 437 

and Regent Street. Lorimcr himself had his own reasons for 
being equally depressed and anxious — for did he not love 
Thelma as much as even her husband could? — nay, perhaps 
more, knowing his love was hopeless. Not always does pos- 
session of the adored object strengthen the adoration — the 
rapturous dreams of an ideal passion have often been known to 
surpass reality a thousand-fold. So the two friends exchanged 
but few words, though they tried to converse cheerfully on 
indifferent subjects, and failed in the attempt. They had 
nearly finished their light I'epast, when a familiar voice 
saluted them. 

"It is Errington — I thocht I couldna be mistaken! How are 
ye both?" 

Sandy Macfarlane stood before them, unaltered, save that 
his scanty beard had grown somewhat longer. They had seen 
nothing of him since their trip to Norway, and they greeted 
him now with unaffected heartiness, glad of the distraction 
his appearance afforded them. 

"Where do you hail from, Mac ?" asked Lorimer, as he made 
the new-comer sit down at their table. "We haven't heard 
of you for an age." 

"It is a goodish bit of time," assented Macfarlane, "but bet- 
ter late than never. I came up to London a week ago from 
Glasgie — and my heed has been in a whirl ever since. Eh, 
mon! but it's an awfu' place! — may be I'll get used to't after 
a wee whilie." 

"Are you going to settle here, then?" inquired Emngton. 
"I thought you intended to be a minister somewhere in 
Scotland?" 

Macfarlane smiled, and his eyes twinkled. 

"I hae altered ma opee-nions a bit," he said. "Ye see, ma 
aunt in Glasgie's deed — " 

"I understand," laughed Lorimer. "You've come in for the 
old lady's money?" 

"Puir body!" and Sandy shook his head gravely. "A few 
hours before she died she tore up her will in a screamin' fury 
o' Christian charity and forethought — meanin' to mak anither 
in favor o' leavin' a' her warld's trash to the Fund for Distrib- 
utin' Bible Knowledge among the Heathen — but she never 
had time to fulfill her intention. She went off like a lamb — 
and there being no will, her money fell to me, as the nearest 
survivin' relative. Eh! the puir thing! if her dees-imbodied 



438 THBLMA. 

spirit is anywhere aboot, she must be in a sair pHght to think 
I've got it, after a' her curses!" 

"How much?" asked Lorimer, amused. 
"Oh, just a fair seventy thousand or so," answered Macfar- 
lane, carelessly. 

"Well done, Mac!" said Errington, with a smile, endeavor- 
ing to appear interested. "You're quite rich, then? I con- 
gratulate you!" 

"Eiches are a snare," observed Macfarlane, sententiously, 
"a snare and a decoy to both soul and body!" He laughed 
and rubbed his hands — then added with some eagerness: "I 
say, how is Lady Errington?" 

"She's very well," answered Sir Philip hurriedly, exchang- 
ing a quick look with Lorimer, which the latter at once under- 
stood. "She's away on a visit just now. I'm going to join 
her this afternoon." 

"I'm sorry she's away," said Sandy, and he looked very 
disappointed; "but I'll see her when she comes back. Will 
she be long absent?" 

"No, not long — a few days only" — and as Errington said 
this an involuntary sigh escaped him. 

A few days only! — God grant it! But what — what if he 
should find her dead? 

Macfarlane noticed the sadness of his expression, but pru- 
dently forbore to make any remark upon it. He contented 
himself with saying: 

"Well, ye've got a wife worth having, as I dare say ye know. 
I shall be glad to pay my respects to her as soon as she re- 
turns. I've got your address, Errington — will ye take mine ?" 
And he handed him a small card, on which was written in 
pencil the number of a house in one of the lowest streets in 
the East End of London. Philip glanced at it with some 
surprise. 

"Is this where you live?" he asked, with emphatic amaze- 
ment. 

"Yes. It's jvist the cleanest tenement I could find in that 
neighborhood. And the woman that keeps it is fairly re- 
spectable." 

"But with your money," remonstrated Lorimer, who also 
looked at the card, "I rather wonder at your choice of abode. 
Why, my dear fellow, do you know what sort of a place it is?" 



THELMA. 439 



A steadfast, earnest, thinking look came into Macfarlane's 
deep-set eyes. 

"Yes, I do know, pairfectly," he said, in answer to the ques- 
tion. "It's a place where there's misery, starvation, and crime 
of all sorts — and there I am in the very midst of it — just 
where I want to be. Ye see, I was meant to be a meen-ister — 
one of those douce, cannie, comfortable bodies that drone in 
the pulpit about predestination and original sin, and so forth 
— a sort of palaver that does no good to ony reasonable crea- 
ture — an' if I had followed oot this profession, I mak nae doot 
that, with my aunt's seventy thousand, I should be a vera 
comfortable, respectable, selfish type of a man, who was de- 
cently embarked in an apparently important but really use- 
less career — " 

"Useless?" interrupted Lorimer, archly. "I say, Mac, take 
care! A minister of the Lord useless!" 

"I'm thinkin' there are unco few meen-isters o' the Lord in 
this world," said Macfarlane, musingly. "Maist o' them meen- 
ister to themselves, an' care na a wheen mair for Christ than 
Buddha. I tell ye, I was an altered mon after we'd been to 
Norway — the auld pagan set me thinkin' mony an' mony a 
time — for, ma certes! he's better worthy respect than mony a 
so-called Christian. And as for his daughter — the twa great 
blue eyes o' that lassie made me fair ashamed o' mysel'. 
Why? Because I felt that as a meen-ister o' the Established 
Kirk, I was bound to be a sort o' heep-ocrite — ony thinkin', 
reasonable man wi' a conscience canna be otherwise wi' they 
folk — and ye ken, Errington, there's something in your wife's 
look that maks a body hesitate before tellin' a lee. Weel, 
what wi' her face an' the auld bonde's talk, I reflectit that I 
couldna be a meen-ister as meen-isters go, an' that I must 
e'en follow bot the Testament's teachings according to ma 
own way o' thinkin'. First, I fancied I'd rough it abroad as 
a mees-ionary, then I remembered the savages at hame, an' 
decided to attend to them before on^'thing else. Then my 
aunt's siller came in handy — in short, I'm just gaun to live on 
as wee a handfu' o' the filthy lucre as I can, an' lay oot the 
rest on the heathens o' London. An' it's as well to do't while 
I'm alive to see to't mysel' — for I've often observed that if ye 
leave your warld's gear to the poor when ye're deed, just for 
the gude reason that ye canna tak it to the grave wi' ye, it'll 
melt in a wonderfu' way through the hands o' the 'secretaries' 



440 THELMA. 

an' 'distributors' o' the fund, till there's naething left for 
those ye meant to benefit. Ye maunna think I'm gaun to do 
ony preachin' business down at the East End — there's too 
much o' that an' tract-givin' already. The puir soul whose 
wee hoosie I've rented hadna tasted bit nor sup for three days 
— till I came an' startled her into a greetin' fit by takin' her 
rooms an' payin' her in advance — eh! mon, ye'd have thought 
I was a saint frae heaven if ye'd heard her blessin' me — an' a 
gude curate had called on her just before and had given her a 
tract to dine on. Ye see, I maun mak mysel' a friend to the 
folk first, before I can do them gude — I maun get to the heart 
o' their troubles — an' troubles are plentiful in that quarter — 
I maun live among them, an' be ane o' them. I wad mind 
ye that Christ Himsel' gave sympathy to begin with — He did 
the preachin' afterward." 

"What a good fellow you are, Mac!" said Errington, sud- 
denly seeing his raw Scotch friend with the perverse accent 
in quite a new and heroic light. 

Macfarlane actually blushed. "Nonsense, not a bit o't!" he 
declared quite nervously. "It's just pure selfishness, after a' 
— for I'm simply enjoyin' mysel' the hale day long. Last 
nicht I found a wee cripple o' a laddie sittin' by himsel' in the 
gutter, munchin' a potato skin. I just took him — he starin' 
an' blinkin' like an owl at me — and carried him into my room. 
There I gave him a plate o' barley broth, an' finished him up 
wi' a hunk o' gingerbread. Ma certes! Ye should ha' seen 
the rascal laugh! 'Twas better than lookin' at a play from a 
ten-guinea box on the grand tier!" 

"By Jove, Sandy, you're a brick!" cried Lorimer, laughing 
to hide a very different emotion. "I had no idea you were 
that sort of chap." 

"Nor had I," said Macfarlane quite simply — "I never fashed 
mysel' wi' thinkin' o' ither folks' troubles at a' — I never even 
took into conseederation the meanin' o' the Testament teach- 
ings till I saw your leddy wife, Errington." He paused a 
moment, then added gravely: "Yes, and I've fancied she 
maun be a real live angel, an' I've sought always to turn my 
hand to something useful and worth the doin' ever since I met 
her." 

'Til tell her so," said poor Philip, his heart aching for his 
lost love as he spoke, though he smiled. "It will give her 
pleasure to hear it." 



THELMA. 441 

Macfarlane blushed again like any awkward school-boy. 

"Oh, I dinna ken about that!" he said, hurriedly. "She's 
just a grand woman any way." Then, bethinking himself of 
another subject, he asked: "Have you heard o' the Reverend 
Mr, Dyceworthy lately?" 

Errington and Lorimer replied in the negative. 

Macfarlane laughed — his eyes twinkled. "It's evident ye 
never read police reports," he said. "Talk o' meen-isters— 
he's a pretty specimen! He's been hunted out o' his place in 
Yorkshire for carryin' on love affairs wi' the women o' his 
congregation. One day he locked himsel' in the vestry wi' 
the new-married wife o' one o' his preencipal supporters — an' 
he had a grand time of it — till the husband came an' dragged 
him oot an' thrashed him soundly. Then he left the neighbor- 
hood, an' just th' ither day he turned up in Glasgie." 

Macfarlane paused and laughed again. 

"Well," said Lorimer, with some interest; "did you meet 
him there?" 

"That I did, but no to speak to him; he was far too weel 
lookit after to need my services," and Macfarlane rubbed his 
great hands together with an irrepressible chuckle. "There 
was a crowd o' hootin' laddies round him, an' he was callin' 
on the heavens to bear witness to his purity. His hat was off, 
an' he had a black eye, an' a' his coat was covered with mud, 
an' a policeman was embracin' him vera affectionately by th' 
arm. He was in charge for drunken, disorderly, an' indecent 
conduct, an' the magistrate cam' down pretty hard on him. 
The case proved to be exceptionally outrageous — so he's sen- 
tenced to a month's imprisonment an' hard labor. Hard 
labor! Eh, mon! but that's fine! Fancy him at work — at 
real work — for the first time in a' his days! Gude Lord! I 
can see him at it!" 

"So he's come to that," and Errington shrugged his shoul- 
ders with weary contempt. "I thought he would. His career 
as a minister is ended — that's one comfort!" 

"Don't be too sure o' that," said Sandy, cautiously. "There's 
always America, ye ken. He can mak' a holy martyr o' him- 
sel' there. He may gain as muckle a reputation as Henry 
Ward Beecher — ye can never tell what may happen — 'tis a 
queer warld." 

"Queer, indeed," assented Lorimer as they all rose and left 
the restaurant together. "If our present existence is the re- 



442 THELMA. 

suit of a fortuitous conglomeration of atoms, I think the atoms 
ought to have been more careful what they were about, that's 
all I can say." 

They reached the open street, where Macf arlane shook hands 
and went his way, promising to call on Errington so soon as 
Thelma should be again at home. 

"He's turned out quite a fine fellow," said Lorimer, when 
he had gone. "I should never have thought he had so much 
in him. He has become a philanthropist." 

"I fancy he's better than an ordinary philanthropist," re- 
plied Philip. "Philanthropists often talk a great deal and do 
nothing." 

"Like members of Parliament," suggested Lorimer, with a 
smile. 

"Exactly so. By the bye, I've resigned my candidateship." 

"Eesigned? Why?" 

"Oh, I'm sick of the thing! One has to be such a humbug 
to secure one's votes. I had a wretched time yesterday — 
speechifying and trying to rouse up clod-hoppers to the inter- 
ests of their country — and all the time my darling at home 
was alone, and breaking her heart about me. By Jove! if I'd 
only known! When I came back this morning to all this mis- 
ery, I told Neville to send in my resignation. I repeated the 
same thing to him the last thing before I left the house." 

"But you might have waited a day or two," said Lorimer, 
wonderingly. "You're such a fellow of impulse, Phil — " 

"Well, I can't help it. I'm tired of politics. I began with 
a will, fancying that every member of the House had his 
country's interests at heart — not a bit of it! They're all for 
themselves — most of them, at any rate — they're not even 
sincere in their efforts to do good to the population. And it's 
all very well to stick up for the aristocracy; but why, in 
Heaven's name, can't some of the wealthiest among them do 
as much as our old Mac is doing for the outcast and miserable 
poor? I see some real usefulness and good in his work, and 
I'll help him in it with a will — when — when Thelma comes 
back." 

Thus talking, the two friends reached the Garrick Club, 
where they found Beau Lovelace in the reading-room, turning 
over some new books with the curious smiling air of one who 
believes there can be nothing original under the sun, and that 
all literature is mere repetition. He greeted them cheerfully. 



THELMA. 443 

"Come out of here," he said. "Come into a place where we 
can talk. There's an old fellow over there who's ready to 
murder any member who even whispers. We won't excite 
his angry passions. You know we're all literature-mongers 
here — we've each got our own little particular stall where we 
sort our goods — our mouldy oranges, sour apples, and indigest- 
ible nuts — and Ave polish them up to look tempting to the pub- 
lic. It's a great business, and we can't bear to be looked at 
while we're turning our apples with the best side outward, 
and boiling our oranges to make them swell and seem big! 
We like to do our humbug in silence and alone." 

He led the way into the smoking-room, and there heard 
with much surprise and a great deal of concern the story of 
Thelma's flight. 

"Ingenuous boy!" he said, kindly, clapping Philip on the 
shoulder. "How could you be such a fool as to think that re- 
peated visits to Violet Vere, no matter on what business, 
would not bring the dogs of scandal yelping about your heels. 
I wonder you didn't see how you were compromising your- 
self." 

"He never told me about it," interposed Lorimer, "or else I 
should have given him a bit of my mind on the subject." 

"Of course," agreed Lovelace. "And — excuse me — why the 
devil didn't you let your secretary manage his domestic squab- 
bles by himself?" 

"He's very much broken down," said Errington. "A hope- 
less, frail, disappointed man, I thought I could serve him — " 

"I see," and Beau's eyes were bent on him with a very 
friendly look. "You're a first-rate fellow, Errington, but you 
shouldn't fly off so readily on the rapid wings of impulse. 
Now I suppose you want to shoot Lennox — that can't be done 
— not in England at any rate." 

"It can't be done at ail, anywhere," said Lorimer, gravely. 
"He's dead." 

Beau Lovelace started back in amazement. "Dead! You 
don't say so! Why, he was dining last night at the Criterion 
— I saw him there." 

Briefly they related the sudden accident that had occurred, 
and described its fatal result. 

"He died horribly!" said Philip in a low voice. "I haven't 
got over it yet. That evil, tortured face of his haunts me." 

Lovelace was only slightly shocked. He had known Len- 



444 THELMA. 

nox's life too well and had despised it too thoroughly to feel 
much regret now it was thus abruptly ended. 

"Eather an unpleasant exit for such a fellow," he remarked. 
"Not aesthetic at all. And so you were going to castigate 
him?" 

"Look!" and Philip showed him the horsewhip; "I've been 
carrying this thing about all day — I wish I could drop it in the 
streets; but if I did, some one would be sure to pick it up and 
return it to me." 

"If it were a purse containing bank-notes you could drop it 
with the positive certainty of never seeing it again," laughed 
Beau. "Here, hand it over!" and he possessed himself of it. 
"I'll keep it till you come back. You leave for Norway to- 
night, then?" 

"Yes. If I can. But it's the winter season, and there'll. be 
all manner of difficulties. I'm afraid it's no easy matter to 
reach the Alten Fjord at this time of year." 

"Why not use your yacht, and be independent of ob- 
stacles?" suggested Lovelace. 

"She's under repairs, worse luck!" sighed Philip, despond- 
ingly. "She won't be in sailing condition for another month. 
No, I must take my chance, that's all. It's possible I may 
overtake Thelma at Hull — that's my great hope." 

"Well, don't be down in the mouth about it, my boy," said 
Beau, sympathetically. "It'll all come right, depend upon it. 
Your wife's a sweet, gentle, noble creature — and when once 
she knows all about the miserable mistake that has arisen, I 
don't know which will be greatest, her happiness or her peni- 
tence, for having misunderstood the position. Now let's have 
some coffee." 

He ordered this refreshment from a passing waiter, and as 
he did so, a gentleman, with hands clasped behind his back, 
and a suave smile on his countenance, bowed to him with 
marked and peculiar courtesy as he sauntered on his way 
through the room. Beau returned the salute with equal 
politeness. 

"That's Whipper," he explained with a smile, when the 
gentleman was out of ear-shot. "The best and most generous 
of men! He's a critic — all critics are large-minded and gener- 
ous, we know — ^but he happens to be remarkably so. He did 
me the kindest turn I ever had in my life. When my first 
book came out, he fell upon it tooth and claw, mangled it, tore 



THELMA. 445 

it to ribbons, metaphorically speaking, and waved the frag- 
ments mockingly in the eyes of the public. From that day 
my name was made — my writing sold ofE with delightful 
rapidity, and words can never tell how I blessed and how I 
still bless Whipper. He always pitches into me — that's what's 
so good of him. We're awfully polite to each other, as you 
observe — and what is so perfectly charming is that he's quite 
unconscious how much he's helping me along. He's really a 
first-rate fellow. But I haven't yet attained the summit of 
my ambition" — and here Lovelace broke off with a sparkle of 
fun in his clear steel-gray eyes. 

"Why, what else do you want?" asked Lorimer, laughing. 

*'I want," returned Beau, solemnly, "I want to be jeered at 
by 'Punch.' I want 'Punch' to make mouths at me, and give 
me the benefit of his inimitable squeak and gibber. No 
author's fame is quite secure till dear old 'Punch' has abused 
him. Abuse is the thing nowadays, you know. Heaven for- 
bid that I should be praised by 'Punch'! That would be 
frightfully unfortunate!" 

Here the coffee arrived, and Lovelace dispensed it to his 
friends, talking gayly the while in an effort to distract Erring- 
ton from his gloomy thoughts. 

"I've just been informed on respectable authority that Walt 
Whitman is the new Socrates," he said, laughingly. "I felt 
rather stunned at the moment, but I've got over it now. Oh, 
this deliciously mad London! What a gigantic Colney 
Hatch it is for the crazed folk of the world to air their follies 
in! That any reasonable Englishmen, with such names as 
Shakespeare, Byron, Keats, and Shelley to keep the glory of 
their country warm, should for one moment consider Walt 
Whitman a poet! Ye gods! Where are your thunder- 
bolts!" 

"He's an American, isn't he?" asked Errington. 

"He is, my dear boy! An American whom the sensible 
portion of America rejects. We, therefore — out of opposition 
— take him up. His chief recommendation is that he writes 
blatantly concerning commonplaces — regardless of music or 
rhythm. Here's a bit of him concerning the taming of oxen. 
He says the tamer lives in a 

" 'Placid pastoral region. 
There they bring him the three-year-olds and the four-year-olds 
to break them — 



446 THELMA. 

Some are such beautiful animals, so lofty looking — some are buff- 
colored, some mottled, one has a white line running along 
his back, some are brindled. 

Some have wide flaring horns (a good sign!) look you! the bright 
hides. 

See the two with stars on their foreheads— see the round bodies 
and broad backs 

How straight and square they stand on their legs — ' " 

"Stop, stop!" cried Lorimer, putting his hands to his ears. 
"This is a practical joke, Beau! No one would call that jar- 
gon poetry!" 

"Oh! wouldn't they though!" exclaimed Lovelace. "Let 
some critic of reputation once start the idea, and you'll have 
the good London folk who won't bother to read him for them- 
selves declaring him as fine as Shakespeare. The dear Eng- 
lish muttons! fine Southdowns! fleecy baa-Iamhs! once let 
the press-bell tinkle loudly enough across the fields of litera- 
ture, and they'll follow, bleating sweetly, in any direction! 
The sharpest heads in our big metropolis are those who know 
this, and who act accordingly." 

"Then why don't you 'act accordingly'?" asked Errington, 
with a faint smile. 

"Oh, I? I can't! I never asked a favor from the press in 
my life — but its little bell has tinkled for me all the same, and 
a few of the muttons follow, but not all. Are you off?" this 
as they rose to take their leave. "Well, Errington, old fellow," 
and he shook hands warmly, "a pleasant journey to you, and 
a happy return home! My best regards to your wife. Lori- 
mer, have you settled whether you'll go with me to Italy? I 
start the day after to-morrow." 

Lorimer hesitated, then said: "All right! My mother's 
delighted at the idea. Yes, Beau, we'll come. Only I hope 
we shan't bore you." 

"Bore me! you know me better than that," and he accom- 
panied them out of the smoking-room into the hall, while 
Errington, a little surprised at this sudden arrangement, 
observed: 

"Why, George, I thought you'd be here when we came 
back from Norway — to — to welcome Thelma, you know!" 

George laughed. "My dear boy, I shan't be wanted! Just 
let me know how everything goes on. You — you see, I'm in 
duty bound to take my mother out of London in winter." 
"Just so!" agreed Lovelace, who had watched him narrowly 



THELMA. 447 

while he spoke. "Don't grudge the old la