“I believe you — I thoroughly believe you!” said Güldmar. “I see you love the child. The gods forbid that I should stand in the way of her happiness! I am getting old, and ’twas often a sore point with me to know what would become of my darling when I was gone, — for she is fair to look upon, and there are many human wolves ready to devour such lambs. Still, my lad, you must learn all. Do you know what is said of me in Bosekop?”
Errington smiled and nodded in the affirmative.
“You do?” exclaimed the old man, somewhat surprised. “You know they say I killed my wife — my wife! the creature before whom my soul knelt in worship night and day — whose bright head was the sunlight of life! Let me tell you of her, Sir Philip— ’tis a simple story. She was the child of my dearest friend, and many years younger than myself. This friend of mine, Erik Erlandsen, was the captain of a stout Norwegian barque, running constantly between these wild waters and the coast of France. He fell in love with, and married a blue-eyed beauty from the Sogne Fjord, he carried her secretly away from her parents, who would not consent to the marriage. She was a timid creature, in spite of her queenly ways, and, for fear of her parents, she would never land again on the shores of Norway. She grew to love France, — and Erik often left her there in some safe shelter when he was bound on some extra long and stormy passage. She took to the Catholic creed, too, in France, and learned to speak the French tongue, so Erik said, as though it were her own. At the time of the expected birth of her child, her husband had taken her far inland to Arles, and there business compelled him to leave her for some days. When he returned she was dead! — laid out for burial, with flowers and tapers round her. He fell prone on her body insensible, — and not for many hours did the people of the place dare to tell him that he was the father of a living child — a girl, with the great blue eyes and white skin of her mother. He would scarce look at it — but at last, when roused a bit, he carried the little thing in his arms to the great Convent at Arles, and, giving the nuns money, he bade them take it and bring it up as they would, only giving it the name of Thelma. Then poor Erlandsen came home — he sought me out: — he said, ‘Olaf, I feel that I am going on my last voyage. Promise you will see to my child — guard her, if you can, from an evil fate! For me there is no future!’ I promised, and strove to cheer him — but he spoke truly — his ship went down in a storm on the Bay of Biscay, and all on board were lost. Then it was that I commenced my journeyings to and fro, to see the little maiden that was growing up in the Convent at Arles. I watched her for sixteen years — and when she reached her seventeenth birthday, I married her and brought her to Norway.”
“And she was Thelma’s mother?” said Errington with interest.
“She was Thelma’s mother,” returned the bonde, “and she was more beautiful than even Thelma is now. Her education had been almost entirely French, but, as a child, she had learnt that I generally spoke English, and as there happened to be an English nun in the Convent, she studied that language and mastered it for the love of me — yes!” he repeated with musing tenderness, “all for the love of me, — for she loved me, Sir Philip — ay! as passionately as I loved her, and that is saying a great deal! We lived a solitary happy life, — but we did not mix with our neighbors — our creeds were different, — our ways apart from theirs. We had some time of perfect happiness together. Three years passed before our child was born, and then” — the bonde paused awhile, and again continued,— “then my wife’s health grew frail and uncertain. She liked to be in the fresh air, and was fond of wandering about the hills with her little one in her arms. One day — shall I ever forget it! when Thelma was about two and a half years old, I missed them both, and went out to search for them, fearing my wife had lost her way, and knowing that our child could not toddle far without fatigue. I found them” — the bonde shuddered-”but how? My wife had slipped and fallen through a chasm in the rocks, — high enough, indeed, to have killed her, — she was alive, but injured for life. She lay there white and motionless — little Thelma meanwhile sat smilingly on the edge of the rock, assuring me that her mother had gone to sleep ‘down there.’ Well!” and Güldmar brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, “to make a long story short, I carried my darling home in my arms a wreck — she lingered for ten years of patient suffering, ten long years! She could only move about on crutches, — the beauty of her figure was gone — but the beauty of her face grew more perfect every day! Never again was she seen on the hills, — and so to the silly folks of Bosekop she seemed to have disappeared. Indeed, I kept her very existence a secret, — I could not endure that others should hear of the destruction of all that marvellous grace and queenly loveliness! She lived long enough to see her daughter blossom into girlhood, — then, — she died. I could not bear to have her laid in the damp, wormy earth — you know in our creed earth-burial is not practiced, — so I laid her tenderly away in a king’s tomb of antiquity, — a tomb known only to myself and one who assisted me to lay her in her last resting-place. There she sleeps right royally, — and now is your mind relieved, my lad? For the reports of the Bosekop folk must certainly have awakened some suspicions in your mind?”
“Your story has interested me deeply, sir,” said Errington; “but I assure you I never had any suspicions of you at all. I always disregard gossip — it is generally scandalous, and seldom true. Besides, I took your face on trust, as you took mine.”
“Then,” declared Güldmar, with a smile, “I have nothing more to say, — except” — and he stretched out both hands— “may the great gods prosper your wooing! You offer a fairer fate to Thelma than I had dreamed of for her — but I know not what the child herself may say—”
Philip interrupted him. His eyes flashed, and he smiled.
“She loves me!” he said simply. Güldmar looked at him, laughed a little, and sighed.
“She loves thee?” he said, relapsing into the thee and thou he was wont to use with his daughter. “Thou hast lost no time, my lad? When didst thou find that out?”
“To-day!” returned Philip, with that same triumphant smile playing about his lips. “She told me so — yet even now I cannot believe it!”
“Ah, well, thou mayest believe it truly,” said Güldmar, “for Thelma says nothing that she does not mean! The child has never stooped to even the smallest falsehood.”
Errington seemed lost in a happy dream. Suddenly he roused himself and took Güldmar by the arm.
“Come,” he said, “let us go to her! She will wonder why we are so long absent. See! the storm has cleared — the sun is shining. It is understood? You will give her to me?”
“Foolish lad!” said Güldmar gently. “What have I to do with it? She has given herself to thee! Love has overwhelmed both of your hearts, and before the strong sweep of such an ocean what can an old man’s life avail? Nothing — less than nothing! Besides, I should be happy — if I have regrets, — if I feel the tooth of sorrow biting at my heart— ’tis naught but selfishness. ’Tis my own dread of parting with her” — his voice trembled, and his fine face quivered with suppressed emotion.
Errington pressed his arm. “Our house shall be yours, sir!” he said eagerly. “Why not leave this place and come with us?”
Güldmar shook his head. “Leave Norway!” he said— “leave the land of my fathers — turn my back on these mountains and fjords and glaziers? Never! No, no, my lad, you’re kind-hearted and generous as becomes you, and I thank you from my heart. But ’twould be impossible! I should be like a caged eagle, breaking my wings against the bars of English conventionalities. Besides, young birds must make their nest without interference from the old ones.”
He stepped out on deck as Errington opened the little cabin door, and his features kindled with enthusiasm as he looked on the stretch of dark mountain scenery around him, illumined by the brilliant beams of the sun that shone out now in full splendor, as though in glorious defiance of the retreating storm, which had gradually rolled away in clouds that were tumbling
one over the other at the extreme edge of the northern horizon, like vanquished armies taking to hasty flight.
“Could I stand the orderly tameness of your green England, think you, after this?” he exclaimed, with a comprehensive gesture of his hand. “No, no! When death comes — and ‘twill not be long coming — let it find me with my face turned to the mountains, and nothing but their kingly crests between me and the blessed sky! Come, my lad!” and he relapsed into his ordinary tone. “If thou art like me when I was thy age, every minute passed away from thy love seems an eternity! Let us go to her — we had best wait till the decks are dry before we assemble up here again.”
They descended at once into the saloon, where they found Thelma being initiated into the mysteries of chess by Duprèz, while Macfarlane and Lorimer looked idly on. She glanced up from the board as her father and Errington entered, and smiled at them both with a slightly heightened color.
“This is such a wonderful game, father!” she said. “And I am so stupid, I cannot understand it! So Monsieur Pierre is trying to make me remember the moves.”
“Nothing is easier!” declared Duprèz. “I was showing you how the bishop goes, so — cross-ways,” and he illustrated his lesson. “He is a dignitary of the Church, you perceive. Bien! it follows that he cannot go in a straight line, — if you observe them well, you will see that all the religious gentlemen play at cross purposes. You are very quick, Mademoiselle Güldmar, — you have perfectly comprehended the move of the Castle, and the pretty plunge of the knight. Now, as I told you, the queen can do anything — all the pieces shiver in their shoes before her!”
“Why?” she asked, feeling a little embarrassed, as Sir Philip came and sat beside her, looking at her with an undoubtedly composed air of absolute proprietorship.
“Why? Enfin, the reason is simple!” answered Pierre. “The queen is a woman, — everything must give way to her wish!”
“And the king?” she inquired.
“Ah! Le pauvre Roi! He can do very little — almost nothing! He can only move one step at a time, and that with much labor and hesitation — he is the wooden image of Louis XVI!”
“Then,” said the girl quickly, “the object of the game is to protect a king who is not worth protecting!”
Duprèz laughed. “Exactly! And thus, in this charming game, you have the history of many nations! Mademoiselle Güldmar has put the matter excellently! Chess is for those who intend to form republics. All the worry and calculation — all the moves of pawns, bishops, knights, castles, and queens, — all to shelter the throne which is not worth protecting! Excellent! Mademoiselle, you are not in favor of monarchies!”
“I do not know,” said Thelma; “I have never thought of such things. But kings should be great men, — wise and powerful, better and braver than all their subjects, should they not?”
“Undoubtedly!” remarked Lorimer; “but, it’s a curious thing, they seldom are. Now, our queen, God bless her—”
“Hear, hear!” interrupted Errington, laughing good-humoredly. “I won’t have a word said against the dear old lady, Lorimer! Granted that she hates London, and sees no fun in being stared at by vulgar crowds, I think she’s quite right, — and I sympathize heartily with her liking for a cup of tea in peace and quiet with some old Scotch body who doesn’t care whether she’s a queen or a washerwoman.”
“I think,” said Macfarlane slowly, “that royalty has its duties, ye see, an’ though I canna say I object to Her Majesty’s homely way o’ behavin’, still there are a few matters that wad be the better for her pairsonal attention.”
“Oh bother!” said Errington gaily. “Look at that victim of the nation, the Prince of Wales! The poor fellow hasn’t a moment’s peace of his life, — what with laying foundation stones, opening museums, inspecting this and visiting that, he is like a costermonger’s donkey, that must gee-up or gee-wo as his master, the people bid. If he smiles at a woman, it is instantly reported that he’s in love with her, — if he frankly says he considers her pretty, there’s no end to the scandal. Poor royal wretch! I pity him from my heart! The unwashed, beer-drinking, gin-swilling classes, who clamor for shortened hours of labor, and want work to be expressly invented for their benefit, don’t suffer a bit more than Albert Edward, who is supposed to be rolling idly in the very lap of luxury, and who can hardly call his soul his own. Why, the man can’t eat a mutton-chop without there being a paragraph in the papers headed, ‘Diet of the Prince of Wales.’ His life is made an infinite bore to him, I’m positive!”
Güldmar looked thoughtful. “I know little about kings or princes,” he said, “but it seems to me, from what I do know, that they have but small power. They are mere puppets. In olden times they possessed supremacy, but now—”
“I will tell you,” interrupted Duprèz excitedly, “who it is that rules the people in these times, — it is the Pen — Madame La Plume. A little black, sharp, scratching devil she is, — empress of all nations! No crown but a point, — no royal robe save ink! It is certain that as long as Madame la Plume gambols freely over her realms of paper, so long must kings and autocrats shake in their shoes and be uncertain of their thrones. Mon Dieu! if I had but the gift of writing, I would conquer the world!”
“There are an immense number of people writing just now, Pierre,” remarked Lorimer, with a smile, “yet they don’t do much in the conquering line.”
“Because they are afraid!” said Duprèz. “Because they have not the courage of their opinions! Because they dare not tell the truth!”
“Upon my life, I believe you are right!” said Errington. “If there were a man bold enough to declare truths and denounce lies, I should imagine it quite possible that he might conquer the world, — or, at any rate, make it afraid of him.”
“But is the world so full of lies?” asked Thelma timidly.
Lorimer looked at her gravely. “I fear so, Miss Güldmar! I think it has a tolerable harvest of them every year, — a harvest, too, that never fails! But I say, Phil! Look at the sun shining! Let us go up on deck, — we shall soon be getting back to the Altenfjord.”
They all rose, threw on their caps, and left the saloon with the exception of Errington, who lingered behind, watching his opportunity, and as Thelma followed her father he called her back softly —
“Thelma!”
She hesitated, and then turned towards him, — her father saw her movement, smiled at her, and nodded kindly, as he passed through the saloon doors and disappeared. With a beating heart, she sprang quickly to her lover’s side, and as he caught her in his arms, she whispered —
“You have told him?”
“Your father? Yes, my darling!” murmured Philip, as he kissed her sweet, upturned lips. “Be quite happy — he knows everything. Come, Thelma! tell me again you love me — I have not heard you say it properly yet!”
She smiled dreamily as she leaned against his breast and looked up into his eyes.
“I cannot say it properly!” she said. “There is no language for my heart! If I could tell you all I feel, you would think it foolish, I am sure, because it is all so wild and strange,” — she stopped, and her face grew pale,— “oh!” she murmured with a slight tremor; “it is terrible!”
“What is terrible, my sweet one?” asked Errington drawing her more closely, and folding her more tightly in his arms.
She sighed deeply. “To have no more life of my own!” she answered, while her low voice quivered with intense feeling. “It has all gone — to you! And yours has come to me! — is it not strange and almost sad? How your heart beats, poor boy! — I can hear it throb, throb — so fast! — here, where I am resting my head.” She looked up, and her little white hand caressed his cheek. “Philip,” she said very softly, “what are you thinking about? Your eyes shine so brightly — do you know you have beautiful eyes?”
“Have I?” he murmured abstractedly, looking down on that exquisite, innocent, glowing face, and trembling with the force of the restrained passion that kindle
d through him. “I don’t know about that! — yours seem to me like two stars fallen from heaven! Oh, Thelma, my darling! — God make me worthy of you.”
He spoke with intense fervor, — kissing her with a tenderness, in which there was something of reverence as well as fear. The whole soul of the man was startled and roused to inexpressible devotion, by the absolute simplicity and purity of her nature — the direct frankness with which she had said her life was his — his! — and in what way was HE fitted to be the guardian and possessor of this white lily from the garden of God? She was so utterly different to all women as he had known them — as different as a bird of paradise to a common house-sparrow. Meanwhile, as these thoughts flitted through his brain, she moved gently from his embrace and smiled proudly, yet sweetly.
“Worthy of me?” she said softly and wonderingly. “It is I that will pray to be made worthy of you! You must not put it wrongly, Philip!”
He made no answer, but looked at her as she stood before him, majestic as a young empress in her straight, unadorned white gown.
“Thelma!” he said suddenly, “do you know how lovely you are?”
“Yes!” she answered simply; “I know it, because I am like my mother. But it is not anything to be beautiful, — unless one is loved, — and then it is different! I feel much more beautiful now, since you think me pleasant to look at!”
Philip laughed and caught her hand. “What a child you are!” he said. “Now let me see this little finger.” And he loosened from his watch-chain a half-hoop ring of brilliants. “This belonged to my mother, Thelma,” he continued gently, “and since her death I have always carried it about with me. I resolved never to part with it, except to—” He paused and slipped it on the third finger of her left hand, where it sparkled bravely.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 95
