Thelma Part 26

"Quick, Thelma!" and his warm breath touched her cheek. "My darling! my love! if you are not angry,--kiss me! I shall understand."

She hesitated. To Philip that instant of hesitation seemed a cycle of slow revolving years. Timidly she lifted her head. She was very pale, and her breath came and went quickly. He gazed at her in speechless suspense,--and saw as in a vision the pure radiance of her face and star-like eyes shining more and more closely upon him. Then came a touch,--soft and sweet as a roseleaf pressed against his lips,--and for one mad moment he remembered nothing,--he was caught up like Homer's Paris in a cloud of gold, and knew not which was earth or heaven.

"You love me, Thelma?" he murmured in a sort of wondering rapture. "I cannot believe it, sweet! Tell me--you love me?"

She looked up. A new, unspeakable glory flushed her face, and her eyes glowed with the mute eloquence of awakening pa.s.sion.

"Love you?" she said in a voice so low and sweet that it might have been the whisper of a pa.s.sing fairy. "Ah, yes! more than my life!"

CHAPTER XIV.

"Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, sweet eyes, sweet mouth; Each singly wooed and won!"

DANTE ROSETTI.

"Hallo, ho!" shouted 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 a.s.sisted Thelma with grave and ceremonious politeness to cross over some rough stones at the entrance, "and we had some trouble to find our way."

"Ye might hae called to us i' the way o' friendship," observed Macfarlane somewhat suspiciously, "and we wad hae lighted ye through."

"Oh, it was no matter!" said Thelma, with a charming smile. "Sir Philip seemed well to know the way, and it was not so very dark!"

Lorimer glanced at her and read plainly all that was written in her happy face. His heart sank a little; but, noticing that the old _bonde_ was studying his daughter with a slight air of vexation and surprise, he loyally determined to divert the general attention from her bright blushes and too brilliantly sparkling eyes.

"Well! . . . here you both are, at any rate," he said lightly, "and I should strongly advise that we attempt no more exploration of the island of Soroe to-day. Look at the sky; and just now there was a clap of thunder."

"Thunder?" exclaimed Errington. "I never heard it!"

"I dare say not!" said Lorimer, with a quiet smile. "Still _we_ heard it pretty distinctly, and I think we'd better make for the yacht."

"All right!" and Sir Philip sprang gaily into the long-boat to arrange the cushions in the stern for Thelma. Never had he looked handsomer or more high-spirited, and his elation was noticed by all his companions.

"Something joyous has happened to our Phil-eep," said Duprez in a half-whisper. "He is in the air!"

"And something in the ither way has happened vera suddenly 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 as he took his place in the boat beside his daughter,--once he raised her little hand, looked at it, and kissed it fondly.

They were all soon on their way back to the _Eulalie_ over a sea that had grown rough and white-crested during their visit to the stalact.i.te cave. Clouds had gathered thickly over the sky, and though a few shafts of sunlight still forced a pa.s.sage through them, the threatening darkness spread with steady persistency, especially to the northern side of the horizon, where Storm hovered in the shape of a black wing edged with coppery crimson. As they reached the yacht a silver glare of lightning sprang forth from beneath this sable pinion, and a few large drops of rain began to fall. Errington hurried Thelma on deck and down into the saloon. His friends, with Guldmar, followed,--and the vessel was soon plunging through waves of no small height on her way back to the Altenfjord. A loud peal of thunder like a salvo of artillery accompanied their departure from Soroe, and Thelma shivered a little as she heard it.

"You are nervous, Mademoiselle 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 towards the instrument. "And _your_ voice. Miss Guldmar, 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. n.o.body knows what they are saying: they scarcely know themselves--but it's all right, and quite fashionable."

Thelma laughed gaily. "How funny!" she exclaimed. "It is to amuse people, I suppose! Well,--now listen." And, playing a soft prelude, her rich contralto rippled forth in a tender, pa.s.sionate, melancholy melody,--so sweet and heart-penetrating that the practical Macfarlane sat as one in a dream,--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 doors the _bonde_ said in a somewhat agitated voice--

"I desire to speak to you, Sir Philip, alone and undisturbed, if such a thing be possible."

"By all means!" answered Philip. "Come to my 'den' on deck. We shall be quite solitary there."

He led the way, and Olaf 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 towards the south the sky was clearing, and arrowy beams of pale gold fell from the hidden sun, with a soothing and soft l.u.s.tre on the breast of the troubled water.

Guldmar looked about him, and heaved a deep sigh of refreshment. His eyes rested lovingly on the tumbling billows,--he bared his white head to the wind and rain.

"This is the life, the blood, the heart of a man!" he said, while a sort of fierce delight shone in his keen eyes. "To battle with the tempest,--to laugh at the wrath of waters,--to set one's face against the wild wind,--to sport with the elements as though they were children or serfs,--this is the joy of manhood! A joy," he added slowly, "that few so-called men of to-day can ever feel."

Errington smiled gravely. "Perhaps you are right, sir," he said; "but perhaps, at the same time, you forget that life has grown very bitter to all of us during the last hundred years or so. Maybe the world is getting old and used up, maybe the fault is in ourselves,--but it is certain that none of us nowadays are particularly happy, except at rare intervals when--"

At that moment, in a lull of the storm, Thelma's voice pealed upwards from the saloon. She was singing a French song, and the refrain rang out clearly--

"Ah! le doux son d'un baiser tendre!"

Errington paused abruptly in his speech, and turning towards a little closed and covered place on deck which was half cabin, half smoking-room, and which he kept as his own private sanctum, he unlocked it, saying--

"Will you come in here, sir? It's not very s.p.a.cious, 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 companionship might have upon her. I may be mistaken in the idea that has taken hold of me--some wild words let fall by the poor boy Sigurd this morning, when he entreated my pardon for his misconduct of yesterday, have perhaps misled my judgment,--but--by the G.o.ds! I cannot put it into suitable words! I--"

"You think I love your daughter?" said Sir Philip quietly. "You are not mistaken, Sir! I love her with my whole heart and soul! I want you to give her to me as my wife."

A change pa.s.sed over the old farmer's face. He grew deathly pale, and put out one hand feebly as though to seek some support. Errington caught it in his own and pressed it hard.

"Surely you are not surprised, Sir?" he added with eagerness. "How can I help loving her! She is the best and loveliest girl I have ever seen!

Believe me,--I would make her happy!"