Thelma Part 27

"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--"

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 st.u.r.dily. "'Tis a blow, you see! I had not thought so far as this. I'll tell you the plain truth, and you must forgive me for wronging you. I know what young blood is, all the world over. A fair face fires it--and impulse makes it gallop beyond control.

'Twas so with me when I was your age,--though no woman, I hope, was ever the worse for my harmless lovemaking. But Thelma is different from most women,--she has a strange nature,--moreover, she has a heart and a memory,--if she once learns the meaning of love, she will never unlearn the lesson. Now, I thought, that like most young men of your type, you might, without meaning any actual evil, trifle with her--play with her feelings--"

"I understand, Sir," said Philip coolly, without displaying any offense.

"To put it plainly, in spite of your liking for me, you thought me a sn.o.b."

This time the old man laughed heartily and unforcedly.

"Dear, dear!" he exclaimed. "You are what is termed in your own land, a peppery customer! Never mind--I like it. Why, my lad, the men of to-day think it fair sport to trifle with a pretty woman now and then--"

"Pardon!" interrupted Philip curtly. "I must defend my s.e.x. We _may_ occasionally trifle with those women who show us that they wish to be trifled with--but never with those who, like your daughter, win every man's respect and reverence."

Guldmar rose and grasped his hand fervently.

"By all the G.o.ds, I believe you are a true gentleman!" he said. "I ask your pardon if I have offended you by so much as a thought. But now"--and his face grew very serious--"we must talk this matter over. I will not speak of the suddenness of your love for my child, because I know, from my own past experience, that love is a rapid impulse--a flame ignited in a moment. Yes, I know that well!" He paused, and his voice trembled a little, but he soon steadied it and went on--"I think, however, my lad, that you have been a little hasty,--for instance, have you thought what your English friends and relatives will say to your marrying a farmer's daughter who,--though she has the blood of kings in her veins,--is, nevertheless, as this present world would judge, beneath you in social standing? I say, have you thought of this?"

Philip smiled proudly. "Certainly, sir, I have _not_ thought of any such trifle as the opinion of society,--if that is what you mean. I have no relatives to please or displease--no friends in the truest sense of the world except Lorimer. I have a long list of acquaintances undoubtedly,--infinite bores, most of them,--and whether they approve or disapprove of my actions is to me a matter of profound indifference."

"See you!" said the _bonde_ firmly and earnestly. "It would be an ill day for me if I gave my little one to a husband who might--mind! I only say _might_,--in the course of years, regret having married her."

"Regret!" cried Philip excitedly, then quieting down, he said gently.

"My good friend, I do not think you understand me. You talk as if Thelma were beneath _me_. Good G.o.d! It is _I_ who am infinitely beneath _her_!

I am utterly unworthy of her in every way, I a.s.sure you--and I tell you so frankly. I have led a useless life, and a more or less selfish one. I have princ.i.p.ally sought to amuse and interest myself all through it.

I've had my vices to, 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 G.o.ds 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 sh.o.r.es 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 pa.s.sage. 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 p.r.o.ne 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 pa.s.sionately 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 pa.s.sed 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, a.s.suring 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 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 a.s.sisted 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 a.s.sure 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 more to say,--except"--and he stretched out both hands--"may the great G.o.ds 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, 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 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 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?"

Guldmar 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 pa.s.sed away from thy love seems an eternity! Let us go to her--we had best wait till the decks are dry before we a.s.semble 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 cannot 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--cross-ways," and he ill.u.s.trated 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 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 embarra.s.sed, 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!"

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 of p.a.w.ns, 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, G.o.d 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 cla.s.ses, 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!"