Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 90
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
“Certainly, I will take my departure, Fröken!” 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 will — 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, Fröken 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, standing erect in the porch, tall, fair and loyal 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 her!
“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 like a man having some pressing business to fulfill, and was soon in his boat, rowing towards 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 fastened it to a small silver chain she wore, and then a shadow swept 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 garden, 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 contempt they deserved, his coarse allusion to Sir Philip Errington 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 its slow or rapid beatings. And Thelma wept as many of her sex weep, without knowing why, save that all suddenly she felt herself most lonely and forlorn like Sainte Beuve’s —
“Colombe gemissante,
Qui demande par pitié
Sa moitié,
Sa moitié loin d’elle absente!”
CHAPTER XII.
“A wicked will,
A woman’s will; a cankered grandame’s will!”
King John.
“By Jove!”
And Lorimer, after uttering this unmeaning exclamation, was silent out of sheer dismay. He stood hesitating and looking in at the door of the Güldmar’s 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 tip-toe 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 tremblingly. “Sir Philip—”
“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 Duprèz, splitting open his cheek in rather an unbecoming fashion — Don’t look so horrified, Miss Güldmar, — it is really nothing!”
“Oh, but indeed it is something!” she said, with true womanly 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 spoilt 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 Duprèz’s cheek, he tittered 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 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 Güldmar, 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 religious,’ as Pierre calls him. You know what boring means now, Miss Güldmar, 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 expression 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 Güldmar! I had no idea you were a ‘bad, fierce’ person, — I shall get afraid of you — I shall, really!”
“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 Güldmar, 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 clenched his fist as he exclaimed —
“Impudent donkey! What a jolly good thrashing he deserves! . . . and I shouldn’t be surprised if he got it one of these days! And so, Miss Güldmar,” — 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 coward, 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 heavens! If you knew what Phil’s ideas about you are, Miss Güldmar—”
“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 Philip, are you not?” He nodded, gravely studying every light and shadow on the fair, upturned, innocent face.
“Yes!” she continued with some eagerness, “I see you are! Well, it is the same 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 not care what other people say, — but 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 naïve, simple words had, all unconsciously 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 before him.
“My dear Miss Güldmar,” 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 everybody 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 ceremonious 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 interrupted 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.”
“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! “Duprèz cannot 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. Duprèz. 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 Güldmar’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 hesitation, 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-villain’ sort of thing; must be frightfully exhausting! But why you should indulge this emotion at my expense is what I cannot, for the life of me, understand!”
“Well,” murmured Errington, rather abashed, “you see, her hands were in yours—”
“As they will be again, and yet again, I trust!” said Lorimer 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 Duprèz leaning on her arm, and her father and Macfarlane following.
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 Duprèz,” 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 sorry, — 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-improvised bandages which were tied under his chin, by no means improved his personal appearance. His head ached with the pain, and his eyes smarted with the strong sunlight to which he had been exposed all the day, but his natural gaiety was undiminished, and he laughed as he answered —
“Chère Mademoiselle, you are 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 skillfully, — and used with all such exceeding gentleness, that Duprèz closed his eyes in a sort of rapture during the operation, and wished it could last longer. Then taking the glass of wine her father brought in obedience to her order, she said in a tone of mild authority —
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, standing erect in the porch, tall, fair and loyal 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 her!
“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 like a man having some pressing business to fulfill, and was soon in his boat, rowing towards 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 fastened it to a small silver chain she wore, and then a shadow swept 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 garden, 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 contempt they deserved, his coarse allusion to Sir Philip Errington 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 its slow or rapid beatings. And Thelma wept as many of her sex weep, without knowing why, save that all suddenly she felt herself most lonely and forlorn like Sainte Beuve’s —
“Colombe gemissante,
Qui demande par pitié
Sa moitié,
Sa moitié loin d’elle absente!”
CHAPTER XII.
“A wicked will,
A woman’s will; a cankered grandame’s will!”
King John.
“By Jove!”
And Lorimer, after uttering this unmeaning exclamation, was silent out of sheer dismay. He stood hesitating and looking in at the door of the Güldmar’s 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 tip-toe 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 tremblingly. “Sir Philip—”
“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 Duprèz, splitting open his cheek in rather an unbecoming fashion — Don’t look so horrified, Miss Güldmar, — it is really nothing!”
“Oh, but indeed it is something!” she said, with true womanly 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 spoilt 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 Duprèz’s cheek, he tittered 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 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 Güldmar, 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 religious,’ as Pierre calls him. You know what boring means now, Miss Güldmar, 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 expression 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 Güldmar! I had no idea you were a ‘bad, fierce’ person, — I shall get afraid of you — I shall, really!”
“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 Güldmar, 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 clenched his fist as he exclaimed —
“Impudent donkey! What a jolly good thrashing he deserves! . . . and I shouldn’t be surprised if he got it one of these days! And so, Miss Güldmar,” — 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 coward, 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 heavens! If you knew what Phil’s ideas about you are, Miss Güldmar—”
“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 Philip, are you not?” He nodded, gravely studying every light and shadow on the fair, upturned, innocent face.
“Yes!” she continued with some eagerness, “I see you are! Well, it is the same 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 not care what other people say, — but 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 naïve, simple words had, all unconsciously 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 before him.
“My dear Miss Güldmar,” 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 everybody 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 ceremonious 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 interrupted 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.”
“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! “Duprèz cannot 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. Duprèz. 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 Güldmar’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 hesitation, 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-villain’ sort of thing; must be frightfully exhausting! But why you should indulge this emotion at my expense is what I cannot, for the life of me, understand!”
“Well,” murmured Errington, rather abashed, “you see, her hands were in yours—”
“As they will be again, and yet again, I trust!” said Lorimer 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 Duprèz leaning on her arm, and her father and Macfarlane following.
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 Duprèz,” 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 sorry, — 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-improvised bandages which were tied under his chin, by no means improved his personal appearance. His head ached with the pain, and his eyes smarted with the strong sunlight to which he had been exposed all the day, but his natural gaiety was undiminished, and he laughed as he answered —
“Chère Mademoiselle, you are 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 skillfully, — and used with all such exceeding gentleness, that Duprèz closed his eyes in a sort of rapture during the operation, and wished it could last longer. Then taking the glass of wine her father brought in obedience to her order, she said in a tone of mild authority —
