Part 23 (1/2)

”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 disfiguring 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 haphazard, without knowing, or possibly caring, whether his replies were intelligible or incoherent. His thoughts were dreamlike and brilliant with fairy suns.h.i.+ne. 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sion 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 imagination, 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 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 gla.s.s of wine, and rose abruptly from the table, heedless of the surprise his action excited.

”Hullo, Phil, where are you off to?” cried Lorimer. ”Wait for me!”

”Tired of our company, my lad?” 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 confusion, ”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 beautiful. 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 suffered?” 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 departure, raising their hats to Thelma as they turned down the winding path to the sh.o.r.e. 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 s.h.i.+vering, child!--and yet the suns.h.i.+ne 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!”

”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 burns like fire,--and thine eyes are too bright, surely, for sleep to visit them?