Part 24 (1/2)
”Suppose an angel flew down from Heaven!” replied Philip, with rather a sad smile. ”My dear fellow, who am I that I should flatter myself so far? If she were one of those ordinary women to whom marriage is the be-all and end-all of existence, it would be different--but she is not.
Her thoughts are like those of a child or a poet,--why should I trouble them by the selfishness of my pa.s.sion? for all pa.s.sion _is_ selfish, even at its best. Why should I venture to break the calm friends.h.i.+p she may have for me, by telling her of a love which might prove unwelcome!”
Lorimer looked at him with gentle amus.e.m.e.nt depicted in his face.
”Phil, you are less conceited than I thought you were,” he said, with a light laugh, ”or else you are blind--blind as a bat, old man! Take my advice,--don't lose any more time about it. Make the 'king's daughter of Norroway' happy, . . .” and a brief sigh escaped him. ”You are the man to do it. I am surprised at your density; Sigurd, the lunatic, has more perception. He sees which way the wind blows,--and that's why he's so desperately unhappy. He thinks--and thinks rightly too--that he will lose his 'beautiful rose of the northern forest,' as he calls her,--and that you are to be the robber. Hence his dislike to you. Dear me!” and Lorimer lit a cigarette and puffed at it complacently. ”It seems to me that my wits are becoming sharper as I grow older, and that yours, my dear boy,--pardon me! . . . are getting somewhat blunted, otherwise you would certainly have perceived--” he broke off abruptly.
”Well, go on!” exclaimed Philip eagerly, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes. ”Perceived what?”
Lorimer laughed. ”That the boat containing your Sun-empress is coming along very rapidly, old fellow, and that you'd better make haste to receive her!”
This was the fact, and Duprez had risen from his chair and was waving his French newspaper energetically to the approaching visitors.
Errington hastened to the gangway with a brighter flush than usual on his handsome face, and his heart beating with a new sense of exhilaration and excitement. If Lorimer's hints had any foundation of truth--if Thelma loved him ever so little--how wild a dream it seemed!
. . . why not risk his fate? He resolved to speak to her that very day if opportunity favored him,--and, having thus decided, felt quite masterful and heroic about it.
This feeling of proud and tender elation increased when Thelma stepped on deck that morning and laid her hands in his. For, as he greeted her and her father, he saw at a glance that she was slightly changed. Some restless dream must have haunted her--or his hurried words beneath the porch, when he parted from her the previous evening, had startled her and troubled her mind. Her blue eyes were no longer raised to his in absolute candor,--her voice was timid, and she had lost something of her usual buoyant and graceful self-possession. But she looked lovelier than ever with that air of shy hesitation and appealing sweetness. Love had thrown his network of light about her soul and body till, like Keats's ”Madeleine,”
”She seemed a splendid angel newly drest Save wings, for heaven!”
As soon as the Guldmars were on board, the anchor was weighed with many a cheery and musical cry from the sailors; the wheel revolved rapidly under Valdemar Svensen's firm hand,--and with a grand outward sweeping curtsy to the majestic Fjord she left behind her, the _Eulalie_ steamed away, cutting a glittering line of white foam through the smooth water as she went, and threading her way swiftly among the cl.u.s.tering picturesque islands,--while the inhabitants of every little farm and hamlet on the sh.o.r.es, stopped for a while in their occupations to stare at the superb vessel, and to dreamily envy the wealth of the English _Herren_ who could afford to pa.s.s the summer months in such luxury and idleness. Thelma seated herself at once by Duprez, and seemed glad to divert attention from herself to him.
”You are better, Monsieur Duprez, are you not?” she asked gently. ”We saw Sigurd this morning; he came home last night. He is very, very sorry to have hurt you!”
”He need not apologize,” said Duprez cheerfully. ”I am delighted he gave me this scar, otherwise I am confident he would have put out the eye of Phil-eep. And that would have been a misfortune! For what would the ladies in London say if _le beau_ Errington returned to them with one eye! _Mon Dieu!_ they would all be en desespoir!”
Thelma looked up. Philip was standing at some little distance with Olaf Guldmar and Lorimer, talking and laughing gaily. His cap was slightly pushed off his forehead, and the sun shone on his thick dark-chestnut curls; his features, warmly colored by the wind and sea, were lit up with mirth, and his even white teeth sparkled in an irresistible smile of fascinating good-humor. He was the beau-ideal of the best type of Englishman, in the full tide of youth, health and good spirits.
”I suppose he is a great favorite with all those beautiful ladies?” she asked very quietly.
Something of gentle resignation in her tone struck the Frenchman's sense of chivalry; had she been like any ordinary woman, bent on conquest, he would have taken a mischievous delight in inventing a long list of fair ones supposed to be deeply enamored of Errington's good looks,--but this girl's innocent inquiring face inspired him with quite a different sentiment.
”_Mais certainement!_” he said frankly and emphatically. ”Phil-eep is a favorite everywhere! Yet not more so with women than with men. I love him extremely--he is a charming boy! Then you see, _chere Mademoiselle_, he is rich,--very rich,--and there are so many pretty girls who are very poor,--naturally they are enchanted with our Errington--_voyez-vous_?”
”I do not understand,” she said, with a puzzled brow. ”It is not possible that they should like him better because he is rich. He would be the same man without money as with it--it makes no difference!”
”Perhaps not to you,” returned Duprez, with a smile; ”but to many it would make an immense difference! _Chere Mademoiselle_, it is a grand thing to have plenty of money,--believe me!”
Thelma shrugged her shoulders. ”Perhaps,” she answered indifferently.
”But one cannot spend much on one's self, after all. The nuns at Arles used to tell me that poverty was a virtue, and that to be very rich was to be very miserable. They were poor,--all those good women,--and they were always cheerful.”
”The nuns! _ah, mon Dieu!_” cried Duprez. ”The darlings know not the taste of joy--they speak of what they cannot understand! How should they know what it is to be happy or unhappy, when they bar their great convent doors against the very name of love!”
She looked at him, and her color rose.
”You always talk of _love_,” she said, half reproachfully, ”as if it were so common a thing! You know it is sacred--why will you speak as if it were all a jest?”
A strange emotion of admiring tenderness stirred Pierre's heart--he was very impulsive and impressionable.
”Forgive me!” he murmured penitently. Then he added suddenly, ”You should have lived ages ago, _ma belle_,--the world of to-day will not suit you! You will be made very sorrowful in it, I a.s.sure you,--it is not a place for good women!”
She laughed. ”You are morose,” she said. ”That is not like you! No one is good,--we all live to try and make ourselves better.”