Thelma Part 11

"I can," said Duprez glibly. "It struck me as quaint and pretty--Thelma Guldmar."

Errington started so violently, and flushed so deeply, that Lorimer was afraid of some rash outbreak of wrath on his part. But he restrained himself by a strong effort. He merely took his cigar from his mouth and puffed a light cloud of smoke into the air before replying, then he said coldly--

"I should say Mr. Dyceworthy, besides being a drunkard, is a most consummate liar. It so happens that the Guldmars are the very people I have just visited,--highly superior in every way to anybody we have yet met in Norway. In fact, Mr. and Miss Guldmar will come on board to-morrow. I have invited them to dine with us; you will then be able to judge for yourselves whether the young lady is at all of the description Mr. Dyceworthy gives of her."

Duprez and Macfarlane exchanged astonished looks.

"Are ye quite sure," the latter ventured to remark cautiously, "that ye're prudent in what ye have done? Remember ye have asked no pairson at a' to dine with ye as yet,--it's a vera sudden an' exceptional freak o'

hospitality."

Errington smoked on peacefully and made no answer. Duprez hummed a verse of a French _chansonnette_ under his breath and smiled. Lorimer glanced at him with a lazy amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Unburden yourself, Pierre, for heaven's sake!" he said. "Your mind is as uncomfortable as a loaded camel. Let it lie down, while you take off its packages, one by one, and reveal their contents. In short, what's up?"

Duprez made a rapid, expressive gesture with his hands.

"_Mon cher_, I fear to displease Phil-eep! He has invited these people; they are coming,--_bien_! there is no more to say."

"I disagree with ye," interposed Macfarlane "I think Errington should hear what _we_ ha' heard; it's fair an' just to a mon that he should understand what sort o' folk are gaun to pairtake wi' him at his table.

Ye see, Errington, ye should ha' thought a wee, before inviting pairsons o' unsettled an' dootful chairacter--"

"Who says they are?" demanded Errington half-angrily. "The drunken Dyceworthy?"

"He was no sae drunk at the time he tauld us." persisted Macfarlane in his most obstinate, most dictatorial manner. "Ye see, it's just this way--"

"Ah, _pardon_!" interrupted Duprez briskly. "Our dear Sandy is an excellent talker, but he is a little slow. Thus it is, _mon cher_ Errington. This gentleman named Guldmar had a most lovely wife--a mysterious lady, with an evident secret. The beautiful one was never seen in the church or in any town or village; she was met sometimes on hills, by rivers, in valleys, carrying her child in her arms. The people grew afraid of her; but, now, see what happens! Suddenly, she appears no more; some one ventures to ask this Monsieur Guldmar, 'What has become of Madame?' His answer is brief. 'She is dead!' Satisfactory so far, yet not quite; for, Madame being dead, then what has become of the corpse of Madame? It was never seen,--no coffin was ever ordered,--and apparently it was never buried! _Bien!_ What follows? The good people of Bosekop draw the only conclusion possible--Monsieur Guldmar, who is said to have a terrific temper, killed Madame and made away with her body. _Voila_!"

And Duprez waved his hand with an air of entire satisfaction.

Errington's brow grew sombre. "This is the story, is it?" he asked at last.

"It is enough, is it not?" laughed Duprez. "But, after all, what matter?

It will be novel to dine with a mur--"

"Stop!" said Philip fiercely, with so much authority that the sparkling Pierre was startled. "Call no man by such a name till you know he deserves it. If Guldmar was suspected, as you say, why didn't somebody arrest him on the charge?"

"Because, ye see," replied Macfarlane, "there was not sufficient proof to warrant such a proceeding. Moreover, the actual meenister of the parish declared it was a' richt, an' said this Guldmar was a mon o' vera queer notions, an' maybe, had buried his wife wi' certain ceremonies peculiar to himself--What's wrong wi' ye now?"

For a light had flashed on Errington's mind, and with the quick comprehension it gave him, his countenance cleared. He laughed.

"That's very likely," he said; "Mr. Guldmar is a character. He follows the faith of Odin, and not even Dyceworthy can convert him to Christianity."

Macfarlane stared with a sort of stupefied solemnity.

"Mon!" he exclaimed, "ye never mean to say there's an actual puir human creature that in this blessed, enlightened nineteenth century of ours, is so far misguidit as to wors.h.i.+p the fearfu' G.o.ds o' the Scandinavian meethology?"

"Ah!" yawned Lorimer, "you may wonder away, Sandy, but it's true enough!

Old Guldmar is an Odinite. In this blessed, enlightened nineteenth century of ours, when Christians amuse themselves by despising and condemning each other, and thus upsetting all the precepts of the Master they profess to follow, there is actually a man who sticks to the traditions of his ancestors. Odd, isn't it? In this delightful, intellectual age, when more than half of us are discontented with life and yet don't want to die, there is a fine old gentleman, living beyond the Arctic circle, who is perfectly satisfied with his existence--not only that, he thinks death the greatest glory that can befall him.

Comfortable state of things altogether! I'm half inclined to be an Odinite too."

Sandy still remained lost in astonishment. "Then ye don't believe that he made awa' wi' his wife?" he inquired slowly.

"Not in the least!" returned Lorimer decidedly; "neither will you, to-morrow, when you see him. He's a great deal better up in literature than you are, my boy, I'd swear, judging from the books he has. And when he mentioned his wife, as he did once, you could see in his face he had never done _her_ any harm. Besides, his daughter--"

"Ah! but I forgot," interposed Duprez again. "The daughter, Thelma, was the child the mysteriously vanished lady carried in her arms, wandering with it all about the woods and hills. After her disappearance, another thing extraordinary happens. The child also disappears, and Monsieur Guldmar lives alone, avoided carefully by every respectable person.

Suddenly the child returns, grown to be nearly a woman--and they say, lovely to an almost impossible extreme. She lives with her father. She, like her strange mother, never enters a church, town, or village--nowhere, in fact, where persons are in any numbers. Three years ago, it appears, she vanished again, but came back at the end of ten months, lovelier than ever. Since then she has remained quiet--composed--but always apart,--she may disappear at any moment.

Droll, is it not, Errington? and the reputation she has is natural!"

"Pray state it," said Philip, with freezing coldness. "The reputation of a woman is nothing nowadays. Fair game--go on!"

But his face was pale, and his eyes blazed dangerously. Almost unconsciously his hand toyed with the rose Thelma had given him, that still ornamented his b.u.t.ton-hole.

"Mon Dieu!" cried Duprez in amazement. "But look not at me like that! It seems to displease you, to put you _en fureur_, what I say! It is not my story,--it is not I,--I know not Mademoiselle Guldmar. But as her beauty is considered superhuman, they say it is the devil who is her _parfumeur_, her _coiffeur_, and who sees after her complexion; in brief, she is thought to be a witch in full practice, dangerous to life and limb."

Errington laughed loudly, he was so much relieved.

"Is that all?" he said with light contempt. "By Jove! what a pack of fools there must be about here,--ugly fools too, if they think beauty is a sign of witchcraft. I wonder Dyceworthy isn't scared out of his skin if he positively thinks the so-called witch is setting her cap at him."

"Ah, but he means to convairt her," said Macfarlane seriously. "To draw the evil oot o' her, as it were. He said he wad do't by fair means or foul."

Something in these latter words struck Lorimer, for, raising himself in his seat, he asked, "Surely Mr. Dyceworthy, with all his stupidity, doesn't carry it so far as to believe in witchcraft?"

"Oh, indeed he does," exclaimed Duprez; "he believes in it _a la lettre_! He has Bible authority for his belief. He is very firm--firmest when drunk!" And he laughed gaily.

Errington muttered something not very flattering to Mr. Dyceworthy's intelligence, which escaped the hearing of his friends; then he said--

"Come along, all of you, down into the saloon. We want something to eat.

Let the Guldmars alone; I'm not a bit sorry I've asked them to come to-morrow. I believe you'll all like them immensely."

They all descended the stair-way leading to the lower part of the yacht, and Macfarlane asked as he followed his host--

"Is the la.s.s vera bonnie did ye say?"

"Bonnie's not the word for it this time," said Lorimer, coolly answering instead of Errington. "Miss Guldmar is a magnificent woman. You never saw such a one, Sandy, my boy; she'll make you sing small with one look; she'll wither you up into a kippered herring! And as for you, Duprez,"

and he regarded the little Frenchman critically, "let me see,--you _may_ possibly reach up to her shoulder,--certainly not beyond it."

"_Pas possible!_" cried Duprez. "Mademoiselle is a giantess."

"She needn't be a giantess to overtop you, _mon ami_," laughed Lorimer with a lazy shrug. "By Jove, I _am_ sleepy, Errington, old boy; are we never going to bed? It's no good waiting till it's dark here, you know."

"Have something first," said Sir Philip, seating himself at the saloon table, where his steward had laid out a tasty cold collation. "We've had a good deal of climbing about and rowing; it's taken it out of us a little."

Thus hospitably adjured, they took their places, and managed to dispose of an excellent supper. The meal concluded, Duprez helped himself to a tiny liqueur gla.s.s of Chartreuse, as a wind-up to the exertions of the day, a mild luxury in which the others joined him, with the exception of Macfarlane, who was wont to declare that a "mon without his whusky was nae mon at a'," and who, therefore, persisted in burning up his interior mechanism with alcohol in spite of the doctrines of hygiene, and was now absorbed in the work of mixing his lemon, sugar, hot water, and poison--his usual preparation for a night's rest.

Lorimer, usually conversational, watched him in abstracted silence.

Rallied on this morose humor, he rose, shook himself like a retriever, yawned, and sauntered to the piano that occupied a dim corner of the saloon, and began to play with that delicate, subtle touch, which, though it does not always mark the brilliant pianist, distinguishes the true lover of music, to whose ears a rough thump on the instrument, or a false note would be most exquisite agony. Lorimer had no pretense to musical talent; asked, he confessed he could "strum a little," and he seemed to see the evident wonder and admiration he awakened in the minds of many to whom such "strumming" as his was infinitely more delightful than more practiced, finished playing. Just now he seemed undecided,--he commenced a dainty little prelude of Chopin's, then broke suddenly off, and wandered into another strain, wild, pleading, pitiful, and pa.s.sionate,--a melody so weird and dreamy that even the stolid Macfarlane paused in his toddy-sipping, and Duprez looked round in some wonderment.

"_Comme c'est beau, ca!_" he murmured.