Thelma Part 63

The man glanced at the fair, anxious face, and smiled good-humoredly.

"You've come to the wrong station, miss," he said. "You want the Midland line."

"The Midland?" Thelma felt more bewildered than ever.

"Yes,--the _Midland_," he repeated rather testily. "It's a good way from here--you'd better take a cab."

She moved away,--but started and drew herself back into a shadowed corner, coloring deeply as the sound of a rich, mellifluous voice, which she instantly recognized, smote suddenly on her ears.

"And as I before remarked, my good fellow," the voice was saying, "I am not a disciple of the semi-obscure. If a man has a thought which is worth declaring, let him declare it with a free and n.o.ble utterance--don't let him wrap it up in multifarious parcels of dreary verbosity! There's too much of that kind of thing going on nowadays--in England, at least. There's a kind of imitation of art which isn't art at all,--a morbid, bilious, bad imitation. You only get close to the real G.o.ddess in Italy. I wish I could persuade you to come and pa.s.s the winter with me there?"

It was Beau Lovelace who spoke, and he was talking to George Lorimer.

The two had met in Paris,--Lovelace was on his way to London, where a matter of business summoned him for a few days, and Lorimer, somewhat tired of the French capital, decided to return with him. And here they were,--just arrived at Charing Cross,--and they walked across the station arm in arm, little imagining who watched them from behind the shelter of one of the waiting-room doors, with a yearning sorrow in her grave blue eyes. They stopped almost opposite to her to light their cigars,--she saw Lorimer's face quite distinctly, and heard his answer to Lovelace.

"Well, I'll see what I can do about it, Beau! You know my mother always likes to get away from London in winter--but whether we ought to inflict ourselves upon you,--you being a literary man too--"

"Nonsense, you won't interfere in the least with the flow of inky inspiration," laughed Beau. "And as for your mother, I'm in love with her, as you are aware! I admire her almost as much as I do Lady Bruce-Errington--and that's saying a great deal! By-the-by, if Phil can get through his share of this country's business, he might do worse than bring his beautiful Thelma to the Lake of Como for a while. I'll ask him!"

And having lit their Havannas successfully, they walked on and soon disappeared. For one instant Thelma felt strongly inclined to run after them, like a little forlorn child that had lost its way,--and, unburdening herself of all her miseries to the sympathetic George, entreat, with tears, to be taken back to that husband who did not want her any more. But she soon overcame this emotion,--and calling to mind the instructions of the official personage whose advice she had sought, she hurried out of the huge, brilliantly lit station, and taking a hansom, was driven, as she requested, to the Midland. Here the rather gloomy aspect of the place oppressed her as much as the garish bustle of Charing Cross had bewildered her,--but she was somewhat relieved when she learned that a train for Hull would start in ten minutes. Hurrying to the ticket-office she found there before her a kindly faced woman with a baby in her arms, who was just taking a third-cla.s.s ticket to Hull, and as she felt lonely and timid, Thelma at once decided to travel third-cla.s.s also, and if possible in the same compartment with this cheerful matron, who, as soon as she had secured her ticket, walked away to the train, hus.h.i.+ng her infant in her arms as she went. Thelma followed her at a little distance--and as soon as she saw her enter a third-cla.s.s carriage, she hastened her steps and entered also, quite thankful to have secured some companions.h.i.+p for the long cold journey.

The woman glanced at her a little curiously--it was strange to see so lovely and young a creature travelling all alone at night,--and she asked kindly--

"Be you goin' fur, miss?"

Thelma smiled--it was pleasant to be spoken to, she thought.

"Yes," she answered. "All the way to Hull."

"'Tis a cold night for a journey," continued her companion.

"Yes, indeed," answered Thelma. "It must be cold for your little baby."

And unconsciously her voice softened and her eyes grew sad as she looked across at the sleeping infant.

"Oh, he's as warm as toast!" laughed the mother cheerily. "He gets the best of everything, he do. It's yourself that's looking cold, my dear in spite of your warm cloak. Will ye have this shawl?"

And she offered Thelma a homely gray woollen wrap with much kindly earnestness of manner.

"I am quite warm, thank you," said Thelma gently, accepting the shawl, however, to please her fellow-traveller. "It is a headache I have which makes me look pale. And, I am very, very tired!"

Her voice trembled a little,--she sighed and closed her eyes. She felt strangely weak and giddy,--she seemed to be slipping away from herself and from all the comprehension of life,--she wondered vaguely who and what she was. Had her marriage with Philip been all a dream?--perhaps she had never left the Altenfjord after all! Perhaps she would wake up presently and see the old farm-house quite unchanged, with the doves flying about the roof, and Sigurd wandering under the pines as was his custom. Ah, dear Sigurd! Poor Sigurd! he had loved her, she thought--nay, he loved her still,--he could not be dead! Oh, yes,--she must have been dreaming,--she felt certain she was lying on her own little white bed at home, asleep;--she would by-and-by open her eyes and get up and look through her little latticed window, and see the sun sparkling on the water, and the _Eulalie_ at the anchor in the Fjord--and her father would ask Sir Philip and his friends to spend the afternoon at the farm-house--and Philip would come and stroll with her through the garden and down to the sh.o.r.e, and would talk to her in that low, caressing voice of his,--and though she loved him dearly, she must never, never let him know of it, because she was not worthy! . . . She woke from these musings with a violent start and a sick s.h.i.+ver running through all her frame,--and looking wildly about her, saw that she was reclining on some one's shoulder,--some one was dabbing a wet handkerchief on her forehead--her hat was off and her cloak was loosened.

"There, my dear, you're better now!" said a kindly voice in her ear.

"Lor! I thought you was dead--that I did! 'Twas a bad faint indeed. And with the train jolting along like this too! It was lucky I had a flask of cold water with me. Raise your head a little--that's it! Poor thing,--you're as white as a sheet! You're not fit to travel, my dear--you're not indeed."

Thelma raised herself slowly, and with a sudden impulse kissed the good woman's honest, rosy face, to her intense astonishment and pleasure.

"You are very kind to me!" she said tremulously. "I am so sorry to have troubled you. I do feel ill--but it will soon pa.s.s."

And she smoothed her ruffled hair, and sitting up erect, endeavored to smile. Her companion eyed her pale face compa.s.sionately, and taking up her sleeping baby from the shawl on which she had laid it while ministering to Thelma's needs, began to rock it slowly to and fro.

Thelma, meanwhile, became sensible of the rapid movement of the train.

"We have left London?" she asked with an air of surprise.

"Nearly half an hour ago, my dear." Then, after a pause, during which she had watched Thelma very closely, she said--

"I think you're married, aren't you, dearie?"

"Yes." Thelma answered, a slight tinge of color warming her fair pale cheeks.

"Your husband, maybe, will meet you at Hull?"

"No,--he is in London," said Thelma simply. "I am going to see my father."

This answer satisfied her humble friend, who, noticing her extreme fatigue and the effort it cost her to speak, forbore to ask any more questions, but good-naturedly recommended her to try and sleep. She slept soundly herself for the greater part of the journey; but Thelma was now feverishly wide awake, and her eyeb.a.l.l.s ached and burned as though there were fire behind them.

Gradually her nerves began to be wound up to an extreme tension of excitement--she forgot all her troubles in listening with painful intentness to the rush and roar of the train through the darkness. The lights of pa.s.sing stations and signal-posts gleamed like scattered and flying stars--there was the frequent shriek of the engine-whistle,--the serpent-hiss of escaping steam. She peered through the window--all was blackness; there seemed to be no earth, no sky,--only a sable chaos, through which the train flew like a flame-mouthed demon. Always that rush and roar! She began to feel as if she could stand it no longer. She must escape from that continuous, confusing sound--it maddened her brain. Nothing was easier; she would open the carriage-door and get out!

Surely she could manage to jump off the step, even though the train was in motion!

Danger! She smiled at that idea,--there was no danger; and, if there was, it did not much matter. Nothing mattered now,--now that she had lost her husband's love. She glanced at the woman opposite, who slept profoundly--the baby had slipped a little from its mother's arms, and lay with its tiny face turned towards Thelma. It was a pretty creature, with soft cheeks and a sweet little mouth,--she looked at it with a vague, wild smile. Again, again that rush and roar surged like a storm in her ears and distracted her mind! She rose suddenly and seized the handle of the carriage door. Another instant, and she would have sprang to certain death,--when suddenly the sleeping baby woke, and, opening its mild blue eyes, gazed at her.

She met its glance as one fascinated,--almost unconsciously her fingers dropped from the door-handle,--the little baby still looked at her in dreamlike, meditative fas.h.i.+on,--its mother slept profoundly. She bent lower and lower over the child. With a beating heart she ventured to touch the small, pink hand that lay outside its wrappings like a softly curved rose-leaf. With a sort of elf-like confidence and contentment the feeble, wee fingers closed and curled round hers,--and held her fast!

Weak as a silken thread, yet stronger in its persuasive force than a grasp of iron, that soft, light pressure controlled and restrained her, . . . very gradually the mists of her mind cleared,--the rattling, thunderous dash of the train grew less dreadful, less monotonous, less painful to her sense of hearing,--her bosom heaved convulsively, and all suddenly her eyes filled with tears--merciful tears, which at first welled up slowly, and were hot as fire, but which soon began to fall faster and faster in large, bright drops down her pale cheeks. Seeing that its mother still slept, she took the baby gently into her own fair arms,--and rocked it to and fro with many a sobbing murmur of tenderness;--the little thing smiled drowsily and soon fell asleep again, all unconscious that its timely look and innocent touch had saved poor Thelma's life and reason.

She, meanwhile, wept on softly, till her tired brain and heart were somewhat relieved of their heavy burden,--the entanglement of her thoughts became unravelled,--and, though keenly aware of the blank desolation of her life, she was able to raise herself in spirit to the Giver of all Love and Consolation, and to pray humbly for that patience and resignation which now alone could serve her needs. And she communed with herself and G.o.d in silence, as the train rushed on northwards. Her fellow-traveller woke up as they were nearing their destination, and, seeing her holding the baby, was profuse in her thanks for this kindness. And when they at last reached Hull, about half an hour after midnight, the good woman was exceedingly anxious to know if she could be of any service,--but Thelma gently, yet firmly, refused all her offers of a.s.sistance.

They parted in the most friendly manner,--Thelma kissing the child, through whose unconscious means, as she now owned to herself, she had escaped a terrible death,--and then she went directly to a quiet hotel she knew of, which was kept by a native of Christiania, a man who had formerly been acquainted with her father. At first, when this worthy individual saw a lady arrive, alone, young, richly dressed, and without luggage, he was inclined to be suspicious,--but as soon as she addressed him in Norwegian, and told him who she was, he greeted her with the utmost deference and humility.

"The daughter of Jarl Guldmar," he said, continuing to speak in his own tongue, "honors my house by entering it!"

Thelma smiled a little. "The days of the great Jarls are past, Friedhof," she replied somewhat sadly, "and my father is content to be what he is,--a simple _bonde_."

Friedhof shook his head quite obstinately. "A Jarl is always a Jarl," he declared. "Nothing can alter a man's birth and nature. And the last time I saw Valdemar Svensen,--he who lives with your father now,--he was careful always to speak of the _Jarl_, and seldom or never did he mention him in any other fas.h.i.+on. And now, n.o.ble Froken, in what manner can I serve you?"

Thelma told him briefly that she was going to see her father on business, and that she was desirous of starting for Norway the next day as early as possible.

Friedhof held up his hands in amazement. "Ah! most surely you forget,"

he exclaimed, using the picturesque expressions of his native speech, "that this is the sleeping time of the sun! Even at the Hardanger Fjord it is dark and silent,--the falling streams freeze with cold on their way; and if it is so at the Hardanger, what will it be at the Alten? And there is no pa.s.senger s.h.i.+p going to Christiania or Bergen for a fortnight!"

Thelma clasped her hands in dismay. "But I _must_ go!" she cried impatiently; "I must, indeed, good Friedhof! I cannot stay here! Surely, surely there is some vessel that would take me,--some fis.h.i.+ng boat,--what does it matter how I travel, so long as I get away?"

The landlord looked at her rather wonderingly. "Nay, if it is indeed so urgent, n.o.ble Froken," he replied, "do not trouble, for there is a means of making the journey. But for _you_, and in such bitter weather, it seems a cruelty to speak of it. A steam cargo-boat leaves here for Hammerfest and the North Cape to-morrow--it will pa.s.s the Altenfjord. No doubt you could go with that, if you so choose,--but there will be no warmth or comfort, and there are heavy storms on the North Sea. I know the captain; and 'tis true he takes his wife with him, so there would be a woman on board,--yet--"

Thelma interrupted him. She pressed two sovereigns into his hand.

"Say no more, Friedhof," she said eagerly. "You will take me to see this captain--you will tell him I must go with him. My father will thank you for this kindness to me, even better than I can."

"It does not seem to me a kindness at all," returned Friedhof with frank bluntness. "I would be loth to sail the seas myself in such weather. And I thought you were so grandly married, Froken Guldmar,--though I forget your wedded name,--how comes it that your husband is not with you?"

"He is very busy in London," answered Thelma. "He knows where I am going. Do not be at all anxious, Friedhof,--I shall make the journey very well and I am not afraid of storm or wild seas."