"You are not worth my anger!" she said slowly, this time without a tremor in her rich voice. "One must have something to be angry with, and you--you are nothing! Neither man nor beast,--for men are brave, and beasts tell no lies! Your wife! I!" and she laughed aloud,--then with a gesture of command, "Go!" she exclaimed, "and never let me see your face again!"

The clear scornful laughter,--the air of absolute authority with which she spoke,--would have stung the most self-opinionated of men, even though his conscience were enveloped in a moral leather casing of hypocrisy and arrogance. And, notwithstanding his invariable air of mildness, Mr. Dyceworthy had a temper. That temper rose to a white heat just now,--every drop of blood receded from his countenance,--and his soft hands clenched themselves in a particularly ugly and threatening manner. Yet he managed to preserve his suave composure.

"Alas, alas!" he murmured. "How sorely my soul is afflicted to see you thus, Froken! I am amazed--I am distressed! Such language from your lips! oh fie, fie! And has it come to this! And must I resign the hope I had of saving your poor soul? and must I withdraw my spiritual protection from you?" This he asked with a suggestive sneer of his prim mouth,--and then continued, "I must--alas, I must! My conscience will not permit me to do more than pray for you! And as is my duty, I shall, in a spirit of forbearance and charity, speak warningly to Sir Philip concerning--"

But Thelma did not permit him to finish his sentence. She sprang forward like a young leopardess, and with a magnificent outward sweep of her arm motioned him down the garden path.

"Out of my sight,--_coward_!" she cried, and then stood waiting for him to obey her, her whole frame vibrating with indignation like a harp struck too roughly. She looked so terribly beautiful, and there was such a suggestive power in that extended bare white arm of hers, that the minister, though quaking from head to heel with disappointment and resentment, judged it prudent to leave her.

"Certainly, I will take my departure, Froken!" 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, Froken 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 G.o.dly 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 att.i.tude, looking like some proud empress who had just dismissed an unworthy va.s.sal. 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 coa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sion 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 s.e.x weep, without knowing why, save that all suddenly she felt herself most lonely and forlorn like Sainte Beuve's--

"Colombe gemissante, Qui demande par pitie Sa moitie, Sa moitie 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 Guldmar's sitting-room, and the alarming spectacle he saw was the queenly Thelma down on the floor in an att.i.tude 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 rea.s.suringly. "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 Duprez, splitting open his cheek in rather an unbecoming fashion--Don't look so horrified, Miss Guldmar,--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 a.s.sure 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 Duprez's cheek, he t.i.ttered 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 hoa.r.s.e,--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 Guldmar, 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 Guldmar, 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 pa.s.sed 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 Guldmar! 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 a.s.sumed a solemn expression, and drew himself up with an air of dignity. "I am all attention! Consider me your father-confessor. Miss Guldmar, 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 Guldmar,"--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 Guldmar--"

"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.