"Yes!" she continued with some eagerness, "I see you are! Well, it is the same with me,--I do love to hear him speak! You know how his voice is like music, and how his kind ways warm the heart,--it is pleasant to be in his company--I am sure you also find it so! But for me,--it seems it is wrong,--it is not wise for me to show when I am happy. I do not care what other people say,--but I would not have _him_ think ill of me for all the world!"

Lorimer took her hand and held it in his with a most tender loyalty and respect. Her nave, simple words had, all unconsciously to herself, laid bare the secret of her soul to his eyes,--and though his heart beat with a strange sickening sense of unrest that flavored of despair, a gentle reverence filled him, such as a man might feel if some little snow-white shrine, sacred to purity and peace, should be suddenly unveiled before him.

"My dear Miss Guldmar," he said earnestly, "I a.s.sure you, you have no cause to be uneasy! You must not believe a word Dyceworthy says--every one with a grain of common sense can see what a liar and hypocrite he is! And as for you, you never do anything wrong,--don't imagine such nonsense! I wish there were more women like you!"

"Ah, that is very kind of you!" half laughed the girl, still allowing her hand to rest in his. "But I do not think everybody would have such a good opinion." They both started, and their hands fell asunder as a shadow darkened the room, and Sir Philip stood before them.

"Excuse me!" he said stiffly, lifting his hat with ceremonious politeness. "I ought to have knocked at the door--I--"

"Why?" asked Thelma, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

"Yes--why indeed?" echoed Lorimer, with a frank look at his friend.

"I am afraid,"--and for once the generally good-humored Errington looked positively petulant--"I am afraid I interrupted a pleasant conversation!" And he gave a little forced laugh of feigned amus.e.m.e.nt, but evident vexation.

"And if it was pleasant, shall you not make it still more so?" asked Thelma, with timid and bewitching sweetness, though her heart beat very fast,--she was anxious. Why was Sir Philip so cold and distant? He looked at her, and his pent-up pa.s.sion leaped to his eyes and filled them with a glowing and fiery tenderness,--her head drooped suddenly, and she turned quickly, to avoid that searching, longing gaze. Lorimer glanced from one to the other with, a slight feeling of amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Well Phil," he inquired lazily, "how did you get here so soon? You must have glided into the garden like a ghost, for I never heard you coming."

"So I imagine!" retorted Errington, with, an effort to be sarcastic, in which he utterly failed as he met his friend's eyes,--then after a slight and somewhat embarra.s.sed pause he added more mildly! "Duprez cannot get on very fast,--his wound still bleeds, and he feels rather faint now and then. I don't think we bandaged him up properly, and I came on to see if Britta could prepare something for him."

"But you will not need to ask Britta," said Thelma quietly, with a pretty air of authority, "for I shall myself do all for Mr. Duprez. I understand well how to cure his wound, and I do think he will like me as well as Britta." And, hearing footsteps approaching, she looked out at the window. "Here they come!" she exclaimed. "Ah, poor Monsieur Pierre!

he does look very pale! I will go and meet them."

And she hurried from the room, leaving the two young men together.

Errington threw himself into Olaf Guldmar's great arm-chair, with a slight sigh.

"Well?" said Lorimer inquiringly.

"Well!" he returned somewhat gruffly.

Lorimer laughed, and crossing the room, approached him and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Look here, old man!" he said earnestly, "don't be a fool! I know that 'love maketh men mad,' but I never supposed the lunacy would lead you to the undesirable point of distrusting your friend,--your true friend, Phil,--by all the G.o.ds of the past and present!"

And he laughed again,--a little huskily this time, for there was a sudden unaccountable and unwished-for lump in his throat, and a moisture in his eyes which he had not bargained for. Philip looked up,--and silently held out his hand, which Lorimer as silently clasped. There was a moment's hesitation, and then the young baronet spoke out manfully.

"I'm ashamed of myself, George! I really am! But I tell you, when I came in and saw you two standing there,--you've no idea what a picture you made! . . . by Jove! . . . I was furious!" And he smiled. "I suppose I was jealous!"

"I suppose you were!" returned Lorimer amusedly.

"Novel sensation, isn't it? A sort of hot, p.r.i.c.kly, 'have-at-thee-villain' sort of thing; must be frightfully exhausting!

But why you should indulge this emotion at _my_ expense is what I cannot, for the life of me, understand!"

"Well," murmured Errington, rather abashed, "you see, her hands were in yours--"

"As they will be again, and yet again, I trust!" said Lorimer with cheery fervor. "Surely you'll allow me to shake hands with your wife?"

"I say, George, be quiet!" exclaimed Philip warningly, as at that moment Thelma pa.s.sed the window with Pierre Duprez leaning on her arm, and her father and Macfarlane following.

She entered the room with the stately step of a young queen,--her tall, beautiful figure forming a strong contrast to that of the narrow-shouldered little Frenchman, upon whom she smiled down with an air of almost maternal protection.

"You will sit here, Monsieur Duprez," she said, leading him to the _bonde's_ arm-chair which Errington instantly vacated, "and father will bring you a good gla.s.s of wine. And the pain will be nothing when I have attended to that cruel wound. But I am so sorry,--so very sorry, to see you suffer!"

Pierre did indeed present rather a dismal spectacle. There was a severe cut on his forehead as well as his cheek; his face was pale and streaked with blood, while the hastily-improvised bandages which were tied under his chin, by no means improved his personal appearance. His head ached with the pain, and his eyes smarted with the strong sunlight to which he had been exposed all the day, but his natural gaiety was undiminished, and he laughed as he answered--

"_Chere Mademoiselle_, you are too good to me! It is a piece of good fortune that Sigurd threw that stone--yes! since it brings me your pity!

But do not trouble; a little cold water and a fresh handkerchief is all I need."

But Thelma was already practicing her own simple surgery for his benefit. With deft, soft fingers she laid bare the throbbing wound,--washed and dressed it carefully and skillfully,--and used with all such exceeding gentleness, that Duprez closed his eyes in a sort of rapture during the operation, and wished it could last longer. Then taking the gla.s.s of wine her father brought in obedience to her order, she said in a tone of mild authority--

"Now, you will drink this Monsieur Pierre, and you will rest quite still till it is time to go back to the yacht; and to-morrow you will not feel any pain, I am sure. And I do think it will not be an ugly scar for long."

"If it is," answered Pierre, "I shall say I received it in a duel! Then I shall be great--glorious! and all the pretty ladies will love me!"

She laughed,--but looked grave a moment afterwards.

"You must never say what is not true," she said. "It is wrong to deceive any one,--even in a small matter."

Duprez gazed up at her wonderingly, feeling very much like a chidden child.

"Never say what is not true!" he thought. "Mon Dieu! what would become of my life?"

It was a new suggestion, and he reflected upon it with astonishment. It opened such a wide vista of impossibilities to his mind.

Meanwhile old Guldmar was engaged in pouring out wine for the other young men, talking all the time.

"I tell thee, Thelma mine," he said seriously, "something must be very wrong with our Sigurd. The poor lad has always been gentle and tractable, but to-day he was like some wild animal for mischief and hardihood. I grieve to see it! I fear the time may come when he may no longer be a safe servant for thee, child!"

"Oh, father!"--and the girl's voice was full of tender anxiety--"surely not! He is too fond of us to do us any harm--he is so docile and affectionate!"

"Maybe, maybe!" and the old farmer shook his head doubtfully. "But when the wits are away the brain is like a ship without ballast--there is no safe sailing possible. He would not mean any harm, perhaps,--and yet in his wild moods he might do it, and be sorry for it directly afterwards.

'Tis little use to cry when the mischief is done,--and I confess I do not like his present humor."

"By-the-by," observed Lorimer, "that reminds me! Sigurd has taken an uncommonly strong aversion to Phil. It's curious but it's a fact.

Perhaps it is that which upsets his nerves?"

"I have noticed it myself," said Errington, "and I'm sorry for it, for I've done him no harm that I can remember. He certainly asked me to go away from the Altenfjord, and I refused,--I'd no idea he had any serious meaning in his request. But it's evident he can't endure my company."

"Ah, then!" said Thelma simply and sorrowfully, "he must be very ill,--because it is natural for every one to like you."

She spoke in perfect good faith and innocence of heart; but Errington's eyes flashed and he smiled--one of those rare, tender smiles of his which brightened his whole visage.

"You are very kind to say so, Miss Guldmar!"

"It is not kindness; it is the truth!" she replied frankly.

At that moment a very rosy face and two sparkling eyes peered in at the door.