"Rather an unpleasant exit for such a fellow," he remarked. "Not aesthetic at all. And so you were going to castigate him?"

"Look!" and Philip showed him the horsewhip; "I've been carrying this thing about all day,--I wish I could drop it in the streets; but if I did, some one would be sure to pick it up and return it to me."

"If it were a purse containing bank-notes you could drop it with the positive certainty of never seeing it again," laughed Beau. "Here, hand it over!" and he possessed himself of it. "I'll keep it till you come back. You leave for Norway to-night, then?"

"Yes. If I can. But it's the winter season--and there'll be all manner of difficulties. I'm afraid it's no easy matter to reach the Altenfjord at this time of year."

"Why not use your yacht, and be independent of obstacles?" suggested Lovelace.

"She's under repairs, worse luck!" sighed Philip despondingly. "She won't be in sailing condition for another month. No--I must take my chance--that's all. It's possible I may overtake Thelma at Hull--that's my great hope."

"Well, don't be down in the mouth about it, my boy!" said Beau sympathetically. "It'll all come right, depend upon it! Your wife's a sweet, gentle, n.o.ble creature,--and when once she knows all about the miserable mistake that has arisen, I don't know which will be greatest, her happiness or her penitence, for having misunderstood the position.

Now let's have some coffee."

He ordered this refreshment from a pa.s.sing waiter, and as he did so, a gentleman, with hands clasped behind his back, and a suave smile on his countenance, bowed to him with marked and peculiar courtesy as he sauntered on his way through the room. Beau returned the salute with equal politeness.

"That's Whipper," he explained with a smile, when the gentleman was out of earshot. "The best and most generous of men! He's a critic--all critics are large-minded and generous, we know,--but he happens to be remarkably so. He did me the kindest turn I ever had in my life. When my first book came out, he fell upon it tooth and claw, mangled it, tore it to ribbons, metaphorically speaking,--and waved the fragments mockingly in the eyes of the public. From that day my name was made--my writings sold off with delightful rapidity, and words can never tell how I blessed, and how I still bless, Whipper! He always pitches into me--that's what's so good of him! We're awfully polite to each other, as you observe--and what is so perfectly charming is that he's quite unconscious how much he's helped me along! He's really a first-rate fellow. But I haven't yet attained the summit of my ambition,"--and here Lovelace broke off with a sparkle of fun in his clear steel-grey eyes.

"Why, what else do you want?" asked Lorimer laughing.

"I want," returned Beau solemnly, "I want to be jeered at by _Punch_! I want _Punch_ to make mouths at me, and give me the benefit of his inimitable squeak and gibber. No author's fame is quite secure till dear old _Punch_ has abused him. Abuse is the thing nowadays, you know.

Heaven forbid that I should be praised by _Punch_. That would be frightfully unfortunate!"

Here the coffee arrived, and Lovelace dispensed it to his friends, talking gaily the while in an effort to distract Errington from his gloomy thoughts.

"I've just been informed on respectable authority, that Walt Whitman is the new Socrates," he said laughingly. "I felt rather stunned at the moment but I've got over it now. Oh, this deliciously mad London! what a gigantic Colney Hatch it is for the crazed folk of the world to air their follies in! That any reasonable Englishmen with such names as Shakespeare, Byron, Keats, and Sh.e.l.ley, to keep the glory of their country warm, should for one moment consider Walt Whitman a _poet_! Ye G.o.ds! Where are your thunderbolts!"

"He's an American, isn't he?" asked Errington.

"He is, my dear boy! An American whom the sensible portion of America rejects. We, therefore,--out of opposition,--take him up. His chief recommendation is that he writes blatantly concerning commonplaces,--regardless of music or rhythm. Here's a bit of him concerning the taming of oxen. He says the tamer lives in a

"'Placid pastoral region.

There they bring him the three-year-olds and the four-year-olds to break them,-- Some are such beautiful animals, so lofty looking,--some are buff-colored, some mottled, one has a white line running along his back, some are brindled, Some have wide flaring horns (a good sign!) look you! the bright hides See the two with stars on their foreheads--see the round bodies and broad backs How straight and square they stand on their legs--'"

"Stop, stop!" cried Lorimer, putting his hands to his ears. "This is a practical joke, Beau! No one would call that jargon poetry!"

"Oh! wouldn't they though!" exclaimed Lovelace. "Let some critic of reputation once start the idea, and you'll have the good London folk who won't bother to read him for themselves, declaring him as fine as Shakespeare. The dear English muttons! fine Southdowns! fleecy baa-lambs! once let the Press-bell tinkle loudly enough across the fields of literature, and they'll follow, bleating sweetly in any direction! The sharpest heads in our big metropolis are those who know this, and who act accordingly."

"Then why don't _you_ act accordingly?" asked Errington, with a faint smile.

"Oh, I? I can't! I never asked a favor from the Press in my life--but its little bell has tinkled for me all the same, and a few of the muttons follow, but not all. Are you off?" this, as they rose to take their leave. "Well, Errington, old fellow," and he shook hands warmly, "a pleasant journey to you, and a happy return home! My best regards to your wife. Lorimer, have you settled whether you'll go with me to Italy?

I start the day after to-morrow."

Lorimer hesitated--then said, "All right! My mother's delighted at the idea,--yes, Beau! we'll come. Only I hope we shan't bore you."

"Bore me! you know me better than that," and he accompanied them out of the smoking-room into the hall, while Errington, a little surprised at this sudden arrangement, observed--

"Why, George--I thought you'd be here when we came back from Norway--to--to welcome Thelma, you know!"

George laughed. "My dear boy, I shan't be wanted! Just let me know how everything goes on. You--you see, I'm in duty bound to take my mother out of London in winter."

"Just so!" agreed Lovelace, who had watched him narrowly while he spoke.

"Don't grudge the old lady her southern sunshine. Errington! Lorimer wants brushing up a bit too--he looks seedy. Then I shall consider it settled--the day after to-morrow, we meet at Charing Cross--morning tidal express, of course,--never go by night service across the Channel if you can help it."

Again they shook hands and parted.

"Best thing that young fellow can do!" thought Lovelace as he returned to the Club reading-room. "The sooner he gets out of this, into new scenes the better,--he's breaking his heart over the beautiful Thelma.

By Jove! the boy's eyes looked like those of a shot animal whenever her name was mentioned. He's rather badly hit!"

He sat down and began to meditate. "What can I do for him, I wonder?" he thought. "Nothing, I suppose. A love of that sort can't be remedied.

It's a pity--a great pity! And I don't know any woman likely to make a counter-impression on him. He'd never put up with an Italian beauty"--he paused in his reflections, and the color flushed his broad, handsome brow, as the dazzling vision of a sweet, piquant face with liquid dark eyes and rippling ma.s.ses of rich brown hair came flitting before him--"unless he saw Angela," he murmured to himself softly,--"and he will not see her,--besides, Angela loves _me_!"

And after this, his meditations seemed to be particularly pleasant, to judge from the expression of his features. Beau was by no means ignorant of the tender pa.s.sion--he had his own little romance, as beautiful and bright as a summer day--but he had resolved that London, with its love of gossip, its scandal, and society papers,--London, that on account of his popularity as a writer, watched his movements and chronicled his doings in the most authoritative and incorrect manner,--London should have no chance of penetrating into the secret of his private life. And so far he had succeeded--and was likely still to succeed.

Meanwhile, as he still sat in blissful reverie, pretending to read a newspaper, though his thoughts were far away from it, Errington and Lorimer arrived at the Midland Station. Britta was already there with the luggage,--she was excited and pleased--her spirits had risen at the prospect of seeing her mistress soon again,--possibly, she thought gladly, they might find her at Hull,--they might not have to go to Norway at all. The train came up to the platform--the tickets were taken,--and Sir Philip, with Britta, entered--a first-cla.s.s compartment, while Lorimer stood outside leaning with folded arms on the carriage-window, talking cheerfully.

"You'll find her all right, Phil, I'm positive!" he said. "I think it's very probable she has been compelled to remain at Hull,--and even at the worst, Britta can guide you all over Norway, if necessary. Nothing will daunt _her_!"

And he nodded kindly to the little maid who had regained her rosy color and the sparkle of her eyes in the eagerness she felt to rejoin her beloved "Froken." The engine-whistle gave a warning shriek--Philip leaned out and pressed his friend's hand warmly.

"Good-bye, old fellow! I'll write to you in Italy."

"All right--mind you do! And I say--give my love to Thelma!"

Philip smiled and promised. The train began to move,--slowly at first, then more quickly, till with clattering uproar and puffing clouds of white steam, it rushed forth from the station, winding through the arches like a black snake, till it had twisted itself rapidly out of sight. Lorimer, left alone, looked after it wistfully, with a heavy weight of unuttered love and sorrow at his heart, and as he at last turned away, those haunting words that he had heard under the pines at the Altenfjord recurred again and again to his memory--the words uttered by the distraught Sigurd--and how true they were, he thought! how desperately, cruelly true!

"Good things may come for others--but for _you_, the heavens are empty!"

CHAPTER x.x.x.

"Honor is an old-world thing, but it smells sweet to those in whose hand it is strong."--OUIDA.

Disappointment upon disappointment awaited Errington at Hull.

Unfortunately, neither he nor Britta knew of the existence of the good Norwegian innkeeper, Friedhof, who had a.s.sisted Thelma in her flight--and all their persistent and anxious inquiries elicited no news of her. Moreover, there was no boat of any kind leaving immediately for Norway--not even a whaler or fishing-smack. In a week's time,--possibly later,--there would be a steamer starting for Christiansund, and for this, Errington, though almost mad with impatience, was forced to wait.

And in the meantime, he roamed about the streets of Hull, looking eagerly at every fair-haired woman who pa.s.sed him, and always hoping that Thelma herself would suddenly meet him face to face, and put her hands in his. He wrote to Neville and told him to send on any letters that might arrive for him, and by every post he waited anxiously for one from Thelma but none came. To relieve his mind a little, he scribbled a long letter to her, explaining everything, telling her how ardently he loved and worshipped her--how he was on his way to join her at the Altenfjord,--and ending by the most pa.s.sionate vows of unchanging love and fidelity. He was somewhat soothed when he had done this--though he did not realize the fact that in all probability he himself might arrive before the letter. The slow, miserable days went on--the week was completed--the steamer for Christiansund started at last,--and, after a terribly stormy pa.s.sage, he and the faithful Britta were landed there.

On arrival, he learned that a vessel bound for the North Cape had left on the previous day--there would not be another for a fortnight. Cursing his ill-luck, he resolved to reach the Altenfjord by land, and began to make arrangements accordingly. Those who knew the country well endeavored to dissuade him from this desperate project--the further north, the greater danger, they told him,--moreover, the weather was, even for Norway, exceptionally trying. Snow lay heavily over all the country he would have to traverse--the only means of conveyance was by carriole or _pulkha_--the latter a sort of sledge used by the Laplanders, made in the form of a boat, and generally drawn by reindeer.

The capabilities of the carriole would be exhausted as soon as the snow-covered regions were reached--and to manage a _pulkha_ successfully, required special skill of no ordinary kind. But the courageous little Britta made short work of all these difficulties--she could drive a _pulkha_,--she knew how to manage reindeer,--she entertained not the slightest doubt of being able to overcome all the obstacles on the way. At the same time, she frankly told Sir Philip that the journey would be a long one, perhaps occupying several days--that they would have to rest at different farms or stations on the road, and put up with hard fare--that the cold would be intense,--that often they would find it difficult to get relays of the required reindeer,--and that it might perhaps be wiser to wait for the next boat going to the North Cape.

But Errington would hear of no more delays--each hour that pa.s.sed filled him with fresh anxieties--and once in Norway he could not rest. The idea that Thelma might be ill--dying--or dead--gained on him with redoubled force,--and his fears easily communicating themselves to Britta, who was to the full as impatient as he, the two made up their minds, and providing every necessary for the journey they could think of, they started for the far sunless North, through a white, frozen land, which grew whiter and more silent the further they went,--even as the brooding sky above them grew darker and darker. The aurora borealis flashed its brilliant shafts of color against the sable breast of heaven,--the tall pines, stripped bare, every branch thick with snow and dropping icicles, stood,--pale ghosts of the forest,--shedding frozen tears--the moon, more like steel than silver, shone frostily cold, her light seeming to deepen rather than soften the dreariness of the land--and on--on--on--they went, Britta enveloped to the chin in furs, steadily driving the strange elfin-looking steeds with their horned heads casting long distorted shadows on the white ground,--and Philip beside her, urging her on with feverish impatience, while he listened to the smooth trot of the reindeer,--the tinkle of the bells on their harness, and the hiss of the sledge across the sparkling snow.

Meanwhile, as he thus pursued his long and difficult journey, rumor was very busy with his name in London. Everybody--that is, everybody worth consideration in the circle of the "Upper Ten"--was talking about him,--shrugging their shoulders, lifting their eyebrows and smiling knowingly, whenever he was mentioned. He became more known in one day than if he had served his country's interests in Parliament for years.

On the very morning after he had left the metropolis en route for Norway, that admirably conducted society journal, the _Snake_, appeared,--and of course, had its usual amount of eager purchasers, anxious to see the latest bit of aristocratic scandal. Often these good folks were severely disappointed--the _Snake_ was sometimes so frightfully dull, that it had actually nothing to say against anybody--then, naturally, it was not worth buying. But this time it was really interesting--it knocked down--or tried to knock down--at one blow, a formerly spotless reputation--and "really--really!" said the Upper Ten, "it was dreadful, but of course it was to be expected! Those quiet, seemingly virtuous persons are always the worst when you come to know them, yet who would have thought it!" And society read the a.s.sailing paragraph, and rolled it in its rank mouth, like a bon-bon, enjoying its flavor. It ran as follows:--