Thelma. Marie Corelli
many a line of anxious and speculative thought, and the forcible brown hand that rested lightly on the spokes of the wheel, told its own tale of hard and honest labor. Neither wife nor child, nor living relative had Valdemar; the one passion of his heart was the sea. Sir Philip Errington had engaged him at Christiansund, hearing of him there as a man to whom the intricacies of the Fjords, and the dangers of rock-bound coasts, were more familiar than a straight road on dry lake, and since then the management of the Eulalie had been entirely entrusted to him. Though an eminently practical sailor, he was half a mystic, and believed in the wildest legends of his land with more implicit faith than many so-called Christians believe in their sacred doctrines. He doffed his red cap respectfully now as Errington and Lorimer approached, smilingly wishing them "a fair day." Sir Philip offered him a cigar, and, coming to the point at once, asked abruptly—
"I say, Svensen, are there any pretty girls in Bosekop?"
The pilot drew the newly lit cigar from his mouth, and passed his rough hand across his forehead in a sort of grave perplexity.
"It is a matter in which I am foolish," he said at last, "for my ways have always gone far from the ways of women. Girls there are plenty, I suppose, but—" he mused with pondering patience for awhile. Then a broad smile broke like sunshine over his embrowned countenance, as he continued, "Now, gentlemen, I do remember well; it is said that at Bosekop yonder, are to be found some of the homeliest wenches in all Norway."
Errington's face fell at this reply. Lorimer turned away to hide the mischievous smile that came on his lips at his friend's discomfiture.
"I know it was that Chartreuse," he thought to himself. "That and the midnight sun-effects. Nothing else!"
"What!" went on Philip. "No good-looking girls at all about here, eh?"
Svensen shook his head, still smilingly.
"Not at Bosekop, sir, that I ever heard of."
"I say!" broke in Lorimer, "are there any old tombs or sea-caves, or places of that sort close by, worth exploring?"
Valdemar Svensen answered this question readily, almost eagerly.
"No, sir! There are no antiquities of any sort; and as for caves, there are plenty, but only the natural formations of the sea, and none of these are curious or beautiful on this side of the Fjord."
Lorimer poked his friend secretly in the ribs.
"You've been dreaming, old fellow!" he whispered slyly. "I knew it was a crammer!"
Errington shook him off good-humoredly.
"Can you tell me," he said, addressing Valdemar again in distinct accents, "whether there is any place, person, or thing near here called Thelma?"
The pilot started; a look of astonishment and fear came into his eyes; his hand went instinctively to his red cap, as though in deference to the name.
"The Fröken Thelma!" he exclaimed, in low tones. "Is it possible that you have seen her?"
"Ah, George, what do you say now?" cried Errington delightedly. "Yes, yes, Valdemar; the Fröken Thelma, as you call her. Who is she? . . . What is she?—and how can there be no pretty girls in Bosekop if such a beautiful creature as she lives there?"
Valdemar looked troubled and vexed.
"Truly, I thought not of the maiden," he said gravely. "'Tis not for me to speak of the daughter of Olaf," here his voice sank a little, and his face grew more and more sombre. "Pardon me, sir, but how did you meet her?"
"By accident," replied Errington promptly, not caring to relate his morning's adventure for the pilot's benefit. "Is she some great personage here?"
Svensen sighed, and smiled somewhat dubiously.
"Great? Oh, no; not what you would call great. Her father, Olaf Güldmar, is a bonde,—that is, a farmer in his own right. He has a goodly house, and a few fair acres well planted and tilled,—also he pays his men freely,—but those that work for him are all he sees,—neither he nor his daughter ever visit the town. They dwell apart, and have nothing in common with their neighbors."
"And where do they live?" asked Lorimer, becoming as interested as he had formerly been incredulous.
The pilot leaned lightly over the rail of the deck and pointed towards the west.
"You see that great rock shaped like a giant's helmet, and behind it a high green knoll, clustered thick with birch and pine?"
They nodded assent.
"At the side of the knoll is the bonde's house, a good eight-mile walk from the outskirts of Bosekop. Should you ever seek to rest there, gentlemen," and Svensen spoke with quiet resolution, "I doubt whether you will receive a pleasant welcome."
And he looked at them both with an inquisitive air, as though seeking to discover their intentions.
"Is that so?" drawled Lorimer lazily, giving his friend an expressive nudge. "Ah! We shan't trouble them! Thanks for your information, Valdemar! We don't intend to hunt up the—what d'ye call him?—the bonde, if he's at all surly. Hospitality that gives you greeting and a dinner for nothing,—that's what suits me."
"Our people are not without hospitality," said the pilot, with a touch of wistful and appealing dignity. "All along your journey, gentlemen, you have been welcomed gladly, as you know. But Olaf Güldmar is not like the rest of us; he has the pride and fierceness of olden days; his manners and customs are different; and few like him. He is much feared."
"You know him then?" inquired Errington carelessly.
"I know him," returned Valdemar quietly. "And his daughter is fair as the sun and the sea. But it is not my place to speak of them—." He broke off, and after a slightly embarrassed pause, asked, "Will the Herren wish to sail to-day?"
"No Valdemar," answered Errington indifferently. "Not till to-morrow, when we'll visit the Kaa Fjord if the weather keeps fair."
"Very good, sir," and the pilot, tacitly avoiding any further converse with his employer respecting the mysterious Thelma and her equally mysterious father, turned to examine the wheel and compass as though something there needed his earnest attention. Errington and Lorimer strolled up and down the polished white deck arm-in-arm, talking in low tones.
"You didn't ask him about the coffin and the dwarf," said Lorimer.
"No; because I believe he knows nothing of either, and it would be news to him which I'm not bound to give. If I can manage to see the girl again the mystery of the cave may explain itself."
"Well, what are you going to do?"
Errington looked meditative. "Nothing at present. We'll go fishing with the others. But, I tell you what, if you're up to it, we'll leave Duprèz and Macfarlane at the minister's house this evening and tell them to wait for us there,—once they all begin to chatter they never know how time goes. Meanwhile you and I will take the boat and row over in search of this farmer's abode. I believe there's a short cut to it by water; at any rate I know the way she went."
"'I know the way she went home with her maiden posy!'" quoted Lorimer, with a laugh. "You are hit Phil, 'a very palpable hit'! Who would have thought it! Clara Winsleigh needn't poison her husband after all in-order to marry you, for nothing but a sun-empress will suit you now."
"Don't be a fool, George," said Errington, half vexedly, as the hot color mounted to his face in spite of himself. "It is all idle curiosity, nothing else. After what Svensen told us, I'm quite as anxious to see this gruff old bonde as his daughter."
Lorimer held up a reproachful finger. "Now, Phil, don't stoop to duplicity—not with me, at any rate. Why disguise your feelings? Why, as the tragedians say, endeavor to crush the noblest and best emotions that ever warm the boo-zum of man? Chivalrous sentiment and admiration for beauty,—chivalrous desire to pursue it and catch it and call it your own,—I understand it all, my dear boy! But my prophetic