Thelma. Marie Corelli

has set herself to catch him, as he says she's an eye like a warlock for a really strong good-looking fellow like himself," and Macfarlane chuckled audibly. "Maybe he'll take pity on her, maybe he wont; the misguided lassie will be sairly teazed by him from a' he tauld us in his cups. He gave us her name,—the oddest in a' the warld for sure,—I canna just remember it."

      "I can," said Duprèz glibly. "It struck me as quaint and pretty—Thelma Güldmar."

      Errington started so violently, and flushed so deeply, that Lorimer was afraid of some rash outbreak of wrath on his part. But he restrained himself by a strong effort. He merely took his cigar from his mouth and puffed a light cloud of smoke into the air before replying, then he said coldly—

      "I should say Mr. Dyceworthy, besides being a drunkard, is a most consummate liar. It so happens that the Güldmars are the very people I have just visited,—highly superior in every way to anybody we have yet met in Norway. In fact, Mr. and Miss Güldmar will come on board to-morrow. I have invited them to dine with us; you will then be able to judge for yourselves whether the young lady is at all of the description Mr. Dyceworthy gives of her."

      Duprèz and Macfarlane exchanged astonished looks.

      "Are ye quite sure," the latter ventured to remark cautiously, "that ye're prudent in what ye have done? Remember ye have asked no pairson at a' to dine with ye as yet,—it's a vera sudden an' exceptional freak o' hospitality."

      Errington smoked on peacefully and made no answer. Duprèz hummed a verse of a French chansonnette under his breath and smiled. Lorimer glanced at him with a lazy amusement.

      "Unburden yourself, Pierre, for heaven's sake!" he said. "Your mind is as uncomfortable as a loaded camel. Let it lie down, while you take off its packages, one by one, and reveal their contents. In short, what's up?"

      Duprèz made a rapid, expressive gesture with his hands.

      "Mon cher, I fear to displease Phil-eep! He has invited these people; they are coming,—bien! there is no more to say."

      "I disagree with ye," interposed Macfarlane "I think Errington should hear what we ha' heard; it's fair an' just to a mon that he should understand what sort o' folk are gaun to pairtake wi' him at his table. Ye see, Errington, ye should ha' thought a wee, before inviting pairsons o' unsettled an' dootful chairacter—"

      "Who says they are?" demanded Errington half-angrily. "The drunken Dyceworthy?"

      "He was no sae drunk at the time he tauld us." persisted Macfarlane in his most obstinate, most dictatorial manner. "Ye see, it's just this way—"

      "Ah, pardon!" interrupted Duprèz briskly. "Our dear Sandy is an excellent talker, but he is a little slow. Thus it is, mon cher Errington. This gentleman named Güldmar had a most lovely wife—a mysterious lady, with an evident secret. The beautiful one was never seen in the church or in any town or village; she was met sometimes on hills, by rivers, in valleys, carrying her child in her arms. The people grew afraid of her; but, now, see what happens! Suddenly, she appears no more; some one ventures to ask this Monsieur Güldmar, 'What has become of Madame?' His answer is brief. 'She is dead!' Satisfactory so far, yet not quite; for, Madame being dead, then what has become of the corpse of Madame? It was never seen,—no coffin was ever ordered,—and apparently it was never buried! Bien! What follows? The good people of Bosekop draw the only conclusion possible—Monsieur Güldmar, who is said to have a terrific temper, killed Madame and made away with her body. Voilà!"

      And Duprèz waved his hand with an air of entire satisfaction.

      Errington's brow grew sombre. "This is the story, is it?" he asked at last.

      "It is enough, is it not?" laughed Duprèz. "But, after all, what matter? It will be novel to dine with a mur—"

      "Stop!" said Philip fiercely, with so much authority that the sparkling Pierre was startled. "Call no man by such a name till you know he deserves it. If Güldmar was suspected, as you say, why didn't somebody arrest him on the charge?"

      "Because, ye see," replied Macfarlane, "there was not sufficient proof to warrant such a proceeding. Moreover, the actual meenister of the parish declared it was a' richt, an' said this Güldmar was a mon o' vera queer notions, an' maybe, had buried his wife wi' certain ceremonies peculiar to himself—What's wrong wi' ye now?"

      For a light had flashed on Errington's mind, and with the quick comprehension it gave him, his countenance cleared. He laughed.

      "That's very likely," he said; "Mr. Güldmar is a character. He follows the faith of Odin, and not even Dyceworthy can convert him to Christianity."

      Macfarlane stared with a sort of stupefied solemnity.

      "Mon!" he exclaimed, "ye never mean to say there's an actual puir human creature that in this blessed, enlightened nineteenth century of ours, is so far misguidit as to worship the fearfu' gods o' the Scandinavian meethology?"

      "Ah!" yawned Lorimer, "you may wonder away, Sandy, but it's true enough! Old Güldmar is an Odinite. In this blessed, enlightened nineteenth century of ours, when Christians amuse themselves by despising and condemning each other, and thus upsetting all the precepts of the Master they profess to follow, there is actually a man who sticks to the traditions of his ancestors. Odd, isn't it? In this delightful, intellectual age, when more than half of us are discontented with life and yet don't want to die, there is a fine old gentleman, living beyond the Arctic circle, who is perfectly satisfied with his existence—not only that, he thinks death the greatest glory that can befall him. Comfortable state of things altogether! I'm half inclined to be an Odinite too."

      Sandy still remained lost in astonishment. "Then ye don't believe that he made awa' wi' his wife?" he inquired slowly.

      "Not in the least!" returned Lorimer decidedly; "neither will you, to-morrow, when you see him. He's a great deal better up in literature than you are, my boy, I'd swear, judging from the books he has. And when he mentioned his wife, as he did once, you could see in his face he had never done her any harm. Besides, his daughter—"

      "Ah! but I forgot," interposed Duprèz again. "The daughter, Thelma, was the child the mysteriously vanished lady carried in her arms, wandering with it all about the woods and hills. After her disappearance, another thing extraordinary happens. The child also disappears, and Monsieur Güldmar lives alone, avoided carefully by every respectable person. Suddenly the child returns, grown to be nearly a woman—and they say, lovely to an almost impossible extreme. She lives with her father. She, like her strange mother, never enters a church, town, or village—nowhere, in fact, where persons are in any numbers. Three years ago, it appears, she vanished again, but came back at the end of ten months, lovelier than ever. Since then she has remained quiet—composed—but always apart,—she may disappear at any moment. Droll, is it not, Errington? and the reputation she has is natural!"

      "Pray state it," said Philip, with freezing coldness. "The reputation of a woman is nothing nowadays. Fair game—go on!"

      But his face was pale, and his eyes blazed dangerously. Almost unconsciously his hand toyed with the rose Thelma had given him, that still ornamented his button-hole.

      "Mon Dieu!" cried Duprèz in amazement. "But look not at me like that! It seems to displease you, to put you en fureur, what I say! It is not my story,—it is not I,—I know not Mademoiselle Güldmar. But as her beauty is considered superhuman, they say it is the devil who is her parfumeur, her coiffeur, and who sees after her complexion; in brief, she is thought to be a witch in full practice, dangerous to life and limb."

      Errington laughed loudly, he was so much relieved.

      "Is that all?" he said with light contempt. "By Jove! what a pack of fools there must be about here,—ugly fools too, if they think beauty is a sign of witchcraft. I wonder Dyceworthy isn't scared out of his skin if he positively thinks the so-called witch is setting her cap at him."

      "Ah, but he means to convairt her," said Macfarlane seriously. "To draw the evil oot o' her, as it were. He said