Chapter Nine.

Chapter Nine.Tongue-Tied.For a time neither of the two companions spoke. The hush of the place was upon them; the extraordinary stillness, unbroken by so much as the cry of a bird, or by any sound more harsh than the soft rhythm of the rise and fall of the oars. On one side the grassy path, along which Millie and Wareham had walked to Bakke, wound, clasping the rock with a green girdle; on the other was neither path nor habitation, only the bold sweep of the mountain side, clothed with verdure running up to the snow patches, and coloured by blue shadows, or cut by the slender silver line of afos. Whatever there was, rock or trees, snow or leaping water, its double was below, with some strange charm added to its beauty; and so narrow was the fjord, that these reflections seemed to meet and fill it.Anne sat with her head turned away from Wareham, looking over the side of the boat into the green mystery through which they moved. He would not speak, fearing to disturb her, but he was able to watch her to his heart’s content. He was certain that she had grown younger since coming to Norway; he heaped scorn on himself for having detected hardness in her lovely face. And by what miracle were he and she together! Yet his position was cruel enough, for this day had already deepened his love, so that it was more and more difficult to keep back any outward sign which hinted at its expression; and although, placed as they now were, that would have been impossible, he told himself that if he were not bound by his duty to his friend, he might have put his fate to the test no later than to-morrow. To-morrow! That was an endurable date, but to be forced to wait, wait, wait, until the letter brought back an answer!—the letter which— He began to calculate. Saturday—this was Monday, and there was certainly no boat likely to leave Norway until the middle of the week. His letter was dawdling along, and at such a rate an answer would hardly reach him while he was in the country. And all these weeks to be tongue-tied!Anne turned round at this moment. Apparently she was not thinking of him, and had but changed her position in order to look at the other side of the fjord; but every time her face came before him under a fresh aspect, he was conscious of a sweet surprise. Presently she looked full at him, and smiled.“I want to say something and I can’t express it,” she said. “I suppose that is incomprehensible to you?”It was so like his own case that Wareham dared not venture to say how like. He was forced to treat his own feelings as if they were a packet of explosives, and keep light away from them. Anne went on—“I am perplexed with myself. This is so much more beautiful than I conceived, and it is so odd that I should think it beautiful!”“Why?”“Why am I, I?—I can’t explain. I only know that my friends will tell you that I am insensible to beauty of scenery.”“Rank heresy.”“I don’t know. It has been dinned into my ears so constantly that I have ended by accepting it. They assure me I have no eye for colour.”“I could confute them.”“Oh, once let me feel sure of myself, and I could manage the confuting,” said Anne coolly. “After to-day I shall not go down before them quite so easily, for I believe it is the colour which enchants me. Was ever anything so exquisite as this crater!”“I am glad you have extracted some compensation for my stupidity,” said Wareham, greedy of assurance that she liked to be in the boat with him. She took no notice beyond saying—“I still think they behaved rather meanly in deserting us.”“What are they feeling now, I wonder?”“As little as possible.”“Do you imply that they will not be uneasy?”“Blanche will say that it is Anne all over, and that she may be left to take care of herself. I dare say she is right.”“Do you like the woman?” he asked abruptly.“No catechism, Mr Wareham.”“Miss Ravenhill described her as ‘padded glass.’”Anne meditated, and looked amused.“That is a clever definition, whether it is she or not. I should have thought it more likely to come from you.”“It was all her own. Mrs Martyn seems to me rather forcedly rude than anything else.”“She has not a bad heart,” said Anne. “Rudeness is to her mind an outward expression of honesty, but one which she does not appreciate in other people. It is astonishing what a different aspect our own virtues wear—transplanted.”“If she is kind—” began Wareham.“I do not say she is always kind. She can hurt. She will not be kind about me to-day.”A thorn pricked Wareham. He said hastily—“She will know it was not your fault.”“She will try to keep me from knowing it. You may be sure it will be long before I hear the last of it, from her or from—others.”“From others?”Anne looked straight in his face.“Mr Wareham, I imagined you to be a man of the world. If you are, you must know as well as I that people will chatter.”“The world is not always absurd,” he retorted, with heat.“When was it not a gossip? Now I will ask a question which I have avoided before. When shall we get to Balholm?”“About two or three in the morning.”“And you flatter yourself that will not give a handle for talk!”Wareham had been surprised that she had said nothing of the sort before; he was conscious at the same time that if it had been Millie, the fear would not have struck her.“When they know the facts, they will see there was nothing else for us to do.”“They won’t know facts. One fact will be sufficient for them, and to that they will hold on as a dog to a bone. Never mind. I have gone through as much before.”“When?” Wareham asked jealously.“Oh, not with this sort of experience. This is new to me. But I have served as a bone so often that I am used to the worrying. Don’t let us talk of it now. I want to drink in my new enjoyment, to develop my new sense. Look at the drifting shadow on that hill, and the splendour of the snow. But it is the water, the water that fascinates me. I am going to watch it.”He accepted this as a hint that he was not to speak, and the turmoil in him was not sorry for silence which left time for many voices to have their say. This hint of Anne’s that the world would make her suffer for what his carelessness had brought upon her, carried with it an almost unendurable sting. Under other circumstances he would have said to her, if not that hour, to-morrow, “I love you. Be my wife.” But his duty to Hugh? Doubly bound, as he was, by the promise of his letter to abstain from any step until the answer had come, could he fling it to the winds, and forswear himself? The letter to which he looked for deliverance was but tightening his bonds. He was swayed this way and that, now swung low by such fretting thoughts, now conscious of mounting to heights of bliss in the warm fresh air, with the mountains and the water around, and Anne sitting close to—touching him. She said presently—“We are the only thinking creatures in sight, and the world looks very big. Does it make you feel small or great?”“It dwarfs one, doesn’t it?”“It seems to me as if I had seen it all before, and I have been trying to think where. I believe now that it was when I was a child, and sat solitary, reading Sinbad the Sailor. Perhaps there was some old picture, for certainly this takes me back to that.”“Were you solitary?”“Very,” Anne said, smiling. “I brought myself up, and very badly. Look behind. The mountains are closing; now that they have let us out, they shut their portals.”She was silent again, and Wareham, quick to read her moods, humoured her. The boat moved slowly along, slowly it seemed, when the great surroundings filled the eye. The heavens were blue, but here and there a white cloud drifted lazily, or caught the mountain snow-beds, and curled round them, like a vaporous reminder of their fate. The lovely vivid green of the young summer crept up and down the mighty hills, softening the rude scars of centuries until they looked no more than delicate and shadowy indentations; the stern granite blossomed into tender rose and grey, and the water-world below gave back all this and more. Every now and then the men who were rowing exchanged a word: they had grave steadfast faces.“Talk to them,” Anne said suddenly at last. “Ask them about their lives.” Wareham struggled obediently.“My questions are obliged to be simple,” he said. “And I am even more anxious the answers should be. A universal language. Is it a dream?”“We are pleased to infer that it is our own which will serve the purpose, but by the time the idea has developed into fact it may be Japanese.”“To become a ruling nation they will have been forced to adopt ours.”“Oh, British arrogance! However, I do not wish it. Uniformity is always dull, and I would rather suffer shame from my own ignorance than have all the world patted down to one dead level. There is dignity in the unknown. When I hear these men talk, I can’t help imagining that what they say would be worth hearing, if I could only understand, though probably it is about nothing more valuable than as to how many gulden they may get for their hay, if, indeed, any of them ever sell anything. Do ask them that.”“I can’t,” Wareham confessed. “My conversation is chiefly made up of nouns and notes of interrogation.”“Well, what have you extracted?”“Both are married. One has four children, who walk five kilometres to school every day of their lives. The other has a son, of course in America. He is a wood-carver, and hopes by the sale of his work to lay by enough to take him to Chicago.”Anne’s eyes sparkled.“Tell him I will buy a great deal. As soon as I meet my money again,” she added, laughing. “Am I not to be allowed to assist?”“I have nothing to do with your purchases,” Anne said quietly. “I dare say you want something for your friends at home. Have you a great many?”Wareham blurted out—“I have no greater friend than Hugh Forbes.” Why he said it he could not tell. He had been forcing himself ever since they started to keep Hugh’s image in mind, and his name leapt suddenly to his lips. Anne did not look discomposed.“He is a very good fellow,” she said, after a momentary hesitation.“Yet you would not marry him?”“It has puzzled you? It puzzled no one else. Blanche Martyn will tell you she knew how it must be from the first.”“Why?” asked Wareham, leaning forward with his arms on his knees, and staring at the bottom of the boat.“You should ask her, not me. The accused is not bound to criminate herself.”“The accused! Good heavens, do you suppose!” he began passionately, then by a great effort stopped. Anne was looking at him through half-closed eyes.“However,” she went on, as if he had not spoken, “I will let you hear her explanation. She thinks I am a flirt.”“She is a detestable woman.”“Oh, no; and I believe her to be right. I told you just now that I had no sense of colour; well, I have a worse confession to make. I have no heart.”“One is as true as the other,” Wareham protested stoutly. She shook her head.“Possibly it may come. But as yet I am without it.”“You forget. You gave me another reason.”“That I did not care for him sufficiently. It surprised you. It might be a proof that what I tell you is no more than the truth. For it would be difficult to conceive any one more lovable.”Wareham’s own heart agreed, but refused to accept the conclusion.“Really,” she said, “it was this charm of his which opened my eyes to my own want. I meant to marry, and so long as I did not dislike the man, would not trouble myself to think I need give him more. Suddenly I discovered I liked him too much to let him find himself in that position, and released him. It was the best act in my life, and it has alienated the friends who were most worth keeping.”Wareham’s hopes met this dash of ice-cold water with a gallant effort for his friend. He turned pale, but muttered—“You do not know yourself. You may love him yet.”“Never. All that I felt was that I could not feel.”She spoke with conviction, and the conviction roused traitors in his own heart, who repeated the sweet assurance again and again. As for her saying that she could not feel, he laughed the notion to scorn. Had he but the chance, he would teach her to feel, batter at her heart till it awoke with an ache to find itself captured. The danger was that before this happened his honour might have to hang its head, disgraced, for the frank confidence she showed seemed to bring her nearer and nearer, and made waiting harder. He hoped he had strength to be silent, for he dared not attempt to argue with her. With an abrupt movement he motioned to one of the men to cease rowing, and took his place. The strong regular play of the muscles came like a relief, but the other man, forced to a quicker stroke, presently remonstrated. Wareham asked whether it were impossible to sail, quicker movement seeming imperative. He knew what the answer must be when he put the question, for not a breath of wind stirred the glass of the fjord. After he had rowed for one man some time he relieved the other; if it had been possible he would have liked to have had it all on his shoulders. Anne said to him at last—“You are putting such energy into your work that it tires me to look at you. Does half-an-hour more or less really mean so much?”He laid down the oars, and came across the boat to her side.“It means nothing, except that I felt the need of a spurt. We are close to Utne, where we should find a decent inn. Had you not better stop there and rest? You want food by this time.”“I would rather not stop. I have been eating biscuits, and you might as well follow my example.”“Suppose Mrs Martyn has waited?”Anne meditated.“Let us row near the shore. If any one belonging to us is there, they will see and make signs. But there will be no one.”There was not. Wareham would gladly have hailed Mrs Martyn, yet was conscious of a throb of delight when the pretty little village lay behind them. They were by this time in more open water, and the depression which had fastened on him fled away.“What are your commands about your picnic?” he asked, smiling.“Find out from the men if there is any place where we can land and boil some water.” This took some time and a little guessing. Finally—“I believe they say there is an island,” said Wareham.“I am sure there is.”“We should reach it in an hour.”He spent the hour in blissful dreams which, having been once routed, now trooped merrily back. Anne was generally silent, but when she spoke it was with the same friendly ease she had shown throughout the day, and she made no complaints of fatigue. Indeed, he classed her as a heroine when he reflected that she had uttered nothing in the shape of a grumble. Would not most women have indulged in something of the sort? Wareham liked to believe that they would, and exalted her accordingly for her forbearance. It was evening by the hours, and they were well in the Sogne fjord, when Anne pointed out the island towards which the boat was directed.“Do you see?”“I see a rock.”“And what else would you have in mid-water? If we can but find something to burn!”“I believe there is a hut,” said Wareham, curving his hands into a telescope.“A solitary! Only this was wanted.” Anne’s face was radiant.“He may drive us away.”“A man? Oh, no!” she laughed serenely.Her confidence proved well-founded, for the Sogne fisherman, who leaped down the rocks to give the boat a helping hand, gave them a grave welcome. He was a wild figure with his scarlet jacket, brown breeches, and light hair under a broad hat. Anne looked at him appreciatively.“I could not have dressed him better myself—for the piece,” she said. “How odious I am to say so! It is one of the snares of over-civilisation that, instead of the theatre suggesting nature, nature suggests the theatre. This is all so natural that I feel we ought to be applauding.”She was stiff with sitting. Wareham gave her his hand to help her from the boat, and the light touch of her fingers thrilled him.The island was no more than a rock, with scant herbage; a few goats and a dog shared it with the man; a boat was drawn up at one shelving point, and the low hut was formed of heaped pieces of rock and roofed with waving grass. There was no chimney; a hole in the roof sufficed for the smoke to pass through. Anne was as excited as a child. She unpacked hertine, and spread their meal on a rock. Wareham had to act as interpreter, and ask that a peat or two might be set ablaze to provide them with hot water; the man’s good-will did not reach the point of making him hurry, but he watched Anne’s quick deft movements with amusement. When all was ready they sat down together. Anne had brought a little tea-pot and two cups, Wareham a bottle of wine, which the men drank out of a rough mug; he could not give up the pleasure of letting Anne pour out tea for himself. It was a very frugal meal, added to, though it was, by dried fish; and when it was finished, she dispensed tobacco to the three men. It seemed she detested the smell; Wareham suggested their walking round the island until the pipes had been smoked. She hesitated, finally agreed.They scrambled round to the western side, a filmy glory spread over the heavens, interrupted only by the swoop of a grey vapourish cloud. As it had been all along, what the waters saw they gave back again, so that the golden suffusion reached to their very feet. The near reflections were now dark.“To live here alone! Can you conceive it?” Anne exclaimed.“Not for one of us; but with so thin a population, solitude probably is second nature.”“Solitude would require thought, and thought culture.”“Work might take its place. Work here must be incessant. Relax it, and you die.”“Why not? What makes it worth while to live? Would any one miss him?”“Depend upon it, he has a world of his own, but, why—”He stopped suddenly. Anne looked at him in surprise.“Why?” she repeated.He had caught himself on the point of rushing into more personal speech, and the jerk with which he pulled himself up made him awkward.“Why should we not ask him? For one thing, I imagine he does not stay in winter. He is only here for the fishing.”“Oh, winter! The very idea is terrible. Yet I should like to see this country in its own snow and ice. Warmly wrapped, I can fancy it bearable, even enjoyable.”“Yes. Cold is the rich man’s luxury.” He answered her mechanically, his thoughts flying impatiently to Hugh, picturing him receiving the letter, answering it. Anne looked at him in surprise, reading trouble in his face.“Never a luxury to me,” she said. “And it is growing cold now. Don’t you think we may start?”The red-coated fisherman put aside all thought of payment. Wareham had difficulty in making him accept a very trifling sum. He stood watching them, and, for a time, as long as they looked back, they saw him blackly silhouetted against the clear sky. Anne had wrapped herself in her furs; the great open fjord gradually paled, the sound of the oars seemed to grow louder; it was like a dream to Wareham, with something of the bondage, the confusion, and the fret of a dream, yet with its strange delight as well. Once or twice he and Anne exchanged words, once or twice he took the oars again; outlines grew vague, it was not dark overhead, but they felt as though they were rowing on into the night. Suddenly Anne looked up.“The bottom of the boat is wet. Is that right?”Wareham bent down and uttered an exclamation, for water was certainly oozing in, and under cover of the dusk had been unnoticed, until Anne moved her foot and touched it. He called one of the men, who made an examination.“Is it a leak?” she asked presently.Wareham spoke quietly.“There is a cork acting as a plug, and it appears to be rotten. But you need not be alarmed.”“I am not alarmed. What shall you do? Try to land?”There was a consultation.“The men say we should gain very little. It is twelve o’clock, and Balholm is as near as any other place, so that they advise our going on. Of course one of us will keep close watch, and bale out what water comes in; also have something ready to serve as a plug. But I am afraid it adds to your discomfort.”“Oh no, I shall be admiring your resources. Don’t leave me useless. Would you like me to act like the boy at the Dutch dyke?”“I am sure you would,” said Wareham, in a low voice which silenced her.It was not very easy to find materials for the plug. Anne handed him her gloves, and he abstracted one, but was afraid of discovery if he kept the other. A felt hat belonging to one of the men was rolled as tightly as possible, and held ready; at the same time the men insisted that the cork should not be removed until absolutely necessary, and one was told off to bale and watch.“All the sensations I imagined are going to be provided for us in miniature,” said Anne, with a laugh. “A desert island, and a leaky boat in mid-ocean. Mr Wareham, you are a conjuror!”“May the conjuring land you finally and safely at Balholm!”“After which!” She laughed again.Silence fell on them once more. One man was scooping up the water in the tin mug; it gurgled under his hand, and the splash of throwing it over followed. The fjord, in the clear semi-darkness, stretched into infinite distances, a wisp of cloud sailed slowly overhead, a pettish breeze blew chilly against Anne’s cheek. She called across to Wareham—“There is a little wind. Can’t we sail?”“These fjords are treacherous. I dare not. You are not cold?”She was, but she would not let him know it. It seemed to her that the quantity of water in the boat increased, but they laughed at her offer to assist in the baling. At the end of half-an-hour Wareham changed places with the man who was dipping. The change threw him again close to Anne, and facing her; it struck him that she looked alarmingly white.“You are exhausted?” he asked anxiously. “You don’t know how strong I am.”“I can’t get them to quicken stroke. They are steady, but slow.”“Patience, patience!” He saw that she was smiling at him.“You need not preach patience to me,” he said, in a low voice. “So far as I am concerned, I should be very well pleased to go on like this for ever.”“There might be worse things,” said Anne dreamily, and his head swam. He was silent because he dared not speak; his thoughts leapt forward to the time when he might call her his own; meanwhile surely this was the very bliss of misery! It was she who spoke next. “It is lighter,” she said. “I verily believe the day is breaking.”Wareham consulted his watch.“Yes, and in an hour we reach Balholm.”“Cork and all?”“I think so.”“Tell me. Have we been in danger?”“Not since you found it out, and we have had something ready. If it had suddenly given way, matters might have been different; but as it is, we have nothing to fear beyond the discomfort of a wet boat.”“And I suppose there will be some one about. Mr Grey calls this the Land of the Always-up.”“I suppose so. At any rate, we will get them up at Kviknaes’. Perhaps Mrs Martyn will have thought of you sufficiently to order a room to be kept for you. You ought to see Balholm now.”“There is too much mist.”Gradually this light mist melted, light laughed out, a wind swept the mountains and left them clear; everything was bathed in silvery radiance, the colours were delicate, the air vigorous and keen. Anne shivered.“It is like one’s lost youth,” she said.Her lost youth! Wareham lifted a look of reproach, but circumstances had come to the aid of his faltering resolution, since scooping water from the bottom of a boat is fatal to the sentimental view. Anne at last began to laugh at him.“I am sure your back aches,” she said.“You may be sure. There is lost youth if you like,” he answered, straightening himself, and stretching.She advised him to change with a rower, but he would not. It was something to be near her, though he suffered for it twice over. And the strong heart of the morning showed his hopes in stouter aspect. Hugh would see that his cause was desperate, and generosity would not suffer him to wreck another life with his own. Before he left, Wareham had treated his friend’s crushed heart with severity or lightness as need arose, now he allowed it to have been serious enough, but as serious as his—never! Nevertheless, he could not indulge undisturbed in the wild dreams of happiness which flitted through his head, for with them Hugh’s face intruded itself.And—the letter!They were near the landing-place at Balholm, and fronted by the mountain with the strange cleft in its snowy summit. Mountain, field, the few red-roofed houses, the outstanding pier, were bathed in the glory of the sun, now hastening upwards. One or two figures stood looking at the oncoming boat.Wareham flung a glance over his shoulder.“They are expecting us,” he said, “you see.”A shout came to them across the water—another. A thought startled him, he looked eagerly at Anne. She had her eyes fixed on the shore, some agitation had crept into them, and for a minute she did not speak.“Who is it?” asked Wareham hoarsely, without turning round.“It is Mr Forbes.”“Impossible!”“See for yourself.”

For a time neither of the two companions spoke. The hush of the place was upon them; the extraordinary stillness, unbroken by so much as the cry of a bird, or by any sound more harsh than the soft rhythm of the rise and fall of the oars. On one side the grassy path, along which Millie and Wareham had walked to Bakke, wound, clasping the rock with a green girdle; on the other was neither path nor habitation, only the bold sweep of the mountain side, clothed with verdure running up to the snow patches, and coloured by blue shadows, or cut by the slender silver line of afos. Whatever there was, rock or trees, snow or leaping water, its double was below, with some strange charm added to its beauty; and so narrow was the fjord, that these reflections seemed to meet and fill it.

Anne sat with her head turned away from Wareham, looking over the side of the boat into the green mystery through which they moved. He would not speak, fearing to disturb her, but he was able to watch her to his heart’s content. He was certain that she had grown younger since coming to Norway; he heaped scorn on himself for having detected hardness in her lovely face. And by what miracle were he and she together! Yet his position was cruel enough, for this day had already deepened his love, so that it was more and more difficult to keep back any outward sign which hinted at its expression; and although, placed as they now were, that would have been impossible, he told himself that if he were not bound by his duty to his friend, he might have put his fate to the test no later than to-morrow. To-morrow! That was an endurable date, but to be forced to wait, wait, wait, until the letter brought back an answer!—the letter which— He began to calculate. Saturday—this was Monday, and there was certainly no boat likely to leave Norway until the middle of the week. His letter was dawdling along, and at such a rate an answer would hardly reach him while he was in the country. And all these weeks to be tongue-tied!

Anne turned round at this moment. Apparently she was not thinking of him, and had but changed her position in order to look at the other side of the fjord; but every time her face came before him under a fresh aspect, he was conscious of a sweet surprise. Presently she looked full at him, and smiled.

“I want to say something and I can’t express it,” she said. “I suppose that is incomprehensible to you?”

It was so like his own case that Wareham dared not venture to say how like. He was forced to treat his own feelings as if they were a packet of explosives, and keep light away from them. Anne went on—

“I am perplexed with myself. This is so much more beautiful than I conceived, and it is so odd that I should think it beautiful!”

“Why?”

“Why am I, I?—I can’t explain. I only know that my friends will tell you that I am insensible to beauty of scenery.”

“Rank heresy.”

“I don’t know. It has been dinned into my ears so constantly that I have ended by accepting it. They assure me I have no eye for colour.”

“I could confute them.”

“Oh, once let me feel sure of myself, and I could manage the confuting,” said Anne coolly. “After to-day I shall not go down before them quite so easily, for I believe it is the colour which enchants me. Was ever anything so exquisite as this crater!”

“I am glad you have extracted some compensation for my stupidity,” said Wareham, greedy of assurance that she liked to be in the boat with him. She took no notice beyond saying—

“I still think they behaved rather meanly in deserting us.”

“What are they feeling now, I wonder?”

“As little as possible.”

“Do you imply that they will not be uneasy?”

“Blanche will say that it is Anne all over, and that she may be left to take care of herself. I dare say she is right.”

“Do you like the woman?” he asked abruptly.

“No catechism, Mr Wareham.”

“Miss Ravenhill described her as ‘padded glass.’”

Anne meditated, and looked amused.

“That is a clever definition, whether it is she or not. I should have thought it more likely to come from you.”

“It was all her own. Mrs Martyn seems to me rather forcedly rude than anything else.”

“She has not a bad heart,” said Anne. “Rudeness is to her mind an outward expression of honesty, but one which she does not appreciate in other people. It is astonishing what a different aspect our own virtues wear—transplanted.”

“If she is kind—” began Wareham.

“I do not say she is always kind. She can hurt. She will not be kind about me to-day.”

A thorn pricked Wareham. He said hastily—

“She will know it was not your fault.”

“She will try to keep me from knowing it. You may be sure it will be long before I hear the last of it, from her or from—others.”

“From others?”

Anne looked straight in his face.

“Mr Wareham, I imagined you to be a man of the world. If you are, you must know as well as I that people will chatter.”

“The world is not always absurd,” he retorted, with heat.

“When was it not a gossip? Now I will ask a question which I have avoided before. When shall we get to Balholm?”

“About two or three in the morning.”

“And you flatter yourself that will not give a handle for talk!”

Wareham had been surprised that she had said nothing of the sort before; he was conscious at the same time that if it had been Millie, the fear would not have struck her.

“When they know the facts, they will see there was nothing else for us to do.”

“They won’t know facts. One fact will be sufficient for them, and to that they will hold on as a dog to a bone. Never mind. I have gone through as much before.”

“When?” Wareham asked jealously.

“Oh, not with this sort of experience. This is new to me. But I have served as a bone so often that I am used to the worrying. Don’t let us talk of it now. I want to drink in my new enjoyment, to develop my new sense. Look at the drifting shadow on that hill, and the splendour of the snow. But it is the water, the water that fascinates me. I am going to watch it.”

He accepted this as a hint that he was not to speak, and the turmoil in him was not sorry for silence which left time for many voices to have their say. This hint of Anne’s that the world would make her suffer for what his carelessness had brought upon her, carried with it an almost unendurable sting. Under other circumstances he would have said to her, if not that hour, to-morrow, “I love you. Be my wife.” But his duty to Hugh? Doubly bound, as he was, by the promise of his letter to abstain from any step until the answer had come, could he fling it to the winds, and forswear himself? The letter to which he looked for deliverance was but tightening his bonds. He was swayed this way and that, now swung low by such fretting thoughts, now conscious of mounting to heights of bliss in the warm fresh air, with the mountains and the water around, and Anne sitting close to—touching him. She said presently—

“We are the only thinking creatures in sight, and the world looks very big. Does it make you feel small or great?”

“It dwarfs one, doesn’t it?”

“It seems to me as if I had seen it all before, and I have been trying to think where. I believe now that it was when I was a child, and sat solitary, reading Sinbad the Sailor. Perhaps there was some old picture, for certainly this takes me back to that.”

“Were you solitary?”

“Very,” Anne said, smiling. “I brought myself up, and very badly. Look behind. The mountains are closing; now that they have let us out, they shut their portals.”

She was silent again, and Wareham, quick to read her moods, humoured her. The boat moved slowly along, slowly it seemed, when the great surroundings filled the eye. The heavens were blue, but here and there a white cloud drifted lazily, or caught the mountain snow-beds, and curled round them, like a vaporous reminder of their fate. The lovely vivid green of the young summer crept up and down the mighty hills, softening the rude scars of centuries until they looked no more than delicate and shadowy indentations; the stern granite blossomed into tender rose and grey, and the water-world below gave back all this and more. Every now and then the men who were rowing exchanged a word: they had grave steadfast faces.

“Talk to them,” Anne said suddenly at last. “Ask them about their lives.” Wareham struggled obediently.

“My questions are obliged to be simple,” he said. “And I am even more anxious the answers should be. A universal language. Is it a dream?”

“We are pleased to infer that it is our own which will serve the purpose, but by the time the idea has developed into fact it may be Japanese.”

“To become a ruling nation they will have been forced to adopt ours.”

“Oh, British arrogance! However, I do not wish it. Uniformity is always dull, and I would rather suffer shame from my own ignorance than have all the world patted down to one dead level. There is dignity in the unknown. When I hear these men talk, I can’t help imagining that what they say would be worth hearing, if I could only understand, though probably it is about nothing more valuable than as to how many gulden they may get for their hay, if, indeed, any of them ever sell anything. Do ask them that.”

“I can’t,” Wareham confessed. “My conversation is chiefly made up of nouns and notes of interrogation.”

“Well, what have you extracted?”

“Both are married. One has four children, who walk five kilometres to school every day of their lives. The other has a son, of course in America. He is a wood-carver, and hopes by the sale of his work to lay by enough to take him to Chicago.”

Anne’s eyes sparkled.

“Tell him I will buy a great deal. As soon as I meet my money again,” she added, laughing. “Am I not to be allowed to assist?”

“I have nothing to do with your purchases,” Anne said quietly. “I dare say you want something for your friends at home. Have you a great many?”

Wareham blurted out—“I have no greater friend than Hugh Forbes.” Why he said it he could not tell. He had been forcing himself ever since they started to keep Hugh’s image in mind, and his name leapt suddenly to his lips. Anne did not look discomposed.

“He is a very good fellow,” she said, after a momentary hesitation.

“Yet you would not marry him?”

“It has puzzled you? It puzzled no one else. Blanche Martyn will tell you she knew how it must be from the first.”

“Why?” asked Wareham, leaning forward with his arms on his knees, and staring at the bottom of the boat.

“You should ask her, not me. The accused is not bound to criminate herself.”

“The accused! Good heavens, do you suppose!” he began passionately, then by a great effort stopped. Anne was looking at him through half-closed eyes.

“However,” she went on, as if he had not spoken, “I will let you hear her explanation. She thinks I am a flirt.”

“She is a detestable woman.”

“Oh, no; and I believe her to be right. I told you just now that I had no sense of colour; well, I have a worse confession to make. I have no heart.”

“One is as true as the other,” Wareham protested stoutly. She shook her head.

“Possibly it may come. But as yet I am without it.”

“You forget. You gave me another reason.”

“That I did not care for him sufficiently. It surprised you. It might be a proof that what I tell you is no more than the truth. For it would be difficult to conceive any one more lovable.”

Wareham’s own heart agreed, but refused to accept the conclusion.

“Really,” she said, “it was this charm of his which opened my eyes to my own want. I meant to marry, and so long as I did not dislike the man, would not trouble myself to think I need give him more. Suddenly I discovered I liked him too much to let him find himself in that position, and released him. It was the best act in my life, and it has alienated the friends who were most worth keeping.”

Wareham’s hopes met this dash of ice-cold water with a gallant effort for his friend. He turned pale, but muttered—

“You do not know yourself. You may love him yet.”

“Never. All that I felt was that I could not feel.”

She spoke with conviction, and the conviction roused traitors in his own heart, who repeated the sweet assurance again and again. As for her saying that she could not feel, he laughed the notion to scorn. Had he but the chance, he would teach her to feel, batter at her heart till it awoke with an ache to find itself captured. The danger was that before this happened his honour might have to hang its head, disgraced, for the frank confidence she showed seemed to bring her nearer and nearer, and made waiting harder. He hoped he had strength to be silent, for he dared not attempt to argue with her. With an abrupt movement he motioned to one of the men to cease rowing, and took his place. The strong regular play of the muscles came like a relief, but the other man, forced to a quicker stroke, presently remonstrated. Wareham asked whether it were impossible to sail, quicker movement seeming imperative. He knew what the answer must be when he put the question, for not a breath of wind stirred the glass of the fjord. After he had rowed for one man some time he relieved the other; if it had been possible he would have liked to have had it all on his shoulders. Anne said to him at last—

“You are putting such energy into your work that it tires me to look at you. Does half-an-hour more or less really mean so much?”

He laid down the oars, and came across the boat to her side.

“It means nothing, except that I felt the need of a spurt. We are close to Utne, where we should find a decent inn. Had you not better stop there and rest? You want food by this time.”

“I would rather not stop. I have been eating biscuits, and you might as well follow my example.”

“Suppose Mrs Martyn has waited?”

Anne meditated.

“Let us row near the shore. If any one belonging to us is there, they will see and make signs. But there will be no one.”

There was not. Wareham would gladly have hailed Mrs Martyn, yet was conscious of a throb of delight when the pretty little village lay behind them. They were by this time in more open water, and the depression which had fastened on him fled away.

“What are your commands about your picnic?” he asked, smiling.

“Find out from the men if there is any place where we can land and boil some water.” This took some time and a little guessing. Finally—

“I believe they say there is an island,” said Wareham.

“I am sure there is.”

“We should reach it in an hour.”

He spent the hour in blissful dreams which, having been once routed, now trooped merrily back. Anne was generally silent, but when she spoke it was with the same friendly ease she had shown throughout the day, and she made no complaints of fatigue. Indeed, he classed her as a heroine when he reflected that she had uttered nothing in the shape of a grumble. Would not most women have indulged in something of the sort? Wareham liked to believe that they would, and exalted her accordingly for her forbearance. It was evening by the hours, and they were well in the Sogne fjord, when Anne pointed out the island towards which the boat was directed.

“Do you see?”

“I see a rock.”

“And what else would you have in mid-water? If we can but find something to burn!”

“I believe there is a hut,” said Wareham, curving his hands into a telescope.

“A solitary! Only this was wanted.” Anne’s face was radiant.

“He may drive us away.”

“A man? Oh, no!” she laughed serenely.

Her confidence proved well-founded, for the Sogne fisherman, who leaped down the rocks to give the boat a helping hand, gave them a grave welcome. He was a wild figure with his scarlet jacket, brown breeches, and light hair under a broad hat. Anne looked at him appreciatively.

“I could not have dressed him better myself—for the piece,” she said. “How odious I am to say so! It is one of the snares of over-civilisation that, instead of the theatre suggesting nature, nature suggests the theatre. This is all so natural that I feel we ought to be applauding.”

She was stiff with sitting. Wareham gave her his hand to help her from the boat, and the light touch of her fingers thrilled him.

The island was no more than a rock, with scant herbage; a few goats and a dog shared it with the man; a boat was drawn up at one shelving point, and the low hut was formed of heaped pieces of rock and roofed with waving grass. There was no chimney; a hole in the roof sufficed for the smoke to pass through. Anne was as excited as a child. She unpacked hertine, and spread their meal on a rock. Wareham had to act as interpreter, and ask that a peat or two might be set ablaze to provide them with hot water; the man’s good-will did not reach the point of making him hurry, but he watched Anne’s quick deft movements with amusement. When all was ready they sat down together. Anne had brought a little tea-pot and two cups, Wareham a bottle of wine, which the men drank out of a rough mug; he could not give up the pleasure of letting Anne pour out tea for himself. It was a very frugal meal, added to, though it was, by dried fish; and when it was finished, she dispensed tobacco to the three men. It seemed she detested the smell; Wareham suggested their walking round the island until the pipes had been smoked. She hesitated, finally agreed.

They scrambled round to the western side, a filmy glory spread over the heavens, interrupted only by the swoop of a grey vapourish cloud. As it had been all along, what the waters saw they gave back again, so that the golden suffusion reached to their very feet. The near reflections were now dark.

“To live here alone! Can you conceive it?” Anne exclaimed.

“Not for one of us; but with so thin a population, solitude probably is second nature.”

“Solitude would require thought, and thought culture.”

“Work might take its place. Work here must be incessant. Relax it, and you die.”

“Why not? What makes it worth while to live? Would any one miss him?”

“Depend upon it, he has a world of his own, but, why—”

He stopped suddenly. Anne looked at him in surprise.

“Why?” she repeated.

He had caught himself on the point of rushing into more personal speech, and the jerk with which he pulled himself up made him awkward.

“Why should we not ask him? For one thing, I imagine he does not stay in winter. He is only here for the fishing.”

“Oh, winter! The very idea is terrible. Yet I should like to see this country in its own snow and ice. Warmly wrapped, I can fancy it bearable, even enjoyable.”

“Yes. Cold is the rich man’s luxury.” He answered her mechanically, his thoughts flying impatiently to Hugh, picturing him receiving the letter, answering it. Anne looked at him in surprise, reading trouble in his face.

“Never a luxury to me,” she said. “And it is growing cold now. Don’t you think we may start?”

The red-coated fisherman put aside all thought of payment. Wareham had difficulty in making him accept a very trifling sum. He stood watching them, and, for a time, as long as they looked back, they saw him blackly silhouetted against the clear sky. Anne had wrapped herself in her furs; the great open fjord gradually paled, the sound of the oars seemed to grow louder; it was like a dream to Wareham, with something of the bondage, the confusion, and the fret of a dream, yet with its strange delight as well. Once or twice he and Anne exchanged words, once or twice he took the oars again; outlines grew vague, it was not dark overhead, but they felt as though they were rowing on into the night. Suddenly Anne looked up.

“The bottom of the boat is wet. Is that right?”

Wareham bent down and uttered an exclamation, for water was certainly oozing in, and under cover of the dusk had been unnoticed, until Anne moved her foot and touched it. He called one of the men, who made an examination.

“Is it a leak?” she asked presently.

Wareham spoke quietly.

“There is a cork acting as a plug, and it appears to be rotten. But you need not be alarmed.”

“I am not alarmed. What shall you do? Try to land?”

There was a consultation.

“The men say we should gain very little. It is twelve o’clock, and Balholm is as near as any other place, so that they advise our going on. Of course one of us will keep close watch, and bale out what water comes in; also have something ready to serve as a plug. But I am afraid it adds to your discomfort.”

“Oh no, I shall be admiring your resources. Don’t leave me useless. Would you like me to act like the boy at the Dutch dyke?”

“I am sure you would,” said Wareham, in a low voice which silenced her.

It was not very easy to find materials for the plug. Anne handed him her gloves, and he abstracted one, but was afraid of discovery if he kept the other. A felt hat belonging to one of the men was rolled as tightly as possible, and held ready; at the same time the men insisted that the cork should not be removed until absolutely necessary, and one was told off to bale and watch.

“All the sensations I imagined are going to be provided for us in miniature,” said Anne, with a laugh. “A desert island, and a leaky boat in mid-ocean. Mr Wareham, you are a conjuror!”

“May the conjuring land you finally and safely at Balholm!”

“After which!” She laughed again.

Silence fell on them once more. One man was scooping up the water in the tin mug; it gurgled under his hand, and the splash of throwing it over followed. The fjord, in the clear semi-darkness, stretched into infinite distances, a wisp of cloud sailed slowly overhead, a pettish breeze blew chilly against Anne’s cheek. She called across to Wareham—“There is a little wind. Can’t we sail?”

“These fjords are treacherous. I dare not. You are not cold?”

She was, but she would not let him know it. It seemed to her that the quantity of water in the boat increased, but they laughed at her offer to assist in the baling. At the end of half-an-hour Wareham changed places with the man who was dipping. The change threw him again close to Anne, and facing her; it struck him that she looked alarmingly white.

“You are exhausted?” he asked anxiously. “You don’t know how strong I am.”

“I can’t get them to quicken stroke. They are steady, but slow.”

“Patience, patience!” He saw that she was smiling at him.

“You need not preach patience to me,” he said, in a low voice. “So far as I am concerned, I should be very well pleased to go on like this for ever.”

“There might be worse things,” said Anne dreamily, and his head swam. He was silent because he dared not speak; his thoughts leapt forward to the time when he might call her his own; meanwhile surely this was the very bliss of misery! It was she who spoke next. “It is lighter,” she said. “I verily believe the day is breaking.”

Wareham consulted his watch.

“Yes, and in an hour we reach Balholm.”

“Cork and all?”

“I think so.”

“Tell me. Have we been in danger?”

“Not since you found it out, and we have had something ready. If it had suddenly given way, matters might have been different; but as it is, we have nothing to fear beyond the discomfort of a wet boat.”

“And I suppose there will be some one about. Mr Grey calls this the Land of the Always-up.”

“I suppose so. At any rate, we will get them up at Kviknaes’. Perhaps Mrs Martyn will have thought of you sufficiently to order a room to be kept for you. You ought to see Balholm now.”

“There is too much mist.”

Gradually this light mist melted, light laughed out, a wind swept the mountains and left them clear; everything was bathed in silvery radiance, the colours were delicate, the air vigorous and keen. Anne shivered.

“It is like one’s lost youth,” she said.

Her lost youth! Wareham lifted a look of reproach, but circumstances had come to the aid of his faltering resolution, since scooping water from the bottom of a boat is fatal to the sentimental view. Anne at last began to laugh at him.

“I am sure your back aches,” she said.

“You may be sure. There is lost youth if you like,” he answered, straightening himself, and stretching.

She advised him to change with a rower, but he would not. It was something to be near her, though he suffered for it twice over. And the strong heart of the morning showed his hopes in stouter aspect. Hugh would see that his cause was desperate, and generosity would not suffer him to wreck another life with his own. Before he left, Wareham had treated his friend’s crushed heart with severity or lightness as need arose, now he allowed it to have been serious enough, but as serious as his—never! Nevertheless, he could not indulge undisturbed in the wild dreams of happiness which flitted through his head, for with them Hugh’s face intruded itself.

And—the letter!

They were near the landing-place at Balholm, and fronted by the mountain with the strange cleft in its snowy summit. Mountain, field, the few red-roofed houses, the outstanding pier, were bathed in the glory of the sun, now hastening upwards. One or two figures stood looking at the oncoming boat.

Wareham flung a glance over his shoulder.

“They are expecting us,” he said, “you see.”

A shout came to them across the water—another. A thought startled him, he looked eagerly at Anne. She had her eyes fixed on the shore, some agitation had crept into them, and for a minute she did not speak.

“Who is it?” asked Wareham hoarsely, without turning round.

“It is Mr Forbes.”

“Impossible!”

“See for yourself.”

Chapter Ten.The Inconvenience of Two Heroes.At its best, the unexpected is apt to come off awkwardly, and here was more than one awkward element. When hearing distance was reached, they found that Hugh was speaking volubly—“Are you all right? No one suffered? What a nuisance for you both! Bring the boat a little further on, Dick, and Miss Dalrymple will land more comfortably. Are you all right?” anxiously again.“My dear fellow, we’re in a water-logged boat,” Wareham called out, not sorry that his words were truer than they would have been five minutes ago, for with his attention elsewhere a good deal of water had leaked in.“Horrors!” cried Hugh, pressing forward, and ready to jump in to the rescue. “Is Miss Dalrymple wet?”“I’m afraid so.” Wareham was cool again outwardly. “Here, take this rope. Now, Miss Dalrymple, your foot here—so. You are cramped? Do not hurry. We shall not be swamped just yet.”He managed to put his hand for her to tread on, while Hugh eagerly helped her. In another moment men and all had scrambled on shore, and Hugh was shaking hands violently with his friend.“I never was more annoyed than to hear what had happened, but I felt certain you’d come on, and have been on the look-out all night. They shouldn’t have left you. It was too bad. Miss Dalrymple, are you sure you are not cold?”“I am sure of nothing,” said Anne, speaking for the first time. “May I inquire what extraordinary chance brought you to this place?” She looked rather amused than vexed.“I heard you were here.”“How?”“Wareham, like a good fellow, telegraphed.”Anne darted a look at him. He stood helpless. Explanation was impossible. She said only—“Oh!”“Of course I couldn’t be certain where I should strike across you,” Hugh went on, “so I came straight up in the steamer, and asked as I came along. Some other friends of yours are here. They seemed awfully cut up about you. But pray, pray come at once to the hotel. I have made them keep coffee and cold meat ready, and your room is all right. Dick will see about those fellows.”He swept her away. Wareham stared after them, dumb wretchedness gnawing at his heart. Complications gathered round him. Anne might naturally resent what had the appearance of an act of treachery; and was this the end of the fair dream which had floated with him along the clear waters of the fjord? He stood reduced, insignificant, before Hugh’s assertive energy. Of her his last view as she walked lightly away was a side-face turned inquiringly towards Hugh.Wareham’s mood might be painted black—of the blackest. If virtue does not always meet with a reward, she expects it, and grows huffy at non-fulfilment. He felt he had behaved well towards Hugh; an occasional slip of the tongue should not count in comparison with the many times that he had bridled it, and each of these times was quick to multiply itself. By dint of looking back he convinced himself that Hugh’s debt to him was great.It was one way of discharging it to be waiting at Balholm, at three o’clock in the morning, to hand Miss Dalrymple out of the boat!The men paid, and left to make the boat water-tight, Wareham walked slowly up the short incline towards the inn. He lingered, from an irritable disinclination to see Anne and Hugh together again; but before he reached the door, Hugh came out to meet him like a bolt. He seized Wareham’s hand and wrung it.“My dear old fellow,” he cried exultingly, “was ever anything in the world so amazingly lucky! I might have knocked about the country for a week without tumbling up against them, and of all the blessed moments for a man to arrive, just when she was a bit sore at their want of care!”As Hugh paused to contemplate his good fortune, Wareham thrust in a question.“What on earth made you go in for such a”—he would have liked to have said “preposterous,” but left it out—“hurricane dash across the seas?”“What else would you have expected when I had your telegram? Wasn’t I just wild to get word with her again? And saw no chance of it. Look here, what food there is, is waiting for you in there. Come and eat. I’ve got to talk to some one about it all, and I’m not so unreasonable as to harangue a hungry man.”“More sleepy than hungry.”“Well, you must eat before you turn in.”“Has Miss Dalrymple had some food?” Hugh laughed joyously.“Do you suppose I didn’t see that she had all she wanted? It’s gone up to her room, of course. She’s got to pay that tribute to Mrs Grundy. Here you are; now what’ll you have? Here’s the landlord himself. Beer, sausage, kippered salmon, marmalade, coffee?”Wareham made a selection; Hugh rattled on, helping himself meanwhile.“I believe I’m as hungry as you are. Meat in this country is uneatable—or was yesterday,” he added, with an exulting fling at his own change of mood; “but I can’t understand that it isn’t the orthodox breakfast-time. I suppose one must go to bed, but I shan’t sleep—not a wink. I say, old fellow, it was awfully good of you to send me that telegram—awfully. And now you’ve seen Anne—”“Anne? Is she Anne again?”“She’s never been anything else in my heart. Now you’ll understand. Enough to throw a man off his balance, wasn’t it?—to think of losing her. She’s splendid. And to tell you the truth, I’ve been fretting myself with the idea she might be annoyed at seeing me here at her heels.”“Well?”“Try the salmon? No? You’d better. What was I saying? Oh, I believe she was rather pleased than otherwise. Women are not to be counted on. They’ll fight you, but they like to be taken by storm.”Wareham agreed with a groan, thinking of himself in the boat. Hugh went on—“She didn’t seem a bit vexed. But as I said before, I couldn’t have chosen a better moment if I’d waited a year. Selfish pig, that Mrs Martyn. I don’t believe she cared one halfpenny. Those other people, Ravenstones, Ravenhills—what are they called?—were twice as feeling. The mercy was that it was you, old fellow, and no other man, who was with her.”It was impossible to keep back a sharp “Why?”Hugh laughed.“You’ve never seen me a prey to the yellows, but I can imagine myself in their clutches. Another man would have meant possibilities. No, I’m grateful.”Wareham had a horrible impulse to cry out, “Fool!” and this to his friend. Instead of it, he said—“You’d better bottle up your gratitude till you know it’s due.” He would have liked to let out more, but how?“I’m not afraid. And I tell you what, I’m glad for another reason. You can’t have seen her for all these hours without understanding something of her charm. Where are your prejudices now? But I won’t reproach you. You’ve done me too good a turn. By Jove, it’s hard work waiting, even if only a few hours!”He had his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. Wareham pushed back his chair and stared at him with something of the feeling of a man who, worsted, yet will look his fate in his face. He knew his age—eight-and-twenty—but never before had he seen him as the very incarnation of youth. It could be read in every line, in the twist of his shoulders, in the spring of his thick wavy hair, in the attitude, half comical, half petulant. He was tall, and his shoulders prognosticated size; fair as a northerner, and clean-faced; grey-eyed and wide-mouthed. Wareham, with thirty not long left behind him, felt an absurd envy of his three years’ advantage. He stood up suddenly.“Look here, Hugh, I’m done. I’m going to bed.”“All right, old fellow. You do look a bit seedy. Shall I come up and see that they’ve treated you properly? Say the word, and I will.”“For heavens sake, no.”“You’d rather tumble in at once? Good. I haven’t said half there is in my head, but I dare say you think it’ll keep. I don’t know what I’ll do. Lie down, I suppose; but there’s a bath-house out there on the pier, and I feel more like a swim. You won’t try that instead?”“Bed,” said Wareham laconically.“Bed it is, then. I’d better show the way in this rabbit-warren. You’re close to me.”“Kviknaes will come. He and I are old friends.”It was difficult to shake off Hugh’s good-will. Wareham had no inclination for sleep, but imperative need to be alone, to meet these disjointed fancies which had neither sense nor sequence, yet threatened mastery. Kviknaes, smiling hospitably as though four o’clock in the morning were the usual hour for receiving guests, showed him his little room, the same as he had had there once before. It looked out on the great fjord, now lying in sunniest radiance. Evidently Hugh, from the next room, had spied the boat coming over the waters, and timed his own departure to the landing-place. Wareham decided, with a grim smile, that Anne doubtless credited him with a night watch on the shore.This was the first consolatory reflection, and it was petty enough.It allowed entrance, however, to others. His mind was like an American house with the valves for hot and cold air both open; cold and heat rushed in in brisk emulation. Out of sight of Hugh, out of hearing his transports, with the shining waters before him across which he and she had floated, he wondered at his own sudden dejection, and rated it as cowardly. The world’s veriest fledgeling would have borne himself more bravely. Say that Hugh was there, say that Anne encountered him without displeasure, what did that prove? Did he expect her to frown, to hurl reproach? He eluded that second speech of hers in the boat, which had fallen icily; he went back to her confession that Hugh bored her. That had seemed to him decisive. A woman does not marry the man who bores her, except for cogent reasons, which he would not hold of possible weight with Anne. He bored her, she had flung up her engagement and fled. There was the long and short of it. Nothing was altered, and out jumped a hundred excellent little arguments protesting that nothing ever should alter.But the worst of these Jack-in-the-box puppets is that a very little sends them in again. Opportunity—golden opportunity—had been his, when his hands were tied; would she ever come again? How was Anne to know what point of honour checked words, looks? If she did know—there was the rub!—would she accept it as valid reason? Down, dismally down, went the poor puppets, one after the other. She would not, she could not!If that had been all! But he knew that he was turning his back upon the worst difficulty.What would happen when the unconscious Hugh received that letter which was off on its travels after him, and which sooner or later must come into his hands. What should he do? Forestall it? Stand aside and wait?Regrets, forebodings scourged him. If he had spoken he might have won her. Faith to his friend—which he could not have failed in without being false to himself—had probably lost her. And in spite of all, there was that in the situation which might cause Hugh to think him a traitor.The varying sensations of the day had battered him into a condition more nearly approaching exhaustion than he knew. Sleep came before he had formed plans for his waking, and he was only aroused by Hugh thundering at his door.“Slept well? So have I. Like a top. Come along down to the bath-house.”Wareham dispatched him with promise to follow. Waking, as often happens, had brought decision, so that he shook himself free of the foggy doubts which beset him a few hours before. There could be no question of Hugh’s prior rights. He had nothing to do but to stand aside, and hold his tongue. As for the letter, it must be left to its fate. Long before it reached Hugh, that impetuous young man would have carried or lost the day, and Wareham had sufficient faith in his friend’s warm-heartedness to believe that he would understand, too. That, for the moment, was of greater consequence. He walked slowly down to the pier of black piles, where a red-tiled building is picturesquely perched, revolving other people’s possible actions. They are wheels which we can drive with fewer jolts than our own. And the pure fresh air, the sparkling gaiety of the morning had their effect. They intoxicated Hugh. Wareham, who had a stronger head, felt their influence more subtly. Thoughts of escape had fluttered before him; now he would have none of them. Stand aside he must, but from where he stood he could see and measure, and that alone was an incalculable advantage.

At its best, the unexpected is apt to come off awkwardly, and here was more than one awkward element. When hearing distance was reached, they found that Hugh was speaking volubly—

“Are you all right? No one suffered? What a nuisance for you both! Bring the boat a little further on, Dick, and Miss Dalrymple will land more comfortably. Are you all right?” anxiously again.

“My dear fellow, we’re in a water-logged boat,” Wareham called out, not sorry that his words were truer than they would have been five minutes ago, for with his attention elsewhere a good deal of water had leaked in.

“Horrors!” cried Hugh, pressing forward, and ready to jump in to the rescue. “Is Miss Dalrymple wet?”

“I’m afraid so.” Wareham was cool again outwardly. “Here, take this rope. Now, Miss Dalrymple, your foot here—so. You are cramped? Do not hurry. We shall not be swamped just yet.”

He managed to put his hand for her to tread on, while Hugh eagerly helped her. In another moment men and all had scrambled on shore, and Hugh was shaking hands violently with his friend.

“I never was more annoyed than to hear what had happened, but I felt certain you’d come on, and have been on the look-out all night. They shouldn’t have left you. It was too bad. Miss Dalrymple, are you sure you are not cold?”

“I am sure of nothing,” said Anne, speaking for the first time. “May I inquire what extraordinary chance brought you to this place?” She looked rather amused than vexed.

“I heard you were here.”

“How?”

“Wareham, like a good fellow, telegraphed.”

Anne darted a look at him. He stood helpless. Explanation was impossible. She said only—“Oh!”

“Of course I couldn’t be certain where I should strike across you,” Hugh went on, “so I came straight up in the steamer, and asked as I came along. Some other friends of yours are here. They seemed awfully cut up about you. But pray, pray come at once to the hotel. I have made them keep coffee and cold meat ready, and your room is all right. Dick will see about those fellows.”

He swept her away. Wareham stared after them, dumb wretchedness gnawing at his heart. Complications gathered round him. Anne might naturally resent what had the appearance of an act of treachery; and was this the end of the fair dream which had floated with him along the clear waters of the fjord? He stood reduced, insignificant, before Hugh’s assertive energy. Of her his last view as she walked lightly away was a side-face turned inquiringly towards Hugh.

Wareham’s mood might be painted black—of the blackest. If virtue does not always meet with a reward, she expects it, and grows huffy at non-fulfilment. He felt he had behaved well towards Hugh; an occasional slip of the tongue should not count in comparison with the many times that he had bridled it, and each of these times was quick to multiply itself. By dint of looking back he convinced himself that Hugh’s debt to him was great.

It was one way of discharging it to be waiting at Balholm, at three o’clock in the morning, to hand Miss Dalrymple out of the boat!

The men paid, and left to make the boat water-tight, Wareham walked slowly up the short incline towards the inn. He lingered, from an irritable disinclination to see Anne and Hugh together again; but before he reached the door, Hugh came out to meet him like a bolt. He seized Wareham’s hand and wrung it.

“My dear old fellow,” he cried exultingly, “was ever anything in the world so amazingly lucky! I might have knocked about the country for a week without tumbling up against them, and of all the blessed moments for a man to arrive, just when she was a bit sore at their want of care!”

As Hugh paused to contemplate his good fortune, Wareham thrust in a question.

“What on earth made you go in for such a”—he would have liked to have said “preposterous,” but left it out—“hurricane dash across the seas?”

“What else would you have expected when I had your telegram? Wasn’t I just wild to get word with her again? And saw no chance of it. Look here, what food there is, is waiting for you in there. Come and eat. I’ve got to talk to some one about it all, and I’m not so unreasonable as to harangue a hungry man.”

“More sleepy than hungry.”

“Well, you must eat before you turn in.”

“Has Miss Dalrymple had some food?” Hugh laughed joyously.

“Do you suppose I didn’t see that she had all she wanted? It’s gone up to her room, of course. She’s got to pay that tribute to Mrs Grundy. Here you are; now what’ll you have? Here’s the landlord himself. Beer, sausage, kippered salmon, marmalade, coffee?”

Wareham made a selection; Hugh rattled on, helping himself meanwhile.

“I believe I’m as hungry as you are. Meat in this country is uneatable—or was yesterday,” he added, with an exulting fling at his own change of mood; “but I can’t understand that it isn’t the orthodox breakfast-time. I suppose one must go to bed, but I shan’t sleep—not a wink. I say, old fellow, it was awfully good of you to send me that telegram—awfully. And now you’ve seen Anne—”

“Anne? Is she Anne again?”

“She’s never been anything else in my heart. Now you’ll understand. Enough to throw a man off his balance, wasn’t it?—to think of losing her. She’s splendid. And to tell you the truth, I’ve been fretting myself with the idea she might be annoyed at seeing me here at her heels.”

“Well?”

“Try the salmon? No? You’d better. What was I saying? Oh, I believe she was rather pleased than otherwise. Women are not to be counted on. They’ll fight you, but they like to be taken by storm.”

Wareham agreed with a groan, thinking of himself in the boat. Hugh went on—

“She didn’t seem a bit vexed. But as I said before, I couldn’t have chosen a better moment if I’d waited a year. Selfish pig, that Mrs Martyn. I don’t believe she cared one halfpenny. Those other people, Ravenstones, Ravenhills—what are they called?—were twice as feeling. The mercy was that it was you, old fellow, and no other man, who was with her.”

It was impossible to keep back a sharp “Why?”

Hugh laughed.

“You’ve never seen me a prey to the yellows, but I can imagine myself in their clutches. Another man would have meant possibilities. No, I’m grateful.”

Wareham had a horrible impulse to cry out, “Fool!” and this to his friend. Instead of it, he said—“You’d better bottle up your gratitude till you know it’s due.” He would have liked to let out more, but how?

“I’m not afraid. And I tell you what, I’m glad for another reason. You can’t have seen her for all these hours without understanding something of her charm. Where are your prejudices now? But I won’t reproach you. You’ve done me too good a turn. By Jove, it’s hard work waiting, even if only a few hours!”

He had his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. Wareham pushed back his chair and stared at him with something of the feeling of a man who, worsted, yet will look his fate in his face. He knew his age—eight-and-twenty—but never before had he seen him as the very incarnation of youth. It could be read in every line, in the twist of his shoulders, in the spring of his thick wavy hair, in the attitude, half comical, half petulant. He was tall, and his shoulders prognosticated size; fair as a northerner, and clean-faced; grey-eyed and wide-mouthed. Wareham, with thirty not long left behind him, felt an absurd envy of his three years’ advantage. He stood up suddenly.

“Look here, Hugh, I’m done. I’m going to bed.”

“All right, old fellow. You do look a bit seedy. Shall I come up and see that they’ve treated you properly? Say the word, and I will.”

“For heavens sake, no.”

“You’d rather tumble in at once? Good. I haven’t said half there is in my head, but I dare say you think it’ll keep. I don’t know what I’ll do. Lie down, I suppose; but there’s a bath-house out there on the pier, and I feel more like a swim. You won’t try that instead?”

“Bed,” said Wareham laconically.

“Bed it is, then. I’d better show the way in this rabbit-warren. You’re close to me.”

“Kviknaes will come. He and I are old friends.”

It was difficult to shake off Hugh’s good-will. Wareham had no inclination for sleep, but imperative need to be alone, to meet these disjointed fancies which had neither sense nor sequence, yet threatened mastery. Kviknaes, smiling hospitably as though four o’clock in the morning were the usual hour for receiving guests, showed him his little room, the same as he had had there once before. It looked out on the great fjord, now lying in sunniest radiance. Evidently Hugh, from the next room, had spied the boat coming over the waters, and timed his own departure to the landing-place. Wareham decided, with a grim smile, that Anne doubtless credited him with a night watch on the shore.

This was the first consolatory reflection, and it was petty enough.

It allowed entrance, however, to others. His mind was like an American house with the valves for hot and cold air both open; cold and heat rushed in in brisk emulation. Out of sight of Hugh, out of hearing his transports, with the shining waters before him across which he and she had floated, he wondered at his own sudden dejection, and rated it as cowardly. The world’s veriest fledgeling would have borne himself more bravely. Say that Hugh was there, say that Anne encountered him without displeasure, what did that prove? Did he expect her to frown, to hurl reproach? He eluded that second speech of hers in the boat, which had fallen icily; he went back to her confession that Hugh bored her. That had seemed to him decisive. A woman does not marry the man who bores her, except for cogent reasons, which he would not hold of possible weight with Anne. He bored her, she had flung up her engagement and fled. There was the long and short of it. Nothing was altered, and out jumped a hundred excellent little arguments protesting that nothing ever should alter.

But the worst of these Jack-in-the-box puppets is that a very little sends them in again. Opportunity—golden opportunity—had been his, when his hands were tied; would she ever come again? How was Anne to know what point of honour checked words, looks? If she did know—there was the rub!—would she accept it as valid reason? Down, dismally down, went the poor puppets, one after the other. She would not, she could not!

If that had been all! But he knew that he was turning his back upon the worst difficulty.

What would happen when the unconscious Hugh received that letter which was off on its travels after him, and which sooner or later must come into his hands. What should he do? Forestall it? Stand aside and wait?

Regrets, forebodings scourged him. If he had spoken he might have won her. Faith to his friend—which he could not have failed in without being false to himself—had probably lost her. And in spite of all, there was that in the situation which might cause Hugh to think him a traitor.

The varying sensations of the day had battered him into a condition more nearly approaching exhaustion than he knew. Sleep came before he had formed plans for his waking, and he was only aroused by Hugh thundering at his door.

“Slept well? So have I. Like a top. Come along down to the bath-house.”

Wareham dispatched him with promise to follow. Waking, as often happens, had brought decision, so that he shook himself free of the foggy doubts which beset him a few hours before. There could be no question of Hugh’s prior rights. He had nothing to do but to stand aside, and hold his tongue. As for the letter, it must be left to its fate. Long before it reached Hugh, that impetuous young man would have carried or lost the day, and Wareham had sufficient faith in his friend’s warm-heartedness to believe that he would understand, too. That, for the moment, was of greater consequence. He walked slowly down to the pier of black piles, where a red-tiled building is picturesquely perched, revolving other people’s possible actions. They are wheels which we can drive with fewer jolts than our own. And the pure fresh air, the sparkling gaiety of the morning had their effect. They intoxicated Hugh. Wareham, who had a stronger head, felt their influence more subtly. Thoughts of escape had fluttered before him; now he would have none of them. Stand aside he must, but from where he stood he could see and measure, and that alone was an incalculable advantage.

Chapter Eleven.Catechisms.Breakfast was going on, and merrily, to judge from the rush of voices which met Wareham when he opened the door. His friends were there together, and a place was kept for him next the Ravenhills; opposite were Mrs Martyn, Anne, and Hugh. As he took his seat, Mrs Martyn spoke across the table.“Pretty proceedings, Mr Wareham!”“They did not cause you disturbance?” he asked, with a simulated anxiety which sent round a smile.“Nothing serious. I believed either of you equal to the task of looking after the other. Which took the lead?”Anne’s clear voice struck in—“We shared. I claim the suggestion of dinner at Gudvangen. Mr Wareham was too much overwhelmed by the misadventure to preserve his presence of mind.”“But that was before starting. I can’t conceive how you survived so many hours!” Wareham perceived that the incident of the island had not been offered to Mrs Martyn’s consideration. His heart congratulated itself. Hugh’s indignation rushed in pointedly.“It’s true enough that Miss Dalrymple wanted something by the time she got here.” He muttered to Anne—“Much she had ready for you!”“I think you were to be envied,” Mrs Ravenhill said. “The fjord was so beautiful that I hated being carried through it at a rush. And night here is little more than a quiet day.”“Only too short,” agreed Anne. “The sun was upon us before it seemed possible.”Wareham’s prescribed attitude of bystander did not preclude his sucking in these little, sweets of comfort with delight. But Mrs Martyn had not done with him.“What were the charms of Gudvangen, Mr Wareham, which made you so oblivious?”“Poor Gudvangen! If you speak of it in that tone, I shall believe it was you who bribed, the captain to start an hour earlier than his right time.”Millie put in a fluttering word.“It was a delightful place.”“To Mr Wareham’s companions.” Malice lurked in Mrs Martyn’s sentences. Millie coloured, Anne sat indifferent, Hugh it was who answered.“No wonder. But I get so called over the coals for want of punctuality that I vow I can’t help being tickled that Wareham should be the sinner. How was it? Had a brown study got over him, Miss Dalrymple: Or did anybody fall asleep?”“I think we were all to blame,” said Mrs Ravenhill kindly. “We should have made sure that every one was on board. To tell the truth, I did not for a moment believe that we had really started.”Anne spoke again, languidly.“Is not the subject threadbare? You will force Mr Wareham or me into invention of adventures, since there is nothing real to relate that we can flatter ourselves would interest you.”The we and ourselves fell delightfully on Wareham’s ears.“My dear Anne, you don’t do yourselves justice. Mr Forbes is dying to know how you were occupied when you should have been at the steamer.”Anne lifted her eyebrows.“Mr Forbes?” she said questioningly.He hurried to disclaim.“Not I. I am only glad you had Wareham to look after you.” Under his breath he grumbled, “Confound her!”Why might he not be left alone? His own resources would carry him like the trustiest steed through the tilting which he foresaw ahead, but to be forced into a position he had no mind for, to be treated as though he were a jealous ass, and so thrust against Anne’s susceptibilities, was sure to irritate her. If a wish could have swept Mrs Martyn out of Norway, she would have found herself at this moment in England again. Wareham, equally irritated, knew that it was for him to speak.“It was simple enough,” he said. “We had strolled out of sight or hearing of the steamer, believing that she would not start for an hour and a half. At the end of an hour we found you had all flown. We wanted Colonel Martyn to look us up.”“Yes. Tom is always ready to undertake other people’s business,” said Mrs Martyn, helping herself to marmalade.“Do you expect him to-day?” Mrs Ravenhill put in, conscious that her neighbour would prefer a change of subject.“To-night at latest. Unless missing steamers should be in the air.”She looked meaningly at Wareham. He turned to Millie.“Have you thought out any plans for to-day?”“We meant to explore the place a little this morning, and go to Fjaerland by the evening steamer. It is a pity we can’t sleep there and see the glaciers, but as it is we must just go up the fjord and down again. Mother was out early this morning.”“Sketching?”“Yes. She likes it immensely here.”“And you?”“Not so well as Gudvangen. But itisvery nice, and”—regretfully—“it is so near the end!”“How?”Millie sighed. That he should have forgotten that they were to start for England on Friday, and this was Tuesday! But no ill-humour crept into her voice.“You know we go to Bergen to-morrow night, then home.”“I had forgotten,” said Wareham, staring at his plate. “Isn’t it a very short stay?”“Only a fortnight. But that I can hardly believe.”“Nor I.”“I suppose you will go further north, with the Martyns?” hazarded Millie.He said abruptly, “I know nothing,” and checked her.Their opposite neighbours rose and departed, Hugh flinging an ecstatic look at Wareham as he went. Wareham’s spirits sank to mute misery. Anne’s side allusions had been kindly, but she had not dropped one direct word for him to live upon, and fear of letting honour slip must prevent his seeking it. He writhed under the thought that she yet believed him to have summoned Hugh, and a hundred voices within him seeming to clamour for the right to put this one thing straight, he found it hard to silence them.Breakfast over, Mrs Ravenhill and Millie vanished, giving him to understand that the sketch had to be finished.“But I dare say we shall soon meet again,” Mrs Ravenhill said, “for here again there is not much choice of roads, and I am sitting humbly by the roadside.”Wareham went off like a moth to get close to what hurt him.She was not to be seen, however, nor Hugh either, so that though he was not scorched, he suffered from another kind of smart, and it did not soothe him to drop upon Mrs Martyn seated in one of the many balconies. He would have escaped, but she saw and captured him.“I want to speak to you, Mr Wareham; pray come and sit down. We shall all be starting out in an hour’s time. Meanwhile, here we may have a few minutes’ peace.”He could not excuse himself, and sat down reluctantly.“I am not going to scold you about yesterday,” she said, “although I think you will allow I might.”“You do not accuse me, I hope, of premeditation?”She professed not to be certain, but glancing at Wareham’s face, dropped her attempt at jocularity.“I dare say it was Anne’s fault. She is astonishingly wilful.”“I thought I had made it clear that the mistake was all my own. You must be well aware that Miss Dalrymple had the right to be excessively annoyed.”Mrs Martyn smiled.“Anne would not trouble herself about talk, if that is what you mean. She has proved herself absolutely indifferent. She will do the same here.”Spite of himself, he looked up eagerly.“Yes. Of course I speak of young Forbes. Her friends will not thank me when they hear that I have allowed him to tack himself on to us.”The traitor in Wareham mentally blessed these friends, though his better instincts forced him to say—“Why? Hugh is an only son, his father a baronet, and he what the world calls a good match.”Mrs Martyn turned her large fair face towards him, and raised her eyebrows.“Middling. No objection was made when Anne said she would marry him. But she let matters go too far, even for her, this time, and naturally they won’t be pleased to have it all over again. Mr Forbes says you telegraphed to him. I wish you had left it alone.”“Pray don’t think I telegraphed to him to come. It was the last thing I desired.”“I should have imagined so,” said Mrs Martyn dryly.Wareham bit his lip.“One must keep a promise.”“Must one?”“You will allow that the manner in which Miss Dalrymple broke off her engagement was maddening for my friend? Not an interview, not a word, only complete annihilation of all that had passed. Of course, from her own point of view, she may have been justified. I say nothing of blame.”Mrs Martyn smiled. Wareham had seldom found his own temper so tried as in this interview. He felt as if her great hat had an irritating personality, and crushed him.“You may know, or you may not know, that the blow to him was so serious that it brought me back from India.”“Isn’t there such a thing as a ricochet?” asked Mrs Blanche innocently, so innocently that the innocence tickled him.“I am afraid there is,” he admitted with candour. “Shall I go on?”“Oh, by all means. You had just landed from India?”“Miss Dalrymple allowed Hugh no communication. He could not even find out where she went when she left London. It seemed to me that he had a right to learn her reasons for dismissal, and I assured him when I quitted him that he should hear from me if I had any news of her whereabouts.”“I could not have believed that Lady Dalrymple’s servants were so above suspicion.” Mrs Martyn heaved a sigh at recollection of her own.He went on to say that finding Miss Dalrymple had crossed in the same boat with himself, he telegraphed to Hugh from Stavanger. He knew of no other course he could have taken. And he descanted on it, intending all to be told to Anne. He finished up by repeating that no idea of Hugh’s coming had crossed his mind.“I dare say not. Magnanimity has limits,” she murmured.Thinking it well to turn a deaf ear, he added that he had written a letter of some importance to Mr Forbes from Stalheim.“From Stalheim?” She appeared to meditate, looking at her own hands, which were very small. Then her question flashed out.“Was it to say you were in love with Anne?”Wareham had got himself in hand by this time. He bowed.“That or anything else you please, Mrs Martyn.”She asked whether the letter had reached Hugh.“How should it? He left England immediately after my telegram, and there has been no time.”Mrs Martyn looked out at the fjord, but Wareham saw her shoulders shaking. Tragedy was uppermost with him, and at this proof of heartlessness he thought appreciatively of Millie’s padded glass. She turned round, however, demurely composed.“Won’t it be a little inconvenient, by and by?”He gazed loftily over her head.“I don’t know that we are immediately concerned with my letter. That, at any rate, cannot be accused of bringing Hugh.”“I wish something would take him away again. I had not the smallest intention of being mixed up with one of Anne’s complicated affairs,” cried Mrs Martyn.The speech jarred.“If his presence is disagreeable to Miss Dalrymple, she can certainly send him off. He will have had his explanation. Perhaps it will prove the shortest way out of the difficulty.”This laid him open to an embarrassing question, “What difficulty?” Fortunately for Wareham, she did not wait for an answer before putting another. “Are you a writer of books?”“I can’t deny it?”“Yet read a woman’s nature no better! Anne will not send him off.”“Accept him, then.”“Nor accept him.”“Paddles!”“If you had studied the genus as you should for your profession, Mr Wareham, you would not find the riddle hard to solve. Anne likes Mr Forbes enough to like to have him about her, but she would not marry him, because she could not endure fetters. Now she salves her conscience by thinking that she has done her best to give him time to recover; you and fate have baffled her, and she—will enjoy herself.”He forced himself to say quietly—“You describe a—”“Flirt. Anne would not deny it if you charged her.”Her words in the boat were recalled by a reluctant memory; with them came the charm of her voice, her smile, more powerful than words. He started up, and stood leaning against the railing of the balcony.“It comes to this. You and I read differently. I think you unjust to your friend, you hold me a fool. Of the two, I prefer therôleof fool. But whichever turns out right, I don’t see that we can do anything except wait, for it is certainly Miss Dalrymple who must tell Hugh to go or stay. Unless you have that authority?”“I!” She shook her head. “Anne’s chaperons are dummies, they don’t interfere. Besides, I couldn’t be bothered. I don’t even know why I have talked to you, except that A one and Mr Forbes will not be amusing companions this morning.”Wareham was cheered by the touch of feminine spite in this speech, the more so as he had seen Hugh cross the garden forlornly. He inquired what might be Mrs Martyn’s plans for the future.“I suppose my husband will return to-day, and then I shall insist upon going as far as Vadheim to-morrow night. Do you mean to come with us to the Geiranger? You had better, for I can’t be responsible for your friend.”“Thanks. But I shall get back this week.” Decision had stepped in so promptly that there was no time for regret to interpose, although she hung helplessly on his skirts. Mrs Martyn raised her eyebrows.“You go with the Ravenhills? They mean to secure berths in theCeylon, which is expected here to-day.”“I dare say that will suit me.”When he left her he would not seek Hugh, but went to the little office from whence letters are dispensed, with a feeble dream of lighting upon his own. Failing in this he betook himself to the road, and presently came upon Mrs Ravenhill sketching, and Millie enticing half-a-dozen small children away from her mother by means of barley-sugar. The girls hushed themselves with awe and delight, the boy, all one broad laugh, flourished sticky fingers, and threatened to descend upon the paper, in spite of reproachful cries of “Daarlig Olaf!” At sight of Wareham he fled.“And I breathe,” said Mrs Ravenhill.“But he was much the nicest,” declared Millie. “All the grown-up people are so grave, that it is a comfort to see one having a good time while he is young. He was not really so very naughty, though his sisters were dreadfully scandalised. Think of their all living in those lovely cottages!”And indeed the group of houses which Mrs Ravenhill was drawing made a perfectly harmonious note of colour. The sky delicate broken grey, the hill behind, grey also, running down in fine outline; against this a group of houses, red-roofed one or two, timber-pitched another, gabled, white-plastered, jutting out, running back, and set in waving emerald rye. Where the rye ended, long flowery grass began, and grew down to the foot of the bank where the children were playing. A woman with a white handkerchief on her head, and carrying two pails with a yoke, came down the little path which the thick grass hid from view; the swift-driven clouds cast swift soft shadows, the air was sweet with hay-making.Wareham was in the state of mind when this soothed, because it seemed apart from the world of men and women, as represented by Mrs Martyn. He had gone to her feeling that the dearest part of him was sacredly wrapped up and invisible, and with shaking shoulders she had plucked it forth, and given him to understand that she knew all about it. The man must be more than usually magnanimous who does not chafe at insight from which he suffers. Here were women who made no pretence at insight. With them he felt healthfully at ease. And so scaly-strong is the coating behind which we flatter ourselves we are entrenched, that nothing could have more amazed him than to know that Millie, simple soul, read through him as easily as, and more truly than Mrs Martyn. He said suddenly at last—“How do you return to England, Mrs Ravenhill?”“Not as we came.” She shuddered. “TheCeylontourist steamer will be here to-day. I am told that she is an old P. and O., and very comfortable, and that we can get berths in her.”“But you don’t go on board to-day?” Brace himself he must, but hardly to the extent of leaving so abruptly.“No. We shall meet her at Bergen on Friday.”He asked to be allowed to take their berths, and let fall something to the effect that if there was another to spare, he might secure it for himself.“You will have had a short holiday.” Mrs Ravenhill added a little vermilion to her roofs, and sighed hopelessly over the flowery grass. Millie tried to check her heart’s throb.“You come to Fjaerland to-day?” she hazarded.They were all to go, it appeared, and Wareham agreed eagerly. What did it matter so long as he refrained from a word? Of course he would go. He sunned himself in the anticipation.

Breakfast was going on, and merrily, to judge from the rush of voices which met Wareham when he opened the door. His friends were there together, and a place was kept for him next the Ravenhills; opposite were Mrs Martyn, Anne, and Hugh. As he took his seat, Mrs Martyn spoke across the table.

“Pretty proceedings, Mr Wareham!”

“They did not cause you disturbance?” he asked, with a simulated anxiety which sent round a smile.

“Nothing serious. I believed either of you equal to the task of looking after the other. Which took the lead?”

Anne’s clear voice struck in—

“We shared. I claim the suggestion of dinner at Gudvangen. Mr Wareham was too much overwhelmed by the misadventure to preserve his presence of mind.”

“But that was before starting. I can’t conceive how you survived so many hours!” Wareham perceived that the incident of the island had not been offered to Mrs Martyn’s consideration. His heart congratulated itself. Hugh’s indignation rushed in pointedly.

“It’s true enough that Miss Dalrymple wanted something by the time she got here.” He muttered to Anne—“Much she had ready for you!”

“I think you were to be envied,” Mrs Ravenhill said. “The fjord was so beautiful that I hated being carried through it at a rush. And night here is little more than a quiet day.”

“Only too short,” agreed Anne. “The sun was upon us before it seemed possible.”

Wareham’s prescribed attitude of bystander did not preclude his sucking in these little, sweets of comfort with delight. But Mrs Martyn had not done with him.

“What were the charms of Gudvangen, Mr Wareham, which made you so oblivious?”

“Poor Gudvangen! If you speak of it in that tone, I shall believe it was you who bribed, the captain to start an hour earlier than his right time.”

Millie put in a fluttering word.

“It was a delightful place.”

“To Mr Wareham’s companions.” Malice lurked in Mrs Martyn’s sentences. Millie coloured, Anne sat indifferent, Hugh it was who answered.

“No wonder. But I get so called over the coals for want of punctuality that I vow I can’t help being tickled that Wareham should be the sinner. How was it? Had a brown study got over him, Miss Dalrymple: Or did anybody fall asleep?”

“I think we were all to blame,” said Mrs Ravenhill kindly. “We should have made sure that every one was on board. To tell the truth, I did not for a moment believe that we had really started.”

Anne spoke again, languidly.

“Is not the subject threadbare? You will force Mr Wareham or me into invention of adventures, since there is nothing real to relate that we can flatter ourselves would interest you.”

The we and ourselves fell delightfully on Wareham’s ears.

“My dear Anne, you don’t do yourselves justice. Mr Forbes is dying to know how you were occupied when you should have been at the steamer.”

Anne lifted her eyebrows.

“Mr Forbes?” she said questioningly.

He hurried to disclaim.

“Not I. I am only glad you had Wareham to look after you.” Under his breath he grumbled, “Confound her!”

Why might he not be left alone? His own resources would carry him like the trustiest steed through the tilting which he foresaw ahead, but to be forced into a position he had no mind for, to be treated as though he were a jealous ass, and so thrust against Anne’s susceptibilities, was sure to irritate her. If a wish could have swept Mrs Martyn out of Norway, she would have found herself at this moment in England again. Wareham, equally irritated, knew that it was for him to speak.

“It was simple enough,” he said. “We had strolled out of sight or hearing of the steamer, believing that she would not start for an hour and a half. At the end of an hour we found you had all flown. We wanted Colonel Martyn to look us up.”

“Yes. Tom is always ready to undertake other people’s business,” said Mrs Martyn, helping herself to marmalade.

“Do you expect him to-day?” Mrs Ravenhill put in, conscious that her neighbour would prefer a change of subject.

“To-night at latest. Unless missing steamers should be in the air.”

She looked meaningly at Wareham. He turned to Millie.

“Have you thought out any plans for to-day?”

“We meant to explore the place a little this morning, and go to Fjaerland by the evening steamer. It is a pity we can’t sleep there and see the glaciers, but as it is we must just go up the fjord and down again. Mother was out early this morning.”

“Sketching?”

“Yes. She likes it immensely here.”

“And you?”

“Not so well as Gudvangen. But itisvery nice, and”—regretfully—“it is so near the end!”

“How?”

Millie sighed. That he should have forgotten that they were to start for England on Friday, and this was Tuesday! But no ill-humour crept into her voice.

“You know we go to Bergen to-morrow night, then home.”

“I had forgotten,” said Wareham, staring at his plate. “Isn’t it a very short stay?”

“Only a fortnight. But that I can hardly believe.”

“Nor I.”

“I suppose you will go further north, with the Martyns?” hazarded Millie.

He said abruptly, “I know nothing,” and checked her.

Their opposite neighbours rose and departed, Hugh flinging an ecstatic look at Wareham as he went. Wareham’s spirits sank to mute misery. Anne’s side allusions had been kindly, but she had not dropped one direct word for him to live upon, and fear of letting honour slip must prevent his seeking it. He writhed under the thought that she yet believed him to have summoned Hugh, and a hundred voices within him seeming to clamour for the right to put this one thing straight, he found it hard to silence them.

Breakfast over, Mrs Ravenhill and Millie vanished, giving him to understand that the sketch had to be finished.

“But I dare say we shall soon meet again,” Mrs Ravenhill said, “for here again there is not much choice of roads, and I am sitting humbly by the roadside.”

Wareham went off like a moth to get close to what hurt him.

She was not to be seen, however, nor Hugh either, so that though he was not scorched, he suffered from another kind of smart, and it did not soothe him to drop upon Mrs Martyn seated in one of the many balconies. He would have escaped, but she saw and captured him.

“I want to speak to you, Mr Wareham; pray come and sit down. We shall all be starting out in an hour’s time. Meanwhile, here we may have a few minutes’ peace.”

He could not excuse himself, and sat down reluctantly.

“I am not going to scold you about yesterday,” she said, “although I think you will allow I might.”

“You do not accuse me, I hope, of premeditation?”

She professed not to be certain, but glancing at Wareham’s face, dropped her attempt at jocularity.

“I dare say it was Anne’s fault. She is astonishingly wilful.”

“I thought I had made it clear that the mistake was all my own. You must be well aware that Miss Dalrymple had the right to be excessively annoyed.”

Mrs Martyn smiled.

“Anne would not trouble herself about talk, if that is what you mean. She has proved herself absolutely indifferent. She will do the same here.”

Spite of himself, he looked up eagerly.

“Yes. Of course I speak of young Forbes. Her friends will not thank me when they hear that I have allowed him to tack himself on to us.”

The traitor in Wareham mentally blessed these friends, though his better instincts forced him to say—

“Why? Hugh is an only son, his father a baronet, and he what the world calls a good match.”

Mrs Martyn turned her large fair face towards him, and raised her eyebrows.

“Middling. No objection was made when Anne said she would marry him. But she let matters go too far, even for her, this time, and naturally they won’t be pleased to have it all over again. Mr Forbes says you telegraphed to him. I wish you had left it alone.”

“Pray don’t think I telegraphed to him to come. It was the last thing I desired.”

“I should have imagined so,” said Mrs Martyn dryly.

Wareham bit his lip.

“One must keep a promise.”

“Must one?”

“You will allow that the manner in which Miss Dalrymple broke off her engagement was maddening for my friend? Not an interview, not a word, only complete annihilation of all that had passed. Of course, from her own point of view, she may have been justified. I say nothing of blame.”

Mrs Martyn smiled. Wareham had seldom found his own temper so tried as in this interview. He felt as if her great hat had an irritating personality, and crushed him.

“You may know, or you may not know, that the blow to him was so serious that it brought me back from India.”

“Isn’t there such a thing as a ricochet?” asked Mrs Blanche innocently, so innocently that the innocence tickled him.

“I am afraid there is,” he admitted with candour. “Shall I go on?”

“Oh, by all means. You had just landed from India?”

“Miss Dalrymple allowed Hugh no communication. He could not even find out where she went when she left London. It seemed to me that he had a right to learn her reasons for dismissal, and I assured him when I quitted him that he should hear from me if I had any news of her whereabouts.”

“I could not have believed that Lady Dalrymple’s servants were so above suspicion.” Mrs Martyn heaved a sigh at recollection of her own.

He went on to say that finding Miss Dalrymple had crossed in the same boat with himself, he telegraphed to Hugh from Stavanger. He knew of no other course he could have taken. And he descanted on it, intending all to be told to Anne. He finished up by repeating that no idea of Hugh’s coming had crossed his mind.

“I dare say not. Magnanimity has limits,” she murmured.

Thinking it well to turn a deaf ear, he added that he had written a letter of some importance to Mr Forbes from Stalheim.

“From Stalheim?” She appeared to meditate, looking at her own hands, which were very small. Then her question flashed out.

“Was it to say you were in love with Anne?”

Wareham had got himself in hand by this time. He bowed.

“That or anything else you please, Mrs Martyn.”

She asked whether the letter had reached Hugh.

“How should it? He left England immediately after my telegram, and there has been no time.”

Mrs Martyn looked out at the fjord, but Wareham saw her shoulders shaking. Tragedy was uppermost with him, and at this proof of heartlessness he thought appreciatively of Millie’s padded glass. She turned round, however, demurely composed.

“Won’t it be a little inconvenient, by and by?”

He gazed loftily over her head.

“I don’t know that we are immediately concerned with my letter. That, at any rate, cannot be accused of bringing Hugh.”

“I wish something would take him away again. I had not the smallest intention of being mixed up with one of Anne’s complicated affairs,” cried Mrs Martyn.

The speech jarred.

“If his presence is disagreeable to Miss Dalrymple, she can certainly send him off. He will have had his explanation. Perhaps it will prove the shortest way out of the difficulty.”

This laid him open to an embarrassing question, “What difficulty?” Fortunately for Wareham, she did not wait for an answer before putting another. “Are you a writer of books?”

“I can’t deny it?”

“Yet read a woman’s nature no better! Anne will not send him off.”

“Accept him, then.”

“Nor accept him.”

“Paddles!”

“If you had studied the genus as you should for your profession, Mr Wareham, you would not find the riddle hard to solve. Anne likes Mr Forbes enough to like to have him about her, but she would not marry him, because she could not endure fetters. Now she salves her conscience by thinking that she has done her best to give him time to recover; you and fate have baffled her, and she—will enjoy herself.”

He forced himself to say quietly—

“You describe a—”

“Flirt. Anne would not deny it if you charged her.”

Her words in the boat were recalled by a reluctant memory; with them came the charm of her voice, her smile, more powerful than words. He started up, and stood leaning against the railing of the balcony.

“It comes to this. You and I read differently. I think you unjust to your friend, you hold me a fool. Of the two, I prefer therôleof fool. But whichever turns out right, I don’t see that we can do anything except wait, for it is certainly Miss Dalrymple who must tell Hugh to go or stay. Unless you have that authority?”

“I!” She shook her head. “Anne’s chaperons are dummies, they don’t interfere. Besides, I couldn’t be bothered. I don’t even know why I have talked to you, except that A one and Mr Forbes will not be amusing companions this morning.”

Wareham was cheered by the touch of feminine spite in this speech, the more so as he had seen Hugh cross the garden forlornly. He inquired what might be Mrs Martyn’s plans for the future.

“I suppose my husband will return to-day, and then I shall insist upon going as far as Vadheim to-morrow night. Do you mean to come with us to the Geiranger? You had better, for I can’t be responsible for your friend.”

“Thanks. But I shall get back this week.” Decision had stepped in so promptly that there was no time for regret to interpose, although she hung helplessly on his skirts. Mrs Martyn raised her eyebrows.

“You go with the Ravenhills? They mean to secure berths in theCeylon, which is expected here to-day.”

“I dare say that will suit me.”

When he left her he would not seek Hugh, but went to the little office from whence letters are dispensed, with a feeble dream of lighting upon his own. Failing in this he betook himself to the road, and presently came upon Mrs Ravenhill sketching, and Millie enticing half-a-dozen small children away from her mother by means of barley-sugar. The girls hushed themselves with awe and delight, the boy, all one broad laugh, flourished sticky fingers, and threatened to descend upon the paper, in spite of reproachful cries of “Daarlig Olaf!” At sight of Wareham he fled.

“And I breathe,” said Mrs Ravenhill.

“But he was much the nicest,” declared Millie. “All the grown-up people are so grave, that it is a comfort to see one having a good time while he is young. He was not really so very naughty, though his sisters were dreadfully scandalised. Think of their all living in those lovely cottages!”

And indeed the group of houses which Mrs Ravenhill was drawing made a perfectly harmonious note of colour. The sky delicate broken grey, the hill behind, grey also, running down in fine outline; against this a group of houses, red-roofed one or two, timber-pitched another, gabled, white-plastered, jutting out, running back, and set in waving emerald rye. Where the rye ended, long flowery grass began, and grew down to the foot of the bank where the children were playing. A woman with a white handkerchief on her head, and carrying two pails with a yoke, came down the little path which the thick grass hid from view; the swift-driven clouds cast swift soft shadows, the air was sweet with hay-making.

Wareham was in the state of mind when this soothed, because it seemed apart from the world of men and women, as represented by Mrs Martyn. He had gone to her feeling that the dearest part of him was sacredly wrapped up and invisible, and with shaking shoulders she had plucked it forth, and given him to understand that she knew all about it. The man must be more than usually magnanimous who does not chafe at insight from which he suffers. Here were women who made no pretence at insight. With them he felt healthfully at ease. And so scaly-strong is the coating behind which we flatter ourselves we are entrenched, that nothing could have more amazed him than to know that Millie, simple soul, read through him as easily as, and more truly than Mrs Martyn. He said suddenly at last—

“How do you return to England, Mrs Ravenhill?”

“Not as we came.” She shuddered. “TheCeylontourist steamer will be here to-day. I am told that she is an old P. and O., and very comfortable, and that we can get berths in her.”

“But you don’t go on board to-day?” Brace himself he must, but hardly to the extent of leaving so abruptly.

“No. We shall meet her at Bergen on Friday.”

He asked to be allowed to take their berths, and let fall something to the effect that if there was another to spare, he might secure it for himself.

“You will have had a short holiday.” Mrs Ravenhill added a little vermilion to her roofs, and sighed hopelessly over the flowery grass. Millie tried to check her heart’s throb.

“You come to Fjaerland to-day?” she hazarded.

They were all to go, it appeared, and Wareham agreed eagerly. What did it matter so long as he refrained from a word? Of course he would go. He sunned himself in the anticipation.

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