Chapter Six.And the Pitfalls of Cupid.Once more a shifting of sunny lights and purple shadows, of ever-varying colours, of small hamlets nestling by the water-side, each with its pier, its boats, and its many-hued little crowd, as they steamed down the Hardanger fjord towards Eide. Contempt for waterfalls was balanced by joy in the effort of reaching them, and, by dint of swearing to travel night and day until he overtook them again, Colonel Martyn obtained leave from his wife to go off to the Voringfos, and young Grey he dragged reluctantly with him. This threw the others of the party more together, and it seemed necessary for Wareham to offer his services to those who were bereft of their nominal protector. The mid-day meal was taken at the excellent “Mellands” at Eide; afterwards they strolled about in the meadows, and sat under hay-hurdles, in order to allow the great noonday heat to subside, before mounting the steep hill which lay between them and Vossefangen. Anne, indeed, vowed she would not walk, and chose a carriole, as a lighter conveyance; but Mrs Ravenhill and Millie soon jumped out of their stolkjaerre. And what a road it was! High up, a great waterfall hurled itself into a chasm of foam, and while the carriages crawled round zigzags, those on foot could cut off green corners, clambering ever higher into the sweet elastic air, until at the top they rested, breathless, until the cavalcade of patient ponies pulled slowly up, then merrily along the level road to Voss.Voss is ugly, but friendly. It has a good inn and a well-known landlord, an ancient church with a brown timber spire, a few shops, and a little train, which leisurely trots backwards and forwards to Bergen. Between it and Stalheim lies one of the most beautiful roads in Norway, a road constantly changing, with every variety of river and lake, of waving sorrel-tinted grass, now red, now green, now grey, as the wind kisses it; of distant snowy heights, and nearer sterner hills; here and there a fall, a water-mill, a group of cottages with turf-roofs starred by ox-eyed daisies, and always before you the road running, white, into the far away.No zigzagged hills, however, and no opportunities for talk except in the halts which come occasionally for the hardy ponies. And once, from Anne’s skydsgut, a little gill of eight or nine years old, with the usual white handkerchief over her head, there rose an agonised wail of “Toi, toi!” Wareham drove up rapidly. Anne’s portmanteau, which also formed the seat of her infant driver, hung threateningly over the edge; there was much hoisting and roping before it was restored to equilibrium.“No more carrioles for me,” said Anne. “It is too dull. Think of not being able so much as to inveigh against the dust! Apparently it would cause a revolution in the country if you, for instance, were to drive by my side?”“I don’t pretend to cope with a Norwegian pony and its skydsgut,” answered Wareham, laughing.He said no more; but, after these words of hers, it might have been noticed that he contrived to keep sufficiently close to exchange remarks, if only in pantomime, and when they halted at Tvinde, it was he who was at hand to help her down from her dusty perch. There was, as usual, afosto be visited.“Not worth seeing,” announced Mrs Martyn. “Some one, I forget who, said so.”“The more reason for going,” Anne insisted. She invited Wareham to accompany her, Mrs Martyn watching their departure with expressive lifting of her eyebrows.“There is Anne at her usual pastime, making fools of the men,” she said to Mrs Ravenhill. “I thought she had had a lesson, and might be trusted for a time; but it’s in her, it’s in her! If there is no one else, she sets to work upon my husband. Fortunately he’s wood, not wax.”“What was the lesson?”It was irresistible to Mrs Ravenhill to put this leading question.“Don’t you know? London was full of it. She was engaged to a Mr Forbes, a son of Sir Martin’s, and broke it off with outrageous abruptness. I never expected her to marry him, it was the way she put an end to it which incensed people. We thought the best thing for her was to get her abroad. And here—you see!”“Why was she so abrupt?”“She is ambitious. Only a brilliant position will capture, but a fancy will sway her.”Thankfulness sometimes goes oddly askew. Mrs Ravenhill breathed a sigh of relief that Millie’s innocent inclination had been checked in good time. Still, a touch of hostility towards the man who had roused it was in her tone.“Possibly Mr Wareham is of the same kind, and can take care of himself?”“Oh, poor fellow, poor fellow!” ejaculated Mrs Martyn, rejecting the possibility.The last thing in the world that would have entered Wareham’s head was that he was already the subject of comment. He allowed that there was a change in his thoughts of Anne, but would have scouted the idea that it implied change in his attitude towards Hugh. He now told himself that her conduct was probably capable of explanation. That meant pardon. He even indulged in dreams of reconciliation under his auspices. That included friendship. Hugh’s infatuation no longer amazed him, he was only surprised that he had not held her more strenuously; for it seemed to him that had he been in such a position he would not easily have been ousted. Thinking this, the rash man also watched her, noting the delicate side-lines of her face, the short curve of the upper lip, the soft growth of hair where it touched the neck, and the dainty ear; details which only stepped into prominence when, as now, her eyes were turned away, for their dark depths drew, and held captive, other eyes. They gave the impression of offering much to one who could interpret what they said, and in face of them it was useless to moralise upon the untrustworthiness of woman’s beauty. This was what Wareham had presumed to do, and now, when she suddenly turned them upon him, something startled him.“Have you got over your prejudice?” she asked, smiling.“Prejudice?”“Against me? But I should not have asked you, I didn’t mean to do anything so imprudent, only that you are changed, and wonderfully pleasanter, and women never know when to let well alone. They want words to quiet them, and I want you to tell me with your own lips that you don’t dislike me any more.”Again that momentary feeling of intoxication. He murmured almost inaudibly—“I can’t.”She slackened her steps.“Why not?”“Say that I don’t dislike you any more? Had I ever known you to dislike you?”“No, no, but you had imagined me, and it was not a pretty picture you evolved. Tell me whether the picture still exists, or whether it is blotted out?”Protestation was on his lips, when the recollection of Hugh’s misery rose up and checked him. She was still watching him, but now she turned away her face.“It is not, I see,” she said quietly. Wareham clutched at a feverish memory.“How can I forget his suffering? But,” he hastened to add, “since I have known you, I can’t believe that caprice or heartlessness caused it. There must have been something I don’t understand, and I am certain you could explain it if you would.”Among Cupid’s pitfalls there is no occupation so dangerous as for two persons to discuss each other’s sins and virtues—none perhaps more attractive. Wareham would have pointed this out in his books, yet here he was floundering. And Anne? Was she playing Will-o’-the-Wisp? She looked at him again.“I suppose you expect me to drop a curtsey, and offer a meek thank you?”“I don’t expect the impossible.”“Impossible?”“I can’t imagine the meekness.”“Your own fault. You don’t inspire it. You try to ruffle my temper.”“What is that but giving you an opportunity to display the virtue? You can’t display meekness without cause for it.”“Cause for it?” Anne struck back. “You offer cause freely!”“Oh!”“Can you say you have not been harsh in all your judgments?”“Before I knew you.”Hugh was forgotten. He had ceased to be anything but a peg on which to hang banter, and, perhaps strangely, it was Anne who recalled him with a sigh.“Did he—did Mr Forbes blame me so much?”“He never blamed you.”“Yet his friend was unmerciful.”“What could I think? I came home to find Hugh dashed from his heights to lowest depths of wretchedness. He neither slept nor ate, but talked immoderately. From his talk I gleaned my own impressions. He was devoted to you, he was miserable—you must forgive me if I became unjust.”Apparently she had forgotten the compassion which had made her sigh, for she repeated his words demurely—“Talked immoderately! And your patience held out all the time?”“I believe I can be patient.”“And I can’t. There’s the mischief!”He did not ask her to what mischief she alluded. They were close to thefos, and had been looking at it with unseeing eyes. Now some pause in the flutter of their thoughts made them turn with relief to an outward object. Wareham muttered a platitude about its beauty. He thought Mrs Ravenhill would have liked it for a sketch, while Anne scorned the thought.“Sketch a waterfall? As well sketch a disembodied spirit.”Silence again, spent apparently in dreaming of the delicious freshness of the leaping water. Really, Wareham was looking at her, and wondering how he could ever have been such a prejudiced fool. He had made up his mind, that she was a creature of the world, adept in its wiles, knowing how to torment poor Hugh, and using her knowledge remorselessly. Here, by the flashing waters, she was young, frank, imprudent, perhaps, but cruel—never! Whatever had happened, hers was not the fault. So far on the primrose path Wareham had strayed, and was certain of his footing. Presently she spoke again.“Some day perhaps I shall tell you. Not yet, for I am not sufficiently sure of my ground. If I have gained anything, it would be humiliating to see it all melt away, as it might. I was vexed at your prejudging me, because it was not fair; all your sympathies were heaped on one side, and I really believe if you could have crushed me with them, you were quite ready to have done so. Now I start on a better footing. Now if you blame me, as you will, it will not be in that hard, unreasoning fashion.”“Why say that I shall blame you?” His voice was not quite steady.She turned and walked down the hill. “Because you cannot yet judge fairly.”He remonstrated.“You need not be displeased. It is not your fault. No man is capable of placing himself in a woman’s position in such a matter.”“Try me.”She laughed merrily.“There is another thing which no man can do—imagine that he is not an exception to the general rule!”“I wish you would find something which a man can do, instead of crushing with negatives!” He was growing impatient, and she said abruptly—“I believe I will tell you.”He waited, eagerly desiring that she should look at him.“But I risk a great deal, because you are Mr Forbes’ friend, and you will not believe it possible.”Alas for friendship when it is first confronted with love! Afterwards it may recover its footing, but in the, as yet, unacknowledged whirl of head and heart, the poor thing gets swept into the vortex. At that moment Wareham could have believed much.“And it sounds so little when one puts it into words!” the sinner went on hesitatingly. “It must have been that I did not like him well enough—ever. I thought I did. I assure you I was quite glad to discover that I could feel so much, but—”She paused so long that Wareham repeated the word.“But?”“I got tired of him, of it, of all!” She turned her eyes on him. “You have never tried, have you, being adored from morning to night?”“Never.”“It is sickening. Like living upon sweetmeats. I used to try to provoke him, and if once I could have got him out of temper, there might have been some hope. If he had contradicted me! I longed for a breath of fresh air. And dragging on—oh, he made a mistake all through. Of course you can’t understand—” She ended abruptly.He felt a burning desire to assure her that he could, but his muttered words struck him as absurdly inadequate. Silence became more eloquent. Anne broke it at last—“It was a hundred pities,” she mused, “and rough on him, for what could I say? What reason could I give? Tell him that he bored me? I couldn’t, I couldn’t! I can’t lose my friends. No, no, no, poor fellow! Here we come upon all those people, and Blanche is beckoning wildly, and I can’t think how I have had the face to talk to you. Forget it!”With a sudden movement, for which he was unprepared, she sprang from him, and ran down the steep slope. He restrained the impulse to quicken his own pace, and by the time he reached the road, the carrioles had started, and Mrs Ravenhill and Millie, the clergyman and his wife, were moving off in a cloud of dust. Wareham, in spite of the impatience of his skydsgut, held back until carriages and dust had rolled away in the distance.Tumultuous thought made it at first impossible to grasp a single idea, and to hold on to it as a centre for others. Anne’s face, the flutter of a small curl on her forehead, softly outlined arch of eyebrows, all manner of idiotic fancies, hustled and jostled each other in his brain; and he presently became aware that instead of sending the airy traitors to the right-about, he was encouraging them to stand, wall-like, between himself and the truth about himself. Too strong a man to keep up the mask when once he discovered it, he proceeded to chase the busy throng. From behind them Anne’s face peeped again.He dragged out a hiding fact, and held it bare to his own scorn. He loved her—loved her; and though but a day before the amazement of it would have struck him mute, it had already ceased to look strange. All had led to it. The inconceivable would have been his failing to love. So far his heart with easy swing.But judgment stood stubborn in refusal to go with it. Judgment it was which held the scourge. With Hugh Forbes in the background, what might be acknowledged natural became also offensive. As Wareham jogged along the white road, unheedful of bold outlines or lovely verdure, he found himself mentally writing to his friend, and recoiling with a start. How could he word such a dispatch—“I have seen the woman for whom you are breaking your heart. I love her myself, and shall try to win her”? The very thought was brutal.Yet—to resign her for a dream, even for an ill-placed devotion, what could be more foolish and morbid? What fresh chance could come to Hugh? His had passed when, sooner than carry out an engagement, she had broken away abruptly, and faced the talk and jibes of her world by venturing on a course for which blame was the more unsparingly heaped on her because it was inexplicable. Hugh was young, handsome, ardent. Until this moment Wareham had fancied him the very man to catch the fancy of a woman, and it was only since Anne had lifted the curtain which friendship held tight, that he could admit that possible something—was it the power of boring?—which had driven her from him. This was what she meant when she said she had no patience. That patience should be wanted!Here was his heart once more racing smoothly, until judgment caught the reins again, and tugged at the runaway steed. What boy’s work was this! A woman but a few weeks ago betrothed to his friend, and still beloved by him—crazily it might be, but with all his heart—a woman of whom he knew next to nothing, and that little, up to now, not in her favour—and here, at a word, a look, he was at her feet! Shameful! Yet—worst shame of all—not to be parted with at any price. Already the world without Anne’s figure in the foreground looked cold and unendurable. His eyes tried to pierce the whirl of dust ahead, and to distinguish her amid its folds; he fancied he could do so, and straightway his thoughts were occupied with nothing but foolish longing to know what her eyes were saying at this moment. The confidence she had given surely pointed to a touch of sympathy, a budding liking? Happy, happy he! In another hour or two they might be again together, and he would show better than he yet had done, how much he prized her frankness. The next moment these thoughts turned upon him with scourges. Honour stood by, and scornfully directed the flagellation, and he felt himself a miserable traitor. Here was friendship! Here was a creditable sequel to his offices for Hugh! So his mind wandered backwards and forwards.Chaos lasted for a while, and it is not impossible that the tumult was so new that he rashly suffered it, believing in his own powers of self-government, and aware of a whirl, as of hot-headed youth, which he had thought the years had left behind. The day changed, brooding clouds gathered round the mountains, which closed in, rank after rank; nearer hills, heavily purple, swept up from the gloom of the valley. The road slowly mounted, the dust subsided, and the crawling carrioles in front looked as if an effort might overtake them. But Wareham checked the impulse, and his skydsgut’s attempted spurt. He would not see Anne until he had resolved on a line of action. A resolution, carefully thought out, would serve as a guard against the rasher promptings of his heart, and between this and Stalheim he had to come to terms with this resolution. One was already there—not to give her up if he could gain her. Behind this his heart entrenched itself, grumbling.Yet, in spite of such a reservation, carrying a good deal with it, Wareham hugged the delusion that the other was the more important. Conscience had much to say as to what he should write to Hugh, how wrap up the communication which was so abominably angular and assertive, that, say what he would, it inevitably presented itself in a repulsive form. Conscience harped loudly upon truth, yet was anxious to give truth what should have been unnecessary adorning. Finally he resolved to write to Hugh that night, and to tell him—? to tell him that he had met Miss Dalrymple. This decided, he was forced to admit that so much Hugh knew already. There must be a more expansive confession; he had to add—admired, liked her. And this written, in thought, appeared so significant to Wareham, that he imagined himself closing the letter here, and drew a breath of relief. But conscience, refusing compromise, cried out for something explicit, and here came the difficulty. All the sentences he revolved looked either inadequate or shameful. “Do you give her up?” Free she undoubtedly was, having herself asserted her freedom, but free to Hugh Forbes’ chief friend?Yet something he must write, and until it was written and answered, keep his feelings out of reach of betrayal. Here was a resolution which he grasped, for it belonged to the honourable instincts of a fine nature, too deeply rooted to suffer in the general upheaval. He added a rider, necessary if unpalatable. He would not avoid Anne to the extent of provoking her own or other remark, but he must avoid—well, such a walkà deuxas they had taken that day, for instance.The road grew steeper, and he jumped out of his carriole. Stalheim was perched above, a hotel, two or three scattered cottages, and a waterfall. He climbed through gathering clouds, and when he reached the door, was met by English tourists of the most noisy and offensive type. All his own people had vanished, and he saw no more of them until supper, which was eaten to the accompaniment of a band. Mrs Ravenhill confided to him that she hated the place, in spite of the magnificence of the scenery.“And Millie and I have determined to go to Gudvangen to-morrow, and wait for the Monday steamer. I cannot stay here to see my own country-people making themselves so obnoxious—” She hastened to add with scrupulous care, “You don’t expect me, I hope, to repeat that you are not in the least tied to us, and must not be influenced by anything we may do.”“Does that sentence mean that I am forbidden to accompany you?”“Forbidden? Oh, no; but the others stay on, and this is one of the special places in Norway.”“I detest special places.”She warned further.“Remember that we heard the little inn at Gudvangen was very primitive.”“That decides me. If you will allow me, I shall certainly go there with you.”Millie’s face was all brightness. Wareham, indeed, was inclined to look upon the proposal as the reward of merit, to plume himself upon a sort of recognition of his having kept on the side of his conscience. It was a step out of his dilemma. Two days of voluntary banishment from Anne meant a sacrifice worthy of the altar of friendship. He would write his letter, avoid walks, avoid the smallest betrayal of feeling. All looked easy.If love laughs at locksmiths, how much more at lovers’ resolutions!
Once more a shifting of sunny lights and purple shadows, of ever-varying colours, of small hamlets nestling by the water-side, each with its pier, its boats, and its many-hued little crowd, as they steamed down the Hardanger fjord towards Eide. Contempt for waterfalls was balanced by joy in the effort of reaching them, and, by dint of swearing to travel night and day until he overtook them again, Colonel Martyn obtained leave from his wife to go off to the Voringfos, and young Grey he dragged reluctantly with him. This threw the others of the party more together, and it seemed necessary for Wareham to offer his services to those who were bereft of their nominal protector. The mid-day meal was taken at the excellent “Mellands” at Eide; afterwards they strolled about in the meadows, and sat under hay-hurdles, in order to allow the great noonday heat to subside, before mounting the steep hill which lay between them and Vossefangen. Anne, indeed, vowed she would not walk, and chose a carriole, as a lighter conveyance; but Mrs Ravenhill and Millie soon jumped out of their stolkjaerre. And what a road it was! High up, a great waterfall hurled itself into a chasm of foam, and while the carriages crawled round zigzags, those on foot could cut off green corners, clambering ever higher into the sweet elastic air, until at the top they rested, breathless, until the cavalcade of patient ponies pulled slowly up, then merrily along the level road to Voss.
Voss is ugly, but friendly. It has a good inn and a well-known landlord, an ancient church with a brown timber spire, a few shops, and a little train, which leisurely trots backwards and forwards to Bergen. Between it and Stalheim lies one of the most beautiful roads in Norway, a road constantly changing, with every variety of river and lake, of waving sorrel-tinted grass, now red, now green, now grey, as the wind kisses it; of distant snowy heights, and nearer sterner hills; here and there a fall, a water-mill, a group of cottages with turf-roofs starred by ox-eyed daisies, and always before you the road running, white, into the far away.
No zigzagged hills, however, and no opportunities for talk except in the halts which come occasionally for the hardy ponies. And once, from Anne’s skydsgut, a little gill of eight or nine years old, with the usual white handkerchief over her head, there rose an agonised wail of “Toi, toi!” Wareham drove up rapidly. Anne’s portmanteau, which also formed the seat of her infant driver, hung threateningly over the edge; there was much hoisting and roping before it was restored to equilibrium.
“No more carrioles for me,” said Anne. “It is too dull. Think of not being able so much as to inveigh against the dust! Apparently it would cause a revolution in the country if you, for instance, were to drive by my side?”
“I don’t pretend to cope with a Norwegian pony and its skydsgut,” answered Wareham, laughing.
He said no more; but, after these words of hers, it might have been noticed that he contrived to keep sufficiently close to exchange remarks, if only in pantomime, and when they halted at Tvinde, it was he who was at hand to help her down from her dusty perch. There was, as usual, afosto be visited.
“Not worth seeing,” announced Mrs Martyn. “Some one, I forget who, said so.”
“The more reason for going,” Anne insisted. She invited Wareham to accompany her, Mrs Martyn watching their departure with expressive lifting of her eyebrows.
“There is Anne at her usual pastime, making fools of the men,” she said to Mrs Ravenhill. “I thought she had had a lesson, and might be trusted for a time; but it’s in her, it’s in her! If there is no one else, she sets to work upon my husband. Fortunately he’s wood, not wax.”
“What was the lesson?”
It was irresistible to Mrs Ravenhill to put this leading question.
“Don’t you know? London was full of it. She was engaged to a Mr Forbes, a son of Sir Martin’s, and broke it off with outrageous abruptness. I never expected her to marry him, it was the way she put an end to it which incensed people. We thought the best thing for her was to get her abroad. And here—you see!”
“Why was she so abrupt?”
“She is ambitious. Only a brilliant position will capture, but a fancy will sway her.”
Thankfulness sometimes goes oddly askew. Mrs Ravenhill breathed a sigh of relief that Millie’s innocent inclination had been checked in good time. Still, a touch of hostility towards the man who had roused it was in her tone.
“Possibly Mr Wareham is of the same kind, and can take care of himself?”
“Oh, poor fellow, poor fellow!” ejaculated Mrs Martyn, rejecting the possibility.
The last thing in the world that would have entered Wareham’s head was that he was already the subject of comment. He allowed that there was a change in his thoughts of Anne, but would have scouted the idea that it implied change in his attitude towards Hugh. He now told himself that her conduct was probably capable of explanation. That meant pardon. He even indulged in dreams of reconciliation under his auspices. That included friendship. Hugh’s infatuation no longer amazed him, he was only surprised that he had not held her more strenuously; for it seemed to him that had he been in such a position he would not easily have been ousted. Thinking this, the rash man also watched her, noting the delicate side-lines of her face, the short curve of the upper lip, the soft growth of hair where it touched the neck, and the dainty ear; details which only stepped into prominence when, as now, her eyes were turned away, for their dark depths drew, and held captive, other eyes. They gave the impression of offering much to one who could interpret what they said, and in face of them it was useless to moralise upon the untrustworthiness of woman’s beauty. This was what Wareham had presumed to do, and now, when she suddenly turned them upon him, something startled him.
“Have you got over your prejudice?” she asked, smiling.
“Prejudice?”
“Against me? But I should not have asked you, I didn’t mean to do anything so imprudent, only that you are changed, and wonderfully pleasanter, and women never know when to let well alone. They want words to quiet them, and I want you to tell me with your own lips that you don’t dislike me any more.”
Again that momentary feeling of intoxication. He murmured almost inaudibly—
“I can’t.”
She slackened her steps.
“Why not?”
“Say that I don’t dislike you any more? Had I ever known you to dislike you?”
“No, no, but you had imagined me, and it was not a pretty picture you evolved. Tell me whether the picture still exists, or whether it is blotted out?”
Protestation was on his lips, when the recollection of Hugh’s misery rose up and checked him. She was still watching him, but now she turned away her face.
“It is not, I see,” she said quietly. Wareham clutched at a feverish memory.
“How can I forget his suffering? But,” he hastened to add, “since I have known you, I can’t believe that caprice or heartlessness caused it. There must have been something I don’t understand, and I am certain you could explain it if you would.”
Among Cupid’s pitfalls there is no occupation so dangerous as for two persons to discuss each other’s sins and virtues—none perhaps more attractive. Wareham would have pointed this out in his books, yet here he was floundering. And Anne? Was she playing Will-o’-the-Wisp? She looked at him again.
“I suppose you expect me to drop a curtsey, and offer a meek thank you?”
“I don’t expect the impossible.”
“Impossible?”
“I can’t imagine the meekness.”
“Your own fault. You don’t inspire it. You try to ruffle my temper.”
“What is that but giving you an opportunity to display the virtue? You can’t display meekness without cause for it.”
“Cause for it?” Anne struck back. “You offer cause freely!”
“Oh!”
“Can you say you have not been harsh in all your judgments?”
“Before I knew you.”
Hugh was forgotten. He had ceased to be anything but a peg on which to hang banter, and, perhaps strangely, it was Anne who recalled him with a sigh.
“Did he—did Mr Forbes blame me so much?”
“He never blamed you.”
“Yet his friend was unmerciful.”
“What could I think? I came home to find Hugh dashed from his heights to lowest depths of wretchedness. He neither slept nor ate, but talked immoderately. From his talk I gleaned my own impressions. He was devoted to you, he was miserable—you must forgive me if I became unjust.”
Apparently she had forgotten the compassion which had made her sigh, for she repeated his words demurely—
“Talked immoderately! And your patience held out all the time?”
“I believe I can be patient.”
“And I can’t. There’s the mischief!”
He did not ask her to what mischief she alluded. They were close to thefos, and had been looking at it with unseeing eyes. Now some pause in the flutter of their thoughts made them turn with relief to an outward object. Wareham muttered a platitude about its beauty. He thought Mrs Ravenhill would have liked it for a sketch, while Anne scorned the thought.
“Sketch a waterfall? As well sketch a disembodied spirit.”
Silence again, spent apparently in dreaming of the delicious freshness of the leaping water. Really, Wareham was looking at her, and wondering how he could ever have been such a prejudiced fool. He had made up his mind, that she was a creature of the world, adept in its wiles, knowing how to torment poor Hugh, and using her knowledge remorselessly. Here, by the flashing waters, she was young, frank, imprudent, perhaps, but cruel—never! Whatever had happened, hers was not the fault. So far on the primrose path Wareham had strayed, and was certain of his footing. Presently she spoke again.
“Some day perhaps I shall tell you. Not yet, for I am not sufficiently sure of my ground. If I have gained anything, it would be humiliating to see it all melt away, as it might. I was vexed at your prejudging me, because it was not fair; all your sympathies were heaped on one side, and I really believe if you could have crushed me with them, you were quite ready to have done so. Now I start on a better footing. Now if you blame me, as you will, it will not be in that hard, unreasoning fashion.”
“Why say that I shall blame you?” His voice was not quite steady.
She turned and walked down the hill. “Because you cannot yet judge fairly.”
He remonstrated.
“You need not be displeased. It is not your fault. No man is capable of placing himself in a woman’s position in such a matter.”
“Try me.”
She laughed merrily.
“There is another thing which no man can do—imagine that he is not an exception to the general rule!”
“I wish you would find something which a man can do, instead of crushing with negatives!” He was growing impatient, and she said abruptly—
“I believe I will tell you.”
He waited, eagerly desiring that she should look at him.
“But I risk a great deal, because you are Mr Forbes’ friend, and you will not believe it possible.”
Alas for friendship when it is first confronted with love! Afterwards it may recover its footing, but in the, as yet, unacknowledged whirl of head and heart, the poor thing gets swept into the vortex. At that moment Wareham could have believed much.
“And it sounds so little when one puts it into words!” the sinner went on hesitatingly. “It must have been that I did not like him well enough—ever. I thought I did. I assure you I was quite glad to discover that I could feel so much, but—”
She paused so long that Wareham repeated the word.
“But?”
“I got tired of him, of it, of all!” She turned her eyes on him. “You have never tried, have you, being adored from morning to night?”
“Never.”
“It is sickening. Like living upon sweetmeats. I used to try to provoke him, and if once I could have got him out of temper, there might have been some hope. If he had contradicted me! I longed for a breath of fresh air. And dragging on—oh, he made a mistake all through. Of course you can’t understand—” She ended abruptly.
He felt a burning desire to assure her that he could, but his muttered words struck him as absurdly inadequate. Silence became more eloquent. Anne broke it at last—
“It was a hundred pities,” she mused, “and rough on him, for what could I say? What reason could I give? Tell him that he bored me? I couldn’t, I couldn’t! I can’t lose my friends. No, no, no, poor fellow! Here we come upon all those people, and Blanche is beckoning wildly, and I can’t think how I have had the face to talk to you. Forget it!”
With a sudden movement, for which he was unprepared, she sprang from him, and ran down the steep slope. He restrained the impulse to quicken his own pace, and by the time he reached the road, the carrioles had started, and Mrs Ravenhill and Millie, the clergyman and his wife, were moving off in a cloud of dust. Wareham, in spite of the impatience of his skydsgut, held back until carriages and dust had rolled away in the distance.
Tumultuous thought made it at first impossible to grasp a single idea, and to hold on to it as a centre for others. Anne’s face, the flutter of a small curl on her forehead, softly outlined arch of eyebrows, all manner of idiotic fancies, hustled and jostled each other in his brain; and he presently became aware that instead of sending the airy traitors to the right-about, he was encouraging them to stand, wall-like, between himself and the truth about himself. Too strong a man to keep up the mask when once he discovered it, he proceeded to chase the busy throng. From behind them Anne’s face peeped again.
He dragged out a hiding fact, and held it bare to his own scorn. He loved her—loved her; and though but a day before the amazement of it would have struck him mute, it had already ceased to look strange. All had led to it. The inconceivable would have been his failing to love. So far his heart with easy swing.
But judgment stood stubborn in refusal to go with it. Judgment it was which held the scourge. With Hugh Forbes in the background, what might be acknowledged natural became also offensive. As Wareham jogged along the white road, unheedful of bold outlines or lovely verdure, he found himself mentally writing to his friend, and recoiling with a start. How could he word such a dispatch—“I have seen the woman for whom you are breaking your heart. I love her myself, and shall try to win her”? The very thought was brutal.
Yet—to resign her for a dream, even for an ill-placed devotion, what could be more foolish and morbid? What fresh chance could come to Hugh? His had passed when, sooner than carry out an engagement, she had broken away abruptly, and faced the talk and jibes of her world by venturing on a course for which blame was the more unsparingly heaped on her because it was inexplicable. Hugh was young, handsome, ardent. Until this moment Wareham had fancied him the very man to catch the fancy of a woman, and it was only since Anne had lifted the curtain which friendship held tight, that he could admit that possible something—was it the power of boring?—which had driven her from him. This was what she meant when she said she had no patience. That patience should be wanted!
Here was his heart once more racing smoothly, until judgment caught the reins again, and tugged at the runaway steed. What boy’s work was this! A woman but a few weeks ago betrothed to his friend, and still beloved by him—crazily it might be, but with all his heart—a woman of whom he knew next to nothing, and that little, up to now, not in her favour—and here, at a word, a look, he was at her feet! Shameful! Yet—worst shame of all—not to be parted with at any price. Already the world without Anne’s figure in the foreground looked cold and unendurable. His eyes tried to pierce the whirl of dust ahead, and to distinguish her amid its folds; he fancied he could do so, and straightway his thoughts were occupied with nothing but foolish longing to know what her eyes were saying at this moment. The confidence she had given surely pointed to a touch of sympathy, a budding liking? Happy, happy he! In another hour or two they might be again together, and he would show better than he yet had done, how much he prized her frankness. The next moment these thoughts turned upon him with scourges. Honour stood by, and scornfully directed the flagellation, and he felt himself a miserable traitor. Here was friendship! Here was a creditable sequel to his offices for Hugh! So his mind wandered backwards and forwards.
Chaos lasted for a while, and it is not impossible that the tumult was so new that he rashly suffered it, believing in his own powers of self-government, and aware of a whirl, as of hot-headed youth, which he had thought the years had left behind. The day changed, brooding clouds gathered round the mountains, which closed in, rank after rank; nearer hills, heavily purple, swept up from the gloom of the valley. The road slowly mounted, the dust subsided, and the crawling carrioles in front looked as if an effort might overtake them. But Wareham checked the impulse, and his skydsgut’s attempted spurt. He would not see Anne until he had resolved on a line of action. A resolution, carefully thought out, would serve as a guard against the rasher promptings of his heart, and between this and Stalheim he had to come to terms with this resolution. One was already there—not to give her up if he could gain her. Behind this his heart entrenched itself, grumbling.
Yet, in spite of such a reservation, carrying a good deal with it, Wareham hugged the delusion that the other was the more important. Conscience had much to say as to what he should write to Hugh, how wrap up the communication which was so abominably angular and assertive, that, say what he would, it inevitably presented itself in a repulsive form. Conscience harped loudly upon truth, yet was anxious to give truth what should have been unnecessary adorning. Finally he resolved to write to Hugh that night, and to tell him—? to tell him that he had met Miss Dalrymple. This decided, he was forced to admit that so much Hugh knew already. There must be a more expansive confession; he had to add—admired, liked her. And this written, in thought, appeared so significant to Wareham, that he imagined himself closing the letter here, and drew a breath of relief. But conscience, refusing compromise, cried out for something explicit, and here came the difficulty. All the sentences he revolved looked either inadequate or shameful. “Do you give her up?” Free she undoubtedly was, having herself asserted her freedom, but free to Hugh Forbes’ chief friend?
Yet something he must write, and until it was written and answered, keep his feelings out of reach of betrayal. Here was a resolution which he grasped, for it belonged to the honourable instincts of a fine nature, too deeply rooted to suffer in the general upheaval. He added a rider, necessary if unpalatable. He would not avoid Anne to the extent of provoking her own or other remark, but he must avoid—well, such a walkà deuxas they had taken that day, for instance.
The road grew steeper, and he jumped out of his carriole. Stalheim was perched above, a hotel, two or three scattered cottages, and a waterfall. He climbed through gathering clouds, and when he reached the door, was met by English tourists of the most noisy and offensive type. All his own people had vanished, and he saw no more of them until supper, which was eaten to the accompaniment of a band. Mrs Ravenhill confided to him that she hated the place, in spite of the magnificence of the scenery.
“And Millie and I have determined to go to Gudvangen to-morrow, and wait for the Monday steamer. I cannot stay here to see my own country-people making themselves so obnoxious—” She hastened to add with scrupulous care, “You don’t expect me, I hope, to repeat that you are not in the least tied to us, and must not be influenced by anything we may do.”
“Does that sentence mean that I am forbidden to accompany you?”
“Forbidden? Oh, no; but the others stay on, and this is one of the special places in Norway.”
“I detest special places.”
She warned further.
“Remember that we heard the little inn at Gudvangen was very primitive.”
“That decides me. If you will allow me, I shall certainly go there with you.”
Millie’s face was all brightness. Wareham, indeed, was inclined to look upon the proposal as the reward of merit, to plume himself upon a sort of recognition of his having kept on the side of his conscience. It was a step out of his dilemma. Two days of voluntary banishment from Anne meant a sacrifice worthy of the altar of friendship. He would write his letter, avoid walks, avoid the smallest betrayal of feeling. All looked easy.
If love laughs at locksmiths, how much more at lovers’ resolutions!
Chapter Seven.How a Letter got Written.So satisfied was Wareham with his ample precautions that, supper ended, he went in pursuit of Miss Dalrymple. She had vanished. Mrs Martyn engaged him, and Mrs Ravenhill and Millie joined in; presently a harp and voice struck up in the gallery round the hall. An hour later Anne appeared at the door, wet, breathless, but in high spirits. She said she had been paying tribute to the place, had gone down the Gudvangen zigzags to see a waterfall—two waterfalls. A beautiful sleigh-dog slipped in behind her.“Anne!” exclaimed Mrs Martyn, disapprovingly. “In this rain!”“Mountain-rain—mist.”“And alone!”“Mayn’t oneself be good company?”She laughed as she said it. Wareham, looking at her, found delightful charm in her laugh. He felt that in breaking away he was giving Hugh an extraordinary proof of loyalty, and probably his face expressed this conviction, for Mrs Martyn said sharply—“Mr Wareham may admire imprudence—I don’t!”Anne’s face chilled. He returned—“My opinion is worthless, or I should venture to suggest dangers in wet clothes.”“Dangers? Madness!” cried Mrs Martyn, jumping up. “Come, Anne, I have waited for you until I can hardly keep my eyes open.”“They are going to dance,” Millie hazarded. “Let them. I go to bed.”“I am tired of the noise,” said Mrs Ravenhill.“And I have a letter to write,” remarked Wareham.Anne, who had recovered herself, looked back over her shoulder with a smile.“Do letters ever come or go?” she asked.The idle question gripped Wareham. The letter—the act of writing—had been his difficulty; now, with recollection of how long a time must pass before it could reach England, and bring back its answer, came a sinking of heart. Honour bound him to the lines he had laid down. If he remained near he must take no steps to win her until he heard from Hugh. If he could not trust himself, he must hold aloof. There was the situation—briefly put. Cruel! For every hour, every minute, now, was worth months, years! Now the days were strewn with opportunities, he was thrown into her society. If ever she was to be won, now was his chance. Impatience caught, shook him! It might be a fortnight before answer came from Hugh, and when he looked at the past week, and reflected that it seemed a month long, he found the prospect of two such periods intolerable. He endeavoured to detach himself from conditions, and to philosophise; but philosophy is old and scrupulous, while young love has no qualms in taking advantage of the first opportunity which presents itself, and tripping up the elderly combatant. Wareham gave up arguing with himself, and set doggedly to work to write his letter.Step number one was difficult enough.Nothing satisfied him in expression. More than one scrawl was tossed aside as inadequate, absurdly inadequate, or as expressing more than he meant. What did he mean? There was the mischief. In these early days, when he had only just begun to read his own heart, and might reasonably claim a little time for its study, it was detestable to have to offer it for a third person’s perusal. He resented the position the more that he was unused to interference with his liberty. He lost his first flush of pity for Hugh, and wrote with a certain asperity—“Circumstances have thrown Miss Dalrymple and me together; perhaps this will prepare you for what I have to say. In a word, I believe I am on the brink of loving her. The knowledge only came to me to-day; I imagine it will not please you. My dear fellow, I would have given a good deal for it not to have happened; don’t reproach me without keeping that in mind. As it is, all I can do is to hold back—I don’t say draw back, because I have done nothing—and let you make the next move. If you have any hope, if you desire to try your luck once more, telegraph through Bennett, ‘Wait.’ You can trust me to make no sign till word comes from you, whatever the cost to myself. So much I owe you, and perhaps you will think I owe you more, but I believe you are generous enough to forgive what could only be a wrong if I snatched your chances from you. At best, my own may be small enough, they appear to me so small that this letter becomes offensively presumptuous in even treating of them. Yet, lest you should ever think me treacherous, I write it, and repeat that I hold myself bound in honour and friendship to take no step in advance until you have told me that I am free, or let me know that you have not yet resigned your hope.”The wording displeased him, but it did not seem as if any thing he wrote could give him satisfaction, so that he hurriedly closed his epistle, and took it to the office. A heap of letters lay on the table, they had the appearance of having been seeking their owners for weeks, and of reposing at last with an air of finality. Wareham looked at them askance, as if each carried a threat of delay.In the morning Anne sat next to him at breakfast. She said to him immediately—“Why are you so cruel as to leave us? We are pinned here until Colonel Martyn and Mr Grey come back. Besides, I don’t like being driven from point to point, without time to draw breath. I feel like a note of interjection.”He made a weak reply, to the effect that Mrs Ravenhill disliked the place.“And you are bound to Mrs Ravenhill?” She hastened to apologise. “Of course you are. Forgive me.”If this was offered as an opening, it failed. After a momentary pause, she said—“You should have been with us last evening.”“Us?”“I had a companion; did you not see him? He came in with me.”“Oh, the dog!”“I don’t permit those contemptuous accents for my friends. He behaved like a true gentleman, and took me to the very place where I wanted to go. No one else offered.” If this was coquetry, it was accompanied by a frank smile at her own expense. Wareham stiffened, looked away, and broke out eagerly—“How long shall you stay here?”“Until Blanche is tired of it. I suppose till Monday. Are you not coming out to see what you came from England to see?”“Oh, we are all coming,” said Wareham, raging at his fetters.She looked at him with eyes surprised but twinkling, talked about London for a decent interval, and left the room. He scarcely expected to see her re-appear with the others in the hall, but she was there.Whatever Stalheim may suffer from its visitors, it is magnificently placed, a height among heights. Straight in front the Naerodal cleaves the mountains, its conical Jordalshut dominating the rest, its lovely mist-drifts playing round the summits. Below, a silver flash darts through the greys, and slender falls leap down to join the river. Nor is this fine cleft the only outlet. As they strolled up a road to the left where was a broken foreground of shrub, boulders, and cut grass—made lively by magpies—the great valley through which they had passed the day before, opened, and swept away into purple gloom, until the eye reached the mountains behind, here shrouded in cloud, there uplifting snowy heights against the menacing darkness. There was a wildness, a grandeur, a savage desolation, such as they had not yet seen under the August skies of Norway.At the end of the walk Wareham took credit to himself for his conduct. He was sure that he had been quite natural, had walked with Anne, talked with Anne, and looked at Anne, without betraying attraction. This satisfied his man’s code, which, once alarmed, is minute in such matters. He even avoided wishing her good-bye—marked slight; possibly, too marked. When the Ravenhills started, he dispatched his portmanteau in a carriole, and followed on foot.It was a day of broken lights and flitting shadows; waterfalls rushed down on either side, and the beautiful salmon river, beryl-coloured, milky white, indigo, raced along by the road, and offered its counteracting life to what gloom there was. Wareham gave eager appreciation to the green flashing world through which he walked, his conscience was light, he enjoyed the smell of hay, snatched from steep roof-like patches of earth—the slender falls, scarcely more than silver threads, which leapt incredible heights to escape from their ice-prisons—the sweet pure air, the spring of turf at his feet. Far away in front the little carriages with their dun ponies spun along; presently a wild unkempt figure, carrying a sickle, and clad in scarlet jacket, broad hat, and knee-breeches, strode from a bushy path, a dog as wild as his master at his heels. Then a cottage or two with flowery roofs came in sight, a glimmer of fjord, and he was at Gudvangen. Mrs Ravenhill and Millie were standing outside Hansen’s primitive little inn when he reached it.“I don’t know what you will say,” said Mrs Ravenhill, laughing. “Are you prepared to live in a deal box by the roadside? But Millie and I think it delightful.”“Then I shall think it delightful too,” said Wareham. “One can always fish.”Millie inquired if he had seen the waterfall.“That little thing!”“Speak respectfully, please! One of the highest in Europe, two thousand feet, with a jump of five hundred, isn’t to be dismissed in such a slighting tone.”“You are going to rival Mrs Martyn in facts. But I see you have taken Gudvangen to your heart. Shall we go and explore?” On the way he was struck with Millie’s light-heartedness, and said to himself that here was one of those happy natures from which care rolls off. She spoke with almost extreme admiration of Anne, but Mrs Martyn she did not like. Her mother remonstrated that she had never been harmed by that lady.“Padded glass,” was all that Millie vouchsafed.Wareham wondered a little at such unexpected perspicacity.A figure in a long mackintosh ran joyfully up to the girl. It was the young Siamese prince, breathless with triumph, and a basket of twenty-eight trout.“You are at Hansen’s?” he demanded, his eyes sparkling.“All of us—”“Then they shall be cooked; we will have them by and by. Perhaps I shall even catch some more.”“We will live on trout,” said Wareham. “I must have a try.”“Do,” Mrs Ravenhill urged. “I promise you that Millie and I will bring appreciative appetites.”They did not meet again till supper, shared with three English fishermen, who bemoaned the dry weather, and two German girls, travelling on foot with knapsacks.“What have you discovered?” Wareham asked. “But I can tell you. Another waterfall.”“Another? A dozen. We found a delightful walk which you shall see to-morrow. There is but one, so it is as well it should have charms. It leads to Bakke, where the pastor—whom we met with a pipe a yard long—has service to-morrow, and we can either row along the fjord or walk. Mother will walk, I expect; she sees sketches at every turn.”Wareham foresaw anothertête-à-têtestroll, but on this occasion felt no disquietude, looking upon Millie as a soothing little companion, who might be induced, without suspicion, to discourse now and then upon Miss Dalrymple. So much depends on the point of view! Mrs Ravenhill’s was not the same. She started, resolved to remain with the others, but a shadowy view of the fjord, with a group of infantine kids in the foreground, shook her resolution. The lights were perfect. Millie’s little fancy, if it ever existed, had quite fluttered away, danger could not exist. She wavered, resisted, wavered again, and fell. They left her happily oblivious of everything beyond the purple and green splendour of the hills, and the absolute reflection of line and tint in the glassy waters.“I never before realised how much happiness belongs to art,” said Wareham, as they walked away. “It makes one envious.”“Is not yours art?” Millie asked.“Nothing so graceful.”“You paint in words, and words are stronger than colours.”“No words could bring those reflections before you.”“But they could extract their inner meaning?”Wareham looked at her with surprise, feeling as if he had been gravely addressed by a butterfly, but the next moment she had run lightly up the bank after strawberries. From this point of vantage she flung him a question.“Has Miss Dalrymple a mother?”“A step-mother.”She knelt down, the better to fill a small basket she carried, and the impulse to speak was too strong.“You are not angry any longer?”He paused a second, then his words rushed. “It was a misconception, such as comes from judging before one has heard both sides of the question.” To talk more easily, he reached her side with two strides, and stood looking over the fjord. “He—my friend,”—the words stuck a little—“never blamed her, but, you know, in such cases, one takes forbearance as a matter of course. I knew he was generous. I concluded he must be wronged.”He paused. Millie, on her knees, leaned backward, but still occupied herself with the strawberries.“The wedding was close at hand, was it not?”“Close. Was she wrong?”The question put, he blamed himself for asking it. It was offering up Anne’s conduct to the world’s judgment. Millie did not answer until she had dropped two or three crimson berries into her basket, then she said in a steady voice—“If it was an escape from bonds, it was right.”The answer was unexpected, should have been welcome. Yet it seemed to push Anne or Hugh Forbes to the wall, suggesting that if she were not to blame, he was. Wareham uttered an impatient sigh.“I cannot conceive what she could object to in Hugh!” he said, the friend uppermost again. Millie was silent. “And yet—women—?” he added tentatively.She turned back some leaves, under which a cluster of fruit glowed.“I believe that I am surprised you don’t condemn her with the rest of the world,” he said at last, in order to force an answer.“How should I? I never saw your friend. Miss Dalrymple has been very nice to me, but I know nothing of her, or of her life.” Millie’s words were hurried. “You asked me if she were right or wrong. How should I know? But if she was ready to brave people’s tongues, either she had never loved him, or she did not love him any more. In either case, when she found it out, she must have been right not to wait until it was too late. That is all I can see clearly, and I dare say, if I knew more, I should not see so much.”“I believe you are right,” said Wareham admiringly. He was in the condition to find oracles in all that agreed with him. “When you know Miss Dalrymple better, you will be sure you are.”“Miss Dalrymple is not easily known.”“Not?”“Not by women.”To this man does not object, and Wareham merely pondered over it. Millie moved a little farther off. He followed.“I do not know that it is a disadvantage?” he said, ignoring her last words, and defending blindly.“Oh, no! Why should it be?”Wareham would have preferred something more combative, wishing for argument, which was unattainable when his companion only acquiesced. He stood meditating, and Millie started from her knees.“At this rate, we shall never get to Bakke!” she cried. “But strawberries are irresistible.”“Do you really like them?”There was a dissatisfied note in his voice. She thought with a pang—“Already he can see nothing to praise where she is not,” and then was horrified because she seemed to make this a reproach. To punish herself she went back to Anne.“I suppose the Martyns and Miss Dalrymple start in our steamer to-morrow? Do they go to Balholm?”Wareham imagined they would go where Mrs Ravenhill went. Her spirits sank. She could not chatter as freely as usual, yet made a gallant effort.“What flower is that? I never saw any like it. Oh, thank you! Look, it really is odd, canary-coloured, and hanging by a sort of filament. We must take it back to mother, who loves flowers.”Hearing this, he gathered everything which came in his way. He was conscious that absorbing thought left him a dull companion, and wished to compensate for it by what small attentions he could offer. As for Millie, he looked at her only to compare her with Anne, and the small fancies which had crossed his mind during the first days they had spent together, had flitted into the unremembered past. He liked her, nevertheless, and recognised a sweetness of nature which, in the years to come, would make a husband happy. Perhaps he even liked her better than at first, when a certain air of alert agreeability had once or twice annoyed him, and pointed to fatigue in companionship. And as she walked in front, what seemed a sudden inspiration struck him. Here was the very wife for Hugh Forbes. He loved liveliness, and her very prettiness was lively; it was, indeed, the very word to use in describing her. And how admirably such an arrangement would fit the puzzle into place! Millie could not understand why he began to talk of Hugh. He grew eloquent. Hugh was the pleasantest fellow! Generous. Lovable. Amusing. Rising. The picture requiring to be toned down slightly, he admitted that he was inclined to be idle; but idleness is a sin a girl readily condones. Millie listened, under the impression that Mr Forbes was talked of that he might think of Anne. The subject was distasteful, but she said heroically—“How strange she did not like him!” Then, as Wareham laughed, a smile dawned on her face. “Have I said anything odd?”“No, but I have,” he explained. “I have been trying to make one woman see Hugh’s attractiveness at the very moment when she knew another woman could not bring herself to marry him.”“That might not have been his fault.”“Then it was hers?”Millie felt disposed to cry out at this persistence. The talk had been full of pricks, yet was not without its tremulous pleasure, since she was nearer to Wareham than when indifferent subjects were discussed. He would not have cared to enlist her on Anne’s side, if friendliness had not urged him. She said, after a momentary pause—“Why not his misfortune?”He was silent. It would have been difficult to have satisfied him at that instant, and Millie’s suggestion quite failed. He dropped the bitter-sweet topic, and talked of Bakke and the curve of the fjord behind it, promontory overlapping promontory, every light, shadow, and colour reflected in the water. An ugly little church stood near the brink, round it nestled the living and the waiting dead, a few flower-roofed cottages, more black crosses. They stood and looked over the paling; grass waved upon the graves, the same flowery sorrel-tinted grass as scented the air; two or three children were in a boat, the oars splashed, otherwise not a sound broke the silence. Millie’s spirits rose. In the midst of a great nature, she and Wareham seemed to stand alone, to be brought nearer. When she reached her mother, her eyes shone.Wareham went up the Naerodal alone in the afternoon, but in the dusk all three again strolled together. Clear golden lights swept along sky and fjord; long shadows trembled in the water; two or three ponies scrambled like goats among heaped-up boulders, and the goats themselves, perched on inaccessible heights, sent down faint argumentative bleatings in response to the wild cry with which a girl was coaxing them.What land is this, in which we have all once wandered? A land of shadows and sweet lights, touching everything with mysterious charm. Hush, dreamer! You know now, though you did not know it then, that this is Arcady.
So satisfied was Wareham with his ample precautions that, supper ended, he went in pursuit of Miss Dalrymple. She had vanished. Mrs Martyn engaged him, and Mrs Ravenhill and Millie joined in; presently a harp and voice struck up in the gallery round the hall. An hour later Anne appeared at the door, wet, breathless, but in high spirits. She said she had been paying tribute to the place, had gone down the Gudvangen zigzags to see a waterfall—two waterfalls. A beautiful sleigh-dog slipped in behind her.
“Anne!” exclaimed Mrs Martyn, disapprovingly. “In this rain!”
“Mountain-rain—mist.”
“And alone!”
“Mayn’t oneself be good company?”
She laughed as she said it. Wareham, looking at her, found delightful charm in her laugh. He felt that in breaking away he was giving Hugh an extraordinary proof of loyalty, and probably his face expressed this conviction, for Mrs Martyn said sharply—
“Mr Wareham may admire imprudence—I don’t!”
Anne’s face chilled. He returned—
“My opinion is worthless, or I should venture to suggest dangers in wet clothes.”
“Dangers? Madness!” cried Mrs Martyn, jumping up. “Come, Anne, I have waited for you until I can hardly keep my eyes open.”
“They are going to dance,” Millie hazarded. “Let them. I go to bed.”
“I am tired of the noise,” said Mrs Ravenhill.
“And I have a letter to write,” remarked Wareham.
Anne, who had recovered herself, looked back over her shoulder with a smile.
“Do letters ever come or go?” she asked.
The idle question gripped Wareham. The letter—the act of writing—had been his difficulty; now, with recollection of how long a time must pass before it could reach England, and bring back its answer, came a sinking of heart. Honour bound him to the lines he had laid down. If he remained near he must take no steps to win her until he heard from Hugh. If he could not trust himself, he must hold aloof. There was the situation—briefly put. Cruel! For every hour, every minute, now, was worth months, years! Now the days were strewn with opportunities, he was thrown into her society. If ever she was to be won, now was his chance. Impatience caught, shook him! It might be a fortnight before answer came from Hugh, and when he looked at the past week, and reflected that it seemed a month long, he found the prospect of two such periods intolerable. He endeavoured to detach himself from conditions, and to philosophise; but philosophy is old and scrupulous, while young love has no qualms in taking advantage of the first opportunity which presents itself, and tripping up the elderly combatant. Wareham gave up arguing with himself, and set doggedly to work to write his letter.
Step number one was difficult enough.
Nothing satisfied him in expression. More than one scrawl was tossed aside as inadequate, absurdly inadequate, or as expressing more than he meant. What did he mean? There was the mischief. In these early days, when he had only just begun to read his own heart, and might reasonably claim a little time for its study, it was detestable to have to offer it for a third person’s perusal. He resented the position the more that he was unused to interference with his liberty. He lost his first flush of pity for Hugh, and wrote with a certain asperity—
“Circumstances have thrown Miss Dalrymple and me together; perhaps this will prepare you for what I have to say. In a word, I believe I am on the brink of loving her. The knowledge only came to me to-day; I imagine it will not please you. My dear fellow, I would have given a good deal for it not to have happened; don’t reproach me without keeping that in mind. As it is, all I can do is to hold back—I don’t say draw back, because I have done nothing—and let you make the next move. If you have any hope, if you desire to try your luck once more, telegraph through Bennett, ‘Wait.’ You can trust me to make no sign till word comes from you, whatever the cost to myself. So much I owe you, and perhaps you will think I owe you more, but I believe you are generous enough to forgive what could only be a wrong if I snatched your chances from you. At best, my own may be small enough, they appear to me so small that this letter becomes offensively presumptuous in even treating of them. Yet, lest you should ever think me treacherous, I write it, and repeat that I hold myself bound in honour and friendship to take no step in advance until you have told me that I am free, or let me know that you have not yet resigned your hope.”
The wording displeased him, but it did not seem as if any thing he wrote could give him satisfaction, so that he hurriedly closed his epistle, and took it to the office. A heap of letters lay on the table, they had the appearance of having been seeking their owners for weeks, and of reposing at last with an air of finality. Wareham looked at them askance, as if each carried a threat of delay.
In the morning Anne sat next to him at breakfast. She said to him immediately—
“Why are you so cruel as to leave us? We are pinned here until Colonel Martyn and Mr Grey come back. Besides, I don’t like being driven from point to point, without time to draw breath. I feel like a note of interjection.”
He made a weak reply, to the effect that Mrs Ravenhill disliked the place.
“And you are bound to Mrs Ravenhill?” She hastened to apologise. “Of course you are. Forgive me.”
If this was offered as an opening, it failed. After a momentary pause, she said—
“You should have been with us last evening.”
“Us?”
“I had a companion; did you not see him? He came in with me.”
“Oh, the dog!”
“I don’t permit those contemptuous accents for my friends. He behaved like a true gentleman, and took me to the very place where I wanted to go. No one else offered.” If this was coquetry, it was accompanied by a frank smile at her own expense. Wareham stiffened, looked away, and broke out eagerly—
“How long shall you stay here?”
“Until Blanche is tired of it. I suppose till Monday. Are you not coming out to see what you came from England to see?”
“Oh, we are all coming,” said Wareham, raging at his fetters.
She looked at him with eyes surprised but twinkling, talked about London for a decent interval, and left the room. He scarcely expected to see her re-appear with the others in the hall, but she was there.
Whatever Stalheim may suffer from its visitors, it is magnificently placed, a height among heights. Straight in front the Naerodal cleaves the mountains, its conical Jordalshut dominating the rest, its lovely mist-drifts playing round the summits. Below, a silver flash darts through the greys, and slender falls leap down to join the river. Nor is this fine cleft the only outlet. As they strolled up a road to the left where was a broken foreground of shrub, boulders, and cut grass—made lively by magpies—the great valley through which they had passed the day before, opened, and swept away into purple gloom, until the eye reached the mountains behind, here shrouded in cloud, there uplifting snowy heights against the menacing darkness. There was a wildness, a grandeur, a savage desolation, such as they had not yet seen under the August skies of Norway.
At the end of the walk Wareham took credit to himself for his conduct. He was sure that he had been quite natural, had walked with Anne, talked with Anne, and looked at Anne, without betraying attraction. This satisfied his man’s code, which, once alarmed, is minute in such matters. He even avoided wishing her good-bye—marked slight; possibly, too marked. When the Ravenhills started, he dispatched his portmanteau in a carriole, and followed on foot.
It was a day of broken lights and flitting shadows; waterfalls rushed down on either side, and the beautiful salmon river, beryl-coloured, milky white, indigo, raced along by the road, and offered its counteracting life to what gloom there was. Wareham gave eager appreciation to the green flashing world through which he walked, his conscience was light, he enjoyed the smell of hay, snatched from steep roof-like patches of earth—the slender falls, scarcely more than silver threads, which leapt incredible heights to escape from their ice-prisons—the sweet pure air, the spring of turf at his feet. Far away in front the little carriages with their dun ponies spun along; presently a wild unkempt figure, carrying a sickle, and clad in scarlet jacket, broad hat, and knee-breeches, strode from a bushy path, a dog as wild as his master at his heels. Then a cottage or two with flowery roofs came in sight, a glimmer of fjord, and he was at Gudvangen. Mrs Ravenhill and Millie were standing outside Hansen’s primitive little inn when he reached it.
“I don’t know what you will say,” said Mrs Ravenhill, laughing. “Are you prepared to live in a deal box by the roadside? But Millie and I think it delightful.”
“Then I shall think it delightful too,” said Wareham. “One can always fish.”
Millie inquired if he had seen the waterfall.
“That little thing!”
“Speak respectfully, please! One of the highest in Europe, two thousand feet, with a jump of five hundred, isn’t to be dismissed in such a slighting tone.”
“You are going to rival Mrs Martyn in facts. But I see you have taken Gudvangen to your heart. Shall we go and explore?” On the way he was struck with Millie’s light-heartedness, and said to himself that here was one of those happy natures from which care rolls off. She spoke with almost extreme admiration of Anne, but Mrs Martyn she did not like. Her mother remonstrated that she had never been harmed by that lady.
“Padded glass,” was all that Millie vouchsafed.
Wareham wondered a little at such unexpected perspicacity.
A figure in a long mackintosh ran joyfully up to the girl. It was the young Siamese prince, breathless with triumph, and a basket of twenty-eight trout.
“You are at Hansen’s?” he demanded, his eyes sparkling.
“All of us—”
“Then they shall be cooked; we will have them by and by. Perhaps I shall even catch some more.”
“We will live on trout,” said Wareham. “I must have a try.”
“Do,” Mrs Ravenhill urged. “I promise you that Millie and I will bring appreciative appetites.”
They did not meet again till supper, shared with three English fishermen, who bemoaned the dry weather, and two German girls, travelling on foot with knapsacks.
“What have you discovered?” Wareham asked. “But I can tell you. Another waterfall.”
“Another? A dozen. We found a delightful walk which you shall see to-morrow. There is but one, so it is as well it should have charms. It leads to Bakke, where the pastor—whom we met with a pipe a yard long—has service to-morrow, and we can either row along the fjord or walk. Mother will walk, I expect; she sees sketches at every turn.”
Wareham foresaw anothertête-à-têtestroll, but on this occasion felt no disquietude, looking upon Millie as a soothing little companion, who might be induced, without suspicion, to discourse now and then upon Miss Dalrymple. So much depends on the point of view! Mrs Ravenhill’s was not the same. She started, resolved to remain with the others, but a shadowy view of the fjord, with a group of infantine kids in the foreground, shook her resolution. The lights were perfect. Millie’s little fancy, if it ever existed, had quite fluttered away, danger could not exist. She wavered, resisted, wavered again, and fell. They left her happily oblivious of everything beyond the purple and green splendour of the hills, and the absolute reflection of line and tint in the glassy waters.
“I never before realised how much happiness belongs to art,” said Wareham, as they walked away. “It makes one envious.”
“Is not yours art?” Millie asked.
“Nothing so graceful.”
“You paint in words, and words are stronger than colours.”
“No words could bring those reflections before you.”
“But they could extract their inner meaning?”
Wareham looked at her with surprise, feeling as if he had been gravely addressed by a butterfly, but the next moment she had run lightly up the bank after strawberries. From this point of vantage she flung him a question.
“Has Miss Dalrymple a mother?”
“A step-mother.”
She knelt down, the better to fill a small basket she carried, and the impulse to speak was too strong.
“You are not angry any longer?”
He paused a second, then his words rushed. “It was a misconception, such as comes from judging before one has heard both sides of the question.” To talk more easily, he reached her side with two strides, and stood looking over the fjord. “He—my friend,”—the words stuck a little—“never blamed her, but, you know, in such cases, one takes forbearance as a matter of course. I knew he was generous. I concluded he must be wronged.”
He paused. Millie, on her knees, leaned backward, but still occupied herself with the strawberries.
“The wedding was close at hand, was it not?”
“Close. Was she wrong?”
The question put, he blamed himself for asking it. It was offering up Anne’s conduct to the world’s judgment. Millie did not answer until she had dropped two or three crimson berries into her basket, then she said in a steady voice—
“If it was an escape from bonds, it was right.”
The answer was unexpected, should have been welcome. Yet it seemed to push Anne or Hugh Forbes to the wall, suggesting that if she were not to blame, he was. Wareham uttered an impatient sigh.
“I cannot conceive what she could object to in Hugh!” he said, the friend uppermost again. Millie was silent. “And yet—women—?” he added tentatively.
She turned back some leaves, under which a cluster of fruit glowed.
“I believe that I am surprised you don’t condemn her with the rest of the world,” he said at last, in order to force an answer.
“How should I? I never saw your friend. Miss Dalrymple has been very nice to me, but I know nothing of her, or of her life.” Millie’s words were hurried. “You asked me if she were right or wrong. How should I know? But if she was ready to brave people’s tongues, either she had never loved him, or she did not love him any more. In either case, when she found it out, she must have been right not to wait until it was too late. That is all I can see clearly, and I dare say, if I knew more, I should not see so much.”
“I believe you are right,” said Wareham admiringly. He was in the condition to find oracles in all that agreed with him. “When you know Miss Dalrymple better, you will be sure you are.”
“Miss Dalrymple is not easily known.”
“Not?”
“Not by women.”
To this man does not object, and Wareham merely pondered over it. Millie moved a little farther off. He followed.
“I do not know that it is a disadvantage?” he said, ignoring her last words, and defending blindly.
“Oh, no! Why should it be?”
Wareham would have preferred something more combative, wishing for argument, which was unattainable when his companion only acquiesced. He stood meditating, and Millie started from her knees.
“At this rate, we shall never get to Bakke!” she cried. “But strawberries are irresistible.”
“Do you really like them?”
There was a dissatisfied note in his voice. She thought with a pang—
“Already he can see nothing to praise where she is not,” and then was horrified because she seemed to make this a reproach. To punish herself she went back to Anne.
“I suppose the Martyns and Miss Dalrymple start in our steamer to-morrow? Do they go to Balholm?”
Wareham imagined they would go where Mrs Ravenhill went. Her spirits sank. She could not chatter as freely as usual, yet made a gallant effort.
“What flower is that? I never saw any like it. Oh, thank you! Look, it really is odd, canary-coloured, and hanging by a sort of filament. We must take it back to mother, who loves flowers.”
Hearing this, he gathered everything which came in his way. He was conscious that absorbing thought left him a dull companion, and wished to compensate for it by what small attentions he could offer. As for Millie, he looked at her only to compare her with Anne, and the small fancies which had crossed his mind during the first days they had spent together, had flitted into the unremembered past. He liked her, nevertheless, and recognised a sweetness of nature which, in the years to come, would make a husband happy. Perhaps he even liked her better than at first, when a certain air of alert agreeability had once or twice annoyed him, and pointed to fatigue in companionship. And as she walked in front, what seemed a sudden inspiration struck him. Here was the very wife for Hugh Forbes. He loved liveliness, and her very prettiness was lively; it was, indeed, the very word to use in describing her. And how admirably such an arrangement would fit the puzzle into place! Millie could not understand why he began to talk of Hugh. He grew eloquent. Hugh was the pleasantest fellow! Generous. Lovable. Amusing. Rising. The picture requiring to be toned down slightly, he admitted that he was inclined to be idle; but idleness is a sin a girl readily condones. Millie listened, under the impression that Mr Forbes was talked of that he might think of Anne. The subject was distasteful, but she said heroically—
“How strange she did not like him!” Then, as Wareham laughed, a smile dawned on her face. “Have I said anything odd?”
“No, but I have,” he explained. “I have been trying to make one woman see Hugh’s attractiveness at the very moment when she knew another woman could not bring herself to marry him.”
“That might not have been his fault.”
“Then it was hers?”
Millie felt disposed to cry out at this persistence. The talk had been full of pricks, yet was not without its tremulous pleasure, since she was nearer to Wareham than when indifferent subjects were discussed. He would not have cared to enlist her on Anne’s side, if friendliness had not urged him. She said, after a momentary pause—
“Why not his misfortune?”
He was silent. It would have been difficult to have satisfied him at that instant, and Millie’s suggestion quite failed. He dropped the bitter-sweet topic, and talked of Bakke and the curve of the fjord behind it, promontory overlapping promontory, every light, shadow, and colour reflected in the water. An ugly little church stood near the brink, round it nestled the living and the waiting dead, a few flower-roofed cottages, more black crosses. They stood and looked over the paling; grass waved upon the graves, the same flowery sorrel-tinted grass as scented the air; two or three children were in a boat, the oars splashed, otherwise not a sound broke the silence. Millie’s spirits rose. In the midst of a great nature, she and Wareham seemed to stand alone, to be brought nearer. When she reached her mother, her eyes shone.
Wareham went up the Naerodal alone in the afternoon, but in the dusk all three again strolled together. Clear golden lights swept along sky and fjord; long shadows trembled in the water; two or three ponies scrambled like goats among heaped-up boulders, and the goats themselves, perched on inaccessible heights, sent down faint argumentative bleatings in response to the wild cry with which a girl was coaxing them.
What land is this, in which we have all once wandered? A land of shadows and sweet lights, touching everything with mysterious charm. Hush, dreamer! You know now, though you did not know it then, that this is Arcady.
Chapter Eight.Eden.The steamer was to start from Gudvangen at two. Wareham already felt as if he had offered up so much to duty that he might expect reward. To have left Miss Dalrymple to the mercy of possibilities in the shape of other men, for two long days, was in itself an assurance that he could trust himself; and if that were so, the reasons for avoiding her became ludicrously small, almost, indeed, offensive. He went to fish, but the point he chose commanded the road through the Naerodal, and when he saw the carriages broadening from specks into shape, and at last could distinguish clearly, he was not very long in making his way after them to Hansen’s.Mrs Martyn and Anne were standing in the porch talking to old Hansen, as well as limited vocabularies would allow. Wareham was welcome as an interpreter to three of the party; he hoped that Anne’s smile meant more.“You see, we are here,” she said; “we have torn ourselves from Stalheim, wicked Stalheim!”“Why wicked?”“By contrast only. Here you look so pastoral, so idyllic, that our little crowds, and bands, and bad dinners, take quite an iniquitous air.”“We had a chaplain,” put in Mrs Martyn. “To point out how bad we were!”“Well, I am glad you have escaped,” said Wareham. “Where’s Colonel Martyn?”“Thereby hangs a sad tale, for he has telegraphed that he will join us at Balholm, and Blanche is much displeased. And Mr Grey is left in the vortex at Stalheim. Don’t look so reproachful, or we shall ask you to go back and rescue him.”“And miss my steamer? Forbid it, fates! Gudvangen is a charming spot, as you see—Eden, if you like; but to be left here without a companion, to live upon trout and biscuits, and amuse oneself with a jingling piano, and old photographs, would make one hate Eden. Besides, all my philanthropy is packed up in England. But what have we here?”A larger carriage drove by to the other hotel, and was followed by a second. Both were filled with shouting parties of tourists, waving and yelling. Old Hansen set his face grimly.“Now,” he said to Wareham, “tell me, what people are those? They belong to your country. You can explain. We have nothing like them. They do not care about the beauty, or the history, or those who live here. They are middle-aged men, many of them. They shout, and sing, and laugh as loud as they can. What are they? Why do they come?”Wareham muttered something to the effect that there were fools in all countries.“Tell him it’s the way we treat our lunatics,” Anne said. “It’s our new system of cure.”“The steamer does not go until two,” Wareham said, in a low voice.“Will your Eden bear looking into?”“Come and see.”“Blanche, will you explore?”“No. It is too hot. I hear there is a shop with rather nice furs, and I haven’t seen one for a week. Mind you two aren’t late.”“Late, when it isn’t half-past twelve! But I can’t sit on the steamer with those lunatics a moment longer than is necessary, and Mr Wareham’s inn may be delightfully primitive, but I have never set myself up as a specimen of primitive woman, and I prefer Eden without its inn. Well, Mr Wareham, I am waiting.” She stood erect, smiling.“Where will you go?”“What have you to offer?”“A path by the fjord, where you will find Mrs and Miss Ravenhill sketching, and the road by which you have just come.”“You don’t perplex one with the amount of choice. We will go back. Stalheim, wicked Stalheim, attracts me, I own.”They were walking along the road. Whenever he could, Wareham glanced at her, admiring the easy poise of her figure, her light strong step.“Aren’t you contented with having brought down a part of the world you admire?”“They don’t harmonise with Eden, to tell the truth,” said Anne, laughing. “I’m not sure that any of us do. But I grant you all that you demand as to its charms. Look at the soft shadows on the hills. I can fancy it a very refreshing little place for a day; perhaps two,”—doubtfully—“if one was sure—absolutely sure—of getting away the day after.”“Is that all you could give to Eden?”“Alas, alas!” Rather to his surprise, Anne was grave. “But when one has lived always in Vanity Fair? Do you not feel with me? Something else will be provided for us poor things, something more in accord with our heritage of ages?”She gave him a look in which he read what she did not say, and they walked on silently, making their way at last to the brink of the river. The clear water rushed noisily past them.“A chatterer,” Wareham declared. “Pleasant chatter, don’t you think? If you are sure we have time we might sit down here a little while, and perhaps grow cool.”“Plenty of time,” he said, consulting his watch. “If we are back by a quarter to two, we shall do very well, for all your things will have gone on board.”Anne was already perched on a stone.“I throw responsibility on you. I have come here to enjoy myself, not to fidget.”“What shall we do to secure your object?”“Oh,” she cried impatiently, “don’t talk about it! If it isn’t spontaneous it is failure.”“Then I mayn’t even ask whether you prefer silence or—”“Ask nothing. Tell me, if you like, what you did yesterday?”“Walked.”“Here?”“No, by that other path which you rejected, to a village called Bakke.”“Were you alone?”“Oh, no, we all started together. Mrs Ravenhill fell upon a sketch, and her daughter and I went further and returned to her. There you have it all.”Miss Dalrymple scrutinised his face with a smile.“There is something very attractive about her,” she said, “though she does not like me.”“I have never heard her say so.”“No, she would not. She is good. I can quite imagine her in Eden. She would make Adam very happy. Don’t you think so?”“I believe she would make an excellent wife,” said Wareham, keeping on open ground.Anne said no more. She asked questions as to how the salmon got up these rivers, and announced her intention of trying to catch one when next she went to Scotland. At last Wareham looked at his watch.“There is time enough to take it as coolly as you like,” he said, “but perhaps we had better go back.”Anne sprang up.“I am ready. As we cannot stay, I believe I shall be sorry to leave Gudvangen.” Wareham’s heart throbbed.“I shall never forget it,” he said.“Never? Why? Was Bakke so delightful a place?”“I leave you to imagine why,” he said, in a low voice.“Leave me nothing in the form of a riddle,” said Anne; “I shall disappoint you.”He raged again. Were all his chances to slip by? There are moments when we feel as if we rode upon the wave, as if what we wanted was just within our grasp. This was such a moment, and he was bound—could not so much as stretch out his hand. His heart, submitting sullenly, would say something.“Miss Dalrymple,” he began, “is there absolutely no hope for Hugh?”She paused for a moment.“What right have you to ask?”“None, except,”—he would have liked to have shot out, “that I want relief from a torment of doubt,” but controlled himself to say—“except knowing that he has not given you up.”“You should not use the present tense. I can answer for it that you have not seen him for ten days. Doesn’t that give time enough for a man to change?”Wareham looked at her, his face hard.“Yes,” he said shortly. “That is not the question. How long does a woman take?” She made an impatient gesture.“For pity’s sake! When I came to Norway to escape Hugh Forbes!”He was silent, suddenly conscious that he dared not probe farther. Womanlike she glanced at him, to read what she could in his face, but his eyes were on the ground. When he raised them, he stared before him at an empty fjord. He dragged out his watch.“Impossible! It is not half-past one.”“What is the matter?” Anne asked.“The steamer! Am I dreaming, or has she gone?”“Certainly she is not there.” Anne quickened her steps.Wareham’s face was very grave. He dashed into the inn, and hammered at old Hansen’s door. Anne waited outside, reflecting on the situation. Wareham came slowly out at last, followed by the burly landlord.“I am afraid it is too true,” he said. “I shall never forgive myself for implicitly trusting a Norwegian time-table. They left at one o’clock.”He looked at Hansen, Hansen looked at Anne. It was she who first spoke.“When is the next boat?”“To-morrow afternoon.”Wareham hazarded the remark—“If I were to take you back to Stalheim? There is sure to be some one you could join.”“I hate to be baffled,” said Anne. “And you may have forgotten that all I have in the world—here—has gone on the steamer.”“Heavens, yes!” said Wareham, struck with this fresh complication. He looked so shocked that Anne in self-defence began to laugh.“Did no one miss us? This is humiliating!” It appeared that Mrs Ravenhill inquired, and was told they intended to go on board without returning to the inn. Mrs Martyn stayed in a shop until the last moment, and had barely time to scramble on board; it was quite natural that she should suppose the others had been before her.“So we have no one to blame but ourselves,” said Anne.“But me,” corrected Wareham. “You disclaimed responsibility from the first.”“Oh, we will share. It is less dull to hold together. And what does the landlord suggest? We can’t be the first castaways.”“He says that the last victims took a boat, and were rowed to Ulvik. But Balholm is a good deal further,” Wareham said, after consultation.Anne decided promptly.“Very well. Please get a boat.”“You venture?”“Why not? What else can be done?” Wareham could think of nothing. The misadventure meant more to him than it did to her, at least it seemed so beforehand. He had gone rashly near breaking his resolution in capturing that solitary hour with her, and was forced to reflect that he had not come out of the ordeal scathless. Fate was punishing him by prolonging what he had already found too long for his strength, and there was nothing for it but to accept fate. He said hurriedly—“I will see about a boat at once,” and was going, when she called him back.“We must have dinner before we set off.”“You put me to shame,” he said. “I believe my wits have deserted me.”“Worse things have fallen to my lot,” she laughed; “do you expect me to offer you, words of consolation? Bear your burdens with greater philosophy, Mr Wareham.”“If that were all!” rushed from his lips.“I can’t even lighten them by ordering dinner,” Anne went on, taking no notice. “Bennett’s Conversation-book is on the steamer, with everything else, and I can remember nothing butmange tak, which doesn’t seem called for at this moment.”“At any rate, I can order dinner,” said Wareham humbly.“And you couldn’t do anything better. Please have a great many trout. Who knows when we shall dine again!”“I must find out how long a boat will take in reaching Balholm.”“Don’t ask,” Anne said quickly. “Don’t you see that as the thing has to be done there is no possible use in looking at the difficulties? I, on the contrary, mean to treat it as something special. All the world and his wife—even those horrid tourists—go down the Nserofjord in steamers; how much more enchanting to be rowed dreamily, with neither smoke nor noise! Pray don’t be so dismal about it. Do you know that you are paying me the worst of compliments? Endure your fate bravely, and order the trout.”Thus adjured, Wareham departed. Gudvangen was sleepily interested, and the misadventure had happened before. He chose a good boat and two rowers, and going back to the little saal, found Anne making an excellent dinner.“When one is cast away, it is prudent to chose a place with shops for the event,” she said. “I have made this an excuse for buying some delightful furs. Money I have none, but they trust me.”“I have money,” said Wareham, hastily turning out his pockets, and unnecessarily ashamed of this fresh absence of foresight on his part. They could not reach Balholm before the middle of the night, and Anne’s wraps were on the steamer.“Very well. Then you shall pay as we pass, and I will owe it to you instead.”“Having brought you into the predicament, I think I might be allowed to provide the necessaries of life.”“Do you mean that you are proposing to present me with a set of furs?” said Anne, laying down her fork and staring at him.“Something you must have to keep you warm.”“Mr Wareham, pray don’t make me begin to regret this incident.”He saw that she was vexed, and dashed away from the subject.“Poor old Hansen was mortally afraid we should want him to telephone something or other. I believe the telephone is sending him off his head. He would have sent out to look for us if a message had not come down from Stalheim just at the critical moment.”“Can’t we use it?” said Anne, with a little more anxiety in her voice than she had shown hitherto.“Only backwards to Stalheim, and then, I imagine, telegraph to Voss. That would not help us?”“No, no; we are doing the only sensible thing. The trout are excellent, and I encourage hunger.”“We will take some food with us.”“And tea. I insist upon tea.”“But how to boil it in a boat?”“We will land on a rock,” said Anne, who was laughing again.“A fjord picnic. By all means. Besides, of course there are villages.”“We don’t want to be delayed, and I shan’t agree to anything more sociable than a rock.”“You command the crew.”They were on excellent terms again; Anne’s momentary haughtiness past, she was mirthful over their prospects. They went out and bought the gaudiesttineGudvangen could produce, and packed it with what provisions they could find. Anne insisted, moreover, that there should be a packet of tobacco for the rowers. Then she went to fetch her furs, but apparently had changed her mind, for Wareham was not allowed to pay for them. That she would arrange in Bergen, as originally fixed.“You have not forgiven,” he said, in a low voice.“Not forgotten,” she corrected. “By this time to-morrow I may have done so.”He accepted the hint, and was silent.They went down to the boat, and saw all their things placed, watched by the few interested spectators Gudvangen sent out, and by old Hansen, who took a fatherly interest in their proceedings.“Can we sail?” asked Miss Dalrymple.“There is not a breath. But the men are good rowers, and I can take an oar to relieve them. There will be beauty enough to please you.”“Provided expressly on my account,” said Anne lightly. “You will expect me to be so prodigal of compliments at the end of the voyage, that I shall not praise your arrangements now. Are we ready?”“A good journey!” called out old Hansen. Wareham waved his hat, Anne nodded and smiled, the boat moved smoothly along out into a world of reflected colours.“Good-bye, Eden,” said Anne.
The steamer was to start from Gudvangen at two. Wareham already felt as if he had offered up so much to duty that he might expect reward. To have left Miss Dalrymple to the mercy of possibilities in the shape of other men, for two long days, was in itself an assurance that he could trust himself; and if that were so, the reasons for avoiding her became ludicrously small, almost, indeed, offensive. He went to fish, but the point he chose commanded the road through the Naerodal, and when he saw the carriages broadening from specks into shape, and at last could distinguish clearly, he was not very long in making his way after them to Hansen’s.
Mrs Martyn and Anne were standing in the porch talking to old Hansen, as well as limited vocabularies would allow. Wareham was welcome as an interpreter to three of the party; he hoped that Anne’s smile meant more.
“You see, we are here,” she said; “we have torn ourselves from Stalheim, wicked Stalheim!”
“Why wicked?”
“By contrast only. Here you look so pastoral, so idyllic, that our little crowds, and bands, and bad dinners, take quite an iniquitous air.”
“We had a chaplain,” put in Mrs Martyn. “To point out how bad we were!”
“Well, I am glad you have escaped,” said Wareham. “Where’s Colonel Martyn?”
“Thereby hangs a sad tale, for he has telegraphed that he will join us at Balholm, and Blanche is much displeased. And Mr Grey is left in the vortex at Stalheim. Don’t look so reproachful, or we shall ask you to go back and rescue him.”
“And miss my steamer? Forbid it, fates! Gudvangen is a charming spot, as you see—Eden, if you like; but to be left here without a companion, to live upon trout and biscuits, and amuse oneself with a jingling piano, and old photographs, would make one hate Eden. Besides, all my philanthropy is packed up in England. But what have we here?”
A larger carriage drove by to the other hotel, and was followed by a second. Both were filled with shouting parties of tourists, waving and yelling. Old Hansen set his face grimly.
“Now,” he said to Wareham, “tell me, what people are those? They belong to your country. You can explain. We have nothing like them. They do not care about the beauty, or the history, or those who live here. They are middle-aged men, many of them. They shout, and sing, and laugh as loud as they can. What are they? Why do they come?”
Wareham muttered something to the effect that there were fools in all countries.
“Tell him it’s the way we treat our lunatics,” Anne said. “It’s our new system of cure.”
“The steamer does not go until two,” Wareham said, in a low voice.
“Will your Eden bear looking into?”
“Come and see.”
“Blanche, will you explore?”
“No. It is too hot. I hear there is a shop with rather nice furs, and I haven’t seen one for a week. Mind you two aren’t late.”
“Late, when it isn’t half-past twelve! But I can’t sit on the steamer with those lunatics a moment longer than is necessary, and Mr Wareham’s inn may be delightfully primitive, but I have never set myself up as a specimen of primitive woman, and I prefer Eden without its inn. Well, Mr Wareham, I am waiting.” She stood erect, smiling.
“Where will you go?”
“What have you to offer?”
“A path by the fjord, where you will find Mrs and Miss Ravenhill sketching, and the road by which you have just come.”
“You don’t perplex one with the amount of choice. We will go back. Stalheim, wicked Stalheim, attracts me, I own.”
They were walking along the road. Whenever he could, Wareham glanced at her, admiring the easy poise of her figure, her light strong step.
“Aren’t you contented with having brought down a part of the world you admire?”
“They don’t harmonise with Eden, to tell the truth,” said Anne, laughing. “I’m not sure that any of us do. But I grant you all that you demand as to its charms. Look at the soft shadows on the hills. I can fancy it a very refreshing little place for a day; perhaps two,”—doubtfully—“if one was sure—absolutely sure—of getting away the day after.”
“Is that all you could give to Eden?”
“Alas, alas!” Rather to his surprise, Anne was grave. “But when one has lived always in Vanity Fair? Do you not feel with me? Something else will be provided for us poor things, something more in accord with our heritage of ages?”
She gave him a look in which he read what she did not say, and they walked on silently, making their way at last to the brink of the river. The clear water rushed noisily past them.
“A chatterer,” Wareham declared. “Pleasant chatter, don’t you think? If you are sure we have time we might sit down here a little while, and perhaps grow cool.”
“Plenty of time,” he said, consulting his watch. “If we are back by a quarter to two, we shall do very well, for all your things will have gone on board.”
Anne was already perched on a stone.
“I throw responsibility on you. I have come here to enjoy myself, not to fidget.”
“What shall we do to secure your object?”
“Oh,” she cried impatiently, “don’t talk about it! If it isn’t spontaneous it is failure.”
“Then I mayn’t even ask whether you prefer silence or—”
“Ask nothing. Tell me, if you like, what you did yesterday?”
“Walked.”
“Here?”
“No, by that other path which you rejected, to a village called Bakke.”
“Were you alone?”
“Oh, no, we all started together. Mrs Ravenhill fell upon a sketch, and her daughter and I went further and returned to her. There you have it all.”
Miss Dalrymple scrutinised his face with a smile.
“There is something very attractive about her,” she said, “though she does not like me.”
“I have never heard her say so.”
“No, she would not. She is good. I can quite imagine her in Eden. She would make Adam very happy. Don’t you think so?”
“I believe she would make an excellent wife,” said Wareham, keeping on open ground.
Anne said no more. She asked questions as to how the salmon got up these rivers, and announced her intention of trying to catch one when next she went to Scotland. At last Wareham looked at his watch.
“There is time enough to take it as coolly as you like,” he said, “but perhaps we had better go back.”
Anne sprang up.
“I am ready. As we cannot stay, I believe I shall be sorry to leave Gudvangen.” Wareham’s heart throbbed.
“I shall never forget it,” he said.
“Never? Why? Was Bakke so delightful a place?”
“I leave you to imagine why,” he said, in a low voice.
“Leave me nothing in the form of a riddle,” said Anne; “I shall disappoint you.”
He raged again. Were all his chances to slip by? There are moments when we feel as if we rode upon the wave, as if what we wanted was just within our grasp. This was such a moment, and he was bound—could not so much as stretch out his hand. His heart, submitting sullenly, would say something.
“Miss Dalrymple,” he began, “is there absolutely no hope for Hugh?”
She paused for a moment.
“What right have you to ask?”
“None, except,”—he would have liked to have shot out, “that I want relief from a torment of doubt,” but controlled himself to say—“except knowing that he has not given you up.”
“You should not use the present tense. I can answer for it that you have not seen him for ten days. Doesn’t that give time enough for a man to change?”
Wareham looked at her, his face hard.
“Yes,” he said shortly. “That is not the question. How long does a woman take?” She made an impatient gesture.
“For pity’s sake! When I came to Norway to escape Hugh Forbes!”
He was silent, suddenly conscious that he dared not probe farther. Womanlike she glanced at him, to read what she could in his face, but his eyes were on the ground. When he raised them, he stared before him at an empty fjord. He dragged out his watch.
“Impossible! It is not half-past one.”
“What is the matter?” Anne asked.
“The steamer! Am I dreaming, or has she gone?”
“Certainly she is not there.” Anne quickened her steps.
Wareham’s face was very grave. He dashed into the inn, and hammered at old Hansen’s door. Anne waited outside, reflecting on the situation. Wareham came slowly out at last, followed by the burly landlord.
“I am afraid it is too true,” he said. “I shall never forgive myself for implicitly trusting a Norwegian time-table. They left at one o’clock.”
He looked at Hansen, Hansen looked at Anne. It was she who first spoke.
“When is the next boat?”
“To-morrow afternoon.”
Wareham hazarded the remark—
“If I were to take you back to Stalheim? There is sure to be some one you could join.”
“I hate to be baffled,” said Anne. “And you may have forgotten that all I have in the world—here—has gone on the steamer.”
“Heavens, yes!” said Wareham, struck with this fresh complication. He looked so shocked that Anne in self-defence began to laugh.
“Did no one miss us? This is humiliating!” It appeared that Mrs Ravenhill inquired, and was told they intended to go on board without returning to the inn. Mrs Martyn stayed in a shop until the last moment, and had barely time to scramble on board; it was quite natural that she should suppose the others had been before her.
“So we have no one to blame but ourselves,” said Anne.
“But me,” corrected Wareham. “You disclaimed responsibility from the first.”
“Oh, we will share. It is less dull to hold together. And what does the landlord suggest? We can’t be the first castaways.”
“He says that the last victims took a boat, and were rowed to Ulvik. But Balholm is a good deal further,” Wareham said, after consultation.
Anne decided promptly.
“Very well. Please get a boat.”
“You venture?”
“Why not? What else can be done?” Wareham could think of nothing. The misadventure meant more to him than it did to her, at least it seemed so beforehand. He had gone rashly near breaking his resolution in capturing that solitary hour with her, and was forced to reflect that he had not come out of the ordeal scathless. Fate was punishing him by prolonging what he had already found too long for his strength, and there was nothing for it but to accept fate. He said hurriedly—“I will see about a boat at once,” and was going, when she called him back.
“We must have dinner before we set off.”
“You put me to shame,” he said. “I believe my wits have deserted me.”
“Worse things have fallen to my lot,” she laughed; “do you expect me to offer you, words of consolation? Bear your burdens with greater philosophy, Mr Wareham.”
“If that were all!” rushed from his lips.
“I can’t even lighten them by ordering dinner,” Anne went on, taking no notice. “Bennett’s Conversation-book is on the steamer, with everything else, and I can remember nothing butmange tak, which doesn’t seem called for at this moment.”
“At any rate, I can order dinner,” said Wareham humbly.
“And you couldn’t do anything better. Please have a great many trout. Who knows when we shall dine again!”
“I must find out how long a boat will take in reaching Balholm.”
“Don’t ask,” Anne said quickly. “Don’t you see that as the thing has to be done there is no possible use in looking at the difficulties? I, on the contrary, mean to treat it as something special. All the world and his wife—even those horrid tourists—go down the Nserofjord in steamers; how much more enchanting to be rowed dreamily, with neither smoke nor noise! Pray don’t be so dismal about it. Do you know that you are paying me the worst of compliments? Endure your fate bravely, and order the trout.”
Thus adjured, Wareham departed. Gudvangen was sleepily interested, and the misadventure had happened before. He chose a good boat and two rowers, and going back to the little saal, found Anne making an excellent dinner.
“When one is cast away, it is prudent to chose a place with shops for the event,” she said. “I have made this an excuse for buying some delightful furs. Money I have none, but they trust me.”
“I have money,” said Wareham, hastily turning out his pockets, and unnecessarily ashamed of this fresh absence of foresight on his part. They could not reach Balholm before the middle of the night, and Anne’s wraps were on the steamer.
“Very well. Then you shall pay as we pass, and I will owe it to you instead.”
“Having brought you into the predicament, I think I might be allowed to provide the necessaries of life.”
“Do you mean that you are proposing to present me with a set of furs?” said Anne, laying down her fork and staring at him.
“Something you must have to keep you warm.”
“Mr Wareham, pray don’t make me begin to regret this incident.”
He saw that she was vexed, and dashed away from the subject.
“Poor old Hansen was mortally afraid we should want him to telephone something or other. I believe the telephone is sending him off his head. He would have sent out to look for us if a message had not come down from Stalheim just at the critical moment.”
“Can’t we use it?” said Anne, with a little more anxiety in her voice than she had shown hitherto.
“Only backwards to Stalheim, and then, I imagine, telegraph to Voss. That would not help us?”
“No, no; we are doing the only sensible thing. The trout are excellent, and I encourage hunger.”
“We will take some food with us.”
“And tea. I insist upon tea.”
“But how to boil it in a boat?”
“We will land on a rock,” said Anne, who was laughing again.
“A fjord picnic. By all means. Besides, of course there are villages.”
“We don’t want to be delayed, and I shan’t agree to anything more sociable than a rock.”
“You command the crew.”
They were on excellent terms again; Anne’s momentary haughtiness past, she was mirthful over their prospects. They went out and bought the gaudiesttineGudvangen could produce, and packed it with what provisions they could find. Anne insisted, moreover, that there should be a packet of tobacco for the rowers. Then she went to fetch her furs, but apparently had changed her mind, for Wareham was not allowed to pay for them. That she would arrange in Bergen, as originally fixed.
“You have not forgiven,” he said, in a low voice.
“Not forgotten,” she corrected. “By this time to-morrow I may have done so.”
He accepted the hint, and was silent.
They went down to the boat, and saw all their things placed, watched by the few interested spectators Gudvangen sent out, and by old Hansen, who took a fatherly interest in their proceedings.
“Can we sail?” asked Miss Dalrymple.
“There is not a breath. But the men are good rowers, and I can take an oar to relieve them. There will be beauty enough to please you.”
“Provided expressly on my account,” said Anne lightly. “You will expect me to be so prodigal of compliments at the end of the voyage, that I shall not praise your arrangements now. Are we ready?”
“A good journey!” called out old Hansen. Wareham waved his hat, Anne nodded and smiled, the boat moved smoothly along out into a world of reflected colours.
“Good-bye, Eden,” said Anne.