A SON OF ANAK.
When she emerged into the comparative light and openness of the
Nærodal, she found, as she had feared, that the mist was creeping
rapidly down the hillsides. It was raining heavily, and she must
soon be enveloped in a thick, wet cloud.
"I am an abject idiot, as you say, Lucy," she said, "but it was
mainly your fault this time."
She hurried along in breathless haste, but she was soon obliged to
slacken her pace. Although the path was safe enough, it was broken
away in some places, and already she could scarcely see a yard in
front of her.
"I don't mind the open hillside," she gasped, "but how I am to get
across an invisible plank, with an invisible torrent roaring down
below, heaven alone knows!"
And indeed she did mind the open hillside very much. In the clear
daylight she had fancied herself half-way between earth and sky; now
she was standing on a single square yard of stony ground in a
universe of nothingness.
"It is simply impossible that I can find my way through that wood,"
she went on, becoming almost calm from very despair. "It was a pure
chance that I took the right path when the sun was shining."
She had serious thoughts of deliberately spending the night on the
hillside, and even sat down for a few minutes on a dripping stone;
but her clothes were soaked through, and her teeth chattered with
cold, so she was forced to go on.
"Shall I shout?" she thought. "No, I never shouted or screamed in my
life, and I don't mean to begin now." But she knew well that she
would have shouted eagerly enough, if there had been the faintest
chance of her being heard. It was useless to shout to the mists and
the barren hills.
Then for the first time it occurred to her that her uncle would send
out a search-party; but, after the first rush of relief, this seemed
the worst fate of all. Anything would be better than all that fuss
and disturbance. It would be too humiliating to provide food for
days of exaggerated gossip in the hotel, to be constrained with much
penitence to curtail or forego her solitary walks. And it might all
have been so easily avoided if she had had her wits about her. "Oh
Lucy, I am an abject idiot!" she groaned.
At this moment she fancied she heard a step on the stones some
distance behind her. Yes, there was no doubt of it. Some one was
coming. Uncertain whether to be relieved or more alarmed than
before, she stood still, her heart beating fast. The steps drew
nearer and nearer. It was horrible to feel a presence so close at
hand, and to strain her eyes in vain. In another moment a broad,
ruddy, reassuring face looked down at her like the sun through the
mist, and she drew a long breath of relief.
"Bless my soul!" the owner of the face exclaimed, aghast at finding a
young girl in such a dangerous situation, "you don't mean to say you
are alone?"
"Yes," laughed Mona. But the laugh was a very uncertain one, and
revealed much that she would rather have kept to herself.
"Well, I am glad I have found you," he went on, shaking a shower of
water from his dripping straw hat. "I shouldn't like to think my
sister was out here alone on a night like this. Won't you take my
arm? I'm afraid you are very tired, and it can't be easy to walk
with your dress clinging to you so."
Mona's cheek flushed, but she was glad to take his arm. His tall,
sturdy, tweeded figure belied the boyish, beardless face, and seemed
like a tower of strength.
"You _have_ had a soaking," he went on, with a sort of brotherly
frankness which it was impossible to resent. "So have I, but
knickerbockers adapt themselves better to untoward circumstances than
your things. Am I walking too fast?"
"Not a bit. I need not tell you that I shall be glad to get home."
They both laughed at the equivocal compliment.
"Were you afraid?" he asked presently.
"Dreadfully," said Mona simply. "In fact," she added after a pause,
"I am ashamed now to think how unnerved I allowed myself to get."
"Why--you had some cause. Few men would have strictly enjoyed the
situation. How far had you gone?"
"I don't quite know. About a mile round the corner, I think. I was
among the trees and did not notice the mist. By the way--did you get
to the Jördalsnut?"
"No: I left my portmanteau at the inn, and started with that
intention; but I went in for a bit of scrambling on this side of the
valley, and then the mist drove me home. I am very glad it drove me
to your assistance--not but what you would have got on all right
without me."
"I can't tell you how glad _I_ am. I really don't know what I should
have done," and she raised her eyes to his with a frank look of
gratitude.
He started, almost imperceptibly. There was a curious charm in that
honest un-selfconscious glance, but there was something more than
that.
"You are not travelling alone, are you?" he asked, after a minute's
silence.
"No, I am with my uncle and aunt. Sir Doug--my uncle usually walks
with me,--not that I think a chance accident like this is any
argument against my going about alone if I choose."
There was no answer. He was looking at her in an interested way, as
if meditating the question profoundly.
"Please don't tell any one you found me _in extremis_," she went on;
"it would be too great a disappointment to be obliged to give up my
solitary walks."
"How can I tell any one what is not true?" he said, recovering
himself. "I did not find you in extremis at all. I did not even
know you were frightened till you laughed. You looked at me with
such dignified self-assurance when I hove in sight that I was more
than half inclined to lift my hat and pass on."
Mona laughed incredulously.
They trudged on for a time in silence. Once she looked up and found
his eyes fixed on her face with an expression of amusement. "It is
very odd," he said, finding himself caught.
"What is?"
"Oh, I don't know--the whole thing."
He broke into a quiet laugh, and Mona joined in it from sympathy. He
was a curious creature this son of Anak, whose broad, glistening face
gleamed at her so benevolently through the mist.
"Have you been long at Stalheim?" he asked.
"Only a few days."
"Is the hotel good?"
"Ye-e-s. This part of Norway is in an awkward transition stage
between the primitive inn and the cosmopolitan hotel."
"Are there many tourists?"
"Oh yes! They go rushing through by hundreds every day. They stop
to smoke a cigar, eat a dinner, or sleep for a night, and then join
the mad chase of kariols again. They are noisy, too; my uncle gets
quite indignant at the way they clatter about the wooden floors in
their heavy boots, and shout their private affairs up-stairs and
down-stairs, or from the verandah to the road."
"I suppose he does," and the son of Anak laughed again.
The mist was beginning to clear by slow degrees when they came to the
crest of the abrupt descent that led to the torrent.
"I can't tell you how I was dreading this part of the way," said Mona.
"Were you? Well, I must say it is a case where two are better than
one. See, I will go first and hold out my hands behind me."
They got across in safety, and in a wonderfully short time found
themselves on the road.
"Don't you find it very dull here in the evening?" he asked.
"No. But I can imagine any one would who was accustomed to being
amused."
"You sit on the verandah, I suppose?"
"Not on the one overlooking the Nærodal. There is such a crowd
there. We get one of the others to ourselves, and enjoy a cup of
coffee, and a chat, or a quiet rubber."
"Now do get off those wet things instantly," he said as they drew
near the house, "and promise me that you will have a glass of hot
toddy or something equivalent. That's right!"--interrupting her
thanks--"don't stand there for a moment. I shall take the liberty of
presenting myself on the verandah after supper."
Mona ran up-stairs with a smile, but his last words had caused her
some alarm. What sort of reception might he look for on the
verandah? Lady Munro was considered extremely "exclusive"; and as
for Sir Douglas, he classified the male tourists broadly as
"counter-jumpers," and was indignant if they so much as looked at his
niece and daughter. If her friend got a chance to speak for himself,
nobody could fail to see that he was a gentleman, and in that case
all would be well; but Sir Douglas was hasty, and not likely to
welcome advances from a complete stranger.
"The fact is, I ought not to have hob-a-nobbed with him so," she
said. "I need not have let my gratitude and relief run away with me.
It is all my own fault. Yes, Lucy, I am an abject idiot!"
"Oh, I am so glad to see you!" cried Evelyn as Mona entered the room
the cousins shared; "in another minute I should have told Mother."
"Where is aunt Maud?"
"She came in not long after you left, and has been asleep all the
afternoon, so there was no one to tell Father. I should have gone to
him in another minute. I have been so miserable."
"Plucky little soul! And she has actually had the stove lighted! I
shall be dry in no time. Luckily, the mist is clearing every minute."
"My Etna will be boiling directly, and I have got wine to make you
some negus. Oh, Mona, do make haste! What a state you are in!"
Mona hastily exchanged her dripping clothes for a comfortable
dressing-gown, and after wringing out her long hair, she seated
herself by the stove, sipping her negus.
"You must have been in fearful danger, I have imagined such things!"
"Not a bit. A son of Anak came to my rescue; but more of that anon.
Get me out some clean things, like a darling."
"What dress will you wear?"
"Which of my evening gowns has my maid laid out?" laughed Mona. "Ah,
the delaine. Curious the partiality she shows for that delaine! Now
tell me exactly how much time I have. I don't want to lose a moment
of this _dolce far niente_, but I must not be late for supper,
whatever happens."
She was not late. The bell rang just as she was fastening her brooch.
"Got back, Mona?" said Lady Munro, emerging fresh and fragrant from
her room.
"Yes, thank you." But before Mona had time to say more, Lady Munro
turned to speak to Sir Douglas. It was impossible to begin a long
story then.
The sudden change in the weather had induced many of the tourists to
stay on, so the large dining-room was crowded. Mona just caught a
glimpse of the son of Anak at the opposite end of another table, and
she attempted once more to give a modified account of her afternoon's
adventure. But the Fates were against her. A well-known Edinburgh
professor was sitting opposite Sir Douglas, and the conversation
became general.
"Let us hope he will give me five minutes' grace on the verandah,"
she said resignedly; but she had just remarked, by way of
introduction, that the mist had almost entirely cleared, and Sir
Douglas was in the act of lighting his first cigar, when the door
opened, and her friend strode in with an air of infinite assurance.
"Aunt Maud," she began, but her voice was drowned in a general
exclamation.
"Why, Sahib!" "Dickinson Sahib! Where on earth did you drop from?"
"What a delightful surprise!" "Who would have thought of seeing you
here? Sit down and tell us all about it. Oh, I forgot--Mr
Dickinson, my niece, Miss Maclean."
"I was sure of it," exclaimed the new-comer, shaking hands cordially
with the astonished Mona. "If I had met her in the wilds of Arabia,
I could have sworn that she was a relative of Lady Munro's." And
then the whole story came out, with modifications.
"Well, I must say," said Mona, when the questioning and explanations
were over, "that you have treated me extremely badly."
He laughed like a schoolboy. "I am sure you don't grudge me my very
small joke."
"No--especially as it makes us quits. Now we can begin a new page."
"I hope it may prove as pleasant as the first."
"Prettily said, Sahib," said Lady Munro. "Now, be sensible and give
us an account of your eccentric movements."
"Eccentric!" he said, meditating a far-fetched compliment, but he was
a sensible man and he thought better of it. "That's easily done.
One of my Scotch visits fell through--a death in the house--so I ran
over here for a few days. I thought I should probably run against
you,--they say people always do meet in Norway. Of course, I knew
you had sailed to Bergen."
"And what is your route now?"
"Is it for you to ask me that, as the filing said to the magnet?"
Sir Douglas went in search of maps and guide-books, and Mr Dickinson
took a low chair beside Lady Munro.
"I need not ask if you are enjoying your tour," he said. "You are
looking famously."
"Oh yes, I think this primitive world quite charming, and the air is
so bracing! You have no idea what a pedestrian I have become. When
Mona and my husband go off on breakneck excursions, Evelyn and I walk
for hours--the whole day long nearly."
Mona looked up hastily. She had never heard of these wonderful
walks; but her eyes met Evelyn's, and her question died on her lips.
"And Sir Douglas?" asked Mr Dickinson.
Lady Munro laughed, a low sweet laugh. "Oh, of course, he always
grumbles; he says he has lived on roast leather and boiled flannel
ever since we came. But he is enjoying himself immensely. It is a
great thing for him to have Mona's company, as indeed it is for all
of us. I am afraid she finds us dreadfully stupid. You have no idea
what books she reads."
"At the present moment," said Mona gravely, "I am reading _Moths_."
Everybody laughed.
"Then you are meditating a cutting critique," said her aunt.
"I am reading the book simply and entirely for amusement," said Mona.
"I am getting a little tired of ormolu and marqueterie, but one can't
have everything one wants."
"But you don't really care for Ouida?" said the Sahib seriously.
Mona sighed. "If you force me to be critical," she said, "I do
prefer sunlight, moonlight, or even glaring gaslight. Ouida takes
one into a dark room, and, through a hole in the shutter, she flashes
a brilliant gleam of light that never was on sea or land. But what
then? She is a very clever woman, and she knows how to set about
telling a story. One admires her power and _esprit_, one skips her
vulgar descriptions, and one lets her morality alone."
Lady Munro laughed rather uneasily. She would not have owned to any
man that she read Ouida, and Mona puzzled her. "After all, the child
has been so buried in her studies," she thought, "that she knows
nothing of the world. She will learn not to say _risqué_ things to
men, and, fortunately, it is only the Sahib."
Sir Douglas returned, and the conversation resolved itself into a
discussion of routes and steamers.
"I will not sleep again at that horrid noisy Voss," he said. "We
must lunch and change horses there, and get on to Eide the same
night."
"Can you be ready to start at eight?" said the Sahib to Lady Munro.
"Oh dear, yes! I am up every morning hours before that."
Sir Douglas laughed cynically.
"Who is Mr Dickinson?" said Mona, when she and Evelyn had retired to
their room.
"Deputy-Commissioner of--I always forget the name of the place."
"Never mind. Boggley Wallah will do equally well for me. And why do
they call him Sahib? I thought everybody was a Sahib?"
"His family call him that for a joke, and it has stuck somehow. It
was because he was very young when he got some appointment or other."
"He looks a mere boy now."
"I think he is thirty-three."
"I wish you would not tell him that I am a medical student; I don't
feel that I have done credit to my cloth. I should not like him to
think medical women were muffs."
"Oh, Mona, I do wish you would not be a medical woman, as you call
it. Why don't you marry?"
"'Nobody axed me, sir, she said.' At least nobody that I call
anybody."
"If you would go out to India, somebody would ask you every week of
your life."
"Thanks. Even that is not absolutely my ideal of blessedness."
"But you don't want to be an old maid?"
"That expression is never heard now outside the walls of a ladies'
boarding-school," said Mona severely. "Oh, my dear, at the romantic
age of seventeen you cannot even imagine how much I prize my liberty;
how many plans I have in my head that no married woman could carry
out. It seems to me that the unmarried woman is distinctly having
her innings just now. She has all the advantages of being a woman,
and most of the advantages of being a man. I don't see how it can
last. Let her make hay while the sun shines.
'Ergreife die Gelegenheit! Sie kehret niemals wieder.'"
"Well, I know I should be very disappointed, if I thought I should
never have little children of my own."
"O Maternity, what crimes are perpetrated in thy name! Mothering is
woman's work without a doubt, but she does not need to have children
of her own in order to do it. You dear little soul! Never mind me.
I wish you as many as you will wish for yourself when the time comes,
and a sweet little mother they will have!"