All the skydsguts, and all the owners of vehicles for miles round Sand,
stormed the steamer on its arrival, and out of the struggling crowd
Wareham with difficulty extricated Mrs Ravenhill and Millie, and
started them in a _stolkjaerre_, while he himself followed in a second
with a young Grey, who had, of course, crossed in the _Eldorado_.
[Stolkjaerre pronounced stolkyerrer. Skydsgut pronounced shussgoot.]
In all there was a string of nine or ten little carriages, each drawn by
a cream-coloured or light dun pony, its two occupants in front, and its
skydsgut perched on the luggage behind.
Now that they had left the open fjord, wind-swept by a north-westerly
gale, it had grown calm and warm; and, driving up to the mountains by
the side of a hurrying river, the charm of the country began to reveal
itself. Mrs Ravenhill would have liked to have broken away from the
procession, and enjoyed it alone, but this was impossible. The ponies
trotted in regular file, walked up the slightest incline, and raced
wildly downhill; nothing would have induced ponies or drivers to part
company, and, indeed, after all, something in the small cavalcade was
refreshingly different from ordinary modes of travelling. Colours
glowed and softened in the clear air, crimson sorrel turned the long
grass into ruddy fields, waving and shimmering in the breeze, the river,
narrowing, dashed itself into milky whiteness. In parts, trees growing
singly out of the green, made the country park-like; elsewhere a wilder
character prevailed, with a background of grey hills, on which grey
clouds brooded. It was ten o'clock before they reached Osen, but so
lingering was the day, that even by that time the surrounding outlines
were scarcely touched with uncertainty.
Throughout the drive importunate skydsguts had petitioned on behalf of a
new inn, but Wareham had decided to stop at the Suldal, known to him of
old. Of all the procession only the two stolkjaerres halted there, the
rest whisking by to the other and more pretentiously illuminated
building; it seemed to Millie that the very landlord met them with
surprise. The whole house was at their disposal; no one, he explained,
was there, because the other house was very liberal to the skydsguts,
and they persuaded their employers in its favour. There was something
pathetic in the sad resignation with which he made this statement, and
Mrs Ravenhill, whose face had fallen at realisation of the solitude,
which appeared to point to something obnoxious, became enthusiastic.
The quaint box-like little bedrooms, all pitch-pine, unbroken by paper,
plaster, or carpet, delighted her; and as every sound was audible
throughout the house, she and Millie in their separate rooms could talk
as easily as if they had been together. Presently, however, other
voices mingled themselves, and it became evident that some of their
fellow-travellers had retraced their steps. When they came down to the
meal which had been energetically prepared, they found half-a-dozen
others. If it was not a very elaborate repast, there was plenty and
good-will, and a homely hospitality which was pleasant. Besides, they
were all hungry, and all sleepy, and neither the careful warnings
against fire, with directions how to get out of the little passages, and
where to find the "safety ropes," nor the rather loud confidences of two
travellers on the upper floor, could keep Mrs Ravenhill or Millie long
awake.
Wareham, on the contrary, was not drawn to sleep. A paper in hand,
which he wanted to think out by the help of a cigar, gave an excuse for
strolling along the quiet road, where all was still except the unresting
swirl of the river. His will forced concentration upon the matter which
was in his mind, but it was like driving unruly horses, and the moment
he relaxed his hold, his thoughts bolted to the words Anne Dalrymple and
he had exchanged. It was difficult to explain why, except that her
talk, her manner, and, above all, her face, had interested him. They
possessed a certain quality distinct from the words and faces of others.
That he thought of her with an ever-increasing disapproval did not
interfere with the interest, but served for an excuse for returning to
its contemplation, since nothing is more absorbing than a problem. It
was doubtless this attraction which led him to fill out their
conversation with imaginary words and incidents, such as might have led
to an altogether different result. Jilt or flirt, Anne Dalrymple was no
mere brainless woman, and he found himself on the verge of a wish that
he had not been Hugh's friend, so that he might have talked to her
without prejudice. A man's anger against a woman leaves him
uncomfortable, with a sense of his own unfairness, whether deserved or
not.
He began to resent his position. He had dropped into it unknowingly,
but the bare idea that it might suggest to Hugh a thought of his
friend's disloyalty, cut like a lash. Kicking at pebbles in the road,
or staring up at the dominating height rising blackly on the other side
of the river, would not help him, and for the moment there seemed
nothing else. He must make the best of it. Why on earth trouble
himself with what could not be helped? Was he by ill-luck becoming
morbid? He walked back to the inn, disgusted with himself; pitched away
his cigar before entering the inflammable box, and slept, resolved to
accept ordinary intercourse as if he and Miss Dalrymple were strangers.
It is difficult to adopt any course of action which does not involve
others in unexpected ways. His last intention would have been to make
marked advances to Millie Ravenhill, yet, treating her as a haven of
refuge, meant being much by her side on the following day. The morning
was all summer, full of light and freshness, and as the little carriages
began to arrive from Sand, Wareham was very willing to get out of the
way by joining half-a-dozen of their fellow-travellers in a stroll over
the grassy hill behind the inn. Then Millie and he drifted away
together, and she wanted a flower plucked out of a marshy bit of land,
and when that was gathered a daring stone-chat enticed them, and the
frank innocent beauty around beguiled Wareham, so that when the steamer
sent up a warning shriek they were forced to run, and reached the vessel
breathless. Mrs Ravenhill flung a look of reproach at Wareham, while
she scolded Millie.
"How could you be so imprudent! I have been waiting in terror, not
knowing where to send. Osen is all very well, but to be forced to spend
another twenty-four hours here! I am really very angry."
"Blame me," said Wareham penitentially. "It was all my fault."
He pleased himself by observing that the Martyns and Miss Dalrymple were
in possession of seats, and as there had been a certain intention--on
his part--of delay, it is doubtful if he were really sorry. Millie was
radiant.
"I should not have minded staying," she remarked, when breath had come
back; "it is a dear little place, and it would have been a real crow for
the landlord. He loved us so dearly for driving straight to his inn,
instead of being forced there by want of room in the other! But what an
odd state of society must exist in this place, when out of half-a-dozen
houses two are rival inns! Do they speak? Do they fight? Human nature
could not allow them to be friendly!"
"Oh, I'm not so sure," said Mrs Ravenhill; "you forget the strength of
nature here, and that the human part of them would have to combine
against snow and darkness and solitude. Once we are gone, I dare say
they are good friends together."
As they were carried along over the green waters of the Suldal lake, it
seemed to some of those who were looking, as though they were entering a
solemn and enchanted region.
The sun, which blazed upon the great granite hills, could not rob them
of their supreme gravity. They were mighty Titans resting after labour
and conflict; earth-forces up-heaved and left to lie and bleach, exposed
to the more subtle forces of air and water. For the lake crept in and
out between them, always softly pushing through, although often the
tremendous cliffs closed so menacingly round, that the boat appeared to
be making for a wall of sheer rock against which she must be ground. At
such moments those on board watched almost breathlessly for the passage
to declare itself, sometimes splitting a sharp angle, sometimes stealing
through a sinuous curve, once urged between two colossal barriers, which
bear the name of the Portal. It is the gateway into a shadowy,
mysterious, yet radiant world, which lies as God's Hand has left it,
untouched by man. On either side the mountains rise precipitously, or
melt away into ethereal distances; out of their soft purples and greens
an occasional raw patch marks where the frost-giant has split off a vast
fragment from the rock and tumbled it into the green waters below.
Birch and oak clamber up and down the cliffs; a sharp white line shows a
slender waterfall leaping from the heights, and re-appearing here and
there, but, too far off for movement to be perceptible, it looks a mere
scratch on the shadows. More rarely, where there is the suspicion of a
valley, or, at any rate, a flatness, the steamer screams to some
half-dozen--or fewer--scattered houses, tying in a scarcely-endurable
solitude, a little amphitheatre of silence; each with its tiny patch of
emerald-green rye, its square of half-cut grass, its small
potato-ground, its boat lying on the shore. Some rough track may exist,
but of visible roads there are none, nor any cattle, except, possibly, a
few goats away browsing on the hills. Such forlorn habitations only
deepen the brooding solitude, by forcing on the imagination dreams of
these alone, self-dependent lives, but for the call of the steamer as
alone as though they were a knot of sailors shipwrecked on a desert
shore.
Wareham, for whom they had a strange attraction, watched them from the
forepart of the vessel. While he was there, Colonel Martyn joined him.
He was a tall sad-looking man, with a mountainous nose, devoted to
sport, and hating society. He grumbled a disconsolate question.
"How much longer does this sort of thing go on?"
"The lake? Three hours, from end to end. Doesn't it please you?"
"It would please me well enough if I were pulling up in a boat. Cooped
up with a lot of other fools, it makes me sick. Do you mean to tell me
you find any pleasure in the business?"
Wareham laughed.
"Evidently I haven't your energy." He went on to ask whether with these
sentiments his own free will had brought Colonel Martyn abroad?
The other turned a melancholy eye upon him.
"Good heavens, that you should put such a question! My wife insists
upon going through an annual period of discomfort. I don't much care
where it is. This year she and Anne Dalrymple took a craze for Norway,
and here we are." It was as if his last words meant "Poor devils!"
Wareham had no thought of letting fly his next words. They escaped him.
"Has Miss Dalrymple travelled with you before?"
Colonel Martyn again looked at him.
"Never. She is my wife's last friend. A former acquaintance of yours?"
Wareham hastened to repudiate.
"I have never spoken to her until Mrs Martyn introduced me." Some
unaccountable impulse made him add--"But I have often heard of her."
"No good?"
"I did not say so."
"Never mind me," said his companion, seating himself on the bulwark, and
swinging one long leg. "Women are frauds--most of them."
"Well for you that your wife is not within earshot!"
"She would vow that it showed I was enjoying myself. That's a delusion
she holds on to. Keep your liberty--there you have my advice. As for
Anne Dalrymple, I've an idea there was something on with her this
season, but I don't listen to society crams, and I've heard no
particulars."
The red rag was irritating Wareham.
"This was not a society cram. We'll leave it alone, however. Miss
Dalrymple is your wife's friend."
For the first time a smile flitted across Colonel Martyn's lantern
visage.
"My dear fellow," he said, "say as much or as little as you like. So
long as you don't hold me responsible for the freaks of my wife's
friends, I'm indifferent, profoundly indifferent, as to what is thought
of them. Only wish they'd carry out this sort of amusement without me.
I'm no use. Can't speak a word of the lingo. Miss Dalrymple's
handsome, that I'll own--there she has the pull over most of Blanche's
cronies--but I don't doubt she behaved badly--"
"Mrs Martyn wants the key of her bag," said a voice at his elbow. He
swung round guiltily to face Anne Dalrymple.
"Eh?--what?"
"The key of her bag."
"Oh, of course!--yes. Shall I take it or will you?" His embarrassment
was pitiable, while she stood cool.
"You, I think."
He bolted.
Wareham, annoyed with his position, stood confronting her. Her height
nearly reached his own, her eyes, dark with anger, swept him scornfully,
she drew a deep breath.
"Honourable--to set my friends against me!"
He remained silent. Her tone grew more scathing.
"Do not imagine that I take exception at your opinions--your
attitude,"--a stress on the `your'--"to them I am absolutely
indifferent. Think what you please--judge me as harshly as you like--
influence your own friends if it amuses you to do so. When--not
satisfied with this--you attempt to prejudice the people under whose
care I am travelling, then, Mr Wareham, you are taking advantage of my
being a woman to offer me an unpardonable insult."
Wareham stood like a statue, while she scourged him with her words.
Indignation gave such beauty to her face and gestures, that his own
anger grew soft.
"You are right," he said. "I am not conscious of having said anything
to which you could take exception, but it is true that Colonel Martyn
gathered that my thoughts of you were not friendly, and I acknowledge
that I was to blame in permitting myself to mention your name."
Her look had been full on his, now she dropped it reflectively. Anger
still burned in her eyes, but she was not so composed as she had been.
Her breath came and went quickly, and when she spoke her voice was
slightly shaken, yet abrupt.
"Be more careful in future."
"You may trust me," said Wareham, bowing gravely. He was not surprised
at her turning to leave him, what astonished him was that she came back.
"I don't know whether it is because I am a woman, and have no means of
defending myself except by words," she said coldly, "that I think you
owe it to me to tell me what you said to Colonel Martyn."
"Anything is owing to you that lies in my power. But this is
exceedingly difficult."
"Do you take refuge in an imaginary failure of memory?" she asked,
scornfully again.
"On the contrary, I can trust my memory."
"Then?"
"It is just because the words were so trifling, that I shall find it
difficult to convince you that I am keeping back nothing."
She hesitated, but her eyes met his frankly. "I imagine that you will
endeavour to give me a true impression."
"Thank you. What happened, then, was that on Colonel Martyn's
mentioning your name, I asked whether you had travelled with them
before?"
"And what was that to you?"
"Nothing. I have already expressed my regret at having put the
question."
"Go on."
"Colonel Martyn, on his side, inquired whether I knew you, and from my
answer jumped hastily at a conclusion which I imagine you will not
require me to excuse?" She made an imperious gesture.
"I have told you that your own opinions do not concern me in the least.
Come to something more definite."
"But there was nothing more definite," said Wareham, lifting his
eyebrows. He let memory travel slowly over the conversation, picking up
threads. "Colonel Martyn, in a discursive review of his dislike to
travel, made an allusion to a matter in which you were concerned, and I
replied that, as you were his wife's friend, we had better drop the
subject. Evidently he likes to emphasise the idea that he and his wife
are two, and I imagine this led him to make the unfortunate remark you
caught. Pray assure yourself that you have heard all there was to hear,
and permit me to repeat how deeply I regret it."
She did not at once answer. The vessel was passing through a marvellous
cleft, precipitous rocks arose out of the clear water on either side.
Wareham saw Mrs Martyn approaching, curiosity in her face. He waited
for Anne to speak.
"I suppose I ought to thank you," she said at last, slowly. "I suppose
you tried to be fair. If you did not succeed, perhaps it was beyond
your powers."
Mrs Martyn arrived.
"Anne, did you ever see anything so remarkable? I hope you noticed how
sharply the steamer turned?"
"Did it?"
"Did it! You are as bad as Tom. What have you been doing? Talking?"
"I suppose so."
"Was it interesting?" asked Mrs Martyn, glancing from one to the other.
"Hardly," said Anne, before Wareham could speak. "We only took up a
legacy of conversation left by your husband." She walked away.
"Poor Tom!" Mrs Martyn uttered a laugh. "It must have been a legacy
of grumbles. He is miserable because he has to sit still, and submit to
be carried from point to point, without the possibility of using violent
exercise to accomplish his purpose. If he could only pull up the lake,
and tug the steamer behind, he would be happy again. Can you take life
with less play of muscle, Mr Wareham?"
"As lazily as you like."
"All the better. It is enough to endure growls from one's husband,
without hearing them echoed by others. Please do your best to induce
him to enjoy himself."
"I!" said Wareham, with surprise. He added that it was unlikely that he
would find an opportunity in the short time they would be together.
"I thought you travelled with the Ravenhills?"
"Accidentally."
"Have you fallen out?"
"No, no," he protested, half amused, half provoked. "But chance having
thrown us together, does not bind us."
"It might. Chance might have much to answer for," she went on rapidly.
"While it keeps you near us, do be good to my unlucky Tom! I thought he
and Anne would have amused each other, but they do not. I hope,"--she
reached the point to which he had divined she was tending, and adopted a
careless air--"I hope that Tom did not try to run down Anne? He has a
deceptive way of saying more than he means, and saying it in his
melancholy way produces a stronger effect than if it came from an
ordinary person; as I always tell him, I don't think he is in the least
aware of the impression he makes. Anne is the dearest girl in the
world!"
Wareham felt as if fate were determined to force his opinion about Miss
Dalrymple; he answered cautiously--
"I understood from Colonel Martyn that you were friends."
She looked at him.
"I don't believe that either he or you stopped there!"
He gathered that her husband had confided the unfortunate remark which
had caused his flight, and thought it hard that she should come to him,
instead of applying to her friend, for particulars. He was resolved not
to be drawn a second time, experience having already proved sufficiently
embarrassing.
"I am not aware of having gone beyond it," he said indifferently. "How
should I? Until five minutes ago I had scarcely exchanged twenty words
with Miss Dalrymple."
She persisted.
"But of course you had heard of her? Every one who is anything is heard
about now-a-days."
He agreed to the general remark, and she tapped her foot impatiently.
"How cautious you are! Now, I always speak my mind, even if it offends
people. Life would be unendurable if one had to weigh one's words like
so many groceries."
It is difficult to answer the people who present you with themselves as
an example. Wareham laughed, and assured her that she had only to
choose an impersonal topic.
"A hint for a hit. Well, I don't think you're acting fairly towards
Anne, because you won't say what has prejudiced you against her."
So far Wareham had kept his temper, but at this point annoyance made a
sudden leap to the front, and with the smile still on his lips, he felt
savage. It seemed to him that they wouldn't leave him alone, that they
wanted to force his hand, and oblige him to say something that was
either offensive or false.
"If you mean that I object to discussing Miss Dalrymple with her
friends," he said coldly, "you are right."
"Ah, you would prefer doing it with her enemies," she returned with a
shrewdness perhaps unexpected.
"I should prefer changing the subject altogether," said Wareham. "Do
you know that we are nearly at the end of our voyage? Behind those grey
elephantine rocks lies Naes, and there it is ordained that we dine."
"Dine! At two! Poor Tom! But how good for his health!"
Wareham did not feel himself called upon to express an opinion on this
point. He went back to Mrs Ravenhill and Millie, landed, and walked
with them up to the little inn, from which a red flag was gaily flying.
It is between Naes and Haare that the Bratlandsdal lies, one of the most
beautiful secrets of Norway. Secret, indeed, only by comparison, since
the road has been carved out, but as yet not so freely tourist-ridden as
other parts. A hard-worked clergyman and his wife, flinging the energy
of work into their holiday, at once set off on the long tramp; the other
travellers, more respectful to comfort, waited to engage stolkjaerres
and carrioles, and to go through the routine of salmon and stringiest
mutton; so that it was three o'clock before the Ravenhills, Wareham, and
young Grey--wrenched from remote homage of Miss Dalrymple--set off
leisurely to walk to the head of the gorge, stolkjaerres and luggage at
their heels.
Grey was an enthusiastic fisherman, and his talk of flies, many of which
festooned his hat. His companions were careless as to their merits, but
Millie had a charm of simple sympathy, which all along Wareham had
recognised and liked, and she let him expatiate upon them without giving
a hint that she was bored. Almost at once they were in the shadow of
the great gorge, the road mounted; down, far down, cleaving its way
between thousand-feet rocks, dashed a wild river, beryl-coloured when
not churned into whiteness, leaping, laughing, flying from rock to rock,
curving into green pools, flinging foam at the growing things which bent
to kiss it, an impetuous, untamable, living force. To think of it in
storm with a hundred angry voices crying out, and mountain-echoes
hurling back their rage, was to shudder. But now, under a brilliant
sun, there was a lovely splendour abroad; feathery beds of moss and fern
hid away the menacing crevices of the grey rocks; streams tinkled, drop
by drop, from the overhanging heights; shadows were soft, tender, and
wavering, radiant sunlight changed harshness into beauty.
"And we have it to ourselves!" sighed Mrs Ravenhill thankfully. "The
others are ahead, and are welcome to the better rooms. But what of the
Martyns?"
Young Grey was eager in his knowledge.
"They were tired, and waited another hour. I promised to arrange about
their rooms. It was Miss Dalrymple who said she was tired."
He spoke with an unmistakable touch of reverence.
Mrs Ravenhill thought it a pity they should risk losing the lights.
"The days are long enough," Millie put in. "And how delightful to have
this delicious place to ourselves! Let us enjoy it."
"Let us," said Wareham. "How do you begin?"
"Oh!" cried the girl indignantly, "there is no beginning. You must _do_
it."
"Ah, that is feminine impracticability. You issue a command, and we are
anxious to obey, but every act has a beginning and an end."
She broke into a smile.
"Well, then, put away the wish to be anywhere else."
"Done," said Wareham, after a moments consideration. "But don't you see
Mr Grey eyeing the river?"
The young fellow excused himself. He was only wondering how a
particular fly which the landlord had bestowed upon him would work in
the pools.
"Precisely," said Wareham, smiling at Millie. "In our advanced
civilisation, enjoyment has ceased to be spontaneous, and has become an
art. It can't be treated so unceremoniously as you suggest. Stalk it
as you would a deer, and, even then, ten to one your prey escapes you."