"I should think so! You had better pretend that an epicure who has made
up his mind what to have for dinner is the only person who knows what
enjoyment is!"
"I suppose so--yes, I dare say you have hit on the best definition,"
returned Wareham reflectively. "What is very certain is that he should
not come to Norway."
"I think you are hateful! Do you mean to tell me you are never
pleased?"
"Oh, pleased!--yes, certainly. Enjoyment is something more important--
more all round."
"Well, that is what we feel now." She swept in her mother with a
comprehensive look. "We like the beauty, the air, the solitude--and our
companions," she added, with a smile. "Isn't that all-round enjoyment?"
"I really believe it is," said Wareham, glancing at her kindly, "and
that you know more about it than I do. Long may it be so!"
He thought he had never seen her look prettier. Her eyes danced, the
dimples in her cheeks gave her face a sweet child-likeness, she was as
fresh as the young summer which ran riot all about them. The idea took
him that Miss Dalrymple's beauty would have faded in this world of
laughing colour, of flashing waters, too much of the other world
belonged to it. Millies was heightened, and it pleased him to dwell on
the discovery. Her merriment was contagious. When the stolkjaerres
overtook them, she fed the good ponies with barley-sugar, and aired her
attempts in Norwegian upon the men, who answered in excellent English.
Afterwards--when they had climbed again into the little carriages, the
skydsgut perched behind upon portmanteaux, as the clever ponies trotted
cheerfully along, requiring no touch from the whip, but quickening their
pace under an encouraging chirrup, and stopping at a long-drawn Pr-r-r
from the driver--they overtook the clergyman and his wife, tramping
unweariedly along. And here Millie had her triumph. For in their hands
they carried a bunch of red and yellow berries, and held them
inquiringly to a skydsgut, who answered "Multer." Now, _multer_, as
Millie had taken care to ascertain, is Norwegian for cloudberry, and
here was what she had determined to see and taste, and been told she was
too early for. Two or three were at once made over to her, but she
would not eat them there, preferring to taste them with the dignity of
cream at Haare. And it may as well be added, that these were the first
and last cloudberries she saw in Norway.
Watches told them that it was early evening when they made their last
climb to Haare. For some time past the grandeur of the gorge had been
smoothed into tenderer lines; the river broadened--driving young Grey
into distraction when he looked at it--and presently a lake opened,
lying quiet and shadowy under sheltering mountains. They passed a
waterfall, and mounted slowly to the inn, perched obtrusively on the
hill-side, red flag flying, stolkjaerres and carrioles crowded about.
Supper ended, they strolled out; golden lights lingered in the sky, and
the mountains rose against it in royal purple. The roar of the _fos_
reached them brokenly, and as they crossed the zigzagged road, by grassy
cuts, to this sound was joined that of advancing wheels and voices. Two
stolkjaerres passed along the road below, two people walked, a word, a
light laugh, came up.
"The Martyns," said Mrs Ravenhill.
No one answered. They stood and watched the little cavalcade slowly
mounting. Shadows deepened, the clear air was fragrant with newly-mown
grass, a star trembled into sight. It was very solemn and peaceful.