By fits and starts Wareham was an early riser, and the next morning he
was out between five and six. By that time the sun was high in the
heavens, dews were dried, life--insect and plant-life--was in eager
movement. A cottage with a wonderful roof, lying not far from the foot
of the _fos_, had attracted him the day before; he crossed the zigzags,
made out a narrow path over short grass, and reached it.
It was a tiny cottage, built partly of stones heaped roughly one on the
other, partly of boards of many shapes and sizes, a hut full of odd
cranks and changes, deep eaves on one side, a perched-up window on
another. But what had attracted Wareham to closer inspection was the
roof, lovely with waving grass, sorrel, starlike daisies, and a mass of
lilac pansies. It was the subject Mrs Ravenhill would pounce upon to
sketch, and he felt a gentle gratitude towards the Ravenhills for the
small demands they made upon him. An extraordinarily stony little path
flung itself headlong towards the lake, through tall emerald-green rye;
he stumbled down a few yards to look back at the hut, standing out
against a violet mountain, all the colours sharply insistent in the
clear morning air. To his extreme astonishment he saw Miss Dalrymple
appear on the crest of the hill, and make her way down towards him. She
came lightly and firmly, stepping from stone to stone without
hesitation. She wore a white dress, and the impression she gave was of
some one younger than he had fancied her. As she drew nearer the
impression strengthened by her calling out gaily--
"I have just discovered what it is all like; Sunday morning, the
freshness, and the enchanting air. Do you know?"
"No." He added in spite of himself--"Tell me."
"The opening to the last act of _Parsifal_."
"I dare say. But I am no musician."
"Nor I. But I suppose one need not be a painter to be reminded of a
picture. However, I did not come after you to talk about _Parsifal_."
She stood in the narrow pathway looking down upon him, and spoke with
extreme directness. "I saw you from the window, and, as I wished to say
something, I followed--"
He bowed. She looked beyond him.
"I have known you two days, but of course have heard of you enough, and
though you may not believe it, no one wanted you home from India more
than I. I fancied from what I gathered that you might understand."
He steeled himself against the flattering softness of her voice.
"Because I was Hugh Forbes' friend?"
"Yes," she returned quickly--"for that reason. You might have saved him
suffering. For I am afraid he has suffered."
"You are afraid. Do you doubt?"
"Not now."
"Compassion has awakened tardily," he said, with a laugh, which brought
her eyes upon him.
"Wait a moment," she said suddenly. "The grass on this bank is dry.
Let us sit down. Now go on."
Seated, she was still above, and her dark eyes rested on his face. He
found it difficult to say what a moment before had seemed easy. "He
will feel his hurt all his life."
This time her eyebrows went up.
"Oh, no!"
"I know him," persisted Wareham.
"So I thought. But you are mistaken. His feelings cry out, and are
quickly consoled. In a year he will have forgotten them."
"Your doctrines are convenient."
She breathed quickly, but appeared to wait for more.
"To break off your engagement without so much as a word as to the why!
To refuse even to see him! Caprice could hardly show itself more
cruelly."
Anger leapt into her eyes.
"You allow yourself strong expressions, Mr Wareham!"
"If you do not like them it appears to me that I am the last person to
whom you should speak. You may not know what Hugh is to me."
"If I did not, I should not be talking to you at this moment," she
retorted, flinging back her head. "Should I discuss the subject with an
indifferent person?"
It had been good to him to feel the impetus of his own anger, he
courted, encouraged it. A secret fear made him dread a softer mood. He
kept his eyes upon a butterfly, balancing itself on an ear of rye. As
he did not answer, she went on--
"Taking it from your point of view only, for I suppose you would be
incapable of a broader outlook, do you consider a lingering end more
merciful than one which is short and sharp? I have never for a moment
regretted the manner of the doing."
"You have regretted something," said Wareham quickly, recognising that
she laid a scarcely-perceptible stress on one word, and beginning to
think that she intended him to undertake the mission of reconciliation.
A drag of reluctance he believed to belong to disapproval.
"Perhaps," she said, with hesitation.
"Isn't it a little late?"
It struck him that his question had an offensive air, but she appeared
not to have heard it; she was looking beyond him at the glowing lake,
and the mountains which bordered the green waters.
"I am ready to own that I was to blame," she went on, still slowly; "but
I shall always think that he ought to have understood."
"What?"
"What can't be put into words. Why, I did not care to marry him."
"You are enigmatical."
She made an impatient movement.
"At any rate, it should be enough for you that I did not like him well
enough."
"And that is your explanation?"
"What; else?"
"It had occurred to me that the match might not have been considered
sufficiently brilliant for the beautiful Miss Dalrymple." She did not
reject the supposition with anger as he perhaps expected, merely shook
her head.
"You are like the rest of the world," she said resignedly, so that he
immediately felt shame for his own stupidity, but had nothing to say
against it. He took refuge in pointing out that they had placed
themselves in the line of a procession of caterpillars, all apparently
on their way to the lake, and that several were at that moment on her
dress. She brushed them off with indifference. "Why should you have
fastened on that motive?" she asked.
"Was it so unlikely?"
"Your friend rejects it."
"Yes. He believes--still believes--nothing of you but what is good."
"Dear Hugh!" she breathed softly. Wareham started with amazement.
"You like him still!"
"I have never ceased to like him."
For the first time in their talk he had turned his eyes on her face, and
met her look full. Sitting there, the lovely lines of her figure curved
against the waving rye, the warm brown tints of her hair caught by the
sunshine, eyes in which the fire was veiled by long lashes, a mouth
slightly drooped and softened; all this close to him, and seen in the
divine freshness of the young day, sent an intoxicating throb of delight
into his heart. Clinging to a bending purpose, he stammered--"Then--
then--"
"I shall not marry him. Make him understand this."
He looked away--closed his eyes, reckless whether she saw the movement
or not, only conscious that the momentary madness had passed. It
sharpened his voice as he said--"Do not expect me to succeed. I told
you that you were enigmatical, and I repeat my words. Nothing that you
have said alters the cruelty of dismissing poor Hugh in the sudden and
unexpected manner you adopted." She rose, without at first speaking,
but stood in the same place until she said slowly--"Perhaps. But it was
difficult to act."
The words that were on his lips seemed glued there; by an effort he
succeeded at last in bringing them out.
"May I tell Hugh to hope?"
"Oh, no," she said composedly. "Certainly not. My mind is absolutely
made up. Urge him to think no more of me; above all, not to try to see
me. It is quite useless."
Wareham smiled.
"He will thank me."
"If he does not, I shall," she said softly; and again he was conscious
of the strange throb which had surprised him before. This time it was
slighter, and he did not look or speak, while in another moment she
turned and began to climb the stony path.
Wareham followed slowly, more perturbed than he would have cared to own.
He had failed in discomfiting her, as he had never doubted his power of
doing, once they met; and though no blame had been cast on Hugh, he had
an angry and unwilling feeling that if it was want of love which had
broken off the marriage, the lover himself should have been the first to
realise it. Hugh had never suffered him to suppose this could be the
cause. He thrust away the feeling irritably. Was he to blame Hugh for
the act of a heartless girl?
At the top of the path, a very poor old woman stood outside the hut,
holding a goat by a cord. Anne, perhaps glad of the interruption, began
to talk to her. Wareham stood a few feet off, and she presently came
back to him.
"She is not so old as she looks. I thought her a hundred, but that was
her husband who went down the path just now. I would ask her about the
caterpillars, only I haven't an idea what is Norwegian for caterpillar.
Have you?"
He was as ignorant.
"She is not begging," Anne continued, "though I am sure she is
dreadfully poor, and in spite of all the laws of political economy, I
shall give her a krone."
He neither objected nor encouraged; and his self-respect was partly
restored by standing aloof in a position of indifference. Anne,
smiling, glanced at him between half-shut eyelids, and went off again.
He followed. The old woman, almost beside herself with delight, seized
her hand, and shook it with rapturous gratitude. Blessings of every
kind were invoked, and showered also, undeservedly, upon Wareham. Then
she made vigorous signs that Anne was to stay where she was, while she
herself hobbled into the hut.
"What is to follow?" asked Wareham.
Anne shook her head. "I shall certainly wait and see. What can come
out of that poor little place? Not!" She turned upon him a horrified
face--"Oh, no!"
"What?"
"I believe--I am sure--she is bringing me a tumbler of goat's milk! Of
all things that I loathe--"
Her face was tragic. Wareham was prepared to see her decline the gift,
but had to own to injustice. She took the tumbler, drank to the end,
and thanked the old woman with a sweet courtesy. If, after it, she
moved quickly away, she told Wareham that it was to rescue him from a
similar fate. He owned that he could not have been so heroic, and that
she had surprised him.
"What else was there to do?" she asked simply.
Her mood had changed. All the way back to the inn she talked gaily and
lightly about the country, their fellow-travellers, and the children
they met. He found his conception of her lost, not to be called back,
and between this and that grew bewildered. There was nothing for it but
to follow her lead, and to set Hugh's wrongs on one side. They went
there easily, and left the ground more pleasantly open, so that he
reached the door in eager talk, and, what was worse, with desire for
more.
He kept silence to the Ravenhills as to his morning, never even telling
Mrs Ravenhill of the little cottage with pansied roof, which he had
ostensibly sought for her. Something in him, something which he did not
choose to admit, but which secretly controlled him, made him averse from
admitting any one to the place where this morning he had met Anne: he
told himself that he wished to put away the recollection of a painful
incident. Painful it should have been, and must be.
It was Sunday; a little service was held in the salon. Afterwards,
except at meals, Wareham saw no more of Miss Dalrymple. He went out and
walked far over the hills with the clergyman, whose wife was at last
tired, but whose own energy was unfailing. He carried it into botany,
and though Wareham knew nothing of the subject, the triumph with which a
rare discovery was hailed gave relish to the walk. Would Millie have
liked something different? She made no complaint, but at supper chatted
cheerfully of the cottages into which she had penetrated; the children's
shake of the hand for "_tak_" when she gave them sweets; the strings of
fresh, kindly-faced women coming back from their walk of miles to the
nearest church. Millie had won the children's hearts, and the next
morning, when, under a sky of tender northern blue, they started on
their walk up the pass, they came smiling round, no longer in Sunday
scarlet skirts and green aprons, but in work-a-day clothes, to wish her
good-morning and farewell.
The air was pure and sweet, soft yet exhilarating. The stolkjaerres
were to carry only luggage to the head of the pass, Mrs Ravenhill
declaring herself ready for the five miles walk. The clergyman and his
wife were ahead of them.
They went up gradually towards the heights. The mountains fall away on
either side, and it is a wide desolate-looking expanse through which the
road to Odde curves and zigzags. Patches of snow lie in sun-forgotten
gullies, or crown the higher summits. All along the road tall posts are
set at intervals to mark the track on those gloomy days of winter when
the light of stars shines on one vast sheet of snow, filling the broad
valley cup, and smoothing every rough outline. Something of this
melancholy solitude remains throughout the year; not a tree breaks the
sweep, not a building asserts itself. Walk for hours, and it is
unlikely that you meet a human being; the only trace of his activity is
the white road which twists upwards. But on a July morning the world
under your feet is astir with gladness; the springy turf is starred with
myriads of tiny flowers; shrubs of the dwarf cornel peep at you with
white brown-eyed blossoms, and the boggy land, through which melting
snows are making their way, feed the bright green succulent winter
chickweed, or the delicate bells of the false lily of the valley.
And it was across this beautiful upland world, making short cuts from
zigzag to zigzag, that Millie, as young as the summer and as happy, went
her way. Young Grey had, without deliberate arrangement, become a sort
of hanger-on of the party, and he was here. From such small adventures
as sticking in a bog, or being forced to wade a stream, merriment flowed
joyously. Now and then they sat down, rather from wishing to linger
than from need of rest; and it was in one of these halts that, their own
carriages having reached a higher level, they beheld two others crawling
up the road, and presently a shout reached them from a long
spindle-legged figure striding towards the group, and waving a stick to
arrest attention. Young Grey sprang to his feet and waved energetically
in return.
"It's Colonel Martyn, and there's Miss Dalrymple in the carriole!" he
exclaimed. "What a shame that she isn't up here!" He was darting off,
when reflection brought him back with--"You don't mind my trying to
persuade her to come with us, Mrs Ravenhill?"
"How should I? By all means persuade her."
He was off like an arrow from a bow, and Mrs Ravenhill praised his
good-nature. Wareham chimed in; Millie sat silent.
Miss Dalrymple did not leave the little carriage, and young Grey did not
return. Colonel Martyn was a melancholy substitute. Naturally it fell
to Mrs Ravenhill to cheer him, and Wareham and Millie wandered on
together. She avoided touching Anne's name: he repeated it more than
once to himself, that he might impress on his mind a stronger sense of
his relief in not having her there. All Millie's little prettinesses he
made an inward note of, and extracted admiration, telling himself that
here was a sweeter charm. If such a thing had been possible, it might
have seemed that he fashioned them into a shield. But why? And against
what?
It gave Millie great pleasure to reach the snow-beds, though their edges
were little more than crusts, under which trickled out the melting
water; and when a sudden shade came between them and the sun, and
looking up, they realised for the first time what a bank of cloud was
sweeping down from the north, she professed a strong desire to see a
storm in these desolate regions. At the top of the pass, where lies a
sullen lake, slaty grey now with menacing shadow, the stolkjaerres were
waiting, their own and the Martyns'. And, as there opened before them a
vast faraway whiteness of snow, unbroken and eternal, a driver,
pointing, said the word which they had long expected--"Folgefond!"
"Where is Tom?" Mrs Martyn demanded hastily.
Mrs Ravenhill reported that he had left her to make his way up a hill,
from which he foretold a view. "He said he would overtake us."
"And I am in mortal terror already!" cried his wife. "The skydsgut says
we go down a tremendously steep descent, and that a dreadful storm is
coming. Thunder frightens me to death."
Consolation was offered, but failed to soothe. A livid shadow which
touched the snow set her trembling. She desired Miss Dalrymple to take
Colonel Martyn's place by her side, then looked imploringly at Wareham.
"I am ashamed--it is wretched to be such a coward--but Mr Grey is with
Mrs Ravenhill--_would_ you mind coming close behind in Anne's carriole,
Mr Wareham? The comfort that it would be!"
Wareham perceived that his attendance was resolved upon. He made a
slight demur.
"Of course if I can be of any use--"
"The greatest! You would not condemn me to stay on this dreary spot
until Colonel Martyn has finished his survey?"
"Ought we to leave him behind?"
"Ought he to have deserted us? Pray let us start. Anne, beg Mr
Wareham not to delay. There, I am sure I heard thunder!"
"One moment." Wareham made a quick step to where Millie stood, a little
aloof.
"You bear?" he said, in a low voice. "Are you alarmed?"