Before Wareham reached the companions he had deserted, it was evident
that something was amiss, for both Mrs Ravenhill and Millie were on
foot, and their skydsgut led the pony. Millie, however, called out to
him that no harm had happened, and he then saw that Colonel Martyn was
with them.
"What has gone wrong?" he asked, as he came up. "There's a very
disorganised look about you."
"We were nearly disorganised altogether," said Mrs Ravenhill gravely,
for she was not well pleased at Wareham's leaving them. "We might have
been, if Colonel Martyn had not come to the rescue."
Wareham asked what had happened.
"I suppose the man drove too fast, and that fierce clap of thunder
startled the pony, for he went over the edge."
"Good heavens!"
Colonel Martyn interposed to explain that fortunately the descent was
not sheer, and the ground was soft. Moreover, the skydsgut jumped off,
and held on like death.
"Mr Grey too. And cut his hand," Millie broke in, with a grateful
glance at the young man. He turned red.
"Oh, that's nothing."
"Well, as nobody will accept the honours of the situation, I shall take
them myself," said the girl, laughing. "Know then, Mr Wareham, that
mother and I showed immense presence of mind in refusing to be shot out
when the jerk came, and in scrambling over the back when we realised
that we were still there."
"Then?"
"Then the pony was unharnessed, the stolkjaerre dragged back, and--here
we are!"
She spoke lightly, but she was white and trembling. Colonel Martyn
inquired where his people were.
"I left them in the road below," said Wareham briefly.
"Then we'll sort ourselves again, and I'll go on."
As he strode away, Mrs Ravenhill called after him, "Thank you for your
help."
"He enjoyed it," said Millie. "It was the nearest approach he could
have had to a steeplechase, and has quite raised his spirits." Wareham
felt so unconscionably guilty, that it might be supposed something else
was really scourging him, and using his small neglect for a lash. He
murmured--
"I am thankful he was here. If I had dreamed of real danger--"
"There was as much for the others as for us," said Millie reasonably.
"Besides, I believe Mr Grey and the skydsgut were equal to the
emergency. Poor Mr Grey was the only sufferer."
"Oh, I'm all right," said the young man. "I say, Mr Wareham, was Miss
Dalrymple frightened?"
"Not that I know of," answered Wareham shortly.
Mrs Ravenhill raised her eyebrows at the tone.
"Now, if you and Mr Grey like to drive on before us," she said, "Millie
and I are quite equal to taking care of ourselves on level ground."
"I see no reason for changing."
His voice was sharp, and he knew it and was vexed by it, the truth being
that he was out of sorts with himself and the world. Fate, he felt, had
played him a skittish trick, in thrusting him into companionship with
the one woman whom he would have avoided; nor, spur his steed as he
might, could he get away into the old track. He recalled his deliberate
judgment of Anne's character, but it rose a bloodless ghost, behind a
living, glowing, dark face, with a look of reproach in the beautiful
eyes. Avaunt, sorceress! How should beauty outweigh friendship? Can a
fleeting fancy shake solid foundations? The very thought pricked,
scourged him. Even if he extricated himself from his false position by
the simple method of breaking away from his companions at Odde, he was
wroth at having to admit that he could not easily regain his
self-respect.
Young Grey babbled youthfully about Miss Dalrymple's charms, as the two
men drove along, but this was a mere outside accident to which Wareham
was indifferent. Barring Hugh, what others thought mattered nothing; it
was himself he arraigned with the reluctance of a strong character. He
answered briefly yes and no, happily sufficient for his companion, who
was content to talk.
The storm had vanished, leaving an added beauty, on either side a land
flashing light from raindrops on which the sun shone brilliantly, a land
of bold heights, leaping torrents, and sweet recesses of bedded moss,
out of which peeped wild strawberries and a hundred delicate flowers,
while far up against the soft blue of the sky gleamed the unbroken
whiteness of the snows.
The others were overtaken at Seligsted, a small roadside inn, crowded
round with unharnessed stolkjaerres, and besieged by ravenous
travellers. Willing but inefficient hosts lost their heads under press
of custom, and tourists stormed in vain, while the young girl-waiters
grew sullen under their reproaches. The Martyns, arriving earlier, had
managed to secure some food in a balcony; the others, resigning
themselves to a long wait, strolled to the river, sat on the grass, and
looked at the blue cleft in the hills through which they had passed, or
in the opposite direction, where the country broadened into tamer
beauties.
When they got back, the most irate of the tourists were driving away in
a carriage and pair, a red-faced father, and two or three black-eyed
girls, half ashamed, half proud of his brow-beating. "Hurry up! Why
the devil can't they understand plain English!" he was shouting. The
men standing by looked at him with calm disapproval; an old man, with a
grave, refined face, shrugged his shoulders silently.
There is extraordinary variety in Norwegian roads, variety which is
beyond word-painting, and, to a large degree, depends upon the
cultivation which the eye brings to bear upon it. Admiration rushes
easily after vast outlines, and these are lacking, for in Norway the
mountains are of no great height, and when you are among them the lower
masses block out the summits. Subtler charm lies in the variety, the
infinite multitude of tints and shadings with which the sun is always
painting hill and sky, the colours which the granite yields to its
radiant touch, so that on these summer evenings the barest piece of rock
is a wonder of soft and rich colouring. Then, perhaps, where the shadow
deepens, a _fos_ flings itself down, an aerial spirit, here spreading
like a veil, there cleaving the purple gloom with a silver flash.
Hardly had the Espelandfos been passed, when the ponies instinctively
stopped, and the skydsguts, springing off, announced the Lotefos.
They climbed a steep path, and, passing a small summer inn, a great
roaring mass of water, broken into three falls, and rushing and seething
in an indescribable tumult of beauty, was before them. Clambering from
point to point, whichever way the eye turned, it fell upon clouds of
spray, upon swift giddy leaps made by the clear beryl-coloured water
before it was churned into foam by the force of its descent. Great wet
rocks, shining metallic, stood erect in the midst of racing waters,
waving grasses caught in the eddies were washed relentlessly, never a
pause allowed in which to straighten themselves, and over the
magnificent turmoil a rainbow arched serenely. Young Grey sprang into
perilous places; Millie gathered trails of the delicate Linnaea
Borealis, slender northerner which the great botanist chose for his own;
Mrs Ravenhill and Wareham strolled down to the carriages, and leaving
the Lotefos behind by a road which soon began to edge itself along a
lake, they drove on to Odde.
"Civilisation and late dinners!" sighed Millie, as they got out at the
cheerful door of the Hardanger.
"Shops!" groaned young Grey.
"Excellent things, each of them," retorted Mrs Ravenhill cheerfully.
"I wonder how long it will be before you all find yourselves in that
shop?"
It was not long. Every one is attracted by the furs, the carvings, the
silver buttons, the soft eider rugs with their beautiful green
duck-breast borderings. In the sweet summer dusk it is pleasant to
stroll about the little town, buy cherries from the men who bring their
baskets of ripe fruit, and turn into this store of Norwegian handiwork.
It is more enchanting to go to the front of the hotel, where the fjord
runs up between snow-flecked hills, and ends. Grave evening purples
steal over the land; in the sky, and reflected in the faithful waters,
daffodil and primrose tints melt into each other. A yacht lay in a sea
of gold, her fine delicate lines repeated below. A light shone out.
Some one stood at the top of the landing steps, looking at the water.
Wareham hesitated, then quickly walked up to her.
"I expected to overtake you at the Lotefos," he said abruptly.
She did not turn her head.
"Are you grateful to me for having spared you the encounter?"
"If I were, should I be here?"
"Very likely. I do not know why you have come."
"I venture to bring a suggestion."
"More likely a reproach," she said. "I believe you are determined to
force a quarrel upon me."
"You misjudge me--indeed you misjudge me!" He spoke warmly, then
hesitated. "Certainly we need not quarrel," he said slowly. "The fates
have flung us together, and it appears to me that for a time at least we
might leave the past behind us. Forbes is my friend. I cannot think
that he was well treated--your friends, doubtless, would take another
view. But if we are not likely to agree on this one subject, there are,
happily, others in the world to talk about. Come. Do you agree?"
She did not immediately answer. He found himself speculating anxiously
what her words would be. When they dropped from her at last, he hung on
the low tones--
"I don't think that two can talk with comfort on even the most
indifferent subjects when there is total absence of trust between them."
"Is that our position?" he asked uneasily.
"Is it not? I have taken trouble to give you an explanation, and you do
not believe a word of it."
"Do not let us discuss that matter."
"It is there," said Anne.
Both were silent. A boat came towards them, shattering the tranquil
golden lights of the fjord; a few strong strokes brought it up to the
landing-place, and half-a-dozen English sprang out, two young girls
among them. They looked tired, carried alpenstocks, and called out a
gay good-night to the rowers. They had just come back from a hard climb
to the Skjaeggedalsfos, and were almost too weary to be enthusiastic.
The boat pushed away again into the shining waters, the sound of the
oars died into silence. Presently Anne spoke, ignoring their last
words.
"The difference between north and south is curiously strong--forgive a
truism! What I meant to remark was the different call they make upon
oneself. Here there is a good deal of enjoyment to be met with, and it
is exactly the opposite kind of enjoyment to what one finds in Italy or
Greece. Do you feel this? Since we landed, I believe I have hardly
thought a thought or encountered an idea."
"My own sensation," Wareham answered eagerly. "It has been like taking
out one's brains, and leaving them with one's plate at the bankers. The
odd thing is, that I don't miss them." He laughed.