For a time neither of the two companions spoke. The hush of the place
was upon them; the extraordinary stillness, unbroken by so much as the
cry of a bird, or by any sound more harsh than the soft rhythm of the
rise and fall of the oars. On one side the grassy path, along which
Millie and Wareham had walked to Bakke, wound, clasping the rock with a
green girdle; on the other was neither path nor habitation, only the
bold sweep of the mountain side, clothed with verdure running up to the
snow patches, and coloured by blue shadows, or cut by the slender silver
line of a _fos_. Whatever there was, rock or trees, snow or leaping
water, its double was below, with some strange charm added to its
beauty; and so narrow was the fjord, that these reflections seemed to
meet and fill it.
Anne sat with her head turned away from Wareham, looking over the side
of the boat into the green mystery through which they moved. He would
not speak, fearing to disturb her, but he was able to watch her to his
heart's content. He was certain that she had grown younger since coming
to Norway; he heaped scorn on himself for having detected hardness in
her lovely face. And by what miracle were he and she together! Yet his
position was cruel enough, for this day had already deepened his love,
so that it was more and more difficult to keep back any outward sign
which hinted at its expression; and although, placed as they now were,
that would have been impossible, he told himself that if he were not
bound by his duty to his friend, he might have put his fate to the test
no later than to-morrow. To-morrow! That was an endurable date, but to
be forced to wait, wait, wait, until the letter brought back an
answer!--the letter which--He began to calculate. Saturday--this was
Monday, and there was certainly no boat likely to leave Norway until the
middle of the week. His letter was dawdling along, and at such a rate
an answer would hardly reach him while he was in the country. And all
these weeks to be tongue-tied!
Anne turned round at this moment. Apparently she was not thinking of
him, and had but changed her position in order to look at the other side
of the fjord; but every time her face came before him under a fresh
aspect, he was conscious of a sweet surprise. Presently she looked full
at him, and smiled.
"I want to say something and I can't express it," she said. "I suppose
that is incomprehensible to you?"
It was so like his own case that Wareham dared not venture to say how
like. He was forced to treat his own feelings as if they were a packet
of explosives, and keep light away from them. Anne went on--
"I am perplexed with myself. This is so much more beautiful than I
conceived, and it is so odd that I should think it beautiful!"
"Why?"
"Why am I, I?--I can't explain. I only know that my friends will tell
you that I am insensible to beauty of scenery."
"Rank heresy."
"I don't know. It has been dinned into my ears so constantly that I
have ended by accepting it. They assure me I have no eye for colour."
"I could confute them."
"Oh, once let me feel sure of myself, and I could manage the confuting,"
said Anne coolly. "After to-day I shall not go down before them quite
so easily, for I believe it is the colour which enchants me. Was ever
anything so exquisite as this crater!"
"I am glad you have extracted some compensation for my stupidity," said
Wareham, greedy of assurance that she liked to be in the boat with him.
She took no notice beyond saying--
"I still think they behaved rather meanly in deserting us."
"What are they feeling now, I wonder?"
"As little as possible."
"Do you imply that they will not be uneasy?"
"Blanche will say that it is Anne all over, and that she may be left to
take care of herself. I dare say she is right."
"Do you like the woman?" he asked abruptly.
"No catechism, Mr Wareham."
"Miss Ravenhill described her as `padded glass.'"
Anne meditated, and looked amused.
"That is a clever definition, whether it is she or not. I should have
thought it more likely to come from you."
"It was all her own. Mrs Martyn seems to me rather forcedly rude than
anything else."
"She has not a bad heart," said Anne. "Rudeness is to her mind an
outward expression of honesty, but one which she does not appreciate in
other people. It is astonishing what a different aspect our own virtues
wear--transplanted."
"If she is kind--" began Wareham.
"I do not say she is always kind. She can hurt. She will not be kind
about me to-day."