"It is like everything else. Life is just an air with variations, and
you get sick of the air. I am tired of mountains and fjords. More
tired of hearing people cry, `How beautiful!'"
"When they say it of yourself?"
"Most of all. Yet when it doesn't come, I miss it." She laughed.
"Ah, I can't help you," Millie returned.
"What is it you want?"
"To be what I am not--what I never shall be."
They were at the door. Anne ran up-stairs, Millie dropped her defensive
armour with a sigh. She had somehow expected, and dreaded, that when
Anne spoke of their leaving, she would allude to Wareham. Now that she
had not done so, she was disappointed.
Wareham was caught by Hugh Forbes as he went out of the saal.
"Come for a turn, old fellow," he besought. "There are a hundred things
I want to say to you."
"Hadn't you better go after Miss Dalrymple?" said Wareham sharply.
"She won't let me. Says she's had enough of me for to-day."
Hugh laughed, and Wareham hesitated. Self-flattery murmured that
possibly she had intended this half-hour for him, and the thought fell
sweet as honey drops. But away from her charm, her beauty, conscience
was not to be beguiled. Avaunt, tempter! Step forth, honour! Dull
paths are safest, and the dullest of all dull paths appeared this walk
with Hugh, Anne left behind in a balcony overlooking shining waters.
They were out, with Hugh anxiously asking why he must go to-morrow?
"Its an awful nuisance," he burst out, "and I do think it's hard on a
fellow to be left unsupported just at this ticklish point. You could be
of untold good--you have been already, of that I'm certain. Anne likes
you, and likes to talk of you. Now a great blundering fellow might have
done a lot of mischief. Crammed me down her throat, or tried to cut me
out. I vow I wouldn't have trusted any one but you yesterday in the
boat. When I heard that she was coming along with some man, I was
awfully cut up, I can tell you; and Mrs Martyn never let out who it
was. Just like the woman! It was Miss--what's she called?--Ravenstone
who cleared me up. Why don't you take to that little girl? A good
soul, with a heart of gold, and a dimple. I've heard you say you loved
dimples, and, upon my soul, I never saw a prettier."
Wareham's irritated exclamation was restrained by the recollection that
here was the very suggestion which he had intended for Hugh himself,
presented topsy-turvily. He was forced to laugh.
"Arrange matters for yourself, only leave me out of the pattern, for I
don't harmonise."
Hugh rushed into farther confidences, but owned that he was in a funk.
"If I could but imagine what upset the coach last time," he complained,
"I'd take good care to avoid it again; but I give you my word you know
as much as I do. She won't speak of it, won't listen, won't so much as
drop me a hint; and to think of her bolting again puts me in such a
devil of a fright that I daren't hold on to the subject. Now, Dick, if
you'd stay and sound her a bit, I should be awfully obliged to you."
That or any other subject. His heart jumped like a hungry dog, grateful
for a bone. He had to recall himself to his resolve.
"Can't."
"Don't tell me you're not your own master."
"No man is his own master that has set his shoulder to the wheel."
"Well"--Hugh walked on, revolving--"there are twenty-four hours yet; you
may get a chance in that time."
Wareham was stung into exclamation.
"You don't know what you're asking!"
"I know exactly; and it isn't much for a clever fellow like you. You
can understand that when I go pottering round, she sees exactly what's
coming, and shies. As likely as not, she doesn't want to hurt my
feelings--"
"Oh, your feelings! She didn't show much regard for your feelings when
she flung you over!" cried Wareham savagely.
"No, but look here, old fellow, you mustn't be so prejudiced. It was
natural enough when you didn't know her, and I shan't forget what you
did for me in those black days, but I did think that once you were
thrown with her you would have your eyes opened, and appreciate her."
Wareham looked queerly at him.
"How do you know I don't?"
"Because then you wouldn't blame her. And I believe you'd stick to me
now. At first I could think of nothing but that I was near her again,
and could look at her; but finding out how gingerly I've got to move,
makes me uneasy. If you were here you'd give me a wrinkle or two.
Come, Dick, think better of it." Hugh decapitated an inoffensive
ox-daisy as he spoke. "You needn't expect to put me off with talk of
business. Don't I know most of your affairs?"
"Not all." Wareham's voice had grown gentler. "Hugh, do you remember
my telling you that I had written a letter?"
"To me?"
"Yes."
"I recollect. It had slipped my memory."
"I wish I could prevent its ever reaching you."
Hugh burst into his cheery laugh.
"That's what I feel sometimes when I've sent off an epistle to the
pater. But you don't suppose anything you said to me would make me cut
up rough?"
"When you've got it you'll understand why I go," the other went on,
unheeding.
"Mysteries, mysteries!"
It must be owned that Wareham thought his speech would have thrown a
little light. He breathed hard, and his face flushed. Hugh went on--
"I know you've thought hard things of Anne. But, old fellow, you've
never failed me yet; and that's why I want you now. You could say what
I can't say myself."
"What one can't say oneself had better remain unsaid." Something in the
tone penetrated, and gave the young man a tinge of uneasiness.
"You don't mean that you think--" He stopped aghast.
Wareham answered with a hand on the valve. If his words were to fly, it
should not be on a wrong tack.
"What?"
"That, after all, I've no chance?"
"Heavens, man, how should I think such a thing! I know nothing of what
you have said to her, or she to you. You've got your opportunity--what
more do you want? Go in, and win."
"All right, old fellow," Hugh said good-humouredly. "May you be a true
prophet. Anyway, don't be put out about your letter. I've a thick
skin, as you've proved before now. And if it bores you to stop, go.
Only if you do get the chance before leaving, and if you can get her to
give you a bit of explanation, it may make matters smoother. Isn't
there some old Viking or other buried about here? Well, we'll go back."
As they returned they found signs of festivity about the rival inn;
Balholm sat round the walls of the saal, and in the centre a picturesque
musician played the Hardanger fiddle; the wild piercing sounds, half
savage, half plaintive, penetrated the night. Wareham stood at the door
after Hugh had left him, held by some spell for which he could not
account. The music conjured up strange imaginings--the silence of the
mountains encompassed lonely fjords; pallid snowflakes chased each other
into clefts, where they lay shrouding the rock; winds whistled through
cowering trees, and in a moment the cruel howl of a wolf rose menacingly
above the other sounds. The tragedies of the country had found a voice
in the wild, almost discordant, instrument. Wareham stood absorbed,
staring at the ground. When the music stopped, he looked up
uncertainly. Hay sweetened the air, golden light still lingered in the
sky, yet he shivered. The landlord came out. Wareham gave him a gulden
for the musician, and walked slowly back to his own quarters.