Frances Peard (continued 2)

“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.

She went on—

“I have wondered more than once how long it would take to settle down to existence in one of those isolated little villages of two or three houses each which we passed on the Suldal lake?”

“With some of us I suspect the savage would take the upper hand more readily and more rapidly than we suppose possible.”

“The brain would not rebel?”

“You would have to admit glorious physical excitement.”

Anne shivered.

“I cannot realise the possibility of any excitement at all in those desolate homes.”

“Can’t you? I, on the contrary, picture a good deal. Chiefly gloomy, I allow. Think of living for ever next door to your worst enemy—or your best friend! Which would be the most unbearable?”

She took no notice of this cynical speech.

“I could understand the life being endurable in summer, but in winter—winter! And such a winter, with its snows and darkness!”

He demurred.

“So far as I can make out, winter is the most sociable time of the year. You forget that lakes and fjords become the great means of communication; in summer, houses are isolated, owing to the want of roads, but in winter the frozen water serves in their place. No, depend upon it, they have a good time when once they can skate, or strike away on the great snow-shoes you saw by the roadside to-day.”

“But the darkness?”

“Well, one gets used to that in London. I don’t know that we can talk. Besides, they have a great pull over us in the stars. I assure you that all the men who have said anything about it speak of the winter with evident satisfaction.”

“They know nothing better,” Anne said incredulously.

“The root of all satisfaction,” Wareham observed.

She glanced at him quickly, bit her lip, and walked on. He found himself admiring her tall slender figure, and the poise of her small head thrown into relief by the glassy water. He had dropped the fiction that she was not beautiful, and retreated behind a yet feebler barricade, the pretence that hers was not the beauty he extolled. He had ceased to wonder that it served for Hugh.

At the end of the landing-place Anne turned. Wareham was immediately behind, and she faced him as she had not yet done. She spoke, too, more softly—

“You leave to-morrow?”

He flushed and hesitated.

“I—I am not sure. Possibly.”

Her eyes rested on his for a moment, and moved away. She said, indifferently—“Here is Colonel Martyn.”

Colonel Martyn was charged with hope. He had met the party from the Skjaeggedalsfos, and report of certain difficulties owing to a fall of rock had fired his athletic soul. Wareham added that the fos itself was worth a visit, but this idea he rejected.

“See one, see all,” he declared. “A hurly-burly of water, and no fishing—there you have it. But there might be a chance of a climb getting there, and at any rate it must be better than loafing about this wretched little hole. Anne, will you come?”

“No, thank you. I prefer loafing.”

“Will you?”—to Wareham.

“I don’t mind. I’ve been once, and should not be sorry to see it again.”

“Eight. And if you know the lingo, perhaps you’ll make the arrangements. Better change your mind, Anne.”

“No. My mind is set upon easier pleasures. Where’s Blanche?”

“You needn’t ask.” Colonel Martyn’s gloom returned. “Buying Brummagem goods in the shop.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if you believed the fall came from Brummagem too,” Anne retorted. “Well, I’m going to help her. Good-night.”

“You’d better be sure you know how to work your fire-escape before you go to bed,” he called after her. “It’s a common occurrence for the hotels to be burnt down once a month.”

Young Grey, torn between Anne and adventure, felt as if adventure might possess a qualifying power, and went off with the other men early the next morning. Millie tried to get her mother to slip away to the Buarbrae glacier, but Mrs Ravenhill was tired, and disinclined for a long climb. She agreed to go with Millie to a spot which they had remarked the day before, where a river flung itself out of the lake, but she promised Mrs Martyn to join her after luncheon. They captured a stolkjaerre, and drove to their point; then, dismissing it, and leaving the dusty road, turned into a wood that belonged to a fairy tale, where low trees stood singly in the grass, and where every now and then they saw through a break the blue Hardanger hills, rising out of the fjord, and topped with snow; or, on the other side, a silver lake, with mountains stretching, fold after fold, into the solemn distance. Here and there a great rounded granite boulder cropped up, tossed out of its place by Titan wrath; one little farm nestled amid cherry-trees, but the silence was profound, and hardly a living creature passed; only a child or two, then a quaint old couple with a dog. The woman was tall, with a sweet dignified face; the man, bent and aged, carried a Hardanger fiddle. They stopped and chatted readily, and after they had talked awhile, at a sign from his wife, the man began to play his fiddle. It was an odd jangle with no tune, but somehow the old couple, the granite rocks, the wild peasant music, seemed to belong to each other, and to the country.

Mother and daughter slowly walked home, past a picturesque saw-mill, bringing sighs from Mrs Ravenhill, and through fields where hay-making filled the air with fresh fragrance. Each field has its hurdles on which the flower-scented grass hangs drying. When they reached the first outlying house, Mrs Ravenhill put a question which had once or twice fluttered on her lips.

“When is Mr Wareham going to leave us?”

There was a moment’s pause before Millie answered—

“Is he going?”

“I suppose so. From what he told me I believed he intended going off on his own account as soon as he had landed us at Odde.”

“Well, he hasn’t gone,” said the girl, looking straight before her.

Her mother glanced, but could not see her face.

“I shall have a talk with him to-morrow,” said Mrs Ravenhill, in a decided tone. “He may consider himself bound to us, and I am sure I should be vexed beyond measure if he imagined anything of the sort. It would be most annoying. You see that, don’t you, Millie?” she added incautiously.

“What am I to see?” asked Millie, with a laugh. “Mr Wareham bound with cords to you or to me, or to Miss Dalrymple—which is it?—and unable to extricate himself? I’m not sure that the picture is as pathetic as you imagine, but what will you do about it? Implore him to consider himself a free man? You should get Miss Dalrymple to speak for you.”

Mrs Ravenhill was a little offended.

“What has Miss Dalrymple to do with it? You told me he disliked her.”

The girl did not answer the question; she began to talk to a pony standing in a cart by the roadside. Then came a shop, and doubt as to the purchase of an ermine purse; after that, hurry for the table-d’hôte. An English yacht lay in the fjord; her people had come on shore, and were lunching at the Hardanger, next to the Martyns. Millie, who had for her neighbour a clever young Siamese prince who was travelling with a Danish tutor, hoped that Miss Dalrymple might select them for her afternoon companions. But, luncheon over, she made straight for Millie.

“You and I will escape from all these people,” she said, with a smile which would have sent young Grey to her feet. Millie was unaffected.

“It is very hot,” she said.

“Here, very. But I have a cool plan in my head. Please come.”

It would have been ungracious to refuse, and pre-engagements were not to be pleaded in Odde. In an hours time the two girls were sitting in one of the light boats, pointed at each end, and being rowed across the fjord to the opposite side, where a slender waterfall is seen from Odde, dancing down through purple and green woods. The fjord was still as glass, each line of the English yacht repeated itself in the opal waters, two children with scarlet caps hung fishing over the side of the vessel. Anne lay lazily back, looking at everything through half-closed lids. Everything included Millie.

Millie asked at last where they were going.

“To a farm. Does that please you?”

She did not answer the question.

“I can’t see anything like a farm.”

“Nor I,” said Anne, idly turning her head. “We must take it on trust. Old Mr Campbell tells me such a place exists, and hinted at cherries and milk.”

“But the fos?”

“To be crossed by a bridge. You see I have got my bearings.”

Apparently, indeed, she and Millie had changed natures, for she rained talk and laughter upon the younger girl. And she showed no sign of being daunted by the steepness of the climb when they had landed and were struggling up the bank. The path they sought eluded them; presently they found themselves in a thick-growing grassy wood of low trees, through which they pushed a devious way. It was green, fresh, lovely; the roar of the waterfall was in their ears, now and again they met some impetuous little stream, which had rushed away from the greater fall to make its own wilful way to the fjord. Delightful assurance of solitude, cool deepness of grass, stones sheeted with moss and wet with spray, clear dash of waters, interlacing boughs through which sun-shafts shot down, lured them to breathless heights—lured Anne, rather, for Millie dragged. It was Anne who made the ventures, Anne who held aside hindering branches, Anne whose voice came laughing back to vow that the labyrinth grew more tangled, Anne who at last dropped by the side of a baby stream babbling over its stones, and bade Millie rest. She could not say enough of the fascinations of the spot.

“They will come back boasting of their fall with the hopeless name, only because it is big. What has size to do with beauty? This thing is perfect. Look at its curves, and its swirls, and its pools, and its grasses, and its small airs!”

Millie roused herself to admire.

“You are tired?” Anne asked.

She owned that she had walked far that morning.

“And this place doesn’t rest you as it does me?”

“I don’t know.”

Anne settled herself against a sapling.

“I feel as if I had reached the one breathing-place of my life. You don’t know that sensation.”

“Do you think you would like it—often?” asked Millie.

“Certainly not. It is liking it so much which is so unexpected to me. I am of the world—worldly. And to find myself exhilarated and delighted is like growing young again.”

Millie had to smile.

“You are not so old!”

“Aged!—in experience. As for years, they don’t count, or I dare say we might find that I am not so much older than you as you—as every one—would imagine. But I have lived.” Did that mean she had loved? Millie coloured at the charge of inexperience, galling to youth.

“You can know little about me,” she protested.

“Next to nothing. Tell me. You live alone with your mother?”

This was admitted.

“You are not engaged to any one?”

“Oh, no!”

“And have never tried that position?”

“No, oh, no!”

“That shocks you,” said Anne, with a laugh. “My dear, it often happens to me.”

“Not seriously?”

“Quite seriously.” She leant back and watched Millie’s face with amusement. “Are you disgusted?”

“Why—why do you do it? I can’t understand.”

“It comes somehow, often really without my intending. It’s the way of my kind, I suppose. For one thing, how is one to know a man at all until one is engaged? And so often I can’t tell beforehand whether I like them well enough or not. As you see, it has generally ended by my discovering that it would be intolerable. I don’t pretend that there have not been other reasons,” she added frankly. “Riches sometimes fly away on nearer approach.”

“And that would be enough?”

“Oh, yes.”

“You think nothing of your promise?” Anne was looking at her through half-closed eyes and smiling.

“I am not sure that I don’t think too much. It becomes unendurable. When I am married it will have to be in a whirlwind. No hesitations, no hanging back. So much I can tell him. The rest he will have to find out. Stormed, really stormed, I should be afraid of myself.”

She fell into silence. There was no sound except the rush of the water, not so much as the chirp of a bird. At last she looked round again.

“So you see—me voici!—Anne Dalrymple.”

Millie cried out—

“I am glad I am not a London beauty!”

“There are more disagreeable positions,” Anne said reflectively. “Now, if you had said a London beauty with a heart—”

“Have you no heart?” Millie asked impulsively.

“Not I! What does duty for it is a poor little chippy dried-up thing, which may be reckoned on never to give me an ache or a pain.” She sprang to her feet. “Come! The farm! I am not going to let you off the farm.”

No bridge could they find, and there was nothing for it but to retrace their steps. Down the hill-side, through the entangling greenery, they plunged, breathless and laughing, and found themselves at last overlooking the fjord, without any means of crossing the fos. Anne, undaunted, spied a boat on the fjord rowed by a boy; her signals brought it to shore. The boy readily agreed to row them to a higher point, but, this carried out, he refused to wait for them.

“Never mind! We are here!” Anne cried, springing out. She followed a rough path, and presently pounced on wild strawberries.

A man was digging. Seeing them gathering strawberries, he made signs that they were welcome to the cherries which hung temptingly from his trees. He bent the boughs down; Anne picked and brought crimson handfuls to Millie lying on the grass. The warm sun shone, a little stone-chat scolded from a rail, it was all calm, restful, and fragrant with hay. They went up the narrow path towards the farm; the way was overhung with cherry-trees, and a vagrant stream of water, which played truant from the fall, dashed down, flinging lovely spray over the waving grasses. The farm dominated the fjord; fold after fold of blue hills stretched away, the white water at their feet, and desolate-looking islands staring up at the sunshine, which scarcely softened their black outlines. Anne’s mood changed, she grew silent, and silently they went their way down the little path, till they reached the man still digging his patch of ground.

Millie, tired, inquired how she proposed getting home.

“He will take us in his boat. I asked him as I picked the cherries.”

Going back, it appeared as if the waters had grown yet more still and glassy. Each patch of snow, each outburst of green, each violet shadow, sent a lovely repetition of itself into the world below. The boat slipped dreamily through them, only the lap of the oars, and the faint and distant murmur of the waterfall, breaking the silence. One after another the little green promontories dropped behind, the white church of Odde and the clustering houses took form, a boat passed them. Anne looked up.

“This is not the time for commonplaces, yet they haunt me,” she said impatiently. “I—I—I—I am the commonplace, and I have stumbled into a thick mist of doubts and questionings. Tell me, are you always direct? and certain that right is right and wrong wrong?”

Millie coloured, hesitated. Such an appeal confused her. Anne went on—

“My rules are not so ready. Something else steps in and hoodwinks me, though I dare say it is true that I offer my eyes for the bandage. What I complain of is that when I do my best to walk straight—according to my lights—I am the more cried out upon. Your Mr Wareham, now, acts Rhadamanthus, yet what does he know? How can he pretend to judge what motives influenced me, and whether they were bad or good? Has he discussed them with you?”

The question came like a bolt; the answer was a brief “No.”

“No?” Anne’s eyes were fastened on the girl; Millie’s honesty gave unwilling explanation.

“Never your motives. He said once that Mr Forbes was his friend, and that the breaking off of your engagement was not his fault. He said this before—”

“Before?”

“Before he knew you.”

Anne meditated. Her eyes softened.

“I suppose it is the everlasting I—I—I, again, which makes me imagine that people talk when they are not even thinking of me. However, it is true that he misjudges me, I had it from his own lips, and I am sorry, foolishly sorry, because he is a man—” She broke off and laughed—“Somehow my vanity would make me wish to appear at one’s best before him. Does that shock you again?”

“Why should it?”

“I couldn’t say why, but I am for ever shocking people unintentionally. You have not got over my talking of my engagements, yet—they don’t judge me harshly, any one of those men would marry me to-morrow. Yes, even Mr Wareham’s friend, in spite of Mr Wareham!”

Women, however unsophisticated, possess the gift of intuition. Millie divined that Miss Dalrymple wished her to talk of Wareham, and was ready to profess a spasmodic anger for the pleasure of hearing him defended. She was reluctant and ashamed of her reluctance. The shame stung her into crying—“Why do you talk of Mr Wareham’s judging you harshly? You must know very well that if it ever was so, he has forgiven you.”

A smile began to play about Anne’s mouth.

“Do you think so?”

Millie flung her a look.

“Well—I hope you are right. He has been so stiff that it would be a victory to bring him round. We shall see. Meanwhile, here we are at Odde; and what am I to offer to our boatman?—boat-master too, I suspect.”

“Ask him.”

The man smiled, shook his head, wanted nothing. The equivalent of a sixpence was all he would at last consent to receive.

Millie dragged a heavy heart up-stairs, and Anne went in pursuit of Mrs Martyn.

Chapter Six.

And the Pitfalls of Cupid.

Once more a shifting of sunny lights and purple shadows, of ever-varying colours, of small hamlets nestling by the water-side, each with its pier, its boats, and its many-hued little crowd, as they steamed down the Hardanger fjord towards Eide. Contempt for waterfalls was balanced by joy in the effort of reaching them, and, by dint of swearing to travel night and day until he overtook them again, Colonel Martyn obtained leave from his wife to go off to the Voringfos, and young Grey he dragged reluctantly with him. This threw the others of the party more together, and it seemed necessary for Wareham to offer his services to those who were bereft of their nominal protector. The mid-day meal was taken at the excellent “Mellands” at Eide; afterwards they strolled about in the meadows, and sat under hay-hurdles, in order to allow the great noonday heat to subside, before mounting the steep hill which lay between them and Vossefangen. Anne, indeed, vowed she would not walk, and chose a carriole, as a lighter conveyance; but Mrs Ravenhill and Millie soon jumped out of their stolkjaerre. And what a road it was! High up, a great waterfall hurled itself into a chasm of foam, and while the carriages crawled round zigzags, those on foot could cut off green corners, clambering ever higher into the sweet elastic air, until at the top they rested, breathless, until the cavalcade of patient ponies pulled slowly up, then merrily along the level road to Voss.

Voss is ugly, but friendly. It has a good inn and a well-known landlord, an ancient church with a brown timber spire, a few shops, and a little train, which leisurely trots backwards and forwards to Bergen. Between it and Stalheim lies one of the most beautiful roads in Norway, a road constantly changing, with every variety of river and lake, of waving sorrel-tinted grass, now red, now green, now grey, as the wind kisses it; of distant snowy heights, and nearer sterner hills; here and there a fall, a water-mill, a group of cottages with turf-roofs starred by ox-eyed daisies, and always before you the road running, white, into the far away.

No zigzagged hills, however, and no opportunities for talk except in the halts which come occasionally for the hardy ponies. And once, from Anne’s skydsgut, a little gill of eight or nine years old, with the usual white handkerchief over her head, there rose an agonised wail of “Toi, toi!” Wareham drove up rapidly. Anne’s portmanteau, which also formed the seat of her infant driver, hung threateningly over the edge; there was much hoisting and roping before it was restored to equilibrium.

“No more carrioles for me,” said Anne. “It is too dull. Think of not being able so much as to inveigh against the dust! Apparently it would cause a revolution in the country if you, for instance, were to drive by my side?”

“I don’t pretend to cope with a Norwegian pony and its skydsgut,” answered Wareham, laughing.

He said no more; but, after these words of hers, it might have been noticed that he contrived to keep sufficiently close to exchange remarks, if only in pantomime, and when they halted at Tvinde, it was he who was at hand to help her down from her dusty perch. There was, as usual, a fos to be visited.

“Not worth seeing,” announced Mrs Martyn. “Some one, I forget who, said so.”

“The more reason for going,” Anne insisted. She invited Wareham to accompany her, Mrs Martyn watching their departure with expressive lifting of her eyebrows.

“There is Anne at her usual pastime, making fools of the men,” she said to Mrs Ravenhill. “I thought she had had a lesson, and might be trusted for a time; but it’s in her, it’s in her! If there is no one else, she sets to work upon my husband. Fortunately he’s wood, not wax.”

“What was the lesson?”

It was irresistible to Mrs Ravenhill to put this leading question.

“Don’t you know? London was full of it. She was engaged to a Mr Forbes, a son of Sir Martin’s, and broke it off with outrageous abruptness. I never expected her to marry him, it was the way she put an end to it which incensed people. We thought the best thing for her was to get her abroad. And here—you see!”

“Why was she so abrupt?”

“She is ambitious. Only a brilliant position will capture, but a fancy will sway her.”

Thankfulness sometimes goes oddly askew. Mrs Ravenhill breathed a sigh of relief that Millie’s innocent inclination had been checked in good time. Still, a touch of hostility towards the man who had roused it was in her tone.

“Possibly Mr Wareham is of the same kind, and can take care of himself?”

“Oh, poor fellow, poor fellow!” ejaculated Mrs Martyn, rejecting the possibility.

The last thing in the world that would have entered Wareham’s head was that he was already the subject of comment. He allowed that there was a change in his thoughts of Anne, but would have scouted the idea that it implied change in his attitude towards Hugh. He now told himself that her conduct was probably capable of explanation. That meant pardon. He even indulged in dreams of reconciliation under his auspices. That included friendship. Hugh’s infatuation no longer amazed him, he was only surprised that he had not held her more strenuously; for it seemed to him that had he been in such a position he would not easily have been ousted. Thinking this, the rash man also watched her, noting the delicate side-lines of her face, the short curve of the upper lip, the soft growth of hair where it touched the neck, and the dainty ear; details which only stepped into prominence when, as now, her eyes were turned away, for their dark depths drew, and held captive, other eyes. They gave the impression of offering much to one who could interpret what they said, and in face of them it was useless to moralise upon the untrustworthiness of woman’s beauty. This was what Wareham had presumed to do, and now, when she suddenly turned them upon him, something startled him.

“Have you got over your prejudice?” she asked, smiling.

“Prejudice?”

“Against me? But I should not have asked you, I didn’t mean to do anything so imprudent, only that you are changed, and wonderfully pleasanter, and women never know when to let well alone. They want words to quiet them, and I want you to tell me with your own lips that you don’t dislike me any more.”

Again that momentary feeling of intoxication. He murmured almost inaudibly—

“I can’t.”

She slackened her steps.

“Why not?”

“Say that I don’t dislike you any more? Had I ever known you to dislike you?”

“No, no, but you had imagined me, and it was not a pretty picture you evolved. Tell me whether the picture still exists, or whether it is blotted out?”

Protestation was on his lips, when the recollection of Hugh’s misery rose up and checked him. She was still watching him, but now she turned away her face.

“It is not, I see,” she said quietly. Wareham clutched at a feverish memory.

“How can I forget his suffering? But,” he hastened to add, “since I have known you, I can’t believe that caprice or heartlessness caused it. There must have been something I don’t understand, and I am certain you could explain it if you would.”

Among Cupid’s pitfalls there is no occupation so dangerous as for two persons to discuss each other’s sins and virtues—none perhaps more attractive. Wareham would have pointed this out in his books, yet here he was floundering. And Anne? Was she playing Will-o’-the-Wisp? She looked at him again.

“I suppose you expect me to drop a curtsey, and offer a meek thank you?”

“I don’t expect the impossible.”

“Impossible?”

“I can’t imagine the meekness.”

“Your own fault. You don’t inspire it. You try to ruffle my temper.”

“What is that but giving you an opportunity to display the virtue? You can’t display meekness without cause for it.”

“Cause for it?” Anne struck back. “You offer cause freely!”

“Oh!”

“Can you say you have not been harsh in all your judgments?”

“Before I knew you.”

Hugh was forgotten. He had ceased to be anything but a peg on which to hang banter, and, perhaps strangely, it was Anne who recalled him with a sigh.

“Did he—did Mr Forbes blame me so much?”

“He never blamed you.”

“Yet his friend was unmerciful.”

“What could I think? I came home to find Hugh dashed from his heights to lowest depths of wretchedness. He neither slept nor ate, but talked immoderately. From his talk I gleaned my own impressions. He was devoted to you, he was miserable—you must forgive me if I became unjust.”

Apparently she had forgotten the compassion which had made her sigh, for she repeated his words demurely—

“Talked immoderately! And your patience held out all the time?”

“I believe I can be patient.”

“And I can’t. There’s the mischief!”

He did not ask her to what mischief she alluded. They were close to the fos, and had been looking at it with unseeing eyes. Now some pause in the flutter of their thoughts made them turn with relief to an outward object. Wareham muttered a platitude about its beauty. He thought Mrs Ravenhill would have liked it for a sketch, while Anne scorned the thought.

“Sketch a waterfall? As well sketch a disembodied spirit.”

Silence again, spent apparently in dreaming of the delicious freshness of the leaping water. Really, Wareham was looking at her, and wondering how he could ever have been such a prejudiced fool. He had made up his mind, that she was a creature of the world, adept in its wiles, knowing how to torment poor Hugh, and using her knowledge remorselessly. Here, by the flashing waters, she was young, frank, imprudent, perhaps, but cruel—never! Whatever had happened, hers was not the fault. So far on the primrose path Wareham had strayed, and was certain of his footing. Presently she spoke again.

“Some day perhaps I shall tell you. Not yet, for I am not sufficiently sure of my ground. If I have gained anything, it would be humiliating to see it all melt away, as it might. I was vexed at your prejudging me, because it was not fair; all your sympathies were heaped on one side, and I really believe if you could have crushed me with them, you were quite ready to have done so. Now I start on a better footing. Now if you blame me, as you will, it will not be in that hard, unreasoning fashion.”

“Why say that I shall blame you?” His voice was not quite steady.

She turned and walked down the hill. “Because you cannot yet judge fairly.”

He remonstrated.

“You need not be displeased. It is not your fault. No man is capable of placing himself in a woman’s position in such a matter.”

“Try me.”

She laughed merrily.

“There is another thing which no man can do—imagine that he is not an exception to the general rule!”

“I wish you would find something which a man can do, instead of crushing with negatives!” He was growing impatient, and she said abruptly—

“I believe I will tell you.”

He waited, eagerly desiring that she should look at him.

“But I risk a great deal, because you are Mr Forbes’ friend, and you will not believe it possible.”

Alas for friendship when it is first confronted with love! Afterwards it may recover its footing, but in the, as yet, unacknowledged whirl of head and heart, the poor thing gets swept into the vortex. At that moment Wareham could have believed much.

“And it sounds so little when one puts it into words!” the sinner went on hesitatingly. “It must have been that I did not like him well enough—ever. I thought I did. I assure you I was quite glad to discover that I could feel so much, but—”

She paused so long that Wareham repeated the word.

“But?”

“I got tired of him, of it, of all!” She turned her eyes on him. “You have never tried, have you, being adored from morning to night?”

“Never.”

“It is sickening. Like living upon sweetmeats. I used to try to provoke him, and if once I could have got him out of temper, there might have been some hope. If he had contradicted me! I longed for a breath of fresh air. And dragging on—oh, he made a mistake all through. Of course you can’t understand—” She ended abruptly.

He felt a burning desire to assure her that he could, but his muttered words struck him as absurdly inadequate. Silence became more eloquent. Anne broke it at last—

“It was a hundred pities,” she mused, “and rough on him, for what could I say? What reason could I give? Tell him that he bored me? I couldn’t, I couldn’t! I can’t lose my friends. No, no, no, poor fellow! Here we come upon all those people, and Blanche is beckoning wildly, and I can’t think how I have had the face to talk to you. Forget it!”

With a sudden movement, for which he was unprepared, she sprang from him, and ran down the steep slope. He restrained the impulse to quicken his own pace, and by the time he reached the road, the carrioles had started, and Mrs Ravenhill and Millie, the clergyman and his wife, were moving off in a cloud of dust. Wareham, in spite of the impatience of his skydsgut, held back until carriages and dust had rolled away in the distance.

Tumultuous thought made it at first impossible to grasp a single idea, and to hold on to it as a centre for others. Anne’s face, the flutter of a small curl on her forehead, softly outlined arch of eyebrows, all manner of idiotic fancies, hustled and jostled each other in his brain; and he presently became aware that instead of sending the airy traitors to the right-about, he was encouraging them to stand, wall-like, between himself and the truth about himself. Too strong a man to keep up the mask when once he discovered it, he proceeded to chase the busy throng. From behind them Anne’s face peeped again.

He dragged out a hiding fact, and held it bare to his own scorn. He loved her—loved her; and though but a day before the amazement of it would have struck him mute, it had already ceased to look strange. All had led to it. The inconceivable would have been his failing to love. So far his heart with easy swing.

But judgment stood stubborn in refusal to go with it. Judgment it was which held the scourge. With Hugh Forbes in the background, what might be acknowledged natural became also offensive. As Wareham jogged along the white road, unheedful of bold outlines or lovely verdure, he found himself mentally writing to his friend, and recoiling with a start. How could he word such a dispatch—“I have seen the woman for whom you are breaking your heart. I love her myself, and shall try to win her”? The very thought was brutal.

Yet—to resign her for a dream, even for an ill-placed devotion, what could be more foolish and morbid? What fresh chance could come to Hugh? His had passed when, sooner than carry out an engagement, she had broken away abruptly, and faced the talk and jibes of her world by venturing on a course for which blame was the more unsparingly heaped on her because it was inexplicable. Hugh was young, handsome, ardent. Until this moment Wareham had fancied him the very man to catch the fancy of a woman, and it was only since Anne had lifted the curtain which friendship held tight, that he could admit that possible something—was it the power of boring?—which had driven her from him. This was what she meant when she said she had no patience. That patience should be wanted!

Here was his heart once more racing smoothly, until judgment caught the reins again, and tugged at the runaway steed. What boy’s work was this! A woman but a few weeks ago betrothed to his friend, and still beloved by him—crazily it might be, but with all his heart—a woman of whom he knew next to nothing, and that little, up to now, not in her favour—and here, at a word, a look, he was at her feet! Shameful! Yet—worst shame of all—not to be parted with at any price. Already the world without Anne’s figure in the foreground looked cold and unendurable. His eyes tried to pierce the whirl of dust ahead, and to distinguish her amid its folds; he fancied he could do so, and straightway his thoughts were occupied with nothing but foolish longing to know what her eyes were saying at this moment. The confidence she had given surely pointed to a touch of sympathy, a budding liking? Happy, happy he! In another hour or two they might be again together, and he would show better than he yet had done, how much he prized her frankness. The next moment these thoughts turned upon him with scourges. Honour stood by, and scornfully directed the flagellation, and he felt himself a miserable traitor. Here was friendship! Here was a creditable sequel to his offices for Hugh! So his mind wandered backwards and forwards.

Chaos lasted for a while, and it is not impossible that the tumult was so new that he rashly suffered it, believing in his own powers of self-government, and aware of a whirl, as of hot-headed youth, which he had thought the years had left behind. The day changed, brooding clouds gathered round the mountains, which closed in, rank after rank; nearer hills, heavily purple, swept up from the gloom of the valley. The road slowly mounted, the dust subsided, and the crawling carrioles in front looked as if an effort might overtake them. But Wareham checked the impulse, and his skydsgut’s attempted spurt. He would not see Anne until he had resolved on a line of action. A resolution, carefully thought out, would serve as a guard against the rasher promptings of his heart, and between this and Stalheim he had to come to terms with this resolution. One was already there—not to give her up if he could gain her. Behind this his heart entrenched itself, grumbling.

Yet, in spite of such a reservation, carrying a good deal with it, Wareham hugged the delusion that the other was the more important. Conscience had much to say as to what he should write to Hugh, how wrap up the communication which was so abominably angular and assertive, that, say what he would, it inevitably presented itself in a repulsive form. Conscience harped loudly upon truth, yet was anxious to give truth what should have been unnecessary adorning. Finally he resolved to write to Hugh that night, and to tell him—? to tell him that he had met Miss Dalrymple. This decided, he was forced to admit that so much Hugh knew already. There must be a more expansive confession; he had to add—admired, liked her. And this written, in thought, appeared so significant to Wareham, that he imagined himself closing the letter here, and drew a breath of relief. But conscience, refusing compromise, cried out for something explicit, and here came the difficulty. All the sentences he revolved looked either inadequate or shameful. “Do you give her up?” Free she undoubtedly was, having herself asserted her freedom, but free to Hugh Forbes’ chief friend?

Yet something he must write, and until it was written and answered, keep his feelings out of reach of betrayal. Here was a resolution which he grasped, for it belonged to the honourable instincts of a fine nature, too deeply rooted to suffer in the general upheaval. He added a rider, necessary if unpalatable. He would not avoid Anne to the extent of provoking her own or other remark, but he must avoid—well, such a walk à deux as they had taken that day, for instance.

The road grew steeper, and he jumped out of his carriole. Stalheim was perched above, a hotel, two or three scattered cottages, and a waterfall. He climbed through gathering clouds, and when he reached the door, was met by English tourists of the most noisy and offensive type. All his own people had vanished, and he saw no more of them until supper, which was eaten to the accompaniment of a band. Mrs Ravenhill confided to him that she hated the place, in spite of the magnificence of the scenery.

“And Millie and I have determined to go to Gudvangen to-morrow, and wait for the Monday steamer. I cannot stay here to see my own country-people making themselves so obnoxious—” She hastened to add with scrupulous care, “You don’t expect me, I hope, to repeat that you are not in the least tied to us, and must not be influenced by anything we may do.”

“Does that sentence mean that I am forbidden to accompany you?”

“Forbidden? Oh, no; but the others stay on, and this is one of the special places in Norway.”

“I detest special places.”

She warned further.

“Remember that we heard the little inn at Gudvangen was very primitive.”

“That decides me. If you will allow me, I shall certainly go there with you.”

Millie’s face was all brightness. Wareham, indeed, was inclined to look upon the proposal as the reward of merit, to plume himself upon a sort of recognition of his having kept on the side of his conscience. It was a step out of his dilemma. Two days of voluntary banishment from Anne meant a sacrifice worthy of the altar of friendship. He would write his letter, avoid walks, avoid the smallest betrayal of feeling. All looked easy.

If love laughs at locksmiths, how much more at lovers’ resolutions!

Chapter Seven.

How a Letter got Written.

So satisfied was Wareham with his ample precautions that, supper ended, he went in pursuit of Miss Dalrymple. She had vanished. Mrs Martyn engaged him, and Mrs Ravenhill and Millie joined in; presently a harp and voice struck up in the gallery round the hall. An hour later Anne appeared at the door, wet, breathless, but in high spirits. She said she had been paying tribute to the place, had gone down the Gudvangen zigzags to see a waterfall—two waterfalls. A beautiful sleigh-dog slipped in behind her.

“Anne!” exclaimed Mrs Martyn, disapprovingly. “In this rain!”

“Mountain-rain—mist.”

“And alone!”

“Mayn’t oneself be good company?”

She laughed as she said it. Wareham, looking at her, found delightful charm in her laugh. He felt that in breaking away he was giving Hugh an extraordinary proof of loyalty, and probably his face expressed this conviction, for Mrs Martyn said sharply—

“Mr Wareham may admire imprudence—I don’t!”

Anne’s face chilled. He returned—

“My opinion is worthless, or I should venture to suggest dangers in wet clothes.”

“Dangers? Madness!” cried Mrs Martyn, jumping up. “Come, Anne, I have waited for you until I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“They are going to dance,” Millie hazarded. “Let them. I go to bed.”

“I am tired of the noise,” said Mrs Ravenhill.

“And I have a letter to write,” remarked Wareham.

Anne, who had recovered herself, looked back over her shoulder with a smile.

“Do letters ever come or go?” she asked.

The idle question gripped Wareham. The letter—the act of writing—had been his difficulty; now, with recollection of how long a time must pass before it could reach England, and bring back its answer, came a sinking of heart. Honour bound him to the lines he had laid down. If he remained near he must take no steps to win her until he heard from Hugh. If he could not trust himself, he must hold aloof. There was the situation—briefly put. Cruel! For every hour, every minute, now, was worth months, years! Now the days were strewn with opportunities, he was thrown into her society. If ever she was to be won, now was his chance. Impatience caught, shook him! It might be a fortnight before answer came from Hugh, and when he looked at the past week, and reflected that it seemed a month long, he found the prospect of two such periods intolerable. He endeavoured to detach himself from conditions, and to philosophise; but philosophy is old and scrupulous, while young love has no qualms in taking advantage of the first opportunity which presents itself, and tripping up the elderly combatant. Wareham gave up arguing with himself, and set doggedly to work to write his letter.

Step number one was difficult enough.

Nothing satisfied him in expression. More than one scrawl was tossed aside as inadequate, absurdly inadequate, or as expressing more than he meant. What did he mean? There was the mischief. In these early days, when he had only just begun to read his own heart, and might reasonably claim a little time for its study, it was detestable to have to offer it for a third person’s perusal. He resented the position the more that he was unused to interference with his liberty. He lost his first flush of pity for Hugh, and wrote with a certain asperity—

“Circumstances have thrown Miss Dalrymple and me together; perhaps this will prepare you for what I have to say. In a word, I believe I am on the brink of loving her. The knowledge only came to me to-day; I imagine it will not please you. My dear fellow, I would have given a good deal for it not to have happened; don’t reproach me without keeping that in mind. As it is, all I can do is to hold back—I don’t say draw back, because I have done nothing—and let you make the next move. If you have any hope, if you desire to try your luck once more, telegraph through Bennett, ‘Wait.’ You can trust me to make no sign till word comes from you, whatever the cost to myself. So much I owe you, and perhaps you will think I owe you more, but I believe you are generous enough to forgive what could only be a wrong if I snatched your chances from you. At best, my own may be small enough, they appear to me so small that this letter becomes offensively presumptuous in even treating of them. Yet, lest you should ever think me treacherous, I write it, and repeat that I hold myself bound in honour and friendship to take no step in advance until you have told me that I am free, or let me know that you have not yet resigned your hope.”

The wording displeased him, but it did not seem as if any thing he wrote could give him satisfaction, so that he hurriedly closed his epistle, and took it to the office. A heap of letters lay on the table, they had the appearance of having been seeking their owners for weeks, and of reposing at last with an air of finality. Wareham looked at them askance, as if each carried a threat of delay.

In the morning Anne sat next to him at breakfast. She said to him immediately—

“Why are you so cruel as to leave us? We are pinned here until Colonel Martyn and Mr Grey come back. Besides, I don’t like being driven from point to point, without time to draw breath. I feel like a note of interjection.”

He made a weak reply, to the effect that Mrs Ravenhill disliked the place.

“And you are bound to Mrs Ravenhill?” She hastened to apologise. “Of course you are. Forgive me.”

If this was offered as an opening, it failed. After a momentary pause, she said—

“You should have been with us last evening.”

“Us?”

“I had a companion; did you not see him? He came in with me.”

“Oh, the dog!”

“I don’t permit those contemptuous accents for my friends. He behaved like a true gentleman, and took me to the very place where I wanted to go. No one else offered.” If this was coquetry, it was accompanied by a frank smile at her own expense. Wareham stiffened, looked away, and broke out eagerly—

“How long shall you stay here?”

“Until Blanche is tired of it. I suppose till Monday. Are you not coming out to see what you came from England to see?”

“Oh, we are all coming,” said Wareham, raging at his fetters.

She looked at him with eyes surprised but twinkling, talked about London for a decent interval, and left the room. He scarcely expected to see her re-appear with the others in the hall, but she was there.

Whatever Stalheim may suffer from its visitors, it is magnificently placed, a height among heights. Straight in front the Naerodal cleaves the mountains, its conical Jordalshut dominating the rest, its lovely mist-drifts playing round the summits. Below, a silver flash darts through the greys, and slender falls leap down to join the river. Nor is this fine cleft the only outlet. As they strolled up a road to the left where was a broken foreground of shrub, boulders, and cut grass—made lively by magpies—the great valley through which they had passed the day before, opened, and swept away into purple gloom, until the eye reached the mountains behind, here shrouded in cloud, there uplifting snowy heights against the menacing darkness. There was a wildness, a grandeur, a savage desolation, such as they had not yet seen under the August skies of Norway.

At the end of the walk Wareham took credit to himself for his conduct. He was sure that he had been quite natural, had walked with Anne, talked with Anne, and looked at Anne, without betraying attraction. This satisfied his man’s code, which, once alarmed, is minute in such matters. He even avoided wishing her good-bye—marked slight; possibly, too marked. When the Ravenhills started, he dispatched his portmanteau in a carriole, and followed on foot.

It was a day of broken lights and flitting shadows; waterfalls rushed down on either side, and the beautiful salmon river, beryl-coloured, milky white, indigo, raced along by the road, and offered its counteracting life to what gloom there was. Wareham gave eager appreciation to the green flashing world through which he walked, his conscience was light, he enjoyed the smell of hay, snatched from steep roof-like patches of earth—the slender falls, scarcely more than silver threads, which leapt incredible heights to escape from their ice-prisons—the sweet pure air, the spring of turf at his feet. Far away in front the little carriages with their dun ponies spun along; presently a wild unkempt figure, carrying a sickle, and clad in scarlet jacket, broad hat, and knee-breeches, strode from a bushy path, a dog as wild as his master at his heels. Then a cottage or two with flowery roofs came in sight, a glimmer of fjord, and he was at Gudvangen. Mrs Ravenhill and Millie were standing outside Hansen’s primitive little inn when he reached it.

“I don’t know what you will say,” said Mrs Ravenhill, laughing. “Are you prepared to live in a deal box by the roadside? But Millie and I think it delightful.”

“Then I shall think it delightful too,” said Wareham. “One can always fish.”

Millie inquired if he had seen the waterfall.

“That little thing!”

“Speak respectfully, please! One of the highest in Europe, two thousand feet, with a jump of five hundred, isn’t to be dismissed in such a slighting tone.”

“You are going to rival Mrs Martyn in facts. But I see you have taken Gudvangen to your heart. Shall we go and explore?” On the way he was struck with Millie’s light-heartedness, and said to himself that here was one of those happy natures from which care rolls off. She spoke with almost extreme admiration of Anne, but Mrs Martyn she did not like. Her mother remonstrated that she had never been harmed by that lady.

“Padded glass,” was all that Millie vouchsafed.

Wareham wondered a little at such unexpected perspicacity.

A figure in a long mackintosh ran joyfully up to the girl. It was the young Siamese prince, breathless with triumph, and a basket of twenty-eight trout.

“You are at Hansen’s?” he demanded, his eyes sparkling.

“All of us—”

“Then they shall be cooked; we will have them by and by. Perhaps I shall even catch some more.”

“We will live on trout,” said Wareham. “I must have a try.”

“Do,” Mrs Ravenhill urged. “I promise you that Millie and I will bring appreciative appetites.”

They did not meet again till supper, shared with three English fishermen, who bemoaned the dry weather, and two German girls, travelling on foot with knapsacks.

“What have you discovered?” Wareham asked. “But I can tell you. Another waterfall.”

“Another? A dozen. We found a delightful walk which you shall see to-morrow. There is but one, so it is as well it should have charms. It leads to Bakke, where the pastor—whom we met with a pipe a yard long—has service to-morrow, and we can either row along the fjord or walk. Mother will walk, I expect; she sees sketches at every turn.”

Wareham foresaw another tête-à-tête stroll, but on this occasion felt no disquietude, looking upon Millie as a soothing little companion, who might be induced, without suspicion, to discourse now and then upon Miss Dalrymple. So much depends on the point of view! Mrs Ravenhill’s was not the same. She started, resolved to remain with the others, but a shadowy view of the fjord, with a group of infantine kids in the foreground, shook her resolution. The lights were perfect. Millie’s little fancy, if it ever existed, had quite fluttered away, danger could not exist. She wavered, resisted, wavered again, and fell. They left her happily oblivious of everything beyond the purple and green splendour of the hills, and the absolute reflection of line and tint in the glassy waters.

“I never before realised how much happiness belongs to art,” said Wareham, as they walked away. “It makes one envious.”

“Is not yours art?” Millie asked.

“Nothing so graceful.”

“You paint in words, and words are stronger than colours.”

“No words could bring those reflections before you.”

“But they could extract their inner meaning?”

Wareham looked at her with surprise, feeling as if he had been gravely addressed by a butterfly, but the next moment she had run lightly up the bank after strawberries. From this point of vantage she flung him a question.

“Has Miss Dalrymple a mother?”

“A step-mother.”

She knelt down, the better to fill a small basket she carried, and the impulse to speak was too strong.

“You are not angry any longer?”

He paused a second, then his words rushed. “It was a misconception, such as comes from judging before one has heard both sides of the question.” To talk more easily, he reached her side with two strides, and stood looking over the fjord. “He—my friend,”—the words stuck a little—“never blamed her, but, you know, in such cases, one takes forbearance as a matter of course. I knew he was generous. I concluded he must be wronged.”

He paused. Millie, on her knees, leaned backward, but still occupied herself with the strawberries.

“The wedding was close at hand, was it not?”

“Close. Was she wrong?”

The question put, he blamed himself for asking it. It was offering up Anne’s conduct to the world’s judgment. Millie did not answer until she had dropped two or three crimson berries into her basket, then she said in a steady voice—

“If it was an escape from bonds, it was right.”

The answer was unexpected, should have been welcome. Yet it seemed to push Anne or Hugh Forbes to the wall, suggesting that if she were not to blame, he was. Wareham uttered an impatient sigh.

“I cannot conceive what she could object to in Hugh!” he said, the friend uppermost again. Millie was silent. “And yet—women—?” he added tentatively.

She turned back some leaves, under which a cluster of fruit glowed.

“I believe that I am surprised you don’t condemn her with the rest of the world,” he said at last, in order to force an answer.

“How should I? I never saw your friend. Miss Dalrymple has been very nice to me, but I know nothing of her, or of her life.” Millie’s words were hurried. “You asked me if she were right or wrong. How should I know? But if she was ready to brave people’s tongues, either she had never loved him, or she did not love him any more. In either case, when she found it out, she must have been right not to wait until it was too late. That is all I can see clearly, and I dare say, if I knew more, I should not see so much.”

“I believe you are right,” said Wareham admiringly. He was in the condition to find oracles in all that agreed with him. “When you know Miss Dalrymple better, you will be sure you are.”

“Miss Dalrymple is not easily known.”

“Not?”

“Not by women.”

To this man does not object, and Wareham merely pondered over it. Millie moved a little farther off. He followed.

“I do not know that it is a disadvantage?” he said, ignoring her last words, and defending blindly.

“Oh, no! Why should it be?”

Wareham would have preferred something more combative, wishing for argument, which was unattainable when his companion only acquiesced. He stood meditating, and Millie started from her knees.

“At this rate, we shall never get to Bakke!” she cried. “But strawberries are irresistible.”

“Do you really like them?”

There was a dissatisfied note in his voice. She thought with a pang—

“Already he can see nothing to praise where she is not,” and then was horrified because she seemed to make this a reproach. To punish herself she went back to Anne.

“I suppose the Martyns and Miss Dalrymple start in our steamer to-morrow? Do they go to Balholm?”

Wareham imagined they would go where Mrs Ravenhill went. Her spirits sank. She could not chatter as freely as usual, yet made a gallant effort.

“What flower is that? I never saw any like it. Oh, thank you! Look, it really is odd, canary-coloured, and hanging by a sort of filament. We must take it back to mother, who loves flowers.”

Hearing this, he gathered everything which came in his way. He was conscious that absorbing thought left him a dull companion, and wished to compensate for it by what small attentions he could offer. As for Millie, he looked at her only to compare her with Anne, and the small fancies which had crossed his mind during the first days they had spent together, had flitted into the unremembered past. He liked her, nevertheless, and recognised a sweetness of nature which, in the years to come, would make a husband happy. Perhaps he even liked her better than at first, when a certain air of alert agreeability had once or twice annoyed him, and pointed to fatigue in companionship. And as she walked in front, what seemed a sudden inspiration struck him. Here was the very wife for Hugh Forbes. He loved liveliness, and her very prettiness was lively; it was, indeed, the very word to use in describing her. And how admirably such an arrangement would fit the puzzle into place! Millie could not understand why he began to talk of Hugh. He grew eloquent. Hugh was the pleasantest fellow! Generous. Lovable. Amusing. Rising. The picture requiring to be toned down slightly, he admitted that he was inclined to be idle; but idleness is a sin a girl readily condones. Millie listened, under the impression that Mr Forbes was talked of that he might think of Anne. The subject was distasteful, but she said heroically—

“How strange she did not like him!” Then, as Wareham laughed, a smile dawned on her face. “Have I said anything odd?”

“No, but I have,” he explained. “I have been trying to make one woman see Hugh’s attractiveness at the very moment when she knew another woman could not bring herself to marry him.”

“That might not have been his fault.”

“Then it was hers?”

Millie felt disposed to cry out at this persistence. The talk had been full of pricks, yet was not without its tremulous pleasure, since she was nearer to Wareham than when indifferent subjects were discussed. He would not have cared to enlist her on Anne’s side, if friendliness had not urged him. She said, after a momentary pause—

“Why not his misfortune?”

He was silent. It would have been difficult to have satisfied him at that instant, and Millie’s suggestion quite failed. He dropped the bitter-sweet topic, and talked of Bakke and the curve of the fjord behind it, promontory overlapping promontory, every light, shadow, and colour reflected in the water. An ugly little church stood near the brink, round it nestled the living and the waiting dead, a few flower-roofed cottages, more black crosses. They stood and looked over the paling; grass waved upon the graves, the same flowery sorrel-tinted grass as scented the air; two or three children were in a boat, the oars splashed, otherwise not a sound broke the silence. Millie’s spirits rose. In the midst of a great nature, she and Wareham seemed to stand alone, to be brought nearer. When she reached her mother, her eyes shone.

Wareham went up the Naerodal alone in the afternoon, but in the dusk all three again strolled together. Clear golden lights swept along sky and fjord; long shadows trembled in the water; two or three ponies scrambled like goats among heaped-up boulders, and the goats themselves, perched on inaccessible heights, sent down faint argumentative bleatings in response to the wild cry with which a girl was coaxing them.

What land is this, in which we have all once wandered? A land of shadows and sweet lights, touching everything with mysterious charm. Hush, dreamer! You know now, though you did not know it then, that this is Arcady.

Chapter Eight.

Eden.

The steamer was to start from Gudvangen at two. Wareham already felt as if he had offered up so much to duty that he might expect reward. To have left Miss Dalrymple to the mercy of possibilities in the shape of other men, for two long days, was in itself an assurance that he could trust himself; and if that were so, the reasons for avoiding her became ludicrously small, almost, indeed, offensive. He went to fish, but the point he chose commanded the road through the Naerodal, and when he saw the carriages broadening from specks into shape, and at last could distinguish clearly, he was not very long in making his way after them to Hansen’s.

Mrs Martyn and Anne were standing in the porch talking to old Hansen, as well as limited vocabularies would allow. Wareham was welcome as an interpreter to three of the party; he hoped that Anne’s smile meant more.

“You see, we are here,” she said; “we have torn ourselves from Stalheim, wicked Stalheim!”

“Why wicked?”

“By contrast only. Here you look so pastoral, so idyllic, that our little crowds, and bands, and bad dinners, take quite an iniquitous air.”

“We had a chaplain,” put in Mrs Martyn. “To point out how bad we were!”

“Well, I am glad you have escaped,” said Wareham. “Where’s Colonel Martyn?”

“Thereby hangs a sad tale, for he has telegraphed that he will join us at Balholm, and Blanche is much displeased. And Mr Grey is left in the vortex at Stalheim. Don’t look so reproachful, or we shall ask you to go back and rescue him.”

“And miss my steamer? Forbid it, fates! Gudvangen is a charming spot, as you see—Eden, if you like; but to be left here without a companion, to live upon trout and biscuits, and amuse oneself with a jingling piano, and old photographs, would make one hate Eden. Besides, all my philanthropy is packed up in England. But what have we here?”

A larger carriage drove by to the other hotel, and was followed by a second. Both were filled with shouting parties of tourists, waving and yelling. Old Hansen set his face grimly.

“Now,” he said to Wareham, “tell me, what people are those? They belong to your country. You can explain. We have nothing like them. They do not care about the beauty, or the history, or those who live here. They are middle-aged men, many of them. They shout, and sing, and laugh as loud as they can. What are they? Why do they come?”

Wareham muttered something to the effect that there were fools in all countries.

“Tell him it’s the way we treat our lunatics,” Anne said. “It’s our new system of cure.”

“The steamer does not go until two,” Wareham said, in a low voice.

“Will your Eden bear looking into?”

“Come and see.”

“Blanche, will you explore?”

“No. It is too hot. I hear there is a shop with rather nice furs, and I haven’t seen one for a week. Mind you two aren’t late.”

“Late, when it isn’t half-past twelve! But I can’t sit on the steamer with those lunatics a moment longer than is necessary, and Mr Wareham’s inn may be delightfully primitive, but I have never set myself up as a specimen of primitive woman, and I prefer Eden without its inn. Well, Mr Wareham, I am waiting.” She stood erect, smiling.

“Where will you go?”

“What have you to offer?”

“A path by the fjord, where you will find Mrs and Miss Ravenhill sketching, and the road by which you have just come.”

“You don’t perplex one with the amount of choice. We will go back. Stalheim, wicked Stalheim, attracts me, I own.”

They were walking along the road. Whenever he could, Wareham glanced at her, admiring the easy poise of her figure, her light strong step.

“Aren’t you contented with having brought down a part of the world you admire?”

“They don’t harmonise with Eden, to tell the truth,” said Anne, laughing. “I’m not sure that any of us do. But I grant you all that you demand as to its charms. Look at the soft shadows on the hills. I can fancy it a very refreshing little place for a day; perhaps two,”—doubtfully—“if one was sure—absolutely sure—of getting away the day after.”

“Is that all you could give to Eden?”

“Alas, alas!” Rather to his surprise, Anne was grave. “But when one has lived always in Vanity Fair? Do you not feel with me? Something else will be provided for us poor things, something more in accord with our heritage of ages?”

She gave him a look in which he read what she did not say, and they walked on silently, making their way at last to the brink of the river. The clear water rushed noisily past them.

“A chatterer,” Wareham declared. “Pleasant chatter, don’t you think? If you are sure we have time we might sit down here a little while, and perhaps grow cool.”

“Plenty of time,” he said, consulting his watch. “If we are back by a quarter to two, we shall do very well, for all your things will have gone on board.”

Anne was already perched on a stone.

“I throw responsibility on you. I have come here to enjoy myself, not to fidget.”

“What shall we do to secure your object?”

“Oh,” she cried impatiently, “don’t talk about it! If it isn’t spontaneous it is failure.”

“Then I mayn’t even ask whether you prefer silence or—”

“Ask nothing. Tell me, if you like, what you did yesterday?”

“Walked.”

“Here?”

“No, by that other path which you rejected, to a village called Bakke.”

“Were you alone?”

“Oh, no, we all started together. Mrs Ravenhill fell upon a sketch, and her daughter and I went further and returned to her. There you have it all.”

Miss Dalrymple scrutinised his face with a smile.

“There is something very attractive about her,” she said, “though she does not like me.”

“I have never heard her say so.”

“No, she would not. She is good. I can quite imagine her in Eden. She would make Adam very happy. Don’t you think so?”

“I believe she would make an excellent wife,” said Wareham, keeping on open ground.

Anne said no more. She asked questions as to how the salmon got up these rivers, and announced her intention of trying to catch one when next she went to Scotland. At last Wareham looked at his watch.

“There is time enough to take it as coolly as you like,” he said, “but perhaps we had better go back.”

Anne sprang up.

“I am ready. As we cannot stay, I believe I shall be sorry to leave Gudvangen.” Wareham’s heart throbbed.

“I shall never forget it,” he said.

“Never? Why? Was Bakke so delightful a place?”

“I leave you to imagine why,” he said, in a low voice.

“Leave me nothing in the form of a riddle,” said Anne; “I shall disappoint you.”

He raged again. Were all his chances to slip by? There are moments when we feel as if we rode upon the wave, as if what we wanted was just within our grasp. This was such a moment, and he was bound—could not so much as stretch out his hand. His heart, submitting sullenly, would say something.

“Miss Dalrymple,” he began, “is there absolutely no hope for Hugh?”

She paused for a moment.

“What right have you to ask?”

“None, except,”—he would have liked to have shot out, “that I want relief from a torment of doubt,” but controlled himself to say—“except knowing that he has not given you up.”

“You should not use the present tense. I can answer for it that you have not seen him for ten days. Doesn’t that give time enough for a man to change?”

Wareham looked at her, his face hard.

“Yes,” he said shortly. “That is not the question. How long does a woman take?” She made an impatient gesture.

“For pity’s sake! When I came to Norway to escape Hugh Forbes!”

He was silent, suddenly conscious that he dared not probe farther. Womanlike she glanced at him, to read what she could in his face, but his eyes were on the ground. When he raised them, he stared before him at an empty fjord. He dragged out his watch.

“Impossible! It is not half-past one.”

“What is the matter?” Anne asked.

“The steamer! Am I dreaming, or has she gone?”

“Certainly she is not there.” Anne quickened her steps.

Wareham’s face was very grave. He dashed into the inn, and hammered at old Hansen’s door. Anne waited outside, reflecting on the situation. Wareham came slowly out at last, followed by the burly landlord.

“I am afraid it is too true,” he said. “I shall never forgive myself for implicitly trusting a Norwegian time-table. They left at one o’clock.”

He looked at Hansen, Hansen looked at Anne. It was she who first spoke.

“When is the next boat?”

“To-morrow afternoon.”

Wareham hazarded the remark—

“If I were to take you back to Stalheim? There is sure to be some one you could join.”

“I hate to be baffled,” said Anne. “And you may have forgotten that all I have in the world—here—has gone on the steamer.”

“Heavens, yes!” said Wareham, struck with this fresh complication. He looked so shocked that Anne in self-defence began to laugh.

“Did no one miss us? This is humiliating!” It appeared that Mrs Ravenhill inquired, and was told they intended to go on board without returning to the inn. Mrs Martyn stayed in a shop until the last moment, and had barely time to scramble on board; it was quite natural that she should suppose the others had been before her.

“So we have no one to blame but ourselves,” said Anne.

“But me,” corrected Wareham. “You disclaimed responsibility from the first.”

“Oh, we will share. It is less dull to hold together. And what does the landlord suggest? We can’t be the first castaways.”

“He says that the last victims took a boat, and were rowed to Ulvik. But Balholm is a good deal further,” Wareham said, after consultation.

Anne decided promptly.

“Very well. Please get a boat.”

“You venture?”

“Why not? What else can be done?” Wareham could think of nothing. The misadventure meant more to him than it did to her, at least it seemed so beforehand. He had gone rashly near breaking his resolution in capturing that solitary hour with her, and was forced to reflect that he had not come out of the ordeal scathless. Fate was punishing him by prolonging what he had already found too long for his strength, and there was nothing for it but to accept fate. He said hurriedly—“I will see about a boat at once,” and was going, when she called him back.

“We must have dinner before we set off.”

“You put me to shame,” he said. “I believe my wits have deserted me.”

“Worse things have fallen to my lot,” she laughed; “do you expect me to offer you, words of consolation? Bear your burdens with greater philosophy, Mr Wareham.”

“If that were all!” rushed from his lips.

“I can’t even lighten them by ordering dinner,” Anne went on, taking no notice. “Bennett’s Conversation-book is on the steamer, with everything else, and I can remember nothing but mange tak, which doesn’t seem called for at this moment.”

“At any rate, I can order dinner,” said Wareham humbly.

“And you couldn’t do anything better. Please have a great many trout. Who knows when we shall dine again!”

“I must find out how long a boat will take in reaching Balholm.”

“Don’t ask,” Anne said quickly. “Don’t you see that as the thing has to be done there is no possible use in looking at the difficulties? I, on the contrary, mean to treat it as something special. All the world and his wife—even those horrid tourists—go down the Nserofjord in steamers; how much more enchanting to be rowed dreamily, with neither smoke nor noise! Pray don’t be so dismal about it. Do you know that you are paying me the worst of compliments? Endure your fate bravely, and order the trout.”

Thus adjured, Wareham departed. Gudvangen was sleepily interested, and the misadventure had happened before. He chose a good boat and two rowers, and going back to the little saal, found Anne making an excellent dinner.

“When one is cast away, it is prudent to chose a place with shops for the event,” she said. “I have made this an excuse for buying some delightful furs. Money I have none, but they trust me.”

“I have money,” said Wareham, hastily turning out his pockets, and unnecessarily ashamed of this fresh absence of foresight on his part. They could not reach Balholm before the middle of the night, and Anne’s wraps were on the steamer.

“Very well. Then you shall pay as we pass, and I will owe it to you instead.”

“Having brought you into the predicament, I think I might be allowed to provide the necessaries of life.”

“Do you mean that you are proposing to present me with a set of furs?” said Anne, laying down her fork and staring at him.

“Something you must have to keep you warm.”

“Mr Wareham, pray don’t make me begin to regret this incident.”

He saw that she was vexed, and dashed away from the subject.

“Poor old Hansen was mortally afraid we should want him to telephone something or other. I believe the telephone is sending him off his head. He would have sent out to look for us if a message had not come down from Stalheim just at the critical moment.”

“Can’t we use it?” said Anne, with a little more anxiety in her voice than she had shown hitherto.

“Only backwards to Stalheim, and then, I imagine, telegraph to Voss. That would not help us?”

“No, no; we are doing the only sensible thing. The trout are excellent, and I encourage hunger.”

“We will take some food with us.”

“And tea. I insist upon tea.”

“But how to boil it in a boat?”

“We will land on a rock,” said Anne, who was laughing again.

“A fjord picnic. By all means. Besides, of course there are villages.”

“We don’t want to be delayed, and I shan’t agree to anything more sociable than a rock.”

“You command the crew.”

They were on excellent terms again; Anne’s momentary haughtiness past, she was mirthful over their prospects. They went out and bought the gaudiest tine Gudvangen could produce, and packed it with what provisions they could find. Anne insisted, moreover, that there should be a packet of tobacco for the rowers. Then she went to fetch her furs, but apparently had changed her mind, for Wareham was not allowed to pay for them. That she would arrange in Bergen, as originally fixed.

“You have not forgiven,” he said, in a low voice.

“Not forgotten,” she corrected. “By this time to-morrow I may have done so.”

He accepted the hint, and was silent.

They went down to the boat, and saw all their things placed, watched by the few interested spectators Gudvangen sent out, and by old Hansen, who took a fatherly interest in their proceedings.

“Can we sail?” asked Miss Dalrymple.

“There is not a breath. But the men are good rowers, and I can take an oar to relieve them. There will be beauty enough to please you.”

“Provided expressly on my account,” said Anne lightly. “You will expect me to be so prodigal of compliments at the end of the voyage, that I shall not praise your arrangements now. Are we ready?”

“A good journey!” called out old Hansen. Wareham waved his hat, Anne nodded and smiled, the boat moved smoothly along out into a world of reflected colours.

“Good-bye, Eden,” said Anne.

Chapter Nine.

Tongue-Tied.

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.”

A thorn pricked Wareham. He said hastily—

“She will know it was not your fault.”

“She will try to keep me from knowing it. You may be sure it will be long before I hear the last of it, from her or from—others.”

“From others?”

Anne looked straight in his face.

“Mr Wareham, I imagined you to be a man of the world. If you are, you must know as well as I that people will chatter.”

“The world is not always absurd,” he retorted, with heat.

“When was it not a gossip? Now I will ask a question which I have avoided before. When shall we get to Balholm?”

“About two or three in the morning.”

“And you flatter yourself that will not give a handle for talk!”

Wareham had been surprised that she had said nothing of the sort before; he was conscious at the same time that if it had been Millie, the fear would not have struck her.

“When they know the facts, they will see there was nothing else for us to do.”

“They won’t know facts. One fact will be sufficient for them, and to that they will hold on as a dog to a bone. Never mind. I have gone through as much before.”

“When?” Wareham asked jealously.

“Oh, not with this sort of experience. This is new to me. But I have served as a bone so often that I am used to the worrying. Don’t let us talk of it now. I want to drink in my new enjoyment, to develop my new sense. Look at the drifting shadow on that hill, and the splendour of the snow. But it is the water, the water that fascinates me. I am going to watch it.”

He accepted this as a hint that he was not to speak, and the turmoil in him was not sorry for silence which left time for many voices to have their say. This hint of Anne’s that the world would make her suffer for what his carelessness had brought upon her, carried with it an almost unendurable sting. Under other circumstances he would have said to her, if not that hour, to-morrow, “I love you. Be my wife.” But his duty to Hugh? Doubly bound, as he was, by the promise of his letter to abstain from any step until the answer had come, could he fling it to the winds, and forswear himself? The letter to which he looked for deliverance was but tightening his bonds. He was swayed this way and that, now swung low by such fretting thoughts, now conscious of mounting to heights of bliss in the warm fresh air, with the mountains and the water around, and Anne sitting close to—touching him. She said presently—

“We are the only thinking creatures in sight, and the world looks very big. Does it make you feel small or great?”

“It dwarfs one, doesn’t it?”

“It seems to me as if I had seen it all before, and I have been trying to think where. I believe now that it was when I was a child, and sat solitary, reading Sinbad the Sailor. Perhaps there was some old picture, for certainly this takes me back to that.”

“Were you solitary?”

“Very,” Anne said, smiling. “I brought myself up, and very badly. Look behind. The mountains are closing; now that they have let us out, they shut their portals.”

She was silent again, and Wareham, quick to read her moods, humoured her. The boat moved slowly along, slowly it seemed, when the great surroundings filled the eye. The heavens were blue, but here and there a white cloud drifted lazily, or caught the mountain snow-beds, and curled round them, like a vaporous reminder of their fate. The lovely vivid green of the young summer crept up and down the mighty hills, softening the rude scars of centuries until they looked no more than delicate and shadowy indentations; the stern granite blossomed into tender rose and grey, and the water-world below gave back all this and more. Every now and then the men who were rowing exchanged a word: they had grave steadfast faces.

“Talk to them,” Anne said suddenly at last. “Ask them about their lives.” Wareham struggled obediently.

“My questions are obliged to be simple,” he said. “And I am even more anxious the answers should be. A universal language. Is it a dream?”

“We are pleased to infer that it is our own which will serve the purpose, but by the time the idea has developed into fact it may be Japanese.”

“To become a ruling nation they will have been forced to adopt ours.”