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.