Wareham’s hopes met this dash of ice-cold water with a gallant effort for his friend. He turned pale, but muttered—
“You do not know yourself. You may love him yet.”
“Never. All that I felt was that I could not feel.”
She spoke with conviction, and the conviction roused traitors in his own heart, who repeated the sweet assurance again and again. As for her saying that she could not feel, he laughed the notion to scorn. Had he but the chance, he would teach her to feel, batter at her heart till it awoke with an ache to find itself captured. The danger was that before this happened his honour might have to hang its head, disgraced, for the frank confidence she showed seemed to bring her nearer and nearer, and made waiting harder. He hoped he had strength to be silent, for he dared not attempt to argue with her. With an abrupt movement he motioned to one of the men to cease rowing, and took his place. The strong regular play of the muscles came like a relief, but the other man, forced to a quicker stroke, presently remonstrated. Wareham asked whether it were impossible to sail, quicker movement seeming imperative. He knew what the answer must be when he put the question, for not a breath of wind stirred the glass of the fjord. After he had rowed for one man some time he relieved the other; if it had been possible he would have liked to have had it all on his shoulders. Anne said to him at last—
“You are putting such energy into your work that it tires me to look at you. Does half-an-hour more or less really mean so much?”
He laid down the oars, and came across the boat to her side.
“It means nothing, except that I felt the need of a spurt. We are close to Utne, where we should find a decent inn. Had you not better stop there and rest? You want food by this time.”
“I would rather not stop. I have been eating biscuits, and you might as well follow my example.”
“Suppose Mrs Martyn has waited?”
Anne meditated.