“Oh, winter! The very idea is terrible. Yet I should like to see this country in its own snow and ice. Warmly wrapped, I can fancy it bearable, even enjoyable.”
“Yes. Cold is the rich man’s luxury.” He answered her mechanically, his thoughts flying impatiently to Hugh, picturing him receiving the letter, answering it. Anne looked at him in surprise, reading trouble in his face.
“Never a luxury to me,” she said. “And it is growing cold now. Don’t you think we may start?”
The red-coated fisherman put aside all thought of payment. Wareham had difficulty in making him accept a very trifling sum. He stood watching them, and, for a time, as long as they looked back, they saw him blackly silhouetted against the clear sky. Anne had wrapped herself in her furs; the great open fjord gradually paled, the sound of the oars seemed to grow louder; it was like a dream to Wareham, with something of the bondage, the confusion, and the fret of a dream, yet with its strange delight as well. Once or twice he and Anne exchanged words, once or twice he took the oars again; outlines grew vague, it was not dark overhead, but they felt as though they were rowing on into the night. Suddenly Anne looked up.
“The bottom of the boat is wet. Is that right?”
Wareham bent down and uttered an exclamation, for water was certainly oozing in, and under cover of the dusk had been unnoticed, until Anne moved her foot and touched it. He called one of the men, who made an examination.
“Is it a leak?” she asked presently.
Wareham spoke quietly.
“There is a cork acting as a plug, and it appears to be rotten. But you need not be alarmed.”
“I am not alarmed. What shall you do? Try to land?”