Wareham felt as if in that minute he had lived a year. When he spoke his voice was hoarse, his face white.
“I cannot,” he said. “It rests with yourself.”
She was looking at him, and her face did not change, nor did she speak. They stood silent, fronting the mountains, and presently Hugh’s voice sounded cheerfully behind them.
“I can’t find your parasol, Miss Dalrymple. Mrs Martyn thinks you must have left it behind.”
“Ask her whether it is not her umbrella she wants,” had been Mrs Martyn’s exact words, for neither sun nor rain was likely to trouble them. These he did not repeat. He was sharp enough to guess that he had been disposed of for a motive, but hugged the thought that it was merely caprice which had served this purpose. For caprice he was prepared, resolved that it should not put him out of countenance. An indefinite presentiment kept Wareham on the watch. It was a nothing, yet it had fallen on a crucial moment. How would she behave to Hugh? The next moment, Anne turned, smiling carelessly.
“I am ashamed to have troubled you, and for what seemed an absurdity. Who wants a parasol at such an hour? It is that I am a baby, and like something in my hand.” Hugh was for starting off again. “No, no, no more errands. You may sit here and tell me about the Standishs’. When did you see them? Have they gone abroad? Mary wrote a line to me before we left England, but she told me nothing of their plans.”
“And they knew nothing of yours,” stammered Hugh the happy, afraid of uttering anything which carried the ghost of a reproach. Mary Standish was to have been their bridesmaid.
Wareham would hear no more. He wheeled round and departed, with not a word of thanks to cast at conscience, though she had saved him from a scrape. Going forward, he stood moodily watching the pallor creep over the vast snowfield which runs along the western side of the fjord, and from which glaciers like pale ghosts crawl down to the water. At Fjaerland itself there was a short stoppage, people came on board who had tramped to the Suphelle glacier, and were enthusiastic over its beauties to those who had not seen it.
And now, in going back, the glories of the sunset touched each opening fjord with strange variety of effect and contrast. One had wild and menacing clouds sweeping on with threat of storm; in another the mountains lay in indescribable calm against a clear daffodil sky; a third again was radiant with light, and crowned with floating rosy clouds. Voices hushed themselves, the ripple of the water grew more insistent, lovely reflections trembled downwards. By and by a green promontory was passed, and Balholm stood hospitably alight.
“Nine o’clock,” sighed Colonel Martyn, with disconsolate acceptance of his fate, the high tea which he hated. Meantime the professor had asked Mrs Martyn—who piqued herself upon her facts—if she knew the number of square miles covered by the snow-area at which they had been gazing.