“You don’t mean that you think—” He stopped aghast.
Wareham answered with a hand on the valve. If his words were to fly, it should not be on a wrong tack.
“What?”
“That, after all, I’ve no chance?”
“Heavens, man, how should I think such a thing! I know nothing of what you have said to her, or she to you. You’ve got your opportunity—what more do you want? Go in, and win.”
“All right, old fellow,” Hugh said good-humouredly. “May you be a true prophet. Anyway, don’t be put out about your letter. I’ve a thick skin, as you’ve proved before now. And if it bores you to stop, go. Only if you do get the chance before leaving, and if you can get her to give you a bit of explanation, it may make matters smoother. Isn’t there some old Viking or other buried about here? Well, we’ll go back.”
As they returned they found signs of festivity about the rival inn; Balholm sat round the walls of the saal, and in the centre a picturesque musician played the Hardanger fiddle; the wild piercing sounds, half savage, half plaintive, penetrated the night. Wareham stood at the door after Hugh had left him, held by some spell for which he could not account. The music conjured up strange imaginings—the silence of the mountains encompassed lonely fjords; pallid snowflakes chased each other into clefts, where they lay shrouding the rock; winds whistled through cowering trees, and in a moment the cruel howl of a wolf rose menacingly above the other sounds. The tragedies of the country had found a voice in the wild, almost discordant, instrument. Wareham stood absorbed, staring at the ground. When the music stopped, he looked up uncertainly. Hay sweetened the air, golden light still lingered in the sky, yet he shivered. The landlord came out. Wareham gave him a gulden for the musician, and walked slowly back to his own quarters.