Presently Mrs Ravenhill, who had been talking to Mrs Martyn, came to carry Millie to a more sheltered corner. Wareham, seeing that they were approaching another fjord village, went to the vessels side. This time there was a contrast—no crowd, no happy throng of girls: a few children, a few older people gathered on the pier; the baker came to receive his sack of flour, the postmaster his letters; next, out of the steamer another burden was lifted, an empty black coffin, studded with silver nails; the children—and the children only—stared curiously at the label, then they too ran off. And, so long as the steamer was in sight, there lay the strange black deserted thing, a blot on the green, unclaimed, and to all appearance uncared for. Some prick of the universal humanity kept Wareham’s eyes fixed upon it. He felt as if the dead man, whose home it was to be, was wronged by this callous desertion; as if he had been bound to all of them by a tie they were ignoring; and while conscious of the unreasonableness of his blame, he could not shake off the feeling that he shared in the common cruelty. Suddenly, by his side, a voice exclaimed—
“It is horrible!”
He turned abruptly, and saw Miss Dalrymple. Her eyes were fixed where he had been looking, and she went on—
“One has no right to resent a mere accident. They may have to come from a distance, and it can’t be known exactly when the steamer will call. Still—”
“It offends one,” said Wareham.
“It is heartless.”
He kept his eyes on her face.
“Happily the dead are not hurt by heartlessness.”
“Happily,” she returned, after a moment’s pause. She glanced at him, half closing her eyes, in the manner he disliked. Already the conversation had taken an edge, of which, even had it been unintentional, neither could have been unconscious. But Wareham wished to wound. He asked whether she had noticed the group at the landing-place before this last? She made a sign of assent.
“What did you think of it?”