The one important street in Bergen runs directly through the town. Here and there desolate open spaces break away, the safe guards from the ever-dreaded enemy fire; here and there cellars yawn, heaped with gaily-painted tine; here and there again you catch sight of the dancing waters of the harbour, and a jumble of shipping. It is at the end of the harbour that the fish-market is held; the boats are jammed together, the buyers stand and lean over the railings; women in thickly-plaited black dresses with close black caps, a rim of white round the face, and one spot of white behind, are sprinkled among the more ordinary costumes. More remarkable were the fishermen in the boats. Old and young, the hardy faces caught and held attention; you looked at men. As Wareham had said, the great throng was over, but even yet there were plenty of purchasers, and a penny would gain a plateful of little fish.
And here, in the heart of old Bergen, is the house of the Hanseatic League, unchanged since the time of the traders. It is the past, fossilised, for some; for others it is the means by which to drift back themselves into the past, and join the ghosts. Away with the crowd of laughing sight-seers! here sits the merchant in fur cap and gown, his account-book before him. Check the entries if you will, it lies open. Here is the eating-room for the apprentices, lads who, taught to sweep and cook, should make good husbands by and by. But as their dignities would not put up with bed-making, and woman was not admitted, all the beds are provided with a sliding panel, whereby that useful but dangerous appendage, standing outside, could insert her arms and head—no more!—and arrange for masculine comfort. And here is the great lantern which, fixed on a pole, the trader carried in the funeral processions of his guild. From youth to old age it is all here.
“The outer circumstances of life, outliving life,” said Wareham, as they emerged. “Now, will you come to the other museum, and plunge still farther back into the age of flint implements?”
Mrs Ravenhill shook her head.
“Any stone would do as well for me. My mind refuses to leap those distances, and I look at them foolishly unimpressed.”
“Is it only flint implements?” Millie asked. “I don’t object to them, but I believe it is because I am so ignorant that I can’t gauge my own ignorance.”
It appeared that with many other collections, there were old Norwegian curiosities, and a fine set-out of wooden bowls, which attracted Mrs Ravenhill, bent on taking home trophies of that description. Passing the fish-market again, Millie bought a basketful of cherries from a boat laden with nothing else. The small events of this day came back to her afterwards with a curious distinctness, and yet there was nothing especially to mark it to her, nor at the time did it seem blessed. Certainly not deserving the golden aureole which set it apart. She said little, but let her thirsty heart drink in what tasted like delicious draughts, and thrust aside the consciousness that soon thirst would be on her again. Whatever Wareham had done the day before, to-day he was all kindness. Mrs Ravenhill, never, indeed, exacting, had no reason to utter a complaint. Five o’clock saw them in the launch of the Ceylon, red-roofed Bergen curving behind them, and it was not long before they steamed out of the harbour. The wind was fresh, but for a long time they were under the lee of the shore, and even through the next day most of the passengers kept fairly on deck. But by Sunday the vessel was rolling heavily, and Millie appeared alone. The usual service could not be held, and only one or two ladies left their cabins. It was natural that Wareham should be much with the girl. They talked of Norway. From that they fell to talking of those who had been their companions, of all, at least, except Anne. But a question was so close to Millie’s lips, that at last it flew out.
“Was it Mr Forbes of whom you once spoke?”
“Did I speak.”
“At Stavanger,” she said reproachfully. He had forgotten the confidence. “Before you knew Miss Dalrymple.”