The Swing of the Pendulum

by Frances Mary Peard

Chapter Three.

We Start Ourselves and Cry Out that Fate Pushes.

All the skydsguts, and all the owners of vehicles for miles round Sand, stormed the steamer on its arrival, and out of the struggling crowd Wareham with difficulty extricated Mrs Ravenhill and Millie, and started them in a stolkjaerre, while he himself followed in a second with a young Grey, who had, of course, crossed in the Eldorado. (Stolkjaerre pronounced stolkyerrer. Skydsgut pronounced shüssgoot.) In all there was a string of nine or ten little carriages, each drawn by a cream-coloured or light dun pony, its two occupants in front, and its skydsgut perched on the luggage behind.

Now that they had left the open fjord, wind-swept by a north-westerly gale, it had grown calm and warm; and, driving up to the mountains by the side of a hurrying river, the charm of the country began to reveal itself. Mrs Ravenhill would have liked to have broken away from the procession, and enjoyed it alone, but this was impossible. The ponies trotted in regular file, walked up the slightest incline, and raced wildly downhill; nothing would have induced ponies or drivers to part company, and, indeed, after all, something in the small cavalcade was refreshingly different from ordinary modes of travelling. Colours glowed and softened in the clear air, crimson sorrel turned the long grass into ruddy fields, waving and shimmering in the breeze, the river, narrowing, dashed itself into milky whiteness. In parts, trees growing singly out of the green, made the country park-like; elsewhere a wilder character prevailed, with a background of grey hills, on which grey clouds brooded. It was ten o’clock before they reached Osen, but so lingering was the day, that even by that time the surrounding outlines were scarcely touched with uncertainty.

Throughout the drive importunate skydsguts had petitioned on behalf of a new inn, but Wareham had decided to stop at the Suldal, known to him of old. Of all the procession only the two stolkjaerres halted there, the rest whisking by to the other and more pretentiously illuminated building; it seemed to Millie that the very landlord met them with surprise. The whole house was at their disposal; no one, he explained, was there, because the other house was very liberal to the skydsguts, and they persuaded their employers in its favour. There was something pathetic in the sad resignation with which he made this statement, and Mrs Ravenhill, whose face had fallen at realisation of the solitude, which appeared to point to something obnoxious, became enthusiastic. The quaint box-like little bedrooms, all pitch-pine, unbroken by paper, plaster, or carpet, delighted her; and as every sound was audible throughout the house, she and Millie in their separate rooms could talk as easily as if they had been together. Presently, however, other voices mingled themselves, and it became evident that some of their fellow-travellers had retraced their steps. When they came down to the meal which had been energetically prepared, they found half-a-dozen others. If it was not a very elaborate repast, there was plenty and good-will, and a homely hospitality which was pleasant. Besides, they were all hungry, and all sleepy, and neither the careful warnings against fire, with directions how to get out of the little passages, and where to find the “safety ropes,” nor the rather loud confidences of two travellers on the upper floor, could keep Mrs Ravenhill or Millie long awake.

Wareham, on the contrary, was not drawn to sleep. A paper in hand, which he wanted to think out by the help of a cigar, gave an excuse for strolling along the quiet road, where all was still except the unresting swirl of the river. His will forced concentration upon the matter which was in his mind, but it was like driving unruly horses, and the moment he relaxed his hold, his thoughts bolted to the words Anne Dalrymple and he had exchanged. It was difficult to explain why, except that her talk, her manner, and, above all, her face, had interested him. They possessed a certain quality distinct from the words and faces of others. That he thought of her with an ever-increasing disapproval did not interfere with the interest, but served for an excuse for returning to its contemplation, since nothing is more absorbing than a problem. It was doubtless this attraction which led him to fill out their conversation with imaginary words and incidents, such as might have led to an altogether different result. Jilt or flirt, Anne Dalrymple was no mere brainless woman, and he found himself on the verge of a wish that he had not been Hugh’s friend, so that he might have talked to her without prejudice. A man’s anger against a woman leaves him uncomfortable, with a sense of his own unfairness, whether deserved or not.

He began to resent his position. He had dropped into it unknowingly, but the bare idea that it might suggest to Hugh a thought of his friend’s disloyalty, cut like a lash. Kicking at pebbles in the road, or staring up at the dominating height rising blackly on the other side of the river, would not help him, and for the moment there seemed nothing else. He must make the best of it. Why on earth trouble himself with what could not be helped? Was he by ill-luck becoming morbid? He walked back to the inn, disgusted with himself; pitched away his cigar before entering the inflammable box, and slept, resolved to accept ordinary intercourse as if he and Miss Dalrymple were strangers.

It is difficult to adopt any course of action which does not involve others in unexpected ways. His last intention would have been to make marked advances to Millie Ravenhill, yet, treating her as a haven of refuge, meant being much by her side on the following day. The morning was all summer, full of light and freshness, and as the little carriages began to arrive from Sand, Wareham was very willing to get out of the way by joining half-a-dozen of their fellow-travellers in a stroll over the grassy hill behind the inn. Then Millie and he drifted away together, and she wanted a flower plucked out of a marshy bit of land, and when that was gathered a daring stone-chat enticed them, and the frank innocent beauty around beguiled Wareham, so that when the steamer sent up a warning shriek they were forced to run, and reached the vessel breathless. Mrs Ravenhill flung a look of reproach at Wareham, while she scolded Millie.

“How could you be so imprudent! I have been waiting in terror, not knowing where to send. Osen is all very well, but to be forced to spend another twenty-four hours here! I am really very angry.”