“Ah, you would prefer doing it with her enemies,” she returned with a shrewdness perhaps unexpected.
“I should prefer changing the subject altogether,” said Wareham. “Do you know that we are nearly at the end of our voyage? Behind those grey elephantine rocks lies Naes, and there it is ordained that we dine.”
“Dine! At two! Poor Tom! But how good for his health!”
Wareham did not feel himself called upon to express an opinion on this point. He went back to Mrs Ravenhill and Millie, landed, and walked with them up to the little inn, from which a red flag was gaily flying.
It is between Naes and Haare that the Bratlandsdal lies, one of the most beautiful secrets of Norway. Secret, indeed, only by comparison, since the road has been carved out, but as yet not so freely tourist-ridden as other parts. A hard-worked clergyman and his wife, flinging the energy of work into their holiday, at once set off on the long tramp; the other travellers, more respectful to comfort, waited to engage stolkjaerres and carrioles, and to go through the routine of salmon and stringiest mutton; so that it was three o’clock before the Ravenhills, Wareham, and young Grey—wrenched from remote homage of Miss Dalrymple—set off leisurely to walk to the head of the gorge, stolkjaerres and luggage at their heels.
Grey was an enthusiastic fisherman, and his talk of flies, many of which festooned his hat. His companions were careless as to their merits, but Millie had a charm of simple sympathy, which all along Wareham had recognised and liked, and she let him expatiate upon them without giving a hint that she was bored. Almost at once they were in the shadow of the great gorge, the road mounted; down, far down, cleaving its way between thousand-feet rocks, dashed a wild river, beryl-coloured when not churned into whiteness, leaping, laughing, flying from rock to rock, curving into green pools, flinging foam at the growing things which bent to kiss it, an impetuous, untamable, living force. To think of it in storm with a hundred angry voices crying out, and mountain-echoes hurling back their rage, was to shudder. But now, under a brilliant sun, there was a lovely splendour abroad; feathery beds of moss and fern hid away the menacing crevices of the grey rocks; streams tinkled, drop by drop, from the overhanging heights; shadows were soft, tender, and wavering, radiant sunlight changed harshness into beauty.
“And we have it to ourselves!” sighed Mrs Ravenhill thankfully. “The others are ahead, and are welcome to the better rooms. But what of the Martyns?”
Young Grey was eager in his knowledge.
“They were tired, and waited another hour. I promised to arrange about their rooms. It was Miss Dalrymple who said she was tired.”
He spoke with an unmistakable touch of reverence.