“That’ll do. Good night, then.”
As he took down his Book to read before retiring, out dropped the telegram.
He read it again and again with conflicting feelings. Would his mother relent? His own fate, as far as Meta was concerned, he determined should not be altered. She might never marry him, but he himself, in that case, would have but one bride for ever and ay—the sea. Still, as he closed the Bible that night and restored the telegram, he allowed himself to build just one castle in the air. In the cosy drawing-room of this castle his mother was seated, and Meta and he were there, and all were happy.
He slept and dreamt about this.
Duty kept him at Reykjavik next day and the day after, but Meta, lonely and weary through waiting, heard the well-known click-click of the pony’s hoofs on the succeeding evening, and ran to the door to meet Claude.
It was raining, but Byarnie took his cloak and the pony, and in he went, looking rosy, fresh, and beaming with joy.
“Have you got good news?” was Meta’s first question.
She answered it herself before he got time to speak.
“Yes, you have,” she said; “I see it in your eyes. What is it? A letter from your dear mamma?”
Claude’s face fell just a little.