CHAPTER IV.
A STORM.
The short northern night lay over the peaceful fjord. There was no sound in the air except the soft murmurous voice of the river and the distant prattle of a tiny waterfall.
The Hermione, wrapt in utter darkness (for the Admiral would allow no riding-light, having had enough of red-tape routine during his service beneath the white ensign), lay motionless upon the glassy water.
From the open port-holes came light and a sound of music. In the comfortable and home-like saloon Brenda was at the piano; Mrs. Wylie worked placidly, and the two men smoked in restful silence. That sweet fatigue and utter sense of peacefulness which is the reward of a hard, unsparing day had come over them. The Admiral had caught his two fish over again, and his pleasant, garrulous voice was still. He was now inclining to slumber, lying back drowsily in his deep chair.
Trist, a model of cleanliness, and broadcloth over the whitest linen, was in a less easy pose, for he was seated at the cabin-table before a huge volume of travel. His brown hands lay quiescent upon the open pages; his eyes were riveted on the printed lines. Although he was to all appearances immersed in his study, he was the first to hear a difference in the sounds of night outside. He raised his head and looked towards the port-hole, half hidden by a tiny muslin curtain scarcely moving in the draught. Without, in the semi-darkness, there was now a long continuous whisper, like the voice of a summer breeze amidst half-formed leaves. This was the ripple of a new-born breath upon the waters, and within it there was the hum of air rushing through taut rigging. The breeze was a fresh one. Brenda continued playing, unconscious of these signs. Her fingers wandered over the keys dreamily, while her upright form swayed in no slightest degree to the rhythm of her music. It would seem that she could wring from the old piano plaintive harmonies full of sadness and suggestive melancholy without becoming in any way affected by their influence. For a woman she was exceptionally self-contained and undemonstrative.
Trist continued gazing through the open port-hole. It was now quite dark outside—darker than the thin veil of night in such a latitude would account for during July. Presently the reason of it was apparent and audible. There came a rushing sound like the approach of a train in a deep cutting, and the Hermione was enveloped in it.
'Rain!' exclaimed Brenda, swinging round on the music-stool. The Admiral was asleep, and Trist merely nodded his head in acquiescence. Mrs. Wylie ceased working, and listened. In a few moments there was a slight creak of timber, and the small vessel heaved perceptibly beneath their feet. The muslin curtains on either side of the small port-holes fluttered, and the lamp hanging beneath the open skylight flickered repeatedly.
Trist rose and closed the ports. His movements awoke Admiral Wylie, who sat up in his deep chair with a hand on either knee.
'A squall?' he inquired.
'Yes,' returned Trist, without moving away from the port-hole. 'A squall—rain—and thunder, I think.'