Читать книгу The Swing of the Pendulum - Frances Mary Peard - Страница 9

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.”

“Blame me,” said Wareham penitentially. “It was all my fault.”

He pleased himself by observing that the Martyns and Miss Dalrymple were in possession of seats, and as there had been a certain intention—on his part—of delay, it is doubtful if he were really sorry. Millie was radiant.

“I should not have minded staying,” she remarked, when breath had come back; “it is a dear little place, and it would have been a real crow for the landlord. He loved us so dearly for driving straight to his inn, instead of being forced there by want of room in the other! But what an odd state of society must exist in this place, when out of half-a-dozen houses two are rival inns! Do they speak? Do they fight? Human nature could not allow them to be friendly!”

“Oh, I’m not so sure,” said Mrs Ravenhill; “you forget the strength of nature here, and that the human part of them would have to combine against snow and darkness and solitude. Once we are gone, I dare say they are good friends together.”

As they were carried along over the green waters of the Suldal lake, it seemed to some of those who were looking, as though they were entering a solemn and enchanted region.

The sun, which blazed upon the great granite hills, could not rob them of their supreme gravity. They were mighty Titans resting after labour and conflict; earth-forces up-heaved and left to lie and bleach, exposed to the more subtle forces of air and water. For the lake crept in and out between them, always softly pushing through, although often the tremendous cliffs closed so menacingly round, that the boat appeared to be making for a wall of sheer rock against which she must be ground. At such moments those on board watched almost breathlessly for the passage to declare itself, sometimes splitting a sharp angle, sometimes stealing through a sinuous curve, once urged between two colossal barriers, which bear the name of the Portal. It is the gateway into a shadowy, mysterious, yet radiant world, which lies as God’s Hand has left it, untouched by man. On either side the mountains rise precipitously, or melt away into ethereal distances; out of their soft purples and greens an occasional raw patch marks where the frost-giant has split off a vast fragment from the rock and tumbled it into the green waters below. Birch and oak clamber up and down the cliffs; a sharp white line shows a slender waterfall leaping from the heights, and re-appearing here and there, but, too far off for movement to be perceptible, it looks a mere scratch on the shadows. More rarely, where there is the suspicion of a valley, or, at any rate, a flatness, the steamer screams to some half-dozen—or fewer—scattered houses, tying in a scarcely-endurable solitude, a little amphitheatre of silence; each with its tiny patch of emerald-green rye, its square of half-cut grass, its small potato-ground, its boat lying on the shore. Some rough track may exist, but of visible roads there are none, nor any cattle, except, possibly, a few goats away browsing on the hills. Such forlorn habitations only deepen the brooding solitude, by forcing on the imagination dreams of these alone, self-dependent lives, but for the call of the steamer as alone as though they were a knot of sailors shipwrecked on a desert shore.

Wareham, for whom they had a strange attraction, watched them from the forepart of the vessel. While he was there, Colonel Martyn joined him. He was a tall sad-looking man, with a mountainous nose, devoted to sport, and hating society. He grumbled a disconsolate question.

“How much longer does this sort of thing go on?”

“The lake? Three hours, from end to end. Doesn’t it please you?”

“It would please me well enough if I were pulling up in a boat. Cooped up with a lot of other fools, it makes me sick. Do you mean to tell me you find any pleasure in the business?”

Wareham laughed.

“Evidently I haven’t your energy.” He went on to ask whether with these sentiments his own free will had brought Colonel Martyn abroad?

The other turned a melancholy eye upon him.

“Good heavens, that you should put such a question! My wife insists upon going through an annual period of discomfort. I don’t much care where it is. This year she and Anne Dalrymple took a craze for Norway, and here we are.” It was as if his last words meant “Poor devils!”

Wareham had no thought of letting fly his next words. They escaped him.

“Has Miss Dalrymple travelled with you before?”

Colonel Martyn again looked at him.

“Never. She is my wife’s last friend. A former acquaintance of yours?”

Wareham hastened to repudiate.

“I have never spoken to her until Mrs Martyn introduced me.” Some unaccountable impulse made him add—“But I have often heard of her.”

“No good?”

“I did not say so.”

“Never mind me,” said his companion, seating himself on the bulwark, and swinging one long leg. “Women are frauds—most of them.”

“Well for you that your wife is not within earshot!”

“She would vow that it showed I was enjoying myself. That’s a delusion she holds on to. Keep your liberty—there you have my advice. As for Anne Dalrymple, I’ve an idea there was something on with her this season, but I don’t listen to society crams, and I’ve heard no particulars.”

The red rag was irritating Wareham.

“This was not a society cram. We’ll leave it alone, however. Miss Dalrymple is your wife’s friend.”

For the first time a smile flitted across Colonel Martyn’s lantern visage.

“My dear fellow,” he said, “say as much or as little as you like. So long as you don’t hold me responsible for the freaks of my wife’s friends, I’m indifferent, profoundly indifferent, as to what is thought of them. Only wish they’d carry out this sort of amusement without me. I’m no use. Can’t speak a word of the lingo. Miss Dalrymple’s handsome, that I’ll own—there she has the pull over most of Blanche’s cronies—but I don’t doubt she behaved badly—”

“Mrs Martyn wants the key of her bag,” said a voice at his elbow. He swung round guiltily to face Anne Dalrymple.

“Eh?—what?”

“The key of her bag.”

“Oh, of course!—yes. Shall I take it or will you?” His embarrassment was pitiable, while she stood cool.

“You, I think.”

He bolted.

Wareham, annoyed with his position, stood confronting her. Her height nearly reached his own, her eyes, dark with anger, swept him scornfully, she drew a deep breath.

“Honourable—to set my friends against me!”

He remained silent. Her tone grew more scathing.

“Do not imagine that I take exception at your opinions—your attitude,”—a stress on the ‘your’—“to them I am absolutely indifferent. Think what you please—judge me as harshly as you like—influence your own friends if it amuses you to do so. When—not satisfied with this—you attempt to prejudice the people under whose care I am travelling, then, Mr Wareham, you are taking advantage of my being a woman to offer me an unpardonable insult.”

Wareham stood like a statue, while she scourged him with her words. Indignation gave such beauty to her face and gestures, that his own anger grew soft.

“You are right,” he said. “I am not conscious of having said anything to which you could take exception, but it is true that Colonel Martyn gathered that my thoughts of you were not friendly, and I acknowledge that I was to blame in permitting myself to mention your name.”

Her look had been full on his, now she dropped it reflectively. Anger still burned in her eyes, but she was not so composed as she had been. Her breath came and went quickly, and when she spoke her voice was slightly shaken, yet abrupt.

“Be more careful in future.”

“You may trust me,” said Wareham, bowing gravely. He was not surprised at her turning to leave him, what astonished him was that she came back.

“I don’t know whether it is because I am a woman, and have no means of defending myself except by words,” she said coldly, “that I think you owe it to me to tell me what you said to Colonel Martyn.”

“Anything is owing to you that lies in my power. But this is exceedingly difficult.”

“Do you take refuge in an imaginary failure of memory?” she asked, scornfully again.

“On the contrary, I can trust my memory.”

“Then?”

“It is just because the words were so trifling, that I shall find it difficult to convince you that I am keeping back nothing.”

She hesitated, but her eyes met his frankly. “I imagine that you will endeavour to give me a true impression.”

“Thank you. What happened, then, was that on Colonel Martyn’s mentioning your name, I asked whether you had travelled with them before?”

“And what was that to you?”

“Nothing. I have already expressed my regret at having put the question.”

“Go on.”

“Colonel Martyn, on his side, inquired whether I knew you, and from my answer jumped hastily at a conclusion which I imagine you will not require me to excuse?” She made an imperious gesture.

“I have told you that your own opinions do not concern me in the least. Come to something more definite.”

“But there was nothing more definite,” said Wareham, lifting his eyebrows. He let memory travel slowly over the conversation, picking up threads. “Colonel Martyn, in a discursive review of his dislike to travel, made an allusion to a matter in which you were concerned, and I replied that, as you were his wife’s friend, we had better drop the subject. Evidently he likes to emphasise the idea that he and his wife are two, and I imagine this led him to make the unfortunate remark you caught. Pray assure yourself that you have heard all there was to hear, and permit me to repeat how deeply I regret it.”

She did not at once answer. The vessel was passing through a marvellous cleft, precipitous rocks arose out of the clear water on either side. Wareham saw Mrs Martyn approaching, curiosity in her face. He waited for Anne to speak.

“I suppose I ought to thank you,” she said at last, slowly. “I suppose you tried to be fair. If you did not succeed, perhaps it was beyond your powers.”

Mrs Martyn arrived.

“Anne, did you ever see anything so remarkable? I hope you noticed how sharply the steamer turned?”

“Did it?”

“Did it! You are as bad as Tom. What have you been doing? Talking?”

“I suppose so.”

“Was it interesting?” asked Mrs Martyn, glancing from one to the other.

“Hardly,” said Anne, before Wareham could speak. “We only took up a legacy of conversation left by your husband.” She walked away.

“Poor Tom!” Mrs Martyn uttered a laugh. “It must have been a legacy of grumbles. He is miserable because he has to sit still, and submit to be carried from point to point, without the possibility of using violent exercise to accomplish his purpose. If he could only pull up the lake, and tug the steamer behind, he would be happy again. Can you take life with less play of muscle, Mr Wareham?”

“As lazily as you like.”

“All the better. It is enough to endure growls from one’s husband, without hearing them echoed by others. Please do your best to induce him to enjoy himself.”

“I!” said Wareham, with surprise. He added that it was unlikely that he would find an opportunity in the short time they would be together.

“I thought you travelled with the Ravenhills?”

“Accidentally.”

“Have you fallen out?”

“No, no,” he protested, half amused, half provoked. “But chance having thrown us together, does not bind us.”

“It might. Chance might have much to answer for,” she went on rapidly. “While it keeps you near us, do be good to my unlucky Tom! I thought he and Anne would have amused each other, but they do not. I hope,”—she reached the point to which he had divined she was tending, and adopted a careless air—“I hope that Tom did not try to run down Anne? He has a deceptive way of saying more than he means, and saying it in his melancholy way produces a stronger effect than if it came from an ordinary person; as I always tell him, I don’t think he is in the least aware of the impression he makes. Anne is the dearest girl in the world!”

Wareham felt as if fate were determined to force his opinion about Miss Dalrymple; he answered cautiously—

“I understood from Colonel Martyn that you were friends.”

She looked at him.

“I don’t believe that either he or you stopped there!”

He gathered that her husband had confided the unfortunate remark which had caused his flight, and thought it hard that she should come to him, instead of applying to her friend, for particulars. He was resolved not to be drawn a second time, experience having already proved sufficiently embarrassing.

“I am not aware of having gone beyond it,” he said indifferently. “How should I? Until five minutes ago I had scarcely exchanged twenty words with Miss Dalrymple.”

She persisted.

“But of course you had heard of her? Every one who is anything is heard about now-a-days.”

He agreed to the general remark, and she tapped her foot impatiently.

“How cautious you are! Now, I always speak my mind, even if it offends people. Life would be unendurable if one had to weigh one’s words like so many groceries.”

It is difficult to answer the people who present you with themselves as an example. Wareham laughed, and assured her that she had only to choose an impersonal topic.

“A hint for a hit. Well, I don’t think you’re acting fairly towards Anne, because you won’t say what has prejudiced you against her.”

So far Wareham had kept his temper, but at this point annoyance made a sudden leap to the front, and with the smile still on his lips, he felt savage. It seemed to him that they wouldn’t leave him alone, that they wanted to force his hand, and oblige him to say something that was either offensive or false.

“If you mean that I object to discussing Miss Dalrymple with her friends,” he said coldly, “you are right.”

“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.

Mrs Ravenhill thought it a pity they should risk losing the lights.

“The days are long enough,” Millie put in. “And how delightful to have this delicious place to ourselves! Let us enjoy it.”

“Let us,” said Wareham. “How do you begin?”

“Oh!” cried the girl indignantly, “there is no beginning. You must do it.”

“Ah, that is feminine impracticability. You issue a command, and we are anxious to obey, but every act has a beginning and an end.”

She broke into a smile.

“Well, then, put away the wish to be anywhere else.”

“Done,” said Wareham, after a moments consideration. “But don’t you see Mr Grey eyeing the river?”

The young fellow excused himself. He was only wondering how a particular fly which the landlord had bestowed upon him would work in the pools.

“Precisely,” said Wareham, smiling at Millie. “In our advanced civilisation, enjoyment has ceased to be spontaneous, and has become an art. It can’t be treated so unceremoniously as you suggest. Stalk it as you would a deer, and, even then, ten to one your prey escapes you.”

She cried out—

“I should think so! You had better pretend that an epicure who has made up his mind what to have for dinner is the only person who knows what enjoyment is!”

“I suppose so—yes, I dare say you have hit on the best definition,” returned Wareham reflectively. “What is very certain is that he should not come to Norway.”

“I think you are hateful! Do you mean to tell me you are never pleased?”

“Oh, pleased!—yes, certainly. Enjoyment is something more important—more all round.”

“Well, that is what we feel now.” She swept in her mother with a comprehensive look. “We like the beauty, the air, the solitude—and our companions,” she added, with a smile. “Isn’t that all-round enjoyment?”

“I really believe it is,” said Wareham, glancing at her kindly, “and that you know more about it than I do. Long may it be so!”

He thought he had never seen her look prettier. Her eyes danced, the dimples in her cheeks gave her face a sweet child-likeness, she was as fresh as the young summer which ran riot all about them. The idea took him that Miss Dalrymple’s beauty would have faded in this world of laughing colour, of flashing waters, too much of the other world belonged to it. Millies was heightened, and it pleased him to dwell on the discovery. Her merriment was contagious. When the stolkjaerres overtook them, she fed the good ponies with barley-sugar, and aired her attempts in Norwegian upon the men, who answered in excellent English. Afterwards—when they had climbed again into the little carriages, the skydsgut perched behind upon portmanteaux, as the clever ponies trotted cheerfully along, requiring no touch from the whip, but quickening their pace under an encouraging chirrup, and stopping at a long-drawn Pr-r-r from the driver—they overtook the clergyman and his wife, tramping unweariedly along. And here Millie had her triumph. For in their hands they carried a bunch of red and yellow berries, and held them inquiringly to a skydsgut, who answered “Multer.” Now, multer, as Millie had taken care to ascertain, is Norwegian for cloudberry, and here was what she had determined to see and taste, and been told she was too early for. Two or three were at once made over to her, but she would not eat them there, preferring to taste them with the dignity of cream at Haare. And it may as well be added, that these were the first and last cloudberries she saw in Norway.

Watches told them that it was early evening when they made their last climb to Haare. For some time past the grandeur of the gorge had been smoothed into tenderer lines; the river broadened—driving young Grey into distraction when he looked at it—and presently a lake opened, lying quiet and shadowy under sheltering mountains. They passed a waterfall, and mounted slowly to the inn, perched obtrusively on the hill-side, red flag flying, stolkjaerres and carrioles crowded about.

Supper ended, they strolled out; golden lights lingered in the sky, and the mountains rose against it in royal purple. The roar of the fos reached them brokenly, and as they crossed the zigzagged road, by grassy cuts, to this sound was joined that of advancing wheels and voices. Two stolkjaerres passed along the road below, two people walked, a word, a light laugh, came up.

“The Martyns,” said Mrs Ravenhill.

No one answered. They stood and watched the little cavalcade slowly mounting. Shadows deepened, the clear air was fragrant with newly-mown grass, a star trembled into sight. It was very solemn and peaceful.