By the end of two days spent at Trondhjem they were the best of friends; with that confidential intimacy which, on a tour, when etiquette is out of court, sometimes arises from mere contact, without any knowledge of character on either side, simply from sympathy in trifles and mutual attraction, a superficial sentiment of transient admiration which occupies the traveler's leisure. The day on the sea by steamboat to Molde was like a party of pleasure, in spite of the rain which drove them below; and in the cabin, over a bottle of champagne, Miss Eva and the three men played a rubber of whist. But afterward, in a gleam of pale sunshine, there was an endless walk to and fro on the wet deck. The low rocky shore glided slowly past on the larboard side; the hills, varying in outline—now close together, and again showing a gap—covered with brown moss down by the water, and gray above with patches of pale rose or dull purple light. At Christiansand they were far from land, and the waters, now rougher, were crimson in the glory of the sinking sun, fast approaching the horizon. Every wave had a crest of flame-colored foam, as though the ocean were on fire. Frank and Eva, meanwhile, pacing up and down, laughed at each other's faces, reddened like a couple of peonies, or like two maskers rouged by the glow of the sun to the semblance of clowns.
They reached Molde late at night, too late to see its lovely fjord. But next morning, there it lay before them, a long, narrow inlet, encircled by mountains capped with snow; a poem, a song of mountains; pure, lofty, beautiful, severe, solemn, without one jarring note. The sky above them was calmly gray, like brooding melancholy, and the peace that reigned sounded like a passionless andante.
Next day, when Sir Archibald proposed a walk up Moldehoi, Bertie declared that he was tired, and did not feel well, and begged to be left at home. In point of fact, he thought that the weather did not look promising; heavy clouds were gathering about the chain of hill-tops which shut in the fjord, like a sweeping drapery of rain, threatening erelong to fall and wrap everything in their gloomy folds. Eva, however, would not be checked by bad weather: when people were traveling they must not be afraid of a wetting. So the three set out; and Bertie, in his patent slippers, remained in the drawing-room of the Grand Hotel, with a book and a half-pint bottle.
The road was muddy, but they stepped out valiantly in their waterproofs and stout boots. The rain which hung threateningly above their heads did not daunt them, but gave a touch of romantic adventure to the expedition, as though it threatened to submerge them in an impending deluge. Once off the beaten road, and still toiling upward, they occasionally missed the track, which was lost in a plashy bog, or under ferns dripping with rain, or struck across a wild growth of blue bilberries. They crossed the morass, using the rocks as stepping-stones; the old gentleman without help, and Eva with her hand in Frank's, fearing lest her little feet should slide on the smooth green moss. She laughed gaily, skipping from stone to stone with his help; sometimes suddenly slipping and supporting herself against his shoulder, and then again going on bravely, trying the stones with her stout stick. She felt as though she need take no particular heed, now that he was at her side; that he would support her if she stumbled; and they chatted eagerly as they went, almost leaping from rock to rock.
"What sort of man is your friend, Mr. Westhove?" Eva suddenly inquired.
Frank was a little startled; it was always an unpleasant task to give any information concerning Bertie, less on account of his past life than of his present position, his quiet sponging on himself, Frank, who, though enslaved by Bertie, knew full well that the situation was strange, to say the least of it, in the eyes of the world.
"Oh he is a man who has been very unfortunate," he said evasively, and he presently added: "Has he not made a pleasant impression on you?"
Eva laughed so heartily that she was near falling into a pool of mud, if Frank had not firmly thrown his arm round her waist.
"Eva, Eva!" cried her father, shaking his head, "pray be more careful!"
Eva drew herself up with a slight blush.
"What can I say?" she went on, pursuing the subject "If I were to speak the whole truth—"
"Of course."
"But perhaps you will be vexed; for I can see very plainly that you are quite infatuated with your friend."
"Then you do not like him?"
"Well, then, if you insist on knowing, the first day, when I made his acquaintance, I thought him insufferable. With you we got on famously at once, as an amusing traveling companion, but with him—but perhaps he has not traveled much?"
"Oh, yes, he has," said Frank, who could not help smiling.
"Well, then, perhaps he was shy or awkward. However, I began to think differently of him after that; I don't think him insufferable now."
It was strange, but Frank felt no particular satisfaction on hearing of the young lady's changed opinion; he made no reply.
"You say he has had much to trouble him. And, indeed, I can see it in his face. There is something so gentle in him, so tender, I might almost say; such soft, dark eyes, and such a sweet voice. At first, as I tell you, I found it intolerable, but now it strikes me as rather poetical. He must certainly be a poet, and have been crossed in love: he can be no commonplace man."
"No,
