She turned and walked slowly forward to meet the Admiral, whose boat was dropping alongside.
“Don’t laugh,” she said, almost angrily; “it is true.”
“Then,” he said gravely, “I will endeavour to satisfy you by asking you to sew on the very next button that comes off.”
For a moment she lost her gravity, and was a simple, sweetly coquettish girl.
“And I will refuse flatly,” she observed saucily.
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 portholes came light and a sound of music. In the comfortable and homelike 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 porthole, half hidden by a tiny muslin curtain scarcely moving in the draught. Without, in the semidarkness, there was now a long continuous whisper, like the voice of a summer breeze amidst half-formed leaves. This was the ripple of a newborn 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 porthole. 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 portholes 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 porthole. “A squall—rain—and thunder, I think.”
Even while he spoke a green light flashed out and lighted up his face for a moment. The thunder soon followed—a long, low growl, dying away into distant echoes.
“It will be rather fine in this narrow fjord,” suggested Trist to no one in particular. “I think I will go on deck.”
Mrs. Wylie looked towards Brenda before replying.
“I prefer something more solid than an awning between me and a thunderstorm,” she said decisively.
Brenda rose from her seat and looked round for a shawl. It somehow occurred that, wherever Mrs. Wylie happened to be, a warm shawl was invariably to be found somewhere in proximity.
“I think I will go,” said the girl simply. It did not seem to occur to her that there could be any reason why she should not go on deck with Trist, nor did she appear to think it strange that he should fail to suggest it.
He came to her side and dropped the shawl deftly on to her small, square shoulders, and then they passed out of the saloon together. He climbed the narrow companionway first, and turned to assist her over the brass-plated combing. They were welcomed on deck by a blinding flash, which for a second lighted up every nook and corner of the fjord. The darkness that followed was almost stunning in its utter opaqueness. Brenda hesitated for a moment, and they stood side-by-side during the crackle of the thunder. When the rumble and echo of it had died away, Trist held out his hand.
“Come,” he said, “I will guide you—I know all the ring-bolts on the deck.”
Then, seeing that her two hands were wrapped in the shawl, he took hold of her wrist through the soft wool and led her aft. When they were halfway across the deck towards the skylight, where there was a seat, there came a tremendous crash. A blinding yellow flame appeared to leap from the summit of the mountain above them—a flame so brilliant, so sudden, and so grand, that it seemed to burn into their eyes, and for a moment paralyzed their brains. It was impossible to indicate the exact spot whence came that wild electric fire, and whither it went no man could tell. Simultaneously the heavy atmosphere burst and vibrated into such a confusion of crackle, and rumble, and distant roar, that even Theo Trist staggered and caught his breath convulsively. The Hermione quivered beneath their feet, and for some
