But it was a grand fishing-day, despite a chill breeze too weak to move the clouds, and the fishermen went off in high feather. The ladies stood on deck and waved departing wishes for good luck. Before the breeze Admiral Wylie scudded away, while Trist’s progress in the heavier boat was slower, owing to the northern deliberation of Nielsen’s movements. They saw him land, and immediately he was surrounded by a skipping, dancing bevy of little white-haired children—merry little boys who begged him in their monotonous Norse to throw a stone far, far across the sea. Willingly he obliged them, while eager hands were outstretched to hold his rod and gaff. Then the little maidens had to be attended to, notably one quaint little figure in a dress made upon the same lines as her mother’s, reaching to her heels, with true golden hair, plaited and pressed close against her tiny head in gleaming coils, who looked up into his face with a wondrous pair of blue eyes, which seemed to speak some deep unearthly language of their own.
This little one went up the path towards the river in triumph, standing upon the lid of his creel with her little fingers closely clutching the collar of his coat, while the boys and older girls ran by his side chattering gaily.
“And that,” said Mrs. Wylie in her semi-sarcastic way as she turned to go below with the view of consulting the steward about dinner, “is the man whose element is war.”
She waited a moment, but Brenda made no reply beyond a short, mirthless laugh.
During that day the clouds never lifted. It was twilight from morning till night. At times it drizzled in a silent, feathery way, and occasionally it rained harder. The temperature grew hot and cold, unaccountably, at intervals, and the roar of the river was singularly noticeable.
At six o’clock in the evening Nielsen’s boat dropped alongside, and Trist clambered on board the Hermione. The ladies, having heard the sound of oars, came on deck to meet him.
“Ah,” said Brenda; “you are the first home again.”
“Yes. I have three, so I am content,” was his reply. “Is there no sign of the Admiral?”
“Not yet.”
As they spoke they moved aft and stood beneath the awning, looking down the deserted fjord. There was no sail, no suggestion of life to break the monotony of its waters. Presently Trist took a pair of binoculars from a small covered box screwed to the after-rail, and gazed steadily at a certain point on the southern shore where there was a gap in the bleak wall of mountain.
“The boat,” he said, “seems to be lying there still; I can just see something yellow near the large rock overhanging the river.”
Mrs. Wylie looked at her watch. In half an hour dinner would be ready, and the boat was five miles away. Even with a stiff breeze the Admiral, whose punctuality was proverbial, could not hope to be in time. She turned, and, looking forward, perceived the steward standing at the open galley door, telescope in hand, wearing upon his keen North-country face a look of holy resignation.
“That old gentleman,” said Mrs. Wylie in an undertone, as she looked towards the distant boat, “is going to get himself into trouble. The steward is annoyed.”
Presently Trist went below to change his clothes, and when he returned, twenty minutes later, the ladies were still on deck, standing near the after-rail, looking down the fjord towards the river. It was nothing alarming for a salmon-fisherman to be an hour late for dinner, and there was no display of anxiety on the part of Mrs. Wylie. She was not, as I have endeavoured to explain, a worrying woman, and she was, moreover, a sailor’s wife, endowed with a brave, cheery heart, and well accustomed to wait for wind, weather, or mishap. She appeared to be more afraid of the steward’s displeasure than of anything else, laughing at it with mock foreboding, after the manner of ladies who feel that they are beloved by their inferiors.
About half-past seven a fresh breeze sprang up, blowing across the fjord fitfully, and consequently favourable to sailing either way. Brenda had been watching Mrs. Wylie and Theo furtively, for she was of a somewhat anxious temperament, and could not understand the levity with which they were pleased to treat Admiral Wylie’s prolonged absence.
She now noticed a subtle change in Trist’s manner. His meek eyes acquired a strange quickness of movement, and for the first time she saw him glance sideways, or, to be more explicit, she perceived that he turned his eyes in a certain direction without turning also his head. This direction was invariably down the fjord towards the river. There was no actual change in his manner, for he walked backwards and forwards beside them, upright yet humble, firmly yet softly, as usual; but there seemed to be a new influence in his presence. It was one of command. The girl suddenly and unaccountably felt that this soft-spoken man was no longer a mere guest on board the Hermione. In the absence of Admiral Wylie the actual command of the ship fell upon his shoulders, and in his gentle, passive way he had assumed the responsibility, almost unconsciously, without
