Chapter VIII: Reveals the Shadow

The only road in Northern Lapland worthy the name is that which runs for fifty kilometres or so from Vadso, along the edge of the desolate Varangerfjord to Seida, on the broad Tana, one of the most noted salmon rivers in the world.

Next morning, soon after it became light, Jervoise and his companion driving in one rickety old vehicle and the little beady-eyed Henkela in his ragged furs seated on the top of the impedimenta in the other, set forth upon the journey, the consul shouting them a cheery adieu.

The whole of the little Lapp town seemed to have been made aware of the impending departure of the Englishmen, for a hundred or so quaintly-garbed men and women, mostly in leather or in furs, turned out to witness the triumphant start of Henkela, who was evidently a most popular person.

During the night it had snowed, and the ground was still covered to the depth of perhaps an inch. All around the Varanger is a veritable wilderness. As they left Vadso a tree two yards high, growing in a sheltered corner of the town, was pointed out by Henkela to the two men in the cart behind as a vegetable prodigy. And as they went out upon the road, forth into that grey sad country of silence and solitude, an inexpressible feeling of melancholy fell upon them both.

“How horribly depressing this place is!” Owen remarked when they got beyond the town, the road running close to the edge of the broad fjord, where, far across, showed the misty mountains in Russian territory.

“Yes,” answered Jervoise mechanically. He was driving, but his thoughts were far from that scene of wintry desolation—away in a different vista of palms and olives, of sunshine and blue sky—a scene that was delightful to the eye, but full, alas! of bitter tragedy.

Before him, as he drove from the drifting mists of morning, arose that peerless face of the fair-haired daughter of the old Arctic whaler—the tall, graceful girl with the grey eyes that had held him in such strange fascination—even before he became aware of the identity of her lover.

He was thinking of her—thinking as he had done a hundred times during those past twenty-four hours—thinking, too, of that man whom she had promised to marry.

And whenever he thought of him, whenever there recurred to him that scene among the gnarled grey-green olives of the south, he set hard his teeth, and his nails drove themselves into his palms.

Owen noticed his friend’s silence, but attributed it to the impressive sadness of the scene. The road they were travelling was the most northerly in Europe, and was passable for wheeled vehicles only about three months in the year. In the country of the Great Night the sled and reindeer are the usual means of locomotion. The Laplander uses a _pulk_, or boat-shaped sled in which he sits and is drawn by reindeer, one of the most uncomfortable modes of travelling in the whole world, for the bottom of the _pulk_ being rounded, and not being on runners like the Russian sled, is constantly turning over, and its occupant usually finds himself beneath it.

Winter had not, however, yet set in in earnest. Nevertheless, the ground was lightly covered with snow until the whole country, flanked on one side by the great grey expanse of the fjord and on the other by the sloping treeless waste, was the very acme of inhospitable desolation.

Not a tree was visible, not a habitation—nothing but a long, straight road through a desert of intense white snow and grey water.

The ravines were rich in polar flora, with a thousand different varieties of mosses, as well as the dwarf cloud-berry or “multebaer,” which, as every visitor to Scandinavia knows, is so dear to the Norwegian palate. No plant higher than a few inches, however, survived that terrible climate of that Arctic desert.

It was freezing hard, and even in their mitts and heavy coats the two travellers soon began to be chilled to the bone. Therefore, after about five miles, at Henkela’s suggestion they pulled up and exchanged their motor-coats of European civilisation for the big Lapp _pesks_ of reindeer skin.

Both laughed at the bulky figure each presented in that unaccustomed garb.

As they travelled westward the snow became less until the stony road was only lightly powdered, the way, however, still keeping along the edge of the broad fjord, until, after five hours, they pulled up at a long, log-built house, alone in that treeless region, which proved to be the post-house of Bergeby.

This, the most northerly skyds-station which the Norwegian government maintains, proved to be a curious little place. In the carpetless guest-room was a table and some chairs. That was all. Travelers supplied their own food and their own bedding.

The post-house keeper produced his register for the Englishmen to sign, and having done so, they “killed” a tin of corned beef, off which they made a rough meal, handing the remainder to the faithful Henkela, who devoured it without much ceremony.

As they sat together in that lonely little house so far removed from any human habitation, smoking cigarettes while the fresh horses were put to amid the shouts of Henkela, Owen remarked:

“Well, old chap, when we set out from London we never anticipated this journey, did we?”

“No,” responded his friend reflectively. “We’ve met with several unexpected incidents,” he added meaningly.

Truth to tell, that journey did not interest Dick in the least. Usually he loved the excitement of travel, but at that moment it only bored him. He was on a route unfrequented and unknown to all save the Lapps of that district and the Finnish post-driver who passed along twice each month. Yet the pale, tragic face with the grey eyes was ever before his vision, blotting out every other thing and every other interest.

Owen Odd was puzzled. His companion’s almost complete silence during that long drive had caused him considerable reflection. Dick Jervoise was always so full of dry humour that he began to wonder whether his friend’s present attitude was due to any annoyance he might have unwittingly caused him.

“What’s the matter, Dick?” he ventured to ask at last.

“Matter?” echoed the other, rousing himself suddenly. “Nothing. Why?”

“Well—because you’re not exactly yourself to-day, old fellow. That’s all. I’m afraid you’re annoyed with me for going ashore the night before last when you were seedy.”

“Annoyed, my dear Owen! What rubbish! Surely we are good friends enough not to quarrel over any childish disagreements,” he said, pulling himself together and bracing himself up with an effort. “Forgive me,” he added apologetically, “if I’m not quite as bright as usual. I’m sorry.”

“My dear fellow, don’t be so foolish,” laughed the other. “As long as you’re not annoyed with me I don’t mind, I assure you.”

Dick Jervoise suppressed a sigh. What would Owen think if he knew the truth? Yet he must never obtain knowledge of it—never—_never_.

Paul Grinevitch would be sailing with them on board the _Mercur_ for the south. He and his bride—his bride!—would be traveling to Christiania to be united as man and wife!

On board the steamer they must meet. And then?

Aye, and then?