Chapter Eighteen.
Bergen Again.
A telegram from Sir Michael, thanking him for his promptitude, was put into Wareham’s hands as he stepped on board the boat. It told him no more than he knew before, that no other person was available for poor Hugh, but it gave his conscience an imperative excuse for his present action. Undoubtedly some one had to go, and as undoubtedly that some one was himself.
Two days and nights of forced quietude give ample time for reflection. Wareham tried to attach his thoughts exclusively to Hugh. So sudden an illness was strange. He remembered now, and with compunction, that during their short meeting at Balholm he had once or twice thought him looking ill, but there had seemed reason for it, in the hasty, anxious journey he had made, and Hugh himself had uttered no complaint of physical suffering. Wareham wondered whether any accident had happened.
It was again the Eldorado on which he found himself, and the Eldorado inevitably carried back his thoughts to Anne standing on the deck. He remembered the repulsion with which he had first seen her, and yet, as he knew now, the involuntary admiration against which he had battled. One short month ago! It appeared a lifetime. How inexplicable she had been, but how enchanting! Memory went lovingly over the days, the hours, made dear by her presence, and he awoke with a start. This was not thinking of Hugh.
He tried to extract assistance from his fellow-passengers, but they were not many. It was late for people to betake themselves to short-summered lands, and it was the homeward vessels which were crowded. He found a few Norwegians his pleasantest companions, but spent a good many hours alone, looking at the long green sweep of the waves, and growing increasingly impatient. At Stavanger he went on shore, avoiding the Grand.
The low islands and rocky coast were singularly familiar, so was Bergen, its hills grey, its red roofs insistent. Among the crowd on the landing-place Wareham quickly recognised Colonel Martyn’s thin length, and perceived that he was expected.
The greeting was unemotional.
“Had a good passage? But I needn’t ask. You are only half-an-hour behind time.”
“You have not spent it in waiting, I hope?”
“Not I. That long fellow, Smeby, sees to all that, and sent word when your boat was in sight.”
“How is Hugh?”
Colonel Martyns face took an added gloom.
“Bad, I fear.”
Wareham glanced quickly at him.
“Danger?”
“Afraid so.”
Silence. The grey stones at Wareham’s feet grew for a moment indistinct, then he put a question in an unchanged voice.
“I’m in the dark, remember. What is it, illness or accident?”
“Oh, illness—in fact, typhoid. They say the seeds were in him when he came, then everything aggravated the attack. I felt doubtful about him from the day after you left, but one couldn’t get him to knock off. At last he collapsed at Molde, and the only possible thing was to put him on the steamer and come down to Bergen, where he could be better seen to. We got here on Monday.”
At the end of a few steps, Wareham remarked—
“I wish I had brought a doctor.”
“Well—for your own satisfaction. But on that point we’ve been lucky. An English doctor turned up at Molde, and came along with us. He keeps an eye on the Norwegian fellow, and is satisfied.”
As to nurses, too, they had been fortunate. Not only had one been found who spoke English, but an English nurse, going home in attendance on a lady, had been captured, and installed.
By the time all this was told, they had reached the door of the hotel. Colonel Martyn looked into a room.
“Blanche and Anne are out,” he said. “What will you do? Go up?”
“At once, if I can.”
But Wareham had to curb his impatience for half-an-hour. Colonel Martyn left him, and at the end of that time a nurse, who astonished him by her youth, came to tell him that he might see Mr Forbes.
“You will be careful not to excite him, sir,” she said warningly.
“Does he expect me?”
“Yes. He was certain you would come.” He asked no more questions. To see and judge for himself was his thought. The dark room gave him his first pang, it was so unlike Hugh’s love of light and life. Then he began to distinguish eyes gazing at him from hollow depths, and his heart sank. A weak voice—not Hugh’s surely—said,—
“Here you are, old fellow!”
“Come to look after you,” said Wareham guardedly. “You’ve been tumbling into mischief.”
“Is Ella with you?”
“She’s playing about in Germany somewhere, and there was no getting at her in time. So Sir Michael approved of my coming instead.”
“Poor old dad!”
“I’m going to telegraph to him presently.”
“Lie to follow by post,” quoted Hugh, with a weak smile.
“No. I expect to tell him that the sight of me has given you a start.”
No answer came. Wareham perceived with a pang that Hugh’s boyish jollity had left him, and found himself wondering for the hundredth time whether disappointment had—not caused, but fed the fever. He dared put no questions, each one that suggested itself seeming to threaten excitement. At last he remarked that, considering the stones of Bergen, the room was fairly quiet. The nurse answered that this bedroom had been specially chosen on that account. She came and stood at the bottom of the bed, looking at her patient; and Wareham inquired in a low voice whether there were anything he could get?
She thought nothing. Colonel Martyn and Miss Dalrymple were careful to carry out all that could be suggested.
“He dozes a good deal.”
To the uninstructed mind, that seemed the most hopeful thing yet extracted; yet something in Hugh’s face, dimly seen, and even in his attitude, gave his friend a sharp pang of uneasiness. The nurse went back to her place, her patient’s eyes were closed, and Wareham’s presence seemed to be unnoticed. All was silent except for the sound of breathing, the buzzing of a fly, and the occasional drip of melting ice through flannel. Wareham sat like a statue. His thoughts fastened themselves upon Anne Dalrymple’s name, and wondered impatiently how he was to learn the relations in which she and Hugh stood to each other. Except from herself, it seemed unlikely that he would learn anything. And how much did Hugh know? Had the letter overtaken him?
Restlessness came at intervals, and Wareham would have been sent away, but that the name of “Dick” was audible more than once in the wandering, and the nurse fancied that his presence had a quieting influence. It was quite an hour and a half before he stole out of the room and down to that which had been got ready for him.
After a bath, he had an interview with the doctor, a fair-haired young Norwegian, sensible, and, Wareham thought, clever. It was not reassuring. The disease had laid hold with great force, and there were grave fears as to the strength holding out. Still youth was on the side of hope. The doctor thought he had battled too long at first, when he dragged himself about, though feeling ill. Now, all was being done that could be thought of. If Mr Wareham wished for a third opinion, he could call in the head of the hospital; perhaps before doing so he would like to have a conversation with his compatriot? To this Wareham agreed, and after sending as favourable a telegram to the old father as conscience allowed, crept up to Hugh’s room again to learn that there was no change, and went down to wait for Dr Scott to return to the hotel.
The small salon had little to offer beyond a piano and some loose pieces of music. Wareham drew a chair to the window and sat there, watching the passers-by in the street. He had waited for half-an-hour before the English doctor came in, a sallow keen-eyed man, with spectacles.
“Mr Wareham?”
“And you are Dr Scott? Mr Forbes’ friends are greatly indebted to you.”
The other wasted no time in disclaiming. “I am glad you are come. Mr Forbes is very ill.”
“So I gather.” He had meant to have pushed the question of hope home to this doctor, but something within him revolted. Why insist upon a form of words?
“Of course,” the other went on, “you feel that he is at a disadvantage among strangers. But there are clever medical men here, and from what I have seen, you may have perfect confidence in young Sivertsen.” He spoke quickly. “Were I you, I would make no change.”
“I don’t dream of it, and what you say is very satisfactory. The utmost I thought of was the advisability of another opinion in consultation. If the case is so grave, it might be desirable for his father’s sake.”
“Certainly. I agree with you. Sivertsen thought this would be your wish.”
“I hope you are not leaving?”
“Not necessarily at once. My holiday is longer than usual, owing to its being a recruiting after illness, and I can remain another week.”
Wareham expressed his pleasure. The doctor took up an old illustrated paper.
“If it had been practicable for him to have gone straight to England from Molde,” he went on, “it would doubtless have been better for his family, but it is unlikely that it would have made any difference in the disease.”
“I suppose no steamer was available?”
“No. Though Lord Milborough’s Yacht arrived just after we had got him on board, and followed us here.”
“Lord Milborough! Is he in Bergen?”
“You may see his yacht if you go round to the harbour. I rather think that Mrs Martyn and Miss Dalrymple may be on board.”
This struck strangely on Wareham’s ears, though, after all, there was nothing very strange about it. He asked if he might go up to Hugh, and was advised not. Quiet was, of all things, necessary, for the temperature rose as the day went on, and with increase of fever came delirium.
“I’m not a bad nurse,” he pleaded. “Can’t I relieve guard?”
“Oh, you will be useful, but not in that way,” said the doctor inexorably. “Will you come out for a turn? I have been over the leper hospital, and shall not be sorry for a whiff of fresh air.”
The day was grey and colourless; the water had grown leaden. Wareham found himself longing to look at the yacht, but too much ashamed of the wish to express it. It was, however, in the doctors mind, and they found themselves gazing down from the Frederiksberg. There in the broad harbour lay two or three yachts. Wareham inquired which was Lord Milborough’s.
“She lies behind. The Camilla. White.”
“Oh, the schooner.”
“Beautifully fitted up, they say.”
Wareham kept his eyes fixed upon the yacht, where fancy planted Anne, dispensing smiles. He did not listen while his companion talked of novel inventions introduced into his Camilla by Lord Milborough. He heard, however, that he daily sent the ice wanted for Hugh. By way of saying something, Wareham at last remarked that he had never met Lord Milborough.
“You have seen many others of his pattern. He is emphatically the young man of the age; kind-hearted, indifferent, self-pleasing. His inclination is towards refined pleasures.”
The description sounded too tolerant to Wareham, who had adopted a rapid distrust of Lord Milborough, for which he would have found it difficult to account. He believed that his companion was merely quoting stock phrases, which had done duty until they had lost the freshness of a sketch from life. He painted his own picture of the subject, working out that word, self-pleasing, until the likeness was chiefly shadow. An intuitive sense of unfairness, however, enabled him to keep the portrait to himself.
Dr Scott’s energy soon began to fidget for exercise. He wanted to walk a mile or two. Wareham would have chosen rather to wait and see whether Anne put off in one of the boats buzzing round the yacht; to see her especially from his vantage height. But he became aware that folly was fighting for the upper hand, and walked away discontentedly.
He was taken briskly through the town, along streets of white-painted, red-tiled houses. Lofoden boats were in the harbour, laden with klipfisk, or oil. The greyness turned to drizzling rain, and the view from the Floien, which was the object of their walk, had vanished into mist. Dr Scott advised his companion to come early one morning.
On the way back, Wareham put a question. Had Hugh seen either Mrs Martyn or Miss Dalrymple since they reached Bergen? Dr Scott’s answer came after a momentary hesitation.
“Once. To say the truth, we have not encouraged their visits. Mrs Martyn—well, Mrs Martyn was not intended by nature for a sick-room, and though Miss Dalrymple showed extreme tact and kindness, the sight of her sent up his temperature.” He added dryly—“I imagine she not infrequently has a disturbing effect upon heads and hearts?” and without waiting for an answer, went on—“So far we have succeeded in warding it off; it is, however, highly probable that he will insist, in which case—”
“He is to see her?”
“Certainly. The irritation of refusal would be more harmful than the other sort of excitement.”
“One question. When do you expect a crisis?”
He was answered that this was difficult to say, owing to their not knowing the time that he was attacked. Things pointed, however, to a day early in next week. Dr Scott hoped not longer, then turned the conversation.
They were met at the door of the hotel by Colonel Martyn.
“Just back from the yacht,” he announced. “Milborough wanted us to dine on board. As we wouldn’t, he’s coming here. I’ve been up, doctor, and seen one of your dragons. No change.”
The doctor nodded and began to mount the stairs. He turned to say to Wareham—“What’s your number? I’ll send for you if I think it desirable.”
Wareham told him, adding, “I’ll be there or in the salon.”
“You’d better look in, and see my wife and Miss Dalrymple,” suggested Colonel Martyn, flinging open the door. “Any one here? No—I suppose they’ve gone to rest, women always make out they’re tired with doing nothing. Well, we shall meet by and by.”
Wareham acquiesced, and went off to solitude. Before long a nurse tapped at his door. Mr Forbes had called for him so often, the doctor thought he should come, under strict injunctions of quiet. He found him restless and wandering, and as his presence seemed to give a certain ease, remained there until late, when he went down for a solitary meal. The dining saal was deserted, but he was provided with a small table by the window, and with what could hastily be heated again. He had drunk his coffee, and was thinking of returning to Hugh, when there was a rustle of silk in the doorway, and there stood Anne Dalrymple.