Chapter Nineteen.
Will She Leave Him?
“Have you finished? Am I disturbing you?”
Wareham sprang up.
“I believed I was never to see you.”
His voice said more than he intended, more than he had known he felt, for he had imagined himself cool as a frosty morning. But in the moment of her entering his glance had devoured her, he saw her grave, not a smile curving her lips, and her dark eyes weighted with what looked like sorrow. He told himself that to see her otherwise would have killed his love; the pictures of her which he had summoned up, amusing herself on board Lord Milborough’s yacht, he had made perhaps purposely repugnant, calling on them as part of his defences. After all, he perceived that he had wronged her, his accusation of want of sympathy was cruelly unjust, and he flung shame on himself for having encouraged it. Under whatever circumstances they were to meet, down with pretences! She sat throned in his heart.
She hesitated for a moment before she spoke. “Why did you leave us, Mr Wareham?”
“It seemed best. Besides, my leaving could have had no ill effect on poor Hugh. You did all that was possible for him.”
Would she sit down? He did not venture to ask her, but she drew a chair into the corner, and for the first time smiled, perhaps at a flickering idea that she was shocking the traditions of Mrs Grundy. She said, alluding to this—
“They are all up-stairs, and chattering so hard that there would be no getting in a word. I wanted to speak to you in quiet. You have been with him?”
“As long as they would let me.”
“Well?”
“He is very ill.”
“Oh, poor fellow, poor fellow, I know it! I believe I could soothe him, but those nurses are mechanically scrupulous in carrying out whatever idea has been worked into their heads, and they will not let me go near him. If at any time you think it would be well, promise to send for me.”
Her eyes pleaded. Wareham promised, remembering that a condition guarded the pledge.
“Tell me, if you can, how soon he complained of illness,” he said.
“After you left? He never actually complained, but he looked ill, and allowed that he had headache the next day—the day we left Vadheim. At Sande he seemed better. Then came—let me think—yes, it was from Sande that we found the heat rather tremendous. After that he flagged, I am sure. What should we have done?”
He read real trouble in her eyes.
“I can think of nothing. I know Hugh. He would not give up.”
“Give up? No. He knows how to hold on.”
There might have been a double meaning in his words, but at such a time Wareham could not so much as glance at it. He said only—
“The time must have been difficult for you all.”
“Hardly. There was so little choice. The only question lay between remaining at Molde or coming on here, and then we had Dr Scott on whose shoulders to slip our responsibility. I bless him for his decision. What should we have done without nurses!”
She stopped and looked out of the window, her mouth half open, and the breath coming lightly and quickly between her parted lips.
“From what I have seen he is being admirably cared for,” said Wareham, “and I should think the risk of taking him to England would have been too great.”
“To England?” She turned and looked at him. “Oh, in Lord Milborough’s yacht! Did Colonel Martyn tell you that was discussed?”
The name of Lord Milborough pricked him. He replied that his information came from Dr Scott, and went on to say that he had lately seen Lord Milborough’s sister.
“Lady Fanny? Is she like her brother?”
“To know that, you must describe him. I have not the honour of his acquaintance.”
She smiled.
“I never describe friends, only generalise. I am in love with his yacht. We were on board this afternoon. To-morrow you must come for a little sail.”
“Thanks. I mean to stick pretty close to this house.”
Anne seemed not to have heard this rejection of her offer. She leaned back, her eyes fixed on her hands, clasped lightly on her lap. Wareham’s look followed hers, to see whether her rings told a story, and read none. Presently she said reflectively—
“It would be difficult to get sufficiently fast hold of Lord Milborough to describe him. Where did you meet his sister?”
For some reason the question was not welcome. He answered, however, without hesitation—
“At Mrs Ravenhill’s.”
“Ah, the Ravenhills! We live in a kaleidoscope ball. A shake, and the colours change, and quickly! After seeing so much, it is heartless not to have thought more of them. But they and you were fast friends.”
She gave the effect of a question to this assertion. He parried it with—
“You liked them too, I fancy.”
She paused, and repeated softly—
“They were your friends.”
Wareham made a movement. He caught at another subject as a drowning man at a rope.
“I have written to poor old Sir Michael, and shall telegraph every day, for everything may have changed before my letter reaches him.”
Anne stood up, her tall figure dark against the window.
“Freedom from letters has been a boon, absolutely I had had none until two or three followed us to Molde. And, by the way,”—she turned to him smiling—“I gave Mr Forbes his, and one of them, which had been much re-directed, he greeted as coming from you.”
Wareham felt himself redden. He said, shortly—
“Yes. I wrote.”
She glanced at him, and moved towards the door.
“If you have a few minutes to spare, do come and see the others.”
He had not intended going into the salon, but she drew him irresistibly, and he followed.
The small room seemed full, but no one was there except the Martyns, Lord Milborough, and a couple of other gentlemen. The windows were wide open, and the gas turned down. Anne went quickly in.
“Blanche, I have brought Mr Wareham.”
Mrs Martyn gave him a hand without heartiness.
“We did not expect to meet again so soon, Mr Wareham. It has been a most anxious time.”
He bowed. “I have come, I hope, to relieve you.”
She motioned him to sit by her on the sofa, but Anne stopped him.
“First, let me make you and Lord Milborough acquainted. I believe you already know Mr Burnby? But not Sir Walter Paxton?”
Each man looked at the other with disfavour, as is the habit of men. To avoid speaking to them, Wareham dropped into the seat Mrs Martyn had indicated, and she immediately bubbled into whispered confidence.
“Yes, it really has been terrible, having that poor young man so entirely on one’s hands, and so awkward, too, after what had happened! You remember I told you how very foolish I thought his coming?”
“I remember. But this could hardly have been in your thoughts.”
“No, of course not. Not this in particular, but I felt sure some unpleasant complications would arise, and Anne is absolutely enigmatical. You never know where to find her. I dare say you want to know in what position the two stand. Well, I can’t tell you. I know no more than yourself.”
Wareham repudiated curiosity, and felt himself disbelieved. Mrs Martyn waved a white hand and smiled.
“Oh, I don’t suspect you of such a weakness. It is one that man cherishes in secret, and you might be obliged to me for answering questions without forcing you to put them. I own frankly myself that I wish to find out, and cannot. But, poor fellow, however it was, this—”
She stopped and sighed expressively. Wareham felt a grip of fear.
“I have known men pull through far worse illnesses,” he said doggedly.
“Oh, of course! So have I.”
“But you think in this case—” The words seemed forced from him against his will.
“Oh, I don’t forecast. I have no reason for my opinion beyond what all know, but I hear the doctors daily report, and it—well, no one can call it encouraging. Oh, most sad! Extremely sad! The only son, I think?” Satisfied on this point, she went on—“Now that you are come, I have been telling my husband that as we can leave him in good hands we must see about getting home. Of course, on no account would I have gone when there was no one here to take charge, but poor Tom is hard to hold, Mr Wareham, now that we are in the middle of August.”
He implied understanding, and asked whether they thought of leaving by the Saturday steamer.
“Not a berth to be had. No, Lord Milborough is most kind. He will engage some woman here as a sort of stewardess, and will take us all. I do think it a delightful arrangement, and so would you if you had seen the yacht.”
Wareham thought his approval so unnecessary that he remained silent, and let her talk on, while he, half unconsciously, watched Lord Milborough and Anne. The doctor’s description rose in his mind, but of indifference none was apparent with Anne near. She had gone to the other end of the room, and sunk into a chair, Lord Milborough and young Sir Walter attaching themselves conversationally to it. Colonel Martyn and Mr Burnby, who was older than the other men, discussed salmon-fishing at the table. Wareham caught words which implied that Anne was being reproached with having left them.
“Why on earth you should stop in this awfully stuffy hole at all, I can’t for the life of me conceive!” urged the owner of the Camilla. “You might as well come and live on board at once, and if you’re anxious, I’ll keep a service of messengers running between the inn and the harbour. Come, consent!”
Anne shook her head, smiling.
“I’ve a weakness for feeling the ground firm under my feet.”
Lord Milborough flung an inimical glance at Wareham.
“You needn’t be tied, now that fellow’s come.”
“That fellow! You deserve to be gibbeted by him for the mockery of generations! Show a little respect, please, for wits, even if you don’t appreciate them.”
Sir Walter came to his friend’s rescue with a request to know what Wareham had written, and one or two names having been quoted under Anne’s breath, acknowledged that he had seen them lying on his club table.
“Fame indeed!” cried Anne, with mock enthusiasm. “Mr Wareham will be cheered.” In spite of her adoption of his cause, she made no movement when Wareham rose and left the room. He ran up the stairs, telling himself that he was glad to get out of her presence, and opened the door of the sick-room softly. The door was out of sight of the bed, and the nurse made him a hasty sign to remain unseen. After standing for some time, he sat down, burying his face in the cup of his hands. Hugh was talking rapidly and incoherently, every now and then Anne’s name broke out with a sort of cry; then his voice sank again into the same quick senseless murmur. Pity swelled within his friend; he reflected harshly on Anne, lightly laughing down-stairs, while here a young heart was beating out its life, with thoughts of her uppermost. That she could leave him in this state, he told himself, was inconceivable.
When he came out, an hour later, he retracted, for Anne met him on the first landing.
“I thought you were never coming,” she exclaimed impatiently; “how is he?”
“You are on his lips,” said Wareham.
“He does not know what he says?”
“No. The fever runs high.”
“Oh, poor fellow, poor fellow!” she murmured, a line of pain cutting her forehead. “If he really wants me, remember your promise.”
He could not refrain from saying—
“Mrs Martyn gave me to understand that you were leaving at once!”
Anne flashed round upon him.
“Mrs Martyn talks, but you might know better! Pray how are we going?”
“In Lord Milborough’s yacht, she said.”
“Thank you.” Her tone was contemptuous. “Wait till we are gone!”
His heart grew soft once more under renewed faith in her.
“I hardly thought you would desert him,” he said, in a low voice. “Mrs Martyn, however, spoke as if all were settled.”
“If she goes, I stay,” was Anne’s answer, and he could have wished for nothing more resolute. It was the last word he got, for she vanished.
Before her, he believed in her implicitly; once out of sight, doubted. He was ready to admit that she would go unwillingly, but with pressure put upon her by all the others, it seemed to him that she would scarcely hold out. The following morning, however, when he went down to breakfast, he found Mrs Martyn engaged in cracking an egg. She presented him with a few perfunctory questions as to Hugh’s welfare, only to turn eagerly to her own grievances.
“I must say that this suspense is intolerable, for Anne has got it into her head that we ought not to leave until we know one way or the other, and I really can’t see why. If one could do the smallest good to the poor fellow, it would be quite a different matter. I would sacrifice anything, anything! But you are here, and he has everything that can be thought of, and, of course, his coming out was really a most wilful act on his part. Anne should never have allowed him to join us. I foresaw nothing but difficulty. And I must say it is a little hard on poor Tom, who has his moor waiting, and is naturally longing to get there. For myself, of course I should not care, but I think of him, and am seriously annoyed. Besides—the yacht! Such an opportunity!”
Wareham did not feel himself called upon to answer. It appeared that she only required a listener, until she turned to him and said—
“Pray assist me.”
Upon that he inquired how he was to do so?
“Persuade Anne. When I talk to her, all that I extract is that I can go, and that she will remain behind. Of course, that is not to be thought of.”
“Hardly.”
“No, but she is capable of carrying it out. And it really is absurd! After throwing him over as she did, she cannot pretend to have very strong feelings.”
He perceived that Mrs Martyn was seriously annoyed, thus to give rein to her speech. It drew him the closer to Anne.
“If Miss Dalrymple is resolved, she has probably thought the matter out thoroughly,” he replied, ignoring Mrs Martyn’s last remarks. “And nothing that I could say, even were I disposed to say it, would influence her.”
“What good can we do! I suppose Anne does not propose to nurse him?” she said sharply.
“I imagine not.”
She stood up.
“I might have known there was no use in asking you. Take care, Mr Wareham. Anne is inscrutable.” This was a parting shot as she whisked out of the room.
Whether inscrutable or not, he cared not a rap, for the caution set his blood tingling until he forced himself to turn aside from weighing it. Up-stairs he was not wanted; he sat in solitude for some time, and the young Norwegian doctor was his first visitor. He brought information of a consultation later in the day, said he thought Hugh was holding his own, and spoke hopefully; there was a telegram to be sent, a letter to be written, then a visit to the sick-room, where Hugh knew him, and smiled satisfaction.
That day and the next passed without his having a word with Anne. Once or twice he fell in with Colonel Martyn, who gained in his regard, and whatever his feelings might have been as to the waiting moor, kept them heroically out of sight. Wareham perceived that it would have gone against his instincts to have left Bergen, while poor Hugh’s fate was in the balance; further than this, that he took pains to find advantages in Norway, where before he had only grumbled. Of Lord Milborough he spoke with respect, as the owner of first-rate shootings and one of the best yachts afloat. And more he did not touch upon.