She advised him to change with a rower, but he would not. It was something to be near her, though he suffered for it twice over. And the strong heart of the morning showed his hopes in stouter aspect. Hugh would see that his cause was desperate, and generosity would not suffer him to wreck another life with his own. Before he left, Wareham had treated his friend’s crushed heart with severity or lightness as need arose, now he allowed it to have been serious enough, but as serious as his—never! Nevertheless, he could not indulge undisturbed in the wild dreams of happiness which flitted through his head, for with them Hugh’s face intruded itself.
And—the letter!
They were near the landing-place at Balholm, and fronted by the mountain with the strange cleft in its snowy summit. Mountain, field, the few red-roofed houses, the outstanding pier, were bathed in the glory of the sun, now hastening upwards. One or two figures stood looking at the oncoming boat.
Wareham flung a glance over his shoulder.
“They are expecting us,” he said, “you see.”
A shout came to them across the water—another. A thought startled him, he looked eagerly at Anne. She had her eyes fixed on the shore, some agitation had crept into them, and for a minute she did not speak.
“Who is it?” asked Wareham hoarsely, without turning round.
“It is Mr Forbes.”
“Impossible!”
“See for yourself.”