“I never was more annoyed than to hear what had happened, but I felt certain you’d come on, and have been on the look-out all night. They shouldn’t have left you. It was too bad. Miss Dalrymple, are you sure you are not cold?”
“I am sure of nothing,” said Anne, speaking for the first time. “May I inquire what extraordinary chance brought you to this place?” She looked rather amused than vexed.
“I heard you were here.”
“How?”
“Wareham, like a good fellow, telegraphed.”
Anne darted a look at him. He stood helpless. Explanation was impossible. She said only—“Oh!”
“Of course I couldn’t be certain where I should strike across you,” Hugh went on, “so I came straight up in the steamer, and asked as I came along. Some other friends of yours are here. They seemed awfully cut up about you. But pray, pray come at once to the hotel. I have made them keep coffee and cold meat ready, and your room is all right. Dick will see about those fellows.”
He swept her away. Wareham stared after them, dumb wretchedness gnawing at his heart. Complications gathered round him. Anne might naturally resent what had the appearance of an act of treachery; and was this the end of the fair dream which had floated with him along the clear waters of the fjord? He stood reduced, insignificant, before Hugh’s assertive energy. Of her his last view as she walked lightly away was a side-face turned inquiringly towards Hugh.
Wareham’s mood might be painted black—of the blackest. If virtue does not always meet with a reward, she expects it, and grows huffy at non-fulfilment. He felt he had behaved well towards Hugh; an occasional slip of the tongue should not count in comparison with the many times that he had bridled it, and each of these times was quick to multiply itself. By dint of looking back he convinced himself that Hugh’s debt to him was great.
It was one way of discharging it to be waiting at Balholm, at three o’clock in the morning, to hand Miss Dalrymple out of the boat!