“Fanny!” cried Millie, reproachfully, as the door closed.
“Yes—terrible, isn’t it? But the poor man is lost in London. One must do what one can. How hot it is!” And she went singing to the window, and out on the balcony.
The night was fine. Wareham and his companion walked the length of the park instead of calling a hansom. Away from bewildering woman Mr Elliot could talk quietly and sensibly; he told Wareham that a living was awaiting decision, and Wareham honoured the young fellow for the manner in which he discussed it, half envied the enthusiasm with which he spoke of his work. They parted friendly, Mr Elliot to strike off to the Marble Arch, Wareham to make his way slowly down Piccadilly, twinkling with lights even in August.
He felt more at peace than he had felt of late; hailing the return of common-sense as a sick man hails convalescence. Anne Dalrymple had filled his mind so that other women were dwarfed by her to nothingness; now he was able, he thought, to relegate them to their true proportion. The longer he reflected upon the state of affairs he had left behind, the more fully he was convinced that Hugh would regain his lost position, the two would return to England engaged, and Anne would not descend to another fit of freakishness.
To have broken his own chains by that time would be to regain his self-respect, to look Hugh frankly in the face, laugh, if he laughed, at a transient folly. Now and then, it is true, thought glanced off to the other possibility, and dizziness warned him of danger. For, if Hugh were rejected—Wareham found himself once more at Anne’s side; with a flutter of Love’s wings, away went the defences he had built up round his heart, tumbling into pitiable ruin, and the traitor heart rejoicing. This was not like the victory of common-sense; he pulled himself together, and dragged back his scattered forces, marshalling Millie in the van, praising her delicate unobtrusiveness, and applauding himself for appreciating it. The dimple, even, was hauled up to the rescue. Nothing was more charming, more womanly than a dimple. By the time he slept, he was satisfied to have regained his position. He slept well, too, another proof of foolish Love defeated. Avaunt, teasing boy, too feeble to overthrow real resistance!
By morning a capricious rain was falling, washing the blackened leaves. Wareham was not leaving until the afternoon; he took a turn in Saint James’s Park, to have a look at the wood-pigeons there, before going to his club for letters. A telegram awaited him. The name of Martyn as sender awoke no association until he read—“Forbes ill. Some one should come. Bergen, August 17th.”
He had scarcely finished before he remembered that Hugh’s sister was in Germany, and old Sir Michael incapacitated from moving by rheumatism. Another reflection, as instantaneous, reminded him that the Hull steamer started that evening. There was no question. He sent a telegram to Sir Michael, drove to his rooms, where fortunately his man had his things ready, and caught the train for Hull.