“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.”