They faced the west and a fir wood as they walked. Grey clouds covered and contracted the sky, but at the horizon lifted sufficiently to show a fiercely burning line of red, cut by the stems of the fir-trees. Anne stared before her, with her head thrown back. Wareham let his fancy skip to possible futures when they two should walk together, side by side, with no shadows between them. But he would keep faith with Hugh, control voice and look.
“They are unjust,” slowly said Anne, at last, and he started, brought back from rapturous dreams.
“He is an old man, very feeble, and had but one son,” he pleaded. “Ella, I am sure, judges more fairly.”
“Unlike a woman, then. If that is their feeling, I wish I had not come here. I assure you, though you may not believe it, that there was some—sentiment in my visit. I believed I should be welcomed. I should be, if they understood. That was the one time in my life in which I acted unselfishly. And if I had been left alone—if you, for instance, had not taken upon yourself to set poor Hugh upon my track—it would all have died gently away. Friends meddling. When has it not brought mischief!” Anger suited her, and the darkening of her eyes. Wareham felt no uneasiness from her wrath, so lost was he in admiration. “And for a man to meddle! As if his fingers were delicate enough for the task of dealing with our vanity!” She laughed shortly, disdainfully. Suddenly she flashed out—“What did he tell you?”
“He?”
“He. Hugh.” As he hesitated, she added impatiently—“He must have spoken of me?”
“He told me”—Wareham spoke measuredly—“that he believed he should have won you.”
Her face softened, she turned dewy eyes towards him.
“I am glad, I am glad. He deserved to be happy. It is so dreadful to die, and, poor fellow, I have thought since that I might have given him more comfort. Dear Hugh!”
“You loved him!” Wareham exclaimed involuntarily.