“Thank you, no. Sir Michael will be expecting me. I hope you won’t be the worse for your misadventure.”
From the hall she waved her hand without answering. Wareham turned away.
His walk back was mechanical, and he was scarcely conscious of the rain. It was as if Hugh was by his side, asking if his promise had been kept, demanding an inquiry into words and looks. If thoughts had been in the compact, miserable failure would have been the verdict; as it was, Wareham did not believe that he had betrayed himself. But was ever man so hampered! From first to last since he had known Anne, Love and Honour had struggled; there never had been a moment in which he felt himself free to say, “Dear, I love you!” and yet all the bonds were unseen, some might even say, fantastical. And now, at last, when Death had stepped in between the combatants, even Death could not avail. What must Anne think, if Anne thought at all about the matter? He counted the days. A month had passed.
Nearing the house, he resolved that Sir Michael should hear from him who it was to whom the accident had happened, for chance mention of her name, which might very well occur, would give him a distrust of Wareham. But he found that there had been an increase of illness which made all speech impossible, and Ella was so much occupied with her father that he did not see her until late, when she came in to the drawing-room to find him sitting there with Mrs Newbold. The rain had increased to a wild storm, and a log fire was burning. Ella slipped into a three-cornered chair, close by the hearth.
“Better,” she said, in answer to her aunt’s inquiry, “and asking for you.”
Mrs Newbold bustled off. Wareham said something about the storm.
“And you were caught in it?”
“That was no hardship. I simply walked home and changed, and it did not come on till late.”
“But tell me about the accident.”
“Ah, you’ve heard of it?”