The visitor was departing, and she was glad of the interruption. When it was over Mrs Ravenhill drew her chair near the others.
“Millie,” she said, “I fancy Mr Wareham gives me credit for romancing, but surely Fanny in her last letter mentioned his name as among the people they were expecting?”
“I think she said he was invited, or was going to be invited.”
“Ah, then, that was it.”
“And perhaps they have thought better of it,” returned Wareham, a little awkwardly.
To this there could be no answer, and Mrs Ravenhill turned the subject. Wareham lingered as long as he thought decency required, and rose to take his leave. Mrs Ravenhill reverted with a smile to her supposition.
“If you had been going to Thorpe, I should have asked you to put Lady Fanny’s gold thimble, which I only discovered this morning, in your pocket. But now I will send it by post.”
“A safer plan,” Wareham agreed. “Even if I had received this visionary invitation, it is improbable that I could have accepted it.” The fiction served as indemnification for pricks which judgment administered when his mind flew to Thorpe, and beheld himself with Anne, rashly venturing within reach of temptation, while his promise still held him dumb. Walking away in the darkness through Sussex Place, he flung not a thought behind at poor Millie, all his dreams fluttering round Anne. He had succeeded in the object of his visit, and had discovered where she was, a knowledge which he would have been happier without, as the vague uneasiness which Lord Milborough’s name aroused became more insistent when he learnt that he and she were actually again together. It was in vain that he told himself it was, no doubt, the fulfilment of some promise made in Norway, that the same party which had foregathered in the yacht should meet again at Thorpe. Suspicion, thoroughly awakened, assured him that more lay in it. And why was he to be asked? This, he knew, must be Anne’s doing. Lord Milborough and he had scarcely met, certainly had shown no inclination for each other’s society, and although he was not unaccustomed to being sought as a literary lion, that would not be the explanation now. Perhaps Anne desired him to see her.
An impulse led him to strike upwards to the Park, for the jangle and the fret of the streets became insupportable, and, more than this, it appeared that he had a companion at his elbow whom he loved, yet longed to dismiss. If not, why were Hugh’s words sounding—reverberating—in his ears? Above wheels, and underground hiss of train, louder, far, than when the dying man spoke them—“You promise? Not a word for two months.” And then again, again, the same words, the same voice.
Wareham paced impatiently. Why this repetition, which seemed like doubt? Honour fretted under the imputation. But ten days remained of the trial time, then came free speech, at least the power to ask for what he wanted. If, as Love whispered deliciously, Anne loved him, she would not so quickly sell herself to another man. His heart plucked courage from the “No” which he shouted at it. And, during that time, it was better that they should not meet, for it was intolerable bondage to be tied hand and foot, yet be by her side. Count days and hours, but count them out of sight of her. He resolved to decline, and slept more peacefully that night than he had of late.