But Anne’s heart was guarded in its impulses. It made no rash resolves. It looked to circumstances to determine choice, not by any means suffering itself to be swept away by a dominant emotion, nor disposed to hang too long in the balance. Anne was the world’s pupil, and the world teaches the value of outer casings, with a side sneer at romance. The outer casings belonged unmistakably to Lord Milborough. This was not to be forgotten, though she was ready to make concessions to her heart. But there, too, uneasiness lurked. Millie’s name had given substance to vague fears. Her love for Wareham, for love it was, in its degree, prevented certainty. Before him she was no conqueror, but shy, unconvinced of her own power. Did he love her? If he did, what shut his mouth? Was he uncertain, hesitating between her and Millie? Anne sprang to her feet, and stood breathing hard, hands clenched, eyes dark with scorn, face flushing with the thought. Weighing all that she would resign, she demanded a mighty love from him as an equivalent, not a jot would she yield, and understood nothing of the inequality of the bargain. Had she but known it, her unconsciousness was pathetic.
She went to the window, drew aside the curtain, and flung back the shutter. Rain drove wildly against the glass. She closed her defences again, and came back to the fire.
To-morrow she would know.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Hour—and the Woman.
Rain persistent, violent, drowned all thought of shooting. Colonel Martyn, it is true, with unconquerable energy, professed himself ready to make the attempt, but no one seconding him, he found consolation in a gymnasium which Lord Milborough had set up for the use of the household. Lord Milborough himself was moody. Anne perceived that her decision had been already made known to him, and that it did not please. This did not trouble her. It was Wareham who was on her mind that day—a day of days, did he but know it! a day with an aspect of finality about it, which made the chiming hours sound like a knell. Once, early, opportunity fluttered round her. They lingered in the hall, Mary Tempest, the girl whose organ of veneration for authors and beauties was largely developed, by Anne’s side, when Wareham, seeing her thus safely guarded, approached.
“I will not class you with the unemployed,” said Anne, smiling, “but I pity you, for, as you took care to tell me, you came here with one object, and that fails you. Charity obliges me to assure you that in the library you will find, I believe, a fine collection of books, and,”—looking round—“absolute quiet. I can speak securely as to the quiet.”
“Thank you. But the picture-gallery? The pictures, I know, are famous.”