“And I have a letter to write,” remarked Wareham.
Anne, who had recovered herself, looked back over her shoulder with a smile.
“Do letters ever come or go?” she asked.
The idle question gripped Wareham. The letter—the act of writing—had been his difficulty; now, with recollection of how long a time must pass before it could reach England, and bring back its answer, came a sinking of heart. Honour bound him to the lines he had laid down. If he remained near he must take no steps to win her until he heard from Hugh. If he could not trust himself, he must hold aloof. There was the situation—briefly put. Cruel! For every hour, every minute, now, was worth months, years! Now the days were strewn with opportunities, he was thrown into her society. If ever she was to be won, now was his chance. Impatience caught, shook him! It might be a fortnight before answer came from Hugh, and when he looked at the past week, and reflected that it seemed a month long, he found the prospect of two such periods intolerable. He endeavoured to detach himself from conditions, and to philosophise; but philosophy is old and scrupulous, while young love has no qualms in taking advantage of the first opportunity which presents itself, and tripping up the elderly combatant. Wareham gave up arguing with himself, and set doggedly to work to write his letter.
Step number one was difficult enough.
Nothing satisfied him in expression. More than one scrawl was tossed aside as inadequate, absurdly inadequate, or as expressing more than he meant. What did he mean? There was the mischief. In these early days, when he had only just begun to read his own heart, and might reasonably claim a little time for its study, it was detestable to have to offer it for a third person’s perusal. He resented the position the more that he was unused to interference with his liberty. He lost his first flush of pity for Hugh, and wrote with a certain asperity—
“Circumstances have thrown Miss Dalrymple and me together; perhaps this will prepare you for what I have to say. In a word, I believe I am on the brink of loving her. The knowledge only came to me to-day; I imagine it will not please you. My dear fellow, I would have given a good deal for it not to have happened; don’t reproach me without keeping that in mind. As it is, all I can do is to hold back—I don’t say draw back, because I have done nothing—and let you make the next move. If you have any hope, if you desire to try your luck once more, telegraph through Bennett, ‘Wait.’ You can trust me to make no sign till word comes from you, whatever the cost to myself. So much I owe you, and perhaps you will think I owe you more, but I believe you are generous enough to forgive what could only be a wrong if I snatched your chances from you. At best, my own may be small enough, they appear to me so small that this letter becomes offensively presumptuous in even treating of them. Yet, lest you should ever think me treacherous, I write it, and repeat that I hold myself bound in honour and friendship to take no step in advance until you have told me that I am free, or let me know that you have not yet resigned your hope.”
The wording displeased him, but it did not seem as if any thing he wrote could give him satisfaction, so that he hurriedly closed his epistle, and took it to the office. A heap of letters lay on the table, they had the appearance of having been seeking their owners for weeks, and of reposing at last with an air of finality. Wareham looked at them askance, as if each carried a threat of delay.
In the morning Anne sat next to him at breakfast. She said to him immediately—
“Why are you so cruel as to leave us? We are pinned here until Colonel Martyn and Mr Grey come back. Besides, I don’t like being driven from point to point, without time to draw breath. I feel like a note of interjection.”