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.”Anne’s brain was spinning questions. Here was the opening she desired. Should she accept it? Two or three hours later there would have been no hesitation, but the morning, the cold-blooded hours of the morning, when caution walks by man, repelled her. She objected that the light would be bad, besides, three or four of them had promised to go over the stables with Lord Milborough.“That offers you no inducement?”He owned that she was right.“Let me hear how you have amused yourself at luncheon,” she said, as she went away.Mary Tempest’s head was almost turned by Miss Dalrymple that day. She was invited to accompany her wherever she went, stables, conservatory, billiard-room. Lord Milborough fretted, once murmured “Cruel!” but Anne made no sign of having heard, and as the hours passed, his spirits rose. Hope had been delicately conveyed to him by the engaged couple; this day of delay was, no doubt, a whim of Anne’s; humour it, and please her. It was proof of Anne’s power that a young earl, with sixty thousand a year, was forced to contemplate the possibilities of a refusal, and dared not risk it.At luncheon it was acknowledged that the wind had fallen, and that the rain was not so heavy. Lord Milborough proposed to drive Colonel Martyn to a neighbouring place in a dog-cart. Would any one else come?“I don’t mind,” said Wareham.Anne’s fingers closed on her palm.“If you are prepared for an hours wait?”“Oh, I’m not.” He laughed. “I avoid courting patience, the most annoying of virtues.”“I agree!” cried Lord Milborough. “Let us each throw a stone at her.” He looked at Anne significantly. She sat smiling.“No stones, please.”Colonel Martyn turned a gloomy face towards them.“Of all places for patience, commend me to Norway, where they wheel you in a perambulator by the side of a salmon river,” he said. “No newspapers, and your dinner at one o’clock off stewed whip-cord.”His wife put in that it had made another man of him. She thought it charming, except for the people you met, shuddering at remembrance of the professor. Lord Milborough considered it a fair yachting country. Anne pronounced in favour of the inland scenery and carriole driving. “Colonel Martyn’s perambulators.”As they left the dining-room she contrived to be near Wareham, and to say, in a low voice, “You do not drive with Lord Milborough, will you condescend to a walk in the park? In this weather we cannot go far, but Miss Tempest and I pant for fresh air, and start at three.”The name of Miss Tempest set him at ease. He hesitated to trust himself to walk alone with her, his lips yet sealed; but with another, a third, what was there to fear? He showed his pleasure.“Be in the conservatory at three, then,” said Anne; “we will join you there. And bring no companion, for it is insupportable to have a troop at one’s heels.” She nodded and passed on. To Mary Tempest she said, “Come to my room at three,” and sent her away radiant by adding, “There is something I want you to do for me.”Punctual to the moment Mary appeared. Anne kissed her.“I know I can trust you not to talk,” she said, smiling at her.She was answered by a look of devotion. “The truth is, there is something I want to say to Mr Wareham.”“And you would rather I did not come?”“No, no, not quite that. If you would start with us, and after a little time remember something which has to be done?”“Oh, yes! I really ought to write to Horace.”“And your mother will not mind your coming home by yourself?”“Mind? No, no!”“Then I leave it to you.”“Oh, you may! Only—”“What?”“How am I to know when you wish me to take myself off?”“I’ll say—what shall I say?—I’ll ask what Mrs Tempest is doing with herself this afternoon.”“That will do perfectly, and I can easily bring in my letter.”Anne saw that she had provided her young adorer with a problem which would occupy her thoughts throughout her part of the walk. To have something to do for Miss Dalrymple, and to do it intelligently! On the stairs they met Mrs Martyn.“Going out in this weather! Well, perhaps you are right, perhaps I’ll come myself.”“I am not in the humour for waiting,” Anne said. “It is now or never.”“But I should not be long.”“Too long. Come, Mary.”Mrs Martyn was left reflecting, and suspecting a purpose. From no window, unfortunately, could she command the four sides of the house. She flew to her own, and stood glued to the pane. Nothing met her sight, but the dreariness of grey rain corroborated her suspicions, since she was sure that to walk through it with only Mary Tempest as a companion would have no attractions for Anne. Looking at last brought its reward. Three small figures emerged on a path; two she knew, the other she recognised by the ulster to be Wareham, and promptly admired her own powers of intuition.“I knew it, of course I knew it, if only by Anne’s manner!” she cried, and meditated upon the nature of woman as exemplified by Anne. With everything she could wish for in the world at her feet, she perceived that she wanted more, and would not be content unless Wareham walked behind to grace her triumph. More than this her friend would have laughed at, but so far she decided upon with easy security. Wareham offered a greater puzzle. She had been certain, petulantly certain, of his liking for Anne, and had drawn a rather spiteful amusement from the awkwardness of his position as Hugh’s friend. Had he changed? She had kept him well under a microscope since he had been at Thorpe, and minute observations had on the whole confirmed her first opinion. Yet he had not to all appearances advanced one jot in his wooing. Why? Why not, now that his road was open? And if resolved against it, why was he here? Why, above all, was he walking in the park with Anne? As for Mary, Mrs Martyn tossed her to the winds. “The girl will be sent home, of course,” and when half-an-hour later she beheld her whisk across the hall she again appreciated her own acuteness.Wareham, blind man, permitted himself blissful thrills of delight. The fact that Anne had asked him to accompany them counted for much. He had the charm of her society, the defence of a third person. A few days now would end his ordeal, and happy the augury of this kindness! Strangely, perhaps, Lord Milborough’s evident admiration troubled him little. Fear did not easily touch him, except the lately born fear that he might be caught by dishonour, and the time for this was almost passed. It did not require vanity to perceive that Anne encouraged him; and his mind, once possessed with the idea, went straightforwardly to the end to which happy paths lead.Her presence by his side made him say—“It is an insult to Norway to be reminded of it by storm and rain, but I could fancy myself back there again. Why?”Anne laughed.“Which part of Norway?”He answered promptly, “Gudvangen”; adding, meaningly, “And that was a day of sunshine.”“Weather failing, you must be content with a frivolous association,” she said mirthfully; “it is merely that I am wearing the same hat and coat.”“You remembered, then?” he asked, gathering delicious assurance from the fact.“I don’t think it isIwho have shown forgetfulness,” said Anne, in a low voice. In the same tone he returned—“Certainly I cannot be accused of it.”It will be seen that matters were proceeding merrily, and unchecked—rather, one might say, assisted—by the modest presence of Miss Tempest. She being there, Wareham knew that he could not go to the point which was as yet forbidden, and, feeling himself safe from that temptation, had the delight of dallying round it, and venturing more closely than he yet had dared. Anne, on her side, saw the advance, and not realising that it was really favoured by limits, felt herself in the mood to be swung along, and resolved as to the moment when her companion should receive a hint to go. Meanwhile she flung her a crumb or two.“The rain has grown harmless. You are not sorry I enticed you out, Mary?”“Sorry! I think it delightful.”It appeared that she was almost as rapturous as Wareham. Anne told him of her step-mother’s engagement, and found that he had guessed something. He asked whether it affected her unpleasantly.“Oh no, I am glad. We have never pulled together.” She stopped abruptly. “Pray where are we going?”“Yesterday morning I came this way, and seeing a delightful path through a wood,” said Wareham eagerly, “I set my heart upon showing it to you.”“Well—” She walked on, holding her umbrella lightly poised, really wondering whether Mary Tempest could be trusted to carry out her directions naturally. “We escaped from Mrs Martyn when we came out,” she said, laughingly. “I suspect they are all finding it rather dull, shut up in the house. What is your mother doing, Mary?”“She was writing to father.” The girl came to a sudden stop. “Oh!”“What is the matter?”“Horace! Horace must be written to, and I have not done it!”“The post goes out so early here, still—surely you will have time for a not very long letter?”“Oh, but this is to India, this must be a long letter. Dear Miss Dalrymple, I am so sorry, but I am afraid I must go back!”“Yes, I see. Well, we will all turn.”“No, no, I should never forgive myself; please go on, please don’t think of it! See, it is nothing for me to go so far by myself.”“You are sure?”“Certain.”“Well, what do you say, Mr Wareham? Will you put up with but one companion? I confess your wood attracts me.”He exclaimed—“Don’t let us miss it,” and then felt a grip of terror at his heart. He had been content to go to the brink of a precipice and lean over, trusting to a barrier; here was the barrier withdrawn, and he left, dizzily attracted by his danger, and already making a step nearer. It seemed, indeed, as if he were two men, the one pushing, urging towards it, with taunt of cowardice, the other stiffening into resistance, and stammering—“Unless Miss Tempest would like us to return with her?”Anne glanced at him. This second thought did not please her, though she knew enough to be assured that there would be no hesitation with Mary, who hurried shy protestations and fled. The others walked on. Anne was sensitive, and marked a change in Wareham’s manner; he talked of books and impersonal matters, she listened unheedingly, occupied in reflecting why, with Mary’s presence withdrawn, he ceased to be expansive. “He is afraid,” she said to herself, and set womanly wits to find out the why. It was possible that he believed her to intend to accept Lord Milborough. Some remarks on the beauty of the park set her inveighing against overgrown places.“I can understand Alexander’s sigh for worlds to conquer,” she said, “but not the joy of possession. Persons may be found, I suppose, who look at Lord Milborough with veneration because he is lord of half a county. That is inconceivable to me.”“You are not ambitious of power?”“Of power, yes. What woman is not? But brains before acres, and the owners of acres are apt to cultivate them and let their brains lie fallow.”Wareham was indifferent to his rival. He said—“I dare say you are right. Lord Milborough does not seem to me to be wanting in brains, but rather in finding occasions to use them. Politics—a national crisis—might develop them.”Anne shrugged her shoulders. “He is wearisome. Is this the wood?”She expected Wareham to take advantage of her depreciation of their host. He merely answered the question.“This is it, with such a broad path that I hope you will not get wet.”“Oh, the rain has stopped,” said Anne, and shut her umbrella impatiently.“I see water. Some one spoke of a lake, beautiful with rhododendrons in spring, and a house by its side, where Lady Fanny and her friend Miss Ravenhill spent a month together last year.”“That sounds very romantic. I wonder what they talked of all the time.”“I heard they were very happy,” said Wareham.His voice was under control. Anne, walking a little in advance, did not know that his eyes, fastened on her, gathered torturing bliss from watching her swift graceful movements. She pictured him for a moment thinking of Millie, then conviction rushed over her again and checked her steps.As they reached the lake rain once more fell heavily, honeycombing the glassy water with an infinite number of tiny depressions. The lake was bordered with slopes of grass, and with magnificent clumps of rhododendrons and kalmias. Sweeping down in noble curves, they formed an island, and sent deep purple and green shadows into the water. On the left, and close to the water, stood a long low house.“Let us wait there until the storm has passed. It is only a storm,” urged Wareham.Anne hesitated. But they were as secure from interruption there as anywhere else, and her umbrella hampered her. They went, and were made instantly welcome. The house was kept always in order in case visitors came from the big house, and a pleasant room received them—pleasant now, it had to be owned, rather by right of a blazing fire and comfortable chairs than from the situation which gave its charm in finer weather. Wareham, accustomed to take note of all around him, observed so much; Anne, absorbed, thought only that fate had brought them to the best possible place for her purpose. He pulled a chair near the fire.“Sit here, and get dry. That last downpour was wetting.”She motioned to another opposite. “You there, then.”“Thanks.” He walked restlessly to the window. “I do not think it will last.”“What does it matter? As well here as anywhere else. But man is a discontented being, always desirous of being where he is not.”The reproach brought him back smiling to the chair she indicated. But something in his attitude laid him open to her next remark.“You have the air of an unwilling victim. What is the matter with you?”“It must be sheer inability to look as I feel. Do you think this can be anything but delightful?”“Confess that you have not tried to give the impression. Or, no, confess nothing, let bygones be bygones, and let us pick up our friendship where you let it abruptly drop in Norway. Where were we then?”She spoke jestingly, but his heart thrilled at the under-meaning her words indicated.“To remember would be to go back,” he muttered.Her face changed.“And you would not?” she said amazedly.He burst out—“Who would, when hope lies in front? To exchange hope for remembrance!”Anne’s dark eyes smiled contentment.“No, you are right,” she said. “We are all fools in our idle talk about the past; wreathing it with flowers which never grew, and turning it into a fetish. It is pathetic, after all,” she added musingly. “And I don’t think that the future holds me as it does you. Perhaps I am too unimaginative—”“With your sympathy? Never!”“But I believe I find more satisfaction in the present.”The words were spoken gravely, with a quiet which pleaded against any accusation of coquetry, had such an accusation crossed his mind. But he would have flung it from him as an infamy. Was ever man so tried!The hour was there, and the woman; he, close to her, heart leaping to meet her heart, and no word permissible, possible! The trial was, as he had dreaded, almost beyond his strength. To have to answer her with cold words. And what woman would not resent such an answer! He dared not even look, since the look he must have given, wanting words, would be an insult. He sat mute, downcast.Anne waited, expectant.When no answer came her breath quickened. Her glance flew to Wareham, and she beheld only a wretched drooping head. Had she so utterly deceived herself that the passion she had imagined was but a sham, a mockery? Here, when no obstacle stood between, were they parted by his own want of will? She had felt that with him by her side, urging, sweeping her along, she might have yielded and turned her back upon her world’s prize, but—a reluctant lover!Pride stormed, yet something softer held it back. She looked intently at him, trying to pierce to the truth. That he was moved she saw. He could not be indifferent. What withheld him? She sent out another feeler.“Mr Wareham, you look as if what I said had displeased you. What is there at fault? One must know one’s sins to mend them.”He said in a voice strained because it tugged for freedom—“Still more, one must know them to tell them.”“You are sitting there, and not accusing me of something?”“I am heaping dust on my own head for a fool,” he groaned. “Give me time, and you shall know.”She leaned back and stared at the fire, conscious of a thrill, but not the thrill she expected. Wareham’s words hinting at a wall between them raised immediate discontent, for obstacles should be cleared when she was wooed. And she had set herself this day as the limit of the time accorded him, believing it possible that she might yield to impetuosity. To this sluggish demand—never! It was not for this that she could give up what she felt it was heroic to reject. She was colder now than five minutes ago.Wareham, not yet enlightened, and imagining himself to have told only too much, leaned half across the table which was between them.“Will you wait?” he breathed. The words, “Only a few days,” almost choked him.Anne’s “I cannot,” was inexorable, stunning. She rose up directly and went to the window, expecting to have raised a tempest, and for a moment again, perhaps irresolute. He stood, but did not follow her, and she felt angrily indignant that her power was not equal to breaking the silence. To hide the humiliation, she said lightly—“Let us go before another storm begins.”Had she looked at him, pity might have stirred, but she went out of the room without turning her head.Wareham followed.She began to feel the position ludicrous. A walk of a mile with a man whom her impatience was ready to imagine had rejected her by his obstinate silence, was so hateful in anticipation that she would have been ready to bless Mary Tempest if she had brought a whole posse of spies upon them. Moreover, she foresaw that the weight of conversation would fall upon her, the woman, and therefore expected to keep conventionality in the front. Wet rhododendrons and dripping beech-trees suggested nothing beyond a passing remark, inane as it was safe. The dullness of Mary Tempest’s home-life lasted longer, in the midst of it she fancied a desperate “Anne!” was breathed in her ear, and quickened her steps. Her coldness now had reached the pitch of a shiver at her own foolishness; above all, she wished to avoid the promise of an explanation. Luckily for her, the heavy drops falling from the trees allowed her the shelter of an umbrella; she kept it at her ears, and shot flying remarks from underneath, careful to avoid any which took the form of questions. Her endeavours did not prevent an angry acknowledgment that if he had anything he burned to say, he would have said it.They were near the end of the wood, and her heart sank at thought of the long stretch which still lay between it and the house, when, to her joy, she heard voices. The gate was reached simultaneously, she and Wareham on one side, the other Colonel and Mrs Martyn with Lord Milborough.“Are you surprised to see us?” asked Mrs Martyn, serenely smiling at the situation, which she believed to be disconcerting to more than one. “I was at my window when you crossed the park, and as Lord Milborough and Tom came back long before they were expected, we all started forth in pursuit. Have you been far?”The question was put to Wareham, and he answered it by saying that they had taken refuge from the rain in a house by the lake.“Where we admired your provident hospitality,” Anne added, with a smile to Lord Milborough. “To be met by a cheery fire where one expected bare shelter, was such a delicious surprise, that I feel as if we ought to go back and do the honours to the owner.”“Oh, no, no,” objected Mrs Martyn. “It is growing dark, and tea will be ready by this time.”Colonel Martyn announced that he should give himself a stretch, as he wanted exercise.“You won’t come, I suppose?” he said to Lord Milborough, who excused himself.Mrs Martyn went on with Wareham, from whom she hoped to find out something; the other two followed, Lord Milborough’s face clearing like magic.“Stop, and let those people go ahead,” he said.“Shall we hurt them?” Anne asked demurely.After the humiliation of the past hour, it was balm to feel herself again. Never had she liked her companion so well.“I’min the humour to do any one a harm who comes in my way,” he muttered. “Anne!”She lifted her eyebrows.“Isn’t she a new person?”“Look here,” he said, disregarding, “I got a hint that if I bothered you to-day my chance was up. I’ve tried, ’pon my soul I’ve tried, to keep off, and I can’t. When I’d driven Martyn a few miles, I had to make an excuse and turn back again, and here I am by your side, and—”He tried to possess himself of her hand, but she drew it away. Not so, however, as to show displeasure. The very audacity of ignoring her commands pleased her, since she flattered herself he found the task impossible, and contrasting the two, she scourged Wareham in her thoughts.“Anne, will you marry me?”“What were you told?”“That you were to be left in peace. I vowed I would. But when I heard that you were with that fellow Wareham—”“You broke your vow?”“Like a shot—.”He was in earnest, she had never seen him so much in earnest. Some good elf had surely whispered in his ear what she craved for at that moment—perhaps always—a forceful impetuosity of wooing, which should snatch decision from her. Her hand was in his again, and not withdrawn. She begged him to have some thought of eyes from the house.“Say yes, or I’ll not answer for myself.”He was told to give her five minutes for consideration, and at the end of two was vowing that they were more than past, and pressing for his answer. To punish him, she lengthened the time, declaring that he should hear nothing until they had reached a certain tree near the house, and thus kept him fuming, at one moment uttering sincere vows, at the next denouncing her cruelty. Anne was in the mood to like inconsistency.“Now!” he exclaimed, when they were a hundred feet away.“Do you call that reached?”“If the sun were out, you’d be in its shadow. Give me my word. Just yes, Anne—yes! Such a small one!”“No, is smaller.” Then she repented and looked at him. “Yes, then.”“You are mine!”“If you can keep me.”Wareham walked back with Mrs Martyn, for the first time in his life grateful to her satisfaction with her own babble. At intervals she tried to catch him with an astute question; indifference protected him, for his heart felt like nothing so much as an empty husk, and at this moment there was nothing to show or conceal. It was all over, for Anne’s manner had conveyed to him that he would never be forgiven. In place of sweet Love he hugged Honour, a prickly substitute! Yet he breathed thankfully.Of Lord Milborough he was not thinking, Mrs Martyn’s hints not even reaching his ears. Half-an-hour ago Anne, he believed, would have been his, could he have claimed her, and to imagine that she was already won by another, would have been to degrade womanhood. He went mechanically with his companion into the house; all the women and some of the men were in the hall, where a big fire blazed cheerfully, and tea stood on a table where Lady Fanny chatted. Mary Tempest looked wistfully at Wareham.“Where is Anne?” murmured Lady Dalrymple languidly.“Behind us.”And at this moment she came in and stood a central point for the fire-light. As she drew off her gloves, her eyes, softly brilliant, wandered round the group, and passed Wareham unconcernedly; her beauty had the effect of eclipsing all the other women. Mrs Martyn touched Wareham’s arm.“Look at Lord Milborough’s face.”He looked, uncomprehending.“Oh, men, men,” said Mrs Martyn impatiently. “Of course it is settled.”
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.”
Anne’s brain was spinning questions. Here was the opening she desired. Should she accept it? Two or three hours later there would have been no hesitation, but the morning, the cold-blooded hours of the morning, when caution walks by man, repelled her. She objected that the light would be bad, besides, three or four of them had promised to go over the stables with Lord Milborough.
“That offers you no inducement?”
He owned that she was right.
“Let me hear how you have amused yourself at luncheon,” she said, as she went away.
Mary Tempest’s head was almost turned by Miss Dalrymple that day. She was invited to accompany her wherever she went, stables, conservatory, billiard-room. Lord Milborough fretted, once murmured “Cruel!” but Anne made no sign of having heard, and as the hours passed, his spirits rose. Hope had been delicately conveyed to him by the engaged couple; this day of delay was, no doubt, a whim of Anne’s; humour it, and please her. It was proof of Anne’s power that a young earl, with sixty thousand a year, was forced to contemplate the possibilities of a refusal, and dared not risk it.
At luncheon it was acknowledged that the wind had fallen, and that the rain was not so heavy. Lord Milborough proposed to drive Colonel Martyn to a neighbouring place in a dog-cart. Would any one else come?
“I don’t mind,” said Wareham.
Anne’s fingers closed on her palm.
“If you are prepared for an hours wait?”
“Oh, I’m not.” He laughed. “I avoid courting patience, the most annoying of virtues.”
“I agree!” cried Lord Milborough. “Let us each throw a stone at her.” He looked at Anne significantly. She sat smiling.
“No stones, please.”
Colonel Martyn turned a gloomy face towards them.
“Of all places for patience, commend me to Norway, where they wheel you in a perambulator by the side of a salmon river,” he said. “No newspapers, and your dinner at one o’clock off stewed whip-cord.”
His wife put in that it had made another man of him. She thought it charming, except for the people you met, shuddering at remembrance of the professor. Lord Milborough considered it a fair yachting country. Anne pronounced in favour of the inland scenery and carriole driving. “Colonel Martyn’s perambulators.”
As they left the dining-room she contrived to be near Wareham, and to say, in a low voice, “You do not drive with Lord Milborough, will you condescend to a walk in the park? In this weather we cannot go far, but Miss Tempest and I pant for fresh air, and start at three.”
The name of Miss Tempest set him at ease. He hesitated to trust himself to walk alone with her, his lips yet sealed; but with another, a third, what was there to fear? He showed his pleasure.
“Be in the conservatory at three, then,” said Anne; “we will join you there. And bring no companion, for it is insupportable to have a troop at one’s heels.” She nodded and passed on. To Mary Tempest she said, “Come to my room at three,” and sent her away radiant by adding, “There is something I want you to do for me.”
Punctual to the moment Mary appeared. Anne kissed her.
“I know I can trust you not to talk,” she said, smiling at her.
She was answered by a look of devotion. “The truth is, there is something I want to say to Mr Wareham.”
“And you would rather I did not come?”
“No, no, not quite that. If you would start with us, and after a little time remember something which has to be done?”
“Oh, yes! I really ought to write to Horace.”
“And your mother will not mind your coming home by yourself?”
“Mind? No, no!”
“Then I leave it to you.”
“Oh, you may! Only—”
“What?”
“How am I to know when you wish me to take myself off?”
“I’ll say—what shall I say?—I’ll ask what Mrs Tempest is doing with herself this afternoon.”
“That will do perfectly, and I can easily bring in my letter.”
Anne saw that she had provided her young adorer with a problem which would occupy her thoughts throughout her part of the walk. To have something to do for Miss Dalrymple, and to do it intelligently! On the stairs they met Mrs Martyn.
“Going out in this weather! Well, perhaps you are right, perhaps I’ll come myself.”
“I am not in the humour for waiting,” Anne said. “It is now or never.”
“But I should not be long.”
“Too long. Come, Mary.”
Mrs Martyn was left reflecting, and suspecting a purpose. From no window, unfortunately, could she command the four sides of the house. She flew to her own, and stood glued to the pane. Nothing met her sight, but the dreariness of grey rain corroborated her suspicions, since she was sure that to walk through it with only Mary Tempest as a companion would have no attractions for Anne. Looking at last brought its reward. Three small figures emerged on a path; two she knew, the other she recognised by the ulster to be Wareham, and promptly admired her own powers of intuition.
“I knew it, of course I knew it, if only by Anne’s manner!” she cried, and meditated upon the nature of woman as exemplified by Anne. With everything she could wish for in the world at her feet, she perceived that she wanted more, and would not be content unless Wareham walked behind to grace her triumph. More than this her friend would have laughed at, but so far she decided upon with easy security. Wareham offered a greater puzzle. She had been certain, petulantly certain, of his liking for Anne, and had drawn a rather spiteful amusement from the awkwardness of his position as Hugh’s friend. Had he changed? She had kept him well under a microscope since he had been at Thorpe, and minute observations had on the whole confirmed her first opinion. Yet he had not to all appearances advanced one jot in his wooing. Why? Why not, now that his road was open? And if resolved against it, why was he here? Why, above all, was he walking in the park with Anne? As for Mary, Mrs Martyn tossed her to the winds. “The girl will be sent home, of course,” and when half-an-hour later she beheld her whisk across the hall she again appreciated her own acuteness.
Wareham, blind man, permitted himself blissful thrills of delight. The fact that Anne had asked him to accompany them counted for much. He had the charm of her society, the defence of a third person. A few days now would end his ordeal, and happy the augury of this kindness! Strangely, perhaps, Lord Milborough’s evident admiration troubled him little. Fear did not easily touch him, except the lately born fear that he might be caught by dishonour, and the time for this was almost passed. It did not require vanity to perceive that Anne encouraged him; and his mind, once possessed with the idea, went straightforwardly to the end to which happy paths lead.
Her presence by his side made him say—
“It is an insult to Norway to be reminded of it by storm and rain, but I could fancy myself back there again. Why?”
Anne laughed.
“Which part of Norway?”
He answered promptly, “Gudvangen”; adding, meaningly, “And that was a day of sunshine.”
“Weather failing, you must be content with a frivolous association,” she said mirthfully; “it is merely that I am wearing the same hat and coat.”
“You remembered, then?” he asked, gathering delicious assurance from the fact.
“I don’t think it isIwho have shown forgetfulness,” said Anne, in a low voice. In the same tone he returned—
“Certainly I cannot be accused of it.”
It will be seen that matters were proceeding merrily, and unchecked—rather, one might say, assisted—by the modest presence of Miss Tempest. She being there, Wareham knew that he could not go to the point which was as yet forbidden, and, feeling himself safe from that temptation, had the delight of dallying round it, and venturing more closely than he yet had dared. Anne, on her side, saw the advance, and not realising that it was really favoured by limits, felt herself in the mood to be swung along, and resolved as to the moment when her companion should receive a hint to go. Meanwhile she flung her a crumb or two.
“The rain has grown harmless. You are not sorry I enticed you out, Mary?”
“Sorry! I think it delightful.”
It appeared that she was almost as rapturous as Wareham. Anne told him of her step-mother’s engagement, and found that he had guessed something. He asked whether it affected her unpleasantly.
“Oh no, I am glad. We have never pulled together.” She stopped abruptly. “Pray where are we going?”
“Yesterday morning I came this way, and seeing a delightful path through a wood,” said Wareham eagerly, “I set my heart upon showing it to you.”
“Well—” She walked on, holding her umbrella lightly poised, really wondering whether Mary Tempest could be trusted to carry out her directions naturally. “We escaped from Mrs Martyn when we came out,” she said, laughingly. “I suspect they are all finding it rather dull, shut up in the house. What is your mother doing, Mary?”
“She was writing to father.” The girl came to a sudden stop. “Oh!”
“What is the matter?”
“Horace! Horace must be written to, and I have not done it!”
“The post goes out so early here, still—surely you will have time for a not very long letter?”
“Oh, but this is to India, this must be a long letter. Dear Miss Dalrymple, I am so sorry, but I am afraid I must go back!”
“Yes, I see. Well, we will all turn.”
“No, no, I should never forgive myself; please go on, please don’t think of it! See, it is nothing for me to go so far by myself.”
“You are sure?”
“Certain.”
“Well, what do you say, Mr Wareham? Will you put up with but one companion? I confess your wood attracts me.”
He exclaimed—
“Don’t let us miss it,” and then felt a grip of terror at his heart. He had been content to go to the brink of a precipice and lean over, trusting to a barrier; here was the barrier withdrawn, and he left, dizzily attracted by his danger, and already making a step nearer. It seemed, indeed, as if he were two men, the one pushing, urging towards it, with taunt of cowardice, the other stiffening into resistance, and stammering—“Unless Miss Tempest would like us to return with her?”
Anne glanced at him. This second thought did not please her, though she knew enough to be assured that there would be no hesitation with Mary, who hurried shy protestations and fled. The others walked on. Anne was sensitive, and marked a change in Wareham’s manner; he talked of books and impersonal matters, she listened unheedingly, occupied in reflecting why, with Mary’s presence withdrawn, he ceased to be expansive. “He is afraid,” she said to herself, and set womanly wits to find out the why. It was possible that he believed her to intend to accept Lord Milborough. Some remarks on the beauty of the park set her inveighing against overgrown places.
“I can understand Alexander’s sigh for worlds to conquer,” she said, “but not the joy of possession. Persons may be found, I suppose, who look at Lord Milborough with veneration because he is lord of half a county. That is inconceivable to me.”
“You are not ambitious of power?”
“Of power, yes. What woman is not? But brains before acres, and the owners of acres are apt to cultivate them and let their brains lie fallow.”
Wareham was indifferent to his rival. He said—
“I dare say you are right. Lord Milborough does not seem to me to be wanting in brains, but rather in finding occasions to use them. Politics—a national crisis—might develop them.”
Anne shrugged her shoulders. “He is wearisome. Is this the wood?”
She expected Wareham to take advantage of her depreciation of their host. He merely answered the question.
“This is it, with such a broad path that I hope you will not get wet.”
“Oh, the rain has stopped,” said Anne, and shut her umbrella impatiently.
“I see water. Some one spoke of a lake, beautiful with rhododendrons in spring, and a house by its side, where Lady Fanny and her friend Miss Ravenhill spent a month together last year.”
“That sounds very romantic. I wonder what they talked of all the time.”
“I heard they were very happy,” said Wareham.
His voice was under control. Anne, walking a little in advance, did not know that his eyes, fastened on her, gathered torturing bliss from watching her swift graceful movements. She pictured him for a moment thinking of Millie, then conviction rushed over her again and checked her steps.
As they reached the lake rain once more fell heavily, honeycombing the glassy water with an infinite number of tiny depressions. The lake was bordered with slopes of grass, and with magnificent clumps of rhododendrons and kalmias. Sweeping down in noble curves, they formed an island, and sent deep purple and green shadows into the water. On the left, and close to the water, stood a long low house.
“Let us wait there until the storm has passed. It is only a storm,” urged Wareham.
Anne hesitated. But they were as secure from interruption there as anywhere else, and her umbrella hampered her. They went, and were made instantly welcome. The house was kept always in order in case visitors came from the big house, and a pleasant room received them—pleasant now, it had to be owned, rather by right of a blazing fire and comfortable chairs than from the situation which gave its charm in finer weather. Wareham, accustomed to take note of all around him, observed so much; Anne, absorbed, thought only that fate had brought them to the best possible place for her purpose. He pulled a chair near the fire.
“Sit here, and get dry. That last downpour was wetting.”
She motioned to another opposite. “You there, then.”
“Thanks.” He walked restlessly to the window. “I do not think it will last.”
“What does it matter? As well here as anywhere else. But man is a discontented being, always desirous of being where he is not.”
The reproach brought him back smiling to the chair she indicated. But something in his attitude laid him open to her next remark.
“You have the air of an unwilling victim. What is the matter with you?”
“It must be sheer inability to look as I feel. Do you think this can be anything but delightful?”
“Confess that you have not tried to give the impression. Or, no, confess nothing, let bygones be bygones, and let us pick up our friendship where you let it abruptly drop in Norway. Where were we then?”
She spoke jestingly, but his heart thrilled at the under-meaning her words indicated.
“To remember would be to go back,” he muttered.
Her face changed.
“And you would not?” she said amazedly.
He burst out—
“Who would, when hope lies in front? To exchange hope for remembrance!”
Anne’s dark eyes smiled contentment.
“No, you are right,” she said. “We are all fools in our idle talk about the past; wreathing it with flowers which never grew, and turning it into a fetish. It is pathetic, after all,” she added musingly. “And I don’t think that the future holds me as it does you. Perhaps I am too unimaginative—”
“With your sympathy? Never!”
“But I believe I find more satisfaction in the present.”
The words were spoken gravely, with a quiet which pleaded against any accusation of coquetry, had such an accusation crossed his mind. But he would have flung it from him as an infamy. Was ever man so tried!
The hour was there, and the woman; he, close to her, heart leaping to meet her heart, and no word permissible, possible! The trial was, as he had dreaded, almost beyond his strength. To have to answer her with cold words. And what woman would not resent such an answer! He dared not even look, since the look he must have given, wanting words, would be an insult. He sat mute, downcast.
Anne waited, expectant.
When no answer came her breath quickened. Her glance flew to Wareham, and she beheld only a wretched drooping head. Had she so utterly deceived herself that the passion she had imagined was but a sham, a mockery? Here, when no obstacle stood between, were they parted by his own want of will? She had felt that with him by her side, urging, sweeping her along, she might have yielded and turned her back upon her world’s prize, but—a reluctant lover!
Pride stormed, yet something softer held it back. She looked intently at him, trying to pierce to the truth. That he was moved she saw. He could not be indifferent. What withheld him? She sent out another feeler.
“Mr Wareham, you look as if what I said had displeased you. What is there at fault? One must know one’s sins to mend them.”
He said in a voice strained because it tugged for freedom—
“Still more, one must know them to tell them.”
“You are sitting there, and not accusing me of something?”
“I am heaping dust on my own head for a fool,” he groaned. “Give me time, and you shall know.”
She leaned back and stared at the fire, conscious of a thrill, but not the thrill she expected. Wareham’s words hinting at a wall between them raised immediate discontent, for obstacles should be cleared when she was wooed. And she had set herself this day as the limit of the time accorded him, believing it possible that she might yield to impetuosity. To this sluggish demand—never! It was not for this that she could give up what she felt it was heroic to reject. She was colder now than five minutes ago.
Wareham, not yet enlightened, and imagining himself to have told only too much, leaned half across the table which was between them.
“Will you wait?” he breathed. The words, “Only a few days,” almost choked him.
Anne’s “I cannot,” was inexorable, stunning. She rose up directly and went to the window, expecting to have raised a tempest, and for a moment again, perhaps irresolute. He stood, but did not follow her, and she felt angrily indignant that her power was not equal to breaking the silence. To hide the humiliation, she said lightly—
“Let us go before another storm begins.”
Had she looked at him, pity might have stirred, but she went out of the room without turning her head.
Wareham followed.
She began to feel the position ludicrous. A walk of a mile with a man whom her impatience was ready to imagine had rejected her by his obstinate silence, was so hateful in anticipation that she would have been ready to bless Mary Tempest if she had brought a whole posse of spies upon them. Moreover, she foresaw that the weight of conversation would fall upon her, the woman, and therefore expected to keep conventionality in the front. Wet rhododendrons and dripping beech-trees suggested nothing beyond a passing remark, inane as it was safe. The dullness of Mary Tempest’s home-life lasted longer, in the midst of it she fancied a desperate “Anne!” was breathed in her ear, and quickened her steps. Her coldness now had reached the pitch of a shiver at her own foolishness; above all, she wished to avoid the promise of an explanation. Luckily for her, the heavy drops falling from the trees allowed her the shelter of an umbrella; she kept it at her ears, and shot flying remarks from underneath, careful to avoid any which took the form of questions. Her endeavours did not prevent an angry acknowledgment that if he had anything he burned to say, he would have said it.
They were near the end of the wood, and her heart sank at thought of the long stretch which still lay between it and the house, when, to her joy, she heard voices. The gate was reached simultaneously, she and Wareham on one side, the other Colonel and Mrs Martyn with Lord Milborough.
“Are you surprised to see us?” asked Mrs Martyn, serenely smiling at the situation, which she believed to be disconcerting to more than one. “I was at my window when you crossed the park, and as Lord Milborough and Tom came back long before they were expected, we all started forth in pursuit. Have you been far?”
The question was put to Wareham, and he answered it by saying that they had taken refuge from the rain in a house by the lake.
“Where we admired your provident hospitality,” Anne added, with a smile to Lord Milborough. “To be met by a cheery fire where one expected bare shelter, was such a delicious surprise, that I feel as if we ought to go back and do the honours to the owner.”
“Oh, no, no,” objected Mrs Martyn. “It is growing dark, and tea will be ready by this time.”
Colonel Martyn announced that he should give himself a stretch, as he wanted exercise.
“You won’t come, I suppose?” he said to Lord Milborough, who excused himself.
Mrs Martyn went on with Wareham, from whom she hoped to find out something; the other two followed, Lord Milborough’s face clearing like magic.
“Stop, and let those people go ahead,” he said.
“Shall we hurt them?” Anne asked demurely.
After the humiliation of the past hour, it was balm to feel herself again. Never had she liked her companion so well.
“I’min the humour to do any one a harm who comes in my way,” he muttered. “Anne!”
She lifted her eyebrows.
“Isn’t she a new person?”
“Look here,” he said, disregarding, “I got a hint that if I bothered you to-day my chance was up. I’ve tried, ’pon my soul I’ve tried, to keep off, and I can’t. When I’d driven Martyn a few miles, I had to make an excuse and turn back again, and here I am by your side, and—”
He tried to possess himself of her hand, but she drew it away. Not so, however, as to show displeasure. The very audacity of ignoring her commands pleased her, since she flattered herself he found the task impossible, and contrasting the two, she scourged Wareham in her thoughts.
“Anne, will you marry me?”
“What were you told?”
“That you were to be left in peace. I vowed I would. But when I heard that you were with that fellow Wareham—”
“You broke your vow?”
“Like a shot—.”
He was in earnest, she had never seen him so much in earnest. Some good elf had surely whispered in his ear what she craved for at that moment—perhaps always—a forceful impetuosity of wooing, which should snatch decision from her. Her hand was in his again, and not withdrawn. She begged him to have some thought of eyes from the house.
“Say yes, or I’ll not answer for myself.”
He was told to give her five minutes for consideration, and at the end of two was vowing that they were more than past, and pressing for his answer. To punish him, she lengthened the time, declaring that he should hear nothing until they had reached a certain tree near the house, and thus kept him fuming, at one moment uttering sincere vows, at the next denouncing her cruelty. Anne was in the mood to like inconsistency.
“Now!” he exclaimed, when they were a hundred feet away.
“Do you call that reached?”
“If the sun were out, you’d be in its shadow. Give me my word. Just yes, Anne—yes! Such a small one!”
“No, is smaller.” Then she repented and looked at him. “Yes, then.”
“You are mine!”
“If you can keep me.”
Wareham walked back with Mrs Martyn, for the first time in his life grateful to her satisfaction with her own babble. At intervals she tried to catch him with an astute question; indifference protected him, for his heart felt like nothing so much as an empty husk, and at this moment there was nothing to show or conceal. It was all over, for Anne’s manner had conveyed to him that he would never be forgiven. In place of sweet Love he hugged Honour, a prickly substitute! Yet he breathed thankfully.
Of Lord Milborough he was not thinking, Mrs Martyn’s hints not even reaching his ears. Half-an-hour ago Anne, he believed, would have been his, could he have claimed her, and to imagine that she was already won by another, would have been to degrade womanhood. He went mechanically with his companion into the house; all the women and some of the men were in the hall, where a big fire blazed cheerfully, and tea stood on a table where Lady Fanny chatted. Mary Tempest looked wistfully at Wareham.
“Where is Anne?” murmured Lady Dalrymple languidly.
“Behind us.”
And at this moment she came in and stood a central point for the fire-light. As she drew off her gloves, her eyes, softly brilliant, wandered round the group, and passed Wareham unconcernedly; her beauty had the effect of eclipsing all the other women. Mrs Martyn touched Wareham’s arm.
“Look at Lord Milborough’s face.”
He looked, uncomprehending.
“Oh, men, men,” said Mrs Martyn impatiently. “Of course it is settled.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.A Note of Interrogation instead of a Full-Stop.The Milborough marriage was the event of the winter. It was generally conceded that Miss Dalrymple was rewarded for those contrarieties in former love affairs which the world now forgave, but kept stored up for future use—or chastisement. Meanwhile it was at her feet as the most beautiful of brides, and the splendour of her lot made Lady Fanny’s choice the more amazing. Lord Milborough’s consent flew out readily enough when he was in the rush of his own triumph, and might have found wife and sister difficult to harmonise. Since his marriage, and since he finds Lady Fanny quite content to pass her days with her aunt, Mrs Harcourt, or the Ravenhills, he is disposed to grumble at her engagement to a curate. Anne takes her part.“If she knows her own mind, for pity’s sake let her go after it,” she said once.As to that wedding, one may prophesy.But as to other possibilities, on which the last chapter is expected to pronounce, I can only express ignorance. All that this story professes to do is to take a few months out of the lives of certain men and women, and, very imperfectly, show what the months did for them. Now comes the future, as to which I know no more than you do. What do you think? Will Wareham, as the past recedes, read in it confirmation of Anne’s verdict on herself—a heartless woman? If he does, will it affect his own heart? This is certain, that the first effect on him of hearing of her engagement was stupefaction. And Anne contrived, perhaps in good faith, to let him feel that she considered him to have behaved very ill. Possibly—but guesses are like the rootless flowers with which children deck their gardens, by to-morrow they may be worthless; and I am sorry, for I should like to group them as I want my flowers to grow, and Millie Ravenhill would make any garden fair.What Wareham thinks he will do is to fling himself heart and mind into his profession. Certain, rash man, that he now knows a great deal about women, his new book deals chiefly with their characteristics. Cynicism is unwholesome in the body, and one may pardon its victim for spitting it out; since, thus got rid of, it often leaves the patient open to sweeter influences. One thing is certain, that whether his love for Anne is dead or not, his respect is gone, and that when he read the account of the great wedding in theMorning Post, he broke into laughter to think how clever a fooling hers had been.A week ago, Colonel Martyn overtook him in Piccadilly.“I’ve just left Blanche in Grosvenor Square—Lady Milborough’s, you know. By Jove, that young woman has done well for herself!”“She was made for her position,” Wareham remarked.“She climbed for it, you should rather say. She was a rare flirt.”“Stop,” said Wareham suddenly. He was not the man to belittle the woman he had once loved.The End.
The Milborough marriage was the event of the winter. It was generally conceded that Miss Dalrymple was rewarded for those contrarieties in former love affairs which the world now forgave, but kept stored up for future use—or chastisement. Meanwhile it was at her feet as the most beautiful of brides, and the splendour of her lot made Lady Fanny’s choice the more amazing. Lord Milborough’s consent flew out readily enough when he was in the rush of his own triumph, and might have found wife and sister difficult to harmonise. Since his marriage, and since he finds Lady Fanny quite content to pass her days with her aunt, Mrs Harcourt, or the Ravenhills, he is disposed to grumble at her engagement to a curate. Anne takes her part.
“If she knows her own mind, for pity’s sake let her go after it,” she said once.
As to that wedding, one may prophesy.
But as to other possibilities, on which the last chapter is expected to pronounce, I can only express ignorance. All that this story professes to do is to take a few months out of the lives of certain men and women, and, very imperfectly, show what the months did for them. Now comes the future, as to which I know no more than you do. What do you think? Will Wareham, as the past recedes, read in it confirmation of Anne’s verdict on herself—a heartless woman? If he does, will it affect his own heart? This is certain, that the first effect on him of hearing of her engagement was stupefaction. And Anne contrived, perhaps in good faith, to let him feel that she considered him to have behaved very ill. Possibly—but guesses are like the rootless flowers with which children deck their gardens, by to-morrow they may be worthless; and I am sorry, for I should like to group them as I want my flowers to grow, and Millie Ravenhill would make any garden fair.
What Wareham thinks he will do is to fling himself heart and mind into his profession. Certain, rash man, that he now knows a great deal about women, his new book deals chiefly with their characteristics. Cynicism is unwholesome in the body, and one may pardon its victim for spitting it out; since, thus got rid of, it often leaves the patient open to sweeter influences. One thing is certain, that whether his love for Anne is dead or not, his respect is gone, and that when he read the account of the great wedding in theMorning Post, he broke into laughter to think how clever a fooling hers had been.
A week ago, Colonel Martyn overtook him in Piccadilly.
“I’ve just left Blanche in Grosvenor Square—Lady Milborough’s, you know. By Jove, that young woman has done well for herself!”
“She was made for her position,” Wareham remarked.
“She climbed for it, you should rather say. She was a rare flirt.”
“Stop,” said Wareham suddenly. He was not the man to belittle the woman he had once loved.
The End.
|Chapter 1| |Chapter 2| |Chapter 3| |Chapter 4| |Chapter 5| |Chapter 6| |Chapter 7| |Chapter 8| |Chapter 9| |Chapter 10| |Chapter 11| |Chapter 12| |Chapter 13| |Chapter 14| |Chapter 15| |Chapter 16| |Chapter 17| |Chapter 18| |Chapter 19| |Chapter 20| |Chapter 21| |Chapter 22| |Chapter 23| |Chapter 24| |Chapter 25| |Chapter 26| |Chapter 27| |Chapter 28|