Frances Peard (continued 6)

“And Reggie is a nice boy,” she went on. “I am not afraid of things by and by.”

So, on the next day, Wareham turned his back on Firleigh. For ever, he told himself, though Mrs Forbes had expressed a gracious hope that they might often see him, and was contentedly unconscious that he went away raging at her, and comparing her to a tremolo stop, to the scrapings of slate-pencils, and to many other sources of irritation; calling her, to himself, the trumpet of deterioration, that belittling woman! Relief at escape from her balanced the real grief it cost him to quit a place which had been like a home so long.

When he left Firleigh he had hardly made up his mind where to go. Restlessness was upon him, but travel was impossible, when he was like some tethered creature, bound not to go out of call, of reach, and hobbled, as he told himself. Not much more than a fortnight of this uncertainty remained, yet the time appeared portentous in length. He had a vague inclination to bury himself in London, and write, but experience warned him that, pre-occupied, his brains would not answer to the call. The impulse, however, was strong enough at the station to lead him to take a ticket for London.

Before he had been there two days he was sorry he had come. Writing was not for him; the sentences yawned at him like bald-headed idiots. But here his will stepped in and brought discipline, commanding that so much should be done at any cost, even probable future consignment to the fire. Something might be saved from it, at any rate his self-respect. Wareham ground away at his work, and in the afternoon plunged into street labyrinths, walking, walking, walking, without care where he went, so long as it was where he was not likely to meet his fellows. Oftenest he found himself down by the river, standing by black wharves, watching the river life with unseeing eyes, the river itself moving slowly, like the burdened thing it is. But sometimes he wandered round old city churches, quaintly named, lonely protests against the mammon around them, echoing emptily on Sundays, when the great human tide had flowed away from their walls. He passed up a narrow passage one day, and came full upon a lady sketching in a corner. It was Mrs Ravenhill, and escape was out of the question. Besides, his better nature was ashamed of the impulse. They greeted each other without astonishment, for no one is surprised to meet an acquaintance in great London, and Mrs Ravenhill explained that she was taking advantage of a fine day to finish an old sketch.

He remarked—

“And alone?”

“Yes, I can’t condemn Millie to be my companion here. Have you come from Thorpe?”

“No,” said Wareham, with wonder.

“Lady Fanny certainly said in a letter that you were expected,” said Mrs Ravenhill, a little vexed with herself for a slip which appeared to prove them interested in his movements. She added rashly, “Or perhaps I made a mistake.”

“I have not received any invitation to Thorpe,” returned Wareham, reserving the fact that one had been talked about. “Has Lady Fanny gone back?”

“Yes. There were to be large shooting-parties, and her brother wanted her. You had a sad time after we saw you. It shocked us greatly to hear of Mr Forbes’ death, and now his father.”

Wareham entered into particulars. She listened with interest, saying at last—

“I am glad the poor young fellow had friends. The seeds of illness must have been in him when we saw him, and yet he seemed so full of life!”

He wanted to find out whether Miss Dalrymple was at Thorpe, and could not bring himself to put the question. But the certainty that they would know led him to propose calling, which he would have fled from but for this inducement. He left Mrs Ravenhill to finish her drawing, and went to his club, a couple of hours earlier than usual, to ascertain whether any letter had arrived from Thorpe. The question of accepting or not accepting the invitation, he flattered himself remained in the balance. The fact of its arrival would prove to him that Miss Dalrymple was there.

Nothing came. He read the evening papers, impressed by their dullness; dined, dropped in at a theatre, and was immeasurably bored. What had come to the world that it could do no better?

Another day and no note. Now he wandered into wonder whether his reticence had for ever disgusted Anne, knowing nothing of his pledge. She had given him openings enough, he saw them the more clearly when he looked back at them; her verdict must have been either indifferent or stupid.

The Ravenhills, with that link of Lady Fanny, began to look so attractive that he grew anxious for the time to arrive when he might pay his promised visit, and took many precautions to find them at home. He chose five o’clock, and was rewarded by hearing that both Mrs and Miss Ravenhill were out. The delay added to his determination. He left word that he would try his luck again at the same time, and went through another restless twenty-four hours, scourging himself with contempt that it should be so, and amazed to find his cool control swept away by a surging tide of passion.

This time the Ravenhills were at home. Millie greeted him charmingly. The curves of her face had grown softer, her eyes had gained depth, the alert air, which sometimes annoyed him, was absent. Each time that he saw her he thought her prettier than before, but now no dream of comparing her with Miss Dalrymple crossed his heart. There Anne sat supreme.

The talk of course fell upon those last days at Bergen. They sat near the fire, with the tea-table in a cosy corner and the room cheerfully lighted, while Millie plied him with questions. Both thought, and thought truly, that their interest lay with Hugh, yet with both the figure of Anne stood always in the background; he wanted Millie to speak her name, she was secretly relieved that he had not yet mentioned her. Then another lady came in, to whom Mrs Ravenhill devoted herself, and Wareham and Millie drew off a little.

She said—

“Directly we heard that sad news, we thought what a shock it would have been to you, but we did not know you had been there until Fanny told us.”

He pricked his ears, and asked mendaciously—

“The Lady Fanny I met here?”

“Yes. You know she is Lord Milborough’s sister. Do you remember the clergyman, Mr Elliot, who was also here?”

“Yes. I thought—perhaps—?”

Millie laughed.

“It is wonderful, but true. He is the last man I should have suspected Fanny would have chosen. But do not speak of it, for nothing is settled yet, and Lord Milborough will not say anything definitely.”

“He can stop it?”

“Only for a year, but Fanny would hate to go against him.”

He was willing enough to talk about Lord Milborough and Thorpe.

“So that, after all, it may come to nothing. Poor Mr Elliot!”

“No, no, there is no fear of that. Fanny will not change. She will be quite independent when she is twenty-one. Indeed, she is in terror lest Mr Elliot should find out how large her fortune will be.”

“Is Lord Milborough like his sister in character?” asked Wareham carelessly.

She repudiated the notion. “You saw him at Bergen?”

“I saw the surface. He was described to me as indifferent to most things.”

Millie hesitated. “I think he will take trouble to get what he wants. I don’t know whether you will put that down to his credit or not? But I do believe that in his own way he is fond of Fanny, and perhaps—”

She stopped. Wareham would have given a good deal to know whether the “perhaps” had remote connection with Miss Dalrymple. He had time to reflect, for Millie was called upon to provide another cup of tea for the visitor. When she came back he put a leading question.

“Do you often go to Thorpe?”

“Very very seldom. The house is generally full at this season, and just now there is a big party.” She hesitated again, reproached herself, and added, “The Martyns and Lady and Miss Dalrymple are there.”

He looked up quickly, and his eye met hers. Something in it told his secret, and Millie turned pale. The thought was not strange to her, perhaps, although latterly it had withdrawn; it was always standing at hand, ready to step in; but withdrawn it had, and to see it again, and to have it advancing so determinedly that she could never any more treat it as a figment of her imagination, gave her a sharp stab. He, all unconscious of his self-betrayal, thought his remark, “A drifting together of Norwegian travellers!” diplomatic; and he ventured to add, “I have heard that Lady and Miss Dalrymple are not sympathetic.”

“Fanny does not say. I believe they had only just arrived,” murmured Millie.

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.

The next morning he was half ashamed of the past evenings disturbance, and would have been amazed if any one had informed him that cool reflection is sometimes as much to be watched in love as a sudden drop of temperature in a fever. Among his letters were two which he looked at without a throb, although by the post-marks he knew that they must be from Thorpe. The first he opened was a brief invitation from Lord Milborough, asking him from Monday to Thursday. As he read, Wareham framed an answer of refusal in his mind. The other was from Anne, as short, but different. She underlined a hope that he would come.

And now cool reflection stepped briskly forth. Go or not, let him choose which he deliberately preferred, only avoiding the cowardly fear that he might not be master of himself. Pledged he was, and pledged he must remain, since no thought of evasion could be honourably entertained for a moment; but he was not therefore bound to give false impressions, or to allow Anne to suppose that he by choice avoided her. His refusal would make her think so? Then let him go.

Wareham wrote and accepted. As a compromise, he left Anne’s letter unanswered.

Civility, he thought, required that he should go and ask for Lady Fanny’s thimble. He went on Sunday afternoon.

“So I was right, after all,” Mrs Ravenhill said, with a laugh. “I hope you will get good shooting.”

Millie chiefly talked to a boy about postage stamps. She and Wareham scarcely exchanged words until he rose to leave. Then he said—

“Have you any message?”

“For Fanny?” She looked surprised. “My love, please.”

“I meant for Miss Dalrymple.”

Her “Oh!” was abrupt. She added, immediately, “No, I shouldn’t venture. Miss Dalrymple has probably forgotten that we ever met.”

In his hansom Wareham reflected that women were difficult to understand in their dealings with each other. Anne had always been charming, why should Millie turn a sharp edge towards her? It was the more astonishing because Millie had nothing of the angular about her. As little would he have imagined that she had the heroic soul. Yet one may call it so when a woman bears the quenching of her hopes without complaint or bitterness. Millie went cheerfully about her daily occupations. Her mother imagined her a little pale, no more. She preferred silence, but talked as usual when it was necessary. Altogether there was nothing to call for remark. Yet in that look she had read Wareham’s heart, the more quickly, perhaps, for the quickening in her own, and before it all the budding hopes which were gently unfolding themselves shrivelled and died. To believe that Miss Dalrymple might reject him would have brought her no comfort, for there still exist women to whom love is so delicate and wonderful a thing that they can only look upon it as eternal, and she was ready to stake her faith upon Wareham’s constancy. One night Mrs Ravenhill unconsciously fell into the channel of her thoughts.

“Fanny has not written?”

“Not a word; so I suppose she waits until she can tell us that something definite has been said or settled.”

“It is too bad of Lord Milborough. I am afraid he is going to object strongly, and yet wishes to avoid upsetting Fanny while he has this large house-party. Or is he really taken up with thoughts and wishes of his own?”

“I wonder,” said Millie.

“If there was ever any truth in that fancy of yours about Mr Wareham, he will add another complication! But I don’t believe it. I think you were determined to create a romance.”

The girl laughed, with successful hiding of the effort.

“Well, we shall hear what Fanny thinks.”

“Poor little Fanny!”

“She will have to fight her own battles and his too.”

“Oh, I am not so sure. He has fighting blood in him.”

“Is it the glow of the Berserker?” asked Millie wickedly.

Doubt had not left Wareham. It laid a hand, healthfully cold, as he had to own, upon the visions of Anne which crowded before him. It suggested a telegraphed excuse as a means of escaping the ordeal. But it found itself confronted determinedly by a strong man’s pride. Now that he had agreed to go, pride assured him that to shrink was disgraceful, and before pride, stepping robustly forward, doubt looked a poor shadowy thing. Wareham ordered it out of the way, and Monday saw him in the train which would take him to Thorpe in time for dinner. He had a drive of some miles from the station, and from the length of road which lay between the lodge and the house, perceived that the park was very large. A slight descent led to twinkling lights. Here stood the great house, planted solidly as a castle, of which, indeed, it only wanted the name.

And here was Anne.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Fire and Cold Water.

Wareham was met in the hall by Lord Milborough—thanked for coming. They went up the broad staircase together.

“The first gong has sounded, and there’s nobody in the drawing-room,” his host explained. “You’ll find friends here, I hope. Colonel and Mrs Martyn.”

He paused. Wareham did not feel the necessity for speaking.

“Lady and Miss Dalrymple, and half-a-dozen others.”

The half-dozen others multiplied before dinner. The great drawing-room with its fine Gainsboroughs looked cheerfully full. Lady Fanny welcomed Wareham warmly, and put a dozen questions about her friends.

“You saw them yesterday?”

“And am the bearer of lost property.”

“My thimble! Thank you a thousand times. Sad to say, I had never missed it; but I must not let Millie know that, or I shall be scolded for my idleness. Oh, if you had only persuaded them to come with you!” She hoped that Wareham’s heart echoed the wish, and would have been mightily disappointed could she have peeped at it. Where was Anne? Not yet in the room. Mrs Martyn, however, smiled at him from a sofa, and he was obliged to seat himself by her side, and to endure a characteristic greeting.

“I hope you don’t object, Mr Wareham; but it almost gave me a shock to hear you were coming. I knew the sight of you would bring back that nightmare time at Bergen.”

“Did you mind it so much?”

“How can you ask? I tell Lord Milborough he saved my life, for if the yacht had not been there, I might have hung myself. That poor young man! You never ought to have told him to come out. It wasn’t fair on us.”

Wareham sat mute. She glanced at him, and played with her great fan.

“And now you have arrived, I suppose, to see the next act of the play?”

He inquired what that was to be.

“You don’t know? Then I shan’t enlighten you. This is a good house, isn’t it? with capabilities. And the pictures are good. There are one or two smaller and extremely choice in the boudoir opening out of this room. Ah, Anne is coming from it at this minute.”

Anne it was, followed by Lord Milborough; Anne in soft draperies of white and yellow, here and there flash of diamonds, brilliant as Wareham had never seen her before. She came towards him, and he rose.

“You are to take me in to dinner,” she said smilingly.

“Fortunate I!”

Another man presented himself.

“Not to-night, Mr Orpington. Go and ask Lady Fanny to effect an exchange between you and Mr Wareham.”

“It seems that I am indebted even more than I knew,” said Wareham, in a low voice, as they proceeded to the dining-room.

“It is my rule to resist tyranny. What can be so odious as to be handed over for two hours to a man with whom you have nothing in common?”

Others noticed the act. As they passed Lord Milborough’s chair, he murmured—

“Queens command.”

Anne took no notice. As soon as they were seated, she said to Wareham—

“Now for your apology.”

“My apology?”

“I wrote, and you did not bestow upon me so much as a line. Were you afraid that I should trade with your autograph?”

“Folly is not yet quite rampant in man. I answered by obeying.”

She turned a little towards him.

“It is not a bad house to stay in. One has one’s liberty.” The next moment she added—“Do you know my step-mother?”

“No.”

“She is there—in black and green. Black hair as well. You need not murmur inarticulate admiration, for we do not love each other.”

“That does not make her the less handsome.”

“To women it does. Where a woman dislikes she cannot admire. Probably you know most of the other people?”

“No. I see Lord Arthur Crosse next Lady Dalrymple.”

Anne let her eyes rest reflectively upon the two persons he named, without answering the remark except by a slight nod. Presently, however, she said—

“Do you think he will marry her? The question interests me more than it should, for you know that we are in a measure bound together. My father ruled that I was to be dependent upon her until I married—or she. I believe our old lawyer got that last clause put in out of sheer good-will to me, for my father had faith in her perpetual tears. He loved me, too, but he tried to see too far. I am not sure that a will is ever a just thing. The dead, should they control the living?” She was unconscious how closely Wareham’s thoughts flew with hers. He said—

“They must, while men have hearts. Made as we are, it is impossible to refuse what the dying ask.”

“What they ask?” repeated Anne, lifting her eyebrows. “I was talking of what they command. The most undecided of men becomes an irrevocable force by the mere act of dying.”

“There are other forces besides that of law,” Wareham persisted. “A wish may bind as tightly as a will.”

He was reminded of an old trick of Anne’s which he had almost forgotten, when she threw him a glance between half-closed lids. But the lady on his other side addressed a remark to him, and Anne took the opportunity to talk to her neighbour. Wareham saw Lady Fanny looking at them with what he supposed to be surprise at the audacity which had changed the order of the dinner, or, rather, the diners; of other thoughts of hers he was unsuspicious. By and by Anne addressed him again.

“Are you the typical Englishman, only happy when you are killing something?”

He broke into sturdy disclaimer.

“You mean because I have come to shoot? I like the open air and the walking; as for results, I am absolutely indifferent.”

“But you go out with them to-morrow?” He said yes, and added quickly, without looking at her—

“Why else am I here?”

“True. Why else?” Anne said, speaking deliberately, and nibbling an almond. “To tell the truth, I thought it probable the inducement might not be sufficient. That was why I wrote.”

The answer “Your summons brought me,” rushed to his lips, and had to be driven back. He only ventured on, “And I have not thanked you,” and dashed in another direction. “Colonel Martyn looks almost happy. I expect this life is very congenial to him.”

“Nothing could be more so. He is out from morning to night, and can tell you the history of every hit and every miss, chapter and verse. Norway was wasted time in his life.”

“He has more heart than his wife,” said Wareham bluntly.

“You were speaking to her just now. Has that caused your criticism?”

“Not that more than another, but it did not change my impression.”

“I suspect that to change would always cost you something,” said Anne, smiling.

He was on the watch against a personal note, and held himself woodenly irresponsive. But the fretting consciousness of being tongue-tied whenever he was with her, of being forced into the condition of a surface against which a match was struck in vain, worried his nerves into irritation. More than once he thought that Anne glanced at him with surprise at his dullness, or might it be his coldness. This seemed hardly possible to him, conscious as he was of a fire within which had to be kept down by liberal sluicing with cold water. It was delight to be near her, yet torture, and he told himself that he had been a fool to come. Yet when the men were left in the room after dinner it had become a desert.

The evening might have been blissful.

Opportunity was there, could he have grasped her. Once or twice, it is true, Lord Milborough succeeded in monopolising Anne; but there was scarcely a minute when Wareham was not aware that the privilege might have been his, had he sought it.

Anne’s extreme beauty, the brilliant beauty which belongs to night, the attraction she undoubtedly was bent on exercising, made his brain dizzy. As they parted in the hall, she said reproachfully—

“So you desert us for the whole of to-morrow!”

“Thank goodness!” said a voice behind.

“Discontented men hanging about the whole of the day would be unendurable.”

It was Mrs Martyn. Anne laughed good-humouredly.

“I don’t know your discontented men.”

She was told to wait until experience had been broadened by marriage, and rated with prophecies all the way up the stairs. At Mrs Martyn’s door she lingered, and finally entered, dropping into a deep chair near the fire. Blanche dismissed her maid, and stood by the mantelpiece, unfastening her bracelets.

“The house has capabilities,” she said, “and you may make it charming.”

Anne stared.

“My dear, you don’t suppose that I am blind and deaf? Of course, we all know that you can marry Lord Milborough when you please. Why pretend?”

“What do you expect me to say?” said Anne coolly.

“Not the usual stock commonplaces.”

“It is hard to be original when one has nothing to say; harder, perhaps, when one has. I give it up. Commonplace or not, I assure you Lord Milborough has not asked me to marry him, so that I have had no opportunity of—”

“Accepting him?” said Mrs Martyn eagerly.

“Giving him an answer.”

“You are an adept, my dear, in holding a man at arm’s length, or drawing him nearer as you please!”

Anne’s eyes were charged with anger.

“Blanche!”

“Can you deny it? Every now and then you land yourself in a scrape, as with that poor young fellow. Anne, tell me”—with a change of voice she leaned forward curiously—“if he had lived, what would you have done?”

Anne glanced at her, and did not at first answer. She lay back in the chair, her dark head resting against the cushion, the flicker of the fire catching a diamond cluster which nestled in her hair. Presently she said slowly—

“I don’t know. I believe he might have swept me into marrying him.”

“Is that the secret?”

“I feel like Samson—as foolish perhaps in breathing it—but the man who marries me must do it quickly, give me no time to find out that I hate him, or to change my mind. If I see him hesitate, he is lost.”

“You want a stronger will than your own?” Mrs Martyn said in surprise. “What a dangerous wish!”

“I want my eyes bandaged, like a shying horse,” said Anne, smiling at her own simile. “Then I might take the leap. Otherwise I see too much, and imagination refuses to trot along meekly gazing at the one side of the subject which is presented to me.”

“It is a pity you did not live in old days. A border raid or a swoop of pirates might have given you the wooing you desire.”

Anne agreed.

“No time for hesitation.”

Mrs Martyn remarked that Thorpe would be more to her own liking than an old Scotch stronghold. Anne got up.

“Ah, don’t weary me with talk of it!”

“I believe, after all, you are like Samson, and have not told me the truth at all. What you really want is a struggle. You conquer too easily.”

Anne stood considering.

“That is only the first act of the drama,” she said at last. “I hold to what I have said. No more questions. Good-night.”

As her maid was brushing her hair, she asked whether the Mr Wareham who had arrived that evening was not the same gentleman who had come to their rescue in that dreadful accident when they were so nearly killed? Anne laughed.

“Your memory is so creative, Watkins, that you add fresh horrors whenever you allude to that day. Yes, it was Mr Wareham with whom I walked to Oakwood.”

“How you could, ma’am! My legs wouldn’t have carried me.”

“They must, if the young farmer hadn’t been there. Did he tell you Mr Wareham’s name?”

“Yes, ma’am. And that he was staying at Sir Michael Forbes’.”

“Anything more?” asked Anne indifferently.

“He was a great friend of the family, Mr Smith said, and down there a great deal. There was some talk of he and Miss Forbes making a match of it. But people are so ready to talk!”

“They are!” Anne agreed with a smile. She sent Watkins away, and sat before the fire staring at a cheerfully blazing log, and bent on investigations. Mrs Martyn’s rather broad statements were not required to enlighten her as to the fact that a crisis in her life approached, and for once she did not know how to deal with it. A year ago—six months ago—she would have known very well; then there came a hitherto unknown stirring in her heart, not love, but liking, for Hugh. It amused her so much to find herself at last the sport of fancy, that she caught at the diversion, meaning to break away from the mischievous elf when she pleased. But that strange weakness of her nature which she had confessed to Mrs Martyn, that yielding to a dominating impetuosity, carried her further than she intended. She was on the verge before she knew, she did not love him well enough to take the plunge, yet liked him so much that her retreat had to be cowardly.

Moreover, she had shocked her world, and felt her kingdom totter. To meet Wareham at this moment was to be irresistibly impelled to charm. Conquer him, and she was once more queen—at least in her own estimation. She found balm to her wounded vanity in re-asserting power.

Then she was puzzled. Convinced that to a certain extent she had succeeded, she was met by a wall of reserve, tried to get round it, to break it down; failed, and stood piqued and revolving. Even when she had to her own satisfaction penetrated the cause, it displeased her, for though she had never felt a deep love, she insisted that to be true it must over-ride friendship. Difficulty and displeasure together attracted her to Wareham the more, and when Hugh died, her thoughts crowned him for his fidelity; the more readily, since it could no longer hamper her. The verdict upon her that she was heartless she had accepted with a jest, and quoted the world, but it had secretly stung her, because she was suspicious of its truth. But her feelings towards Wareham relieved her, for something had awakened in her different from what she had hitherto experienced. She told herself that to marry him she might be ready to give up a good deal—Thorpe, for instance—and she closed her eyes, recalling his face, his voice, the strength of his mouth, which had always fascinated her. Meeting him at Firleigh, she had expected more than he gave: as it did not come, she supposed that he was waiting for a decent interval to elapse, or perhaps trusted to that second interview which Sir Hugh’s death frustrated.

But now, now she had cast her die. Only by dint of ingenious management of Lord Milborough had she gained the invitation. Nothing at Bergen had raised his suspicions, and when he consulted her as to the people who should be asked, Wareham was indifferently suggested. A man of note.

“Not much in my line,” said Lord Milborough, whereupon her “But perhaps in mine,” alarmed him, lest she should think her tastes would not have full play. He was asked and was there. The next two days must decide. For that time she believed she could hold back her host. In that time she would take care that Wareham had his opportunity. She did not acknowledge herself to be won, but owned that he might win her. If he did not—then farewell, hearts and lovers. There remained Thorpe.

Chapter Twenty Six.

On the Watch.

Wareham was an early riser; he went out to take a look at Thorpe before others were stirring. The house was a large block, flanked, except on one side, by four corner towers, each finished by a cupola dome. On the differing side an addition had been built out beyond the towers. A dome resembling those at the corners sprang from the original centre of the house. The windows were square Tudor. A large projection marked the porch, entered by carriages under an arch; a background of fine trees, their foliage thinned but gorgeous, made a fitting setting for a stately building. Wareham pushed his researches into the park. The morning glittered with frost and keen beauty, the air was still and clear, a white sky overhead, and blue distances disclosing; after a time he reached a wood, civilised by a well-kept path running through it; seeing a gleam of water beyond, he told himself that he would come there the next morning, and went back to the house, braced by the fresh air after a somewhat wakeful night.

He had finished his breakfast by the time the ladies appeared, and had no more than a greeting from Anne before the shooting party set off. This, judgment told him, was well, since certain restive impulses of his heart warned him of danger.

The home coverts were to be shot, and before starting Lord Milborough gave some emphatic directions to his sister. She nodded impatiently—

“Oh, I understand, I understand. Mil, you never will give me a word.”

“Is this the time for it?”

“Your time is never! You don’t consider that I am breaking my heart. I declare if you are not quick, I’ll stand up when dinner is going on, and insist upon an answer.”

“And you’re capable of it,” he said, with a laugh. “Well, I’ll tell you this, Fan. You’re nothing short of a goose, but if I get what I want, you shall have what you want. There?” She shook her head dubiously.

“If you don’t?”

“I am serious this time, and I mean to. Help me, and the better for you.” He was gone.

“And for Millie,” Lady Fanny reflected with a sigh. She had read danger in Anne’s manoeuvre of the night before. And she already knew enough of the world to gauge pretty accurately the power of Anne’s charm. Spirits bubbled too persistently with her to be checked, and she had nothing to cause her serious uneasiness as to her choice of John Elliot, but she wanted every one dear to her to be happy, to which end it appeared that Anne’s marriage with Lord Milborough would most effectually minister. Her present task was to induce Anne to go out with the luncheon for the shooters.

“Bring as many as you can,” had been her brother’s directions, so unwonted, that she perceived he feared too general a buzzing round Anne. She went in search of her aunt, Mrs Harcourt, Irish, impracticable, and witty; but she would have none of it, and shivered at the very idea of the neighbourhood of wet turnips.

“As if you were afraid of turnips, Aunt Kathleen!”

“English ones, my dear, and chilly. Take that Mrs Martyn.”

“You don’t like her?”

“No better than the turnips, and for the same reason.”

Others were not so impracticable, Lady Dalrymple agreeing with alacrity, Anne too; in all, six or eight met in the hall when the time for starting came. A pony had gone on with the provisions, and when they reached the spot, the gentlemen were there, and luncheon spread. The neighbourhood of a wood-shed had been chosen; faggots and logs formed seats, servants were on the watch to anticipate every want. Lord Milborough fastened on the place next Anne, Wareham sat where he could see her. He noticed that she was silent, though smiling. What he failed to see was the quiet ingenuity with which she baffled Lord Milborough’s attempts to draw her away from the others when the luncheon was over. She was assured that the finest view in the county lay within twenty yards of where they were standing, a whispered entreaty implored her to let him show it to her. Anne refused, laughing.

“Our part is done, we vanish!” she cried. “I hope I have been better brought up than to interfere with that more important part of creation which was provided for men to shoot. Go to your birds.”

He was heard to mutter—

“Hang the birds!”

“Come, come!” she called to the others. “Lord Milborough’s patience is failing him so completely that he is on the verge of bad language. We are in the way.”

Wareham had neither smile nor word, but a look in place of them in which he blissfully fancied reproach lurked.

The wood-shed was nearly a mile from the house, and in the nearest curve of road two or three carriages were waiting; one was Lady Fanny’s pony-carriage. Miss Dalrymple asked to be taken in it.

“I am obliged to drive to Risley, not an interesting little town for a stranger,” Lady Fanny demurred, but Anne held to her wish.

“Are you two going off together?” Mrs Martyn asked discontentedly, only to be answered by a laugh from Anne, and a gesture which pointed out Lady Dalrymple to her as a companion.

“Blanche detests my step-mother,” Anne explained as they drove away. The remark jarred on Fanny, who thought only close friendship excused family criticisms, and read them in the speech. She expressed civil regret that the carriage would hold no more.

“Don’t regret it,” Anne said contentedly. “This is the first time that you and I have been alone together. But you are a very princess of hostesses.”

Fanny flushed, pleased with the praise.

“You should have been with us in Norway. Why did not your brother bring you?”

“He thought better of it.”

“And you would have come in for a sad time.” She went on to speak of the sadness. “It was a great shock to Mr Wareham to find his friend so ill.”

“Terrible!” cried Lady Fanny, impulsively. “I saw him the day before he had the telegram.”

“Yes?”

“At the Ravenhills’. I was staying with them. Of course, then he knew nothing.” Anne felt as if cold fingers had touched her.

“Ah, you made acquaintance with him at the Ravenhills’?” she remarked carelessly.

“Yes, he came there two or three times,” said Millie’s friend, glad to put an emphasis on the acquaintance. “They know him well, I think; I suppose from having met in Norway. Yesterday, he brought something I had left at their house.”

Anne pondered. She was sure that she was the preferred, but was it not probable that with Wareham, who succeeded so admirably in repressing his feelings, cool judgment might stand arrayed against her, and carry the day? A peep-hole to his heart. What would she not give for it! At that moment she felt as if all that she wanted was—to know.

“Miss Ravenhill is your friend?”

“The dearest!” Rash Fanny added quickly, “I would give a great deal to see her happy.”

“And what does that mean?” asked Anne, her lips tightening, though she smiled.

Fanny caught herself back.

“I suppose only Millie could tell us.”

“Or one other.”

No answer was given. Lady Fanny whipped up her ponies, they went flying down one hill, swung up another. A wind had risen, a grey squadron of clouds scudded overhead, out of the yellow trees came rustle and fall of leaf. By way of a safer subject, Fanny prophesied change of weather and rain.

“That will affect to-morrow’s shootings,” remarked Anne. “Poor Lord Milborough!”

“Oh, he’ll not mind. I don’t think he was keen about it to-day.”

Her companion sat reflective. She said at last—

“I did not see much of your friend when we were travelling together.”

“Millie is shy. And I think one must know her at home to know her at all. Once known, once loved!”

“You are a warm friend,” said Anne, with a smile. “For a true estimate I must go to some indifferent person. Will Mr Wareham do? Or is he, too, bespoken counsel?”

A glance at Fanny showed her red, she did not like the word bespoken.

“I have never talked to Mr Wareham about Miss Ravenhill,” she said stiffly.

“Oh, I have!”

It was irresistible.

“And what did he say?” asked Lady Fanny, with eagerness.

“Well, not quite so much as you. Could you expect it?” There was a touch of malice in Anne’s voice, which Fanny resented.

“What did I say? That to know her was to love her? Oh, no, I couldn’t expect that! Do you see that ugly little clump of houses? That’s the beginning of Risley.”

On the whole, Anne had gathered enough to make her thoughtful. She kept on indifferent subjects the rest of the afternoon. As they drove back it was evident that rain was at hand, the sky had grown wild, the country had that ragged look which thinning leaves give in a high wind.

“If I dared prophesy on my neighbours’ clouds, I should say there would be no shooting to-morrow,” Anne said.

“A house full of bored men instead,” sighed Lady Fanny.

For their misfortunes Anne cared little. She had meant to find opportunity somewhere, and this promised freely.

That night she dressed for dinner with care, the white satin setting off her rich dark beauty, and if she had perplexities, no sign betrayed them. To see her lightly talking would have been to disbelieve that she could be keenly on the watch, eye and ear together heedful. She had to keep Lord Milborough pleased and yet doubtful, to ward off for another thirty-six hours what he was burning to say at once, to read Wareham’s mind—if possible, to bring him to her feet. Then and not till then would she decide. But meanwhile she could not, would not, cease to be charming.

There was no repetition of her movement of the evening before, and thought for Millie led Lady Fanny to plant Wareham at a safe distance from the dangerous Miss Dalrymple. Anne submitted. That night she had foreseen would offer no chance of the words she wanted.

She was not mistaken in the effect she produced on Wareham. Her beauty was of the kind which is set off by rich surroundings; she seldom looked at him, but when her dark smiling eyes rested upon him for a moment, he was conscious of the same dizzy thrill which had seized him that early morning at Haare; and the greediness with which his ears drank in every tone of her voice, made him a dull companion to a young lady in awe of a well-known author, and prepared to treasure words. Anne did not fail to note his silence, nor that she held his attention.

After dinner he came to her, encouraged by her look, but Lord Milborough was there as soon. Would she prefer the billiard-room? Anne shook her head.

“Listen to the rain, and keep billiards for to-morrow, when you will be wandering miserably about the house, wretched examples of the unemployed.”

Lord Milborough protested that there was no fear of his finding the house miserable. He would have given up shooting that afternoon, could he only have gone with her and Fanny to Risley.

“You would have been terribly in the way,” he was told. “Only two should drive together. Besides, we amused ourselves by discussing some of you.”

This piqued him into curiosity, as she expected. Wareham sat indifferent, caring nothing whether he were discussed or no, but conscious of imprisoned words beating wildly at the bars behind which he had set them. He knew now that he had been mad to come.

Ordinarily Anne and her step-mother exchanged as few words as possible; this night, as the party separated, Lady Dalrymple announced that she had something to say, and was bidden to Anne’s room at a later period. When she swept in, attired in a flame-coloured wrapper of softest silk, Anne flung her a glance of reluctant admiration. She was under thirty-five, tall, and sufficiently dark to annoy Anne, who hated to hear of likeness; a too important nose stood in the way of claims to beauty, but perhaps gave weight to the verdict of handsome. A high voice had rasping tones in it, and the line of her eyebrows was so unpleasantly even as to suggest pencilling.

She sank into the chair which was pushed forward for her, and put her question.

“May I ask whether anything is decided?” Anne’s eyes darkened, but she answered briefly—

“Nothing.”

“And we leave on Thursday. I go to the Sinclairs’ as settled, after that my plans are changed.”

Anne did not turn her head.

“You mean to marry?”

“Lord Arthur Crosse.”

There was a few seconds’ silence before Anne said—

“I imagine you would like me to congratulate you. I hope you will be happy.”

“Thanks. I might not have spoken of it for a day or two, but that I thought it might influence your own decision.”

“Hardly.” Both voices were cold, but Anne’s the coldest, and she spoke with a sweet modulation which irritated Lady Dalrymple, conscious of her own harsher tones. Her next words were more hasty.

“Hitherto, at any rate, you have had a home with me.”

“By my father’s will it was provided for, I think?”

Lady Dalrymple’s fingers tapped the arms of her chair impatiently.

“Certainly. But alone, you will not find that you can live in the same comfort. If you could, General Hervey is not likely to permit it.”

For the first time there was a trace of uneasiness in Anne’s repetition of the name.

“General Hervey?”

“Have you forgotten that in case of my marriage he was to act as your guardian?”

She had.

“Probably he will wish you to live in Eaton Square with them, and I scarcely think you will find this agreeable.”

Anne’s refuge was silence and a smile. Lady Dalrymple wished to wound, but not to break with her, for the Thorpe shooting was dear to Lord Arthur, and having been made aware of Lord. Milborough’s wishes, he had impressed them upon his intended bride as requiring her co-operation. She therefore made haste to add—

“But of course you will marry, and quickly, and I have only said this because, if Lord Milborough’s proposal has not come, it is undoubtedly imminent.”

Anne listened, and said no more than—

“Is Lord Milborough the one man then in the world?”

“There are not many like him and available. That, I suspect, is the best answer to your question. Seriously, he is a magnificent match.”

Anne sat mute. Lady Dalrymple glanced at her, and grew impatient.

“You are not in any doubt as to your answer?” she demanded quickly.

“I always doubt until the thing is said, and long afterwards,” said Anne.

“Afterwards as much as you like. You can hardly toss over Lord Milborough as you have less important people.”

“What an argument against accepting him!” There was angry light in her eyes, though she kept her voice cool.

Lady Dalrymple could not resist a taunt.

“It is an amusement, let me add, of which the world wearies in a woman. It forgives once for the sake of having something to talk about, the second time palls, and the third is wearisome and unpardonable. However,” she went on, remembering her instructions, “the point is not whether Lord Milborough shall be thrown over, but whether he will be accepted?”

Anne sat upright.

“I do not know,” she said coldly.

“He will ask to-morrow.”

“He has said so?”

“Pray do not waste your indignation. Would he be likely to say so? But I can see.”

“If he does,”—she leaned back again,—“he will be refused.”

“Anne!”

“Refused.”

“You are mad.”

“Perhaps. At any rate, that is what will happen to him if he puts his question to-morrow.”

“But,” said her step-mother with a gasp, “you have just said that you are undecided?”

“I am. I may veer round. I protest nothing, except that to-morrow shall not bind me.”

Lady Dalrymple rose, feeling that the situation was more critical than she had imagined, so critical, indeed, that she began to fear she had said too much. She had never understood Anne, for which she was not to blame; at this moment she felt herself face to face with a sphinx, and looked askance. Luck, rather than tact, led her to add—

“Well, it is your own concern, no others,” and to wish good-night.

Anne sat still where she had been left, thought busy. She smiled at her own clear understanding of the position, and perceiving Lord Milborough working through Lord Arthur upon Lady Dalrymple, recognised that this interview was intended as a probe before he ventured on the momentous question. Her fencing of the past two days had doubtless left him uneasy. She herself had foreseen fresh difficulties the next day, and was proportionably relieved by the conviction that after what she had just announced she would be left unmolested. Would Wareham speak? He should have the opportunity, and if—if—he succeeded in carrying her heart captive, she believed herself capable of marrying him, and renouncing more brilliant prospects. No one, it was certain, had attracted and piqued her as he had.

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.”

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 is I who 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’m in 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 the Morning 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.

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Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

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Chapter 4

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

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Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

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Chapter 9

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Chapter 10

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Chapter 11

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Chapter 12

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Chapter 13

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Chapter 14

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Chapter 15

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Chapter 16

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Chapter 17

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Chapter 18

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Chapter 19

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Chapter 20

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Chapter 21

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Chapter 22

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Chapter 23

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Chapter 24

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Chapter 25

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Chapter 26

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Chapter 27

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Chapter 28

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