"Where?"
"In Oxfordshire."
"And good? I mean good as we mercenary people weigh goodness?"
"Oh, yes." He ventured to look directly at her. "You--you think I
should take it?"
She turned her head away. A smile was on her lips, and she mimicked his
hesitation slightly.
"I--I think that's a matter you must decide for yourself."
His voice gained confidence.
"Laugh at me as much as you like, if only you will advise me. That is
why I came to London."
It was Lady Fanny's turn to look discomposed.
"Hush!" she said, under her breath, and glancing at Mrs Ravenhill. "I
do think that you shy men, when once you speak, become absolutely
audacious. Pray how should I advise?"
"Am I fit? You know me."
This time she laughed out.
"I don't indeed. You must go to your old people for a character. Very
possibly they might give you one."
"And if--if that question were answered," he went on hesitatingly,
"there are others--"
She cried impatiently--"I don't believe you ever would be without them."
But by this time Mrs Ravenhill, thinking that Lady Fanny had had
enough of her silent neighbour, struck in with an observation.
Wareham and Millie were in full tide of talk. Released from the usual
daily remarks of travel, they had touched on many subjects, and reached
books. He found she had read a good deal, and with delicate
observation. Miss Dalrymple's taste was of stronger calibre, and she
admired what Millie shrank from; but he recognised that this was not so
much from the timidity he expected, as from finding what was bad, ugly,
and unsympathetic. Millie steered carefully away from Wareham's own
books; he caught himself, however, reflecting gratefully that he had
never written anything he should be ashamed for her to read.
Lady Fanny played in the evening, wishing, as she said, to promote
conversation. Perhaps it was also to afford a cover for Mr Elliot's
silence; certain it is that he subsided into a chair which commanded a
view of the piano, and uttered no sound. Mrs Ravenhill asked Wareham
where he was going when he left London, more for the sake of saying
something than from interest. He named Wales, as a place where he had
never been and which seemed to offer advantages, among them that of
being easily got out of.
"Failure can be remedied in an hour," he said, with a laugh at himself.
"I dare say I shall drift back to London before I have long been out of
it."
Mrs Ravenhill did not even say, "Come and see us." She was
indifferent, little dreaming how hopefully Millie hung on the
suggestion.
When Wareham left, Mr Elliot, by a superhuman effort, managed also to
take his leave. He had said no more to Fanny, but his eyes must have
expressed entreaty, for she remarked, on shaking hands, that if chance
brought him in that direction again, she would be there a few days
longer.
"Fanny!" cried Millie, reproachfully, as the door closed.
"Yes--terrible, isn't it? But the poor man is lost in London. One must
do what one can. How hot it is!" And she went singing to the window,
and out on the balcony.
The night was fine. Wareham and his companion walked the length of the
park instead of calling a hansom. Away from bewildering woman Mr
Elliot could talk quietly and sensibly; he told Wareham that a living
was awaiting decision, and Wareham honoured the young fellow for the
manner in which he discussed it, half envied the enthusiasm with which
he spoke of his work. They parted friendly, Mr Elliot to strike off to
the Marble Arch, Wareham to make his way slowly down Piccadilly,
twinkling with lights even in August.
He felt more at peace than he had felt of late; hailing the return of
common-sense as a sick man hails convalescence. Anne Dalrymple had
filled his mind so that other women were dwarfed by her to nothingness;
now he was able, he thought, to relegate them to their true proportion.
The longer he reflected upon the state of affairs he had left behind,
the more fully he was convinced that Hugh would regain his lost
position, the two would return to England engaged, and Anne would not
descend to another fit of freakishness.
To have broken his own chains by that time would be to regain his
self-respect, to look Hugh frankly in the face, laugh, if he laughed, at
a transient folly. Now and then, it is true, thought glanced off to the
other possibility, and dizziness warned him of danger. For, if Hugh
were rejected--Wareham found himself once more at Anne's side; with a
flutter of Love's wings, away went the defences he had built up round
his heart, tumbling into pitiable ruin, and the traitor heart rejoicing.
This was not like the victory of common-sense; he pulled himself
together, and dragged back his scattered forces, marshalling Millie in
the van, praising her delicate unobtrusiveness, and applauding himself
for appreciating it. The dimple, even, was hauled up to the rescue.
Nothing was more charming, more womanly than a dimple. By the time he
slept, he was satisfied to have regained his position. He slept well,
too, another proof of foolish Love defeated. Avaunt, teasing boy, too
feeble to overthrow real resistance!
By morning a capricious rain was falling, washing the blackened leaves.
Wareham was not leaving until the afternoon; he took a turn in Saint
James's Park, to have a look at the wood-pigeons there, before going to
his club for letters. A telegram awaited him. The name of Martyn as
sender awoke no association until he read--"Forbes ill. Some one should
come. Bergen, August 17th."
He had scarcely finished before he remembered that Hugh's sister was in
Germany, and old Sir Michael incapacitated from moving by rheumatism.
Another reflection, as instantaneous, reminded him that the Hull steamer
started that evening. There was no question. He sent a telegram to Sir
Michael, drove to his rooms, where fortunately his man had his things
ready, and caught the train for Hull.