A telegram from Sir Michael, thanking him for his promptitude, was put
into Wareham's hands as he stepped on board the boat. It told him no
more than he knew before, that no other person was available for poor
Hugh, but it gave his conscience an imperative excuse for his present
action. Undoubtedly some one had to go, and as undoubtedly that some
one was himself.
Two days and nights of forced quietude give ample time for reflection.
Wareham tried to attach his thoughts exclusively to Hugh. So sudden an
illness was strange. He remembered now, and with compunction, that
during their short meeting at Balholm he had once or twice thought him
looking ill, but there had seemed reason for it, in the hasty, anxious
journey he had made, and Hugh himself had uttered no complaint of
physical suffering. Wareham wondered whether any accident had happened.
It was again the _Eldorado_ on which he found himself, and the
_Eldorado_ inevitably carried back his thoughts to Anne standing on the
deck. He remembered the repulsion with which he had first seen her, and
yet, as he knew now, the involuntary admiration against which he had
battled. One short month ago! It appeared a lifetime. How
inexplicable she had been, but how enchanting! Memory went lovingly
over the days, the hours, made dear by her presence, and he awoke with a
start. This was not thinking of Hugh.
He tried to extract assistance from his fellow-passengers, but they were
not many. It was late for people to betake themselves to short-summered
lands, and it was the homeward vessels which were crowded. He found a
few Norwegians his pleasantest companions, but spent a good many hours
alone, looking at the long green sweep of the waves, and growing
increasingly impatient. At Stavanger he went on shore, avoiding the
Grand.
The low islands and rocky coast were singularly familiar, so was Bergen,
its hills grey, its red roofs insistent. Among the crowd on the
landing-place Wareham quickly recognised Colonel Martyn's thin length,
and perceived that he was expected.
The greeting was unemotional.
"Had a good passage? But I needn't ask. You are only half-an-hour
behind time."
"You have not spent it in waiting, I hope?"
"Not I. That long fellow, Smeby, sees to all that, and sent word when
your boat was in sight."
"How is Hugh?"
Colonel Martyns face took an added gloom.
"Bad, I fear."
Wareham glanced quickly at him.
"Danger?"
"Afraid so."
Silence. The grey stones at Wareham's feet grew for a moment
indistinct, then he put a question in an unchanged voice.
"I'm in the dark, remember. What is it, illness or accident?"
"Oh, illness--in fact, typhoid. They say the seeds were in him when he
came, then everything aggravated the attack. I felt doubtful about him
from the day after you left, but one couldn't get him to knock off. At
last he collapsed at Molde, and the only possible thing was to put him
on the steamer and come down to Bergen, where he could be better seen
to. We got here on Monday."