She motioned him to sit by her on the sofa, but Anne stopped him.
"First, let me make you and Lord Milborough acquainted. I believe you
already know Mr Burnby? But not Sir Walter Paxton?"
Each man looked at the other with disfavour, as is the habit of men. To
avoid speaking to them, Wareham dropped into the seat Mrs Martyn had
indicated, and she immediately bubbled into whispered confidence.
"Yes, it really has been terrible, having that poor young man so
entirely on one's hands, and so awkward, too, after what had happened!
You remember I told you how very foolish I thought his coming?"
"I remember. But this could hardly have been in your thoughts."
"No, of course not. Not this in particular, but I felt sure some
unpleasant complications would arise, and Anne is absolutely
enigmatical. You never know where to find her. I dare say you want to
know in what position the two stand. Well, I can't tell you. I know no
more than yourself."
Wareham repudiated curiosity, and felt himself disbelieved. Mrs Martyn
waved a white hand and smiled.
"Oh, I don't suspect you of such a weakness. It is one that man
cherishes in secret, and you might be obliged to me for answering
questions without forcing you to put them. I own frankly myself that I
wish to find out, and cannot. But, poor fellow, however it was, this--"
She stopped and sighed expressively. Wareham felt a grip of fear.
"I have known men pull through far worse illnesses," he said doggedly.
"Oh, of course! So have I."
"But you think in this case--" The words seemed forced from him against
his will.
"Oh, I don't forecast. I have no reason for my opinion beyond what all
know, but I hear the doctors daily report, and it--well, no one can call
it encouraging. Oh, most sad! Extremely sad! The only son, I think?"
Satisfied on this point, she went on--"Now that you are come, I have
been telling my husband that as we can leave him in good hands we must
see about getting home. Of course, on no account would I have gone when
there was no one here to take charge, but poor Tom is hard to hold, Mr
Wareham, now that we are in the middle of August."
He implied understanding, and asked whether they thought of leaving by
the Saturday steamer.
"Not a berth to be had. No, Lord Milborough is most kind. He will
engage some woman here as a sort of stewardess, and will take us all. I
do think it a delightful arrangement, and so would you if you had seen
the yacht."
Wareham thought his approval so unnecessary that he remained silent, and
let her talk on, while he, half unconsciously, watched Lord Milborough
and Anne. The doctor's description rose in his mind, but of
indifference none was apparent with Anne near. She had gone to the
other end of the room, and sunk into a chair, Lord Milborough and young
Sir Walter attaching themselves conversationally to it. Colonel Martyn
and Mr Burnby, who was older than the other men, discussed
salmon-fishing at the table. Wareham caught words which implied that
Anne was being reproached with having left them.
"Why on earth you should stop in this awfully stuffy hole at all, I
can't for the life of me conceive!" urged the owner of the _Camilla_.
"You might as well come and live on board at once, and if you're
anxious, I'll keep a service of messengers running between the inn and
the harbour. Come, consent!"
Anne shook her head, smiling.
"I've a weakness for feeling the ground firm under my feet."
Lord Milborough flung an inimical glance at Wareham.
"You needn't be tied, now that fellow's come."
"That fellow! You deserve to be gibbeted by him for the mockery of
generations! Show a little respect, please, for wits, even if you don't
appreciate them."
Sir Walter came to his friend's rescue with a request to know what
Wareham had written, and one or two names having been quoted under
Anne's breath, acknowledged that he had seen them lying on his club
table.
"Fame indeed!" cried Anne, with mock enthusiasm. "Mr Wareham will be
cheered." In spite of her adoption of his cause, she made no movement
when Wareham rose and left the room. He ran up the stairs, telling
himself that he was glad to get out of her presence, and opened the door
of the sick-room softly. The door was out of sight of the bed, and the
nurse made him a hasty sign to remain unseen. After standing for some
time, he sat down, burying his face in the cup of his hands. Hugh was
talking rapidly and incoherently, every now and then Anne's name broke
out with a sort of cry; then his voice sank again into the same quick
senseless murmur. Pity swelled within his friend; he reflected harshly
on Anne, lightly laughing down-stairs, while here a young heart was
beating out its life, with thoughts of her uppermost. That she could
leave him in this state, he told himself, was inconceivable.
When he came out, an hour later, he retracted, for Anne met him on the
first landing.
"I thought you were never coming," she exclaimed impatiently; "how is
he?"
"You are on his lips," said Wareham.
"He does not know what he says?"
"No. The fever runs high."
"Oh, poor fellow, poor fellow!" she murmured, a line of pain cutting her
forehead. "If he really wants me, remember your promise."