"There never will be bad blood between us?"
Hugh's hand sought his in pledge.
"Never. I want to make it all right."
"Wait for that, Hugh."
"For what? For my ghost?" He breathed the words. "When you saw me
that morning--what a sell!"
"Nothing had been said," repeated Wareham doggedly.
"I know. _I_ couldn't have been so straight--with Anne before me. But
you can't laugh now at my madness."
"Not I."
Silence again, and another spoonful at his dry lips. He whispered.
"I'm glad I came."
His friend had no words for this.
"Yes--glad. I know her better." His voice gained strength, and his
eyes turned again to Wareham. "I could have made her love me."
"I have seen all along that you were the only man she liked," the other
said, with confidence.
"I don't know." His feeble hands beat up and down, as if he were
indicating balance. "She's not easy. If I'd lived, I couldn't have
given her up. Now,"--a sign stopped Wareham's protest. "Yes, but I'm
dog in the manger still."
Wareham felt a cold clutch at his heart for which he loathed himself.
"Be what you like, Hugh," he said quickly. "No one has so much right to
speak as you," and whatever his heart might say, his will would have
bound itself irrevocably to his friend's bidding.
"I want--you to have her," Hugh sighed, turning away his face.
Once more the nurse looked in at the door, signifying disapproval.
Wareham hastily nodded, and she withdrew her head. He had to put down
his ear to catch Hugh's next words--
"Don't let us pretend--I'm dying--win her, Dick."
It was impossible for Wareham to speak. He pressed Hugh's hand, and he
was thinking more of Hugh than Anne.
"Only--"
A pause.
"I told you I was a dog in the manger."
"Tell me what you wish, old fellow."
"I want to be remembered--just for a little. I don't want you to speak
just yet."
"I couldn't."
The dull eyes brightened.
"You promise?"
"Sacredly. And, Hugh, I've no right to think she ever will consent."
"Ask her in--" He paused. "Is two months too long? Remember, I held
her mine once. I can't set that on one side. You promise? Not a word
till two months have passed?"
"You have my promise," said Wareham quickly, the more quickly for shame
at the murmurings of a greedy heart.
"When you've got her--you won't mind having waited. I've said my say,
Dick. Yesterday--"
"Yes?"
"I asked her to kiss me, and--she did." His voice grew stronger, and he
smiled feebly. "That other lean-souled woman wanted to come, but I
wouldn't have her."
"Mrs Martyn?"
"Yes. She's curious. Say nothing to her, Dick."
"Nothing. Old boy, you've talked enough."
"Well--" Hugh acknowledged.
A silent pressure, and Wareham went. He wanted to be by himself, and
though there were only half-a-dozen people he knew in Bergen, the place
seemed full of them; there was not a corner round which they might not
appear. He might have walked off out of the town, and been safe, but he
would not leave the house for more than half-an-hour. For that time the
museum struck him as a safe refuge, and he made for it.
Turning up a broad street to his right, a sailor crossed the road and
touched his hat.
"Beg pardon, sir, but ain't you Mr Wareham?"
He signified his right to the name.
"I've a message for you, sir, from the young lady on board the yacht. I
was to say as we ain't going out of harbour to-day, sir, and that if she
was wanted, you'd only got to send a boat for her."
He was told to carry back the answer that Mr Wareham would take care to
act upon her wishes.
"You've a fine yacht out there," he added, in order to gratify the man.
"If you saw her sail, sir, you'd say so. But she hasn't done nothing
here, and it seems as if we were going to be too late for the regattas.
Never knew that happen afore."
He departed, and Wareham walked on quickly to the museum, ran up the
broad staircase, and wandered into a world of arctic creatures, where he
was secure from interruption.
For the last three or four days his hopes of Hugh's recovery had been
low, now some conviction told him it was all but hopeless. "Hugh, old
Hugh!" he kept repeating to himself, as the past years of their
friendship trooped up again. Always he had been, in thought as well as
fact, the elder, the supporter; now in the shadowy twilight of the Great
Unseen, Hugh had passed to strange heights of experience; the careless
words he used to rattle off, dropped now, changed, as coming from one
whose feet were near the eternal shore.
The special thing which Hugh had to say had scarcely presented itself
since. It seemed a matter of no moment; something perhaps to be
considered in the far future, but not yet. Dying, Anne belonged to
Hugh; Wareham's only dread was lest she should disappoint him, a vague
uneasiness about Lord Milborough was in his mind, and he did not think
Hugh had any consciousness of this new disturbing element. He asked few
questions about her, and it was impossible to say what had passed
between them in their last interview, except that he had appeared
satisfied. But Anne herself? She had refused to leave the place, had,
but half-an-hour ago, sent a message that she was at hand, yet Wareham
had his doubts. Did she feel? Did she care? Her own words came back,
when she had called herself heartless, and under the intoxication of her
presence he had indignantly refuted the accusation. Admitting it even,
how was he to blame her? since a vessel can pour out no more than is in
it. But with those eyes! Was it possible that no heart reigned behind
them? If it were so, Wareham, suddenly stern judge, acknowledged that
it was well Hugh should go while yet he loved her, and clung to the
dream that she might yet love him.