"Call me if I am wanted." Then she came back a step or two. "Not
unless I _am_ wanted, mind."
He took this as a further hint that she dreaded these visits to the
sick-room, and would avoid them when possible. As it fell out, she
never went again. Hugh drifted into a semi-conscious state, the
presence of Wareham appearing to give him a certain satisfaction, but no
desire strong enough to require expression. Doctors, nurses, chaplain,
friends, watched. Wareham wrote to his father--
"He does not suffer. I do not think he wishes for anything. If I
mention your name to him he smiles, but makes no attempt to speak more
than an occasional disjointed word. The people here would do anything
for us; his illness has confirmed my idea that the Norwegians are among
the kindest people in the world, and the least mercenary. Comfort
yourself with the thought that he could not have been better cared for
even in his own home than here with strangers--but I know what you are
feeling, `If only I could have seen him!' More than once he has asked
for his sister; he accepts, however, all that we tell him of the
difficulties of getting here. Indeed, nothing appears to disturb him.
There is an English yacht in the harbour, belonging to Lord Milborough,
and he is as ready as others to be of use.
"You will want a word as to Miss Dalrymple, for whom, I know, you have
no kindly feeling. You would retract if you saw her now. I am sure she
suffers. Whether she ever really loved Hugh, I cannot tell. Had she--
but it is impossible to theorise. I am also sure that she liked him,
and he is happy in the conviction that he would have won her. This
parting is quite without the bitterness of the first. She is at hand to
see him if he desires it, and this, though the friend she is with is
urgent to return to England.
"I am writing my letter in Hugh's room, where there is something already
of extraordinary peace. If the border-land of death were always so
restful, it seems to me that half our dread would vanish.
"An hour later. I have wondered more than once whether he realised his
own position, or whether weakness permitted no consciousness beyond the
consciousness of the moment, but he has just asked that he might be
taken home. I told him there would never have been any question of
this, and it seemed to satisfy him. My letter cannot go before
to-morrow, and by that time I may have more to add."
What he added was written the next day in his own room.
"He passed away at nine this morning. The peace of which I wrote to you
has not been broken, and dying seemed as natural and simple an act as
living. I feel that you will long to be told about the hours before,
yet there is nothing for words. It was like a hand slackening its hold
in quiet sleep, and no more.
"I was with him throughout the night, and, of course, always one of the
nurses; but I do not think he recognised either of us for many hours
before his death. The doctors say that unconsciousness usually comes on
at an earlier stage. Neither of us knew the exact moment at last; once
or twice before we had thought him gone, and afterwards fancied that he
breathed.
"Now you will want to know what arrangements can be made, and I must
tell you hastily, lest I lose the mail. To-day is Saturday. I am
ignorant as to whether there are stringent rules as to the time of
burial in Norway, but I do not doubt to arrange somehow, for no steamer
leaves before Tuesday, when one goes to Newcastle. I do not telegraph
to you until Monday. I should not do it then, were it not for the fear
that Ella might be meaning to leave Hull on Tuesday, for, unless
absolutely necessary, it always appears to me cruelty to inflict that
length of waiting which lies between a foreign telegram and the details
of a letter.
"I wish you could see him."
Wareham spent a good deal of the day with Dr Sivertsen, going through
necessary formalities and making the necessary arrangements. He was not
sorry to accept the young man's invitation to his house for supper.
They talked of Hugh. Dr Sivertsen spoke of his frank simplicity.
"Something in him," he said, "resembled the best type among us
Norwegians."
"That is for you to say, not me," Wareham answered. "If we have learnt
nothing else from your late revelations of yourselves, we have been, at
least, taught not to classify so glibly as has been our custom."
"We have thought more than we have written," mused Sivertsen, puffing at
his cigar. "And when I was in England, some years ago, it appeared to
me that English conception of the northern character was principally
based upon the tales of Frederika Bremer and the stories of Hans
Andersen. There they saw one side, and of the moral character, I allow,
the best. But they can hardly be said to draw a complete picture.
Moreover, you are a writing nation; perhaps are not without danger of
writing yourselves out?"
"Perhaps," sighed Wareham wearily.
"We have the charm you thirst for--novelty. Novelty stands with you for
originality, especially when united to daring."
"Which you have never lacked."
"In action. Of old our habit was to send the deed before the word. We
are changing. I do not say it is for the better; but I dare say we
offer greater interest to the world. Your young English lady is of
quite another type from Mr Forbes."
"Miss Dalrymple?" asked Wareham, with curiosity. "I hardly knew you had
seen her."
"Yes. I was interested, understanding from Dr Scott that she was to
marry him. Was that so?"
"Hardly. It might have been so in time."
"It surprised me. She is much more modern, much more subtile. Is she
greatly grieved?"
"I cannot tell you. Probably I shall know to-night."
He rose. The young doctor walked with him as far as the head of the
harbour. Lights twinkled here and there, people strolled about, and
Wareham was perforce reminded of that evening in Stavanger, of Millie's
pleasure, of what now seemed like the beginning of all things; for what
is the day when a man first sees the woman he loves, but, to him, the
day of creation?
He walked slowly. No need to hurry back. No one was waiting, no
night-watch lay before him. Dr Scott had hurriedly packed, and got off
by the Hull steamer, taking the English nurse with him. Wareham felt
that he must see the others, and hear from them their plans; Colonel
Martyn was the only one he had spoken with, and he had said they would
at any rate make no movement that day. As Wareham came near the inn, a
party of gentlemen turned out and came towards them, and an instinct of
avoidance thrust him into the door of a shop. There he waited until
they had passed; what gratitude it was necessary to express, he had a
preference for enclosing in a letter. Laughter broke out as they came
near. Sir Walter spoke in a drawl--
"Clear deck for Mil at last. Worth waiting for, eh, Burnby?"
"You're an unfeeling dog," muttered Lord Milborough.
Wareham, within, saw that he alone was not smiling.
"Wants condolences--" was all that reached Wareham's ears, with a
retreating laugh. He felt angry that even so much had been forced upon
him. There was nothing astonishing in the words. Reason might have
told him that the _Camilla_ would not have furled her white wings in
Bergen harbour unless some pretty strong attraction had influenced her
owner. And further, that it was unconscionable to expect regret for
Hugh from men to whom he was only a stranger and a rival. But many
people, perhaps unconsciously, embody abstract qualities when they
present them to their mind, and Wareham, the most reasonable of men,
turned reason into an old woman with a shrewish face and an uplifted
finger. There were times when he hated her.
He looked into the salon at once, and would have escaped when he beheld
only Mrs Martyn, but that young lady had her eye on the door.
"Ah, Mr Wareham, we were expecting you," she cried, in an injured
voice. "Tom has been to look for you more than once, for really, with
so many dreadful things happening, and so much to be thought of, I am
_most_ anxious to get home."
Wareham refused to accept the responsibility of their stay. He merely
asked--
"When do you start?"
"I hope you will induce Anne to leave at once. She is quite unnerved,
unstrung--I do think she might show a little more consideration. But
really, this has been the most unfortunate tour I ever made! Poor Mr
Forbes ought never to have come out, ill as he must have been from the
first. And, of course, Anne behaved very badly to him. I don't wish
for a moment to defend her, only it seems a little hard that Tom and I
should be made to suffer for it, doesn't it? Now the only thing for us
to do is to go home as quickly as possible."
He expressed a hope that her wish would be carried out.
"If Anne is sensible--"
His heart went out to Anne. No, she was not heartless.
"But, as I said, pray tell her that you quite agree with us. I must say
I think her wishing to stay here is not, not quite--well, of course, it
was all broken off, and it _will_ so attract attention again, just when
it was to be hoped it was dying away. I am sure I don't know how I
shall face Lady Dalrymple, she will be so extremely annoyed!"
It appeared to him unnecessary to offer either argument or consolation,
and the only remark available was--"You go in the yacht?"
She looked shrewdly at him, and withdrew her plaints.
"How else? Besides, Lord Milborough is very pressing. But as we can't
expect the poor man to stay here day after day, Tom is anxious we should
be off to-morrow. They have all just been here. Didn't you meet them?"
"They passed me in the street."
"I forgot. Of course you have been too much occupied to see anything of
them. Besides, men rarely like each other. Don't go. Anne will be
here in a moment. The comfort that it will be to get back to
properly-proportioned evenings and late dinners! You really wish to go?
Then I will fetch Anne." Remembrance of Hugh made it easy for him to
beg her not to do this with an earnestness which perplexed her, but she
was keen to carry her point.
"You can't refuse to see a lady, I suppose?" she said, jumping up. "I
want you to tell her that she can do you no good by staying."
"Me!"
"And herself harm. But that--"
She rustled out of the room, with an air of filling space, which
belonged to her. Vexed at this special interview, Wareham walked
restlessly about the room, turning over fragmentary literature. Two
Germans came in, stared at him, went out again. Then, to his relief,
appeared Colonel Martyn. His sympathy was unaffected, and Wareham had
never liked him so well; but at this moment his merit was the merit of
being a third person.
"I went to look for you a couple of hours ago," he told Wareham,
"thinking I might be of some little use, but you weren't to be found.
Sad time this, for you."
"Thank you. It is. But Sivertsen has been most useful, and in this
country the officials don't go out of their way to be overbearing, as I
have found them in Germany. I believe that everything's arranged. Mrs
Martyn talks of your leaving to-morrow?"
A gleam of unmistakable relief irradiated Colonel Martyn's face. He
hesitated over his "yes," however, and added--
"Unless you want any one?"
Wareham hastened to repudiate such a need, looked at his watch, and
yawned.
"Turn in," Colonel Martyn suggested benevolently, and spoke of the
wakeful nights the other had spent.
"Mrs Martyn asked me to wait for her." He avoided Anne's name.
"I'll go and hurry her up."
In spite of this fresh propelling force, long minutes passed before Mrs
Martyn rustled back alone, but in high spirits.
"I am really so sorry, Mr Wareham! Anne is such a strange girl, one
never knows how to take her, and she says she can see no one more. But,
after all, she has come to her senses about leaving, and agrees to go
to-morrow. Congratulate me."
"I am only sorry my name should have been intruded on Miss Dalrymple,"
said Wareham gravely. "She understood, I hope, that you imagined she
had something to say to me?"
"I dare say. It really does not matter," Mrs Martyn returned airily,
and he began to discern where the intention had lain. It annoyed him
both then and when he afterwards thought of it.
In the room of death, his last look at Hugh's boyish quiet face made his
promise take the form of a most willing offer. Nothing more remained
that he could do to please him. Friendship and sympathy were closed for
ever here. Only this was left, and it had already become sacred. The
look in Hugh's eyes, the touch of his hand, rose up before him--
witnesses.
He was determined to avoid so much as a word with Anne the next day, and
as it fell out, had no difficulty in keeping his resolution. The start
was made early, and Colonel Martyn, his face verging on cheerfulness,
ran up to wish Wareham good-bye. The word said, he asked whether he
would not come down to see the others, but men were waiting, and
Wareham's excuse natural. They had quitted the house some fifteen
minutes, when he followed, telling himself that to see Anne leave the
shores, himself unseen, would do no one harm. For three days past the
weather had been heavy, and the coast colourless; now the sun shone out,
a roughish wind was blowing, the water danced and sparkled, and the
yacht looked like some beautiful creature straining to be free. The
launch was on its way. Wareham's eyes held it as it slipped over the
bright waves, until he lost it round the vessel. Presently, almost
imperceptibly, masts, lines, sails, began to move with the moving
clouds, and--a white cloud herself--the _Camilla_ glided swiftly out
towards the open, carrying Anne.
He and Hugh were left.