The next day Wareham spent his afternoon by walking into the small
country town where was the nearest railway station. Something which Sir
Michael wanted gave him the excuse without which a solitary walk becomes
a burden in spite of conscientious evokings of the joys of solitude.
And he undertook the further office of calling at post-office and
station for letters and newspapers, to the disgust of the groom, who had
his own Saturday afternoon diversions in view, and felt himself
defrauded. In happy ignorance of his displeasure, Wareham whistled to
Venom, Hugh's fox-terrier, and started.
The day was dark and still, life dragging heavily, as it does in
September days, yet not without a sombre beauty. Masses of firs here
and there relieved the monotony of foliage, and the gorse spread a
burnish of gold on broken ground. In the road it was duller. Mud
prevailed, and withering grasses coarsely fringed the mud, while autumn
had not yet flaunted its yellows and reds to hide decay. Wareham,
generally quick to notice nature, walked on unheeding.
Reaching the town at last, it struck him as usual, as an ugly expression
of man, varying between squalor and dull respectability, bare brick and
slate in rows. The station was uglier, but more attractive in spite of
blackness, something of magic still lingering about the sharp bright
lines, the rushing monsters that whizz along them, the flaming eyes that
glow in the night. Wareham turned towards it.
He was too early. The London express was not due for ten minutes, and
he went off to execute Sir Michael's errand, promising to return later.
It had been market morning, and farmers and farmers' wives yet lingered
in the streets, enjoying weekly greetings. One or two carriages drove
about, and Wareham noticed the Ormsleigh brougham at the door of a shop.
He went to the post-office, and stayed to send off a couple of
telegrams in answer to the letters he found there. Then he walked round
by the church, for the pleasure of looking at the noble lines of its
tower, and, having by this time completely exhausted Venom's patience,
betook himself again to the station.
Newspaper in pocket, he started for home. As dusk approached, the day
cleared, and, facing the west as he walked, he noticed signs of
preparation in the heavens, as if a pageant might presently disclose
itself. The road was inextricably connected with thoughts of Hugh: as
boys they had often ridden home under the oaks, and the absence of
change in immaterial things is no less oppressive than its presence in
material. Hugh's vitality was so amazing that it was next to impossible
to think of his life having gone out from among them.
He was still a little distance from Firleigh when, with a curve of road
beyond him, sounds reached his ears, remote, yet carrying something in
them which hurried him forward. Venom in front was plainly puzzled; he
had halted, and was considering matters with cocked ears and head on one
side. A few moments brought Wareham within sight and quickened his
steps to a run, for evidently there had been an accident.
The brougham, which he had recognised as belonging to Lord Ormsleigh,
was reclining angularly against the hedge, the horses were disengaged
and held by a hatless groom, while a couple of other men, one of them
the coachman, had apparently just succeeded in extricating two figures
from imprisonment in the overturned carriage. It caused Wareham not the
smallest astonishment to recognise in one of them Anne Dalrymple. He
was by her side the next moment.
"Tell me that you are not hurt!"
Anne, who was very pale, showed more amazement.
"Mr Wareham! Have you sprung out of the earth?"
"Good fortune brought me here. My question first, please."
"I haven't a finger-ache, but I am frightened to death, and poor Watkins
is worse. Watkins, open your eyes, the danger is over, and the coachman
is dying to get to the horses."
But Watkins insisted upon uttering short cries of terror, and requiring
man's support. Meanwhile Wareham questioned the coachman.
"A broken pole? How's that?"
"_I_ don't know, sir. I could have sworn it was sound, but the
off-horse gave a bit of a shy, and it snapped like a twig. Never saw
such a thing."
Further explanation put the credit of seizing the horses' heads upon a
young farmer who was passing, and showed all the necessary presence of
mind. Anne's exhortations at last induced Watkins to struggle to the
bank, where she shut her eyes tightly to avoid seeing the horses.
"Now, what's to be done?" said Anne. "We were on our way to Oakwood."
"And you are two miles from the house."
"No more? We will walk."
"Would it not be better to send on the groom with the horses, and let a
carriage come back for you?"
"Thank you. No more carriages to-day. I had a momentary expectation of
being kicked into splinters with the brougham. Come, Watkins, you are
not really hurt, and I am sure you would rather walk. Think of the tea
that waits for you."
But Watkins' protestations became piteous. She described herself as all
of a tremble, and as unable to stir. Anne tried arguments to no purpose
until her patience failed.
"If you like it best then," she said, "you must stay here until we can
send for you, for I am going to walk, and the coachman thinks they can
get the carriage home by leading the horses."
"What, stay here by myself, ma'am, in this dismal road!" cried Watkins,
roused to protest.
"If you can't walk. Unless you prefer to get into the brougham."
This she declared to be out of the question, and was melting into tears,
when the young farmer, moved to compassion, stepped forward with a
suggestion. A little way from the road, it appeared, there was a house.
If the young lady felt herself able to walk so far, he would be happy
to show her the way, and she could stop there until they sent a trap
from Oakwood. Watkins, taking a good look at him, and recognising a
preserver in a very personable young man, closed her eyes again, sighed,
and consented.
"The young lady being provided for, now for the young woman," said Anne,
turning with a smile to Wareham. "I am not so helpless as Watkins, but
to walk in the rear of this melancholy procession is not particularly
inviting. Is there no shorter way across the fields?"
He glanced at her from head to foot.
"You don't look fit for walking," he said, "except in the park."
"I don't dress for the lanes," she answered coolly.
"And your shoes are absurdly thin."
"When you have finished your criticisms, perhaps you will answer my
question. One no more expects criticism from a novel-writer than pepper
from an oyster."
"Thank you. I accept the simile."
"One good turn deserves another, so will you tell me whether you are
going to show me a pleasanter way than the road in company with a
broken-down brougham? Or shall I ask the coachman?"
"Certainly not," said Wareham hastily. Anne's question was by no means
such a simple matter as she imagined. The shortest way to Oakwood took
them, beyond a doubt, exactly in front of the house at Firleigh; it
would, indeed, be necessary to pass directly before the window. And he
dared not cause Sir Michael such a shock. Firleigh lay in the region
where little events are chronicled. The appearance of Mr Wareham and a
strange young lady, beautiful and beautifully dressed, would reach Sir
Michael with the rapidity of an electric shock, and, require
explanations. This, at any rate, must be avoided. He must take her
into the grounds, but a circuit through a wood would have to be made.
He explained that they need not follow the road for more than a quarter
of a mile.
"Come, then," said Anne, "let us get over the quarter of a mile."
She was in high spirits, disposed to laughter as he had never before
seen her, rippling with fun over Watkins, her preliminary look at the
young farmer, and evident appreciation of his civility.
"I shall hear so much about him to-night that I hope he may drive all
that she felt and did in the carriage out of her head."
"You were not frightened yourself?"
"Oh yes, as much as I had time to be. But as to nerves, Watkins usurped
the display. The bump against the bank reassured me at once."
"I bless the farmer."
"Yes. Without him,"--Anne turned paler, she was perhaps more shaken
than she knew.
"I suppose that you?"
"I," said Wareham, deliberately uttering the last thing that he desired
to say, "I was, as usual--too late."
She looked at him inquiringly; their eyes met, naturally she expected
more. His mouth grew rigid, under a sudden impression of his own
weakness, when he had thought himself absolutely safe, and he added
hurriedly--
"Do you see that gate? There we turn off." Anne's voice was a little
colder than it had been.
"I have not apologised. I may be taking you out of your way. Are you
staying in the neighbourhood?"
"At Firleigh."