CHAPTER XVI.—LIGHT HEARTS AND SAD.
The buzz of conversation continued as the party descended the broad staircase.
‘Rather bad of Phil to keep us waiting all this time,’ said Coutts as he gave Madge his arm.
‘Perhaps he could not help it,’ she suggested.
‘Ah, perhaps not. But you see Wrentham hasn’t turned up yet either, and I daresay they have been lunching together,’ rejoined Coutts with a smile, which was to her a very unpleasant one.
They had only taken their places at table, when Philip and Wrentham quietly entered. There was an agreeable murmur of satisfaction at the arrival of the gentleman in whose honour they had met, and his greeting was as cordial as if nobody were hungry on his account.
No one except Madge appeared to observe the singular alteration in his appearance. He was pale, his eyes seemed heavy like those of one wakening from sleep, and the smile with which he responded to the welcome of his friends was forced—his expression altogether unlike what she had expected it to be. His walk, too, was that of one who was carefully measuring each step. For an instant, the ugly suggestion of his brother, that he had been taking too much wine at lunch, occurred to her.
He took his seat by her side; dinner proceeded. Presently general conversation was resumed, and the cause of the temporary delay of the banquet appeared to be forgotten.
But to Madge the brilliant light of the room and the merriment around them only made that pale-faced man beside her the more unlike Philip.
‘I am sorry I could not get here sooner,’ he said in an undertone, and his voice sounded unusually feeble.
‘What is the matter, Philip? Why are you so pale?’
‘You cannot expect me to be taking leave of all my friends without feeling queer,’ he answered with an attempt to smile.
‘That is not it—you are ill.’
‘I am—a little; and don’t bother about it just now. I’ll tell you how it happened, by-and-by.’
‘How what happened?’
‘I have hurt myself. There now; don’t be alarmed—it is nothing. You see I am here; and I don’t want to spoil the evening by letting our friends know it. Look at the girls; they would go into fits if things didn’t come off just as they planned them.’
‘How did you do it?’ she asked calmly.
‘That mare Wrentham bought from Uncle Dick tumbled over me; that’s all. I’ll be as well as ever, when I’ve had a little rest.’
‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘Not yet. The fact is, I was taking a nap at Wrentham’s, to brace me up for the evening.’
‘You mean that you were insensible?’
‘Perhaps that was it. But don’t think about it. Have some wine?’
When the ladies were retiring, Philip opened the door for them; but that was the last effort his strength allowed him to make. He felt giddy and faint.
‘Help me up-stairs,’ was all he could say to Dr Joy, who was at his side.
Edwin Joy was a little dark man, but he was sinewy and active. He wheeled Philip round so that he placed him easily in a chair near the table.
‘Don’t stir, anybody,’ he said quickly to the astounded guests.
‘Drink this,’ he said to Philip, holding a glass to his lips.... ‘Better?’
Philip nodded.
‘Take a little more. I have been watching you, and knew there was something wrong. What have you been doing?’
All this was uttered rapidly, but in a low and cheery tone, not to alarm the hearers.
‘Riding. The mare was fresh and skittish. The man warned me that she had been at high feeding for some days, and getting little to do. But I knew the mare, and thought I could manage her. She tried to throw me—then stood bolt upright—lost balance, and fell back over me.’
‘Ah! Feet and legs all right. Where were you hurt?’
‘I don’t know. I was slipping off; but there is a queer sensation here.’
The little doctor passed his hands rapidly over the side to which Philip pointed, and beckoned to Dr Guy.
The guests had obeyed the doctor’s injunction not to leave their seats. His words acted like a charm in a fairy tale, and they were suddenly spell-bound in the position they occupied when it was spoken. They looked in dumb astonishment at the principal actors in this unexpected scene. The spell was broken by Dr Guy rising from his seat.
‘What mare was it?’ asked Crawshay, turning sharply to Wrentham.
‘The one I had from you.’
‘And you were giving her high feed and nothing to do!... Humph! I used to think you knew something about horses.’
The yeoman rose with an expression of contempt and advanced to Philip.
‘What’s the matter, lad? Art sore hurt? It went against the grain to part with that mare; and I fervently wish she had eaten her head off at Willowmere, rather than she should have done this. I wouldn’t have parted with her, neither, only I thought she was going into safe hands.’
‘Get him into bed,’ said Dr Guy decisively.
‘For any sake, don’t spoil the fun to-night,’ said Philip feebly. ‘My father will make some excuse for me. I fancied I could hold out for a little longer; but it’s no use.’
‘Do not trouble yourself about that, Philip,’ said Mr Hadleigh. ‘Our friends here will say nothing to-night, and the young people shall enjoy themselves as if nothing had happened.’
‘Thanks. Maybe I shall be able to come down before the fun is all over.’
Supported by Uncle Dick and Dr Guy, and followed by Dr Joy, Philip proceeded to his bedroom.
‘This is most unfortunate,’ muttered Wrentham, looking much distressed. ‘I had no idea the brute would play such a trick.’
Mr Hadleigh apparently paid no attention to this. Taking his place at the table, he spoke quietly:
‘You all heard what my son said, and I need not ask you to aid me in carrying out his wish.—Pass the wine, Mr Crowell.’
And so the crowd of young people who had been invited to the ‘little dance’ had no hint of the accident to mar their pleasure. Outside, the brilliant light shining through the canvas of the marquee contended for precedence with the ruddy harvest-moon. Inside, the place was like an illuminated hall of flowers and plants. Sam Culver and Pansy with assistants had been at work for two days here. The dresses, the wreaths, the feathers, the jewels of the girls and matrons, with their faces brightened by the excitement of the moment, formed a living kaleidoscope, as they moved and mingled in the dance or promenade. The strains of the band were heard in the village; and little groups of village lads and maidens hung around the gates of Ringsford to listen to the music.
‘I suppose I must be Phil’s deputy for a time here as well as in the house,’ said Coutts in his suavest manner to Madge. ‘I hope you don’t mind very much?’
‘I do mind a great deal,’ she answered with a frankness which would have been rude in any one else, and yet in her appeared to be the kindliest answer to his question. ‘But I suppose I must go through the first quadrille.’
And reluctantly she did so. When it was over, and Coutts would fain have retained his position as deputy, she said:
‘Will you take me to Mr Hadleigh, please? He is there speaking to the vicar, near the entrance.’
Mr Hadleigh advanced to meet them, and she, relinquishing the arm of Coutts, took that of his father.
‘She requires taming. Poor Phil,’ was the reflection of the practical-minded Coutts, as he turned away to bestow his attentions on beauties who would appreciate them more.
Mr Hadleigh understood why she desired to speak to him, and they went outside, walking slowly across the lawn towards the house.
‘There is no great danger,’ he assured her at once; ‘but he will probably be a prisoner for a few weeks. At present his chief idea is that we should say nothing about it.’
‘I should like to see him—if the doctors will allow me,’ she said after a brief pause, her head bowed as if she were studying the long shadows on the grass.
‘We can ask them.... Are you sorry that he will not be able to go with the Hertford Castle?’
‘How can I be otherwise?’
He did not speak for a few seconds—Then:
‘You sometimes puzzle me very much, Miss Heathcote.’
‘Why?’ she asked, looking up, and the moon shone full on her face. His was in darkness.
‘You seem to wish him to go away.’
‘I have already explained,’ she answered with a degree of constraint.
‘Yes, I understand,’ he said dreamily. ‘Mine is a selfish way of considering the matter. I grudge every moment that what I—prize most, is out of sight. I suppose it is because we feel how short the time is we can possess our treasures, that in growing old we grow selfish.’
‘But you are not an old man, Mr Hadleigh.’ She was trying to find something gentle to say.
He shook his head.
‘I know men who are nearly twice my age in years and yet are boys compared with me. I feel very old just now.’
‘But you know his absence will not be long.’
‘True—his absence will not be long.... Here is Dr Guy.—Well, doctor, what news do you bring us now?’
They had entered through the conservatory, and encountered the doctor on the way to seek his host.
‘He has had a rest, and there is not much harm done. But it was foolish of him not to lie up at once and send for us.’
‘Miss Heathcote would like to see him.’
‘Well, it won’t do him any harm for her to see him—especially as it is his wish that she should; but he ought to be kept as quiet as possible. I have been sent for; but Joy will stay as long as may be necessary.’
Mr Hadleigh himself took Madge to the door of Philip’s room, and it was opened by Mrs Picton, the housekeeper.
‘That’s her now,’ said Philip. He was lying on his right side on the bed, his back towards the door.—‘Now, doctor, give us the ten minutes you promised.’
‘I trust to you, Miss Heathcote,’ said Dr Joy, ‘not to allow him to move from his present position until I return; and not to let him speak too much.’
She bowed. The doctor and Mrs Picton left the room.
‘Isn’t this a nuisance, Madge?’ began Philip, by an effort refraining from turning round to look at her. ‘It upsets everything.’
‘But there is no danger, Philip,’ she answered, laying her hand soothingly on his head.
‘That’s just it—if it had been a real knock-up, one could have said, “There’s no help for it,” and settled down to enjoy a month or two in bed. But with a mere scratch like this, which only threatens to be troublesome if you don’t behave yourself, it’s—well, it’s irritating.’
‘What was it you wanted to say to me, Philip? You know, we have only a few minutes, and you heard what the doctor said to me.’
‘O yes, of course.... Are they having a good time out there?... I can hear the music—there, they are at the Lancers now—and it makes my feet go in spite of me. I did hope to have such a jolly time with you, Madge. I had put my name down for nearly every dance in the programme.’
‘I am afraid we should both have been rather tired,’ she said, smiling, glad to find him in such good spirits.
‘The next dance is a waltz.—Ah!’
He had moved his arm incautiously, and a sharp pang reminded him of his condition. With that little cry he had uttered, Madge felt the pang too.
‘I am going away now,’ she said, trying to speak firmly; ‘I am only doing you harm by staying.’
‘No, no; don’t go, Madge—the touch of your hand has done me more good than all their bandages. I will be quiet. There is something very particular you have to do for me. (What a capital band they have got.)’
‘If you speak again about anything except what you want me to do, I shall leave the room.’
That quieted him, and he kept still for a little.
‘I want you to write to Uncle Shield,’ he said at length tranquilly. ‘If you write to-morrow, it will be in time for the next mail.’
‘What am I to say to him?’
‘Say that I have attended to all his instructions, and have everything ready to start in the Hertford Castle on the sixth, and that I still hope to do so.’
‘Oh, that isn’t possible, Philip.’
‘We’ll see. Tell him next about this accident, which the doctors say will prevent me from getting on to my feet for some weeks. I hope to prove they are wrong; but send him this warning through you, so that he may not be disappointed.’
‘Would it not be better that your father or your brother should send this message?’
‘Not at all. He would not open a letter from either of them, as he has warned me; and they would not write one, as I know. I hope to set that old misunderstanding between my father and him right some day. Meanwhile, I very much want you to do this for me.’
‘As you please, Philip.’
‘Thanks, Madge, thanks. Then tell him particularly that Wrentham’s affairs are all right.... He’s a good fellow, Wrentham. You remember, I did not like him at first; since I have come to know him better, I have altered my opinion. He is a real good fellow, and made everything in this troublesome business quite smooth and easy for me. Only I wish he hadn’t asked me to try that mare to-day, or that I hadn’t been so unlucky as to agree to do it.’
‘Uncle is very angry about it. He says the mare has been shamefully treated, for she had no vice at all when she left him, and he intends to buy her back.’
‘I hope he won’t.... Now let me see; was there anything else? No; I have told you all that I want to say. You will find an envelope with his full address on the table over there.’
As she was getting the envelope, there was a tap at the door.
‘That’s the doctor, I suppose,’ muttered Philip disappointedly. ‘Why, you can’t have been five minutes here. You won’t be worrying yourself about this, Madge. I’ll be all right in a few days.’
‘Don’t speak any more,’ she said, bending over and touching his somewhat feverish brow with her lips. ‘I shall be here to-morrow. We are going home now. Good-night.’
Dr Joy was at the door, waiting to enter.
‘Will you look at him, doctor, and tell me how he is before I go?’ said Madge softly. The doctor went in, and after feeling his patient’s pulse, returned.
‘He has been a little excited. Don’t leave for half an hour, and I will send a message to you.’
In half an hour Mrs Picton brought her the message: Philip was sleeping.