CHAPTER XVII.—A TURNING-POINT.
The task which Madge had undertaken would have been simple enough, if she had not heard that sad story about the old time when her mother and Philip’s uncle stood in the same relationship to each other as she and Philip now. Then she would have had nothing to do but to write a letter according to her instructions.
Knowing, however, what painful recollections her name would suggest to Mr Shield, the task became a little complicated. Old wounds would be uncovered, old passions roused again, and who could tell what might be the consequences to Philip? She had formed her idea of Mr Shield from Aunt Hessy’s account of the manner in which he had received the tidings of her mother’s marriage, and from Philip’s account of the feud between his father and him. And the idea was that of a man who never forgot an offence, even if he forgave it. His years of exile and of silence to those friends and relatives showed how implacable his nature must be.
She had thought of this the moment Philip told her what she was to do; but in his present condition she could not venture to explain it to him. Fortunately, there was one to whom she could express her doubts, and fortunately Aunt Hessy always saw the best in everything: if she had been thrown to the bottom of a pit, she would have lifted her eyes to the disc of sky above and taken comfort. She was endowed with that boundless faith which makes one happy in one’s self and the cause of happiness in others.
‘Do not trouble thyself, child. We make more worries for ourselves than are made for us. Like enough the two great troubles of Austin’s life may be redeemed in thee and Philip. That would be great joy to me. Send thy letter as it is; and I’ll put a few words to him in the same envelope, so that he may understand thou art no stranger.’
It was only a few words Aunt Hessy wrote: ‘This is to tell thee that after many years thou art still kindly borne in mind. It is our fervent hope that time hath brought thee peace as well as riches. The letter which this short greeting goes with is from our Lucy’s child, Madge. If all go well with them, Madge and thy nephew Philip Hadleigh will one day marry. I think it well that thou shouldst know this, and trust that it may please thee. I would be glad to tell thee more if any sign be given me that thou carest to hear it.’
Madge wrote a succinct account of the accident which had befallen Philip and a clear statement of all that she had been directed to say. Before this letter was closed, Dr Joy called, and a postscript became necessary.
‘The doctor who is attending Mr Philip Hadleigh has been here. He says that it would be positively dangerous for him to move from his room for two or three weeks; and that to undertake a journey to Griqualand in less than three or even four months would be “positively suicidal.” The doctor also says that Mr Hadleigh’s anxiety to keep his engagement with you is likely to retard his recovery very much. My fear is that he will attempt to travel before he is fit to do so safely. Could you not assure him that the delay will cause you no inconvenience?’
She did not hear what Dr Joy said to Aunt Hessy, or her fear that Philip in his impulsive way might act without due heed to the voice of medical wisdom would have been greatly increased.
‘The fact is, Mrs Crawshay, there is no great danger in the case itself, although two ribs are broken. The real danger lies in his impatience to be away and home again. I think your niece has something to do with that. He let it out to me to-day when he told me that he was not so impatient to go as he was impatient to be back. You must persuade Miss Heathcote to use her influence to keep him quiet.’
Madge went to the village post-office herself. Even the posting of this letter had obtained what at the moment appeared to be a somewhat undue importance. However, it was safely placed in the box by her own hand, and she experienced a sense of relief as if she had got rid of a burden. There were so many things she might have said, and had not, so many phrases she might have altered or modified to suit the peculiar associations which it revived, that so long as it remained in her possession there seemed a probability of being constrained to go back and write it all over again. If on the contents of this letter had depended the most fateful turning-point in her life, and she had been aware of it, she could not have been more exercised in mind about them, or more relieved when the die was cast into the post-box.
Now she turned with lightened steps towards Ringsford. In the fields on every side the ploughs and harrows were at work; occasionally there was the crack of a gun, and in the distance she could see the blue smoke wreathing up into the air and the sportsmen following their dogs. A soft russet tinge like a great brown cobweb lay upon the Forest, and leaves were fluttering hesitatingly to the ground, as if uncertain whether or not it was yet time to quit the branches. These were the tokens that the harvest-time was over, and the fat ricks in the farmyards told that there had been a goodly ingathering.
When she reached the Manor, the young ladies had barely finished breakfast. They had been dancing until daylight shamed the lamps in the marquee, and consequently they were still at their first meal long after the forenoon dinner had been finished at Willowmere.
‘Why did you not tell us about poor Philip last night, Madge?’ was Miss Hadleigh’s salutation, adding, with a shrug of the shoulders which might represent a shudder: ‘It is so dreadful to think of us all enjoying ourselves while our brother was lying at death’s door.’
‘Not so bad as that, unless there has been some great change since the doctor was here,’ said Madge.
‘There will be such scandal about it all over the country,’ exclaimed Caroline.
‘Everybody will know that you were purposely kept in ignorance of the accident.’
‘I am sure I wouldn’t have laughed or danced at all, if I had only known,’ half-sobbed the conscience-stricken Bertha.
‘That is exactly why he insisted you should not be told about it until after your party.’
‘But it wasn’t our party: it was his party; and everybody will think we are such unfeeling creatures,’ was the petulant comment of Caroline, who appeared to be more occupied about what ‘everybody’ would say than about her brother’s injuries.
And everybody did say a great deal, of course—particularly everybody who had not been invited to the festival. The explanation satisfied those who had shared in the night’s merriment and those who had not pretended to be satisfied. So all was well, and the Misses Hadleigh found a doleful interest in receiving the numerous callers and answering their inquiries. They felt a little chagrin at first that Madge should have the privilege of seeing their brother, whilst they were forbidden access to his room for several days. But this was speedily overcome, for none of them had a partiality for a sick-room, and their visitors kept them fully occupied.
The most regular inquirer was Wrentham, who not only presented himself daily at the Manor, but also contrived to see Dr Joy and obtain from him precise accounts of the progress of the case.
The progress was all that could be expected under the circumstances. Philip had a strong constitution; he was soothed into a degree of calmness, as soon as he learned that Madge had carried out his wishes; he ‘kept his head’ all the time; but his strength rendered his unavoidable restraint the more tantalising, and the sailing of the Hertford Castle without him the more vexatious.
Then Madge said, with a make-believe look of reproach:
‘Are you so very sorry, then, that we are together for a month or two longer than you expected?’
‘You know I am not; but then they have to be tacked on to the other end; and by so much delay my return.’
She was obliged to own that it was irksome for a man of active spirit to be bound down to his bed for weeks, when he had so much to do, and his spirit felt strong enough to do it. Besides, as he put it:
‘We had screwed our courage to the sailing-point, and now, when we have to wind ourselves up again, how do you know but I may fail? Maybe I shall give it up altogether, and take that little trip to the church we spoke about, and my father wants us to make.’
Then she spoke very decisively:
‘No, Philip, you will not fail; and in any case, we shall not take that trip until next harvest is over.’
‘Next harvest!’ ejaculated the invalid, pretending to groan. ‘How old shall we be then?—or rather, how old shall I be? for I don’t believe you will ever grow old.’
‘We shall both have added exactly one year to our experience,’ she said cheerfully, ‘and we shall begin life so much the more wisely.’
‘Shall we? Well, you can have the experience and the wisdom. I should like to have a Rip van Winkle sleep till then, and waken up just in time to give the necessary answers to the vicar. I say: have you been studying the service?’
‘What a question!’ she answered, blushing.
Of course she had gone over The Service more than once, with that sweet tremulous wonder—compound of curiosity, timid, only half-acknowledged anticipation and awe—which is inspired by those mysterious words that have the power of making two lives one. Was there ever a maiden passed her teens without doing and feeling so? Was there ever a maiden who has not strained her eyes into the misty future that overhangs the altar, and speculated upon the shape in which her fate was to appear? And what maiden was ever ready to make frank confession to her lover of those vague day-dreams in which he has had no definite existence?
‘To be sure you have,’ says Philip gaily, notwithstanding the feebleness of his voice; ‘but I have not. So you will have to coach me for the exam.—I mean the occasion.’
The sunshine of youth was still in their hearts, and they could talk with gay fearlessness of the responsibilities they were to take upon themselves by-and-by. That ‘By-and-by’ makes such a difference in our views of things: even the coward is brave whilst the battle is to be fought by-and-by.
In spite of broken bones and disappointment and restraint, they were pleasant days those to the lovers. Pleasanter still when Philip was declared out of danger, and was permitted to spend two of the sunny hours daily in the garden, which was still brilliant with flowers. ‘Nature and me to keep the place bonnie all the year round,’ Sam Culver used to say, and in the autumn especially, the combined forces produced marvellous effects.
Madge was with Philip in these little outings, wheeling his chair herself, in order that they might escape the tyranny of a servant’s attendance.
A dense high hedge of ancient boxwood, trimmed into the shape of a castle’s rampart, screened the kitchen-garden from the pleasure-grounds. A wide gravel-path divided this screen from a thicket of variegated evergreens. In the centre of the thicket was an open space where stood two silver beeches, and beneath them was a circular rustic seat.
This was a favourite resting-place of Philip and Madge—to read, to dream of the golden future; and it was here he first rebelled against the restraint of his wheel-chair. Autumn had faded into winter, when upon a certain day the lovers were seated together busily reading the letters which had been received that morning from Austin Shield.
The first was to her, and the coldness of its tone tended to confirm the impression she felt of the man’s nature:
‘I am obliged to you for the information contained in your letter to hand. I trust that my nephew’s accident may not entail any permanent injury. Again thanking you, &c.’
‘That’s dry enough,’ muttered Philip, annoyed by this curt acknowledgment of Madge’s service.
‘But he had nothing more to say, and he does not know me,’ was her generous comment. ‘What more could he say than thank you?’
‘I don’t know—but there are different ways of saying thank you; and Uncle Shield does not seem to understand the most gracious way. Some people never do understand it, although they may try all their lives. But he does not mean any harm. I should say the wilds of Griqualand do not afford many opportunities for the cultivation of sweetness and light. Here is what he says to me:
‘“I have received Miss Heathcote’s letter. I regret what has befallen you, and hope you will speedily recover. The attention you have given to my business is satisfactory. Meanwhile, your inability to sail on the date fixed does not cause me so much disappointment as it might have done a few days ago.
‘“It was my determination never to visit England again. Circumstances, however, have recently come to my knowledge which induce me to alter that determination. As soon as my affairs here can be put in order I shall start for London. You need not write again here. Place Mr Wrentham’s papers in the hands of my solicitors for safe custody till my arrival. I shall communicate with you when I reach London, and shall expect to see you as soon afterwards as you may be able to get about.
‘“One thing I must ask you to bear in mind—that I do not wish to meet any of the family except yourself. A meeting would not be agreeable to me, and it could not be pleasing to them. It was about you my sister wrote to me, and my pledge to her concerned you alone.”’
This was subscribed with the most formal of all subscribing phrases—‘Yours truly;’ and even that he seemed to consider of so little importance, that it was only suggested by a series of strokes, which would have been absolutely meaningless to any one not acquainted with the form. Yet those two words ought to mean a great deal.
After the message had been read twice, Madge sat thoughtfully gazing at the paper. Philip’s cheeks had flushed, and his eyes became bright with satisfaction.
‘Well!’ he exclaimed at length, ‘this disposes of the whole bother. I can do what my mother wished without having to run away from you. Are you not glad?’
‘Yes, I am glad,’ she answered slowly; ‘but, do you know, I am almost afraid of your uncle.’
‘Nonsense. He is an odd fish, and dry as a roasted coffee-bean in his letters. But he must be the right sort at bottom, or she would never have cared so much for him, or have asked him to take an interest in me.’
Philip was thinking of his mother; Madge was thinking of hers; and she also came to the conclusion that Austin Shield must be a good man at heart, or he could not have won so much affection, and he would not have been so faithful to the pledge he had given his sister years ago. The vision of the hard unforgiving man vanished from her mind, but no new conception took its place. Some instinct impels us to create a mental portrait of any person about whom we hear much or with whom we correspond. As a rule, the portrait is entirely erroneous; and we are disappointed, agreeably or the reverse, as may be, when we meet the original in the flesh. Yet these portraits of the imagination often exercise a permanent influence on our conduct towards the unconscious sitters.
‘Have you ever formed any notion of what he can be like personally?’ she asked by-and-by.
‘Well, no.... I cannot say that I have—that is, any particular notion of him. There is no portrait of him anywhere about the house, and my father never spoke about him till that evening when he tried to persuade me not to go to him. I should say he is a big chap, with a thin face and a keen eye to business, but good-natured in the main. What is your idea?’
‘I cannot say now. I had my idea; but something has driven it quite out of my head within the last few minutes.’
‘Well, we shall soon see what he is like without cudgelling our brains about it. He will be here in a week or two, if he is as sharp about coming as he was about my going. Of course he will meet you, even if he persists in refusing to see anybody else; and I hope he won’t do that. Our plan must be to bring him to reason somehow; and I am ready to submit to a good deal in order to bring that about.... But I say, Madge, now that we have had just as much worry as if I had really gone away for ever so long, you are not going to stick to that stupid idea of putting off till next harvest?’
‘We are to wait till then—at least,’ she answered, shaking her head and laughing.
But Philip did not regard this decision as irrevocable.