CHAPTER XXVI.—A QUESTION OF DIVISION.
Philip locked his desk, after placing Mr Shield’s letter in his pocket-book, locked his door, and hastened to the station in time to catch one of the afternoon fast trains to Dunthorpe. As he was in a hurry, he hired a fly to Ringsford. On the way down, he had made up his mind to get over what he anticipated would be a disagreeable interview with his father, before going to Willowmere. Then he would be able to tell Madge all about it, and receive comfort from her.
He alighted at the gate, and walked swiftly up the avenue. The sun was out of sight; but it had left behind a soft red glow, which warmed and brightened the blackened landscape. Peering through the dark lacework formed by the bare branches of the trees, he saw a figure standing as it were in the centre of that red glow: the shadows which surrounded Philip making the figure on the higher ground beyond appear to be a long way off. A melancholy figure: light all round him, darkness within himself.
Philip quickened his steps, and taking a footpath through the shrubbery, advanced to his father, as he was beginning to move slowly from the position in which he had halted.
‘Glad to see you, Philip,’ said Mr Hadleigh, whilst he did what he had rarely done before—took his son’s arm. There was also a touch of unusual kindliness in his voice and manner. ‘I have missed you the last few evenings more than I fancied I should do. You have been enjoying yourself, no doubt—theatres, clubs, friends and cards perhaps. Well, enjoy these things whilst you may. You have the means and the opportunity. I never had; and it is singular how soon the capacity for enjoyment is extinguished. Like everything else—capacity or faculty—it requires exercise, if it is to be kept in good condition.’
Philip was relieved, but considerably puzzled by his father’s strange humour.
‘I have been enjoying myself; but not in the way you mention. I have been harder at work than I have ever been, except when preparing for the last exam.’
‘Ah, and you did not make so very much out of that hard work after all.’
‘Not so much as I ought to have done, certainly; but I hope to make more out of this effort,’ said Philip, with an attempt to pass lightly by the uncomfortable reminder that he had failed to take his degree. ‘Have you read the papers I sent you?’
‘Yes.’
Mr Hadleigh spoke as if reluctant to make the admission, and his brows contracted slightly, but his arm rested more kindly on that of his son, as if to make amends for this apparent want of sympathy. Philip was unconscious of these signs of varying moods.
‘I am glad of that—now you will be able to give me the benefit of your advice. Wrentham fancies I am running after a chimera, and will come to grief. He has not said that precisely; but what he has said, and his manner, convince me that that is his notion; and I am afraid that it will materially affect the value of his help to me. I should like you to tell me what you think.’
Mr Hadleigh was silent; and they walked on towards the sheltered grove, where, during his convalescence, Philip had spent so many pleasant hours with Madge. As they were passing through it, the father spoke:
‘I did not want to read those papers, Philip, but—weakness, perhaps—a little anxiety on your account, possibly, compelled me to look over them. I have nothing to say further than this—the experiment is worth making, when you have the means at command. I should have invested the money, and enjoyed myself on the interest. You see’ (there was a curious half-sad, half-mocking smile on his face), ‘I who have known so little pleasure in life, am a strong advocate for the pleasure of others.’
‘And that is very much the same theory which I am trying to work out.’
‘Yes; and I hope you will succeed, but—you are forgetting yourself.’
‘Not at all—my pleasure will be found in my success.’
‘Success,’ muttered Mr Hadleigh, speaking to himself; ‘that is our one cry—let me succeed in this, and I shall be happy!... We must all work it out for ourselves.’ Then, as if rousing from a dream: ‘I hope you will succeed, Philip; but I have no advice to give beyond this—take care of yourself.’
‘That is just what I am anxious for you and’—(he was about to say ‘and Mr Shield;’ but desirous of avoiding any unpleasant element, he quickly altered the phrase)—‘you and everybody to understand. My object is not to establish a new charity, but a business which will yield me a satisfactory income for my personal labour, and a sufficient interest on the capital invested, whilst it provides the same for my work-people, or, as I should prefer to call them, my fellow-labourers. As my returns increase, theirs should increase’——
‘Or diminish according to the result of your speculation?’ interrupted Mr Hadleigh drily.
‘Of course—that is taken for granted. Now, I want you to tell me, do you think this is folly?’
‘No, not folly,’ was the slow meditative reply, ‘if you find pleasure in doing it. My theory is doubtless a selfish one, but it is the simplest rule to walk by—that is, do what is best for yourself in the meantime, and in the end, the chances are that you will find you have also done the best for others. If you believe that this experiment is the most satisfactory thing you can do for yourself, then, it is not folly, even if it should fail.’
‘Thank you. I cannot tell you how much you relieve my mind. I am convinced that in making this experiment I am dealing with a problem of great importance. It is a system by which capital and labour shall have an equal interest in working earnestly for the same end. I want to set about it on business principles. You are the only man of practical experience who has spoken a word of comfort on the subject.’
‘I am dealing with it from a selfish point of view—considering only how you can obtain most pleasure, comfort, happiness—call it what you may—for yourself out of your fortune. I should never have entered on such a scheme. You tell me that it was optional on your part to go into business or to live on the interest of the money?’
‘Quite optional; but of course I could not accept the trust and do nothing.’
‘Ah, I think my advice would have been that you should have accepted the trust, as you call it, invested it in safe securities, married, and basked in the sunshine of life—an easy mind, and a substantial balance at your banker’s.’
‘But my mind would not have been easy if I had done that.’
‘Then you were right not to do it. Every man has his own way of seeking happiness. You have yours; and I shall watch the progress of your work with attentive interest.—But we have other matters to speak about. I have done something of which I hope you will approve.’
Philip could not help smiling at this intimation. Mr Hadleigh had never before suggested that he desired or required the approval of any one in whatever he chose to do.
‘You can be sure of what my opinion will be of anything you do, sir.’
‘Perhaps.’
They walked on in silence, and passed Culver’s cottage. They met Pansy coming from the well with a pail of water. She put down the pail, and courtesied to the master and his son. She was on Philip’s side of the path, and he whispered in passing:
‘There is good news for you by-and-by, Pansy.’
She smiled vaguely, and blushed—she blushed at everything, this little wood-nymph.
‘What is the good news you have for the girl?’ asked Mr Hadleigh sharply, although he had not appeared to be observing anything.
‘I suppose there can be no harm in telling you, although it is a kind of a secret.’
‘What is it?’
‘Caleb Kersey is making up to Pansy; but old Sam does not like it, as the young man is so unsettled. The good news I have for her is that Kersey has joined me, and will have good wages and good prospects.’
‘You might have told her at once.’
‘I thought it better that the man himself should do that.... But you had something to say about yourself.’
‘It concerns you more than me,’ said Mr Hadleigh, resuming his low meditative tone. ‘I have been altering my will.’
There are few generous-minded men who like to hear anything about even a friend’s will, and much less about that of a parent who in all probability has a good many years still to live. Philip was extremely sensitive on the subject, and therefore found it difficult to say anything at all when his father paused.
‘I would rather you did not speak about it,’ he said awkwardly. ‘There is and there can be no necessity to do so. You have many years before you yet, and in any case I shall be content with whatever arrangement you make.’
‘Many years before me still,’ continued Mr Hadleigh musingly, repeating his son’s words. ‘True; I believe I have; it is possible even that I might marry again, and begin a new life altogether with prospects of happiness, since it would be guided by the experience of the past. Most people have a longing at some time or other that they might begin all over again; and why should not a man of, say middle age, take a fresh start, and realise in the new life the happiness he has missed—by his own folly or that of others—in the old one?’
Philip did not understand, and so remained silent.
Was there ever a grown-up son or daughter who felt quite pleased with the idea of a parent’s second marriage? When the marriage cannot be prevented, the sensible ones assume a graciousness, if they do not feel it, and go on their way with varying degrees of comfort in being on friendly terms with their parent; the foolish ones sulk, suffer, cause annoyance, and derive no benefit from their ill-humour. Philip was surprised and a little amused at the suggestion of his father marrying again. The idea had never occurred to him before; and now, when it was presented, the memory of his mother stirred in him what he owned at once was an unreasonable feeling of disapproval. To his youthful mind, a man nearly fifty was old; he had not yet reached the period at which the number of years required to make a man old begins to extend up to, and even beyond the threescore and ten. When he came to think of it, however, he could recollect numerous instances of men much older than his father marrying for the second, third, or fourth time.
‘Yes, it is possible to make a fresh start,’ Mr Hadleigh went on, still musing; ‘and one may learn to forget the past. Did you ever consider, Philip, what a tyrant memory is?’
‘I cannot say that I have, sir.’
‘No; you are too young—by-and-by you will understand.... But this is not what I wanted to speak about.’
He rested a little more on his son’s arm, as if he were in that way desirous of giving him a kindly pressure, whilst he recalled his thoughts to the immediate subject he wished to explain.
‘It is about the will. I have made a new one. I suppose you are aware that although my fortune is considerable whilst it remains in the hands of one person, it dwindles down to a moderate portion when divided amongst four or five?’
‘Clearly.’
‘Then suppose you and I reverse our positions for a time. You have five children, three of them being girls. You wish to leave each of them as well provided for as possible. One of the sons becomes by peculiar circumstances the possessor of a fortune almost equal to your own. Tell me how you would divide your property?’
Philip reflected for a few moments, and then with a bright look, which showed that he had taken in the whole problem, replied:
‘The thing is quite simple. I should leave the son who had been so lucky only a trifle of some sort, in token of good-will; and I should divide the whole of the property amongst the other four. That would be the right thing to do; would it not?’
The father halted, grasped his hand, and looked at him with a smile. This was such an unusual sign of emotion, that Philip was for an instant taken aback.
‘That is almost precisely what I have done,’ said Mr Hadleigh calmly; ‘and your answer is what I expected. Still, it pleases me to learn from your own lips that you are satisfied.’
‘Not only satisfied, but delighted that you should have had so much confidence in me as to know I should be.’
‘A few words more and I shall release you.—Oh, I know that you are eager to be off, and where you wish to be off to. Right, right—seek the sweets of life, the bitters come.... You are separating yourself from me. That is natural, and follows as a matter of course. I would have liked it better if the circumstances had been different. Enough of that. Your rooms at the house will be always ready for you, and come when you may, you will be welcome to me. Now, go: be happy.’
He pointed towards the Forest in the direction of Willowmere. He looked older than usual: in his movement and attitude there was an unconscious solemnity, as if he were giving his favourite son a blessing while sending him forth into the world.
Philip bowed. He saw that his father was strangely agitated, and so turned away without speaking.
What was in the man’s mind, as he watched the stalwart figure rapidly disappear into the shadows of the Forest? Hitherto, he had been walking and standing erect, although his head was bent a little, as usual. Now his whole form appeared to collapse, as if its strength had been suddenly withdrawn, and he dwindled, as it were, in height and breadth.
The shadows deepened upon him as he stood there; stars began to appear; a branch of an elm-tree close by began to creak monotonously—betokening the gathering strength of the wind, although at present it seemed light; and still he remained in that dejected attitude, gazing vacantly in the direction taken by Philip, long after Philip had disappeared.
He roused from his trance, looked round him, then clasping hands at his back, walked dreamily after his son.