CHAPTER XXIX.—SUSPICION.
And those interlacing shadows of the bare branches across the footpath through the forest which had been like delicate fairy fretwork when Philip passed along, broadened and deepened into black masses before the father as he followed. He had no purpose in following, beyond a vague craving to know what Madge would say when she learned that he had disinherited this favourite of the family, and a fancy that it would be pleasant to walk back with him, when he might explain more fully than he had done the motives by which he had been actuated.
He, too, knew this pathway well; but, although he walked on, he had not yet decided to go all the way. When he entered the glade in which the King’s Oak reigned, he halted. This was a place for elfin revels, and fairy-rings were common in it. Every child brought here to play felt sure that this was the very spot where little Red Riding Hood met the wolf, and that her grandmother’s cottage stood over there, where some funny people tried to make them believe was once a Roman camp. Romans indeed! as if they were going to give up the delightful association of Red Riding Hood with the place for a lot of dull people they were forced to read about in school-books! And, of course, it was here also that the other Hood called Robin assembled with his merry men, and Little John and Friar Tuck. It was no use attempting to correct their geography by informing them that Sherwood Forest was a long way from here: the child’s imagination insists upon associating its heroes with known places.
Mr Hadleigh was reminded of the happy group of children he had found here in the sunshine not long ago, and as their bright faces rose before him in the soft twilight, he seemed to grow strong again. Pleasant memories are as helpful to us as pleasant anticipations.
When he resumed his way, he walked more firmly than he had done since Philip left him. He had now decided to go on and wait for him near the stile; and he unconsciously quickened his pace, although aware that he would have plenty of time to spare. On reaching the roadway, however, he proceeded leisurely, listening to the river, but hearing no melody in it.
As he approached the stile, he saw the figures of a man and woman slowly cross the road. They shook hands, and he heard the man say:
‘I have your promise, and I shall hold you to it. Be faithful, and I shall be able to think of the past without pain.’
There was a reply, but in a tone so low that it did not reach his ears. He recognised in the man the stranger who had recently taken up his quarters in the village, although he had only seen him once and, then, at a distance. The woman was Madge.
They parted. She hurried up the meadow; and after a brief pause, Mr Beecham turned in the direction of the village.
Mr Hadleigh had involuntarily halted, feeling that he was the accidental spectator of an incident for which the actors had not desired an audience. Beecham’s words and the girl’s manner satisfied him of that. He became immediately aware, however, that standing still would naturally suggest that he was playing the part of a spy. And he could not escape observation, for the man was coming straight towards him. He, therefore, resumed his leisurely pace.
As was frequently his habit, Mr Beecham walked with head slightly bent, his eyes seeming to read strange writings on the ground. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he looked up. There was a momentary and unaccountable change in his expression—as if he had suddenly passed under the shadow of a tree, and coming into the full light again it was placid and gentle as usual.
‘Good-evening,’ said Mr Hadleigh hastily, remembering the country custom he had adopted of saluting any one he encountered on the road.
‘Good-evening,’ echoed Beecham, with a slight inclination of the head.
They passed, moving quietly on their opposite ways. Neither looked back, for each was conscious that the other intended or wished to do so, and did not care to be caught in the act.
That is one of the droll sensations often experienced in the common course of daily life. We meet a friend, part, and without any reason, have a desire to look after him, but restrain ourselves, lest he, being similarly disposed, should ‘catch us at it.’ We laugh at ourselves, and forget the absurd impulse. But what informs the look, the breath, the tone which makes us like or dislike a man or a woman without any apparent justification? The mystery is one which the poets and philosophers of all ages seem to be continually touching, but never grasping. Some call it instinct, others animal magnetism. All we know is that we feel and cannot tell why; but there are few who have not had occasion to regret that they have not allowed themselves to be guided by this inexplicable influence.
Mr Hadleigh, merely passing this stranger in the deepening twilight, knew that he was a foe.
Whether or not surprise at the words he had overheard, and wonder at their being addressed to Miss Heathcote, had anything to do with the sensation, he could not tell; but he felt as keen a chill as if he had passed an iceberg—mentally and physically the sensation was exactly the same. Yet he had heard nothing but praise of this quiet, kindly-looking gentleman. There was a degree of chagrin, certainly, in the thought that in a few weeks Mr Beecham—a casual visitor, as he might still be called—had obtained more influence amongst the villagers than the master of Ringsford had won by years of endeavour to help and guide them.
Of course, Mr Hadleigh attributed this success to the fact that the stranger was indiscriminate in his charity. He gave help wherever it was wanted, without taking the trouble to inquire into each case, or to advise the recipients of his bounty as to the future conduct which would insure their independence. He gave them their own way, in short, saying nothing about the carelessness which created their necessities. To a man who has the means, this is the easiest and shortest road to popularity. But this could never result in permanent benefit to the poor.
Now, Mr Hadleigh had really tried to do permanent good: and, compared to this newcomer, he was still a stranger amongst the people. All allowance being made for the difference of temperament and the difference of method, it was difficult to understand why Mr Beecham should so quickly win what Mr Hadleigh had long striven for with so little result—the affection of those around him.
He turned his eyes inward: was not this part—a great part—of the penalty he had to pay for making worldly success his first thought and Love the second? Was it too late to win one heart? He had gained the admiration, the esteem, the envy of many: was it too late to win one heart? How common folk would laugh at this rich, prosperous man, if they knew that life was a misery to him because he had cast away its crown—if they knew how gladly he would change places with his poorest labourer, if by so doing he might secure the affection for which he craved.
If Philip’s mother had been with him, he would have lavished upon her all that wealth could buy!... There he stopped, in bitterness, for he came to the end of his world again: wealth could not buy love. Obsequious submission, a show of respect, obedience to his orders, he could hire: but that was all. This man Beecham, without apparent effort or sacrifice, obtained at once the ‘Something’ that was beyond price.
To his relief came curiosity and suspicion of—he did not know what. But why should this man receive any promise from Miss Heathcote? Why should it have to do with his past? Why should she, who was to be Philip’s wife, be there, speaking to a stranger, when her lover was waiting for her?
He halted, and after a moment’s hesitation, turned in the direction of the village. He was not to wait for his son.
At first he walked slowly, as if he might still change his mind; but as his thoughts quickened, so did his steps, and the church tower was looming darkly against the slate-like sky when he stopped at the gate of Mr Wrentham’s cottage.
A pretty little squat building of one story, lying well back from the road; a patch of green surrounded by bushy evergreens, and the front wall covered with trellis-work, at present supporting a spider’s web of branches, which in season blossomed into red and white roses, making the cottage look like a bower rather than a homestead.
At the gate, Mr Hadleigh again hesitated, as if doubtful whether or not to carry out the intention which had brought him to the place. Since the evening of Philip’s accident, he had spoken very little in private to Wrentham. Natural enough as the accident had appeared, he was afflicted by an uneasy feeling that Wrentham had something to do with bringing it about, and that to his own visit to Golden Alley the first blame was due.
With some impatience at his weakness, he rang the bell and advanced to the door. The servant was new to the place, and required to ask the visitor’s name; whereupon a door was flung open, and Wrentham came out with effusive cordiality.
‘My dear Mr Hadleigh, this is a grand surprise. I won’t stop to ask you what has made you think of dropping in upon me; but I must say thank you for a new pleasure. Come in, come in; there is nobody here but myself. I have only arrived within the last five minutes, and Mrs Wrentham is putting our girl to sleep. You have passed over these stages of domestic inconvenience; but you can excuse us for not being always in reception order. We let our visitors take us as they find us, and those who don’t like it need not come again. Simple and sensible rule, is it not? But we should have liked you to find us a little more in apple-pie order, especially as it is your first visit.’
This was spoken with Wrentham’s usual gay rapidity, allowing his unexpected guest no opportunity to protest, as he ushered him into a tidy little drawing-room which was apparently very much in ‘reception order.’ Chairs, tables, nick-nacks were almost too primly arranged to accord with the free-and-easy ways which the owner professed. He was, however, so seldom in the room that he was ignorant of its condition. The dining-room, on the other side of the passage, was his ‘snuggery,’ and there he spent his evenings when at home, which was seldom until late at night; and frequently he was absent for days on business.
But he was an affectionate husband and father. He was particular about having his wife and daughter always dressed in the newest and finest fabrics, and regularly took them out for a treat on Saturday or Sunday. Mrs Wrentham was a delicate, nervous lady, apparently content with her lot, and glad to escape from the toil of visiting and receiving visitors. Her whole existence was filled by her child Ada, a bright creature of eight years, nicknamed by her father ‘Pussie,’ on account of her passionate attachment to cats.
‘Will you take a chair?’ Wrentham went on. ‘You are such a fellow for taking one by surprise—always a pleasant surprise; but you give one no chance of doing anything to show how it is appreciated. You dropped down upon me in Golden Alley, just as you have dropped down upon me here, without the least warning.’
Mr Hadleigh listened patiently, his cold, dreaming eyes staring vacantly at him, but closely noting every change on his face.
‘I hope I do not disturb you?’ he said quietly, taking the proffered chair.
‘My dear sir!—as if I should not be delighted to see you under any circumstances—at any time—in any place!’
‘You are very kind. I come to you for the same reason that I visited your office—I want some information which I think you may be able to give me.’
‘About your son? I am afraid there is not much I can say in regard to him that will be satisfactory to a man of business like yourself.’
Wrentham shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, as if the subject were one he would rather not discuss.
‘It is not about my son that I desire to speak to you this time.’
There was a peculiar emphasis on the last two words, suggestive that the result of the former conversation had not been satisfactory. Wrentham was, or very cleverly affected to be, unconscious of the suggestion.
‘I am glad of that—real glad, as Americans say. And yet I have more than once had a notion of going to you and asking you to try to bring the young man to reason. I am supposed to be his manager and adviser. My management consists in doing the work of a message-boy—that is, strictly carrying out his instructions: my advice is nowhere.’
‘I have no desire to interfere with him in his present course.’
‘So I supposed, and that is what has kept me from going to you. I had no idea, until after accepting this agreement with him, that he was such an obstinate beggar—you know that I am speaking of him as my friend. He has got this mania—I have told him that I consider it a mania—and he sticks to it. Unfortunately, his uncle approves of it; but you know that this is not business—he will never get anything out of it.’
‘Not in your sense, Mr Wrentham; but there are some profits which cannot be reckoned by the figures in our ledgers—and some losses too.’
‘Undoubtedly, sir, undoubtedly; at the same time, you cannot blame me for taking the commonplace view of things, and regretting that a young man with such a splendid opportunity should deliberately chuck it into the gutter. Why, with his capital, I can see a magnificent future, if he would only consent to follow the dictates of common-sense.’
‘You mean those dictates which lead to the making of money. His notion is to make people happy. Well, as you are aware, I have had some experience in obeying common-sense, as you understand it; and I am curious to see the result of Philip’s experiment. I have no desire and no right to interfere with him.’
‘The result will be ruin—absolute ruin. In less than twelve months he will not have a penny of the whole capital now at his disposal. However, as you say, we have nothing to do with it. At the same time, I trust you will, for my sake, remember by-and-by that I have entered my protest against the course he is pursuing.’
‘I shall remember,’ said Mr Hadleigh, inclining his head gravely. ‘What I called to ask you was, do you know anything about Mr Beecham, who seems to have taken permanent quarters at the King’s Head?’
‘Beecham!’ exclaimed Wrentham gleefully, as if intensely relieved by an agreeable change of subject. ‘I should think so. I believe that it was my privilege to be the first amongst his acquaintances in Kingshope. I don’t think he would object to my saying that he is a friend of mine. A capital fellow—simple as a child, and yet wise as a philosopher ever can be.’
‘That sounds like a sneer at philosophers.’
‘I did not mean it; but there is a difference between the man who is a philosopher and the man who is up to the time of day. Now, this Beecham has travelled a great deal, read a great deal, and knows a great deal; but he doesn’t know a game at cards. I had to show him how to play Nap!’
Mr Hadleigh was not interested by this record of the simplicity of the stranger; he was occupied by some other reflection, which caused his brows to contract and his eyelids to droop.
‘Has he told you what part of the world he comes from?’
Wrentham laughed.
‘Why, he comes from everywhere—America, Australia, and likely enough the North Pole, although he has not particularly referred to it.’
Mr Hadleigh rose.
‘Will you find out for me, if you can, where he came from last?’
Wrentham became suddenly serious.
‘You don’t suppose there is anything wrong about him? He acts and talks straightforwardly enough.’
‘I am asking you, Mr Wrentham, for information,’ answered Mr Hadleigh with a mechanical smile. ‘If you have won money from him in betting or playing Nap, I have no doubt you will be paid. My inquiry is suggested by the fact, that he has reminded me of an old—acquaintance’ (he seemed to falter over the word, as if he had wished to say friend, but could not). ‘Should he be the man, I want to have a little conversation with him.’
‘Meaning no harm to him?’ queried Wrentham, suspiciously.
‘On the contrary—good to him and to myself.’
‘Then I shall go along and see him this evening. He’ll tell me at once.’
‘I would prefer that my name was not mentioned.’
‘Oh ... that may make a difference. However, I have no doubt of being able to give you the information you want by to-morrow.’
Mr Hadleigh went away, turning his steps homeward. Through the forest again. Those withered branches were like the milestones of his life, and the pathway of withered leaves was a fitting one for him. You who love nature know that those leaves which the careless call dead are the nurses of the coming spring blossoms; and to him they brought back old thoughts, old faces. How beautiful they are: beautiful, because our tenderest thoughts have their roots in graves.