CHAPTER XXXVIII.—WHIRLWINDS.
Miss Hadleigh was always effusive in her welcomes, and on the present occasion she was more effusive than ever in her reception of Madge.
‘I have been dying with anxiety to see you, dear; and if you had not come to-day, I should have gone to Willowmere, or sent for you.’
‘I am glad to have come at the proper moment, then—when you wanted me.’
‘Oh, it is most, most fortunate!’ (She found a difficulty in discovering a sufficient superlative, and so doubled the one at her command.) ‘And it concerns you as much as us, for it is about Philip and his uncle.’
Madge had not been excited with curiosity about the cause of Miss Hadleigh’s anxiety to see her; and even now she was not disturbed, although more interested, when she learned that Philip had something to do with it.
‘Has anything particular happened?’
‘We don’t know yet, dear; that is what vexes us. Philip has not been here for—oh, ever so long; and such strange things are being said about them in the city, that a friend of mine’ (a pretty simper here) ‘considered it to be his duty to come out expressly to tell me and ask if I knew anything.’
‘But what is being said and who has told you?’ inquired Madge, still undisturbed, and even inclined to smile, having experience in the young lady’s way of revelling in exaggerations on the most trivial occasions.
‘Alfred—that is Mr Crowell, you know.’
The correction was made with a little self-conscious smile, as if she were saying: ‘Of course you know that I have the right to call him Alfred.’
Madge bowed.
‘Well, Alfred tells me that people are saying that Mr Shield’s great fortune is a great bubble swindle; and something about bulls and bears, that I don’t understand; and that poor Philip will never be able to meet the engagements he has made in the belief that this man possessed millions. He has been dreadfully deceived; but nobody will believe that; and Philip will have to suffer all the blame, because the thing has been so cunningly done that nobody can touch Mr Shield. He is not a partner, and is in no way responsible for what Philip said or did.... It is perfectly frightful, and has made me so nervous that I really don’t know what I am doing ever since Alfred went away. Alfred is so generous and so brave—he has gone to search for Philip, and see if anything can be done to help him out of the mess.’
Making all allowance for probable and possible exaggerations, this news was startling, and it was rendered more so by the excited interjectional manner in which it was conveyed. But it obtained additional significance when she remembered what Philip himself had said of his worries, and what had passed between her and Mr Beecham. No doubt, Philip, desiring to spare her anxiety, had made too little of his difficulties, had avoided details, and left her to believe that they were only of such a nature as to involve temporary embarrassment, which could be overcome by coolness and resolution. Alfred Crowell, being under no constraint, had blurted out the truth—or rather, he had found the rumours of such importance as to induce him to make a special journey to Ringsford to inquire into their truth. That he should make the rumours an excuse for an extra visit to his betrothed was out of the question. He came and went at will.
If it were true, then, that Philip had fallen into or been led into such desperate trouble, what was she to think of Mr Beecham’s assurances that no harm should come to him? And she had pledged herself to remain silent!
These things passed through her mind as the panorama of a whole life appears in one picture to the eyes of a man who is drowning. But with the same rapidity came the suggestion of what should be done.
‘You ought to seek the advice of your father.’ The voice was a little husky, but the manner was decisive.
Miss Hadleigh moved her hands—they were neat hands, and she was fond of displaying them—gently upward and stared in despondent astonishment.
‘We dare not speak to papa about anything connected with Mr Shield. You can’t know how badly papa has been treated by him, or you would never think of such a thing.’
‘Then I must do it.’
She rose and made a pace towards the door as she spoke.
‘Oh, you must not do it, dear, for your own sake!’ cried Miss Hadleigh, alarmed at the idea of anybody venturing to speak to her father on a subject which he had absolutely forbidden to be mentioned. ‘You will bring us all into trouble if you do. You do know that papa did not want Philip to have any dealings with this dreadful person, and Philip would take his own way. You could not expect papa to be pleased with his disobedience; and you cannot expect him to be ready to give advice now, when his former advice was neglected. If you have any notion of papa’s way, you must understand that he would only be angry, and say that he spoke at the right time, and it was no use speaking now.’
‘I shall not bring any trouble upon you,’ said Madge quietly; ‘and although I see how unpleasant the subject must be to your father, I wish to speak to him. Do not be afraid, Beatrice.’
She took Miss Hadleigh’s hand in both her own and looked kindly in the flushed face. But although Miss Hadleigh was afraid of her father, she could not endure to be assured by another that she need not be so. Consequently, her shoulders went up, and her chin went up, and her brows came down a little, whilst her tone became slightly supercilious.
‘Oh, it is not on my own account that I advise you not to speak to him about this most painful business. I was thinking of you; for it will be a little awkward if you make him angry and refuse to help Philip, even when he has got rid of this most extremely disagreeable relative. But of course you can please yourself. I do not think my brother will be grateful to you afterwards, when he learns how careful I was to warn you.... Shall I inquire where papa is?’
‘If you please,’ said Madge, attempting to smile; ‘but you are not to be vexed with me, Beatrice.’
‘Not at all, dear,’ was the response, in a slightly hysterical note, as the bell was rung with emphasis; ‘my anxiety is entirely to save you disappointment.’
‘I must risk that.’
The servant who answered Miss Hadleigh’s summons informed her that Mr Hadleigh was in the library.
‘He spends nearly all his time there now,’ said Miss Hadleigh, when the servant had departed with his message; ‘he goes to town seldom, and often does not go out of the house all day.’
She was interrupted by the appearance of her father; and he was so rarely seen in the drawing-room, except for a few minutes before dinner—and not always then, unless when there were guests present—that she was startled by the sudden apparition. Moreover, she had calculated that he would send a message to the effect that he was engaged, or that he would see the visitor in the library, and in either case, she would have been protected from the suspicion of having any share in bringing about the interview. She was determined that she should not be forced to take any active part in it, and not being prepared with an excuse, she said plainly: ‘Madge wants to speak to you,’ and went out of the room.
Mr Hadleigh’s cold face never indicated the emotions of his mind or heart; but his eyes, which followed Miss Hadleigh until the door closed upon her, turned slowly to Madge, met hers, and noting her disturbed expression, seemed to ask for explanation.
‘You so rarely ask to see me, Miss Heathcote, that I am afraid something unpleasant has occurred.’
‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ she began quietly, but the undercurrent of agitation was revealed by the hesitating awkwardness of her manner.
‘You ought rather to say that you know I am willing to be disturbed whenever you wish to see me,’ he rejoined, with that suggestion of a smile which appeared at times to her and to no one else.
‘Thank you—thank you. But have you not heard that Philip is in difficulties?’
‘What kind of difficulties—about money?’
‘Yes, yes; and his uncle, it is said, will not help him, or cannot. But you can, and will, if it should be true.’
Her hand touched his arm trustfully, as if to signify that her hope of safety lay in him. He placed his hand on hers.
‘I know nothing of Philip’s affairs, and have forbidden any one in the house to speak about them to me. He and I have settled matters between us: he has chosen his course, and is to abide by it. You are aware that it is not the course I should have liked him to follow; and being as it is, I cannot interfere with him.’
‘But if you learn that he has been deceived and is on the brink of a great misfortune—of ruin, which will bring disgrace with it—you would not refuse to guide him!’
For an instant there was a gleam in the man’s eyes, as if he rose in triumph over a fallen foe.
‘You must tell me what you mean,’ he said, controlling whatever evil passion had stirred within him and speaking in his ordinary measured tone. ‘What you say would be very alarming, if I did not think that you must be mistaken in regard to Mr Shield. As for Philip’s speculation, I did not think it had much chance of success, although it seemed to me worth trying, if it afforded him pleasure, and if—as I understood—the success or failure of his project was provided for. Has he told you that the failure has come so quickly?’
‘No; he has not told me that failure has come upon him, but that he feared it. The men, the work, and all the calculations of expenses seemed to have gone wrong when he last spoke to me. Within this hour, I learned that it was reported in the city that he would be unable to meet the engagements he has made.’
‘You must not mind city reports about new concerns, Miss Heathcote, for they are frequently the result of nothing more than the whispers of rivals who speak of what they wish to happen. Rumours are seldom circulated about an old established business without some good grounds for them. But for Philip’s business, you will have to prepare yourself for all sorts of ridiculous rumours. You must admit that his experiment is peculiar enough to provoke them.’
‘Then you do not think they can be true,’ she said, drawing a long breath of relief.
‘That would depend upon their source, as I am trying to make you understand. You need not in any case be anxious until you have definite information from Philip himself. I do not like to speak about Mr Shield; but, eccentric as he is, I do not think he would leave him in the lurch, when he knows that so long as Philip continues to hold the position of his heir, I shall do nothing for him.’
‘Not even if Philip had been deceived?’
‘Not even then.... But I will do anything for you.’
‘And that will be the same thing,’ she said, her face brightening.
‘Not quite,’ he observed with a coldness that was almost harsh.
But she did not observe the difference of tone and manner: she only felt that here was the opportunity to make Philip’s rumoured misfortunes the means of bringing about what Philip most desired—the reconciliation of his father and Austin Shield.
‘You say you would do anything for me,’ she said after a moment’s reflection, her expression becoming very serious as she lifted her eyes to his with pensive inquiry.
‘I have said it.’ The coldness had left his voice, and in its stead there was a subdued fervour, which indicated how much he was in earnest.
Then she looked at him steadily for a minute—still with that pensive inquiry in her eyes.
‘You were kind—most kind and generous to me, when you desired that I should stop Philip from going to Mr Shield. You were kind, too, in the calmness with which you accepted my explanation why it was that I could not comply with your request. I am grateful.’
‘Do not speak in this formal way,’ he interrupted—a very unusual breach of manners for him. ‘Tell me what it is you want, and if it is in my power, it shall be done.’
‘It is quite within your power’—she was speaking very slowly—‘but as I understand, you will find the task a most disagreeable one.’
‘That does not matter. Try me.’
‘Your readiness to promise makes me afraid to speak.’
‘That is not fair to me, when you say that the task is quite within my power.’
‘It is, it is; and it has been in my mind for months to ask you to do it.’
‘If it is to serve you, have no hesitation in asking.’
‘It will be a great service to me, because it will add very much to my happiness and to Philip’s. I know—I have been told by yourself and others—that your relations with Mr Shield were of an unpleasant nature.’
As she made an awkward pause, he bowed his head slightly, and the cold expression was beginning to appear on his face again. Her voice was not quite so steady as at first when she continued:
‘Well, will you prove to me that there was something more than a mere good-natured desire to please, when you said that you were ready to do anything for me? Will you agree to forget, or forgive, whatever misunderstandings there were between you in the past, and consent to offer your hand in friendship to your wife’s brother?’
Mr Hadleigh stood quite still and silent for a little. Whatever surprise or displeasure he might be feeling, there was no indication of either on his face. He was again the hard stern man he appeared to the people around him. Madge did not like this change, and became pale as she remembered the terrible charge which was laid against him. She almost trembled with fear lest she should find it true; and then there was a flush of anger with herself for pitying one who could be so heartlessly cruel.
‘Do you know the man?’ he asked quietly by-and-by.
‘Yes; I have met him.’
‘And like him?’
‘I do; and believe him to be our friend, no matter what may be said about him.’ Even in her present excitement she was surprised at the singular coincidence in the nature of the questions asked by Mr Beecham and Mr Hadleigh about her acquaintance with them.
‘Is it at his suggestion that you have made this proposal to me?’
‘He is entirely ignorant that I had any such intention.’
‘And if you had told him, he would have scoffed at the idea that I was capable of saying—even for your sake—Yes; I am ready to give him my hand in all friendliness, if he is willing to accept it.’ The sad smile which lightened and softened his features appeared again. ‘Have I satisfied you that I am ready to do anything for you?’
She was astounded by his sudden change of manner and ready consent to become reconciled to his enemy. Then her face brightened, and there was something approaching to an hysterical note of joy in her voice as she exclaimed: ‘Then you are innocent! It is not true that you had any part in the ruin of his friend George Laurence—it is not true that you had anything to do with the report of Mr Shield’s marriage which destroyed my mother’s happiness! Oh, I am glad—glad and grateful!’
And in the impulse of her gladness, she would have clasped his hands; but he looked startled and drew back, as a guilty man might do. Her astonishment took another turn: was it possible that he yielded so readily to her proposal because he wished to make atonement for the past?
He recovered himself instantly, and took her hand.
‘I see, Miss Heathcote, that Mr Shield has told you his version of these unhappy events,’ he said anxiously; ‘and in justice to myself, I must tell you mine.’