CHAPTER XLV.—HIGH PRESSURE.
Madge reached home in the darkness, and opened the outer door so quietly that she got up to her own room without being observed by any of the inmates. Hat and cloak were off in a minute, and flung carelessly anywhere—thus marking how completely her mind was distracted from ordinary affairs; for, as a rule, she was careful in putting things away.
Then!—she did not fling herself on the bed, and give way to an overwhelming sense of despair, in the manner of heroines of romance. She sat down; clasped hands lying on her lap, and stared into the darkness of the room, which was luminous to her hot, dry eyes, and wondered what it was all about.
Her engagement with Philip was broken off, and he wished it to be so! Now, how could that be? Was it not all some disagreeable fantastic dream, from which she would presently awaken, and find him by her side? They would laugh at the folly of it all, and be sorry that such ideas could occur to them even in dreams. And that horrible, silent drive to the station; the silent clasp of hands as the train started; no word spoken by either since, in her pain and confusion, she had said ‘Good-bye,’ and he had echoed it—all that was a nightmare. She would shake it off, rouse up, and see the bright day dawning.
But she could not shake it off so easily. He had said that she was to consider herself free from all bond to him. He wished it—there was the sting—and they had parted. It was a different kind of parting from the one she had prepared herself to pass through with composure. Was it a distorted shadow of her mother’s fate that had fallen upon her?
At this she started, and bravely struggled with the nightmare which had weighed upon her from the moment the fatal word ‘Good-bye’ had escaped her lips. They were not parted—absurd to think that possible. She took blame to herself; she had been hasty, and had not made sufficient allowance for his worried state. Perhaps she had been quickened to anger by his apparent want of faith because she would not reveal what she had promised to be silent about for his sake. She, too, felt distracted at the moment; and want of faith in those we love is the cruelest blow to the distracted mind.
Ay, she should have been more forbearing—much more forbearing, considering how worried he was. And she could see that haggard face now with the great dazed eyes of a man who is looking straight at Ruin, feeling its fingers round his throat choking him.... Poor Philip. She had been unkind to him; but it should be all put right in the morning. She would tell Aunt Hessy and Uncle Dick, and they would force him away from that dreadful work which was killing him, and——
And here what threatened to be a violent fit of hysteria ended in a brief interval of unconsciousness.
The door opened, light streamed into the room, and Aunt Hessy, lamp in hand, entered. Madge had slipped down to the floor, and long, sobbing sighs were relieving the overpent emotions of her heart.
‘Thou art here, child, and in such a plight!’
The good dame did not waste more words in useless exclamations of amazement and sorrow, but raised her niece to the chair and, without calling for any assistance, applied those simple restoratives which a careful country housewife has always at command for emergencies. The effect of these was greatly aided by the sturdy efforts made by the patient herself to control the weakness to which she had for a space succumbed.
‘I’ll be better in a minute or two, aunt,’ were the first words she managed to say; ‘don’t fret about me.’
‘I shall fret much, child, if thou dost not continue to fret less thyself.’
‘I’ll try.... But there is such sore news. Philip says he is ruined, and that he must—he must ... because it is Uncle Dick’s wish ... he must’——
She was unable to finish the sentence.
‘Say nothing more until I give thee leave to speak,’ said Aunt Hessy with gentle firmness; but the tone was one which Madge knew was never heard save when the dame was most determined to be obeyed. ‘We have heard much since thou hast been away; and we have been in fright about thee, as it grew late. But though thou wert with friends, I knew that home was dear to thee, whether thou wast glad or sad. So I came up here, and found thee.’
‘But the ruin is not what I mind: it is his saying that we are to part.’
To her surprise, Aunt Hessy did not immediately lift her voice in comforting assurance of the impossibility of such a calamity. She only raised her hand, as if to remind her that silence had been enjoined. Seeing that this was not enough, or moved by compassion for the distress which shone through Madge’s amazement, she said:
‘We shall see about that, by-and-by.’
But Madge could not be so easily satisfied; for something in her aunt’s manner suggested that there might be truth in Philip’s assertion of the view her guardians would take of the position. He had said they would hold it as contrary to common-sense that a man who had been disinherited by his father and ruined by speculation should keep a girl bound to wait for him till he had retrieved his fortune, or to marry him and share—or rather increase his poverty. That was a cruel kind of practical reason which she could neither understand nor appreciate. If they really intended to insist upon such a monstrous interpretation of the engagement she had entered into with Philip, then she must try to explain how differently she regarded it. The moment of misfortune was the moment in which she ought to step forward and say: ‘Philip, I am ready to help you with all my strength—with all my love.’
Only Philip had the right to say: ‘No; you shall not do this.’
And there the poor heart sank again, for he had in effect said this: he had told her that he wished the bond to be cancelled. That was a very bitter memory, even when she made allowance for his conviction that her guardians expected him in honour bound to make such a declaration. Now, however, she recognised self-sacrifice in his act; and feeling sure that it was love for her which prompted it, took comfort.
Her first idea, then, was to find out what her guardians were to do, and she was about to rise, with the intention of asking her aunt to go with her to the oak parlour, when she was interrupted.
There was first a banging of doors below; next there was a deep voice from the middle of the staircase:
‘I say, missus, art up there?’
Before any answer could be given, Uncle Dick presented himself with as near an approach to a frown as his broad honest face was capable of forming.
‘So you are here, Madge. Thought as much. I told the missus you could take care of yourself; but a rare fuss you have been making among us, running about here, there, and anyhow, when you know the day for Smithfield is nigh, and ever so many things to do that you ought to do for me. I say that ain’t like you, and I’m not pleased.’
While Crawshay was venting this bit of ill-humour, he stood in the doorway, and as Madge had risen, the lamp was below the level of her face, so that he could not see how ill she looked.
‘I hope I have not forgotten anything,’ she said hastily; ‘you remember the first papers were filled up by—by Philip.’
‘They’re right enough; but here’s a letter from the secretary you didn’t even open.’
‘It must have come after I went away.’
‘Like enough, like enough,’ he went on irritably, although the dame had now grasped his arm, and was endeavouring to stop him. ‘Away early and back late—that’s the shortest cut into a mess I know of.—Where have you been?’
It was evident that the unopened letter of the Smithfield secretary had less to do with his ill-humour than he was trying to make believe. The question with which he closed his grumble suggested the real cause of vexation.
‘Quiet thyself, Dick,’ his wife interposed. ‘Madge is not well to-night, and it makes her worse to find thee angry.’
‘Could a man help being angry?’ he said, becoming more angry because of his attention being called to the fact that he was so, as is the wont of quick tempers. ‘Have you told her about them blessed letters?’
‘I have told her that we received them: to-morrow, we can tell her what they are about.’
‘I would rather know at once, aunt,’ said Madge calmly, as she advanced to Crawshay, and only a slight tremor of the voice betrayed her agitation. ‘They concern Philip; and I should not be able to sleep if anything was kept back from me. He is in cruel trouble, Uncle Dick, and he says you want me to break off from him, and that has upset me a little, although I know that you would not ask me to do such a thing, when he is in misfortune.’
‘Dick Crawshay never left a friend in a ditch yet, and he had no business to say that of me,’ blurted out the yeoman indignantly. Then, checking himself, he added: ‘But there’s sense in it too. Maybe he wants to break off himself; and I shouldn’t wonder, either, if he has heard what that fellow Wrentham says about your goings-on with Beecham.’
‘Goings-on with Mr Beecham!’
‘Ay, that’s it.... Come now, lass, tell truth and shame the devil—was it Beecham you went off in such haste to see to-day?’
‘I went to see Mr Shield, and saw Mr Beecham at the same time.’
‘Then it is true, mother—you see she owns to it,’ said Uncle Dick, his passion again rising. ‘And you’ve been writing to Beecham and meeting him underhand.’
‘Not underhand, uncle,’ she exclaimed, drawing back in surprise and pain. The word ‘underhand’ assumed the significance of a revelation to her; but even now she did not see clearly the extent of the misconceptions to which her conduct was liable, if criticised by unfriendly eyes.
‘You say it ain’t underhand! I say it’s mortal like it. You never said a word about Beecham this morning, though you must have known that you were going to see him.... Come now, did you not?’
He added the question in a softer tone, as if hoping for a negative answer. But Madge evaded a direct reply.
‘What is in the letters to make you so vexed with me?’ she asked.
‘What’s in them?—Why, Shield says that Philip has been a fool, allowing himself to be cheated on all sides, and that there’s nothing for him but the Bankrupt Court. That’s a fine thing for a man to come to with such a fortune in such a short time. But I might have known it would end in this way—it’s the same thing always with them that set up for improving on the ways of Providence.’
Uncle Dick was in his excitement oblivious of the fact, that whilst he had cast some doubt on the success of Philip’s project, he had approved the spirit of it. Madge did not observe the inconsistency; she was so much astonished by what appeared to be the harsh language of Mr Shield, notwithstanding the assurances he had given to her. But she was presently set at rest on this point by Aunt Hessy.
‘Thou art forgetting, Dick, that Shield says he’ll see what can be done to put Philip right again.’
Madge was relieved; for in spite of its improbability, the thought had flashed upon her, that Austin Shield might have been deceiving her as to his ultimate purpose regarding Philip.
‘That may be,’ continued Uncle Dick in a tone of general discontent; ‘like enough, he’ll spend more money on the lad, if so be as that Beecham hasn’t got something against it; and blame me if ever I trust a man more, if Beecham be a knave.—Now you can settle all that, Madge. Seems you know more about him than any of us. Tell us what you know.’
There was no way of evading this request, or rather command; and yet she could not comply with it immediately. She had been told that Philip would be safe if she kept her promise.
‘What, will you not speak?’ thundered Uncle Dick, after he had waited a few seconds. ‘You know that Beecham has to do with Shield, and will say nought!’
‘There is nothing wrong about him,’ she pleaded.
‘Does Philip know you are in league with this stranger, and maybe helping to ruin him?’
‘I have not told Philip, but’——
‘I don’t want your buts—honest folk don’t need them. That scamp Wrentham is right; and it’s a bad business for Philip, and for you, and for all of us. Think on it, and when you do, you’ll be sorry for yourself.’
He wheeled about, and went downstairs with loud angry steps.
There was a long silence in the room; and then Madge turned with pleading eyes to the dame.
‘He is very angry with me, aunt,’ she faltered.
‘I am sorry that I cannot say he is wrong, child,’ was the gentle, but reproachful answer.