CHAPTER XLVIII.—ANXIETIES.
Madge wakened with the weary sensation of one who has passed through a long nightmare. It was some minutes before she could recall the incidents of the previous day; still longer before she could realise the unhappy meaning of the scene with Philip, and the fact that Uncle Dick and Aunt Hessy had found in her conduct cause for grave displeasure.
Surely she had been acting very wickedly, when those three, who were dearer to her than all the world beside, turned from her, and were vexed as well as pained by what she was doing, so far as they understood it. Surely Mr Beecham must be mistaken in the course he was pursuing—she did not even now doubt the goodness and generosity of his motives. There was only one way in which she could set the minds of her friends at ease; and that she must adopt, no matter what it might cost herself. She dare not hope that Philip would be readily satisfied and come back to her; but at least he should understand that she had been thinking of his interest more than of herself. And Uncle Dick and Aunt Hessy would be relieved from anxiety on her account, and then—who could tell?—maybe they would influence Philip. Maybe Uncle Dick would overlook his loss of fortune, and tell him that he never meant to separate them on such a sorry score as that.
The one way which she saw to bring about this desirable consummation was to inform Mr Beecham that she could no longer keep his secret; and that, if he did not come to Willowmere within the week to release her, she would take back the pledge she had given him and explain everything to her relatives.
Having arrived at this resolution, she was restored to a calm state of mind which was wonderful in contrast with the fever of the night. Morning is the time of hope and energy to a healthful nature; and Madge felt this, although the atmosphere was cold and the sky white with its load of snow, which was presently to descend in thick flakes, covering up the last patches of earth and shrub left bare by the glimpses of sunshine that had succeeded the previous fall.
She went about her duties quietly and resolutely; but it was hard to meet the wistful eyes of Dame Crawshay without throwing herself into the arms that would have received her so gladly, and at once tell all. She had, however, made a bargain, and she would keep to it. Aunt Hessy would approve of what she was doing, when the time for explanation came. Uncle Dick was surly at breakfast, and he scarcely spoke to her at dinner. He did not once refer to the cattle show, and he went out to inspect his stock, a discontented and unhappy man.
Madge felt assured that Philip would say nothing more unless he heard from Uncle Dick; nevertheless, she was all day looking out for some sign from him. Old Zachy the postman came twice, and she saw him approach, her heart pausing, then beating quick with excitement. But Zachy brought nothing from her lover. And she was pained as well as disappointed, although she assured herself again that she had not expected anything, and that she had no right to expect anything until Philip received some token of Uncle Dick’s kindly intentions. Besides, she argued, it was needful to bear in mind the distracted state he was in about his affairs, and how many things he must have to attend to which could not be postponed on any account. Indeed, she did remember all this, and was so keenly sensible of the cruel effect his misfortunes were producing on his mind, that she was frightened about him—more frightened than she had been even on the occurrence of the accident with the horse.
So, when postman Zachy had made his second and last round in the afternoon, she could not rest until she had consulted Dr Joy regarding Philip’s health. Having explained to Aunt Hessy where she was going and why, she started for the village, although the snow had begun to fall in a way which would have made any town-miss who understood what the signs meant glad to stay at home. What the snow meant was to fulfil the threats it had been making for several days, and to come down more heavily than it had done for years.
Dr Joy was surprised to see her on such a gloomy afternoon; but he understood the nature of her visit, after a few words of such necessary explanation as she was at liberty to give.
‘And I want you to tell me plainly what his condition is, doctor,’ she concluded, ‘for I—that is, we are all very anxious about him.’
The good little doctor looked at her earnestly for a moment, as if to assure himself that she was not only desirous of hearing the truth but also able to bear it, and then made reply frankly, but was unable even then to dismount entirely from the hobby which he and his wife rode so diligently in theory.
‘You will agree with me, my dear Miss Heathcote, that economy is the great principle which should regulate our lives—not merely economy in finance, but likewise in work, in strength, and (most important of all) in health. I daresay our friend has told you that I spoke to him on this subject.’
‘When writing, he mentioned that you had visited him,’ she answered, with some nervous anticipations assailing her.
‘Well, I warned him then that his condition was extremely precarious. It is, in fact, that condition which when a man has fallen into, it requires him directly to throw up everything, if he cares to live. It requires him to sacrifice fortune, prosperity, and to run away anywhere and do anything to escape it.’
‘But how can he do that?’
Her own observations of Philip’s changing moods recently, formed a convincing argument in favour of the importance of what the doctor said. The doctor shook his head and smiled regretfully.
‘That is precisely what he asked; that is what every man to whom the advice is given asks. My answer is—don’t ask how, but go at once. Your affairs will be settled much more satisfactorily to all parties in a year or two if you go, than they can be if you remain and die in a month or two.’
‘But surely Philip is not so bad as that!’
‘You asked me to speak plainly, and I am quoting extreme cases,’ said Dr Joy, anxious to mitigate the alarm which he saw his verdict had created, whilst at the same time holding to his point. ‘Philip is not quite so bad as that yet; but he will be in a few months, unless something occurs to relieve him from his present anxieties.’
The doctor’s last words gave her more encouragement than he could have expected, or perhaps intended to give; and the terror which had made her pulse seem to stop, was changed to confident hope. She had every reason to believe that in a few weeks, it might be in a few days, Philip would be relieved of all his anxieties. But this did not lessen in any degree her eagerness to have direct and frequent information as to the state of his health. Dr Joy readily agreed to call at the chambers in Gray’s Inn on the following day, and report to her on his return; then they were to arrange about further visits. Thus being relieved to some extent on this important point, she prepared to take leave; but Dr and Mrs Joy suggested that she should have a fly to take her home, as the snow was falling fast, and already lay three or four inches deep on the ground, whilst it had drifted into an embankment against the opposite houses.
‘I should not think of your hiring a conveyance,’ said the doctor; ‘but we have had a long and heavy day, and both my horses are fagged out.’
But Madge would not hear of this kindly proposal. ‘I like the snow,’ she answered, ‘and a brisk walk will do me good.’ At another time, she would have smiled at the timidity of her friends on account of the weather.
‘You will catch your death of cold, my dear,’ said Mrs Joy, ‘and then you will not be able to come to Edwin’s lecture next week. I assure you it is the most interesting one he has yet delivered.’
Even the danger of missing the doctor’s lecture was not enough to deter her from walking home. As she was passing the King’s Head, the Ringsford carriage drew up at the door, and out of it jumped Coutts Hadleigh, in the full uniform of a captain of Volunteers. He was taken by surprise, and uttered a natural exclamation:
‘Why, what brings you so far from home on such an evening as this? There is going to be a regular out and outer of a snowstorm, and I would not be here myself, only this is the night of the feed I give every year to my men, and all the arrangements were made.’
She was more pleased to meet him than she was generally, for he might be able to give her some news of Philip. So, without troubling to answer his inquiries, she put her own.
‘Don’t know anything about him,’ he answered—callously, as she thought, ‘except that he has got into a precious scrape, and will disgrace our family, unless that uncle of his helps him out of it.’
‘Disgrace?—How is it disgrace to fail in a noble enterprise?’
‘Ah, it’s something worse than failing in a noble enterprise,’ answered Coutts, returning to his habitual tone of cynical indifference. ‘But don’t let us talk about it, if you please. I would rather not, even to you, until all the ins and outs are known.’
‘When will you know about your brother’s affairs?’
‘I cannot say; but he will tell you all about them; and if he doesn’t, I will. Meanwhile, let me do him a service—get into the carriage, and Toomey will drive you home. I am sure that is what Phil and the guv’nor, too, would say, if they found you trudging along the road in such weather. Do get in, or they will both have me down in their black books. The carriage is not to come back for me, so you won’t give the horses any extra work.’
She consented; and Toomey, who was glad enough to turn homeward for his own comfort as well as that of the horses, wheeled round, and drove off at a good pace. A little way out of the village they nearly ran over a man, who, walking in the same direction, had not heard the carriage making up on him, either on account of the preoccupation of his thoughts or the thick carpeting of snow on the road.
‘All right,’ growled the man, having saved himself, and Toomey drove on.
Madge recognised the voice of Caleb Kersey. She would have liked to speak to him, but it was too late. She supposed, however, that he was on his way to visit Sam Culver, from whom he would learn the cause of Pansy’s disappearance. Caleb was on this quest, as she surmised, and he was going to Ringsford, but not to seek information from the gardener.