CHAPTER LIV.—POOR COMFORT.
Madge awakened from the reverie into which she had fallen, to find Aunt Hessy’s kind eyes resting on her inquiringly and with a shade of sorrow in them. She, however, instantly awoke, brightened and spoke with cheerful confidence, although there was a certain note of timidity in her voice indicating that she had not yet quite recovered from the effects of the scene in her bedroom.
‘You see, aunt, how wickedly Philip has been deceived, and that I was right to trust Mr Shield.’
‘Yes, but—Mr Beecham?’
Madge’s cheeks flushed, the smile disappeared, and the head was lifted with something like impatience. It seemed as if the pronunciation of Beecham’s name in that questioning tone revealed to her the full significance of Wrentham’s insinuations—that she was not acting fairly to Philip.
‘I have told you, aunt, that he is Mr Shield’s friend, and that he is doing everything that can be done to help Philip out of his difficulties. You cannot doubt that whatever I may do is for the same object.’
‘Ah, child, I never doubted thee. My doubt is that whilst desiring to do right thou may’st have done wrong in giving the trust to a stranger thou’rt afraid to give to those that love thee.’
‘Mr Beecham will himself tell you before the week is out that he gave me such proofs of his friendship as would have satisfied even you.’
‘Well, well, we shall say no more, child, till the time comes; but never expect goodman Dick to be patient with what he thinks unreasonable. See what a handle this rogue Wrentham—I always felt that he was a rogue—has made of thy name to help him in cheating and bamboozling Philip! Take my word, we may turn our toes barely an inch from the straight path at starting, but we’ll find ourselves miles from it ere the end if we do not make a quick halt and go back.’
‘I have only held my tongue,’ said the girl quietly enough, but the feeling of offended innocence was there.
‘Holding the tongue when one should speak out is as bad as telling a book of lies—worse, for we don’t know how to deal with it.’
‘I should be less sorry for vexing you, aunt,’ said the niece, ‘if I did not know that by-and-by you will be sorry for having been vexed with me.’
‘So be it.—But now let us finish clearing up the room, and we’ll get the bedstead down in the morning. Dr Joy says that Mr Hadleigh is not nearly so much hurt as was thought at first, and that they may be able to move him in a day or two.’
When the arrangements for turning the sitting-room into a bedroom had been completed—and there were nice details to be attended to in the operation, which the dame would intrust to no other hands than her own and her niece’s—Madge went in search of Pansy.
Her sudden appearance in the kitchen interrupted the boisterous mirth which was going forward. When she inquired for Pansy Culver, there was an abashed look on the faces of those who had permitted the girl to go without inquiring whither; but Jenny Wodrow answered saucily:
‘She got into a state when I was talking about Caleb Kersey, and slipped out before any of us could say Jack Robinson.’
The silent reproof in the expression of Madge’s tender eyes had its effect even on this self-assertive damsel. Jerry Mogridge hobbled up to his young mistress.
‘I’ll find her for you, Missy,’ he said cheerily, for he was in the happy state of mind of one who has enjoyed a good meal and knows that there is a good sleep lying between him and the next day’s toil.
They went out to the yard, and Jerry, opening the door of the dairy, thrust his head into the darkness with the invocation: ‘Come out ov here, Pansy Culver; what are you doing there? Missy wants you.’ There was no answer, and after groping his way amidst cans and pails standing ready for the morning’s milk, he returned muttering: ‘She ain’t there anyhow. I’ll get the lantern, Missy, and we’ll soon find her, so being as she ha’n’t gone to her father’s.’
Whilst Jerry went for the lantern, the moon began to light the snow-covered ground, and Madge discovered Pansy in the doorway of the stable. She was leaning against the door as if support were necessary to save her from falling. Madge put her arm round the girl, and drawing her out from the shadows into the moonlight, saw that the face was white as the snow at their feet, and felt that the form was shivering with agitation more than with cold.
‘I knew it would upset you, Pansy; and intended to tell you myself, but wanted to do it when we were alone.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Missy,’ answered the girl through her chattering teeth; ‘but thank you kindly. There’s no help for it now. I’ve been the ruin of him, and standing out here, I’ve seen how wicked and cruel I’ve been to him. I knew what he was thinking about, and I might have told him not to think of it—but I liked him—I like him, and I wish they would take me in his place. They ought to take me, for it was me that drove him to it.’
‘Hush, hush, Pansy,’ said Madge with gentle firmness; ‘Caleb is innocent, and will be free in a few days. It was only some foolish business he had with Coutts Hadleigh which brought him under suspicion.’
‘Yes, yes, but it was about me that he went to speak to Mr Coutts—and Mr Coutts never said anything to me that a gentleman might not say. Only he was very kind—very kind, and I came to think of him, and—and—it was all me—all me! And you, though you didn’t mean it, showed me how wrong it was, and I went away. And if Caleb had only waited, maybe—maybe.... I don’t know right what I am saying; but I would have come to myself, and have tried to make him happy.’
This hysterical cry showed the best and the worst sides of the girl’s character. For a brief space she had yielded to the vanity of her sex, which accepts the commonplaces of gallantry as special tributes to the individual, and so had misinterpreted the attentions which Coutts would have paid to any pretty girl who came in his way. She had been rudely startled from her folly, and was now paying bitter penance for it. She took to herself all the blame of Caleb’s guilt, and insisted that she should be in jail, not him.
Madge allowed her feelings to have full vent, and then was able to comfort her with the reiterated assurance of Caleb’s innocence, which would be speedily proved.
The fit being over, Pansy showed herself to be a sensible being, and listened attentively to the kindly counsel of her friend. She agreed to follow her original plan, namely, to see her father in the morning and then return to Camberwell to devote her whole energies to the task of reclaiming her grandfather from his foolish ways and bringing him out to Ringsford. Madge was certain that this occupation would prove the best antidote to all Pansy’s unhappy thoughts and self-reproaches. Meanwhile it was arranged that Pansy should not have Jenny Wodrow for her bedfellow.
Affairs at the farm had gone on uncomfortably from the moment Dick Crawshay expressed displeasure with his niece. She made what advances she could towards reconciliation; but she did not yet offer any explanation. He was obliged to accept her customary service as secretary; but it was evident that he would have liked to dispense with it. Neither his appetite nor his slumbers were disturbed, however; and he slept soundly through the night whilst the fire was raging at the Manor. It was not until the wain with its load of milk-cans had started for the station that he heard from Jerry Mogridge the report of what had occurred.
Then yeoman Dick mounted his horse and rode at full speed to Ringsford to offer what help it might be in his power to render, grumbling at himself all the way for not having been sooner aware of his neighbour’s danger. Finding Mr Hadleigh in the gardener’s cottage, where there was want of space and convenience, the farmer with impetuous hospitality invited the whole family to Willowmere. The invalid could not be removed until the doctor gave permission; but Caroline and Bertha were at once escorted to the farm. Miss Hadleigh remained at the cottage to assist the housekeeper in nursing her father: she was moved to do so by a sense of duty as well as by the knowledge that Alfred Crowell would come out as soon as he heard of the disaster, and he would expect to find her there.
In the bustle and excitement of the first part of the day there was only one person who thought much about Philip and of the effect this new calamity might have upon him in his present state. As the afternoon advanced, everybody was wondering why he neither came nor sent any message. The arrival of Pansy relieved Madge on this and other points; and she was happily spared for that night the pain of learning that Philip did visit the gardener’s cottage without calling at Willowmere.
Postman Zachy delivered two welcome letters in the cold gray light of the winter morning. Both were from Austin Shield—one for Mrs Crawshay, the other for Madge. The first simply stated that his old friend might expect to see him in a few days, and that he believed she would have reason to give him the kindly greeting which he knew she would like to give him. The second was longer and contained important information.
‘Be patient and trust me still,’ it said. ‘You have fixed the week as the limit of your silence: before the time is out I shall be at Willowmere. Philip has acted in every way as I would have him act under the circumstances, except in the extreme mercy which he extends to the man Wrentham; but he pleads that it is for the sake of the poor lady and child whose happiness depends on the rascal, and I have been obliged to yield. At the last moment Wrentham attempted to escape, and would have succeeded but for the cleverness of the detective, Sergeant Dier.
‘Be patient, and have courage till we meet again.’
‘Be patient—have courage:’ excellent phrases and oftentimes helpful; but was there ever any one who at a crisis in life has found the words alone satisfactory? They by no means relieved Madge of all uneasiness, although she accepted them as a token that her suspense would soon be at an end. In one respect she was keenly disappointed: there was not a hint that the proofs she had given Mr Shield of Mr Hadleigh’s innocence of any complicity in his misfortunes had been yet acknowledged to be complete. Had that been done, Philip would have forgotten half his worries. Mr Shield was aware of that—he must be aware of it, and yet he was silent. She could not help thinking that there was some truth in Mr Hadleigh’s view of the eccentricity of his character.