CHAPTER LVI.—UPHILL.
She knew and he knew that they were something more to each other on that white winter day than they had ever been before. What the degree of the ‘something more’ might be, neither Madge nor Philip attempted to calculate. They were conscious of it, and that was enough: yet both wondered how there could be this sense of closer alliance, when, looking back, they remembered how often they had thought that nothing on earth could decrease or increase their affection. They were learning the priceless lesson that Love grows in suffering where mere passion quickly withers and dies, and frequently turns to hate.
An honest, promptly spoken word had saved them from folly—cleared the mist from his eyes, and scoured the misery out of both hearts. And it was Madge who spoke this magical word, as it is the loving woman—God bless her—who always does. But then, says the cynic, ‘the loving woman’ is so rare that she may be freely allowed all possible praise: vanity and interest have generally much more to do in linking men and women than affection. Read your newspaper, note the lives of those around you, count the sores which the four walls of every house conceal, and then you will know how rare she is.—Go, cynic; we will shut our eyes and dream the beautiful dream of all romance, that women are fair, self-sacrificing, and loyal in their love.
Madge was insensible of any special heroism in taking the common-sense view of her duty to Philip and acting upon it. So now, the happy end being achieved, she turned calmly to think of what they had to do for others.
As they walked back towards the cottage, she spoke about Caleb Kersey, and the perilous position in which he was placed by the accusation of Coutts, supported as it was by the servant’s unintentionally exaggerated account of the prisoner’s conduct at the door of the Manor a few hours before the fire was discovered. She learned with satisfaction that Philip had not forgotten his unlucky foreman.
‘I have been to the court,’ he said, ‘and Caleb is remanded for a week, in order to collect further evidence as to his movements on that night, and to see how my father progresses.’
‘How did he look? What did he say?’
‘He looked as if he did not care what befell him; he said nothing more than that he was innocent, and I am sure of it. The poor fellow has been cruelly upset by Pansy’s conduct, and he has got into this scrape because he could not take warning in time that Coutts was too cautious a man to become his rival.’
‘But will he be able to prove his innocence?’
‘I hope so; and the next examination will enable us to form a clearer idea of his chances than we can at present. Coutts has had a slight disappointment in a business transaction, and is merciless towards Caleb. I suppose he is relieved to find some one to vent his spleen on.’
Philip smiled faintly, and she was glad to see even the least sign of his returning to his natural good-humoured way of viewing life. He did not explain to her that the business transaction in which Coutts had failed was his attempt to secure a snug place in Mr Shield’s will by ousting his brother.
‘Whatever we settle to do,’ Mr Shield had said with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, and referring to Coutts, ‘don’t let that gentleman into our plans.’
Mr Beecham, with a grave bow, had acquiesced in this counsel, the wisdom of which Philip could not dispute, although he was not at the moment acquainted with the details of his brother’s design.
‘Don’t see the dodge?’ continued Shield brusquely. ‘It’s plain as daylight. He wanted to get you into a hole, reckoning that the rich uncle would give him your place. He expected that bill would do it; for if he didn’t know from the first that it was a forgery, he believed it was, and made sure of getting his own and more out of the rich relative somehow. But when he heard of things going wrong, and being sharp enough to see that other people had their eyes open as well as him, he got too anxious to hedge to be able to carry out his scheme as he intended. Didn’t quite miss his mark either, though’—this was uttered like a growl of disappointment—‘for, thanks to you, he has got his own; but he’ll get no more.’
Philip remembered with what cynical frankness Coutts had explained the ethics of business which guided him; but, until now, he had always imagined there was more talk than practice in it. He certainly never suspected him of being capable of putting such theories into practice with a friend and relative. Pat upon this reflection, one of Coutts’s favourite apothegms recurred to him—‘There are no friendships in business.’ He owned with chagrin that the theories of Wrentham and Coutts were identical, although the former was not so careful in utilising them as to succeed.
The brothers rarely met at this time, and then only exchanged a passing ‘How do you do?’ After Mr Hadleigh’s removal to Willowmere, Coutts arranged with Dr Joy to send for him if there should be any marked change for the worse in the patient’s condition.
‘He wants quiet, you say,’ was the observation of this smart young man of business; ‘and there is no use in my trotting out here when I can do nothing. You’ll let me know if anything is required.’
He was punctual as ever in his attendance at the office; lunched and dined at his club, where he spent the evening playing billiards or cards, with an occasional diversion to one of those shady places to which ‘baccarat’ was the fatal lure. But Coutts did not lose; even here his usual caution protected him. He did not want to see Philip at present; for although his money was safe, he felt mortified by his inability to penetrate the mystery of the bill, and by the consciousness that he had failed most egregiously in the attempt to ingratiate himself with Mr Shield.
Philip paid a brief visit daily to the farm, but it was very brief; and in that first week of anxiety, Madge and he spoke little of themselves or of their future. There was no need: everything was understood between them now, and they were too deeply engaged in earnest duties to allow themselves any relaxation until the immediate crisis in their affairs had been passed.
At the works, Philip laboured with all his might to pull things straight, and he had frequent occasion to wish that he might have had the assistance of Caleb Kersey. Mr Beecham, however, was at his elbow, encouraging him with words of hope and sage advice. The accounts of various firms as represented in their invoices were largely reduced in consequence of Wrentham’s confessions. In most cases it turned out that two sets of invoices had been prepared: one set gave the real amounts which were to be paid to the dealers; the other set gave the sums which Philip had to pay. The explanation given was that Wrentham had represented himself as the buyer, and was therefore at liberty to charge whatever price he could get when he sold.
Even in the first transaction which Philip had entered into, namely, the purchase of the land, a bold attempt had been made to mulct him in a sum equal to double its value. He had, however, absolutely refused to listen to the terms proposed; and Wrentham had been obliged to content himself with what most people would have considered a very satisfactory commission of twenty per cent.
The details of these frauds—or should they be called merely ‘sharp practice?’—were forced from Wrentham as much by the terror of Bob Tuppit’s threat to give evidence in the matter of the forged bill as by gratitude for the generosity of Philip and his uncle. One by one the accounts were amended as far as they could be; and the amendment represented a considerable amount.
Wrentham gave his information with the air of a man who has simply failed in what promised to be a good speculation. Two things distressed him—he had been found out, and he had lost the whole of the money he had schemed so elaborately to obtain, by mistakes on the turf and the Stock Exchange. One important item, however, was safe. Despite his gambling infatuation, he had invested the proceeds of the forged bill in sound securities, so that the whole amount was recoverable. Yet the man was so insensible to the criminality of his proceedings, that he was secretly regretting the loss of the pleasure and excitement he might have purchased with this money, if he had not been fool enough to desire to have a nest-egg.
In this week of hard work and anxiety to Philip and Madge, Caleb Kersey was again called on to answer the charge of malicious incendiarism. The doctors were able to give a satisfactory report of Mr Hadleigh’s progress; and that was so much in the prisoner’s favour. All the rest told heavily against him, especially his apparent indifference as to the result of the trial, which some honest country-folk regarded as signs of the hardened sinner, who had caused so much disturbance in the country by his demands for higher wages and better housing for the agricultural labourers.
He admitted the general accuracy of the statement made by Coutts regarding their interview; whilst he refused to give any information as to the grounds of their quarrel. He affirmed, however, that after the door of the Manor had been closed against him, he had speech with Coutts’s father, who, on hearing his complaint, had directed him to be at the house early in the morning, and promised that justice should be done him. He further admitted that it was true that he had only reached his lodgings in the village a few minutes before the first alarm of fire was raised.
On his own showing, there seemed to be no alternative for the magistrate but to commit him for trial.
At this point, Mr Jackson, of Hawkins and Jackson, solicitors, who was acting for the prisoner by the instruction of some friends, called forward that astute detective, Sergeant Dier. He had been engaged for several days investigating into the origin of the fire; and he was now prepared with evidence which would not only establish the prisoner’s innocence, but would show that he had behaved heroically on the occasion, and was in fact the man who at the peril of his own, had saved the life of Mr Lloyd Hadleigh, the proprietor of Ringsford.
The face of Sergeant Dier was a picture of good-humoured satisfaction; whilst preserving a proper degree of professional firmness and equanimity, as the case was developed in court. Mr Jackson’s sharp visage was aglow with self-complacency, as if he would say, ‘I alone have done it.’
First there was the testimony of Mr Hadleigh, written down at his bedside by a duly qualified gentleman—to the effect that he had made an appointment to meet the prisoner as the latter had affirmed, and for the purpose mentioned by him. Next Philip gave the man an excellent character for intelligence, sobriety, and honesty. He was followed by half-a-dozen witnesses who had seen Caleb’s brave rescue of Mr Hadleigh when no one else would dare to attempt it.
Last came a housemaid, who confessed what she had been too much frightened to confess before. She had been sitting up late writing a letter (to her sweetheart of course—these things occupy a great deal of time), and hearing voices downstairs, she had gone into the passage, curious to discover the cause of the disturbance. As she was retreating hastily, she upset a paraffine lamp; but in her eagerness to get back to her room, she did not observe any signs of fire, or think of any danger until she heard the alarm.
The result of this evidence was a severe reprimand to the girl, and the instant discharge of Caleb Kersey without a stain on his character, and with a high compliment from the bench on the gallantry he had displayed in the rescue of Mr Hadleigh.
Caleb thanked His Worship, and retired, but not before Mr Jackson had whispered that it was a question whether he had not grounds for an action against Coutts Hadleigh. Poor Caleb neither understood nor heeded this suggestion in his present state of mind. He wanted to get away from the place. He was stopped, however, by Philip, who grasped his hand warmly, and asked him to come back to the works.
‘Thank you kindly, sir; but it may not be. I am bound to cross the water, and seek some place where I can forget the old land and—the old friends.’
‘Hoots, man, what clavers,’ exclaimed the gardener, stepping forward. ‘You should not be headstrong. There’s as good living in the auld country as in the new, if you would seek it in the right way.’
A kindly hand pressed Caleb’s arm, and a soft voice said in a tone of intense relief:
‘I am glad you are safe.’
Caleb pressed Pansy’s hand in his own, and held it firmly for a few seconds.
‘I’m obliged to you,’ he said quietly, although huskily. ‘I wish you well.’
And with that he forced his way through the group of friends and disappeared.