CHAPTER VIII.—‘WILL YOU SPEAK THAT WORD?’
Madge was singing as she dressed in her pretty little room, filled with the exhilarating breath of the early morning, which the wide open window admitted freely. This was no dainty lady’s chamber full of costly nick-knacks. Everything in it was useful, and everything was so bright and simple, that glancing into it on a winter’s day, one might have imagined that summer still lingered here.
As she stood at the chintz-draped toilet-table she could see the green glades apparently rising amidst the trees, one glade half in shadow, another with its dewdrops glistening like diamonds in the morning sunshine. Beyond that on the high ground were yellow plains of ripe grain, relieved by black and gray patches, which she knew to be fields of beans and tares. Down below there, at the foot of the meadows, the calmly flowing river sent silver flashes through every space left by the willows and elms. Farther on, she saw the stumpy tower of the old village church struggling to raise its head through a mass of ivy. And to all this her window, with its surrounding network of rose-tree branches, formed a suitable frame.
It was not a blithe song she was singing, and yet the hope that was in her voice and in her eyes took away from it all thought of sadness. It was that now old-fashioned but once popular song of the Soldier’s Tear, and she dwelt with sympathy on the lines, ‘Upon the hill he turned, to take a last fond look.’ She repeated them dreamily again and again, and then her face would brighten into smiles when the happier picture presented itself of the time when she should stand on the top of the hill, or at the more probable although more prosaic railway station, welcoming Philip home.
Ah, it was much better to think of that. And then, what was a year, or what were two years, to reckon in their young lives, when all the succeeding years would be theirs to pass together—always together—no matter what Aunt Hessy might say? Besides, there would be his letters! He would speak to her in them every day, and she would speak to him every day. Of course, the ridiculous postal arrangements would not permit them to receive the letters on the day they were written; but when they were delivered, they would contain a full record of their daily lives.
Up from the barnyard came the loud voice of one of the labourers, rising above the obstreperous squeaking of the pigs he was feeding, as he drawled out a verse of some rustic ballad—
Ow Mary Styles, Ow Mary Styles,
It’s ’long ov yow I’m dying,
But if yow won’t have me at last,
Why, then, there’s no use crying.
A delightful combination of sentiment and philosophy, thought Madge, smiling.
Then came the other sounds which intimated that another day’s work of the farm had begun. The milk-cans rattled as they were whirled out of the dairy to the waiting carts; merry jests were passed between the men and maids; harness clattered and clanked as the horses were put into the carts or reaping-machine; and there was much horse-language mingling with the confusion of dialects as the harvest hands turned out to the fields. The melancholy ‘moo’ of the cows rose from the barn as, having been milked, they were driven out to the meadows; the cocks, although they had been crowing since daybreak, crowed with louder defiance than ever, now that their hens were cackling and clucking around them; and the ducks emitted their curious self-satisfied ‘quack’ as they waggled off to the pond.
All these sounds warned Madge that she was somewhat later than usual in getting downstairs.
She was a little startled when she discovered on the hall table a letter bearing the Ringsford Manor crest; for she knew at once it was not from Philip, and feared that some mishap might have befallen him. She knew it was not from him, because he never used this crest, although all the other members of the family did. It had been the outcome of Miss Hadleigh’s vanity, to which the others took kindly, whilst Philip laughed at it.
She learned that the note had been delivered about half an hour ago by young Jerry Mogridge, who left a special message that the ‘flunkey’ who gave it to him said it was to be given to her the moment she came down. She was surprised to find that it was from Philip’s father, and still more surprised by its contents.
My Dear Miss Heathcote—The unusual hour at which this will be delivered will at once apprise you that the motive which prompts it is an important one. I cannot tell you how important it is in my eyes; and I hope and believe that you will not only appreciate the motive, but cordially sympathise with it.
Only a few hours ago I had to ask your assistance in a matter which entirely concerned myself; in the present instance I have to ask your assistance in a matter on which, I believe, your own happiness depends. You shall judge for yourself; and your answer will enable me to decide a question which has of late occupied my mind a great deal.
You have not hitherto heard me raise any objection to the journey Philip is about to make. To-day I decided that he ought not to go away. But after a long and painful conversation with him, I find that no words of mine can move him from his purpose.
Now, my dear Miss Heathcote, will you help me to hold him back from this useless enterprise?
I think you will—unless I am mistaken as to the nature of your feelings in regard to him.
My first and chief reason for desiring to keep him at home is my anxiety to see you and him happy—to see you two united, and him, under your influence, working earnestly in some profession.
I fear there is much danger that this desire of mine will never be realised, if he is permitted to spend a year with one who would delight in thwarting any wish of mine. You know his impulsive and impressionable nature. You are too young for experience to have taught you—and I earnestly trust it may never teach you—that absence, change of scene, and adverse counsels are not the most favourable conditions for keeping the most honest man steadfast.
Pray, do not misunderstand me. I do not doubt Philip. He is honest; but with such a nature as his, I think the trial of his honesty is too severe; and I object to it all the more because it is absolutely unnecessary. My proposal to him is that he should abandon this journey, that he should enter a profession at once, and that you should be married at as early a date as you may be inclined to fix. I need not say that you will be provided with ample means.
In the course of my life, few of the desires springing from my affections have been gratified. I beg of you to gratify this one. Although he resolutely declines to forego his purpose for my sake, I feel assured that you have only to speak one word—‘stay’—and he will forego it for yours.
Will you speak that word?
Believe me, your humble servant,
Lloyd Hadleigh.
There was something so pathetic and yet so strange in this appeal of the father that she should keep his son near him, that Madge was pained as well as bewildered. Keep Philip at home!—marry him!—be happy!—help to steady his impulsive nature and influence him in some good work! What else was there that she could desire more? How beautiful the visions were that these suggestions conjured up. Her face brightened as if a blaze of sunshine fell upon it ... and then it suddenly darkened.
She, too, like Philip remembered the dead mother’s wish, and hesitated. But the question presented itself: if his mother had been alive now and had understood all the circumstances, would she have insisted upon this wish—which seemed to cause the father so much anxiety—being carried out?
She read the letter again, and this time her cheeks flushed a little at the doubt of her implied in the words, ‘unless I am mistaken as to the nature of your feelings.’ The unpleasant sensation was only momentary. How could he—how even could Philip—realise her feelings? But she also became conscious of a certain vagueness in the reasons given for the anxiety expressed by Mr Hadleigh. Were she to grant the appeal, would it not be a proof of her want of faith in Philip? That idea was enough to make her answer ‘no’ at once.
And yet she hesitated. The poor old man was evidently very much in earnest. (She always thought of Mr Hadleigh as an old man, older than Uncle Dick, although he was twenty years younger than the latter.) To say ‘no’ would cause him much pain: to say ‘yes’ would afford him much happiness, and at the same time bring about the completion of her own.
There was a yelping of dogs, and above it the stentorian voice of her uncle shouting: ‘Down, Dash, down—here, Rover, here—be quiet, Tip, you brute.’
The door opened, dogs rushed in and bounded round Madge in wild delight. They were followed by Uncle Dick, his fresh ruddy face beaming with the happiness of health and content.
‘What are you dreaming about, Madge? Breakfast ready? We are as hungry as if we had been starving for a week. Thought I should have met you in the meadow as usual. What’s the matter?’
‘I am trying to solve a riddle, uncle.’
‘What!’ he exclaimed with a burst of laughter, ‘at this time in the morning. O ho! I see Master Philip was here too long yesterday.’
‘Will you try it?’
‘Don’t be a fool. Call the Missus and let’s have breakfast.’
‘To please me, uncle,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm.
‘Well, what is it?’
‘Suppose somebody asked you to do something that you wanted to do yourself, what would you say?’
‘That’s easily answered—yes, of course.’
‘But, suppose there were reasons connected with other people on account of which you ought to say “no,” what would you do?’
‘Please myself.—Now, let’s have our victuals, and confound your riddles, or I’ll send for the doctor and the parson at once.’
There was not much help to Madge in this easy settlement of the difficulty. But she had a maxim which did help her: whenever you have a doubt as to which of two courses you should take, choose the one which is least agreeable to yourself. She decided to follow it in this instance, as she had done in many others of less importance.