‘A man in the oak parlour wants to see you, if you ben’t too busy.’
Madge passed her fingers over the aching head. She could not guess who the man might be, but presumed that he was one of Uncle Dick’s customers.
She found Mr Beecham in the oak parlour. This was the first time he had been under the roof of Willowmere. He and Madge were conscious of the singularity of the meeting-place.
‘I trust, Miss Heathcote, you are not annoyed with me for coming here,’ he said softly. ‘I did not mean to do so; but it occurred to me, after despatching that letter, you might require a few words of explanation. At first, my intention was to say nothing; but on consideration, it seemed to me unfair to leave you without help in answering the disagreeable questions which the situation suggests.’
Madge still had the letter in her hand; the tears were still in her eyes. She tried to wipe them away, but still they would force their presence on the lids. That was the real Madge—tender, considerate to others beyond measure.
‘Oh, if’——
Here the superficial Madge claimed supremacy, and took the management of the whole interview in hand. Calm almost to coldness, clear in speech and vision almost to the degree of severity, she spoke:
‘I have considered all that you have said to me, and I do not like the position in which you have placed me. I gave you my word that I should be silent, believing that no harm could follow, and believing that my mother would have wished me to obey you. You have satisfied me by this letter that I have not done wrong so far. Take it back.’
She folded the letter, carefully replaced it in the envelope, and gave it to him.
‘Thank you,’ he said, with the shadow of that sad smile which had so often crossed his face.