He laughed at himself heartily, and a little scornfully for allowing the absurd question even to flit across his mind. As if any possible combination of circumstances could ever arise to take Madge away from him! The tombstone of one of them was the only barrier that could ever stand between them; and the prospect of its erection was such a long way off, that he could think of it lightly if not philosophically.
But as he continued to stare out at those quaint russet gables and the green square, a dreamy expression slowly filled his eyes, and visions of the impossible passed before him. He had thrown himself into this work which he had found to do with such earnestness, that he had already passed more than one day without going to see Madge. Her spirit was in the work, and inspired his devotion to it, and all his labour was for her. In that way she was always with him, although her form and clear eyes might not be constantly present to his mind. That was a consolatory thought for himself; but would it satisfy her? Was it sufficient to satisfy himself how he had allowed three days to pass without his appearance at Willowmere?
He was startled when he recollected that it was three days since he had been there. Three days—an age, and how it could have passed so quickly he was unable to understand. He had certainly intended every evening to go as usual. But every day had been so full of business—details of plans and estimates to study and master—that he had been glad to lie down and sleep. The task was the more laborious for him, as he had not had previous knowledge of its practical intricacies, and he was resolved to understand thoroughly everything that was done.
‘I suppose she will laugh, and say it is like me—always at extremes; either trying to do too much, or doing too little. At anyrate, she will be convinced that I have taken kindly to harness. We’ll see this afternoon.’
There was another influence which unconsciously detained him in town. He shrank somehow from the interview with his father which must take place on his return to Ringsford. He had hoped to be able to take with him some friendly message from Mr Shield which would lead to the reconciliation of the two men; and as yet he was as far as ever from being able to approach the subject with his uncle.
His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of Wrentham, spruce and buoyant, a flower in his button-hole, and looking as if he had made a safe bet on the next racing event.
‘Came to tell you about that land,’ he said.
‘I suppose you have made arrangements for the purchase?’ rejoined Philip, as he folded his uncle’s letter and replaced it in the envelope.
Wrentham followed the action with inquisitive eyes. He was asking himself, ‘Has that letter anything to do with this coolness about the bargain, on which he was so hot a few days ago, or is it accident?’ Then, with a little real wonder, and some affectation of amusement at the innocence of his principal:
‘My dear Philip!’—Wrentham was one of those men who will call an acquaintance of a few hours by his Christian name, and by an abbreviation of it after an intimacy of a couple of days—‘you don’t mean to say that you imagine a question of the transfer of land in this greatest city of the world is to be settled off-hand in a forenoon?’