Now, Mr Hadleigh had really tried to do permanent good: and, compared to this newcomer, he was still a stranger amongst the people. All allowance being made for the difference of temperament and the difference of method, it was difficult to understand why Mr Beecham should so quickly win what Mr Hadleigh had long striven for with so little result—the affection of those around him.
He turned his eyes inward: was not this part—a great part—of the penalty he had to pay for making worldly success his first thought and Love the second? Was it too late to win one heart? He had gained the admiration, the esteem, the envy of many: was it too late to win one heart? How common folk would laugh at this rich, prosperous man, if they knew that life was a misery to him because he had cast away its crown—if they knew how gladly he would change places with his poorest labourer, if by so doing he might secure the affection for which he craved.
If Philip’s mother had been with him, he would have lavished upon her all that wealth could buy!... There he stopped, in bitterness, for he came to the end of his world again: wealth could not buy love. Obsequious submission, a show of respect, obedience to his orders, he could hire: but that was all. This man Beecham, without apparent effort or sacrifice, obtained at once the ‘Something’ that was beyond price.
To his relief came curiosity and suspicion of—he did not know what. But why should this man receive any promise from Miss Heathcote? Why should it have to do with his past? Why should she, who was to be Philip’s wife, be there, speaking to a stranger, when her lover was waiting for her?
He halted, and after a moment’s hesitation, turned in the direction of the village. He was not to wait for his son.
At first he walked slowly, as if he might still change his mind; but as his thoughts quickened, so did his steps, and the church tower was looming darkly against the slate-like sky when he stopped at the gate of Mr Wrentham’s cottage.
A pretty little squat building of one story, lying well back from the road; a patch of green surrounded by bushy evergreens, and the front wall covered with trellis-work, at present supporting a spider’s web of branches, which in season blossomed into red and white roses, making the cottage look like a bower rather than a homestead.
At the gate, Mr Hadleigh again hesitated, as if doubtful whether or not to carry out the intention which had brought him to the place. Since the evening of Philip’s accident, he had spoken very little in private to Wrentham. Natural enough as the accident had appeared, he was afflicted by an uneasy feeling that Wrentham had something to do with bringing it about, and that to his own visit to Golden Alley the first blame was due.
With some impatience at his weakness, he rang the bell and advanced to the door. The servant was new to the place, and required to ask the visitor’s name; whereupon a door was flung open, and Wrentham came out with effusive cordiality.
‘My dear Mr Hadleigh, this is a grand surprise. I won’t stop to ask you what has made you think of dropping in upon me; but I must say thank you for a new pleasure. Come in, come in; there is nobody here but myself. I have only arrived within the last five minutes, and Mrs Wrentham is putting our girl to sleep. You have passed over these stages of domestic inconvenience; but you can excuse us for not being always in reception order. We let our visitors take us as they find us, and those who don’t like it need not come again. Simple and sensible rule, is it not? But we should have liked you to find us a little more in apple-pie order, especially as it is your first visit.’