‘All right. I am glad you are going to see Miss Heathcote. I believe she can give us some useful information—if she chooses.’
The mixture of good-nature and selfishness as displayed in Wrentham was at that time most painful to Philip. He felt as if his noble purpose had been dragged down to the level of a swindle; and if he had been a conscience-stricken swindler, he could not have endured sharper stings than his morbidly exaggerated sense of failure thrust into him.
Eleven o’clock struck, and still no message had come from Mr Shield.
After breathing the close atmosphere of Wrentham’s unscrupulous counsels, it was a relief to be out in the meadows again, although they were covered with snow: the crisp tinkle of the river in the frosty air was delightful music to his weary ears; and the trees, with their skeleton arms decked and tipped with delicate white glistening in the sunlight, refreshed his eyes.
‘Eh, lad, what is’t that has come to thee?’ was the greeting of Dame Crawshay. ‘Art poorly?’
‘Ay, poor enough; for I am afraid I have lost everything.’
‘Nay, nay, Philip; that cannot be—thou hast not had time for it,’ she said in distress and wonderment as they went into the oak parlour.
‘Time enough to prove my incapacity for business,’ he answered bitterly; ‘and my grand scheme will burst like a soap-bubble, unless Mr Shield comes to the rescue.’
‘And never doubt he will,’ she said earnestly, her own mind troubled at the moment by the knowledge of Mr Shield’s intentions, which she could not communicate. The sight of Philip’s face convinced her that the ordeal was too severe.