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?’