It was not till the afternoon of next day that Madeline and Gervase met
again. She had spent a very anxious morning. Her father had made no
reference at breakfast to the question which was of so much moment to
her, though he had gone out with a nod and a look of intelligence which
brought the blood rushing back to her heart. Madeline was under no
particular illusion about her father. She had not the confidence of some
children, that everything was safe which was in his hands. She believed
that he would do for her what he thought to be the best; but she was not
entirely certain that it would be the best, as some happy idealists are.
She would rather, indeed, have made sure of having her own way than his.
But, at the same time, she had little doubt that it was an advantage to
have her father actively interfering. He would not do anything unkind.
He would not let her be disappointed, if he could help it. Though it
would have been better to have all things go well without his
interference, yet, things having gone wrong, his interference was more
likely than any other to be of use. This was not a very assured and
stable comfort, and yet it was a comfort in its way.
But she was very anxious all the morning. She was anxious, expecting
Gervase every moment to rush in, to bring her the report of some further
interview not more satisfactory with his father. When Gervase did not
come she became only more anxious, thinking of him as perhaps summoned
to some solemn conference with the two fathers, and impatient under
their admonitions. He would almost certainly be impatient. They would
sneer at him in a way which it would be impossible for his quick temper
to bear. They would goad him with little taunts, such as they were both
so capable of employing, and which they would declare meant nothing
except in the boy’s fancy, after they had nearly made him crazy with
them. Oh why are fathers and parents generally so hard, so mocking and
taunting, and children so susceptible? She thought that she herself (in
reality the most tenderly guarded of daughters) was almost invulnerable
to that sort of thing, knowing how to take it--but Gervase! So that
Madeline grew more and more anxious as the hours went on, not knowing
what to think.
It was not till about four o’clock in the afternoon that Gervase came.
She had pictured him in so many aspects of excitement--angry, harassed,
exasperated, impatient, despairing--that it was almost a disappointment
to her to see him walk in very much like himself--a little more grave
than usual perhaps, but perfectly self-possessed and calm. He even
paused to speak to the elderly visitor with whom she was hurriedly
shaking hands, anxious only to get her away. Gervase said to Mrs Brown
that he was glad to see her, and asked for her sons and her daughters,
companions of his childhood, while Madeline stood tingling, not knowing
how to bear the suspense. He walked down to the door with that old
woman! leaving her almost beside herself with desire to know what had
happened. He came up-stairs again in quite a leisurely way, not taking
three steps at a time as she had seen him do. “Well?” she said, meeting
him at the head of the stairs.
It was true he put his arm round her to lead her back to the room, but
he did not satisfy her anxiety. “Well?” he said. “No, I don’t think it
is well, nor ill either, perhaps; it is nothing--it is a compromise.”
“But, Gervase, in the state things had got to, that _is_ well,” she
cried, drawing a long breath, “the best we could hope for. Was it papa!”
“I can’t tell you, Madeline. He is in it somehow, but in what way I
don’t exactly know. I think my father had determined upon it before he
appeared.”
He had led her to her seat, and placed her in it, and seated himself
beside her; but he did not seem to have any desire to say more.
“You forget you have not told me what it is, Gervase.”
“No; I feel as if it were mere aggravation, without any meaning in it. I
am to be sent away again.”
“To be sent away!”
She, too, felt as if it did not much matter what the new arrangement
was.
“Not, as before, for mere experience’ sake. This time I have got a
definite piece of work to do. They say I need not be more than three
months gone.”
“Three months!” She looked at him with eyes full of dismay, and he
returned the gaze with the blank look of a discouraged certainty beyond
appeal.
“Yes,” he said; “it’s a poor thing to have to accept, after all we’ve
been thinking of. But, I suppose, it will have to be done whether we
like or not.”
“It could not be papa!” cried Madeline, with tears springing to her
eyes.
“I can’t tell; I think my father had decided upon it before. It is
supposed to be a test whether I have really scruples (which they laugh
at), or am merely idle, which is what they believe. I tell them to take
the worst view--to say I am merely idle. I am, for that matter.”
“No, Gervase; not if you had worthy work to do----”
“What is worthy work? I don’t want to work at all. It is perfectly true:
I think it my duty to be idle; but that is what they don’t understand,
nor you either, Madeline. I can find a thousand things to do which are
not work, but which occupy me. I ought not to do anything else if I am
to fulfil my _rôle_ of a rich man’s son.”
“Gervase, I know what you mean; but it sounds a little fantastic, don’t
you think--at least to their ears?”
“Perhaps; they are of their generation, and we are of ours,” said the
young man. He was not proud, not to call proud, though he was conscious
of occupying a higher standing-ground than “they” did. “They” were the
parents--the older set--whose views were exploded, and their prejudices
old-fashioned; but whom, nevertheless, both these young people felt it
to be their duty to respect. After a little interval he began to tell
her what his mission was to be. The house had certain property in the
West Indies, from which for many years no profit had been obtained. This
was chiefly in consequence of the condition into which the islands had
fallen; but partly also because Mr Burton himself had never had the time
to look into the matter, to set things right on the spot, which it
appeared was the right way. To get a proper account of all that the
respective agents--changed from time to time, but each falling back
into his predecessor’s ways--had been doing; to ascertain the real state
of the property: how much its value had deteriorated, whether it was now
really worth anything at all in a mere pecuniary point of view, was to
be the mission of Gervase. The most high-minded could not say of it that
it was an unworthy mission--nor could he deny that it was one which his
father’s son was better qualified for than any stranger. And at the same
time it was to be a test of his real mettle. If he did this well, why
then, his father would yield a point, and his allowance at least be so
far increased as to permit the young people to marry. And perhaps the
pleasure of definite work, of accomplishing something which really
wanted to be done--of sounding his own capabilities--might change his
ideas about work altogether. This was perhaps what “they” most hoped.
And Madeline hoped it too, though she said nothing, and though Gervase
smiled a little at the idea of a well-considered decision of his own
being so lightly done away with. They talked each other finally into a
certain acceptance of this mission--finding that it was on the whole a
thing rather fine than otherwise, to go off like an adventurer prince to
recover the almost lapsed territory and emancipated subjects. “You may
be able to throw some new light upon the subject of emancipation,”
Madeline said: “if you could only find some means of rehabilitating poor
Quashee, Gervase! and making him a human possibility again.” “There is
no doubt great need of some independent opinion on that subject,”
Gervase replied. This was a wonderful comfort to them, after they had
fully familiarised their minds with the idea of a new separation--which
was hard, after having so long believed that Gervase’s American
expedition was to be the last, and that their marriage was to follow
immediately on his return. Though they were so superior in many
respects, they were in others just like any other young couple suddenly
checked in the midst of their hopes, and thrown back upon the
indefinite. It was very hard, after settling to what enchanted places
they were to go together hand in hand as soon as their wedding was over,
to unclasp their hands and consent to part. For three months! Three
months is not a very long time; but when once a parting has been made,
who can tell when and how it is to end? Delays come in so easily, so
inevitably, when there are thousands of miles of land and sea between
two people who love each other. After they had freed themselves for a
moment from the immediate burden in that little outburst about
emancipation and Quashee, they sat and looked at each other again with
wistful eyes.
“Must it be, Gervase? Must it be?”
“It seems so,” he said, clasping her hands. “Our last trial, Madeline.”
“Oh, how can anybody tell if it will be our last trial? I thought so
when you went to America, though that was no test or task, but only
pleasure.”
“If we parted bravely for nothing at all then,” he said,--“for there
was no motive--and I can’t think why I went and left you, not being
forced to do it,--we must try and part all the more bravely for a real
motive now.”
“Oh, I shall not break down; you need not fear for me. But it is hard,
Gervase.”
“The only comfort is, that when they have exacted this, there is nothing
more for them to do.”
“Oh, they’ll find something!” Madeline cried: and then her heart smote
her for her father, who was always so kind. “Papa will always stand our
friend,” she said.
It was his turn now to shake his head. He did not think her father had
been kind, any more than his own. They had laid their heads together;
they had not cared for crushing the hearts of their children. Granting,
as Gervase did, that it is only young hearts that can feel, the
ingenuity of the fathers in tearing him from Madeline, in separating the
two who ought to have been made one, had something in it wellnigh
diabolical. He forgot that they had been sundered before at their own
will and for pleasure merely, without any idea of duty. His American
expedition had not pretended to any elevated motive. He had gone because
he wanted to go, and Madeline had quietly encouraged him so to do; but
there had been no suggestion of diabolical ingenuity or of tragical
feeling. Now it was all different. The two fathers had laid their heads
together. They had taken advantage of the younger pair.
“Is it to be soon?” asked Madeline.
“The sooner the better,” he replied. “The sooner I am gone, the sooner I
shall be back again. Three months is not so very long after all. I shall
be back soon after the New Year.”
“Another Christmas without you,” she said, a tear dropping from her
eyelashes. Last Christmas it was she who had been away on the Riviera
enjoying a relief from the wintry greyness of London. They had not
thought of upbraiding each other with these absences. But everything was
different now.
“It will not be a very merry Christmas for me,” he said.
“There is only one thing that comforts me,” said Madeline: “that you
must clear this subject up--about the negroes, Gervase. Coming to it
quite clear-headed, quite impartial--without any prejudice or _parti
pris_----”
“Well, there is something in that,” he said.
“And if the sacrifice of our happiness should contribute to other
people’s wellbeing--one could bear it--better----”
“Not the sacrifice, darling--only the postponement,--if it were to be
sacrificed, not all the Quashees in the world could console me,--say
postponed.”
“Well, postponed--but one never knows what postponement may bring. A
thousand things may happen. Oh, forgive me, Gervase! I am silly and
superstitious.”
“Have you been dreaming any dreams or seeing any visions?”
“No, no--it’s only--silliness,” said Madeline, hiding her tears upon
his shoulder. The contradiction to which they were so unaccustomed was
very bitter to them. It was so strange, that they should want something
very much, and not get it, but only disappointment and separation in its
stead.
Mr Thursley came in with a certain air of having done well, in the
evening. “Well,” he said, “don’t you think I’ve managed famously for
you? Gervase has only to give himself a little trouble to make a very
good thing of this West Indian business. I’ve reason to believe it is
not at all so bad a business as most of those Jamaica affairs have been.
If he winds it up judiciously and sells it well, there will be a very
pretty balance to bring home; and between you and me, Maddie, it’s all
for himself--for him and you. What! crying? and in the name of wonder,
child, what are you crying about?”
“Do you think it is nothing, papa,” cried Madeline, flashing upon him
through the tears that stood like dew on her eyelashes, “to separate us
again--to take him away? For three months.”
“God bless me!” cried the astonished man. “Is this all you have to say
to me, after what I’ve done?”
“I don’t know what you may have done. He thought his father had
determined on it before you came in. But it is hard to be separated just
when we thought we were going to be always together. And to send Gervase
away on a wild-goose chase.”
“On a wild-goose chase!” he repeated with dismay. “I should have thought
you would have been delighted with such an opportunity of doing some
good work.”
“When all he is allowed to think of, is how he is to get the most money,
and make the best bargain!” she cried.
Poor Mr Thursley felt very small after this taking down. He thought it
would perhaps have been better to leave the young ones to themselves, to
do what seemed good in their eyes.