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.