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Title: Married or single?, Vol. II (of 3)
Author: Croker, B. M. (Bithia Mary)
Language: English
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MARRIED OR SINGLE?
NEW NOVELS AT ALL LIBRARIES.
=HEART OF OAK: A Three-Stranded Yarn.= By W. CLARK RUSSELL. 3 vols.
=THE PROFESSOR’S EXPERIMENT.= By Mrs. HUNGERFORD. 3 vols.
=THE WOMAN IN THE DARK.= By F. W. ROBINSON. 2 vols.
=THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER.= By L. T. MEADE. 3 vols.
=SONS OF BELIAL.= By WILLIAM WESTALL. 2 vols.
=LILITH.= By GEORGE MACDONALD. 1 vol.
=LADY KILPATRICK.= By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 1 vol.
=CLARENCE.= By BRET HARTE. 1 vol.
=THE IMPRESSIONS OF AUREOLE.= A Diary of To-Day. 1 vol.
=DAGONET ABROAD.= By GEORGE R. SIMS. 1 vol.
=THE KING IN YELLOW.= By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS. 1 vol.
=IN THE QUARTER.= By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS. 1 vol.
LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY.
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
BY
B. M. CROKER
AUTHOR OF
“DIANA BARRINGTON,” “A FAMILY LIKENESS,” ETC.
[Illustration]
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. II.
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1895
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
CHAPTER PAGE
XIV. A SOCIAL GODMOTHER 1
XV. MR. JESSOP DOES HIS DUTY 10
XVI. TWO VISITS AND A LETTER 40
XVII. GONE TO IRELAND 67
XVIII. WANTED--A REASON 82
XIX. A DISAGREEABLE INTERVIEW 102
XX. NOT “A HAPPY COUPLE” 115
XXI. AN INTERRUPTION 132
XXII. MR. WYNNE’S VISITOR 148
XXIII. A BOLD STEP 172
XXIV. AN UNEXPECTED HONOUR 185
XXV. PLAIN SPEAKING 196
XXVI. MR. WYNNE MAKES A STATEMENT 219
XXVII. A PROMISE POSTPONED 227
XXVIII. A PORTIÈRE WHICH INTERVENED 241
MARRIED OR SINGLE?
CHAPTER XIV.
A SOCIAL GODMOTHER.
The next day Lord Tony’s only sister, Lady Rachel Jenkins, arrived to
call--but not for the first time--upon Miss West. She was an extremely
vivacious and agreeable little woman, with dark eyes and flashing
teeth. She took Madeline out with her in her own brougham, and--oh,
great favour!--introduced her to her pet dressmaker. This august
person viewed Miss West’s stone-coloured costume with an air of amused
contempt; it was not good style; the cut of the skirt was quite “out,”
and she finally wound up by uttering the awful words, “Ready made.” It
was not what Madeline liked, or even thought she would like, but what
Lady Rachel suggested and Madame Coralie approved, that was selected.
“Your father, my dear,” patting the girl’s hand confidentially, “met me
on the stairs, and we had a few words together. I’m going to show you
what we do in London, and what we wear, and whom we know; and what we
don’t wear, and whom we don’t know, my little country mouse!”
So the country mouse was endowed with half a dozen fine dresses chosen
entirely by Lady Rachel--dresses for morning, afternoon, and evening.
“I only order six, my dear,” said her chaperon cheerily, “as the season
is getting over, and these will carry you on till August, if you have
a good maid. Madame Coralie, we can only give you five days,” rising as
she spoke.
But Madame Coralie threw up eyes and hands and gesticulated, and
volubly declared that it was _absolument impossible_! She had so many
gowns for Ascot and the royal garden party. Nevertheless, Lady Rachel
was imperious, and carried her point.
“The opera mantle is to be lined with pink brocade, and you will line
the cloth skirt with shot sulphur-coloured silk; and that body I chose
is to be almost drowned in chiffon and silver.”
She was to be female bear-leader to this young heiress, and was
resolved that her appearance should not disgrace her, and that “the old
squatter,” as she called him, should be taken at his word, and made to
pay and look pleasant.
The succeeding visit was to a milliner’s; the next to a shoe shop, when
the same scene was rehearsed. Madeline looked on and said nothing,
but made an angry mental note that she would never again go out
shopping with this imperious little lady. Why, even the poorest had
the privilege of choosing their own clothes! Why should this little
black-browed woman, barely up to her shoulder, tyrannize over her thus?
Simply because, my dear, unsophisticated Madeline, she has promised
to bring you out--to be your social godmother, to introduce you to
society, such as your father loveth, and to be friendly. Besides all
this, she has already decided in her own mind that “you will do very
well,” and are not nearly as rustic as she expected; and she has made
up her mind--precisely as she did about your satin dinner-dress--that
you are to marry her brother. Oh, happy prospect!
Lady Rachel was Lord Anthony’s only sister--a woman of five and thirty,
who, thirteen years previously, had married a rich _parvenu_--plain,
homely, much older than herself--for his money. She had no fortune
as Lady Rachel Foster, and she was not particularly pretty; so she
made the best available use of her title, and changed it for twenty
thousand a year and the name of Jenkins. Mr. Jenkins liked being
announced as “Lady Rachel, and Mr. Jenkins;” to be asked in a loud
voice, in public places, “How is your wife--Lady Rachel?” For her part,
she liked her fine house, servants, carriages, and jewels; and both
were, to a certain extent, satisfied with their bargain. Perhaps of
late years there had been a certain amount of disappointment. Lady
Rachel went more and more into society, and drifted widely apart from
Mr. Jenkins and his city friends. Mr. Jenkins was not considered an
acquisition in her circles, which were a little rapid. He was given to
understand--by deeds, not words--that he was rather a bore, and that he
must not always be expecting to be tied to the tail of his brilliant,
fashionable, frivolous little wife--and then, Mr. Jenkins was jealous!
It was quite time that Anthony was married, thought his sister. He
was not prepossessing in appearance. He was well known in society,
and especially in her own set, as a fellow with an empty head, empty
pockets, and a roving nature. He was not popular. She was aware that
he had been rejected by heiress after heiress. He would not be modest
and content with a plain girl, or an elderly widow, or even a faded
spinster on the shady side of forty! No; Lord Anthony Foster must have
beauty and money to boot, and there was no bidding for his coronet in
the quarters these came from. Prudent mammas had set a mark against his
name, and where his attentions would have been welcomed, he turned up
his nose, and talked in a high moral manner about the sin of marrying
one’s grandmother. His affectionate sister had vainly suggested one or
two ladies that she had thought suitable, but until now Lord Tony had
been too _difficile_, and her pains had gone for nothing!
But now, oh, joy at last, he had found a girl almost, as one might say,
to order--young, accomplished, ladylike, very pretty, and very rich.
Lady Rachel already considered Madeline her sister-in-law, and had
already selected her own gown for the wedding, so far ahead do some
active, imaginative natures throw their mental life. There was nothing
to wait for. Tony was willing--the old squatter was willing--and the
girl--well, she was willing, of course.
Madame Coralie’s dresses came home punctually, and were all that
the most fastidious could desire, in fit, style, colour, and cut.
Madeline spent the whole afternoon, in the retirement of her own room,
slowly trying on all six, one after the other, with ever-increasing
approbation. The climax was an oyster-white satin, with a turquoise
velvet and silver bodice--a dream of a dress, to quote the enraptured
Josephine.
Madeline had an æsthetic appreciation of herself as she stood before a
glass and contemplated the slim figure, white rounded arms, the rich
glistening skirt, the exquisitely moulded bodice. Could this apparition
be the same young woman who had humbled herself before Mrs. Kane, and
carried up her own coals? What a difference dress made--in self-respect
and self-importance! Dress, as she now realized it, was a powerful
engine in cultivating one’s own self-esteem. Yes, a silk-lined skirt
could impart a surprising amount of confidence! She glanced over one
shoulder, then over the other, then looked full at her reflection, and
said to herself, with a smile, “I do love pretty clothes!”
CHAPTER XV.
MR. JESSOP DOES HIS DUTY.
Lady Rachel and Madame Coralie, between them, soon metamorphosed the
appearance of Miss West. She took to her elegant dresses and mantles
and tea-gowns with astonishing facility; also to her landau and pair,
victoria and cobs, diamonds, dignities, and the last fashion in dogs--a
Chinese spaniel. It was not a specimen of animal she especially
admired; but her father paid a long price for Chow-chow, because he was
the rage, and he looked well on the back seat of the victoria. Yes,
Madeline was remarkably adaptable; she developed a predilection for all
the sensual accessories of colour and perfume. She also developed a
fastidious taste at table, and a rare talent for laying out money.
And what of Laurence Wynne during the time that his wife is revelling
in luxury?
He has been making rapid strides on the road to recovery; he is
almost well; and the end of his sojourn with the friendly farmer’s
family is now drawing perceptibly near. He has letters from Madeline,
as she finds means to post them with her own hands--letters full of
descriptions of her new life, her new friends, and all the wonderful
new world that has been opened to her view.
She, who was never at a dance, excepting at the two breaking-up parties
at Mrs. Harper’s, has been living in a round of gaiety, which has
whirled faster and faster as the season waned--thanks to Lady Rachel’s
introductions and chaperonage; thanks to her beauty, and her father’s
great wealth.
Miss West has already become known--already her brilliant colouring and
perfect profile have been noted by great and competent connoisseurs.
Her face was already familiar in the park.
Luckily for her, dark beauties were coming into fashion; in every
way she was fortunate. Her carriage was pointed out in the Row; her
table was littered with big square monogramed envelopes and cards
of invitation, far too numerous for acceptance. And Miss West, the
Australian heiress as she was called, had opened many doors by that
potent pass-key, a pretty face, and admitted not only herself, but
also her proud and happy parent.
Madeline does not say all this in so many long sentences to Laurence;
not that he would be jealous, dear fellow! She knows him better than
that; but she is sensible that there is a certain incongruity between
their circumstances just at present, and she will not enlarge on her
successes more than is absolutely needful. Yet a word drops out here
and slips in there, which tells Laurence far more than she supposes.
Besides this, Laurence is no fool. He can draw inferences; he can put
two and two together--it is his profession. Moreover, he sees the
daily, society, and illustrated papers, thanks to Mr. Jessop, who has
given a liberal order to his news-agent, believing that his gifted
friend, who always lived at high brain-pressure, must be developing
into a state of coma in his rural quarters, among cows and pigs and
geese.
Laurence reads the letters between the lines. He reads society’s
doings, and in the warm June and July evenings, as he strolls about
the fields alone, has plenty of leisure for reflection. These are not
very happy times for Laurence Wynne. He has found some consolation
in work. One or two articles from his pen have made their way into
leading reviews, and been praised for their style, substance, and wit.
A short sketch of a country tragedy has added another feather to his
cap. In these long, lonely, empty days, he had given ample time and
brain-work (his best) to these vivid articles, readily scanned in a
quarter of an hour. They recalled his name; at any rate, people began
to remember Laurence Wynne--a clever chap who made a foolish marriage,
and subsequently lived in a slum, and then nearly went and died.
Apparently, he was not dead yet! There was a good deal of vitality in
him still, and that of a very marketable description. Success, however
small, breeds success, and a little sun began to shine on Laurence
Wynne at last. He was asked to contribute articles to the _Razor_ and
the _Present_, two of the most up-to-date periodicals. He was well
paid--cash down. He was independent once more, and he felt as if he
would like to go out into the fields and shout for joy.
Now and then he ventured to write to his wife--to Miss West, 365,
Belgrave Square; and Miss West eagerly snatches the letter from under a
pile of society notes, in thick fashionable envelopes, plunges it into
her pocket, and reads it greedily alone; for although she is a little
bit carried away by admiration, money, and power, yet a letter from
Laurence puts all these pleasures completely into the shade, as yet.
This is his last that she holds in her hand, written after long
meditation, and with many a pause between the sentences. He had turned
out an article for the _Razor_ in half the time.
“Holt Hill Farm.”
“MY DEAREST MADELINE,”
“Your welcome letter is at present lying before me; and now that the
household is asleep, and that there is not a stir on the premises,
nor a sound, except the loud ticking of the kitchen clock, I sit
down to write to you without fear of being disturbed, for this, my
dear Maddie, is going to be an important epistle. I am sincerely
glad to hear that you are so happy; that your father shows that he
has affection for you; that you and he are no longer strangers, but
getting on together capitally. I hope his tenderness will be able to
survive the news you have to tell him, and must tell him soon--the
fact, in short, that you are married. I can quite understand how you
are dreading the evil moment, and can fully enter into your feelings
of shrinking reluctance to dispel this beautiful new life, this kind
of enchanted existence, by just one magic word, and that word to be
uttered by your own lips. But if you are adverse to mentioning this
one word--which must be spoken, sooner or later--let me take the
commission on myself. I will speak to your father. I will bear the
full blast and fury of his indignation and disappointment. After
all, we have nothing to be ashamed of. If I had known that you were
the heiress of a millionaire, I would never have ventured to marry
you--of that you may be sure. But, under other circumstances, it was
different. In the days when you had neither father nor home, I offered
you my home, such as it was. There was no disparity between our two
walks in life, nothing to indicate the barrier which has subsequently
arisen between us.
“Maddie, we have come to the cross-roads. You will have to choose one
way or the other. You will have to choose between your father and
me--between riches and poverty. If your father will not listen to the
idea of your having changed your name, you must let me testify to the
fact; and if he shuts his doors on you afterwards, you are no worse
off than a year ago. If I thought you would ever again have such a
terrible struggle to live as you experienced last winter, I would
not be so barbarous, so cruel, as to ask you to leave your present
luxurious home. But things look brighter. I am, thank God, restored
to health. I have a prospect of earning a livelihood; our dark days
are, I trust, a thing of the past. I am resolved to set to work next
week. I cannot endure the idea of living in idleness on your father’s
money; for although the whole of our stay here has cost less than
you say he has recently given for a dog, still it _is_ his money all
the same--money for your education, money diverted from its original
use, money expended on a fraud. Of late I have not touched it, having
another resource. I only wish I could replace every halfpenny. Let
us have an end of this secrecy and double-dealing. And now that we
have once more got a foothold on life, and the means of existence, I
believe I shall be able to scramble up the ladder! Who knows but you
may be a judge’s wife yet! I wish I could give you even a tithe of
the luxuries with which you are now surrounded. I would pawn years
of my future to do it. But if I cannot endow you with diamonds and
carriages, I can give you what money cannot buy, Maddie, an undivided
heart, that loves you with every pulse of its existence.
“Now I have said my say. I only await a line from you to go at once to
town, and lay bare our secret to your father. It is the right thing to
do; it is, indeed. You cannot continue to live this double life--and
your real home is with your husband and child. It is now three months
and more since you drove away down the lane with Farmer Holt--three
long, long months to me, Maddie. You have had ample time to make an
inroad on your father’s affections. You can do a great deal in that
way in less than three months. If he is what you say, he will not be
implacable. You are his only child. You tell me that he thinks so much
of good blood and birth--at least in this respect the Wynnes should
please him. He will find out all about us in Burke. We were barons of
the twelfth century; and there is a dormant title in the family. The
candle is just out, and I must say good-bye. But I could go on writing
to you for another hour. The text of my discourse, if not sufficiently
plain already, is, let me tell your father of our marriage. One line
will bring me to town at once.
“I am, your loving husband,
“LAURENCE WYNNE.
“Do not think that I am complaining that you have not been down here.
I fully understand that your father, having no occupation, is much
at home, perhaps _too_ much at home, and can’t bear you out of his
sight--which is natural, and that to come and go to the Holt Farm
would take four hours--hours for which you would be called on to
account. And you dared not venture--dared not deceive him. Deceive him
no longer in _any way_, Maddie. Send me a wire, and he shall know all
before to-morrow night.”
Madeline read this letter over slowly, with rapidly changing colour.
Some sentences she perused two or three times, and when she came to
the last word, she recommenced at the beginning--then she folded it up,
put it into its envelope, thrust it into her dressing-case, and turned
the key.
She was a good deal disturbed; you could read that by her face, as she
went and stood in the window, playing with the charms on her bangle.
She had a colour in her cheeks and a frown upon her brow.
How impatient Laurence was! Why would he not give her time? What was
three months to prepare papa? And was it _really_ three months? It
seemed more like three weeks. Yes, April; and this was the beginning of
July.
Her eyes slowly travelled round the luxurious apartment, with its
pale blue silk hangings, inlaid satin-wood furniture, and Persian
carpet, her toilet-table loaded with silver bottles and boxes, a large
silver-framed mirror, draped in real lace, the silver-backed brushes,
the cases of perfume; and she thought with a shudder of the poor little
room at No. 2, with its rickety table, shilling glass, and jug without
a handle. Deliberately, she stood before the dressing-table, and
deliberately studied her reflection in the costly mirror. How different
she looked to poor, haggard, shabby Mrs. Wynne, the slave of a sick
husband and a screaming baby, with all the cares of a miserable home
upon her young shoulders; with no money in her purse, no hope in her
heart, no future, and no friends!
Here she beheld Miss West, radiant with health and beauty, her abundant
hair charmingly arranged by the deft-fingered Josephine, her pretty,
slim figure shown off by a simply made but artistic twenty-guinea
gown; her little watch was set in brilliants, her fingers were
glittering with the same. She had just risen from a dainty lunch, where
she was served by two powdered footmen and the clerical butler. Her
carriage is even now waiting at the door, through the open window she
can hear the impatient stamping of her six-hundred-guinea horses.
She was about to call for an earl’s daughter, who was to chaperone
her to a _fête_, where, from previous experience, she knew that many
and many a head would be turned to look after pretty Miss West; and
she liked to be admired! She had never gauged her own capacity for
pleasure until the last few months. And Laurence required her to give
up all this, to rend the veil from her secret, and stand before the
world once more, shabby, faded, insignificant Mrs. Wynne, the wife of a
briefless barrister!
Of course she was devoted to Laurence. “Oh,” angrily to her own
conscience, “do not think that I can ever change to him! But the
hideous contrast between that life and this! He must give me a little
more time--he must, he must! I _must_ enjoy myself a little!” she
reiterated passionately to her beautiful reflection. “Once papa knows,
I shall be thrust out to beggary. I know I shall; and I shall never
have a carriage or a French gown again.”
And this was the girl who, four months previously, had pawned her
clothes for her husband’s necessaries, and walked miles to save
twopence!
Sudden riches are a terrible test--a severe trial of moral fibre,
especially when they raise a girl of nineteen, with inherited
luxurious tastes, from poverty, touching starvation, to be mistress
of unbounded wealth, the daughter, only child and heiress of an
open-handed Crœsus, with thousands as plentiful now as coppers once had
been.
“I will go down and see him. I must risk it; there is no other plan,”
she murmured, as she rang her bell preparatory to putting herself in
the hands of her maid. “Letters are so stupid. I will seize the first
chance I can find, and steal down to the Holts, if it is but for half
an hour, and tell Laurence that he _must_ wait; he must be patient.”
And so he was--pathetically patient, as morning after morning he waited
in the road and waylaid the postman, who seldom had occasion to come up
to the farm; and still there was no letter.
Madeline was daily intending to rush down, and day followed day without
her finding the opportunity or the courage to carry out her purpose.
And still Laurence waited; and then he began to fear that she must be
ill. A whole week and no letter! He would go to town and inquire. No
sooner thought of than done. Fear and keen anxiety now took the place
of any other sensation, and hurriedly making a change in his clothes,
and leaving a message for Mrs. Holt, he set off to the station--three
miles--on foot, and took a third-class return to London. Once there,
he made his way--and a long way it was--to the fashionable quarter of
Belgrave Square. It was a sultry July afternoon, the very pavement was
hot, the air oppressive--people were beginning to talk of Cowes and
Scotland.
Nevertheless, many gay equipages were dashing about, containing
society notabilities and bright parasols. One of these swept round a
corner just as Laurence was about to cross the street; he had only a
fleeting glimpse as it passed by. A landau and pair of bay steppers,
with what is called “extravagant” action, powdered servants, two ladies
in light summer dresses, and a young man, with a button-hole and
lavender gloves, on the back seat.
One of the ladies had a faint resemblance to Madeline, as well as could
be gathered, from an impression of bright dark eyes, shaded by a French
picture-hat and a chiffon sunshade. No, it could not be her. This was
some patrician beauty, who looked as if she had been accustomed to such
an equipage from the days of her perambulator.
It was merely a passing idea, and quickly brushed aside by Laurence as
he once more walked on rapidly. At length he approached the house--he
was at the same side of the square--within four numbers now. His
heart beat rather quickly as he glanced up. No; none of the upper
blinds were pulled down, he observed with relief, and then he took in
the dimensions of this palatial mansion, with a porch and pillars,
conservatory, billiard-room, and buildings built out, and built on,
wherever they could be crammed. The awnings were out--gay red and white
striped ones--banks of flowers bloomed in the balconies. Oh, what a
contrast to Solferino Place! Would not Madeline see it too? he asked
himself, with a pang. After a moment’s hesitation he rang the bell, and
almost instantly the door was opened by a tall, supercilious looking
footman.
“Is--is--Miss--West at home?” stammered her husband.
“Not at home,” replied the servant, in a parrot voice, holding out his
hand for the card that he presumed would be forthcoming.
“Is she quite well?” ventured the visitor.
“Quite well, sir, thank you,” having studied the questioner, and come
to the conclusion that he was not one of your nobodies, like his worthy
master. “Who shall I say?” he asked confidentially.
“It is of no consequence. I have forgotten my cards. I will call
again,” turning as he spoke and slowly descending the steps.
This was a most rum go in Jeames’s opinion. He might, at least, have
left his name! But no. Jeames stood gazing after him, with what is
called “the door in his hand,” for two whole minutes, glanced sleepily
around the big, white, hot-looking square, and then went in to study
the paper and the latest betting on Goodwood.
Laurence made his way to Mr. Jessop’s chambers, in--oh,
extravagance!--a hansom, and found that gentleman extremely busy, and,
as he expressed it, “up to his ears.” He, however, knocked off for the
time being, in order to have a smoke and a chat with his friend, whom
he declared that he found looking as fit as a fiddle, and requested to
know when he was going to put his shoulder to the wheel again?
“Lots for you to do, my boy. Martin has married an heiress and cut the
concern. My sister has married the son of old Baggs, of the great firm
of Baggs and Keepe, solicitors. My fortune is made, and so is yours!”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“And, by Jove, old chap! those articles of yours, in the _Pepper and
Salt Magazine_, have taken the whole baking--are regular scorchers;
lots of people are talking of them, and asking if they are by the same
Laurence Wynne, of the Inner Temple--fellow with a beard? Who would
have thought of your breaking out in that line, eh? as ready with your
pen as your tongue.”
“Readier.”
“And look here, Larry, there is that case of Cox _v._ Fox coming on,
and you can have a finger in the pie if you like.”
Larry did not clutch at this lucrative opening; he puffed away moodily
at a cigarette, and stared out of the window in rather an abstracted
fashion.
His keen-eyed friend noted this, and said, in a totally different key--
“And what about Mrs. Wynne?”
His companion looked at him quickly, coloured faintly, threw his
cigarette out of the window, and said nothing.
“She has not told the old gentleman yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“So I surmised, as they say in America. I saw her at the opera last
night, the cynosure of all eyes, and her proud and happy father noting
that half the glasses in the house were fixed on Miss West. Ahem! How
long is it to go on--this little comedy? Eh?”
“I can’t tell you!” impatiently. “Not another hour as far as I am
concerned. I don’t wish her to sail under false colours any longer. I
came up to see her to-day.”
“The deuce you did!” in blunt amazement.
“But she was out.”
“I suppose you saw the house and the style. By Jove! it’s like royalty.
I dined there last week.”
“_You_ did?” in unfeigned amazement.
“Yes, your most humble servant. I’ve met Mr. West at my club; he knows
a friend of mine--an impecunious lord--that is all. The dinner was a
banquet, a feast fit for Lucullus himself. I had the honour of being
presented to Miss West.”
“Indeed!”
“Of course I had never seen her before,” winking at his friend. “And,
upon my word, I declare I scarcely recognized her! Dress, diamonds,
and manner--manner begotten of importance, appreciation, wealth, and
luxurious surroundings. Not that Mrs. Wynne’s manners were not always
those of a gentlewoman, but there is a difference between doing the
honours of a couple of herrings and a sheep’s head, in one living room,
and being the hostess presiding over a French dinner--with perfect
appointments and exotic flowers--entertaining lords and ladies and
bishops--eh?--and doing it well, too. But wherever she got her good
blood, Laurence, it did not come from her father’s side of the house. I
sometimes felt inclined to run my fork into him, or to shy a wine-glass
at his head. He is so blatantly proud of Robert West, his success, his
money, his grand acquaintances, and, above _all_, his daughter. Excuse
me, he is a thundering little bounder!”
“You think he will be furious when he knows that he has a son-in-law?”
said Laurence, gravely.
“If you were a lord--or even a baronet--and had some sort of handle to
your name----”
“But as I have nothing--not even Q.C.?”
“I think, from what I know of him, that he will be unpleasant, my dear
Larry--very unpleasant.”
“And the first shape that his unpleasantness will take will be to turn
Madeline out of doors?”
“Yes, I should say so--I think the odds are fifty to one.”
“Well, she has her own home, at any rate. I shall set to work on
Monday. I’ll go round and see about my old chambers. You can send me
those papers, and tell Tom, the clerk, that I am coming back for good.
I shall take lodgings as soon as I have looked round--in a more airy
locality than Solferino Place. Mrs. Holt will keep the child till we
are settled.”
“You--er--mean--you and Mrs. Wynne?” looking curiously at his companion.
“Well, yes; who else should I mean?”
“Does she say anything about returning?”
“No-o,” staring confusedly; “but it is understood.”
Here ensued a short silence, during which Mr. Jessop was nerving
himself to speak his mind to his friend--to speak for that friend’s
good--a thankless task, but he assured himself that it was his _duty_.
“Larry, old chap, you and I have been pals since we were in jackets
at Harrow, and I’ve been your ally ever since the day you licked
Thompson, major, for pitching into me. We’ve always stuck together
somehow ever since. I think a great deal about your concerns. What
hurts you hurts me.”
“Out with it,” cried the other, brusquely. “Out with it. I know you are
going to say something disagreeable. That will do for the overture!”
“I must say one word to prepare you, old man,” suddenly standing up,
laying his hand on his companion’s shoulder, and looking down into his
face. “It is a fatal mistake to expect too much in life--to be too
sanguine! Don’t--don’t be too sure that she _wants_ to come back.”
CHAPTER XVI.
TWO VISITS AND A LETTER.
Miss West returned from her drive. She had been to Lord’s to see
the Oxford and Cambridge cricket match. She had been surrounded by
admirers, like flies round a pot of honey, and had the most eligible
_partis_ of the season endeavouring to win their way to her good graces
as she promenaded up and down between the innings, and partook of
tea and strawberries in the tents; and Lady Rachel (who had her own
diversions) looked on and said to herself, “That Madeline was becoming
much too run after, and Tony would have to mind what he was about.”
Meanwhile, Mr. West, for whose society there was no competition, hugged
himself with joy, as he saw a baronet and a baron approach Madeline
in turn. This was precisely as it should be! Then he went up to Lord
Tony and said, “I say, Tony, wasn’t that the Duke of Margate I saw you
talking to just now--a funny old Johnny, with a shabby hat and red
face?”
“Ye-e-s--I--I believe so,” shrinking instinctively from what he knew
was to follow--as per usual.
“Then just, when you get a nice little opening, introduce _me_, there’s
a good fellow. Watch him when he comes out of the long tent; he is
having tea with the FitzMorse Montagues. I’ll do as much for you
another time.”
Lord Tony dreaded these demands. He even went so far as to hide from
Mr. West, or to absent himself altogether from gatherings where they
were likely to meet. He had introduced his sister to the Wests. He
liked Madeline immensely. His aunt, Lady Clapperclaw, had called, and
Miss West had got cards from a few good houses, but he really drew the
line at presenting “the old squatter,” as Mr. West was nicknamed by
all his acquaintances. People did not _like_ it. They glared fiercely
when this dapper, well-dressed, white-spatted, white-hatted little
person was introduced to them--a man who bowed and talked, and talked
and grinned, exactly like a toy monkey! Confound Tony Foster, who the
deuce was this infernal little cad? What was Tony about? He was always
mixed up with a second-rate set, but why thrust his shoddy friends
on _them_? However, when it came to be hinted that the “squatter” was
rolling in money, and dying to spend it--literally panting to give
entertainments of the costliest description--a second Monte Cristo,
with a spirit of unbounded generosity and one lovely daughter--matters
took a different complexion. Mr. West was elected to a couple of
good clubs, some visiting-cards and invitations were left on Mr.
and Miss West by footmen who had descended from coroneted landaus.
Ladies with slim, smiling, scapegrace sons called on the heiress. Fast
young married women, who looked forward to dances and all manner of
festivities, called (and made their friends leave cards). Young men
who had seen and admired Miss West got introduced, and dropped in on
Sundays. Lord Moneycute, an elderly baron, who had long been looking
for a wife with money, also Sir Crete Levanter, called--and they
subsequently dined--frequently at 365. Many people whom the ignorant
colonial thought smart, grand, and distinguished, called; but it was
not all gold that glittered; there was a great deal of brass about some
of these visitors! On the other hand, pretty mammas, with daughters who
were in the best set, set their faces against these parvenus. Mammas
with rich and titled sons were equally stand-off. One or two great
ladies, who had been introduced, as it were, accidentally to Miss West,
cut her at once.
But the Wests were as yet ignorant of the lights and shades of London
society, and they were both--Mr. West especially--perfectly satisfied
that, though not in the Marlborough House set, they were close upon
its borders.
* * * * *
“A gentleman had called to see her,” murmured Miss West languidly, as
she drew off her gloves on the threshold of the morning-room. “Did he
leave his card?”
“No, ma’am, he did not; he said he had forgotten it.”
“And he asked for me--not for Mr. West?” she continued indifferently,
glancing at her parent, who was rapidly turning over a pile of notes,
and picking out those emblazoned with a coronet.
“I’ll tell you who it was,” he broke in; “it was Lord Maltravers. He
came about that macaw he promised you.”
“No, sir,” put in Jeames, firmly but respectfully; “it was no gentleman
I ever saw before--certainly not Lord Maltravers--though he might have
been a lord for all I know to the contrary.”
“It wasn’t a tradesman?”
“Oh no, sir!” most emphatically.
“What was he like?” inquired Madeline, opening a letter very
deliberately as she spoke, her thoughts very far away from Laurence.
“Well, ma’am, he looked quite the gentleman. He was tall, about my
’ight” (complacently), “very dark eyes, a short beard--what you’d
consider a ’andsome young man. He carried a queer-looking stick with a
ivory top, and he seemed disappointed as you were not at home!”
“A queer-looking cane with an ivory top, and he seemed disappointed!”
The letter fluttered out of Madeline’s hands, and fell to the ground,
as the unconscious Jeames thus blandly announced that the visitor had
been her husband! She was glad to stoop quickly, and thus hide her
face, with its sudden increase of colour. Laurence had come up to see
her! What rashness! What madness!
“Well!” exclaimed her father, looking at her sharply, “have you made
out your mysterious visitor, eh?--eh?--eh?”
“I think he must have been the brother of one of my school-fellows from
the description,” she said, with wonderful composure, tearing open
another letter as she spoke.
“Humph!” grunted Mr. West, in a tone that showed that school-fellows’
brothers were not at all in his line.
“Here is an invitation to Lord Carbuncle’s for Thursday week,” said his
daughter, dexterously turning the current of his thoughts into a much
less dangerous channel, and holding out the note for his perusal.
“Thursday week. Let’s see; what is there for Thursday week, eh?”
“We dine with the Thompson-Thompsons in Portland Place.”
“Oh dear me, yes, so we do,” querulously. “What a confounded nuisance!”
in a tone of intense exasperation. “Can’t we throw them over?”
But his daughter gave him no encouragement, knowing full well the
enormity of throwing people over when a better engagement presented
itself, and that such proceedings were not countenanced by good society
in Vanity Fair.
So Mr. West (who was cheered by another coroneted invitation-card) was
fain to submit with what grace he could muster.
* * * * *
The next morning Miss West resolved upon a bold step. She pleaded
a headache as an excuse from attending Sandown, and as soon as she
had seen her parent safely off the premises, she hurried upstairs,
dressed herself very plainly, put a black veil in her pocket--also a
well-filled purse--and, walking to a short distance, took a hansom for
Waterloo Station. This time she travelled first class, of course, and
hired a fly to take her to the farm--at least, to the lane leading to
the farm--and there to wait, in case Mr. Holt was unable to drive her
back. She desired to give every one an agreeable surprise.
Mrs. Holt, who was in the kitchen shelling peas into a yellow bowl,
gave a little scream when she beheld Mrs. Wynne standing on the
threshold, between her and the sunshine, and, upsetting half the pods,
rushed at her hospitably, wiping her hands on her apron, and assuring
her that “she was more welcome than the flowers in May. Baby was well,
and growing a rare size, but Mr. Wynne was out; he and the farmer had
gone away together just after breakfast, and would not be back till
late, and did ever anything happen so contrary?”
Her square brow knit into lines of disappointment when the young lady,
in answer to her eager queries, informed her that she was not come to
stay--that, in fact, she was going to Ireland in two or three days with
her father and a party of friends. He had taken the shooting of a large
estate in the south, and was most anxious to inspect it.
“Ay, dearie, dearie me!” said Mrs. Holt, after an eloquent pause, “and
what _will_ Mr. Wynne say to that? I’m thinking he will not be for
letting you go,” and she shook her head dubiously.
This was precisely the subject that Madeline had come to discuss
with him, and he was away for the day. How excessively provoking and
tiresome!
Mrs. Kane had been won over with money, Mrs. Harper with valuable
presents, and the hint of an invitation to stay at Belgrave Square.
There remained but Laurence to deal with. He really must learn to be
patient--to wait for the auspicious moment when, having gained the
whole of her father’s confidence and affection, he began to realize
that she was so absolutely necessary to his happiness and to his social
success that he could never spare her. Then, and not till then, would
she throw herself into his arms and confess to him that she was married
to Laurence Wynne. Laurence and the baby would be brought to Belgrave
Square in triumph, and share her lot in basking in the sun of wealth
and luxury. This was Mrs. Wynne’s nice little programme, and ten times
a day she repeated to herself this formula--“Laurence must wait.”
She kissed her little boy, and praised his rosy cheeks, and asked
many questions about her husband, and was so surprised to hear that
he wrote for hours and hours; but Mrs. Holt remarked that she took no
interest now in the chickens, calves, or dogs--or, what she once found
irresistible, the dairy!
Also Mrs. Holt’s quick woman’s eye did not fail to notice her
blazing rings when she pulled off her gloves, her valuable little
wristlet-watch, which she consulted nervously from time to time, her
plain but expensive dress, that rustled when she moved. Ah! she could
see--although she tried not to show it--that Mrs. Wynne had changed.
Her mind was possessed now by riches, and he, poor young man, would
never be able to keep her contented, now she had had the taste of
money, and knew what it was to be a great lady; and Mrs. Holt shook
her head wistfully, as she made a red-currant tart. Meanwhile Madeline
carried baby down to the gate and looked out for Laurence, but no
Laurence came, and baby was surprisingly heavy. Then she went round
the garden. Oh, how small it looked somehow, and there was horrid
green weed on the pool! Then she made her way into their sitting-room,
with its old glass book-case, brass-faced clock, samplers hanging
on the walls, and plain red tiles underfoot. A dainty summer breeze
was playing with the white curtains through the open lattice, and
the great hollyhocks and sunflowers were rearing their heads and
endeavouring to peep in from the garden. There was Laurence’s pipe;
there, in a corner, stood the stick which had betrayed him; and there
was his writing, just as he had left it--ruled sermon paper. No, not a
letter! What was it all about? And she took it up and glanced over it.
It was some rubbish, headed, “Middle-aged Matrons.” How absurd!
Then, on the spur of the moment, she called in Mrs. Holt, and consigned
Master Harry to her motherly arms, whilst she sat down to indite a
letter to Laurence, with his own favourite pen and at his own table.
“DEAR LAURENCE” (she said),
“I came down on purpose to see you, and am so dreadfully disappointed
to find you are out, for I dare not wait, and I had so much to say
to you. I am delighted to find baby so grown, and to hear such good
accounts of yourself. I believe you were at Belgrave Square yesterday.
Laurence, how could you be so rash? Fortunately, no one suspected who
you were, or that you were anything to Miss West. I feel quite another
person than Miss West now that I am down in the country, and looking
out of the window in front of me into this dear old garden and the
far-away wooded hills.
“I feel as if money was nothing in comparison to youth and domesticity
and peace, and that I could be happy here for ever with you;
but I know that, once back in my own boudoir this very selfsame
evening, I shall change my mind again, and look upon rustic life
as intolerable--a living death, a being buried alive without a
fashionable funeral. Money and money’s worth I must attain; love I
have. I wish to command both--love and money. We know what love is
without money, don’t we? I shall never, never change to you, Laurence,
you may rely on that.
“I received your last letter safely, and have laid to heart all you
say; but, dear, dear Laurence, you must let me take my own time with
papa. I will tell him sooner or later; but, indeed, I am the best
judge of how and when and where. You used to say I was foreseeing and
prudent and wise, in the days of No. 2. Surely I am not changed in
three months’ time! Leave it all to me. He will come round yet, and,
like the good people in the fairy-tales, we shall live happy ever
after. On Sunday night we all go to Ireland by the mail from Euston.
It is quite a sudden idea. Papa has given up the idea of the Scotch
moors, and was talked into taking this shooting and deer-forest and
castle by an agreeable Irish nobleman he met at his club. There is
every inducement to sportsmen, from red deer to black cock, as well as
three thousand acres of ground and a castle.
“We are to have a succession of visitors. I hope to do great things in
three months, and will write to you every week and report progress.
“Ever, dear Laurence, your loving wife,
“M. W.”
His loving wife put this effusion into an envelope, directed it, and
placed it on the mantelpiece, where it would be sure to catch his eye,
and then she felt considerably relieved in heart and mind, and had tea
in the kitchen with Mrs. Holt, turning the cakes and praising the
butter, and softening Mrs. Holt’s feelings the longer she stayed in her
company. Then she had a confidential chat about baby and his clothes,
and placed twenty pounds in her listener’s hand for his wardrobe, in
spite of that good woman’s protestation that it was just five times too
much. She also made the farmer’s wife a substantial present of money,
telling her very prettily, with tears in her eyes, that it was not in
return for her kindness, for no sum could repay _that_, but as a small
token of gratitude.
By various means she reinstated herself in Mrs. Holt’s good graces, and
having hugged the baby and kissed him over and over again, and taken
a hearty leave of her hostess, she set off briskly on foot to where
the patient fly awaited her. She paused at the end of the lane, and
looked back on the Holt farm. It was a homely, sequestered spot, buried
in fields and trees, and very peaceful; but it looked somehow more
insignificant--shabbier than she had fancied. How small the windows
were! How close it stood to the big yard, with its swarming poultry and
calves and dirty duck-pond! And what horrible knives and spoons Mrs.
Holt used, and what fearful shoes she wore! However, she was a good
old soul, and had taken great care of baby. Then she once more turned
her back on the farm, and set her face towards her father’s luxurious
mansion. Luckily for herself, she was home before him--was dressed, and
sitting half buried in a chair, engrossed in a novel, when he returned
in high good humour. He had been winning and losing in the best of
company, and was very eloquent about a certain Roman prince who had
been uncommonly pleasant, and had said he “would like to be presented
to you, Madeline!” His little hard head was so full of this new
acquaintance that he had not room for a thought as to where or how his
daughter had spent the day. Indeed, from all evidence to the contrary,
she might never have been out of the house.
Laurence found Madeline’s letter staring at him from the mantelpiece
when he came home. He snatched it eagerly, and devoured it then and
there, and as he came to the last line his sensations were those of
exceedingly bitter disappointment--yes, and something more, he was
hurt. It seemed to him that through the epistle ran an under-current of
jaunty indifference, and this cut him to the quick.
And she was going to Ireland for three months! Well, at any rate, he
would see her off; a railway station was open to the public. She need
not necessarily see him; but he would see her. The next day he carried
out his intention, travelling up to town early in the morning, visiting
his chambers, dining with his friend Jessop, and being in good time to
speed the Irish mail at Euston. He watched and waited, and saw many
parties approach; but yet not his particular party. They did not appear
until within five minutes of the departure of the train.
And what a fuss they made! More than all their predecessors put
together. There was one footman running for tickets, another being
carried madly along the platform in tow of two powerful setters, one
retainer had the booking of the luggage, another was arranging the
interior of their Pullman sleeping-car, and then the party came up to
it, and Laurence beheld his father-in-law for the first time--a neat,
trim, bustling little man, talking vociferously and gesticulating about
Lady Rachel’s luggage. There was a very well-dressed, dark little
woman, not young, but juvenile in air and style, who laughed and talked
incessantly to a big man in a tweed suit, and looked at Mr. West with
contemptuous grimaces, and shrugged her shapely shoulders. There was a
“lout” in wonderful knicker-bockers--so he mentally ticketed Lord Tony.
There was a tall girl in a sort of long racing-coat. There were two
lady’s-maids; and last, but not least, there was Madeline--Madeline so
altered that he could scarcely believe his eyes--Madeline in a regal
travelling-cloak, carrying a Chinese lap-dog, giving directions to
hurrying footmen and maids, and dispensing smiling adieux among a group
of young men who had come to see them off--meaning Miss West. This was
surely not his Madeline--the little school-girl he had married, the
devoted, struggling, hard-working wife and mother, late of 2, Solferino
Place. He stood back for a moment in the shadow of the book-stall, and
realized for the first time the immense gulf that divided him from
Mr. West’s heiress--the great yawning chasm which lay between him and
Madeline. What would fill it--what? He could think of no bridge but
money.
Very poignant were his thoughts as he stood thus--poor, aloof, and
alone, whilst his radiant wife made her beaming farewells from the
window of the Pullman car.
“She should say good-bye to him too,” he declared to himself, with
sudden fierce resolve, and, stepping forward, he stood out in the
full light, a little apart from the gay group who were now removing
their hats with a real or simulated air of regret as the great long
train, that was to carry the popular heiress westward, began slowly
to move. Madeline smiled and nodded and waved her hand. But who was
that standing a little aside, farther down the platform? It was
Laurence--Laurence, whom she had not beheld for three months. It gave
her quite a shock to see him--but a pleasant shock, that sent the blood
tingling through her veins.
How well he looked!--quite himself again; and how well he contrasted
with these gilded youths whom she had just (she hoped) seen the last
of! She would have blown him a kiss had she dared; but her father’s
little beady eyes were upon her, and she could only sit and look--she
might not even bow! Then, with sudden compunction, and justly alarmed
by the expression on his face, she leant quickly out of the window and
nodded and smiled.
The other young men accepted this final signal with demonstrations of
rapture. Little did they guess that it was not for them, but for that
quiet, gentlemanly-looking fellow a few yards to their left. If they
were not aware of this, he was.
“Who is that man on the platform,” said Lady Rachel, “that looks as
if he was seeing us off too? There is no one else in the car but
ourselves.”
“Oh, I’m sure I don’t know,” responded Mr. West. “There are heaps of
people going over, though I dare say he belongs to the Ravenstayle
party. Lord Ravenstayle is in the train. It would not surprise me
if it were his nephew, Cosmo Woodwing--aristocratic-looking sort of
chap--and took a good stare at you, eh, Maddie?” facetiously. “Will
know you again next time he sees you?”--highly delighted at his own
conceit. “I suppose you have no idea who he is, eh?”
Madeline had an excellent idea of who he was, but this was no time to
confide her secret to her parent--better to save this little domestic
bomb for a more discreet opportunity.
Madeline had a shrewd idea that the mysterious gentleman who had taken
a good long look at her--the presumable Lord Cosmo Woodwing--was her
own husband!
CHAPTER XVII.
GONE TO IRELAND.
Laurence Wynne stood upon the platform and watched the Irish
mail--“The Wild Irishman”--wind its great long body slowly out of the
station--watched till the red light, like a fiery eye, became smaller
and smaller, and disappeared from view. Then he hurried off to Waterloo
to catch his own train--which he missed--and, going by the next,
walked from Guildford, a distance of twelve miles, arriving home at
one o’clock in the morning, to the intense relief of Mrs. Holt, who
had been sitting up for him in a nightcap of portentous dimensions,
and who, seeing that he looked tired and dusty, and what she mentally
termed “down,” was disposed to be a very mother to him, even to setting
a cold supper before him at that unparalleled and improper hour, and
staying him with a flagon of her own home-brewed ale--a sure token of
favour.
“And so she’s gone!” she exclaimed at last, when she could absolutely
contain herself no longer. “Actually gone to Ireland.”
“Yes, Mrs. Holt, she is gone,” acquiesced her lodger, coolly.
“And goodness knows when she will come back,” she continued
indignantly. “Dear, dear, dear! I wonder what _my_ master would say if
I’d a done the like--just walking off and leaving him and an infant to
fend for themselves; but I suppose fine folk is different, and don’t
mind?” giving her cap-frills a mighty toss.
Laurence said nothing. He was not going to tell this worthy and
virtuously irate matron, that he did mind very much. No matter how he
felt himself, he would have every one else think well of Maddie. He
would hardly admit to his own heart that she was not _quite_ perfect,
that he was beginning to feel sorely jealous of her father, her fine
surroundings, and her fashionable friends. However, there was no use
in thinking; what he had to do was to work, and endeavour to win for
himself name, fame, and fortune.
The next morning he set himself to make a real beginning. He packed
up his slender belongings, he took his last walk round the fields and
garden with farmer Holt, he consigned his son to the care of his kind
hostess for the present, and, promising to run down often and look them
up, he, in his turn, was taken to the station by the chestnut colt,
and departed to make a fresh start in life, whilst the burly farmer
stood on the platform and flourished his adieux with a red-spotted
handkerchief. Then, returning slowly home, agreed with the missus in
finding the place “summat lonely-like now,” in missing their late
inmate, and in praising him up to the skies. Mrs. Holt was inclined to
improve the occasion by drawing invidious comparisons between Mr. Wynne
and his wife. “She was not like him--he had more true worth in his
little finger than she had in the whole of her body,” etc.
But the worthy master, who had not been blind to Madeline’s pretty face
and fascinating smiles, would not listen for a moment to such treason,
and told his better half, rather sharply, to “hold her tongue!”
Laurence Wynne took up his quarters in the Temple temporarily--in a set
of gloomy old chambers, with small, narrow windows and small panes,
looking out on nothing in particular--at any rate he had no view to
distract his attention from his work, and of work he had plenty.
His friend Jessop (unlike some so-called friends), having got a good
start up the ladder of law, reached back a hand to his struggling
schoolfellow; and an opening--a good opening--was all that his
struggling schoolfellow required. His brains, his ceaseless industry,
his good address, and his handsome appearance did the rest. He was far
cleverer than his friend Jessop, and had twice his perseverance and
talent for steady application. Jessop could keep a bar dinner in a
roar of laughter, but Wynne could hold, as it were, in his hand, the
eyes and ears of a jury. He had a natural gift for oratory; he had a
clear, sonorous voice; he was never at a loss for a word--the right
word; never said too much, or too little; never lost an opportunity
of making a point, or of driving home an argument. In short, among
the juniors he was a pearl of price. His brilliant articles of biting
satire, which were read by every one, had brought his name up, and
his name had been speedily followed by his appearance in person--his
appearance in a successful case. In short, a tide in his affairs had
come, and he had taken it at the flood, and the little skiff “success”
was sailing over the waves in gallant style.
He had been most fortunate in one or two minor cases; he could not
afford to be careless, like great men who had made their reputations.
He began to be spoken of as a very rising junior, and to be consulted
on crotchety points of law, to be listened to whenever he opened his
lips, to be asked out to many professional dinners, and to receive--oh,
joy!--not a few briefs on which the name of Laurence Wynne was
inscribed in a round legal hand.
Yes, he was getting on rapidly. He could now afford to pay well for the
maintenance of Master Wynne, to make handsome presents to the Holts, to
allow himself new clothes and books, and the luxury of belonging to a
good club.
And what about Mrs. Wynne all this time?
Madeline was rather agitated by so unexpectedly beholding her husband
on the platform, the night they left for Ireland. Her heart beat fast,
and her eyes were rather dim as they lost sight of his figure in the
crowd.
“Poor Laurence! How fond he was of her,” she said to herself, with
a sharp pang of compunction. “Fancy his coming up all that way, for
just _one_ glimpse, one little look across the crowd!” But, latterly,
Madeline West had been so overwhelmed with attention, that she now took
many things as a matter of course, and but a proper tribute to her own
importance.
She and Lady Rachel occupied the same sleeping compartment, and her
ladyship, who was an old and experienced traveller, wasted no time in
gazing dreamily out of the window like Madeline, but took off her hat
and dress and lay down in her berth, and was soon asleep, whilst the
other sat with her eyes fixed on the dusky country through which they
were passing, asking herself many disturbing questions, and fighting
out a battle in her own breast between Laurence and luxury. At times
she had almost resolved to tell her father all within the next twelve
hours, and to accept the consequences, whatever they might be. She was
wrong to deceive him; she was wrong to leave Laurence and the child.
Yes; she would do the right thing at last--confess and go back.
With this decision laboriously arrived at, her mind was more at ease--a
load seemed lifted from her brain; and she laid her head on her pillow
at last and fell asleep.
But morning brings counsel--we do not say that it always brings
wisdom. In the cool, very cool dawn, as she sat on the deck of the
_Ireland_ and watched the sun rise and the shores of Erin rise into
view, her courage ebbed away; and as she partook of a cup of hot coffee
at Kingsbridge Station, and encountered her father, who was exceedingly
short in his temper, owing to a bad night’s rest, her good intentions
melted as snow before the sun. No, no, she told herself; she must
wait until her parent was in a more genial, indulgent mood. To speak
now would be fatal, even supposing there was an opportunity for a few
moments’ _tête-à-tête_.
The party travelled down at express speed to Mallow Junction, and from
there a short rail journey brought them near their destination. It was
four o’clock on a superb August afternoon as they drove up to Clane
Castle. The owner and agent had not misled the new tenants; it _was_
a castle, a fine commanding structure tucked under the wing of a great
purple mountain, and was approached by an avenue that wound for a full
Irish mile through a delightful demesne. What oaks! what beeches! what
green glades and scuttling rabbits! what cover for woodcock! and,
outlined against the sky-line on the mountain, was that a deer?
The exclamations of pleasure and astonishment from his daughter and his
guests made Mr. West’s tongue wag freely.
“Yes; it’s a fine place. I said, ‘None of your picnic shanties for me.’
I said, ‘I must have a decent house and a fair head of game--money no
object,’” he explained volubly, as he strutted before the party into a
noble dining-room, where a very _recherché_ meal awaited them.
The travellers, fortified by an excellent repast, and filled with an
agreeable sense of well-being, repaired to their several chambers to
get rid of their dusty garments, and met once more in the library, and
sallied forth to see the place, Mr. West acting as guide and cicerone,
and conducting his followers as if he had been born on the premises.
The eyes of appreciative sportsmen sparkled as they took in the miles
of mountain, the forests, the extent of heather, stretching widely to
the horizon, and felt more than ever, that little West, by Jove! knew
what he was about when he asked a fellow to shoot, and did you right
well.
Besides the far-reaching mountains, there were other attractions--a
lake and boathouse, a fine garden and pleasure-ground, a tennis-court,
and--oh, joy!--a capital billiard-table. Every one expressed their
delight with the castle, the scenery, the weather, and soon settled
down to enjoy themselves in their several ways.
The twelfth of August produced a splendid bag of grouse, surpassing
even the head-keeper’s fondest prediction. Every one of the
neighbouring “quality” called of their own free will. There were
celebrated tennis-parties, and dinners at the Castle (Mr. West had
brought his own cook), and the fame of the excellent shooting went far
and near. Mr. West was jubilant; he felt a grand seigneur. Never had he
been a personage of such importance, and he actually began to look down
on his London acquaintances.
“The shooting is A1--every one knows that,” he said. “Courtenay wants
to know _how_ I like the place?--a deuce deal better than I like him;
and Dafford writes to ask if I can give him a day or two? I’m not very
hot on Dafford. He wasn’t over and above civil, and he never got his
sister, Lady Dovetail, to call; but he’d like to make use of me now.
If I’m not good enough for him in London, he isn’t good enough for me
here. Oh no, Mr. Dafford; you don’t come to Clane Castle!” And putting
his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, Mr. West trotted up and
down his daughter’s morning-room exuberantly happy.
Madeline was happy, too, but from other causes. The lovely scenery, the
free yet luxurious life, the entire novelty of her surroundings, the
impulsive gay-spirited gentry, the finest peasantry in the world, with
their soft brogue, wit, blarney, and dark eyes, all enchanted her. The
only little clouds upon her sky were a spirit of discontent among her
English retinue, and a certain indefinable coolness and constraint in
Laurence’s weekly letter.
CHAPTER XVIII.
WANTED--A REASON.
The guests at the castle were, as notified in a local paper, Lady
Rachel Jenkins and Mr. Jenkins, the Honourable Mrs. Leach, Lord Anthony
Foster, Miss Pamela Pace, Miss Peggy Lumley, Captain Vansittart, and
Major Mostyn, of the Royal Sedleitz Dragoons.
The Honourable Mrs. Leach was a handsome widow, whose income was much
beneath her requirements. She was acquainted with some colonials, who
had come home in the same ship as Mr. West, and was indebted to them
for an introduction to her present comfortable quarters. She had a
smooth, slow sort of manner, a pair of wonderfully expressive eyes--and
her own little plans. It did not suit her to walk with the guns, or
join in long expeditions, entailing wear and tear of clothes, nerves,
complexion, and tissues. She much preferred to lounge over a novel
in the grounds, having breakfasted in her own room, and would appear
at teatime before the battered, sun-burnt, sun-blistered company, a
miracle of cool grace, in a costume to correspond. And her brilliant
appearance of an evening was a pleasure that was generally looked
forward to. What toilettes!--so rich, so well-chosen and becoming! What
diamonds! (Yes; but these were the best French paste.) She made herself
pleasant to every one, especially to Mr. West, and treated Madeline
almost as if she were some fond elder sister.
Miss Pamela Pace was excessively lively--the soul of the party, always
ready to shoot, ride, or fish; to play billiards, gooseberry, or the
banjo; to dance or to act charades. She had a fund of riddles, games,
and ghost stories. Without being pretty, she was neat, smart, and a
general favourite.
Miss Lumley was her cousin and her foil--tall, fair, statuesque, and
silent. However, she was a capital tennis and billiard player, an
untiring pedestrian; and, as Lady Rachel talked enough for two ordinary
women, she made up for Miss Lumley’s shortcomings.
Lady Rachel was most anxious to get her brother settled--married to a
nice girl, such as Madeline, with a large fortune, and she intended to
forward the match in every way. She lost no opportunity of sounding
Tony’s praises to Madeline, or of plying him with encouragement and
advice. Advice, especially given as such for his own good, he shirked,
as a child does physic. He admired Miss West. She was unaffected;
there was no nonsense about her; she was handsome and ladylike. She
would accept him, of course; and he really might do worse. He did
not particularly want to marry her, or any one; but his income, no
matter how well contrived and cut, was far too small for a man of his
position. And money was a pleasant thing.
Wound up by his anxious sister, Lord Tony had asked for and obtained
Mr. West’s permission to speak to his daughter, and now the only thing
that remained to do was to ask the young lady to ratify the treaty.
They had been nearly three weeks in Ireland, whilst this affair was
quietly brewing.
Madeline had no suspicion of her father’s wishes, or her suitor’s
intentions; such an idea would have filled her--as it subsequently
did--with horror. She liked dancing and tennis, and amusing herself as
much as other young women of her age; but the notion of any one falling
in love with her, in her new and attractive character, never once
entered her brain. Pretty speeches and compliments she laughed at and
turned aside; and it was generally mooted that the Australian heiress
was as cold as the typical iceberg, and had a genius for administering
the most crushing snubs if any one ventured on to the borderland, yea,
the very suburbs of love-making; and it had been hinted that either
there was some pauper lover in the background, or that Miss West was
waiting for a duke--English or foreign--to lay his strawberry leaves at
her feet. She thought Lord Tony extremely plain, and rather stupid; but
he was so easily entertained, and cheery, and helped to make things go
off well, that she was glad he formed one of the party. She had seen so
much of him in London, she knew him better than any of their young men
acquaintances; and he was always so good-tempered, so unassuming, and
so confidential, that she entertained quite a sisterly regard for him.
Of Lord Anthony’s present views and intentions she had no more idea
than her pet Chinese spaniel. If he was _épris_ with any one, it was
with the dashing Pamela, who told his fortune by cards, and played
him even at billiards; and his proposal came upon her without any
preparation, and like a bolt from the blue. The bolt fell in this
fashion, and on a certain sleepy Sunday afternoon.
Sunday at Clane had many empty hours. Mr. West was old-fashioned, and
set his face against shooting, tennis, billiards, or even that curate’s
own game--croquet. The hours after lunch were spent in smoking,
sleeping, novel-reading, devouring fruit in the big garden, or sitting
under the lime-trees. It was thus that Lord Anthony found Madeline,
surveying the misty haze of a hot August afternoon with a pair of
abstracted eyes. Mr. West had given him a hint of her whereabouts, and
that here was the hour, and he was the man!
“She is a cold, undemonstrative, distant sort of girl,” he explained.
“She has never had a fancy, that I know of” (no, certainly as yet, he
had not known of it). “She likes you, I am sure; it will be all plain
sailing.” And, thus encouraged, the suitor figuratively put to sea.
Madeline sat alone under the lime-trees in a low wicker chair, having
been deserted by Lady Rachel, who had gone to have a comfortable snooze
ere teatime.
It was a drowsy afternoon; the bees buzzed lazily over a bed of
mignonette, which sent its fragrance far and near. Madeline’s book lay
neglected in her lap. Her thoughts were far from it and Clane; they
were with a certain hard-working barrister in London, who had written
her a very rough, outspoken letter. Poor Laurence! Why could he not
wait? Why could he not have patience? He was beginning to get on so
well. She had seen a long review of one of his articles in _Tooth and
Nail_. He was becoming quite a literary celebrity.
And, once he was up the ladder, even a few rungs, she would not feel
the change so bitter, supposing her father was furious and implacable.
Of course it would be a change! And she sighed as she smoothed out her
cambric gown--which had cost eighteen guineas--with a pretty, delicate
hand, laden with magnificent rings. Could it be possible that those
soft white hands had ever blackened grates and made beds and washed up
plates? Oh, such greasy plates and dishes!
“You seem to be in a day-dream, Miss West,” said Lord Anthony, as he
approached, “and all the rest of the folk have gone to sleep.”
“Have they?” she exclaimed. “Well, one cannot wonder! It is a broiling
afternoon, and, after that long sermon, you must make allowances.”
“Oh, I’m always making allowances. I’m an easy-going sort of fellow,
you know,” and he cast himself into a well-cushioned chair. “I want to
have a little talk with you.” Hitching this chair nearer he added, “May
I?”
“Why, of course! But are we in a talking humour? Isn’t it rather hot?
Pray don’t bore yourself to entertain me! I can always amuse myself,”
and she slowly agitated her great green fan.
“Yes; I suppose you can say ‘My mind to me a kingdom is’?” he asked,
with a smile.
“I think I can,” she answered languidly.
“I wish _I_ could say as much. My mind is a poor, barren, unpopulated
country. I should like to take a trip into your territory, and
share your pleasant thoughts, Miss West!” then suddenly spurred by a
recollection of a solemn promise to his sister, and that he was wasting
a golden opportunity, “I have something important to say to you.”
“To say to _me_?” she echoed, with raised brows. “What can it be? What
makes you look so strange? You are not feeling ill, are you?”
“Ill! No; but my mind is ill at ease. Can you not form an idea why?”
leaning forward as he spoke, and looking straight into her eyes.
His look was an illumination to Madeline. But as yet she did not think
of herself; she mentally glanced at lively Pamela, with her high
spirits and low stature. She had seen her present companion carry his
rather boisterous attentions to that young lady’s shrine. She amused
him, and his loud, long laugh often resounded in her neighbourhood. He
was come to ask for her good offices; but she did not suppose that Miss
Pam would be unusually difficult to win.
“Oh, I think I have an idea now,” she murmured, with a significant
smile. “I have guessed.”
“You have?” he replied, in a tone of great relief. “And--and, may I
venture to hope?”
“I really cannot tell you. But I see no reason why you should not,” she
returned reassuringly.
“Madeline”--now moving his chair a whole foot nearer, and suddenly
taking her hand--“you have made me the happiest of men!”
“I don’t think I quite understand you,” she replied, struggling to
withdraw her fingers, and feeling desperately uncomfortable.
“Then I must speak out more plainly. I want you to promise to be my
wife.”
For a second she stared at him as if she could not credit her ears.
Then she suddenly wrenched her fingers away, sprang to her feet, and
stood facing him with crimson cheeks.
“What do you mean? Are you--mad?” she asked sharply.
“Mad?--no!” replied her suitor, both amazed and affronted. “One would
think I was a dangerous lunatic, the way you behave. I am quite sane,
and in deadly earnest. I have your father’s good wishes, Rachel’s good
wishes----”
“My father’s good wishes!” she interrupted, her mind in a perfect
tumult at this totally unlooked-for dilemma.
“What is the matter with you, Miss West? Why are you so upset and
agitated? Am I so totally unworthy? Is there anything so extravagantly
strange in my wishing to marry you?”
“Oh no, no!”--endeavouring to control her feelings, and not give
herself away. “But--but----” A scarlet wave rushed into her cheeks. But
what would Laurence say?
“Is it to be ‘Yes’ or ‘No’?” he pleaded.
She simply shook her head, and drew back a step or two.
He had never been so near to loving this tall pretty girl, standing
under the lime-trees with flushed, averted face, as now, when she shook
her head.
“At least you will give me _reason_,” he demanded, rather sulkily.
As the words left his lips he saw an odd change pass across her face,
an expression that he could not understand. It was a look half of
fear, half of contemptuous derision.
“There is no reason,” she answered quietly, “beyond the usual one in a
similar case. I do not wish to marry you.”
“And why?” he asked, after an appreciable pause.
“Well, really, I have never thought about you, Lord Anthony, but as
a pleasant acquaintance. As an acquaintance I like you very much,”
she answered, with astounding calmness. “An acquaintance--but nothing
more.” And she turned to take up her parasol.
Opposition always roused Lord Anthony; it acted as a spur. In a short
five minutes he saw everything from his sister’s point of view, and had
suddenly developed a passion for Miss West.
“Every marriage begins by an acquaintance. Perhaps in time,” he
urged--“in a few short months, my dearest Madeline----”
“I am not your ‘dearest Madeline,’ Lord Anthony,” she interrupted
quickly. “Pray consider the subject closed once for all; and remember,
for the future, that I am Miss West.”
She was getting angry with his persistency. He was getting angry with
her persistency.
There ensued a long silence, unbroken by speech. And at last he said--
“There is some other fellow, of course. You are engaged already.”
“I am not. Oh, Pamela, I did not see you”--as that vivacious young lady
suddenly came upon the scene with a strong escort of dogs.
From her window she had noted the conference, and had hastily descended
in order to discover what it might portend. A proposal! Well, if he
had proposed, he had _not_ been accepted, she remarked to herself
complacently.
They both looked confused and ill at ease. Evidently they had been
quarrelling. Lord Anthony was ridiculously red, and Madeline was white
as a sheet.
“How delightfully cool and comfortable you two look!” she mendaciously
ejaculated, sinking into Madeline’s chair with a gesture of exhaustion.
“This is quite the nicest place, under these motherly old trees. I’ve
been trying to sleep, but it did not come off. I was driven quite
frantic by a diabolical bluebottle, that would not keep away from my
face.”
“I’m sure I don’t wonder,” said Lord Anthony, who was recovering his
good temper, which was never lost for long.
“And so I came out. You will have tea here, Maddie, won’t you, like a
duck?”
“I’m not sure that ducks care for tea,” rejoined Madeline. “Their
weakness is snails. But I’ll run in and order it. It must be after
five.” And in another minute her tall white figure was half-way to the
castle, and Miss Pamela and Lord Anthony were alone.
Both were eager to question the other in a delicate, roundabout way.
Strange to say, the man got out his query first. Throwing himself once
more into a chair, and crossing his legs, he said--
“Girls know girls and their affairs, as men know men, and are up to
their little games. Now, you saw a lot of Miss West in town. Same
dressmaker, same dentist, same bootmaker. Look here, now; I want to
know something.” And he bent over and gazed into Miss Pam’s pale
little dancing eyes.
“I am quite at your service,” she answered smilingly. “Her waist is
twenty inches. She takes a longer skirt than you would think. She has
no false teeth, and only a little stuffing in one back molar. Her size
in shoes is fours.”
“Bosh! What do I care about her teeth and her shoes? I want to
know--and I’ll do as much for you some day--if Miss West has any
hanger-on--any lover loafing round? Of course I know she had heaps of
Johnnies who admired her. But did she seem sweet on them? ‘Lookers-on
see most of the game.’”
“Yes, when there is any game to see,” retorted the young lady. “In this
case there was none. Or, if there was, it was double dummy.”
“No one?” he said incredulously.
“No one,” she answered. “She talks like an old grandmother, who has
been through every phase of life; talks in the abstract, of course. She
has never, as far as I know, and in the language of romance, ‘smiled on
any suitor.’”
“Most extraordinary!” muttered Lord Anthony. “A new woman who bars
men. However, there is always the one exception; and, by George”--to
himself--“I’ll have another try!”
CHAPTER XIX.
A DISAGREEABLE INTERVIEW.
“Well!” said Mr. West, when he found himself alone in the smoking-room
with Lord Anthony. How much can be expressed in that exclamation.
“It was not well, sir. She will have nothing to say to me. I had no
luck.”
“Do you mean with Maddie?” exclaimed her father, in a tone of fretful
amazement.
“Yes. I had a long talk with her, and she won’t have anything to say to
me!”
“What--what reason did she give you?” demanded Mr. West. “What reason,
I say?”
“None, except that she did not wish to marry me; and she seemed to
think that reason _enough_.”
“And did you not press her?”
“It was of no use; but, all the same, I intend to try again--that is,
if there is no one else, and Miss West has no attachment elsewhere.”
“Attachment elsewhere? Nonsense!” irritably. “Why, she was at _school_
till I came home--till she met me on the steamer with her governess!
You saw her yourself; so you may put that out of your head. She’s a
mere girl, and does not know her own mind; but I know mine, and if
she marries to please me, I’ll settle forty thousand pounds on her on
her wedding day, and allow her five thousand a year. It’s not many
girls in England who have as much pinned to their petticoat; and she
will have considerably more at my death. If you stick to Maddie, you
will see she will marry you eventually. She knows you, and is getting
used to you--coming in and out in London; and you have a great pull
over other men, staying here in the same house, with lots of wet days
perhaps!”
The following morning Madeline was sent for by her father. He felt that
he could speak with more authority from the ’vantage ground of the
hearthrug in his own writing-room; and after breakfast was the time he
selected for the audience. Evidently Madeline had no idea of what was
awaiting her, for she came up to him and laid her hand upon his arm,
and gave him an extra morning kiss.
“I suppose it’s about this picnic to the Devil’s Pie-dish?” she began.
In no part of the world has the devil so much and such a various
property as in Ireland--glens, mountains, bridges, punch-bowls,
bits, ladders--there is scarcely a county in which he has not some
possessions--and they say he is a resident landlord.
Mr. West propped himself against the mantelpiece and surveyed her
critically. She was certainly a most beautiful creature--in her
parent’s fond eyes--and quite fitted to be sister-in-law to a duke.
“It’s not about the picnic; that must be put off, the day has broken.
It’s something far more important. Ahem!” clearing his throat. “What’s
all _this_ about you and Foster?”
“Why?” she stammered, colouring deeply, and struck by a peculiar ring
in his voice.
“_Why?_” impatiently. “He tells me that he proposed to you yesterday,
and you refused him point-blank; and now, in my turn, _I_ ask why?”
Madeline was silent. She began to feel very uncomfortable, and her
heart beat fearfully fast.
“Well, is it true?” he demanded sharply.
“Yes, quite true,” fiddling with her bangles.
“And may I know why you have said _no_ to a highly eligible young
man, of a station far above your own, the son of a duke--a man young,
agreeable, whose name has never appeared in any flagrant society
scandal, who is well-principled and--and--good-looking--a suitor who
has my warmest approval? Come now.” And he took off his glasses and
rapped them on his thumb nail.
“I do not wish to marry,” she replied in a low voice.
“And you _do_ wish to drive me out of my senses! What foolery, what
tommy rot! Of course, you _must_ marry some day--you are bound to as my
heiress; and I look to you to do something decent, and to bring me in
an equivalent return for my outlay.”
“And you wish me to marry Lord Anthony?” inquired his unhappy daughter,
pale to the lips. Oh, if she could but muster up courage to confess
the truth! But she dared not, with those fiery little eyes fixed upon
her so fiercely. “Father, I cannot. I cannot, indeed!” she whispered,
wringing her hands together in an agony.
“Why?” he demanded in a hoarse, dry voice.
“Would you barter me and your money for a title?” she cried, plucking
up some spirit in her desperation, “as if I was not a living creature,
and had no feeling. I _have_ feeling. I have a heart; and it is useless
for you to attempt to control it--it is out of your power!”
This unexpected speech took her parent aback. She spoke with such
passionate vehemence that he scarcely recognized his gay, cool,
smiling, and unemotional Madeline.
This imperious girl, with trembling hands, sharply knit brows, and low,
agitated voice, was entirely another person. This was not Madeline,
his everyday daughter. At last it dawned upon his mind that there was
something behind it all, some curious hidden reason in the background,
some secret cause for this astonishing behaviour! Suddenly griping
her arm in a vice-like grasp, as an awful possibility stirred his
inflammable spirit, he whispered through his teeth--
“Who is it?”
“Who is who?” she gasped faintly.
Ah! now it was coming. She shook as if she had the ague.
“Who is this scoundrel, this low-born adventurer that you are in
love with? Is it the man you knew at school? Is it the damned
dancing-master, or some half-starved curate? Is it him you want to
marry? Madeline, on your oath,” shaking her in his furious excitement
and passion of apprehension, “is it him you want to marry?” he
reiterated.
Madeline turned cold, but she looked full into the enraged face, so
close to hers, and as he repeated, “On your oath, remember!” she
answered with unfaltering and distinctly audible voice, “On my
oath--_no!_” She spoke the truth, too! Was she not married to him
already? Oh, if her father only guessed it! She dared not speculate on
the idea! He would be worse, far worse than her worst anticipations.
She could _never_ tell him now.
“Father, I have said ‘No,’” she continued. “Let go my hand, you hurt
me.” With the utterance of the last word she broke down and collapsed
upon the nearest chair, sobbing hysterically.
“What the devil are you crying for?” he demanded angrily. “What I’ve
said and done, I’ve done for your good. Take your own time, in reason;
but marry you _shall_, and a title. Foster is the man of my choice. I
don’t see what you can bring against him. We will all live together,
and, for my own part, I should _like_ it. You go to no poorer home,
you become a lady of rank,--what more can any girl want? Money as much
as she can spend, a husband and a father who hit it off to a T, both
only too anxious to please her in every possible way, rank, and riches;
what more would you have, eh?”
“Yes, I know all that!” gasped Madeline, making a great effort to
master her agitation. She must protest now or never. “I know everything
you would say; but I shall never marry Lord Anthony, and I would be
wrong to let you think so. I like him; but, if he persists, I shall
hate him. I have said ‘No’ once; let that be sufficient for him--and
_you_!” Then, dreading the consequences of this rashly courageous
speech, she got up and hurried out of the room, leaving her father in
sole possession of the rug, and actually gasping for speech, his thin
lips opening and shutting like a fish’s mouth--when the fish has just
been landed. At last he found his voice.
“I don’t care one (a big D) for Madeline and her fancies, and this
thunder in the air has upset her. A woman’s no means yes; and she shall
marry Foster as sure as my name is Robert West.” To Lord Anthony he
said, “I’d a little quiet talk with Madeline, and your name came up.
She admitted that she liked you; so you just bide your time and wait.
Everything comes to those who wait.”
To this Lord Tony nodded a dubious acquiescence. The poor fellow was
thinking of his creditors. How would they like this motto? and how much
longer would _they_ wait?
“I told you she liked you,” pursued Mr. West consolingly--“she said
so; so you have not even to _begin_ with a little aversion. She has
set her face against marriage; she declared she would not marry, and
what’s more--and this scores for you--she gave me her word of honour
that there was no one she _wished_ to marry. So it’s a clear course
and no favour, and the best man wins. And remember, Tony,” said her
shrewd little parent, thumping, as he spoke, that gentleman’s reluctant
shoulder, “that I back you, and it’s a good thing to have the father
and the money on your side, let me tell you.”
Ten days went by very quietly--the calm after the storm. Mr. West never
alluded to his daughter’s foolish speech, and kissed her and patted her
on the shoulder that selfsame night, as if there had been no little
scene between them in the morning. He was waiting. Lord Anthony, even
in Madeline’s opinion, behaved beautifully. He did not hold himself too
markedly aloof, and yet he never thrust his society upon her, or sought
to have a word with her alone. He also was waiting.
CHAPTER XX.
NOT “A HAPPY COUPLE.”
The postponed picnic to the Devil’s Pie-dish eventually came off.
It took place on the occasion of what was called “a holiday of
obligation,” when no good Catholics are allowed to work, but must put
on their best clothes and attend Mass. As there were no keepers or
beaters available, the shooting-men meekly submitted to their fate,
and started to the mountains, for once, minus dogs and guns, and
escorting a large assortment of ladies, in a break, landau, dog-cart,
and jaunting-car. The morning was lovely; the treacherous sun smiled
upon and beguiled the party to the summit of one of the mountains--a
wild spot commanding a splendid view of river, forest, lake, and
sea--a long, long climb, but it repaid the exertion. Luncheon was
laid out in the Pie-dish, a green hollow between two peaks, and it
was there discussed with great appreciation. The festive party sat
long. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, mists began to collect, clouds
to gather; the scenery at their feet grew dimmer and yet dimmer, the
hypocritical sunshine vanished and gave way to rain, heavy, stinging
rain. There was no shelter, not for miles--not a bush, much less a
tree; but at a distance some one descried what looked like a _mound of
stones_, but proved to be a cottage. To this dwelling every one ran at
their utmost speed. It certainly was a house--a little humped-back
cot that seemed as if it had been in the act of running down hill and
had sat down. It consisted of a kitchen and bedroom, and the former
could scarcely contain the company, even standing. There were one or
two stools, a chest, and a chair. The atmosphere was stifling, but
“any port in a storm;” anything sooner than the icy, cutting rain that
swept the mountain. When their eyes became accustomed to the place, it
turned out that besides smoke and hens, it contained an old woman, who
sat huddled up by the fire enjoying a pipe, and who stared stolidly and
made no answer to eager inquiries for permission to remain. She was
either stone deaf or silly, possibly both. But suddenly a barefooted
girl entered, with a creel of wet turf on her back.
“I see yees running, and yees are kindly welcome,” upsetting her load
in a corner, and shaking out her wet shawl. “The grannie, there,”
pointing, “has no English; ’tis only Irish she can spake.”
“Irish! Oh, I’d like to hear it so much!” cried Miss Pamela. “Oh, do
make her talk!” Exactly as if she were alluding to some mechanical toy,
such as a talking-doll.
“She’s not much of a talker, at all, miss--and she’s cruel old; and so
many quality coming in on her at once has a bit stunned her. I’m sorry
we are short of sates,” looking round, and proffering the turf creel to
Lady Rachel. “And I’ve no tay, but lashins of butter-milk.”
“Never mind anything, thank you,” said Mr. West, pompously; “we have
just lunched.”
“Oh, an’ is that yourself, me noble gentleman, from the castle below!
An’ ’tis proud I am to see yees. And here’s Michael for ye,” as a tall
dark countryman with long black whiskers entered, amazement at the
invasion depicted in his dark blue eyes.
“’Tis a wet day, Michael,” said Mr. West, who employed him as a beater.
“’Tis so, yer honour.”
“Do you think it will last?” asked Madeline.
“I could not rightly say, miss; but I think not. It come on so sudden.”
“I suppose you have been to the town to Mass?”
“Yes, sir; second Mass.”
“Did you meet any friends, Micky? Did you get a drink?” inquired Lord
Tony, insinuatingly.
“No, not to say a drink, sir.”
“Well, what?”
“Just a _taste_.”
“And if you were to be treated, Mick, what would you choose? Give it a
name, now,” said Lord Tony, genially.
“Oh, whisky and porter!”
“What, together?”
“Ay. And why not? Sure, ’tis the best in many ways.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Faix! an’ with raison. If I drink porter I’m full before I’m drunk, ye
see; if I drink whisky, I’m drunk before I’m full, and both together
comes about right.”
“Michael,” cried his wife, “’tis you as ought to be dead ashamed,
talking in such a coarse, loose way before the ladies! Ye has them all
upset, so ye has.” And, to make a diversion, she darted into the room
and returned with (by way of a treat for the ladies) a baby in her
arms. It had weak, blinking, blue eyes, was wrapped in an old shawl,
and was apparently about a month old. However, it created quite the
sensation its mother had anticipated.
“Oh, Lord,” cried Mr. West, “a baby! I hate babies, though I like
small children--especially little boys! Take it away before it starts
screaming.”
“Oh, show it to me! Let me have it!” came simultaneously from several
quarters; but in each case the baby received its new friend with a
yell, and had to be promptly returned to its apologetic parent. Several
had tried their hand upon it; Miss Pam, Mrs. Leach, Miss Lumley, and
Lady Rachel had been repulsed in turn.
“Now, Maddie, let us see what way you would manage it, or if you know
which end is uppermost!” said Lady Rachel, taking the child from its
mother, and laying it in Madeline’s arms.
After a storm a calm! The irritable infant was actually quiet at last,
and glared at his new nurse in silence; and whilst Madeline hushed
it and rocked it, and talked to it in a most approved fashion, the
delighted mother and granny looked on with grateful surprise. And then
the old lady made some loud remark in Irish, and pointed her pipe at
Madeline.
“What does she say? Oh, do tell us?” cried Miss Pamela, excitedly.
“_Do--do_, please!”
“Oh, miss dear, I--I--faix, then I couldn’t!”
“’Tis no harm whatever,” broke in Michael, with a loud laugh.
“Then out with it!” commanded Mr. West from a corner, where he was
sitting on a kist, swaying his little legs high above the ground,
and fully expecting to hear some pleasant Irish compliment about his
daughter doing everything well.
“She says the lady has such a wonderful knack, that she must have had
great practice entirely, and ’tis a married woman she is, with a baby
of her own!”
This was not the description of speech that Mr. West or any one
expected. He frowned heavily, looked extremely displeased, and growled
out, “I think the old hag in the corner has been having some of your
brew, Michael,” whilst the rest of the party set up a sudden buzz of
talking, to hide the unfortunate remark of the venerable semi-savage.
Poor Miss West! No one ventured to look at her save Lord Tony. She had
bent her face over the baby, and her very forehead was crimson.
The captious weather now made a diversion; it was going to clear.
People began to shake their capes and hats, to fumble for their gloves.
Mrs. Leech--it was well there was no looking-glass, for every one
was more or less damp and dishevelled--felt her faultless fringe was
perfectly straight, her feathers in a sort of pulp, thanks to the
torrents upon a Kerry mountain. The torrents had ceased entirely, the
deceitful sun was shining, and once more the picnicers sallied forth,
not sorry to breathe a little fresh air. Mr. West had placed half a
crown in Mrs. Riordan’s hand, and received in return many blessings;
but his daughter had pressed a whole sovereign into the infant’s tiny
palm, ere she followed her father and guests over the threshold.
And now to get home! The short grass was damp, noisy rivulets trickled
boastfully after the rain, but the mountains and low country looked
like a brilliant, freshly painted scene: the hills were gay with
gorse, cranberries, and bright purple heather, and dotted with sheep
and little black cattle. The party now descended two and two--Lord
Tony and Madeline the last. He was really in love with this pretty
tall girl who walked beside him, with a deer-stalker cap on her dark
hair, a golf-cape over her graceful shoulders, and a lovely colour,
the result of rain and wind, in her charming face. The rain and wind
had but enhanced _her_ beauty. Yes; they would get on capitally; she
would be not only a wife to be proud of, but a _bonne camarade_, ever
gay, quick-witted, and good-tempered; a capital hostess and country
gentleman’s helpmate. How well she got over the ground, how nimbly she
scaled the stiles, and climbed the loose walls without bringing down
half a ton of stones. Here was another opportunity: speak he _would_.
Gradually and clumsily he brought the subject round to the topic
nearest his heart. His speech was half uttered, when she interrupted
him, saying--
“Lord Anthony, I like you very much as a friend----”
“You need not offer me platonic friendship, because I won’t have it,
and I don’t believe in it. No,” he began impetuously. “And if you like
me, I am quite content.”
“Stop! Please let me finish. I like you so much, that I am going to
tell you a great secret.”
“You are engaged to be married?” he exclaimed.
“No; I am married already.”
Lord Tony halted. She also came to a full stop, and they looked at one
another in expressive silence.
She was wonderfully cool, whilst he was crimson with astonishment; his
eyes dilated, his mouth quivered, his lower lip dropped.
“You are joking!” he gasped out at last.
“No; indeed I am not.”
“And where is your husband?”
“He is in London. My father does not know that such a person exists.”
“Great Cæsar’s ghost!”
“No; I have never dared to tell him yet. I married from school,” she
continued, and in a few hurried sentences gave the outline of her
story, omitting her husband’s name and profession, and all reference to
her small son. “You see how I am situated. I have not ventured to tell
the truth yet, and I confide my secret to your honour and your keeping.”
“Of course it is perfectly safe,” he began, rather stiffly, “and I feel
myself very much honoured by your confidence, and all that.”
“Oh, Lord Tony, please don’t talk to me in that tone,” she exclaimed,
with tears in her eyes. “I told you--because--you are what men call ‘a
good sort;’ because I feel that I can rely upon you; because, though
you like me, you don’t really care for me, you know you don’t; nor have
I ever encouraged you or any man. My father is devoted to you; he is
determined to--to--well--you know his wishes--and I want you to allow
him to think that you have cooled, and have changed your mind. You--you
understand?”
“And play the hypocrite all round!”
“Yes, but only for a little while.”
“Rather hard lines, when I have _not_ changed my mind. Is Rachel in the
swindle?”
“No--oh no!--no one but you and me and my husband, and a friend of his.”
“And pray, when do you intend to discharge your little domestic bomb?”
“When I go home. If I were to speak now, I should be turned out,
probably on the hall door-steps, and the party would be broken up.”
(Yes, and there were several good days’ deer-stalking still in
prospect, thought Lord Tony, much as he was concerned at this recent
astounding confidence.)
“I know you are dreadfully vexed,” she said humbly; “but you will
forgive me and stand by me, won’t you?” and she looked at him
appealingly. She had really most lovely and expressive eyes; who could
refuse them anything?
“Meaning, that I am to neglect you openly, slight you on all occasions?”
“There is a medium; you need not be _too_ marked in your defection,
unless you like”--with a short, hysterical laugh.
“I don’t _like_ the job at all; but I will lend you a hand, and be a
party to the fraud. Whoever is your husband, Mrs. What’s-your-name, is
a deuced lucky fellow!”
“Then it is a bargain, that you keep my secret?”
“Yes; here is my hand on it!”
At this instant (it is constantly the way) Mr. West paused and looked
behind, and was extremely pleased. He had intended to shout to this
tardy pair to hurry on, for the carriages were waiting, the horses, of
course, catching cold. However, he must make allowances, under the
circumstances.
Evidently Tony had come to the point again, and been accepted. He
hastened down the road in great delight, hustled the company into
various vehicles, and departed in the landau _vis-à-vis_ to Mrs. Leach
(the wretched condition of her hair and complexion discounted many
delightful recollections of her beauty); and he took care to leave the
_dog-cart_ behind, for the sole use of the happy couple.
CHAPTER XXI.
AN INTERRUPTION.
It was certainly strange that Lord Tony had not sought him out the
evening after the picnic, said Mr. West to himself, considering that it
was all settled now. Indeed, it struck him that his future son-in-law
pointedly avoided him, and had lounged out of the smoking-room when he
found himself with him alone. Of course, Lord Tony was aware that his
consent was granted, but he would have liked him to have come to him at
once. The next day, despite an effort to escape, Mr. West captured his
reluctant quarry _en route_ to the stables, and said, as he overtook
him, rather out of breath, “Well, my boy, I see you made it all right
yesterday! Why have you not been to tell the old man--eh?” and he
beamed upon him and poked him playfully with his cane.
Lord Tony suddenly found himself in a very nice moral dilemma. Oh! here
was a fix and no mistake!
“There is nothing to tell yet, Mr. West,” he blurted out.
“What! when I saw you both philandering behind the party hand-in-hand,
and--and--left you the dog-cart on the strength of it!”
“Oh, I only took Miss West’s hand for a moment--to--to ratify a
promise.”
“Promise of what?” impatiently.
“A promise of her friendship,” stammered his companion. It was a moment
of mental reservations.
“Oh!” with an expression of deepest scorn. “That wasn’t the way we made
love when I was a young man. What a miserable milk-and-watery set you
are! Friendship!”
“Yes, I know there is a falling off,” admitted Lord Tony, with
humility. “But we are not as energetic in any way as the last
generation. We prefer to take things easy, and to take our own time.
Miss West is young--‘marry in haste and repent at leisure,’ you know,”
he pursued collectedly. “You must not rush Miss West, you know.
She--she--all she asks for is _time_.”
“Did she _name_ any time?”
“Er--well--no.”
“I’m afraid you mismanaged the business--eh? You just leave it to me.
_I’ll_ arrange it!”
“No--no--no. That’s just the one thing I bar. Interference would
dish the whole concern. I beg and implore of you to leave--a--well
alone--for the present, at any rate. Miss West and I understand one
another.”
“I’m glad of that; for I’m blessed if I understand _either_ of you!”
exclaimed his disgusted listener.
“Ah! hullo, there goes Miss Pace, and I promised to play tennis with
her. I must go and get my bat and shoes.” Exit.
At the end of September the tide of enjoyment at Clane was at its
height. Theatricals were in rehearsal--that fertile field for
flirtation and fighting. The bags of the season had been enviably
heavy; the poor neighbours were sensible of a pleasant circulation
of money and new ideas; prices were rising steadily. The wealthy
neighbours appreciated Mr. West’s princely hospitality, and spoke of
him as “not a bad sort in his way, though a shocking little bounder.”
Mrs. Leach had prolonged her visit, and her attentions to her host were
becoming quite remarkable. He was not an ardent sportsman; his short
legs were unaccustomed to striding over the heather-clad mountains; he
did not want to shoot deer--in fact, he was rather afraid of them. So
he left the delights of his shooting to well-contented, keen young men,
and was easily beguiled into long saunters among the grounds and woods
in the syren’s company. To tell the truth, they were not much missed,
and they frequently rested on rustic seats, and talked to one another
with apparent confidence--flattering confidence. He spoke of Madeline’s
future--his earnest desire to see her suitably married. “A girl like
her might marry a duke; don’t you think so, Mrs. Leach?”
“She might,” said the lady, but without a trace of enthusiasm in her
voice--in fact, there was an inflection of doubt. “She is undeniably
lovely, but----”
“But what?”
“I--well--I am sentimental” (about as sentimental as a charwoman), “and
I have my own ideas. I think that dear Madeline has a private romance:
that she either cares for some one whom she can never marry----”
“That’s nonsense,” interrupted her companion, impatiently. “I have her
word of honour that there is no one she wants to marry.”
“Oh, well, she may have loved and _lost_,” said the lady, sweetly;
“for, speaking as a woman, it is inconceivable that a girl who is, or
was, heart-free could be absolutely indifferent to _every one_. She
has dozens of admirers, for she is not only very pretty, but”--and
she smiled enchantingly into Mr. West’s little eyes--“very rich--your
heiress. It is my opinion that Madeline has some little closet in her
heart that you have never seen--that she is constant to some memory. Of
course, time tries all things, and in time this memory will fade; but I
am positive that dearest Madeline will not marry for some years.” Then
she tapped his arm playfully. They were sitting side-by-side in a shady
path in the vast pleasure grounds. “You will be married before her
_yourself_.”
“I--I--marry! I have never dreamt of such a thing.”
“Why not, pray? You are comparatively young. A man is always young,
until he is really going downhill. A man is young at fifty. Now, look
at a woman at fifty!” and she paused expressively.
He turned his eyes upon her. Little did he suppose that he was
contemplating a woman of fifty--a woman who was extravagant, luxurious,
dreadfully in debt, almost at the end of her resources and her friends’
forbearance, and who was resolved upon marrying him whom she had once
called “that vulgar horror, the little Australian squatter.”
He looked at her with a rather shame-faced air and a grin. Alas!
flattery was hurrying him to destruction. She was an extremely handsome
woman, of the Juno type--erect, stately, with bright, dark eyes, dark
hair, a short straight nose, and beautiful teeth (some were her own).
She was dressed in a pale yellow muslin, with white ribbons, and wore a
most fascinating picture-hat and veil; her gloves, shoes, and sunshade
were of the choicest, and it was not improbable that, in the coming
by-and-by, Mr. West would have the pleasure of paying for this charming
toilette.
“A woman of fifty,” she pursued, “is an old hag; her day has gone
by, her hour of retreat has sounded. She is grey, stout--ten to one,
unwieldy--and dowdy. Now, a _man_ of fifty shoots, hunts, dances as he
did when he was twenty-five--in fact, as far as dancing goes, he is
thrice as keen as the ordinary ball-room boy, who simply won’t dance,
and is the despair of hostesses!”
“I’ve never thought of marrying,” he repeated. “Never!”
“No; all your thoughts are for Madeline, I am aware, and the alliance
she is to make; but my motto is, ‘Live while you live; live your own
individual life, and don’t starve on the scraps of other people’s good
things.’”
“Do you think any one would have me, Mrs. Leach?” he asked, as he leant
on his elbow and looked up into her glorious eyes.
She was the Honourable Mrs. Leach, well-connected, fashionable,
handsome, and--oh, climax!--“smart.” Yes, the idea was an illumination.
How well she would look at the head of his table and in the landau!
“Dear Mr. West, how humble you are! I am sure you would--(she meant his
money)--make any reasonable woman happy.” She glanced at him timidly,
and looked down and played coyly with her châtelaine.
What eyelashes she had, what a small white ear, what a pretty hand! His
own was already gently laid upon it, the words were actually on his
lips, when a bareheaded page burst through an adjacent path, breathless
from running. He had a telegram in his hand, and halted the moment he
caught sight of his master, who instantly withdrew his hand and became
the alert man of business.
Mrs. Leach was a lady, so she was unable to breathe an oath into her
moustache,--had oaths been her safety-valve. She, however, thought
some hasty thoughts of round-faced pages who brought telegrams (which
she kept to herself). Mr. West, however, was not so self-possessed.
As soon as he cast his eyes over the telegram he gave vent to a loud
exclamation of impatience, and then subsided into an inarticulate
mutter, whilst the page and the lady devoured him with their eyes!
“Bad news, I’m afraid,” she said sympathetically.
“Um--ah, yes. My stockbroker in London has made a most confounded mess
of some business. Buys in when I tell him to sell out. I wish I had him
by the ear this minute.”
“Is there an answer, sir?” asked the page.
“Yes; I’m coming in directly. Tell the fellow to wait.” And Mr. West
and the handsome widow turned towards the house.
This vile telegram had entirely distracted his ideas. His mind was
now fastened on the Stock Exchange, on the money market; he had not a
thought to spare for the lady beside him.
“It’s the twenty-ninth, is it not?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I must go home sooner than I intended. I shall have to be in London
next week. The fox is his own best messenger” (and the fox was going to
escape!).
Mrs. Leach had intended remaining in her present comfortable quarters
for another fortnight. This odious telegram had upset her plans.
“Then, you will not return here?”
“Oh no. What would be the good of that?”
“It seems a pity. You will be losing all the lovely autumn tints.
October is a charming month.”
“Yes; but it is not charming when some one at a distance is making
ducks and drakes of your coin, and I’d rather see the colour of my own
money again than any autumn tint,” was the practical remark.
“I have had a most delightful visit here. I shall never, never forget
dear Clane, nor all your kindness and hospitality.”
“You must come to us in London.”
“Thank you so much, and I shall always be delighted to chaperon dear
Maddie at any time. A girl like her is in such a difficult position.
She is very young, you know, to go out without a married lady. Of
course, you are a host in yourself; but----”
“But Lady Rachel and Mrs. Lorraine take Maddie out, you know,” broke in
Mr. West, “and a girl can go anywhere with her father.”
“Now there, dear Mr. West, I differ with you totally--indeed I do.
A girl should have an older woman as well--a woman for choice who
has no young people of her own, who is well-connected, well-looking,
well-dressed, and who knows the ropes, as they say.” She was sketching
a portrait of herself. “And Madeline is so remarkably pretty, too,
the observed of all observers. I am so fond of her. She _is_ so
sweet. I almost feel as if she were my own daughter. Ah! I never had
a daughter!” (But she could have a step-daughter; and if she was once
established as Madeline’s friend and chaperon, the rest would be an
easy matter.)
“I am very sorry to have to leave Clane sooner than I expected; but
business is business. Business first, pleasure afterwards.”
“And you have given us all a great deal of pleasure. I don’t know such
a host anywhere; and it has been such a comfort to me to talk to you
about my hateful law business, and to tell you things unreservedly, and
consult you. My odious brother-in-law, Lord Suckington, never will
assist me, and I never seem to be out of the hands of my solicitors.
Ah, here is your horrid telegraph-boy waiting. May I go in and order
tea, and pour you out a cup?”
* * * * *
In ten days’ time the entire party had dispersed. Madeline and her
father travelled over to London. As the latter took leave of Mrs. Leech
at Mallow Junction, and saw her into the Cork train, that warm-hearted
lady, looking bewitching in a charming travelling-cloak and hat, leant
out of the window and whispered as she pressed his hand, “Good-bye, or,
rather, _au revoir_. Be _sure_ you write to me!”
And was it possible that he had seen a tear in her eye?
CHAPTER XXII.
MR. WYNNE’S VISITOR.
And meanwhile what of Laurence Wynne? His short, smart sketches had
made a hit. He was becoming a man of mark in literary as well as legal
circles, and was overwhelmed with invitations to dinners, luncheons,
and “at homes;” for be it known that Laurence Wynne was looked upon
with favourable eyes by not a few mammas and daughters as a clever,
rising, good-looking young bachelor. Some had heard a vague rumour
that there once upon a time had been a Mrs. Wynne, a girl whom he had
married out of a lodging-house or restaurant, but who, fortunately for
him, had died in the first year of her marriage. Some said this was
not true, some said it was. All agreed with extraordinary unanimity in
never alluding to Mrs. Wynne in his company. After all, in these days
of feverish haste, a story is soon forgotten, and people have too much
to do to waste time in turning over the back pages of other folks’
lives. The ladies had not been slow in picking up sundry hints and
allusions to “Wynne,” as dropped across dinner tables by their husbands
and fathers, and not a few hospitable families had made up their minds
that they would cultivate Mr. Wynne.
In vain they were assured that he was not a society man and hated
ladies--which, of course, was nonsense. He was busy and industrious,
that was all; and now and then he did come out of his shell, and sit
at their tables, and stand against the wall at their dances, and made
himself so agreeable that he was figuratively patted on the back, and
requested to come again; but he so seldom came again.
It was part of his duty, he told himself, to be on good terms with
his august seniors--to respond to their first invitations, to make
himself pleasant to their wives and daughters, hand tea-cups, turn over
music, open doors, talk suitable commonplaces; but when any of these
same young ladies sat down, so to speak, before him, and commenced to
open the trenches for a flirtation, he began to feel uncomfortable.
Long ago, before he met Madeline West, this sort of thing was well
enough--but even then a little of it had gone a long way.
Now, with Madeline in the background, and amusing herself, no doubt
very delightfully, and not thinking of him, he could not--no, he could
not--like others less conscientious, laugh and exchange sallies and
cross swords and glances with any of these pretty, sprightly girls,
knowing full well in his heart that he was all the time that wolf in
sheep’s clothing--_a married man_! And then he was critical at heart,
and hard to please.
As he looked round the various groups at picnics and tennis parties--he
now and then went for an hour--he saw no one who approached Madeline
in any way--face, figure, grace, or gait--especially Madeline as he
had last seen her--in her very fine feathers. Doubtless any of these
girls would have made a more manageable wife, he thought to himself
bitterly. Yes! she had now taken the bit completely within her teeth,
and he was powerless to control her. She went and came and stayed away
when she pleased, and for precisely as long as it suited her. Her
desertion--it was that--was all in pursuit of his interests--his and
the child’s. What a fool she must think him! She had evidently resolved
to play the _rôle_ of daughter first, wife next, and mother very much
the last of all! Her neglect of him he could tolerate, but her neglect
of her child made him excessively angry. She had wholly consigned it to
Mrs. Holt, and lightly shaken off all a mother’s duties. She a mother!
She did not look the part as she chattered fashionable gossip to those
idiotic young men on Euston platform, and never cast a thought to the
infant she was turning her back on in a certain country farmhouse.
She had been away nearly four months, and she had written--oh yes,
pretty frequently, but the tone of her letters was a little forced,
their gaiety was not natural--perhaps the tone of his own epistles was
somewhat curt. The relations between Mr. and Mrs. Wynne were becoming
strained--a crisis was impending.
* * * * *
Among the departures from Kingstown on a certain date were Mr. and Miss
West and suite, who duly arrived at Belgrave Square, and found London
filling fast. Their arrival, however, was somewhat unexpected--the
housekeeper had barely time to despatch her sister’s family back to
Manchester, and the poor woman was compelled to put off an evening
party for which she had issued invitations among her own set.
Mr. West had a great deal of business to transact, and spent most of
his days in the city--and this was Madeline’s opportunity.
She lost no time in paying a visit to the Inner Temple, arriving on
foot, plainly dressed, and wearing a thick veil. She was a good deal
bewildered by the old courts and passages, but at last discovered Mr.
Wynne’s chambers. Here she was received by an elderly, bare-armed,
irascible-looking woman--with a palpable beard--who, after looking her
over leisurely from head to foot, told her to “Go up to the second
flight front. She could tell nothing of Mr. Wynne; he was in and out
all day, like a dog in a fair.”
Further up the narrow stairs she came face-to-face with two
gentlemen, who paused--she felt it--and looked back at her as she
knocked and rang at the door of “Mr. Laurence Wynne.” Truly, such an
elegant-looking young lady was not to be met about the old Temple every
day; and never had such an apparition been seen on Mr. Wynne’s landing.
The outer room was occupied by two clerks, who stared at the visitor
in unqualified amazement. Here was something spicy in the shape of a
client! Very, very different to the usual run. “A breach of promise,”
was their immediate and mutual idea. Something more to the purpose than
cranky old fogies fighting about rights of way, or an involved legacy
case. This was a pretty girl, and a swell.
So much they noted with their sharp, semi-judicial eyes, as she stood
timidly in the doorway and raised her veil.
One of them instantly bounded off his seat, and asked what he could do
for her?
“Could she see Mr. Wynne?” she faltered, as her eyes roved round the
outer office, with its great double desk piled with documents, its rows
of law books ranged round the room on staggering, rickety shelves, its
threadbare carpet, its rusty fender, its grimy windows, and last, not
least, two bottles of stout, and a pewter mug.
Still, these two youths might be Laurence’s clerks. Could it be
possible? Could it be possible that these immense piles of papers
concerned Laurence? If so, he was getting on--really getting on at
last. But what a horrible musty place! The very air smelt of dust and
leather and law books.
“Mr. Wynne, miss, did you say? Very sorry, but Mr. Wynne is in court,”
said the clerk, briskly.
“When will he be back?” she inquired, advancing and standing in the
front of another door, evidently Mr. Wynne’s own sanctum.
“Afraid I cannot say, miss; he is to speak in the case of Fuller _v._
Potts--breach of contract. Any business, any message----”
But the words died upon his lips--this uncommonly cool young party had
actually walked into Mr. Wynne’s own sitting-room.
“It’s all right,” she remarked carelessly, divining his horror. “Mr.
Wynne knows me.”
And she went and sat down in his armchair, in front of a table piled
with documents, all more or less neatly tied up and docketed.
There were numbers of letters under little weights. There was a law
book, a couple of open notes, and all the apparatus of a busy legal
man. She shrugged her shoulders and looked round the room; it was dingy
and shabby (furniture taken at a valuation from the last tenant); the
carpet between the door and the fireplace was worn threadbare, as if it
were a pathway--which it was.
Another pathway ran from the window to the wall, which the inmate had
probably paced as he made up his speeches. There was her especial
abomination, horse-hair furniture, a queer spindle-legged sideboard,
some casual old prints on the wall; certainly there was nothing in the
room to divert Laurence’s attention. Outside there was no prospect
beyond a similar set of chambers, a very ugly block of buildings, and
one forlorn tree waving its branches restlessly to and fro.
She got up and glanced into an adjoining apartment. The clerks were
not now watching her--Mr. Wynne did not tolerate idleness. This was
his bedroom, a still barer scene. No carpet whatever, no curtains,
a small iron bedstead, a big bath, a battalion of boots. Laurence,
she remembered, was always extremely particular about his boots,
and _hated_ to wear them when patched; these were whole, well cut,
and in good case. There was a sixpenny glass on the wall, a painted
chest of drawers and washstand, also one chair. Spartan simplicity,
indeed! What a horrible contrast to her own luxurious home! She
closed the door with a little shudder, and as she did so a quantity
of large, important-looking cards and envelopes, stuck about the
dusty chimney-piece mirror and the pipe-rack, caught her eye, and she
immediately proceeded to examine them with dainty fingers.
“Blest if she ain’t overhauling his invitations!” exclaimed one of the
clerks, who, by tilting his chair back until it was at a most hazardous
angle, caught a glimpse of what he and his coadjutor began to think was
“Mr. Wynne’s young woman.”
“Her cheek beats all! Shall I go and interfere?” asked the first
speaker, in an awestruck whisper.
“No; you just leave her alone,” said number two, who had the bump of
caution well developed. “It ain’t our business; but I _did_ think he
was about the last man in the world to have a lady coming and routing
among his things. There ain’t nothing that she’ll find as will make
her any wiser,” he concluded contemptuously.
But here he was mistaken! She discovered a great deal that surprised
her much--very much. Here were cards from old judges and stupid law
fogies, requesting the pleasure of Mr. Wynne’s company at dinner.
That was easily understood. But there were several invitations to
entertainments to which she and her father had been bidden! and also,
what was the strangest thing of all, blazoned cards of invitation to
houses to which her father had not been able to obtain an _entrée_,
smile he never so assiduously on the smart or noble hosts. She stood
for several minutes with one of these precious cards in her hand,
and turned it over reflectively as she recalled the desperate and
unavailing efforts of her parent to obtain a similar honour--the
toadying, the flattery, the back-stair crawling that it made her
crimson to recall! And, such is poor human nature--poor, frail human
nature!--this bit of pasteboard did more to raise her husband in
her estimation than all the briefs she saw piled upon his desk. She
now began to contemplate him from a new point of view. Hitherto she
had been very fond of Laurence--in a way--her own way. He had been
good to her when she had no friends, he had borne their poverty with
wonderful patience. Yes, certainly he had. But she had thought--rather
resentfully at times--that a man without some preparation for such a
rainy day as they had experienced ought not to have married; he should
have left her as he found her. She did not hold these views at the
time. She liked Laurence better than any one, all the same; but the
horrible intimacy of dire want had bred--well, yes, a little contempt;
his illness, his helplessness had made her put herself somewhat above
him in her own secret thoughts. She (for a time) had been bread-winner
and house-band, and well and bravely she had struggled at that
desperate crisis; but, alas! that it must be recorded, riches had
spoiled her. She had inherited a luxurious, pleasure-loving nature,
which cultivation had fostered, until, from a small and scarcely
noticeable plant, it had grown into an overwhelming jungle! The longer
she lived in her father’s home the less disposed was she to return to
her own modest roof-tree; and especially, looking round with a wry
face, to such a place as this! She was now necessary to her father. He
was something (he said) of an invalid; whilst Laurence was young and
strong. Every day she was hoping to see her way to making the great
disclosure, and every day the chance of making that disclosure seemed
to become more and more remote. Laurence was evidently well thought of
in influential circles, and, “of course, Laurence is of good family.
Any one can see that at a glance,” she mentally remarked; “and, no
doubt, his own people had now taken him by the hand.”
The discovery that he moved in a set above her own had raised him
in her opinion. Latterly she had been looking down on Laurence, as
already stated--perhaps only an inch or so, but still, she placed
herself above him. He had drawn a great and unexpected prize in the
matrimonial lottery, but he scarcely seemed to realize the value of
his treasure! She had bracketed Laurence mentally with obscurity,
shabbiness, and poverty, and had a vague idea that only through her
means could he ever emerge into the sunshine of prosperity. She had a
kind of protecting affection for him, dating from the days when she had
starved for his sake, and made his bed and his beef tea, and washed his
shirts. She looked down upon him just a little. It is possible to be
fond of a man and to entertain this feeling. And now Laurence’s busy
clerks, and these coroneted envelopes had given her ideas a _shock_.
She went over and stood in the window, and drummed idly upon the small
old-fashioned panes, where not a few names and initials were cut. As
she stood thus--certainly a very pretty figure to be seen in any one’s
window, much less that of an avowed anchorite like Laurence Wynne--a
young gentleman sauntered to the opposite casement, with his hands in
his pockets and his mouth widely yawning, as if he were on the point
of swallowing up the whole premises. He paused in mute astonishment,
and gazed incredulously across the narrow lane that divided the two
buildings. Then Madeline distinctly heard him shout in a stentorian
voice--
“I say, Wallace, come here, quick--quick, and look at the girl in
Wynne’s window! My wig, ain’t that a joke?”
On hearing this summons she instantly backed out of sight, and had the
amusement of seeing three heads peering across, vainly endeavouring
to catch a glimpse of the promised apparition. However, they saw her
depart--although she was not aware of the fact--and they were highly
pleased with her figure, her walk, and her feet, and took care to
tell Mr. Wynne of their gratifying and flattering opinion, and to poke
him in the ribs with a walking-stick--not as agreeable or facetious an
action as it sounds--and to assure him that “he was a sly old bird, and
that still waters run deep, and that they had no idea he had such good
taste;” all of which witticisms Mr. Wynne took in anything but good
part, especially as he could not tell them that the lady upon whom they
passed such enthusiastic encomiums was his wife. Indeed, if he had done
so they would only have roared with laughter, and flatly refused to
believe him.
Madeline waited three-quarters of an hour, and then made up her mind to
return home. As she walked through the outer office, once more thickly
veiled, the alert clerk sprang forward to open the door. As he held it
back, with an inky hand, he said, with a benevolent grin--
“When Mr. Wynne comes back, who shall I say called, miss?”
Madeline hesitated for a moment, and then, turning to the youth in her
most stately manner, said--“Say Miss West,” and having thus left her
name, with all due dignity she passed through the door with a slight
inclination of her head and walked downstairs.
She met a good many cheery-looking young barristers, in wigs and
flyaway gowns, as she passed through the precincts of the inns, and
wondered if she would come across Laurence, and if she would recognize
him in that funny dress. For, of course, he wore a wig and gown too;
but he had always kept them in his chambers, and she had never seen
them. But she did not meet Laurence--so she took a hansom, did a
little shopping in Bond Street, and then got home just in nice time for
afternoon tea.
As she sat sipping it in her luxurious tea-jacket, and with her feet on
the fender-stool, Mr. Wynne returned home, tired, hoarse, and cold. His
fire was out. And, moreover, there was no sign of his modest evening
meal.
“Confound that old hag downstairs!” he muttered.
“Please, sir,” said one of the clerks who had been busy locking up, and
who now followed him into his sanctum, “there was a party to see you
while you were out--a party as waited for a good bit of an hour.”
“Well, well, couldn’t you have dealt with him?” impatiently. “What did
he want?”
“It was a lady,” impressively.
“A lady!” he echoed. “Oh yes, I know, old Mrs. Redhead--about that
appeal----”
“No, it was not; it was a young lady.”
“Oh, a young lady?” he repeated.
“Yes, and she bid me be sure to tell you,” embroidering a little to
give colour to his story, “as she was very sorry not to see you, and to
say that Miss West had called.”
“Miss West? Are you sure she said West?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take an oath to it, if you like.”
“All right, then. Yes, yes, it’s all right. You can go,” dismissing him
with a wave of his arm, and, suddenly pitching his wig in one direction
and his gown in another, he sat down to digest the news.
So Madeline had come to beard him in his den. What did it all mean? and
did she intend to return?
For fully an hour he sat in the dusk--nay, the darkness--pondering this
question, forgetful of fire, light, and food. He would have liked to
have cross-examined his clerk as to where she sat, and what she said;
but no, he could not stoop to that; and then his mind reverted again to
that crucial and as yet unanswered question--“Did she intend to come
back?”
CHAPTER XXIII.
A BOLD STEP.
Mr. West announced that he was obliged to run down to Brighton on
business and would not return until late that night, and he commanded
his daughter to write and ask Lady Rachel to come and lunch, and spend
the day. At lunch time Lady Rachel duly drove up, and rustled in, full
of gossip, full of vitality, and dressed out in the last suggestion
of the winter’s fashion. She had a great deal to tell about a grand
dinner at a great house the previous evening, and retailed volubly and
at length--the _menu_, the names of the guests--twenty-six--and the
dresses of the ladies.
“I wore a new frock, rather a daring style, geranium-red, silk
skirt and sleeves, and a white satin body, veiled in black net, and
embroidered in steel sequins. But it really _was_ sweet--one of
Doucet’s. I dare not think of the price. However, it suited me--so my
cavalier assured me.”
“You asked him?”
“I don’t think I did. He was a barrister. Barristers are looking up!
Yes, another chicken cutlet, please,” holding out her plate--the
Jeameses were banished. “And such a good-looking young man--a Mr.
Wynne. My dear, you are giving me oyster sauce!” she screamed. “What
_are_ you thinking about? And, oh--where was I--what was I saying?
Yes, about Wynne. He was so amusing, and said such witty things. I
wish I could remember half--nay, any one of them--and pass them off
as my own. It was more the way he said them, though. And Madeline, my
love,” laying down her knife and fork, as if suddenly overwhelmed by
the recollection, “he had the most irresistible dark eyes I ever looked
into!”
“Ever looked into?” repeated Madeline. “You--you seem quite impressed,”
breaking up her bread rather viciously.
She--no, well she did not like it! How dared any woman talk of her
husband’s irresistible dark eyes? And Laurence, had he been flirting?
Could he flirt? Lady Rachel was an irreclaimable coquette.
“He is coming to dine with us next Sunday week. I wish you could come
too, and see my new lion. They say he is awfully clever. Writes such
smart articles, and scarifies us poor women. The emancipated female is
his particular horror.”
“Indeed! How very pleasant!”
“But men like him, which is always a good sign. They say he is going
into Parliament some day.”
“If you are going to make a lion of every one who is said to be going
into the House of Commons, you will be able to stock every menagerie in
Europe,” retorted Madeline, dusting crumbs off her lap.
“Or that I shall discover a good many asses under lions’ skins, eh? I
mentioned you, _ma belle_, and asked if he had ever heard of you, and
he said yes. See what it is to be a social celebrity! And I told him
that you were the prettiest girl and greatest heiress in London--and
that he really _ought_ to know you.”
“And--and what did he say?” turning a salt-cellar round and round.
“Oh, I’m not quite sure what he said beyond that he was a busy man,
and--oh yes, that he detested the genus heiress.”
And then the vivacious matron led the conversation away to another
topic, and Madeline led the way to her boudoir. Presently Lady Rachel
announced that she had an engagement at four o’clock, and that she
could not remain for tea--not even if Madeline went on her knees to
her, a feat that Maddie had no desire to perform--and finally she
rushed off in a sort of mild whirlwind of good-byes, kisses, and last
messages--screamed from the hall and stairs.
Then Madeline sat alone over the fire, and reflected on what she had
heard with keen discomfort, whilst she stupidly watched the red coals.
Laurence had not answered her last two letters--he had not taken
any notice of her call. Of course, he could not come to the house;
but at least he might have written. He had no right to treat her as
if she was a naughty child. He was entirely relieved of the burthen
of her support; he could start well and unweighted in the race. She
would pay for Harry too. Her father was impossible at present; he was
dreadfully worried about money matters--he was ill. She was doing her
best for Laurence and Harry. Surely, he knew that, and that she would
rather be with them than here. But as she glanced at her magnificent
surroundings, and at her silver tea equipage, just brought in by two
powdered servants, with a request to know “if there were any orders for
the carriage?” her heart misgave her.
Would not Laurence think that she preferred all this--that this wealth
was her attraction, luxury her idol--an idol that had cast out him and
poor little Harry?
She made a sudden decision. She would go and see Laurence. Yes, that
very evening partake of his frugal dinner--a chop, no doubt--and coax
him into a better frame of mind, and a better humour with herself.
She would wear her usual evening toilette, and give him an agreeable
surprise. The idea pleased her. She swallowed down her tea, ran quickly
up to her room, and rang for Josephine.
“Josephine,” she said, as that very smart person appeared, “I am going
out to dine with a friend--an old friend that I knew when I was at
school. I want to look my very best, though it will not be a party,
only one or two. What shall I wear?” beginning to pull off her velvet
morning-gown.
“Well, miss, for two or three--a quiet dinner, but smart no doubt--your
primrose satin with the chiffon body, just lighted with a few
brilliants. I’ll do your hair in the new knot, and run the diamond
arrow through it.”
This simple toilet occupied a considerable time. What with dressing
Madeline’s hair, lacing her gown, arranging her ornaments, it was
nearly seven before the great business was completed; but it was
finished at last, to Josephine’s entire satisfaction.
“Well, mademoiselle, I never saw you look better--no, nor as well!”
Madeline could not refrain from a smile as she glanced at her
reflection in the mirror; but her present sweet complacency was but
momentary. There was a bitter drop in the cup. Was it for this,
asked Madeline--this costly dress, those diamonds, and such-like
delights--that she sacrificed her home?
“No!” she retorted angrily, aloud, and much to Josephine’s
astonishment. “No, it is _not_.”
Yet even so she was but half convinced. She was presently enveloped in
a long crimson velvet mantle reaching to the ground, and trimmed with
furs that were as much an outward and visible sign of Mr. West’s wealth
as his house and carriage--Russian sables. Then she tied a scarf over
her head, took up her fan and gloves, and, in spite of Josephine’s
almost impassioned appeals to take a footman and go in the brougham,
set out in a hansom alone. She herself gave the reply through the trap,
in answer to the “Where to, miss?”
And the attendant footman could not catch the address.
There was a flavour of wild adventure about the whole expedition that
made her heart beat unusually fast. The idea of taking Laurence by
storm in his musty chambers, of cajoling him into a more amenable frame
of mind, of dining with him _tête-à-tête_, of trying the effect of
her much-augmented charms upon her own husband--for she had now fully
learnt to know the value of youth, beauty, and dress--all carried her
away out of her usual somewhat languorous frame of mind.
She felt a little nervous as she stepped out of the hansom in the
vicinity of the gloomy old Temple, and proceeded to Laurence’s
chambers, as before, on foot.
Fortunately the pavement was dry, and her dainty shoes were none the
worse.
She came to the door, and rang a pretty loud peal _this_ time, smiling
to herself as she thought of Laurence sitting over his solitary meal,
probably by the light of an equally solitary candle.
The door was opened by a curious jerk, and by some invisible agency,
and she beheld before her, half way up the stairs, the bearded beldame,
carrying a heavy tray, who, unable to turn her head, shouted out
querulously--“If that’s the washing, come in. I hope to gracious you’ve
done his shirts a bit better nor last week. They _were_ a sight; and
his collars! deary, deary me!”
And thus ejaculating, she rounded the staircase, and was lost to view;
but still she shouted, though her voice did _not_ come like a falling
star.
“You can go in by the other door, and lay them in his bedroom, and
leave the basket.”
Madeline was half suffocated with suppressed laughter as she tripped
quickly up after this authoritative old person, and as she went she
removed her head gear, and when she came to the top landing, she
rapidly divested herself of her long cloak.
The old woman was already in the outer office, which was lit, and had
deposited her load upon a table when, hearing a rustle and a footfall,
she turned and beheld Madeline--in other words, a tall, lovely young
lady, wearing a yellow evening dress, with diamond buttons, diamonds
in her hair, and carrying a huge painted fan in her exquisitely gloved
hands. No pen could convey any idea of her amazement, no brush seize
the expression of her countenance, as she staggered back against the
nearest desk, with limp arms, protruding eyes, and open mouth, which
presently uttered, in a loud and startled key, the one word “Laws!”
CHAPTER XXIV.
AN UNEXPECTED HONOUR.
A dapper man-servant (hired) next came upon the scene, and his
astonishment was no less profound, though more skilfully concealed.
He looked politely at Madeline, and said in his most proper and
parrot-like tone of voice, “Who shall I say, ma’am?”
“Say,” returned the young lady, giving her fringe a little pat, her
chiffon frill a little twitch, and smiling slightly all the time, “say
Miss West.”
“Miss West!” bawled the waiter, flinging the door open with a violence
that nearly tore it from its ancient hinges, and then stood back, eager
to witness the effect of his announcement on the company.
Madeline was scarcely less surprised than they were. She beheld
a round table, decorated with flowers, wax candles, and coloured
shades--really, a most civilized-looking little table--the room well
lit up, its shabbiness concealed by the tender rose-coloured light,
looking quite venerable and respectable, and, seated at table, Laurence
and two other men--one of whom she knew! Horror! This was a great deal
more than she had bargained for. She had never dreamt of dropping in
thus upon a cosy little bachelor party!
And who shall paint their amazement? They were talking away, just
between the soup and fish, and Wynne had been regretting the absence
through illness of Mr. Jessop, whose vacant place awaited him. There
had been a little professional discussion, an allusion to a big race,
a society scandal, a commendation of some excellent dry sherry, and
they were all most genial and comfortable, when the door was flung wide
open, and “Miss West” was announced in a stentorian voice.
And who the deuce was Miss West? thought the two guests. All looked up
and beheld a lady--a young lady--in full evening dress, and literally
blazing with diamonds, standing rather doubtfully just within the
doorway. Laurence Wynne felt as if he was turned to stone.
“_Madeline!_” he ejaculated under his breath. Madeline, looking like a
fairy princess--but surely Madeline gone mad?
What could he say--what could he do? He might cut the Gordian knot
by explaining, “Gentlemen, this beautiful girl, who has dropped, as
it were, from the skies, is Mrs. Wynne--my wife”--if she had not
heralded her entrance by her maiden name. He might have done this,
but now, as matters stood, his lips were sealed. He must take some
step immediately. His friends and the waiter were staring at him
expectantly. They evidently thought that there had been a mistake.
“Miss West!” he said, suddenly pushing back his chair and rising. “This
is, indeed, an unexpected honour. What can I do for you? There is
nothing wrong at--at home, I hope?” now approaching her, and shaking
hands.
“No, no,” trying to speak calmly, and casting wildly about for some
plausible excuse. “I thought I should have found you alone.” Then,
colouring violently, “I--I mean disengaged, and I wished to consult you
on some--some family business.”
“If you will honour me by taking a seat at table, and partaking of
our--er--bachelor fare, Miss West, I shall be entirely at your service
afterwards,” he said, conducting her to a vacant place opposite his
own. “May I introduce my friend Mr. Treherne”--(Mr. Treherne had seen
her on the stairs, and hugged himself as he noted the fact)--“and Mr.
Fitzherbert?”
“I think Miss West and I have met before,” said Mr. Fitzherbert,
smiling and bowing as he rose simultaneously with Mr. Treherne, and
then subsided into his chair. This was nuts. The beautiful Miss West
coming quite on the sly to Wynne’s chambers--and Wynne such a staid
and proper Johnnie too!--and finding, to her horror, company! It was
altogether most peculiar.
However, Mr. Fitzherbert had his wits about him, and was full of
society small-talk and presence of mind, and soon he and the lady were
conversing vivaciously of mutual friends, and the awkward edge of this
extraordinary incident had been blunted.
Soup was brought back for Miss West. The waiter waited as a waiter
should wait. The dinner was well chosen and excellent (supplied from a
neighbouring restaurant).
Meanwhile the good laundress watched the whole proceedings with her eye
glued to a crack in the door, and suffered no look or gesture to escape
her. She owed this to the whole of her acquaintance, for surely such a
sight as she enjoyed was rarely seen. Three young bachelors, in evening
dress, sitting by themselves so nice and proper, and then a grand young
lady, in a beautiful dress and jewels, walking in unasked, and taking a
place among them! What could it mean? It was surely not the thing for a
lady--and she looked that--to be coming alone, and on foot, to chambers
in the Temple, and especially to see Mr. Wynne, of all the quiet,
reasonable-like men, who never looked at a woman! Oh, it beat all, that
it did! And how grave he seemed, though he was talking away pleasant
enough.
Thus we leave her, with her eye to the door, thoroughly enjoying
herself for once in her life.
It was more than could be said for Laurence Wynne. Never had he felt
so uncomfortable. What would Fitzherbert and Treherne think of Miss
West? If the story got round the clubs, Madeline’s reputation was at
the mercy of every old woman--ay, and old man--in London. What on earth
did she mean by descending on him at this hour, and dressed as if she
was going to the opera?
He stole a glance across the candle-shades. She was conversing quite at
her ease with Mr. Treherne, who was looking all the admiration he no
doubt felt--and no doubt Madeline was beautiful.
What a complexion, what eyes, what clean-cut features, what a radiant,
vivacious expression--and all set off by youth, a good milliner, and
diamonds.
“Who would dream,” he said, as he slowly withdrew his gaze, “that she
was the same Madeline who, two years previously, had been Miss Selina’s
slave, and had attracted his notice and commiseration in her darned
and shabby black gown? or that she was the same Madeline who had pawned
the very dress off her back not twelve months ago? She could not be the
same.” He looked at her again. The idea of such a thing was grotesque
nonsense. She, this brilliant being who had suddenly presented herself
at his humble entertainment, had surely never been his hard-working,
poverty-stricken, struggling wife. If she _had_, he could not realize
the fact. This magnificent-looking young lady was a stranger to him.
This was a woman--or girl--of the world.
There she sat, this charming, unchaperoned young person, dining with
three bachelors in the Temple with as much _sangfroid_ as if it were a
most conventional and everyday occurrence.
The truth was that, the first shock recovered, the fair guest was
actually enjoying herself extremely. She was extraordinarily adaptable.
For one thing, she liked the _risqué_, unusual situation--her two
amusing, clever, mystified supporters on either hand, who were doing
their utmost to take it all as a matter of course, and to be unusually
agreeable and entertaining. And she liked looking across the table at
her husband’s handsome, gloomy face, and remarked to herself that this
was positively their first dinner-party, and that it should not be her
fault if it did not go off well!
Laurence’s silence and gravity implied that it was all very wrong; but
it was, nevertheless, delightful. She felt quite carried out of herself
with excitement and high spirits, and more than once the idea flashed
across her mind--
“Shall I tell--shall I tell? Oh, it would be worth anything to see
their faces when they hear that I am Mrs. Wynne!”
But Mrs. Wynne was not very good at telling, as we know, and, without
any exhausting effort of self-restraint, she was enabled to hold her
peace.
CHAPTER XXV.
PLAIN SPEAKING.
All went merry as a marriage bell. The dinner was a success. There
was no hitch; the laundress (with interludes devoted to the crack in
the door) safely brought up course after course. Now they had ceased,
and the company were discussing dessert, and many of the topics of
last season--Henley, Ascot, Mrs. Pat Campbell, the rival charms of
Hurlingham and Ranelagh.
“Wynne here never goes to these frivolous places,” said Treherne.
“I’m not a member, you see.”
“‘Can’t afford it,’ that’s his cry to all these delights. He can afford
it well--a single man, no claims on his purse, and getting such fees.”
“Fees, indeed! How long have I been getting a fee at all?” he asked
good-humouredly.
“There’s Milton, who has not half your screw--keeps his hunters.”
“Ah, but he has a private income. I’m a poor man.”
“You old miser! You don’t even know the meaning of the word ‘poverty.’
How do you define it?”
“In the words of the plebeian philosopher, ‘It ain’t no crime--only an
infernal ill-convenience.’”
“Well, I shouldn’t think it had ever ill-convenienced you much--eh,
Miss West?”
Miss West--born actress--made a gesture of airy negation, and, turning
quickly to Mr. Fitzherbert, asked him “if he remembered Mrs. Veryphast
last season, and her extraordinary costumes. She quite gloried in her
shame, and liked to know that every eye was fixed upon her. She had
one awful gown--pale yellow, with enormous spots. She reminded me of a
Noah’s-ark dog. It was her Sunday frock; but it was not as bad as her
hat, which was like an animated lobster salad--claws and all.”
Then Mr. Fitzherbert had his turn, and told several anecdotes that had
already seen some service, but which made Miss West laugh with charming
unrestraint. Presently it occurred to the two gentlemen guests that the
lady had come for an audience, that it was nearly nine o’clock, and,
making one or more lame excuses, which, however, were very readily
accepted, they rose reluctantly, and, taking a deferential leave of
Miss West, with a “By-bye, old chappie,” to their host, effected their
exit, leaving--had they but known it--Mr. and Mrs. Wynne _tête-à-tête_,
alone.
“Well, Laurence,” exclaimed Madeline, with her usual smiling and
_insouciant_ air, rising slowly, coming to the fire, and spreading her
hands to the blaze.
“Well, Madeline,” he echoed, following her, laying his arm on the
mantelpiece, and looking as severe as if he were going to cross-examine
a witness. “What does this mean? Have you gone mad, or have you come to
stay?”
“Not I,” she replied coolly, now putting an extremely neat little shoe
upon the fender. “Papa is away, and won’t be back until late, and I
took it into my head that I would come over and dine with you, and
give you an agreeable surprise; but”--with a laugh--“seemingly it has
been a surprise only; the word ‘agreeable’ we may leave out.”
“You may,” he said roughly. “I wonder you have not more sense! If you
had sent me a wire that you were coming--if you had even had yourself
ushered in under your lawful name; but to come masquerading here as
Miss West is--is too much, and I tell you plainly, Madeline, that I
won’t have it. What must those fellows have thought of you to-night?
Fitzherbert will blazon it all over London. Have you no regard for your
reputation--your good name?”
“There, there, Laurence, my dear,” raising her hands with a gesture of
graceful deprecation, “that is lecturing enough--that will do!”
“But it won’t do,” he repeated angrily. “I really believe that you
are beginning to think of me as a miserable, weak-minded idiot, who
will stand anything. There’s not another man in England would have
stood as much as I have done, and, by George! I’ve had enough of it,”
with a wave of his hand in his turn. “This visit of yours is the last
straw. If you have no regard for Miss West’s reputation, be good enough
to think of _mine_. I do not choose to have gaily-dressed young women
coming flaunting to my humble chambers at any hour of the day. I’ve
been hitherto considered rather a steady, respectable sort of fellow;
I wonder what people will think of me now? Your visit will be all over
the Inns to-morrow, and half my circuit will be clamouring to know ‘who
my friend was?’”
“Nonsense, Laurence! What an old-fashioned frump you are! Girls do all
sorts of things nowadays, and no one minds. It is the fashion to be
emancipated. Why, the two De Minxskys go and dine with men, and do a
theatre afterwards! Chaperons are utterly exploded! And look at girls
over in America.”
“We are not in America, but London, where people ask for explanations.”
“Well, you can easily explain _me_ away! You must be a very bad lawyer
if you are not equal to such a trifling occasion as this! Oh, my dear
Laurence,” beginning to laugh at the mere recollection, “I wish you
could have seen your own face when I walked in--a study in sepia,
a nocturne in black. Come, now, you can tell your anxious friends
that I’m a client, and they will be _so_ envious; or that I’m your
step-sister, a sister-in-law, or any little fib you fancy. And as you
so seldom have the pleasure of my society, make much of me”--drawing
forward a chair, and seating herself--“and tell that old woman of yours
to bring me a cup of coffee.” There was nothing like taking high ground.
“Yes, presently; but before that there is something that I wish to
say to you,” also taking a seat. “We won’t have any more of this
shilly-shallying, Madeline. You will have to make your choice _now_--to
be either Miss West or Mrs. Wynne, permanently and publicly.”
A pause, during which a cinder fell out of the grate, and the clock
ticked sixty seconds. Then Madeline, who would not have believed, she
told herself, that Laurence could be so shockingly bearish, plucked up
spirit and said--
“I will be both for the present! And soon I will be Mrs. Wynne only.
Papa is not well now--worried, and very cross. I began to try and tell
him only two nights ago, and his very look paralyzed me. I must have a
little more time. As it is, I think, between my visits to the Holt farm
and here, I play my two parts extremely well!”
“Then you must permit me to differ with you,” said her husband, in
a frosty voice. “The part of wife, as played for many months, has
certainly been a farce; but, to put the case in a mild form, it has not
been a success. As to your _rôle_ of mother, the less said the better.”
“Laurence”--aghast, and drawing in her breath--“how can you speak to me
in that way? It is not like you!”
“How do you know what I am like _now_? People change. And since _you_
are so much changed, you need not be astonished if I am changed too!”
“And oh, Laurence, I am so--so angry with you about one thing!” she
exclaimed irrelevantly. “I went to the Holts’ on Tuesday and saw Harry;
he looks a perfect little angel!”
“Is that why you are so angry?”
“Nonsense! Why did you tell Mrs. Holt to refuse my money? Why may I not
pay for him?”
“Because it is not your affair, but mine.”
“Not my affair?” she repeated incredulously.
“No; it is my business to maintain my son. And I shall certainly not
suffer him to be paid for by Mr. West’s money!”
“It is mine; he gives it to me for my own use.”
“No doubt--to expend in dress and such things. Not for the support
of his unknown grandchild. You would be taking his money under false
pretences. Your father pays for his daughter’s expenses; I pay for my
son’s expenses.”
“And I may not?”
“No.” He shook his head curtly.
“But I am his mother!” she said excitedly.
“I thought you had forgotten that! Now, look here, Maddie, I am not
going to be put off with words any longer! You cannot run with the hare
and hunt with the hounds. You must come home at once. Tell your father
the truth, or let _me_ tell him the truth, and make your choice once
for all. This double life, where all of it is spent in one sphere,
and only the shadow falls on the other, won’t do. Think of your
child”--with rising heat--“growing up a stranger to you! Poor chap! he
believes that Mrs. Holt is his mother. I--I try and see him; but what
good am I? I’m only a man, and not much of a hand with small children.
Madeline, this cursed money has poisoned your mind! Admiration has
turned your head. You are no more what you once were----”
“Don’t say it, Laurence!” she cried, springing up and laying her head
on his mouth. “I have been waiting, waiting, waiting, trying to bring
my courage to the sticking-point, and hoping to bring you and my
father quietly together. I see I have been wrong. I--I will tell him
to-morrow--yes, there is my hand on it; and if he turns me out, as
is most probable, I shall be sitting here making your tea to-morrow
evening! You believe me, Laurence?” standing over him as he leant his
head in his hand, and looked into the fire.
“There have been so many to-morrows, Maddie. I’m like the man in the
fable about the boy and the wolves; but”--suddenly pulling himself
together, and confronting her--“I will believe that this time it really
_is_ wolf.” Standing up and looking at her, he added, “I will believe
you, and trust you. And now”--ringing the bell as he spoke--“you shall
have your coffee, and I am going to take you home in a hansom.”
“Home! It’s too early yet--ten past nine. Take me to the theatre for an
hour. Take me to the Haymarket; it will be such fun!”
“Fun!” he echoed impatiently. “Supposing any one was to see you--any
of your friends--what would they think? They do not know that I am
your husband; they would only take me for some admirer, who, presuming
on your father’s absence, had escorted you to the theatre, under the
rose--that would be capital fun!”
“What harm would it be? I like puzzling people. I like to give them
something to talk about,” she answered recklessly.
“And I do not. And I suppose I know a little more of the world than you
do. You seem to think it would be a joke to fling down your good name,
and allow it to be destroyed from pure wantonness, but I shall not
permit it.”
“Laurence how you do talk! One would think you were addressing a jury,
or were some old fogey laying down the law!”
“I am laying down the law.”
“You must please remember that I am accustomed to be spoiled. Now, _my_
wishes are law in Belgrave Square, and you are going to carry them
out, and take me to see ‘The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith.’”
“Take care that you do not become the notorious Miss West.”
“Now, Laurence, you know you cannot really say ‘no’ to me. Oh!”--with
a slight start--“here comes the coffee at last!” as the laundress, who
insisted upon doing this little errand in person, in order to have what
she called “a rare good look,” fumbled at the door, pushed it open
with her knee, and marched in, carrying a small tray, which she laid
very slowly on the table, her eyes all the while being fixed on the
beautiful vision standing by the fire.
She had her face turned away; but Mr. Wynne, who was leaning his head
on his hand, and his elbow on the mantelpiece, confronted her steadily
and said, in a less cordial tone than usual, “There, Mrs. Potts,
that will do! You need not wait. Call a hansom as soon as you go
downstairs,” and Mrs. Potts very reluctantly shuffled out. She had seen
a good deal, but was as much at sea as ever.
The young woman had her hand on Mr. Wynne’s arm when she went in,
and was saying, “you know you cannot say ‘no’ to _me_, and are going
to take me to the theatre.” Was ever such a brazen piece! He had his
head turned away, and looked as if he’d rather have her room than
her company. The girls run after the men now, and no mistake! It was
scandalous! The haystack after the cow! Supposing this young person’s
folk were to know of her carryings on--and with Mr. Wynne, of all men!
It beat everything that Mrs. Potts had come across right away into a
cocked hat!
A few minutes later they were coming down the stairs, miss all wrapped
up in a long velvet cloak, which velvet cloak Mrs. Potts having found
in the outer office, had done herself the pleasure of examining,
and--low be it spoken--trying on. None of your “paletot things,” as
she expressed it, but a long mantle of crimson velvet, reaching down
to the floor, trimmed with thick, soft fur, and lined with satin,
smelling powerfully of some sweet perfume--violets. Mrs. Potts, being
squat and of short stature, was lost in it. But the time when she was
enveloped in a six-hundred-pound wrap was indisputably one of her
happiest moments. There was a pocket inside, and in that pocket a
dainty lace-edged handkerchief, which, I am sorry to say, Mrs. Potts
felt called upon to confiscate as a souvenir.
It did not appear to be one of Mr. Wynne’s happiest moments, as
he pulled on his great coat, and followed the daintily tripping,
high-heeled steps of his visitor downstairs.
Mrs. Potts, who had naturally hung about the door below, did herself
the honour of seeing the couple into the hansom, and heard the
order--“Haymarket theatre.”
“So she had got her way,” said the charwoman, as she stood boldly
in the doorway and looked after them. Then she went upstairs to Mr.
Wynne’s room and finished the sherry, poured herself out a cup of
coffee, which she sipped at her leisure, as she sat comfortably over
the fire in Mr. Wynne’s own chair. One half of the world certainly does
not know how the other half lives!
“Really, it is very ridiculous of you to be so strait-laced and
grumpy, Laurence!” said his wife. “Think of all I am going to
relinquish for your sake!”--touching her furs. “This mantle, which
makes other women green with envy, cost nearly six hundred pounds!”
“Six hundred fiddlesticks!” he echoed incredulously.
“You can see the bill, if you like.”
“You ought to be ashamed to wear it, Maddie!”
“Not at all, my dear. It is for the good of trade. If some people did
not buy and wear fine feathers, what would become of trade?”
“Six hundred pounds! More than he could earn in twelve months! And she
paid that for an opera-cloak!”
“You really must make yourself agreeable, Laurence. This may be the
last time I shall play the fairy princess, before I go back to my
rags. No, no, I don’t mean that.”
“Something tells me, all the same, that this will not be your last
appearance in your present character. Not that I question for a moment
your good intentions, Maddie, or disbelieve your word. But I have a
presentiment--a sort of depressing sensation that I cannot account
for--that, far from your returning home to-morrow, our lives will
somehow have drifted farther apart than ever.”
“Fancy a clever man like you, dear, believing in such foolish things
as presentiments! They are merely remnants of the dark ages. I hope we
shall be able to get a box,” she added, as they drew up at the theatre,
“no matter how tiny; a stall would be too conspicuous.”
The Wynnes were late. The orchestra was playing during an interval, and
they had the great good luck to secure a box overlooking the stage.
Madeline removed her mantle, and, taking a seat with her back to the
house, having glanced round with affected nervousness, said to her
companion, in a smothered whisper--
“Sister Ann, Sister Ann! do you see anybody looking? Do you think any
one recognized me by my back hair?”
Laurence had noted several familiar faces; and one man in an opposite
box had recognized him. But this was of no importance, as he could not
possibly identify Madeline.
Madeline whispered and laughed and chattered to him behind her fan.
He told himself that he was a sour, sulky brute to be so gruff and
irresponsive to the beautiful girl opposite to him, although he could
hardly realize that she was his wife as he glanced at her at this
special moment, as she sat with her head resting on her hand, diamonds
glittering on her gown and in her hair, a gay smile on her lips, no
wedding-ring on her finger. Could this really be Madeline West, Mrs.
Harper’s pupil-teacher, and his wife?
His acquaintance in the opposite box was astonished to see Wynne over
against him. Surely it was not to another man that he was thus bending
forward and stooping his head so politely, as if to lose nothing of
what was being told him! Ah, no--he thought not! as presently a very
pretty hand, wrist, and arm emerged from the shadow of the curtain, and
lay upon the velvet cushion.
He snatched up his excellent opera-glass, and noted a sparkling
bracelet and diamond rings. But no--there was not a wedding-ring
amongst them!
CHAPTER XXVI.
MR. WYNNE MAKES A STATEMENT.
When the play was over the Wynnes prudently waited, and were almost the
last to leave. But, even so, when they passed through the lobbies, a
good many people were still to be seen. They were a rather remarkable
couple, and although Madeline had drawn her lace scarf well over her
head, it was of no avail. On the stairs she came face to face with Lord
Tony.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed, as he accosted her. “I did not know you were
coming here to-night. Rachel told me she lunched with you to-day, and
you were alone in your glory. Whom did you come with?” And he looked as
if he was expecting to see some of the party.
“I came in very good company,” she replied. “But, pray, who made _you_
my father confessor?”
“I only wish I was! Are you going on to supper at the Candy-tufts? If
so, we shall meet again.”
“No, I’m going home this moment.”
“How virtuous! Well, you’ll be in the Row to-morrow--riding--at the
usual hour?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’ll look out for you about ten. Good night.” And he hurried off.
“Who is that?” inquired Laurence.
“Oh, a great friend of papa’s--Lord Anthony Foster.”
“Indeed! I shouldn’t have thought they had many tastes in common.”
“Well, at any rate they have _one_,” she answered, with a flippant
laugh.
“Yes, dense as I am, I think I can guess it!”
Mr. Wynne was also recognized by several of his own friends. Why is
it that there is always some one to see you when you wish to escape
notice, and, when you particularly desire to court observation, there
is never any one forthcoming?
No; and yet if you lose a front tooth, and, with a gaping chasm in
your neat front row, are _en route_ to the dentist, you are bound to
encounter half your acquaintances.
Mr. FitzHerbert and Mr. Treherne were standing on the steps as their
friend passed, and wished him a cheerful good night.
He did not accompany Madeline; she would not permit it. She must get
home at once, before her father returned, she whispered; “and supposing
she were seen driving up, escorted by a gentleman, a stranger!”
“All right, all right, Maddie,” wringing her hand. “But, mind you, it
is the last time. Remember, to-morrow! Send me a wire, and I shall come
and fetch you.”
Then, with a gesture of farewell, he stepped back, and she was quickly
whirled away.
Mr. FitzHerbert and Mr. Treherne were still endeavouring to light up,
and had not yet started to walk; the night was fine and frosty, and
they had not far to go.
“I’m coming your way. Hold on a minute till I get out my cigar-case,”
said their late host. And soon the trio were facing homewards,
discussing the piece, the actresses, the audience; but not a word
dropped from either gentleman’s lips with regard to Wynne’s mysterious
lady friend, though, like the celebrated parrot, they thought the more.
Wynne was a reserved sort of chap. For nearly a year he had dropped
out of their ken. Jessop alone was his confidential friend. None ever
dreamt of poking their noses into his affairs, as a caustic reply, or
a painful snub was sure to be the reward of the experiment. He was
of good family--that they knew; and latterly some of his influential
relations had been looking him up. (Nothing succeeds like success, and
the brilliant author of society skits was now eagerly claimed by his
connections.)
Nevertheless, they were exceedingly anxious to know more respecting
Miss West, the gay vivacious beauty, whose fame had spread far and
wide, whose riches and whose disheartening indifference to the advances
of the most eligible _partis_ were alike proverbial.
What on earth had she to do with a hard-working barrister like Wynne,
who rarely mixed in society? They asked each other this question after
they had left Wynne and his client _tête-à-tête_. “Business?”
It was confoundedly odd that she should pitch on such an hour, and on
such an uncommonly handsome fellow as Wynne for her legal adviser;
and the funniest part of it all was, that Wynne was not particularly
pleased to see her, and treated her as coolly as if she had been his
grand-aunt by marriage! Talking of matters far different from their
inmost thoughts brought the trio to Mr. Treherne’s chambers.
“Come up, you fellows, and have some devilled bones,” he said
hospitably; “the night is young!”
Mr. FitzHerbert never turned a deaf ear to such an appeal, but Wynne on
this occasion, rather to his friend’s surprise, said, “All right, I’ll
come up for a minute,” and sprang up the stairs two steps at a time.
“I’m not going to stay,” he said, taking off his hat and standing with
his back to the fire, still in his top coat; “but I’ve just wished
to have a word with you two fellows. I want to ask you, as a special
favour to _me_, to say nothing to any one of having met Miss West in my
chambers.”
The two guests muttered, “Oh, of course not; certainly not;” but
without any great alacrity. This demand was decidedly a blow, for they
were only human, and were looking forward to describing the scene with
pleasurable anticipation.
“When I ask you to do me this favour,” he resumed, as coolly as if
he were speaking in court, “I think it only fair to take you into my
confidence, and to tell you our secret. Miss West and I were married
nearly two years ago. _She is my wife._”
And putting on his hat, he nodded good night with the utmost
_sangfroid_, and ere they could get out one single syllable, much less
question, he was already at the bottom of the last flight of stairs.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A PROMISE POSTPONED.
“A telegram for you, sir,” said one of the clerks to Laurence
Wynne, the following morning. Telegrams were a common arrival; but
instinctively he felt that there was something unusual about this one,
as he tore it open and glanced over it.
“My father is dangerously ill. Impossible to fulfil promise. Writing.”
“I knew it,” he said, as he crumpled the paper in his hand, then
smoothed it and read it over again. “No,” to the clerk, who had a bet
on an imminent big race, and had gathered alarm from Mr. Wynne’s
expression; “no, Stevens; there is no answer.”
* * * * *
“Mr. West had come in and gone to bed,” so Miss West was impressively
informed by the butler. Yes, he had inquired for her, and he had told
him that, to the best of his belief, she was spending the evening with
Lady Rachel.
Madeline breathed again freely, and hurried up to her own room, almost
afraid of encountering her fussy and inquisitive parent on the stairs,
and being rigidly questioned then and there.
But Mr. West had not been feeling well, and complained of his chest
and breathing, and had gone straight to bed, so said Josephine.
Consequently there was no chance of his loitering about in passages,
awaiting her, and catching cold.
Madeline sat over her fire, for a long time, wondering how she could
bring herself to tell him, and what would be the result of her great
piece of news. It must be told--and told to-morrow; Laurence was
evidently serious. She had not known till now that Laurence could be
hard, stern, and immovable. Well--well--she wished the ordeal was over,
and well over; this time to-morrow it would be a thing of the past.
“Perhaps, nay, most likely,” she said to herself half-aloud, “this
is the very last time I shall sit at this fire; the last time I
shall have a maid to lay out my things and brush my hair. Heigho! I
wish--no--no--I don’t wish I had not married Laurence, but there is no
harm in wishing that he was _rich_!”
Madeline’s terror of her inevitable interview kept her awake for hours;
her heart beat so loudly, that it would not suffer her to sleep, and
it was really morning when she fell into a troubled doze, from which
she was aroused by Josephine with an unusually long face, and no
morning tea in her hand.
“Mademoiselle,” she said, “your father is very ill, so his man says.
The doctor has been sent for. They think he has got inflammation of the
lungs.”
Madeline sprang out of bed, huddled on some clothes, and went at once
to her parent’s room. He was very ill--in high fever, his breath coming
in quick labouring gasps. It was, as Josephine had said, inflammation
of the lungs, and the doctor added, “a very sharp attack.” It had come
to a crisis with extraordinary rapidity. It was, he admitted, a grave
case; he would like another opinion, and two hospital nurses must be
procured at once. How quickly every alleviation, every possible remedy
for sickness, every luxury, flows into a rich man’s sick-room!
Was he dangerously ill? asked Madeline, with bated breath.
“Well, there was always a danger in these sudden attacks, and Mr. West
had lived a hard life and taken an immensity of wear and tear out of
his nerves and vitality. His heart was weak; but still, he had pulled
people through worse cases, and she must not think that because her
father was seriously ill he was bound to--to----” and he left her to
fill in the blank herself, not wishing to hint at that ugly word--death.
And thus was Madeline’s confession postponed _sine die_, and Madeline
felt that she had been reprieved. Yes, the personal fascination of
Laurence’s presence had already faded. She wrote a long affectionate
letter, and explained the state of the case to Laurence, and sent him
constant bulletins of her father’s progress, and except for one flying
visit to the Holt Farm and once to church on Sundays, she never left
the house for the whole month of November. However, she was cheered in
her monotonous duties by the company of Mrs. Leach, who, on hearing of
dear Mr. West’s illness, had written from Brighton and volunteered her
services to her darling Madeline. Then she had arrived in person, and
urged her request with persistence. She would look after the house, see
callers, write notes, and leave Madeline unlimited time to spend with
the dear invalid.
At first Mr. West, fretful and weary, would not hear of her
arrangement. It was one thing to look into the fair widow’s eyes and
hold her hand and listen to her flatteries, when in good health, on
an idle autumn day; it was another to have her coming and quartering
herself thus on a sick house. However, after many messages and
intrigues and excuses, Madeline gave way. She was weak, the besieger
was strong, and she begged her father to accept the proffered favour.
“I cannot get rid of her, dear. She is determined to come, and, after
all, you won’t see her, you know.” But here she reckoned without her
guest.
In less than a week Mrs. Leach was frequently smoothing the sick man’s
pillow. She paid him a little visit daily, to which he actually looked
forward. She told him all the latest news, she flattered him, and she
made an agreeable object in the sick-room, with her charming gowns and
handsome face.
After all, she took no part in the management of the house, nor did
she see visitors, or write notes. She was (she said) so stupid about
domestic matters. It seemed to Madeline that their pre-arranged _rôles_
were exchanged; she kept to her usual duties as housekeeper and
mistress of the establishment, and Mrs. Leach gave more and more of her
time to the sick-room. She had a pleasant voice which never tired, and
read aloud to the invalid for hours. She made him his afternoon tea
with her own fair hands, and always took a cup with him. Indeed Mrs.
Leach cruelly maligned herself when she called herself stupid; on the
contrary, she was an excessively clever woman, twice as worldly wise as
her pretty Madeline. In her heart of hearts, she had determined to be
Madeline’s stepmother; but Madeline must marry, she would prefer the
house to herself, and she looked round the gorgeous yellow drawing-room
with the air of a proprietor, and indeed had already mentally altered
the arrangement of the furniture! Why did not Madeline accept one of
the gilded youths who fluttered round her? There was some story in
Madeline’s past, and if she could not steal the key to her skeleton
cupboard, she was determined to pick the lock, for she had had a
glimpse through the keyhole--and there _was_ something inside! This
glimpse had been afforded her by means of a young lady who had stayed
at the same hotel at Harrogate, a Miss De Ville, who had been for
several years at the same school as the lovely Miss West. Crafty Mrs.
Leach affected a very faint acquaintance with Miss West but a very
warm interest in Miss De Ville and her school days, and even went so
far as to ask her in to tea in her own little sitting-room, and showed
her the photographs of her cousins, the Countess of Cabinteely and the
Honourable Mrs. Greene-Pease.
“And so you were at school with Madeline West, the Australian heiress?”
she said.
“Yes, for several years; the last year and a half she was a pauper--a
pupil-teacher who received no pay--and I do believe wore Miss Selina’s
old shoes.”
“How extraordinary!”
“Yes; her father never paid for her, though for years before he had
paid very highly. She learnt everything, even swimming and riding, and
had most lovely clothes. Then he disappeared. However, he has bobbed up
again with quantities of money, by all accounts--_at present_.”
“And when he came home was he not ashamed of himself? What excuse had
he when he found his daughter in such a condition?” demanded Mrs. Leach.
“I don’t know; he _did_ find her there. But this is the funny thing:
she had been sent away in _disgrace_, so it was whispered, one
Christmas holidays, and was absent for a good while.”
Mrs. Leach opened her great dark eyes and exclaimed, “Good gracious!
Where was she? What had she done?”
“Well, it happened in the holidays, you see, and just afterwards there
was a great piece of fuss about Miss Selina’s marriage and quarrel with
Mrs. Harper, so that put the thing aside; but we did hear through the
servants,” and here she had the grace to redden, “that Miss West had
ran away from school.”
“And was that all?”
“Well, Mrs. Leach, don’t you think it a good deal?”
“Of course, of course!” impatiently, “shocking, abominable! But were
there no details and no particulars--no reason given for her escapade?”
“No; and Mrs. Harper and Miss Letitia, when I asked them plump out one
day, when I was staying in the neighbourhood and was having supper with
them, denied it most emphatically. They were quite _angry_.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Leach, with a gasp of disappointment. “Hushed it
up for the credit of the school, eh?”
“No, they said Miss Selina had made dreadful mischief, and been the
cause of Madeline being sent away for a little time; but we have never
heard Miss Selina’s version of the story,” she added expressively.
“Where is _she_ now?”
“Oh, she married a clergyman much younger than herself, and has gone to
the South Sea islands.”
“Yes, well out of the way. And are you intimate with Miss West?”
“No; we had a quarrel the last year she was at school with me, and did
not speak for months.”
“What was it about?”
“Oh, something trivial--hairpins, I think, or not passing the butter;
but I never really liked her. Still, for old times’ sake, I have
sometimes thought of calling. My aunt, Lady Mac Weasle, knows her, and
says the Wests give magnificent entertainments and go everywhere.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve seen her driving in the Park, beautifully dressed; but I am sure
she is painted. Perhaps some day I shall call, or rather get my aunt to
take me.”
“Well, dear, there is the first dressing-bell, so I must send you away.
Good-bye, for the present. I have enjoyed this little chat so much, you
have such a way of interesting one.” And really, for once, Mrs. Leach
was speaking the pure and unadulterated truth.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A PORTIÈRE WHICH INTERVENED.
Mr. West was ably nursed, he was wiry, and he struggled back to a
most trying, peevish convalescence, greatly hastened by Mrs. Leach’s
assiduous attentions; and early in January he was ordered off to the
Riviera without delay. He was to go to Nice, and, of course, he was not
to go alone. Madeline would accompany him. What would Laurence say to
this?
In her father’s present precarious state of health, she dared not
tell him her news, it would be too great a shock; and yet she almost
dreaded facing her husband with another excuse.
Laurence was not to be trifled with, still less her father. What an
unlucky creature she was! she said to herself tearfully.
Between these two men, who had such claims upon her, what was she to
do? Which was to be sacrificed, father or husband? And then there was
little Harry.
And yet her father clung to her as tenaciously, as if he were a child,
and could scarcely endure her out of his sight.
Circumstances put tremendous pressure upon her, circumstances in the
shape of doctors, her father, and her fears; and she allowed herself,
as usual, to drift.
It was quite settled that she was to go to Nice--in fact, there had
never been any question of her remaining behind--and to stay there
until May. She had no alternative in the character of Miss West, go
she must; but in her character of Mrs. Wynne, how was she to act? What
about her husband and son?
She dared not again venture a visit to the Temple, so she wrote a very
loving pleading little letter, putting everything before Laurence in
the best and strongest light, as seen from her own point of view, and
imploring him to be patient just a little longer, until her father was
well enough to hear the shock--and to live without her. To this letter
she received no reply for ten days.
Then Mr. Jessop called; he was an occasional visitor at Belgrave
Square. He felt a certain cynical pleasure in watching both “hands”
in this curious game. It was ten times more interesting than the best
novel going, or even the latest society play, so he told himself. To
see little--no, she was not little, but young--Mrs. Wynne once, and to
see her as she was now, was indeed a most startling contrast. To see
Laurence working away like a horse in a mill, was another fine sight.
And to behold a couple, once so devoted, so absolutely indifferent to
one another, so totally divided by that great gulf, wealth, was the
strangest spectacle of all!
Mr. Jessop occasionally dropped in on a Sunday afternoon, and paid
his respects to Miss West and her father. A short time before their
departure for the sunny South, he called to take leave and wish them
“bon voyage.” It was one gloomy January afternoon. Mr. West was not
visible, but Miss West received him and various other visitors in a
snug, warm little drawing-room, one of a suite where she dispensed
small talk, smiles, and afternoon tea. Mr. Jessop sat out all the other
visitors with imperturbable resolution, and when the last had risen and
departed, he brought his chair nearer to the fire, unasked, crossed his
long legs, stuck his glass in his eye, and, after a momentary pause,
said--
“And how does Laurence look upon this little expedition of yours?”
“He has not answered my letter; but, you know, silence gives consent,”
was the smiling response. “Are you surprised?” and she awaited his
verdict with smiling, upraised eyes.
“Well, frankly, I am.”
“You, under similar circumstances, would not be so complacent.”
“No; I should probably be up before the ‘beak’ for wife-beating.”
“Mr. Jessop!”
“Mrs. Wynne!”
“Hu-s-sh!” with a quick gesture of dismay.
“Well, I will ‘hu-s-sh!’ as you wish it; but it will be shouted on the
housetops some day. How you have kept the secret for so long amazes me;
even Wynne’s old friends don’t know of your existence. His own distant
relations have actually reinstated him. They believe that he made a
fool of himself with a penniless shop-girl or teacher, and is now a
_not_ disconsolate widower!”
This was a very nasty speech; but Mr. Jessop was in a bad humour. When
he looked round this luxurious abode, and had seen Mrs. Wynne receiving
homage and dispensing favours among a little court, and then recalled
his old schoolfellow’s quarters, his ascetic life, his laborious
days--his heart became hot within him.
“Why do you say such horrid things?” she asked petulantly.
“When did you see Laurence last?”
“I’ve not seen him for ages--centuries! Not since I dined with him in
his chambers. I walked in and found him entertaining two men. Oh, I
wish I could draw their faces!”
“I wish you could! I heard of that. You gave the staircase something
to talk about. Laurence is on circuit now. I dined with him a couple
of weeks ago. He is working very hard--too hard; but he won’t mind any
one. I must say you are a pretty pair!”
“Thank you; it is not often that _you_ pay me a compliment!” she
returned, with a bend of her head.
“And Harry?”
“He is very well.”
“I must run down and see him when I can, as one of the duties of a
godfather.”
“Yes; he is growing quite a big boy, and will soon be able to use your
knife and fork.”
“I’m glad to hear it; but I should have thought he wanted some teeth
first!” Then, as a clock chimed, “Hullo! that is half-past six, and I
must go; and you are off next week, and go straight through to Nice
_wagon de luxe_, and all that sort of thing?”
“Of course,” with a slightly defiant smile.
“Have you any message for _him_?”
“No, thank you; I’m afraid you would be an indifferent Mercury. No, I
have no message. Good-bye.”
They shook hands rather limply, and he took leave. As the door closed
on Mr. Jessop she gave a long sigh of relief, and was about to reseat
herself, when her quick ear caught a sound behind a heavy velvet
_portière_ which divided the room from an inner sanctum; it was the
sound of the dropping of a small article, such as a bangle or thimble,
on the parquet. Prompted by a sudden and inexplicable impulse, she
pulled aside the curtain, and Mrs. Leach, with a blotter in her hand
and an expression of embarrassment on her face, stood revealed.
“I--I--was writing in there, dear, some urgent notes, and I have
dropped my pet pen. It is one I am so fond of. Do help me to look for
it, darling.”
Mrs. Leach was inclined to embonpoint and rather stiff.
“Oh, it is easily found!” said Madeline, picking it up after a
moment’s search. As she handed it to its owner, who had now advanced
to the full light, their eyes met. Madeline read in those uneasy, slyly
scanning orbs that their owner had her suspicions, that this smiling
widow had been listening behind the _portière_. Should she tax her or
not?
Mrs. Leach was an adept at reading faces. She saw that Madeline
distrusted her smooth lies, that Madeline was secretly terrified, that
Madeline was eagerly searching her mind as to what she could possibly
have heard; that it was a critical moment. Accordingly she made a bold
move.
“I know what you think, dear,” she said, coming up to the fire and
warming one foot--“you think I have been unintentionally eavesdropping.”
She had been eagerly listening, with every nerve strained, for ten
whole minutes; but, alas! the _portière_ was very thick, the sounds
were muffled, and she had, unfortunately, caught no names. She was
certain that she had been in every sense on the threshold of dear
Madeline’s secret; but, alas! she had not got beyond that; had only
caught a word here and there. The word “Hush!” something about
“shop girl,” and “a widower;” something about “a staircase,” and a
“compliment;” something about “a knife and fork,” and, lastly, two
whole sentences, “How you have kept the secret for so long amazes me!”
and “Have you any message for him?”
Whoever this _him_ was, he was Miss West’s lover, the man whose
influence enabled her to turn a deaf ear to every other suitor.
Presumably he was not presentable. If Madeline would but marry him, or
elope with him, the course would be open to her, she would easily step
into her place. The main thing was to lull Madeline’s suspicions, to
give her plenty of rope--in other words, opportunities for meetings--to
pretend to see nothing, yet to allow nothing to escape her vigilance.
This man--his name was Jessop--was in Madeline’s secret, the secret
she had kept so amazingly! If she played her cards properly, she, too,
would soon share it!
“I declare I did not hear a single word. I am a little deaf since I had
the influenza; so whatever you were talking about is perfectly safe as
far as _I_ am concerned.”
Madeline made no reply, but came and stood before the fire, and her
pretty, level brows were knit. She was endeavouring to recall her
recent conversation, and as well as she could recollect, she had
said _nothing_ that incriminated her. She breathed more freely. The
_portière was_ thick--it was wadded; but, all the same, she did not
believe her fair companion. Her mouth said smooth things; but her eyes
had told tales. Her suspicions were aroused; but she, too, could play a
part.
“Of course; no lady ever lends herself to eavesdropping, I know,” she
said quietly. “Mr. Jessop and I were merely quarrelling; we often
quarrel. He has a knack of rubbing people up the wrong way.”
“Oh, Mr. Jessop! is _that_ his name? He is a most cynical,
disagreeable-looking man. When did you first meet him, dear?”
“He called on me.” She did not add where--viz. in Solferino Place. “He
is rather amusing when he is in a good humour.”
“What is he?”
“A barrister; a clever, idle barrister.”
“Oh, is he a barrister? Do you know, I rather like them. I wonder if
he would take us over one of the inns, and to see the Law Courts and
Temple? Wouldn’t you like to see it, some day?”
“No. I don’t think I should care much about it,” rejoined Madeline with
studied indifference.
Could--oh, could Mrs. Leach have guessed anything? At any rate, she was
getting _hot_, as they say in magic music; and, to put an end to such
hazardous conversation, she went over to the piano and began to play a
little thing of Grieg’s. Now that she suspected Mrs. Leach--handsome,
well-mannered, charming, low-voiced Mrs. Leach--of wishing to play
the spy, her terrified memory recalled many little items which she
pieced together: how Mrs. Leach had a careless way of looking over all
the letters, of hearing two conversations at the same time, of asking
strange and seemingly stupid questions--especially about the last years
of her residence at Harperton!
In the early days of Mr. West’s convalescence, when his appearance
downstairs and his temper had been somewhat fitful, Madeline found
herself one afternoon alone in the library with Lord Toby. He was
talking of the theatres, and urging her to accompany him and Lady
Rachel to the Haymarket.
“This beastly snow has stopped the hunting, and there is nothing to do
but skate and go to the play. Why can’t you come to-night? Your father
is pretty nearly all right; and Mrs. Leach will look after him. It’s a
capital piece. Oh, I forgot!” and he paused; he had been walking to
and fro, with his hands in his pockets.
“Forgot what?” looking up from her embroidery.
“That you’d seen it before.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, gazing at him with dispassionate calm.
“I mean that I saw you there, now I remember; but I didn’t see your
chaperon! You needn’t look so stunned; you were with a good-looking
chap, in a stage box. You sat with your back to the audience, too.”
“What _are_ you talking about?”
“And you appeared to be delighted with the piece; but I thought your
friend seemed a little bored. And, don’t you remember, I spoke to you
in the vestibule? Who was he?”
“Oh yes! Looked rather bored, did he? Then surely you can _guess_ who
he was!” now smiling expressively.
“Not”--coming to a standstill--“not your----”
“Hush! Yes.”
“Well, I _am_ blessed! He is a gentleman, anyway.”
“Thank you. I must tell him; he will be _so_ pleased.”
“I mean that he looks clean-bred; not like----” and he stopped. “Of
course I can easily find out who he is; but, honour bright, I won’t! I
will forbear.”
“Then, I’ll take pity on your starving curiosity. His name is Wynne.”
“What, the writing chap?”
“Yes.”
“And you are Mrs. Wynne?”
“I am under that impression.”
“He must be a long-suffering sort of fellow, or----”
“Or what?”
“I was going to say something that _might_ sound rude.”
“Oh, pray don’t hesitate on my account! I’ve often heard you say rude
things; and one speech more or less does not signify.”
“Yes; and it may serve as a slight antidote to the large doses of
flattery you are forced to swallow.”
“Come! Or _what_?”
“I was going to say, he does not care a rap about you. It’s a little
way married men have, particularly in these days of emancipated
womankind--especially wives. Does he care, Mrs. Wynne?”
“You want to know too much,” she answered, without raising her eyes.
“Some day I shall make you acquainted with one another, and then you
can ask him.”
“All right, then; I will. I suppose Mrs. Leach is going abroad with
you?”
“Oh dear, no!” she replied, with unusual emphasis.
“Then she is not living here _altogether_?”
“Oh no! What an absurd idea!”
“She is a handsome woman for her age, although she will never see fifty
again.”
“I think she will.”
“You mean that she will live to a hundred?”
“No. I mean that she is not more than thirty.”
“I should be sorry to be hanging since she was fifty!”
“Every woman is the age she looks,” said Miss West, sententiously.
“So be it; neither Mrs. Leach’s age nor looks concern me. You and she
hit it off together pretty well, don’t you?”
“Certainly,” she answered rather loftily.
“Then that is all right!” in a tone of brisk relief.
“What do you mean?”
“Miss West, excuse me, if I repeat your own recent reply to me, you
want to know _too_ much.”
“If you imply----” she began, but hesitated, for at this instant the
door was opened by a footman, and Mr. West entered, leaning on Mrs.
Leach’s arm, whilst his valet followed with a supply of papers, rugs,
and cushions. They formed quite an interesting procession.
END OF VOL. II.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.
Transcriber’s Notes
Page 3: “in chiffron and silver” changed to “in chiffon and silver”
Page 78: “guide and circerone” changed to “guide and cicerone”
Page 221: “tastes in commom” changed to “tastes in common”
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Married or single?, Vol. II (of 3)" ***
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