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.

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 =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. III.

                                 LONDON
                      CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
                                  1895




                         CONTENTS OF VOL. III.


CHAPTER                                                             PAGE

XXIX. “MR. WYNNE!”                                                     1

XXX. MARRIED OR SINGLE?                                               11

XXXI. A FALSE ALARM                                                   31

XXXII. MR. JESSOP’S SUGGESTION                                        55

XXXIII. “ONE OF YOUR GREATEST ADMIRERS”                               65

XXXIV. MR. WYNNE IS A WIDOWER                                         83

XXXV. INFORMATION THANKFULLY RECEIVED                                 97

XXXVI. TO MEET THE SHAH-DA-SHAH                                      119

XXXVII. “GONE OFF IN HER WHITE SHOES!”                               134

XXXVIII. DEATH AND SICKNESS                                          148

XXXIX. WHITE FLOWERS                                                 164

XL. A FORLORN HOPE                                                   178

XLI. “LAURENCE!”                                                     199

XLII. WON ALREADY                                                    218

XLIII. HEARTS ARE TRUMPS                                             238




                          MARRIED OR SINGLE?




                             CHAPTER XXIX.

                             “MR. WYNNE!”


A few days before their departure for the sunny south, Miss West,
her father, and several visitors were sitting in the drawing-room,
the tall shaded lamps were lit, the fragrant five-o’clock cup was
being dispensed by Madeline; who was not, as Lady Rachel remarked,
in her usual good spirits. Lady Rachel had thrown off her furs, she
had secured a comfortable seat in a becoming light, and was flirting
audaciously with a congenial spirit. Mrs. Leach was of course present,
and an elderly colonel, Mrs. Veryphast (a smart society matron), her
sister, and a couple of Guardsmen--quite a gathering. Mrs. Veryphast
was laughing uproariously, Mrs. Leach was solemnly comparing notes
respecting dressmakers with Mrs. Veryphast’s sister. The colonel, Mr.
West, and Lord Tony, were discussing the share list. The Guardsmen were
devoting themselves to the fair tea-maker, when the anteroom door was
flung open with a flourish, and a footman announced “Mr. Wynne!”

This name was merely that of an ordinary visitor--one of the multitude
who flocked to offer incense to his daughter, a partner and a slave, in
fact, in the ears of every one save two--Lord Tony’s, and Mrs. Wynne’s.
The latter felt as if she had been turned to stone. Had Laurence come
to make a scene? to claim her? She breathed hard, living a whole year
of anxiety in a few seconds of time. The hand that held the sugar-tongs
actually became rigid through fear. She glanced at her father. He, poor
innocent individual, was totally unconscious of the crisis, and little
supposed that the good-looking young fellow now shaking hands with
Madeline was actually his son-in-law!

“Oh, how do you do?” faltered Miss West, and raising a swift,
appealing, half-terrified look to the stranger. “Papa, let me introduce
Mr. Wynne.”

Mr. Wynne bowed, uttered a few commonplaces to the invalid, and stood
talking to him for some time.

Meanwhile, Mr. West noticed with satisfaction the air of refinement
and of blue blood (which he adored) in the visitor’s appearance and
carriage. Wynne was a good name.

No one guessed at the situation, except Lord Tony. His breath was taken
away, he looked, he gaped, he repeated the same thing four times over
to Mrs. Veryphast--who began to think that this jovial little nobleman
was a fool. To see Miss West thus calmly (it looked so at a distance)
present her husband to her father, as he afterwards expressed it,
“completely floored him.” And the old chap, innocent as an infant, and
Wynne as cool as a cucumber, as self-possessed as it was possible to be!

And then suddenly Lady Rachel turned round and saw him, and called
out in her shrill, clear voice, “Why, Mr. Wynne, is it possible! who
would have thought of seeing _you_ here? Come over and sit beside me,”
making room on the Chesterfield couch, “and amuse me.”

“I’m afraid I’m not a very amusing person,” he replied, accepting her
beringed fingers, and standing before her.

“You can be, if you like; but perhaps you now reserve all your witty
sayings for your stories. Are you writing anything at present?”
(Stereotyped question to author.)

“No, not at present,” rather stiffly.

“I did not know you knew the Wests. Maddie, dear,” raising her voice,
“you never told me that you and Mr. Wynne were acquaintances.”

Madeline affected not to hear, and stooped to pick up the tea-cosy, and
hide a face which had grown haggard; whilst Mr. West, who had gathered
that Wynne was a rising man, and that his books were getting talked
about, invited him to come and sit near him, and tell him if there was
anything going on--anything in the evening papers?

“You see, I’m still a bit of an invalid,” indicating a walking-stick;
“shaky on my pins, and not allowed to go to my club. I’ve had a very
sharp attack, and I’m only waiting till the weather is a little milder
to start for the south of France.” He had taken quite a fancy to this
Wynne (and he did not often fall in love at first sight).

Madeline looked on as she handed her husband a cup of tea, by her
parent’s orders, and was spellbound with amazement and trepidation
to see Laurence and her father, seated side by side, amiably talking
politics, both being, as it providentially happened, of the same party.
This was to her almost as startling a spectacle as if an actual
miracle had been performed in the drawing-room before her eyes.

That her attention strayed in one particular direction did not escape
Mrs. Leach’s observation. Could this be----But no, he was far too
presentable, he was evidently one of the Wynnes of Rivals Wynne; she
herself saw the strong family likeness. He was absolutely at his ease,
he scarcely noticed Miss West, though she glanced repeatedly at him,
was looking pale and agitated, talked extreme nonsense, and filled cups
at random.

No, no; this man was _not_ the mysterious friend. No such luck for
Madeline; and, if he had been, he never could have had the nerve to
walk boldly and alone into the very lion’s den. But he probably knew
the real Simon Pure, and was a go-between and messenger. Yes, that was
it. Having thus disposed of her question to her entire satisfaction,
and carefully studied Mr. Wynne, from the parting of his hair to the
buttons of his boots, she turned and exercised her fascinations on the
colonel, who was one of her sworn admirers.

Lady Rachel, who had wearied of her companion, threw him off with an
airy grace--which is one of the finest products of civilization--and,
on pretence of having a little talk with Mr. West, cleverly managed to
monopolize Mr. West’s companion, chatting away most volubly--though
now and then Mr. West, who was well on the road to recovery, insisted
on having _his_ say; and, as he discoursed, Laurence had leisure to
take in the magnificence of his surroundings. The lofty rooms, silken
hangings, velvet pile carpets, priceless old china, and wealth of
exotic flowers. Everything seemed to cry out in chorus, “Money!
money! money! Money everywhere.” Madeline, in a velvet gown, sitting
in the midst of it, mistress of all she surveyed, with a young baronet
on one side and a duke’s heir on the other absolutely hanging on her
words. Her beauty, in its setting of brilliant dress, soft light,
and a thousand feminine surroundings, failed to impress him. It was
for this--looking about, and taking in footmen, pictures, gildings,
silver tea equipage, the heavy scented flowers, soft shaded lamps, the
sparkle of diamonds, the titled, appreciative friends in one searching
glance--that she had deserted--yes, that was the proper word--deserted
him and Harry. Even as he watched her, she was nursing a Chinese lap
dog (a hideous beast in his opinion), and calling the attention of her
companions to her darling Chow-chow’s charms. “Look at his lovely
curled tail!” he heard her exclaim, “and his beautiful little black
tongue!” And, meanwhile, the farmer’s wife was nursing _her_ child, who
did not recognize his mother when he saw her.




                             CHAPTER XXX.

                          MARRIED OR SINGLE?


Mr. West and his new acquaintance had apparently an inexhaustible
capital of conversation, and still kept up the ball, as other people
departed one after the other. Madeline knew that Laurence was resolved
to sit them all out, for, as he laid his cup and saucer beside her, he
said, in a whisper only audible to her, “I’m going to wait, I must have
a word with you alone.”

After a time, when he was positively the last visitor, and the clock
was pointing to half past six, he too rose and took leave of Mr.
West--who expressed a cordial hope that they would see him whenever
they came back to town--and of Madeline, who instead of ringing the
bell, crossed the room with the visitor, airily remarking to her
father, “I’m just going to show Mr. Wynne that last little picture
you bought at Christy’s--he is so fond of paintings. I’ll be back
immediately”--effecting her escape at the same moment by opening
another door, through which she waved her husband, saying hurriedly,
“In here, in here, the picture is there. Come along and stand before
it; and now _what_ is it?”

The room was dimly lit, and there was not much light upon the painting,
but that was of no consequence to Laurence Wynne. He, however, took his
stand before it, glanced at it, and then, turning to his companion,
said gravely, “All right. I’ve come to answer your letter in _person_.”

“Laurence! I never knew of such madness! Talk of my going to your
chambers--it was nothing; but for you to venture here----” and her eyes
and gesture became tragic. “Positively, when I saw you walk in, I felt
on the point of fainting.”

“I am glad, however, that you did not get _beyond_ that point. I was
surprised to see your father so well; after your account of him----”

“Oh, that was written more than a fortnight ago; he is much better--but
weather bound--on account of the snow in the south.

“Well, yes; and your letter was overlooked, and not forwarded. I’ve
been away on circuit.”

“I believe you don’t care whether I never write to you or not; nor to
hear what I’m doing?”

“Oh, but, you know, I am always well posted in the society papers.”

“Society papers!”

“Yes; I see them at my club. Besides, I can actually rise to a couple
of sixpences a week--and I read how the lovely Miss West was at a ball,
looking very smart in straw colour; or had been observed at church
parade wearing her new sables; or shopping in Bond Street, looking very
bright and happy; or--at--the theatre glorified in diamonds and gold
embroideries. However, I have at last made your father’s acquaintance;
he does not seem to be such a terrible ogre! You may have noticed how
pleasant he was to me; we got on like a house on fire. I do not think
that your disclosure will have the awful consequence you anticipate,
and I am perfectly confident that it will be attended with no ill
effects as regards his health. I am sure you have taken a wrong
estimate of his character. He may fly into a passion just at first--I
fancy you may expect _that_--but he will calm down, and we shall all be
very good friends; and I am certain he will be delighted with Harry.”

“I am not at all so sanguine as to that,” returned his wife dubiously;
“and you have not yet told me, Laurence--and we have no time to
lose--_what_ has brought you here?”

“I came, as I have said before, to answer your letter in person. I am
glad I have done so, I have seen things with my own eyes, and I can
realize your position more clearly than hitherto. I see you surrounded
with luxury. A duchess could have no more. I see your father, by
no means the frail invalid that I was led to expect; I see your
friends--your--pausing expressively--_admirers_! I’ve had, in short, a
glimpse into your life, and realized the powerful cords--you call them
claims--that bind you here, and have drawn you away from me.” He paused
again for a moment, making a quick gesture with his hand to show that
Madeline must hear him out. “And now I have come to tell you my last
word. You will--or, if you wish, _I_ will--tell your father the truth
now--within the hour. It will then depend upon circumstances, whether
you leave England or not. If your father wishes to have you and Harry
with him, I shall say nothing against it.”

Madeline listened to this long and authoritative speech with some
dismay. This plan would not suit her at all. What would all her gay
society friends say--and most of them were coming to the Riviera--if,
instead of the brilliant Miss West, they found Mrs. Wynne--a prodigal
daughter who had married without leave, and who was hampered with a
teething baby? And Laurence was really becoming quite too overbearing!
She would not give in--if she succumbed _now_, it was for always. What
a fuss he was making, simply because she was going abroad for three
months with her father.

“Surely you can wait until we come back. You see, papa is not in a
state now for any sudden excitement. I will tell him if you wish in a
month, when he has completely recovered----”

“I will wait no longer,” interrupted her husband. “I have already
waited on your good pleasure for close upon a year; put off time after
time, with excuse after excuse, until such a period as you could
manage to screw your courage to the sticking-point. I now apprehend
that that period will be of the same epoch as the Greek Kalends!
Frankly, Madeline, I am not going to stand any more nonsense. I am your
husband; I can support you--certainly only in a very modest fashion
compared to this,” looking round. “You will have no carriage, no maid,
no fine clothes--at least not _yet_, they may come by-and-by. Your
father is quite fit to travel alone; he ate a remarkably good tea, and
told me that he had played two games of billiards this afternoon; were
he really feeble, it would be a different affair. It is shameful--yes,
that is the only word that will fit the subject--that I should have to
remind you of your child! He should be your first care. Now, he _is_
delicate, if you like;--he wants his mother, poor little chap! You
will stay at home and look after him. It may not be your pleasure,
but it is unquestionably your duty. You can go to Mrs. Holt’s and
remain there and be welcome as long as you like. You were very happy
there once, Maddie,” he added rather wistfully. No answer; she merely
raised her eyes, and surveyed him fixedly. “I will look about for a
small furnished flat; a little villa at Norwood, or wherever you like.
Lodgings, after _this_, would be too terrible a change--I must admit.”

“So would the villa, or even the small flat,” she said to herself.
In one glance she beheld her future: two servants, _perhaps_; two
sitting-rooms, _perhaps_; a strip of back garden with stockings on a
line; Laurence absent from morning till night; nothing to do all day
long, but attend to her frugal housekeeping; no smart frocks; no smart
friends; no excitement, amusements, or society.

She glanced at Laurence. Yes, his linen was frayed, there was a hole
in one of his gloves, and in her heart there flared up a passionate
hatred of genteel poverty; it was not life, it was a mere dragged-out
existence, from Sunday to Sunday--from a sirloin of beef to a
fore-quarter of mutton. Ugh! And, on the other hand, the trip on
the Princesse de Lynxky’s yacht, the already made up party for the
carnival, the dresses that she had ordered for both; the costumes that
were to dazzle Nice; the sketch for her carriage at the battle of
flowers. At last she said--

“The child is perfectly well, Laurence. I saw him a week ago, and he
was then the picture of health. He is too young to trouble any one
yet, and Mrs. Holt is an excellent person. Pray how many children are
sent out to nurse, and their parents never see them for two or three
years? It is always done in France, where they manage things so much
better than we do. When Harry is older, it will be quite different;
at present it is all the same to a baby where he is, as long as he is
well cared for. You have suddenly become most arbitrary and tyrannical;
and as to my leaving you for a few months, what is it after all? Look
how wives leave their husbands in India, and come home for years!”
resolved that all the hard hitting should not be on his side. “You are
not like what you used to be, and you are very cruel to call my conduct
_shameful_--and very rude, too. You are not going the right way to
work, if you want to recall me home--to your home. I may be led, but
I won’t be driven. I shall take my own way about papa, and tell him
at my own time; and, what is more, I shall certainly accompany him to
the Riviera, and when I return I hope,” speaking breathlessly, and in
little short gasps, “I hope that I shall find you in a more agreeable
frame of mind.”

There was an appreciable pause, and then he said, in a tone of angry
astonishment, “Are you in earnest, Madeline?”

“In earnest? Of course I am!”

She looked at him; he had grown visibly paler, and there was a strange
expression in his eyes that she did not remember to have ever seen
before. Then, speaking in a low repressed voice--

“In that case I must ask you now to make your choice, once for all,
between your two characters. You must for the future always be known
as Miss West, or Mrs. Wynne. We will not have this double-dealing any
longer. Now, which will you be, married or single?” keeping his eyes
steadily fixed on her with a look of quiet determination. “If you wish,
we can bury the past.”

No reply. Madeline’s mind was a battle-field of doubt, fear, amazement,
anger, and self-will.

“Speak, Madeline!” he reiterated impatiently. “Married or single?”

“If it were not for the child,” she burst out passionately; “if my life
is to be made a burthen to me like _this_; if you are always to be
reproaching and scolding me----”

“I see,” he interrupted quickly, “you would rather be Miss West. The
child, I know, is a flimsy excuse, and of no importance; but please to
give me a direct answer. I must have it from your own lips.”

At this critical juncture the door was opened, and Mr. West, somewhat
irascible from having been left so long alone (Mrs. Leach was dressing
for dinner) came in, saying, “Well--well--well--Madeline, what _is_ the
meaning of this? the room is half in darkness. What the deuce has kept
you--has that fellow----? Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Wynne, I did not
know you were still here. Can’t have seen much of the pictures, unless
you and Madeline have eyes like cats.” (No, they had only been fighting
like cats.)

“Answer me, Madeline,” whispered Laurence in a hurried undertone,
holding her hand like a vice. This action was not seen by Mr. West, who
had his back to them, and was occupied with the poker. “Married or
single? Now is the time--I shall tell him.”

“_Single!_” replied Madeline, hastily wrenching her hand away, spurred
by immediate fears, and regardless of all but the present moment.

“So be it,” was the low rejoinder.

And Mr. West, as he vigorously poked the fire, and furiously pressed
the bell, had no more idea than poker or button of the important tie
that had just been severed.

Mr. Wynne, looking rather white and stern, came over, and again took
his leave and, without any farewell to Madeline, who was still standing
in the background in the dusk, he opened the door and departed.

“What have you been doing in here all this time?” asked Mr. West
querulously. “What the deuce have you been about? Looked to _me_ as if
you and that fellow had been having a row. Never saw him before. Nice
gentlemanly chap. None of your ‘Yaw-haw’ sort of people, with no more
brains than a pin, and as much conceit as a flock of peacocks. No, this
man has sense. I----By the way, Maddie, you look rather put out, too,
eh? He has not been proposing for you, has he? Come now, tell your old
daddy,” facetiously. “Make a clean breast of it.”

“No, papa,” she answered, in a rather shaky tone, “he has not; that is
just the last thing he would do. You won’t see him again, that’s one
comfort!” she added, with a final blaze of temper.

“Comfort, comfort? Not a bit of it. I’d like to see more of him; and
when we come back, remind me to ask him to dinner--he belongs to the
Foolscap Club--don’t forget. What’s his name--Wills--Witts?”

“Wynne.”

“Yes, yes, to be sure! A barrister. Humph! one of the Wynnes of Rivals
Wynne--good old family. Looks a clever chap, too. Bound to _win_, eh?
Not bad, eh?” chuckling. “But what were you talking about. You’ve not
told me _that_ yet?”

“We were quarrelling, papa, that’s all. Our first and last quarrel,”
attempting to laugh it off, with a laugh that was almost hysterical.
“There’s the first gong!”

“So it is; and I’m quite peckish. Look sharp and dress!” setting an
example on the spot by hurrying out of the room, stick in hand, which
stick went tapping all the way down the corridor, till the sound was
lost in the distance.

Still, Madeline did not stir. She took a step and looked at the
picture. Strange omen! It represented a farewell--a man and a girl. The
man was a soldier, one of Bonaparte’s heroes, and his face was turned
away--the girl was weeping. Then she walked over to the fire, and stood
looking into it with her hands tightly clasped, her heart beating
rather quickly--the after-effects of her late exciting interview. Her
mind was tossed about among conflicting emotions--indignation with
Laurence, relief, regret, all stirring like a swarm of bees suddenly
disturbed. “What had possessed her to marry Laurence Wynne?” she asked
herself, now looking back on their marriage from the lofty eminence
of a spoiled, adulated, and wealthy beauty. A certain bitter grudge
against him and their days of poverty, and the hateful existence into
which he would drag her back, animated her feelings as she stood
before the fire alone.

Such an overbearing, obstinate sort of partner would never suit her
now. He deserved to be taken at his word--though of course he never
meant it. The idea of any sane man relinquishing such a wife never
dawned upon her. Yes--her heart was hot within her--he might go. As to
the child, that was another matter; _he_ was still, of course, her own
pretty darling.

They had never, she and Laurence, had a rift upon the tuneful lute; and
now a little plain speaking and a few angry words had parted them for
life, as he had said. So be it.

“So be it,” she echoed aloud, and pulling a chain from the inside
of her dress, she unfastened it, slipped off her wedding ring, and
dropped it into the fire, which her father had poked up to some
purpose--little dreaming for what an occasion it would serve.

Then Madeline went at last, and scrambled into her tea-gown with haste,
and was just down, luckily for herself, in the nick of time.

After dinner, she was quite feverishly gay. She meant to thoroughly
enjoy herself, without any _arrières pensées_. Her sword of Damocles
had been removed. She went to the piano, and sang song after song with
a feeling that she must do something to keep up her somewhat limp
self-esteem and her rapidly falling spirits.




                             CHAPTER XXXI.

                            A FALSE ALARM.


Mr. West had enjoyed his dinner; his appetite was excellent--on a par
with his daughter’s spirits. He asked no more troublesome questions,
and departed to bed at an early hour. Mrs. Leach, too, had retired
(pleading fatigue), to enjoy a French novel and cocaine, leaving
Madeline to sing and make merry alone! After a while she went over and
sat on the fender-stool, and had a long conversation with herself, and
tried to persuade her conscience that she had done right. She offered
it a sop in assuring herself that the next morning she would go down
to the Holt farm and see Harry, and have a comfortable talk with his
nurse. Her father would not be out of bed till twelve o’clock. Mrs.
Leach, too, rarely appeared before lunch. The coast would be clear. She
carried out this resolution to the letter, starting from Waterloo by
an early train, arriving a little after ten at the farm in the station
fly, greatly to Mrs. Holt’s amazement.

She asked many questions, and was warmly assured that “though little
Harry was not to say a big, strong boy, like Tom the ploughman’s child,
of the same age, yet that nothing ailed him but his teeth, and that his
eye teeth were through, and that she (his mother) need not give herself
no uneasiness. Mr. Wynne was full of fancies. He was down twice last
week, and had been alarming her for nothing.”

“Mr. Wynne--Mr. Wynne,” said Madeline, becoming agitated and feeling
a certain tightness in her throat; but knowing that the fact she
was about to disclose must come out sooner or later, and that the
first blow was half the battle; “Mr. Wynne and I have had a serious
disagreement. We have agreed to differ--and to part,” looking steadily
out of the window, whilst her face took a delicate shade of red.

“Laws! gracious mercy!” ejaculated her listener, nearly dropping Master
Wynne. “You don’t say so! Goodness gracious! you don’t mean it, ma’am;
you are joking.”

“No, indeed”--very decidedly--“I am not, Mrs. Holt; and you need not
call me ma’am any more, for though I am married, I am going back to be
Miss West--always. Please never call me Mrs. Wynne again.”

“But you can’t do that,” exclaimed Mrs. Holt, in a loud tone of
expostulation; “you are married right and tight as I am, unless,”
lowering her voice, “it’s a _divorce_ you are after getting?”

“Divorce? No. Nothing of the kind; but Mr. Wynne and I have agreed to
be--be strangers, and to forget that we have ever been married; and as
I am only known to most people as Miss West, it will be quite easy.”

“It’s nothing of the sort, ma’am,” cried the other, energetically,
“and you are mad to think of it. Why, I might just as well go and call
myself Kate Fisher once more, and give out I was never wed to Holt!
That would be a fine how-do-you-do! And where there’s children it’s
worse and more wicked, and more ridiculous to think of still. What’s to
be said and done about this boy? Who is his mother? You can’t say Miss
West, now can you? Believe me,” seeing her visitor’s face of crimson
astonishment, “it won’t _do_. It’s just one of those common squabbles
among married folks that blow over. Why, Holt and I has ’ad many a
tiff, and we are none the worse. You and Mr. Wynne just make it up.
You are both young, and maybe he is determined, and likes to have his
own way, as most men do; but--excuse me, ma’am, as an humble friend
and a much older woman than yourself, if I make too bold--you _are_
a bit trying. You see it’s not usual for a young fellow to have his
wife leave him, and go galavanting about as a single lady; and then
Mr. Wynne is greatly set upon the child. A man, of course, expects
that his wife will look after his children _herself_. Excuse me again
if I make too free, but I don’t like to see a young girl going astray,
whoever she be, without just giving her a _word_,” wiping her face with
a red-spotted handkerchief. (The family was largely supplied with this
favourite pattern.)

Madeline sat in silence, feeling very uncomfortable and wretched; but
all the same, obstinately bent on her own way.

“Mrs. Holt, you forget there are two sides to a question,” she said at
last. “I know you mean very kindly; but I have to consider my father.
He has no one but me. He is an invalid, and I am his only child, and
must study his wishes.”

“Maybe if he wasn’t so _rich_, you wouldn’t think of him so much,” put
in Mrs. Holt, bluntly.

“Yes, I would,” retorted Madeline, stung by the sneer; “but I see
you are prejudiced, Mrs. Holt. You forget what the Bible says about
honouring your father and mother.”

“No, no, I don’t; but the Bible says a deal about husbands and wives
too. I don’t forget _that_. Stick to your husband; it’s the law o’ the
land and the law o’ the Bible,” said Mrs. Holt in her most unyielding
voice.

She said a great deal more, but she failed to persuade her visitor or
to bend her pride, and she soon perceived that it was of no avail.
Money and grandeur, she told herself, had turned her poor head. Some
day she would be sorry for what she was doing now; and, anyway, it
was an ill and thankless task for a third person to meddle between a
married couple. She had always known that _he_ was the better of the
two; and maybe Holt would allow she was right _now_! Here was a young
lady, turning her back on husband and child, taking her maiden name
again, and going off to foreign countries. Pretty doings! pretty doings!

At eleven o’clock the fly-man notified that time was up, and the lady
must go if she wanted to catch her train. She kissed little Harry over
and over again, and wept one or two tears as she said--

“How I wish I could take him with me, even if I could smuggle him as my
maid’s little boy!”

“Sakes and stars! Mrs. Wynne,” exclaimed Mrs. Holt, angrily. “Whatever
are you thinking of? I wish his father heard you pass him off as a
servant’s child. Well, upon my word! I never----” At this crisis words
ran short and utterance completely failed her.

“Mind you write to me often, Mrs. Holt--even one line. I have left you
a packet of addressed and stamped envelopes. Please write at least once
a week,” and, with a hurried good-bye she stepped into the fly, pulled
down her veil, and was driven off, leaving Mrs. Holt and her son upon
the steps, the former exclaiming--

“Well, if she don’t beat all!” whilst Master Wynne dragged violently at
her apron, and, pointing to the rapidly disappearing carriage, shouted
gleefully--

“Gee-gee! Gee-gee!”

       *       *       *       *       *

“It is all right, my dear,” whispered Mrs. Leach, receiving her with
a significant nod. “I told your father you had gone to lunch with the
Countess of Cabinteely, and he was perfectly satisfied.”

In another week Madeline was very pleasantly settled in a charming
villa at Nice looking out over the blue tideless sea and the Promenade
des Anglais. She had a landau and pair, a pony carriage, and an “at
home” day, for not a few of their London acquaintances, early as it
was, had come south.

Her father rapidly regained his usual health and amiability, and
lavished presents upon her. The horizon before her was literally
and metaphorically bright. She was surrounded by quite a brilliant
pageantry of flatterers and followers, and could not help feeling a
pardonable pride in the sensation she created and in her remarkable
social triumphs--in finding bouquets left daily at her door, in seeing
her name in enthusiastic little paragraphs in the local papers, in
hearing that the fact of her expected presence brought numbers to an
assembly or entertainment in order to see the lovely Miss West, to know
that she had not an ambition in the world unfulfilled.

Was not this all-sufficient to prove that her millennium of happiness
had commenced? She was the beauty of the season, though she was in this
particular the victim of an unsought reputation; she had never aspired
to the honour, and the character had been forced upon her. All the
same, she did not dislike the position of social queen; and as to Mr.
West, he gloried in the fact, and basked in the light of her reflected
splendour. He was even content to be known as “Miss West’s father.” As
some men pride themselves on their family, their estates, race-horses,
pictures, collection of old china, or silver, he prided himself upon
his _daughter_, and was convinced that he got more enjoyment out of
his hobby than most people. She was always _en evidence_, and he could
see the curious, envious, and admiring eyes, as he drove with her about
Nice, walked with her on the British Quarterdeck at Monte Carlo, or
escorted her to concerts, receptions, balls, or garden parties. Foreign
dukes and princes were supremely affable to him--all on account of the
_beaux yeux_ of his charming and celebrated Madeline.

Worth and Doucet had _carte blanche_, for Madeline’s costumes must be
worthy of her, and Madeline was not averse to the idea. A new hat,
which became the rage, was named after her. Such is fame! A new yacht
had been honoured by the same distinction. Youth, beauty, wealth,
celebrity--even Fortune seemed to go out of her way to crowd favours
upon this lucky young lady; but, alas! we all know that fortune is
a fickle jade, who smiles at one moment, and who scowls the next.
Thus, as a kind of social divinity in a gay, earthly Paradise, winter
glided on with Madeline. Spring had appeared with a radiant face and a
train of flowers; the turf under the olives was covered with anemones,
the valleys were starred with primroses; jonquils, tea-roses, and
narcissus filled the air with fragrance. Sea and sky reflected one
another--sunbeams glanced from the waves, the water seemed to laugh,
and the whole face of Nature was one good-natured smile.

The Riviera was full, the carnival about to commence. Madeline was in
a state of feverish gaiety and exhilaration. She could not now exist
without excitement; she must always be doing something or going
somewhere, and required a rapid succession of amusements, from a
“_promenade aux ânes_” up the valleys, to riding a bicycle; from a tea
picnic to playing _trente et quarante_. All her regrets, and all her
little twinges of remorse (and she had experienced some) had succumbed
to the anodyne of a season on the Riviera--and such a season! But on
the very first day of the carnival her spirits received a rude shock in
the form of an ill-spelt scrawl from Mrs. Holt, which ran as follows:--

  “HONOURED MADAM,

 “I think it rite to let you no, as little Harry has been verry poorly
 the last two days; in case he is not better I think you ought to know,
 and mite wish to come home. It’s his back teath. The Docter looked
 very cerrius last evening, and spoke of konvulshions, but I don’t
 wish to frighten you.

                                              “I am your humble servant,
                                              “KATE HOLT.”

This was a heavy blow. The rush of maternal impulse swept everything
else out of her mind. Madeline thrust aside her diamonds, ball dress,
masks, bouquets, and hurried off on foot to the telegraph office, and
despatched a message--“If he is not better I start to-night; reply
paid.” And then she returned to the Villa Coralie, quivering and
trembling with impatience.

In case of the worst, she told Josephine to pack a few things, as she
might be going to England that night by the Rapide.

Josephine’s jaw dropped; she was enjoying herself enormously. One
of the waiters at the Cercle was her cousin. The carnival was just
commencing; this was terrible--must she he torn away too! Her face
expressed her feelings most accurately, and her mistress hastened to
reassure her.

“I shall not require you, Josephine; I only go to see a sick friend. If
I hear no good news, I start this evening; if the tidings are better, I
remain--but I am almost sure to go.”

“Et monsieur?” elevating hands and eyebrows.

Yes, how was she to announce her departure to her father? She made the
plunge at once. Her fears and her anxieties were not on his account
now. She was desperate, and ready to brave anything or anybody.

She ran down into his cool sanctum, with its wide-open windows
overlooking the bay, its gaudy, striped awnings, and verandah full of
flowers, and finding her parent smoking a cigarette and absorbed in the
_Financial News_, began at once.

“Papa, I’ve had bad news from England. A--one who is very dear to me
is ill, and if I don’t hear better news by telegram, I wish to start
to-night for London.”

“Madeline!” he cried, laying down the paper and gazing at her in
angry astonishment. “What are you thinking about? Your sick friend
has her own relatives; they would never expect _you_ to go flying to
her bedside from the other end of France. Nonsense, nonsense!” he
concluded imperatively, once more taking up the news, and arranging his
_pince-nez_ with grave deliberation.

The matter was decided. But Madeline was resolved to make an equal
show of determination, and said, in a stubborn tone--

“Papa, in this I must have my way. It is not often I take my own
course; I do everything and go everywhere to please you. You must allow
me to please myself for once.”

Mr. West pushed back his chair a full yard, and gazed at his daughter.

“Do not throw any obstacle in my way, papa, nor seek to know where I am
going.”

“Ah, ah! Not a lover, I hope, madam?” he gasped. “The curate, the--the
drawing-master?”

“No; let that suffice, and let us understand one another, once for
all. I have been an obedient daughter to you; I have made sacrifices
that you have never dreamt of”--(Ah! the poor curate! thought Mr.
West)--“and you must give me more liberty. I am of age to go and come
as I please unquestioned. I will do nothing wrong; you may trust me. I
can take excellent care of myself, and I _must_ have more freedom.”

“Must, must, must! How many more ‘musts’? Well, at any rate, you are
a girl to be trusted, and there is something in what you say. I dare
say you have sacrificed some girlish fancy; you have nursed me; you
are a credit to me. Yes, and you shall come and go as you please, on
the trust-me-all-in-all principle, and the understanding that you do
not compromise yourself in any way; but you have your advantages,
Madeline--a fine home and position, and everything money can buy.
Remember, you will miss the best ball if you start to-night, and the
Princess Raggawuffinsky was to call for you. Have you thought of
_that_?”

“Oh!” with a frantic wave of her hand, “what is a _ball_?”

“Well, well, well! How much cash do you require, and when will you be
back?”

“I have plenty of money. If all goes well, I shall be back in a few
days--as soon as possible--for the regatta, perhaps.”

And so, with a few more remarks and assurances, and expostulations on
Mr. West’s part at her travelling alone, she pocketed a cheque pressed
upon her, and left the room victorious.

Her father was easier to deal with than she had anticipated. Laurence
was right--for once!

Then she ran upstairs to her own sanctum and locked the door, pulled
off her dress, put on her cool dressing-wrapper, and sat down in
a fever of mind and body to wait for the telegram. She remained
motionless, with her eyes fastened on the clock, a prey to the wildest
fears. Supposing the child was dead!--she shuddered involuntarily; if
it _were_, she would go out of her senses. Her anxiety increased with
every hour. She was in a frenzy of impatience, now pacing the room, now
sitting, now standing, now kneeling in prayer.

At last there was a knock at the door--Josephine’s knock. Josephine’s
voice, “Une dépêche pour vous, mademoiselle.”

Mademoiselle’s hand shook so much that she could hardly open the door,
hardly tear asunder the envelope, or read its contents--at a gulp.
Josephine had never seen her mistress in this frenzied, distraught
condition--her colour like death, her face haggard, her eyes staring,
her hair hanging in loose _abandon_. What did it mean? The telegram
brought good news. It said, “He is much better, and in no danger. You
need not come.”

The sender’s name was not notified. Whoever it was, it mattered little;
the relief was inexpressible. What a fright Mrs. Holt had given her,
and all for nothing!

Miss West went to the ball that night, and danced until the dawn
flickered along the horizon. She was one of the most brilliant figures
at the carnival, and received marked notice in distinguished quarters.
At the battle of flowers, she and her equipage were the cynosure of all
eyes. The open victoria was made to counterfeit a crown, and covered
with pink and white azaleas. Miss West was attired to correspond. Four
beautiful white horses were harnessed in pink, and ridden by postilions
in pink satin jackets; and the general effect was such that the
committee promptly awarded the first banner to “la belle Anglaise,”
despite the close rivalry of a celebrated demi-mondaine, who furiously
flung the second banner in the faces of the judges, and, with her
yellow flowers and four black ponies, had whirled off in high dudgeon
and a cloud of dust.

At last this enchanting period was brought to an end by the Riviera’s
own best patron--the sun. People melted away as if by magic. Some went
on to the Italian lakes, some to Switzerland, many to England. Madeline
and her father deferred their return until the end of May, stopping
in Paris en route; and when they reached home the season was at its
height, and the hall and library tables were white from a heavy fall of
visiting-cards and notes of invitation.

Lady Rachel and Lord Tony came in on the evening of their arrival
to pay a little neighbourly call, and to tell them that they must
on no account miss a great match--the final in a polo tournament at
Hurlingham--the next afternoon. Every one would be there.

This speech acted as a trumpet-call to Mr. West.

“Every one will see that we have returned,” he said to himself, and it
will save a lot of trouble. Then, aloud, “All right, then, Lady Rachel,
we shall certainly go. Madeline must trot out some one of her smart
Paris frocks. And, Madeline, you might send a wire over to Mrs. Leach,
and offer her a seat down.”




                            CHAPTER XXXII.

                       MR. JESSOP’S SUGGESTION.


Laurence Wynne had taken but one person into his confidence, and that
was Mr. Jessop. As he sat smoking a post-midnight cigar over the
fire in his friend’s chambers, he told him that Mrs. Wynne no longer
existed. She preferred to stick to her name of West, and wished to keep
her marriage a secret always from--not alone her father, but the whole
world.

This much he had divulged. He felt that he must speak to some one.
His heart was so sore that he could not maintain total silence, and
who so fitting a confidant as his old friend Dick Jessop? He was
chivalrous to Madeline in spite of all that had come and gone, and
veiled her defects as skilfully as he could, not speaking out of the
full bitterness of his soul. But Mr. Jessop’s active imagination filled
in all the delicately traced outline--perhaps in rather too black a
shading, if the truth were known!

However, he kept his surmises discreetly to himself, and puffed and
pondered for a long time in silence. At last he spoke.

“I would let her alone, and not bother my head about her, Laurence! She
is bound to come back.”

“I don’t think so,” responded the other, curtly.

“Yes; she will return on account of the child.”

“And what would such a coming-back be worth to _me_? It will not be
for my sake,” said Wynne, holding his feelings under strong restraint.

“I know of something that would bring her, like a shot out of a
seventy-four pounder,” observed Mr. Jessop after another pause,
surveying the coals meditatively as he spoke.

“What?”

“Your paying attention to another woman. Get up a strong and
_remarkable_ flirtation with some pretty, smart society matron. Lots of
them love your stories. Love me, love my stories. Love my stories, love
me, eh? Show yourself in the park, at theatres--better still, a little
dinner at the Savoy--and Mrs. Wynne will be on in the scene before you
can say Jack Robinson! Jealousy will fetch her!”

“I wouldn’t give a straw for the affection of a woman who was
influenced solely by what you have suggested. No, no; I married her
before she knew her own mind--before she had a chance of seeing other
people, and the world. Now she has seen other people, and become
acquainted with the world, she prefers both to _me_. On five or six
hundred a year, with no rich relations, Madeline and I would have been
happy enough. As it is, she is happy enough. I must get on alone as
well as I can. I made a mistake. I was too hasty.”

“Yes, marry in haste, and repent at leisure!” said Mr. Jessop, grimly.

“I don’t mean that; I mean that I mulled that business at Mrs.
Harper’s. I should have wired to Mrs. Wolferton, or insisted on Mrs.
Harper taking Madeline back, and given her time to turn round and to
reflect; but I rushed the whole thing. However, I must now abide by
the position I am placed in with what fortitude I can.”

“You married her, and gave her a home, when she had no friend,” put
in Mr. Jessop, sharply. Mr. Jessop was devoted to Laurence, and
excessively angry with Laurence’s wife.

“It is not every one I would confide in, Dick,” said his companion;
“but you are my oldest chum. You are welcome to be introduced to the
skeleton in my cupboard--an old friend’s privilege. We need never talk
of this again. I suppose people get over these things in time! There is
nothing for it but work--plenty of work.”

Although he discoursed in this cool, self-restrained manner, Mr. Jessop
knew, by years of experience, that his friend--who never made much, or,
indeed, any, fuss about his feelings--had felt the blow in every nerve
of his body.

“Do not think too hardly of her, Dicky,” he exclaimed, promptly reading
the other’s thoughts. “She is very young, and very pretty. I’m only a
poor, hard-working barrister; and she had an awful time once--you know
when! We must never forget how she came through that ordeal. And, after
all, I have no human rival. If she does not care for me, she cares for
no other man. She is blessed with a particularly cool, unsusceptible
temperament. My only rival is riches. It is the money that has ousted
me. The enormous strength of wealth has pushed me out of her heart, and
barred the door. Time, another powerful engine, may thrust her out of
mine!”

“Time! Bosh. Time will never thrust away the fact that she is the
mother of your child. He is a tie between you that neither time,
riches, nor any amount of balderdash you may talk--nor any number of
matrimonial squabbles--can ever break.”

“You are mistaken in your idea of the whole case, Jessop, and under a
totally wrong impression. Nothing can bridge the gulf between Madeline
and me, unless she chooses to come back of her own accord, and unsay
a good deal that she has said; and this she will never do--never. She
does not care a straw for me. I merely remind her of days of squallor,
sickness, and hideous poverty. She was delighted to accept the freedom
which I offered her----”

“And what a fool you were to do it!” exclaimed his listener,
contemptuously.

“Not at all; but I should be a fool were I to try to keep a wife, who
is not even one in name, and never casts a thought to me from month’s
end to month’s end. I shall be--nay, I am--free too.”

“But not in a legal sense, my dear boy; you cannot marry again.”

“No, thank you,” emphatically knocking the ashes off his cigar with
great deliberation as he spoke. “The burnt child dreads the fire. I
made a bad start this time, and even if I had the chance--which, please
God, I never shall have--I would not tempt Fate again, no matter what
the provocation. Women are a great mystery: their chief faults and
virtues are so unexpected. Look at Madeline: when we were paupers she
was a ministering angel. Now that she is rich, she is merely, a smart
society girl, and----”

“And milliners, jewellers, flatterers minister to _her_,” broke in
Jessop.

“I intend to make my profession my mistress, and to devote myself to
her heart and soul. The law is a steady old lady.”

“And a very cantankerous, hard, flinty-faced, capricious old hag
you’ll find the goddess of Justice, my dear fellow. I am going to give
up paying my addresses to her! My uncle has left me a tidy legacy. I
intend to settle down in comfort in his old manor-house--shoot, fish,
hunt, burn my wig, gown, and law books, and turn my back for ever on
the Inns of Court.”

“Jessop, you are not in earnest.”

“I am,” impressively; “and what’s one man’s loss is another man’s gain.
It will be all the better for you, Laurence, since you are so bent upon
the woolsack. I’ll give you a heave-up with pleasure. You will now get
all Bagge and Keepe’s business, for one thing--and, let me tell you,
that that is no trifle.”




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.

                   “ONE OF YOUR GREATEST ADMIRERS.”


It was a perfect afternoon, and Hurlingham was crowded. Every seat
bordering the polo ground was occupied, and the brilliant hues of hats,
gowns, and parasols made a sort of ribbon border to the brilliant green
turf. Mr. West--a fussy or punctual man, according to people’s point of
view--had arrived early with his party, and, so to speak, planted his
fair charges under one of the umbrella awnings, and in a most central
and commanding situation, where Madeline, in a white costume, which set
off her vivid dark beauty, was seen and greeted by many acquaintances.
Lord Montycute, Captain Vansittart, and a smart lady friend (Mrs.
Veryphast) shared the shade of the canvas umbrella, and spasmodically
proffered morsels of the latest and choicest news, for the polo was
absorbing, the match very fast and closely contested, the excitement
intense. During an interval Lady Rachel drifted near--clad in a rainbow
costume, and talking volubly and emphatically to a man. Her quick,
roving eye caught sight of Madeline’s comfortable little party, and she
swept down upon her at once.

“Oh, Maddie, my dear girl, how nice and cool you look, and I’m half
dead, standing baking in the sun, and not a chair to be had for love
or money! Ah, you have two to spare, I see! Here--here is actually one
for _you_.” She called to her escort, who had stopped to speak to a
passing friend. “Madeline,” she continued, “I think you know Mr. Wynne,
who writes. Mr. Wynne, Miss West is one of your greatest admirers! She
knows all your stories by heart.”

This was a fiction, invented on the spur of the moment. Her ladyship
coined many a little lie.

Madeline looked up bewildered. The gentleman who was taking off his
hat to her was--Laurence!--and yet not Laurence. What had he done to
himself? He had discarded his beard, and was fashionably clean-shaven;
moreover he was fashionably dressed in the orthodox long frock-coat,
and wore a flower in his buttonhole, and the most absolutely correct
gloves and tie.

So much depends upon the style, shape, and colour of a man’s tie--and
the very maker’s name! A rashly selected tie may stamp a man’s taste
quite as fatally as the wrong number and pattern of buttons proclaim
the date of his coat!

The removal of his beard had entirely changed Laurence Wynne’s
appearance. He looked much younger: he had a very square chin, his
mouth was expressive--more sarcastic than smiling--with thin, firmly
closed, but well-cut lips. Had she known of that mouth and chin, had
she guessed at them--well, she would have thought twice before she
married their proprietor. As she looked up she coloured to her hair
when she met his steady, cool glance. This meeting was no surprise
to him, for he had noted the _entrée_ of the beauty, her marvellous
costume, and her train of admirers. He had not, however, intended
to come to such close quarters. He was taken unawares when he
found himself in her neighbourhood, and he was determined to escape
immediately, in spite of Lady Rachel. The silence that followed Lady
Rachel’s loud prattle was becoming noticeable, and curious eyes were
turned upon him when he said very distinctly--

“I don’t know if I am so fortunate as to be remembered by--Miss West?”

“Oh yes,” she answered, rather obviously avoiding looking at him, with
a bright patch of colour on either cheek.

“Miss West has such an enormous acquaintance of young men that she must
get a little confused sometimes--a little mixed, don’t you, Maddie?
Now, Mr. Wynne, I see what you are up to,” said Lady Rachel; “but
no, you shall not run away. Here, sit upon this chair. I had great
difficulty in capturing you, you are so run-after and spoilt, and now
I am not going to let you desert. You ought to be thankful for a seat
in the shade, and amongst such pleasant company!” As he reluctantly
seated himself at the very outskirts of the group, she continued--“Now,
you must not sit there looking like a snared animal, watching for
some chance of escape. Do tell me all about the heroine of your last
story. How is it that you are so familiar with all our little ways, and
weaknesses? You know too much. One would almost suppose that you were a
married man!”

“I think it must be time to go to tea,” said Madeline, glancing
appealingly at her father, who had just joined them.

“Tea! Don’t you wish you may get it! There is not a single vacant table
on the lawn. I’ve just been to look. Hullo! Ah--er--Wynne, how do you
do?”

Mr. Wynne had been pointed out to him as a rising junior at the bar--a
coming man in literature, who wielded an able pen, and was quite one
of the season’s minor celebrities. His sketches were a feature of the
day--a short one, naturally. Every one was talking of him.

Mr. West loved a celebrity--if he was gentlemanly and in good society,
_bien entendu_--nearly as much as he loved a lord, but not quite; and
he added--

“I remember you were at our house last winter, and you are interested
in paintings and art. You must look us up, eh?--and come and dine.”

“Thank you. You are very kind.”

“We’ve just come back from the Riviera. Delightful place! Were you ever
there?”

“No, I’ve never been nearer to it than Lyons.”

“But I’ve been there,” broke in Lady Rachel; “and I shall never go
again, on account of the earthquakes, although it was capital fun at
the time.”

“Fun!” repeated Mr. West, with a look of amazement.

“Yes, half the refugees were running about in blankets fastened with
hairpins, afraid to return for their clothes. Oh, they were too absurd!
A whole train full went to Paris in their dressing-gowns--some in bare
feet. Every one was different--‘out of themselves,’ as they say in
France. One old lady, in her mad excitement in speeding some relations,
actually tore off her wig and waved it after them.”

“Poor old dear! _How_ she must have regretted it subsequently!” said
Lord Montycute. “My sister was there at the same time, and paid twenty
pounds a night for the luxury of sleeping in the hotel omnibus.
Nothing would induce her to go to bed indoors. The hotel was cracked
from top to bottom!”

“I don’t care for the Riviera,” remarked Lady Rachel. “It’s too hot,
and the scenery is ridiculously gaudy. It always reminded me of a
drop-scene. I declare to you, sitting on a promenade, facing the blue
sea and blue sky, and pale, buff promontories and palms, with a band
playing in the neighbourhood, I have felt as if I was in the stalls of
a theatre.”

“Oh, shame!” cried Mrs. Leach. “You have no feeling for the beauties of
Nature.”

“I thought Monte Carlo lovely--the garden too exquisite for words.”

“And the tables?” inquired Mr. West significantly.

“Yes, I had my own _pet_ table; and at first I was successful. I
always went on the ‘doz-ens,’ or ‘passe.’ One day I made ninety pounds
in an hour; but, alas! I lost it all in about ten minutes.”

“The tables always _do_ win in the long run,” said Mr. West,
sententiously.

“Yes,” agreed Lord Montycute, “they have no feeling, no emotions. When
they gain they are not excited; when they lose they are not depressed;
and this is their advantage.”

“Oh, but they cannot leave off if they _are_ losing,” cried Lady
Rachel. “We score there.”

“_You_ did not score, at any rate,” remarked Mrs. Leach, with a smile.

“No; I wish I _had_ left off. There is Mrs. Raymond Tufto. Did you see
her at Nice, Madeline?”

“Oh yes; she went everywhere.”

“She is wearing that same flower toque. I _am_ so sick of it,” cried
Mrs. Veryphast, impatiently.

“Nevertheless she is one of the prettiest women in London,” observed
Captain Vansittart. “She has such a saintly expression, and she looks
so _good_.”

“She is a horribly heartless wretch. She goes off for months on the
Continent, and leaves her children to nurses at home,” said Lady
Rachel, viciously. “She has one dear little tot of two, that actually
does not know her by sight.”

“It is quite the French fashion to board out babies,” remarked Mrs.
Leach, who was invariably in opposition to Lady Rachel.

“Turn them out to walk like young hounds,” drawled Captain Vansittart.

“Mrs. Tufto, bad as she may be, is nothing to Lady Blazer,” continued
Mrs. Leach, impressively. “She has a nursery full of girls, and yet,
what _do_ you think? When she was asked the other day to subscribe
to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, she said,
‘Delighted! There is only one species of animal I loathe, and that’s a
_child_.’”

“Oh, I say--come! I don’t believe that,” cried Mr. West, “of any
woman--or even a man. I’m rather partial to _nice_ small children
myself.”

“Mr. Wynne,” said Lady Rachel, turning on him suddenly, “why are you so
silent? You know it is your _métier_ to talk.”

“Then why do you grudge me a well-earned holiday?” he asked
imperturbably.

“I believe you are studying us for your next sketch; taking us in your
literary kodak.”

“No, indeed! I am not a reporter for a society paper.”

“Oh, I don’t mean about our dresses and hats, or that; I mean character
sketches.”

“How I should like to sit to you for _mine_!” said Mrs. Veryphast,
vivaciously, moving her chair an inch or two nearer to his. “I _do_
wish you would make a study of me, and put me in one of your charming
stories or dialogues.”

“It would have a fabulous circulation if _you_ were the heroine,” said
Lord Montycute, with a bow.

Mrs. Veryphast smiled, well pleased. She was not always able to
distinguish between impertinence and flattery. Mrs. Veryphast was
evidently anxious to annex another ladies’ friend, who had edged
himself so far away that he was quite an outsider. But he would not be
appropriated, neither could he effect his escape.

“Mr. Wynne,” said Lady Rachel, briskly, “you are up in all the
principal subjects of the day. Do tell us what you think of the new
woman.”

“That she will be an old woman in a few years.”

“So shall I. You are meanly evading the question.”

“I think----Let me think again.”

“You mean, let me _dream_ again. You seem to be half asleep this
afternoon. Well?”

“On reflection, I consider that she is a devastating social influence.”

“That can be read in two ways, you wary fox. What is your opinion of
the emancipation of women--wives especially?”

“Upon my word! Lady Rachel, I must protest!” he answered, with a
somewhat fixed smile. “You are endeavouring to obtain my opinion
gratis. I cannot afford it. How am I to live?”

Meanwhile Madeline, looking rather pale, listened furtively to this
passage of arms.

“I think you are _too_ horrid. At any-rate, it cannot hurt your pocket
to tell me if you approve of the higher education of my sex.”

“No; I prefer the ancient Greek mode--complete isolation,
wool-spinning, and no books.”

“Gracious! I shall pity your _wife_.”

His eyes and Madeline’s met for one half-second all the way across Lady
Rachel’s bonnet and Captain Vansittart’s broad shoulders. Then he stood
up.

“What--going? Oh, Mr. Wynne!” protested his captor, with a little
scream.

“I am extremely sorry; but I really _must_. I see a man over there that
I want to speak to particularly; and I shall lose sight of him if I
don’t look sharp.” And taking off his hat with a comprehensive smile,
he was gone.

Yes, Madeline watched him under her parasol. He looked as well as any
one--in fact, quite distinguished. She wondered vaguely who was his
tailor.

Then people began to discuss him, and she gathered by a word from
Mrs. Veryphast, and another from Captain Vansittart, that the general
opinion of Laurence Wynne was highly favourable.

“Of fine old stock, but poor; but brains, and good race, ought to bring
him something,” said Mrs. Leach.

“An heiress!” suggested Mrs. Veryphast, with a giggle. “And now I
propose that we do adjourn, and go to tea.”

From a distance Laurence noted the party _en route_ to refreshments,
Madeline and Lord Montycute bringing up the rear. She belonged to
another world than his, there was no room in her life for him and
Harry. As he had chafed in Lady Rachel’s chains, he had caught snatches
of the conversation of the butterflies who fluttered round his wife.
He heard of balls, river parties, rides, picnics. He was aware that
Miss West’s society was in immense demand; he caught one laughing
announcement “that she had four engagements for the next evening, and
not a spare hour for the next three weeks.”

Not long after that, as he and a friend were walking down to Parsons
Green station, they were passed by a splendid carriage, which gave a
glimpse of two frothy-looking parasols, and two tall hats.

“There goes Miss West,” explained his companion, “the Australian
heiress and beauty, with Lord Tony on the back seat. I hear it is
quite settled, they are to be married in the autumn.”

“Are they? Who is your authority?”

“I can’t say; it’s in the air. I wonder she was not snapped up, long
ago, for although old West is about as common as they make ’em, yet
every one allows that his daughter is charming.”




                            CHAPTER XXXIV.

                        MR. WYNNE IS A WIDOWER.


The first opportunity that Madeline could find she ventured a visit
to the Holts. It was a lovely June morning as she walked up to the
front entrance of the sequestered Farm. She found Harry--_her_ Harry,
a pretty little fellow with fair soft hair and surprised dark eyes,
sitting alone upon the doorstep, and nursing a pointer pup. It was
useless for her to ask in her most winning manner--

“Harry dear, don’t you know me? Darling, I am your own mother; your own
mummy!”

Harry simply frowned and shook his curls, and clutched the puppy
tightly in his clasp as if he meant to throttle it.

Presently Mrs. Holt came upon the scene, with turned-up sleeves, and
stout bare arms, fresh from the dairy. She was exceedingly civil, and
exceedingly cool; invited Miss West into the little parlour, dusted a
chair for her, and did her best to soften the rigidity and hauteur of
little Harry’s aspect.

After some conversation about his double teeth, the weather, and Nice,
she said--

“Suppose you and he just go round the garden, ma’am, and make friends.
I’ll leave you to yourselves, whilst I go and see after the dinner.”

“But pray don’t get anything extra for _me_, Mrs. Holt,” implored
Madeline. “Just what you have yourselves. I shall be very angry if you
make a stranger of me.”

Mrs. Holt muttered some incoherent reply, and went away saying to
herself--

“Not make a stranger of you! and what else? Not make any difference for
you! I’m thinking you’d look very glum if I were to set you down to
beans and bacon, my grand young London madame. Dear me, but she _is_
changed! She cannot stir without a sound of rustling; and the price of
one of her rings would build a new barn!”

Meanwhile, Harry and his mother went round the garden as desired,
hand-in-hand. He could talk very plainly for his age, and trotted along
by her side, considerably thawed in manner. This process was due to
a lovely ball she had unexpectedly produced, a gay picture-book, and
a packet of candy. He chattered away in a most friendly style, and
showed her the pigeons, the bees, and where the lark was buried--in
fact, all what he considered the lions of the place; and every moment
unfolded to his delighted companion some additional marvel and charm.

By the time that one-o’clock dinner was ready, the couple were on
excellent terms, and he had even gone so far as to kiss her, and to
put his little holland-clad arms round her neck of his own accord. The
sensation was extremely pleasant.

After dinner--_not_ consisting of beans and bacon--Mrs. Holt and her
guest had a long _tête-à-tête_. The condition of Harry’s health was
first disposed of, then the state of his wardrobe came under discussion.

“I should tell you, ma’am, since you ask, that all the lovely frocks
and pelisses you sent from France are just laying there. Mr. Wynne
won’t allow him to wear one of them, nor anything you gave him.”

“And why not, pray?” demanded the young lady with considerably
heightened colour.

“He told me quite serious, one day,” said Mrs. Holt, now speaking with
ill-suppressed satisfaction, “that what he had worn and _was_ wearing,
as you gave him, he might wear out; but no new things were to be
accepted, as you had nothing to do with the child now. So I put them
all by, just as they came, in the front room wardrobe, and there they
are.”

“What does he mean?” asked Madeline, in a sharp key.

“I’m sure, ma’am, _you_ know better than I do; he said as he had no
objection to your seeing the child, now and then, but that was all. I
expect Mr. Wynne can be real stiff and determined,” smoothing out her
apron with an air of solemn disapproval, not of him, but of her visitor.

Madeline said nothing, but she felt a good deal. Mrs. Holt, from her
manner more than from her words, sat in judgment upon her. She, this
wife of a common farmer, actually dared to criticise the beautiful and
admired and spoiled Miss West.

“You see, ma’am,” she continued, “you are, and you are not, the
child’s mother. He does not recognize you as that--I mean the child
himself--you have kept away too long. In course you can’t be in two
places at once, nor be both Miss West and Mrs. Wynne. ’Tisn’t my wish,
nor my own doing, as I have taken your place with the child. He is
main fond of me. And then, poor Mr. Wynne, he felt your leaving him at
first, no doubt of that; but he is getting over it now; men haven’t as
much feeling as we _think_.”

Madeline listened with a guilty conscience, every word went home to her
with as much force as a blow. She had chosen her line, and she must
stick to single blessedness. There was to be no going back, at any rate
at present.

This conviction made her reckless, and she rushed with eagerness into
the full tide of London gaiety with a passionate desire to escape
from the past, to get away from the clamouring of a still articulate
conscience, to annihilate memory by some great and effective action,
and to be happy! But memory was not so easily stifled, and now that
Laurence had disappeared from her life--such is the contrariness of
humanity--she wished him back. At times, at races, at Hurlingham, in
great assemblies, at the theatre, or in the Row, she searched the
crowds for him in vain. Mrs. Leach, who was her constant companion and
self-elected chaperon, reading her young friend by the light of her own
memories, noticed that she was not like other girls, content and happy
with her company and surroundings. There was a restlessness in her
manner; she seemed to be continually looking for some one--some one who
never came, who was never to be seen.

Madeline preferred Lady Rachel’s, or Mrs. Lorimer’s company to the
splendid widow’s society, and made futile efforts to shake off her
shackles--efforts which were vain.

Yes, among all Madeline’s social successes, in the midst of her
most dazzling triumphs, she ever cast a glance around in search of
Laurence. Surely, if he went to see her in the full blaze of her
triumph, he would think twice ere he permanently renounced such
a treasure! She felt hot and angry when she thought of him, but
nevertheless she longed to see him once more--odious, unreasonable,
and tyrannical as he was. Surely he did not mean to abandon her in
reality. That idea had no place in her mind when she was abroad. There
everything and everybody seemed different. It was easy, in a strange
country, far away from Laurence and Harry, to drop a misty cloud over
the past, and to feel as if she really _was_ Miss West. But here in
London, where she had lived as a married woman, and had struggled--and
oh, what a struggle!--with the awful question of how to support a
household on nothing, the idea was unnatural--nay, it went further, it
was improper. She would perhaps write to him some day, and hold out the
olive branch; but not yet, and meanwhile she must see him.

Mr. West was still extremely uneasy about himself. He found the heat,
and dust, and noise of London trying to his health, he declared; and,
much to the disgust of Mrs. Leach and other interested friends, he
announced that the middle of July would not find him in England. He was
going to Carlsbad, to Switzerland, and to winter abroad--probably at
Biarritz.

Ere she was thus carried off, Madeline resolved to see Laurence. She
prevailed upon Lady Rachel to take her to the Temple church. She was
aware that he went there every Sunday, and Lady Rachel, little guessing
the reason of her friend’s sudden enthusiasm for the venerable
edifice, and anxiety to hear a certain well-known preacher, procured
two tickets for benchers’ seats, and occupied them the ensuing sabbath.

These seats were roomy and elevated, and commanded an excellent view
of the whole centre of the church where the members of the various
inns sat. They came in gradually, not in legal garb, as Madeline had
half expected, but in their usual dress; and she strained her eyes so
eagerly that her sharp little friend nudged her and said, “For whom are
you looking, Maddie?”

“Oh, no one,” colouring. “It is such a very interesting old place. I
like staring about. What crowds of people who cannot get seats, and
have to stand!”

At this juncture the organ pealed out, and every one stood up as the
choir filed in, and just immediately afterwards, Lady Rachel exclaimed
in an excited whisper, “There’s Mr. Wynne--look!”

Of course Madeline never moved her eyes from him; they followed him,
as he found a seat at the end of a pew, luckily well within her view.
He could not see her, but she could study him, especially when she
knelt down, with her two hands shielding either side of her face, from
watchful Lady Rachel.

He looked well, a little grave perhaps, a little worn; no doubt he
was working hard. He did not stare about as did others, nor cast a
single glance at the radiant figure in the benchers’ seats. At times
he seemed preoccupied and buried in thought, but he gave his undivided
attention to the sermon, to which he listened with folded arms and a
critical air, as if he were weighing every word of it in his mind, and
as though it were a summing up of evidence being laid before a jury
of which he was a member. There was no abstracted air about him, his
mind was on the alert, he had cast the past or future aside, and was
absorbed in the present.

The sermon concluded, crowds flocked through the ancient doorway,
and scattered outside. Lady Rachel still lingered, and looked about
eagerly, ere taking her departure westward, and then she exclaimed, in
a disgusted voice--

“I wanted to have asked Mr. Wynne to lunch, if I had seen him to speak
to,” shaking out her parasol and opening it with a jerk of annoyance.
“But there he goes, marched off by that girl in the green and blue
frock--the very sight of it turns me cold! And do you see the old papa
rushing after them, and accosting him with rapture? The way in which
girls throw themselves at men’s heads nowadays, is abominable. However,
it’s a mistake for these bold creatures to imagine that men will marry
them. They either take a wife from the stage or music-hall, or some
quiet little country mouse. As for Mr. Wynne, he is a widower, and
I believe his wife was a perfect _horror_--so he will not be caught
again! Ah, here’s a hansom! Now, my dear girl, get in, get in. These
dry sermons make me frightfully thirsty. I am dying for my lunch.”




                             CHAPTER XXXV.

                   INFORMATION THANKFULLY RECEIVED.


The house in Belgrave Square remained closed for many months,
whilst its master roamed from one fashionable continental resort to
another, in search of what he called health--but which was merely
another name for variety and amusement. Madeline was at first averse
to this protracted absence; but she had excellent news of little
Harry. Laurence was still in what she called “the sulks;” and every
day weakened her hold more and more on her former ties, and bound
her to her present condition. In the early twenties a girl is very
adaptable, and it had come to this, that at times Miss West forgot
that she had ever had other than this sunny butterfly existence; and,
if her conscience occasionally made a claim on behalf of her child,
she promptly told herself that he was well cared for, and that Lady
Frederick Talboys sent all her children out to nurse until they were
three years of age, and Harry was barely two. As for Laurence, he would
come to his senses in time; and the idea of telling her father of her
marriage she now put away in the lumber-room of her brain, and rarely
looked at.

About Christmas Mr. and Miss West and suite arrived at Biarritz, put
up at a large and fashionable hotel, and occupied the best rooms on
the first floor. They found Biarritz charming, Madeline liked the sea,
the rolling Atlantic breakers, the Basque tongue, and the bronzed
semi-Spanish peasantry. Mr. West was charmed with the society, the golf
links, and the Casino.

One day Mrs. Leach casually arrived at their hotel, with a number of
basket-trunks and a maid, looking very handsome, and was enchanted to
meet dearest Madeline and dear Mr. West. She had heard that they were
at Pau, and was so surprised to discover them. Madeline was such a
naughty girl about writing, such a hopelessly lazy correspondent.

To tell the truth, Miss West was secretly anxious to shake off the
tenacious widow, and was purposely silent.

In less than a week the lady had resumed her sway over Madeline’s papa.
Her soft manners, pathetic eyes, stately presence, and low, caressing
voice, proved his undoing. He had almost forgotten the Honourable Mrs.
Leach--and here, in three days, he was as much, or more, her slave as
ever. So much for men’s vanity and women’s wiles. She flattered--he
confided. It came to pass, as a matter of course, that the lady
occupied a seat beside Madeline in the landau every afternoon. Her
maid tripped down with her wraps and parasol precisely as if it were
her mistress’s own carriage. Her mistress also occupied Miss West’s
private sitting-room, received her friends in it, wrote, and worked,
and read all the Wests’ papers and books, shared their table at meals
in the _salle à manger_, and (but this was never known to Madeline)
her little weekly account for room and board was always furnished to
and settled by Madeline’s papa; a few whispered words on the balcony
one night had arranged this trifling matter. The handsome widow was
completely identified with the West family, and was included in all
their invitations as well as their accounts. Every evening, after
dinner, she and Mr. West sat aloof in a little alcove whilst he smoked
cigarettes, or on the verandah whilst he smoked and sipped his coffee,
and she amused him and cut up many of the gay and unsuspicious company
for his delectation. She was also confidential respecting her own
affairs. If she had told him their true position his few scanty locks
would have stood on end. She was almost at the end of her wits, and he
was her sole hope, her last resource. For years she had lived beyond
her income--a small one. Her dressmaker’s bills would have staggered
even him. She owed money in all directions; her creditors were
pressing, her society friends were not pressing with invitations; her
husband’s connections ignored her. But if she could establish herself
in Mr. West’s heart and home, as his second wife, she would have before
her a new and delightful career. And she had begun well! Certainly
Madeline was irresponsive and cool, but always pleasant and polite. Why
was Madeline changed? However, once she was Madeline’s mamma, Madeline
would find a difference! Every night, as Mrs. Leach stepped into the
lift, to be borne aloft to her own bower, she said to herself, “He will
certainly propose to-morrow,” but alas! one evening these cheering
presentiments were crushed.

The conversation had turned upon Madeline. She was a favourite subject
with her father.

“She nursed me well and pulled me through that nasty illness last
winter. I shall never forget her. One would have said she was
accustomed to nursing--and nursing a man too, ha, ha! I should miss her
terribly if she married.”

“But there is no prospect of that at present, is there?” asked his
listener softly.

“No. She is too stand-off. She will ride and dance, and talk and laugh,
but once a man’s attentions become marked, she freezes up! I’m afraid
she is serious when she says she won’t marry. There’s Lord Tony hanging
after her.”

“Oh, don’t you think he is very much _épris_ with Miss Teale of New
York?”

“Not he!” impatiently. “I dare say he and Madeline will settle it some
day.”

“And then how lonely you will be, dear Mr. West! _I_ know what it is
like.”

“Yes, I suppose it will be a little dull, unless the young people will
live with me.”

“Oh!” rather sharply, “they won’t do _that_!”

“If they don’t, I shall have to set up another housekeeper, to get some
one to take pity on me and marry again,” and he looked significantly
into Mrs. Leach’s unabashed eyes.

Mrs. Leach held her breath.

“But I should never dream of doing that as long as Madeline is with me.”

“So here was the matter in a nutshell,” said his listener to herself,
as she grasped her fan fiercely and closed her lips. Unless Madeline
went off, he would never marry. The great thing, of course, was to
get the girl settled. She passed her obvious admirers in lightning
review. There was actually not one whom she could lay her finger upon
as a possible son-in-law for the little gentleman beside her. She knew
several who would have gladly proposed to Madeline, but Madeline never
gave them a chance. Why? She would make it her business to discover
the reason why Miss Madeline was so cold and _difficile_, and to find
out _who_ he was? Mr. Jessop knew. Oh, if she only had a chance of
exercising her fascination on that sour-looking barrister! Madeline
had had a note from him recently, and she had been on the point of
perusing it when she had been disturbed: she frequently mistook
Madeline’s letters for her own, and had glanced over a good deal of
her correspondence. It had proved extremely commonplace, but she felt
confident that Mr. Jessop’s letter would be of absorbing interest.

Madeline was on the alert. She had taken a sincere dislike to this
tall, dashing body-guard of hers, with her splendid toilettes,
shocking meannesses, her soft manners, and her sharp claws. She was
aware that she tampered with her letters. She had surprised her (but
not discovered herself); and seen her carry a piece of recently-used
blotting-paper and hold it up before the sitting-room mirror; and she
was aware, from Josephine, that Mrs. Leach had made an exhaustive
search in her room, under pretence of seeking a fur collarette. Oh! she
was a clumsy spy.

       *       *       *       *       *

In March, when the English season was as its height, and every hotel
and villa was packed, an elderly Englishwoman, wearing blue spectacles,
and a small sandy-haired girl, wearing a tailor-made and sailor
hat--that seal of British livery--toiled up the staircase of the Grand
Hotel, followed by their luggage. At the first landing the young lady
stopped and stared at a very smart apparition which had just come out
of a sitting-room--a pretty, tall girl, dressed with much elegance in
a plum-coloured cloth coat and skirt, a white cloth waistcoat, white
felt hat with purple velvet, white gloves, white sunshade. Could it be
possible that she was Madeline West? Madeline, the pupil-teacher at
Mrs. Harper’s? She raised her eyes: yes, it _was_ Madeline. She would
speak.

“Madeline--West, I am sure. Don’t you remember me at school--Nina
Berwick?”

“Oh yes, of course,” shaking hands.

“Growing up makes a difference, doesn’t it?” (Growing rich makes a
difference too.)

“You are staying here?” said Miss Berwick effusively.

“Yes, we have been here ever since Christmas.”

“How nice! I hope we shall see a great deal of one another, and have
talks over old times.”

“Yes,” assented Madeline, colouring, “that will be charming.”

“You are not married, are you, Madeline?”

“What has put such an idea into your head?” was the misleading reply.
Madeline was clever at evasion and subterfuge: practice makes perfect.

“You see we have been living abroad for two years, and are rather out
of the way of news. I am living with my aunt, Lady Fitzsandy. She hates
England. Well, I’m nearly dead, and very dusty and thirsty. Our rooms
are on the _quatrième étage_, and the lift is out of order, I hear, so
I must toil up. Ta-ta!” and she hurried away after the porters and her
relative.

Nina Berwick had left school just after the breaking-up--Madeline
recalled this with a sensation of relief. She came from the borders of
Scotland, and knew nothing; besides, she was always intensely stupid,
and never could remember anything--names, dates, historical events, and
even school events went through her sieve-like brain. She had not been
a particular friend of Madeline’s, and had only known her in those days
when she had fallen from her high estate--never as the rich Miss West.

For her part, Nina Berwick was amazed at her friend’s transformation.
She occupied a suite on the first floor. She had an English footman, a
private sitting-room, a Paris frock, and yet she was not married! The
Miss Berwicks were well-born but poor; their aunt could not afford
them the delights of a London season. She carried them abroad, where
they had never heard of Madeline’s social successes. Lady Fitzsandy
roved about the Continent, from one gay centre to another, and was
extremely anxious to get her nieces settled--especially Lucy, who was
plain and twenty-eight.

Lady Fitzsandy gladly foregathered with Mr. West’s pleasant party.
They always joined forces after dinner in the hall, and took coffee
together. And her ladyship was specially charmed with Mrs. Leach, Miss
West’s chaperon, who was so sweet and so handsome--she was connected,
too, with her own cousins the Horse-Leaches--and seemed so pleased and
interested to hear that Nina had been at school with Miss West.

“The dear girls,” as she pointed out the pair sitting side by side
on a distant divan, “were going over old times three years ago, and
talking so happily together.” This is what they were saying, and what
Mrs. Leach would have given her best ring to hear:--

“And so your father came home very wealthy, Maddie? And you live
in London, and have had two seasons, and go everywhere--and know
everybody?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“Well, of course, you have hosts of admirers.”

“I don’t know about that either!”

“Nonsense, I’m sure you have had hundreds. What was the name of that
gentleman at school?”

“Gentleman at school--there were no gentlemen--at school.”

“Now don’t be silly! He was the friend of some people that used to
come to the breaking-up. He danced with you, and Miss Selina was wild.
I’m sure you must remember him.”

“I don’t want, as you may easily imagine, to remember anything about
_school_, except,” picking herself up, “some of my school-fellows.”

“Oh, now, let me see, I’ve a shocking memory for names. I think his
name began with N, or was there an N in it?”

“There was _nothing_ in it--will that answer as well. There is to be a
big ball here to-morrow; you are just in time.”

“In the hotel?”

“Yes; it will be a capital dance.”

“But I know no men.”

“I know any number, and I will get you partners,” said Madeline,
recklessly.

And Madeline kept her word, to the intense enjoyment of Miss Berwick,
who, thanks to her school-fellow, had quite a delightful plurality of
cavaliers. It seemed so strange to Nina Berwick to see Madeline West,
the shabby drudge whom she had pitied at school, now surrounded with
every luxury and crowds of smart acquaintances, with a carriage and
servants at her orders, and all the best _partis_ at her feet.

She was extremely good-natured, and did her utmost to give this rather
plain, dull little spinster a good time. She got up picnics and golf
tournaments. She took her for long drives and pleasant expeditions.

One afternoon Miss Berwick’s grandmamma and Mrs. Leach remained
at home, had tea together, and talked Miss West over in her own
sitting-room. Lady Fitzsandy liked Miss West, and sang her praises
in a mild key; ditto Mrs. Leach, in a yet louder strain, with one
occasional piercing high note--that note a “but.” “But she is wildly
extravagant; but she is wonderful, considering her antecedents; but
she cannot live without excitement; but she is uncertain in her
friendships.”

_But_ Lady Fitzsandy was staunch, and said, “I must say that, as far
as I can judge, Miss West is true to old friends. She is very much
attached to Nina.”

Mrs. Leach, on her own part, professed a rival attachment for Miss
Berwick, gave her autographs--which she was collecting--also a box
of pralines, and took her arm round the gardens once, treated her to
coffee at the Casino, and there pumped her to the best of her ability.

“And so Madeline was only a pupil-teacher when you were at school, you
tell me, dear?”

“Yes; I was there fourteen months, for finishing. I was among the
elders, and she had charge of the small fry; I did not come across her
at classes or in school hours, but I used to meet her in passages, and
in the boot-room, and sometimes we waltzed together on half holidays. I
always liked Maddie.”

“And you left before her?”

“Yes; I left last Christmas three years, after the breaking-up dance. I
recollect Maddie played, to save the old skinflints a guinea. But the
end of the evening she danced with a man several times, and Miss Selina
was furious; I think he admired Madeline, and that was her reason.”

“And what was his name, darling?”

“I really cannot remember. I asked Madeline about him, and she rather
snubbed me; but it was something beginning with an N, I think.”

Oh, what a tiresome, stupid creature! “You cannot recollect, darling?”

“No; except that there was an N in his name! I am sure of that.”

“And so Madeline remained on for a year; and did you never hear
_anything_ more of the school after you left?”

“Yes; let me see, I did hear something, I may have dreamt it, that some
one was expelled.”

“Expelled!” with a slight start. “Dear me, how shocking!”

“I cannot recollect, but I am sure it was not Madeline. She was not
that sort of girl; and I may have read it in a book. I get so mixed
between what I have heard and what I have read about; but I am awfully
absent and dreamy.”

“Have you kept up a correspondence with any of your school-fellows?”

“Oh no! I hate letter-writing; and I detested school. But I always
liked Maddie West. She was so pretty to look at, so pleasant to talk
to, so good-natured. And she is not a bit changed. She is a dear.”

“There never was any--you never heard of _her_ getting into any scrape
at school, did you?”

“Oh no; what a funny idea--a scrape! Why, Maddie was as strict about
the rules as the Harpies themselves!”

“And this gentleman that admired her?”

“Oh, it was only at our dances, the breakings-up; he never gave her a
second thought.”

So Mrs. Leech had wasted her blandishments, her time, and her money all
for nothing on this half-witted, tow-headed girl. When she realized the
fact, she rose rather abruptly--looking surprisingly sour, paid at the
_comptoir_, and led the way back to the promenade in somewhat gloomy
silence.

The Berwicks went on to Pau a few days later, and were lost sight of
once more, as is the usual way with these wandering birds of passage.




                            CHAPTER XXXVI.

                       TO MEET THE SHAH-DA-SHAH.


Mr. West returned home early in the season, and inaugurated his arrival
with new horses, new liveries, new footmen, and gave a series of most
_recherché_ dinners. He would have bidden Mr. Wynne to one of these
banquets, for the old gentleman had a tenacious memory (especially
for things that his daughter expressly wished he would forget), but
she quietly turned the subject; and did not encourage the idea of
entertaining her husband under her unsuspicious parent’s roof.

“But he belongs to my club, The Foolscap. I see him there now and
then, and he seems a popular chap, and to know every one. I heard
Fotherham--Lord Fotherham--pressing him to spend a couple of days with
them up the river, and they say his articles and writings are quite
popular.”

“Oh, I don’t think literary people are very interesting; you have
always to get up all their works, and be able to stand a stiff
examination in them, if you want to invite them here. Did you see the
failure of a great bank in Australia--it was among the telegrams in the
_Echo_ this evening?” she added artfully.

“No. Bless my soul! what bank? Where is the paper?” in great
excitement. And Mr. West’s mind was hurried away into another channel,
and Mr. Wynne’s invitation-card was not despatched.

Madeline found time to pay many stealthy visits to Harry, who was
really a beautiful child, of whom even the most indifferent mother
might well feel proud. He could talk and walk so nicely, and was such a
pretty, endearing little fellow, that her visits, from being spasmodic
and irregular, became of weekly occurrence.

Impunity had emboldened her, and every Saturday morning, when her
father imagined her to be shopping, or in the Park--found her in
Mrs. Holt’s old-fashioned garden, walking and playing between high
hollyhocks, sunflowers, and lavender bushes, with a fair-haired little
boy. What would Mr. West have said had he seen his lovely daughter
running round and round, and up and down the gravel path, driven by two
knotted reins, and a small fierce driver, wielding a long whip with a
whistle at the end of it?

Mr. and Mrs. Wynne never met, for her days, as we have seen, were
Saturdays, and his were invariably Sundays.

Low fever was prevalent that sultry month of June, also typhoid and
diphtheria. The latter fastened its grim clutch on little Harry. It
was a case which developed rapidly. The child had been hot and heavy,
and not his usual bright talkative self, when his mother saw him on
Saturday. Mrs. Holt attributed this entirely to the oppressive weather,
and to thunder in the air. On Sunday his father, justly alarmed,
summoned the local doctor, who at once pronounced that the little
patient was a victim to diphtheria.

On Monday Madeline was sent for. The child was a shade better, though
still very ill. He lay in his cot and gazed at her with large distended
eyes--and gasped out “Mummy--mummy,” as he held out his little hot
hands.

She remained all day, for it so happened that her father was out of
town; but, under any circumstances, she assured herself, she would
have stayed all the same; and when she finally departed, late in the
evening, the patient was sleeping, and the doctor’s opinion more
encouraging. He assured her that she need not alarm herself, as he
walked down with her to where the fly stood waiting in the lane.

“You really need not be uneasy, my dear madam,” he said impressively,
“unless things take a most unexpected turn, and then, of course, we
will let you know. He is a fine healthy child, and admirably nursed by
yonder good woman,” nodding towards the house.

“She is indeed a good woman!” returned Madeline fervently, as her
thoughts recalled Mrs. Holt’s unwearying care and night and day
attendance on her nursling. She even seemed to grudge her permission to
feed him, or to moisten his lips.

“I’m afraid I can’t come to-morrow, unless I am really needed,” said
Madeline plaintively. “You say there is no danger now--you are _sure_?
I may rely on you to tell me?”

“Yes; there is none whatever at present.”

“Because if there were, I should remain all night.”

“There is no occasion, especially if you are urgently needed
elsewhere,” rejoined the doctor, who nevertheless thought it rather
strange that this pretty, tearful, agitated young lady should not find
it the most natural thing to remain with her sick child--her only
child.

Promising that she should have early news the next morning by
telegraph, he handed her into the fly, and bowed her off the scene,
just as another inquiring relative--equally near and equally
anxious--came hurrying up to him--in fact, the child’s father, who had
taken the short cut from the station by the path across the fields.

“Most peculiar state of affairs,” thought the doctor to himself;
“there must be a screw loose somewhere. The child’s parents apparently
well-off, fashionable people, living apart and visiting the farm
separately, and never alluding to one another. What did it mean?”

Mrs. Holt promptly set the matter before him in three words. It meant
that “they had quarrelled.” Mr. Wynne remained at the farmhouse all
night, sharing Mrs. Holt’s vigil, and watching every turn, every
movement, every breath of the little sleeper as anxiously as she
did herself. In the morning there was no positive change one way or
another. The pendulum of little Harry’s existence seemed to have paused
for a time before it made that one vital movement in the direction of
either life or death.

A message was despatched to Miss West in these laconic words--“Slept
pretty well; much the same.” And Madeline, relieved in her mind,
entered on the work of a long and toilsome day. In short, she continued
the grand preparations for a ball that they were giving that evening.
It was to be the ball of the season.

Invitations had been out for four weeks. A native Indian prince,
and some of the lesser Royalties had signified their intention of
being present. Mr. West looked upon the festivity as the supreme
occasion of his life, the summit of his ambition--fully and flawlessly
attained--and he was happy. Only, of course, there is a thorn in
every rose; in this rose there were two thorns. One--and a very sharp
one--the disquieting rumours of financial affairs in Australia, where
a great part of his huge income was invested; and the other and
lesser thorn--the announcement of Lord Tony’s engagement to an old
acquaintance and partner, Miss Pamela Pace.

And so his dream of calling Lord Tony by his Christian name, as his
son-in-law, was at an end. However, he was resolved to make the most
of the delightful present, and to give an entertainment, the fame
of which should ring from one end of London to the other. He fully
carried out his motto, “money no object.” The floral decorations alone
for hall, staircase, ballrooms, and supper-table came to the pretty
penny of two thousand pounds. The favourite band of the season was, of
course, in attendance. As to the supper, it was to be a banquet, the
menu of which would make an epicure green with envy; and Madeline’s
dress was to come direct from Doucet, and had been specially designed
for the occasion by Mr. West’s commands.

With all these splendid preparations in view, it will be easily
understood that it was with some trepidation that Madeline asked her
father to postpone the ball.

She made her request very timidly, with failing heart and faltering
lips--indeed, the end of her sentence died away in the air when she
beheld the terrible expression on her parent’s face.

“Put off the ball!” he roared; “are you mad? You must have a shingle
short. Put off the swells, after all the work I’ve had to get them! Put
off”--he actually choked over the words--“the Shah-da-shah, when you
_know_ there’s not another day in the season! Every night is taken.
Why, what do you mean? What’s your reason?” he almost screamed.

“I--I thought the intense heat--I fancied Ascot--races happening
to-morrow, and I’m not feeling very--well,” she faltered lamely.

“Oh, bosh! You look as fit as possible. Your reasons are no reasons.
I suppose you are cut up about Tony--though why you should be is more
than I can say--seeing that you refused him twice.”

“On the contrary, I’m delighted at his engagement. Pamela Pace is,
as you know, a friend of mine. He promised to bring her to the dance
without fail.”

“And the dance comes off on Wednesday without fail.”

The suggestion of its postponement had been made on Monday--after her
return from the farm.

“And remember, Madeline, that I shall expect you to stir yourself--look
after the decorations, have an eye to the supper-tables, and see that
the men do the floors properly, and that there are no old waltzes in
the programme. You will have your work cut out, and I mine. It will
be the busiest day in your life--one to talk of and look back on
when you are a grandmother. It’s not a common event to entertain the
Shah-da-shah!” As he said this he jumped up and began to pace the
room, rubbing his hands, in an ecstasy of anticipation.

On the morning of the ball Mr. West was early about, arranging,
ordering, superintending, and sending telegrams.

“Here’s a pile,” he suddenly exclaimed at breakfast-time, indicating
a heap of letters. “I got these all yesterday from people asking for
invitations--invitations for themselves, cousins, aunts, and so on,
from folk who wouldn’t know us last season; but it’s my turn now! I’ll
have none of them. Whatever else the ball will be, it shall be select,”
waving his arm with a gesture that was ludicrous in its pomposity.
“By the way, that fellow Wynne--he belongs to my club, you know--and
besides that, Bagge and Keepe have given him a brief in a case I’m much
concerned in. You remember him, eh?”

“Yes, I remember Mr. Wynne,” she answered rather stiffly.

“Well, I met him in the street yesterday morning, and asked him for
to-morrow. He’s a presentable-looking sort of chap,” nodding rather
apologetically at his daughter; “but, would you believe it, he would
not come; though I told him it would be something out of the common.
And fancy his reason”--pausing dramatically--the little man was still
pacing the room--“you will never guess; you will be as astounded as I
was. He said his child was ill.”

Madeline never raised her eyes, but sat with them fixed upon a certain
pattern on the carpet, not looking particularly interested, merely
indifferent, white and rigid.

“He appeared quite in a fright,” proceeded Mr. West, volubly, “and
very much worried and put out. He had a case on in court, and wanted
to get away. I had no idea that he was a married man; had you?”

Before Mr. Wynne’s wife’s dry lips could frame an appropriate answer
to this awkward question, a footman entered with another bundle of
notes on a salver, and thus Mr. West’s attention was diverted from his
unhappy daughter.




                            CHAPTER XXXVII.

                    “GONE OFF IN HER WHITE SHOES!”


In due time all preparations were completed for the reception of Mr.
and Miss West’s guests. The grand staircase was lined with palm-trees
and immense tropical ferns, and lights were cunningly arranged amid the
dusky foliage; a fountain of scent played at the head of this splendid
and unique approach, and here stood the host and hostess side by side.

Mr. West was adorned in a plain evening suit--(would, oh! would that
he might have decked himself with chains and orders!)--and a perennial
smile. His daughter was arrayed in a French gown of white satin and
white chiffon, powdered with silver. Diamonds shone on her bodice, her
neck, and in her hair. She required no such adjuncts to set off her
appearance, but there they were! Although tired and fagged, she looked
as superior to most of her lady guests--who were chiefly of average
everyday prettiness--as a Eucharist lily to a single dahlia. Her colour
and eyes were exceptionally bright, for she was flushed by fatigue,
excitement, and anxiety.

No news was good news, she told herself. The last telegram was
reassuring. There was no need to fret and worry. Half the miseries
in the world are those that have never happened! So she cast doubt
and care behind her as she took her place in the state quadrille and
prepared to abandon herself to the occasion. No one in their senses
would suspect for a moment that the beautiful, brilliant Miss West had
a care on her mind, much less that her heart was aching with suspense
with regard to her sick child.

She indeed lulled her fears to sleep, and played the part of hostess
to perfection--not dancing over much, as became the lady of the house,
till quite late in the evening, or rather early in the morning, and
having a word--the right word--and a smile for everybody.

       *       *       *       *       *

The ball went off without a single drawback. The most fastidious young
men avowed they had been “well done;” the most critical chaperones
could detect no shortcomings in manners, partners, or refreshments.
People enjoyed themselves; there was no after-supper exodus; the men
and maidens found that they were not bored, and changed their minds
about “going on.”

Yes, distinguished guests remained unusually late. The supper, floor,
and arrangements were faultless; and Mr. West was informed by one or
two important folk “that such an entertainment reminded them of the
Arabian Nights for its magnificence. It was a ball of balls.”

The little speculator was almost beside himself with pride and
self-satisfaction. Truly those many cheques that had to be drawn were
already redeemed. He must, of course, pay for his whistle; but it was a
pretty whistle, and worth its price.

He unfolded his feelings to his daughter as they stood alone in the big
ballroom, after the last guest had taken leave and the carriages were
rapidly rolling from the door. His sharp little eyes shone, his mouth
twitched, his hand actually shook, not with champagne, but triumph.

“You did it splendidly, Maddie. If you were a duchess you could not
have hit it off better! I often wonder where you get your manners and
air and way of saying things. Your mother was something of the same
style, too. She had real blue blood in her veins; but she was not so
sparkling as you are, though very vivacious. I must say those Miss
Harpers did their duty by you. Well,” looking round, “it’s all over.
They are putting out the candles, and there’s broad daylight outside.
It’s been a success--a triumph! I wish some of my old chums had seen
it. Bless me, how they would stare! A trifle better than Colonial
dances. And wouldn’t they like to get hold of this in the Sydney
_Bulletin_. There’s a personal paper for you! I feel a bit giddy. I
expect I shall be knocked up to-morrow--I mean to-day. Don’t you rise
before dinner-time. There’s the sun streaming in. Get away to your bed!”

Madeline had listened to this pæan of triumphant complacency without
any re-remark, merely opening her mouth to yawn, and yawn, and yawn.
She was very tired; and now that the stir and whirl and excitement
was over, felt ready to collapse from sheer fatigue. She, therefore,
readily obeyed her parent’s behest, and, kissing him on his wrinkled
cheek, walked off to her own room.

Josephine, half asleep, was sitting up for her, the wax candles were
guttering in their sockets, the electric light was struggling at the
shutters with the sun.

“Oh, mademoiselle!” said the maid, rubbing her eyes, “I’ve been
asleep, I do believe. I’ve waited to unlace your dress, though you
said I need not; but I know you could never do it yourself,” beginning
her task at once, whilst her equally sleepy mistress stood before the
mirror and slowly removed her gloves, bangles, and diamonds, and yawned
at her own reflection.

“It was splendid, mademoiselle. Jamais--pas même à Paris--did I see
such a fête! I saw it well from a place behind the band. What crowds,
what toilettes! but mademoiselle was the most charmante of all. Ah!
there is nothing like a French dressmaker--and a good figure, bien
entendu. There were some costumes that were ravishing in the ladies’
room. I helped. I saw them.”

“It went off well, I think, Josephine, and papa is pleased; but I am
glad that it is over,” said her mistress, wearily. “Mind you don’t let
me sleep later than twelve o’clock on any account.”

“Twelve o’clock! and it is now six!” cried Josephine in a tone of
horror. “Mademoiselle, you will be knocked up--you----”

“Oh! _what_ is this?” interrupted her mistress in a strange voice,
snatching up a telegram that lay upon a table, its tan-coloured
envelope as yet intact, and which had hitherto been concealed by a
silver-backed hand-glass, as if it were of no importance.

“Oh, I forgot! I fell asleep, you see. It came for you at eleven
o’clock last night, just as the company were arriving, and I could not
disturb you. I hope it is of no consequence.”

But, evidently, it was of great consequence, for the young lady was
reading it with a drawn, ghastly countenance, and her hand holding the
message shook so much that the paper rattled as if in a breeze of wind.

And this is what she was reading with strained eyes. “Mrs. Holt to Miss
West, 9.30.--Come immediately; there is a change.” And this was sent
eight hours ago.

“Josephine,” she said, with a look that appalled the little
Frenchwoman, “why did you not give me this? It is a matter of life and
death. If--if,” with a queer catch in her breath, “I am too late, I
shall never, never, never forgive you! Here”--with a gesture of frenzy,
tearing off her dress--“take away this rag and these hateful things,”
dragging the tiara out of her hair and flinging it passionately on the
floor, “for which I have sold myself. Get me a common gown, woman.
Quick, quick! and don’t stand looking like a fool!”

Josephine had indeed been looking on as if she was petrified, and
asking herself if her mistress had not suddenly gone stark-staring mad?
Mechanically she picked up the despised ball-dress and brought out a
morning cotton, which Madeline wrested from her hands and flung over
her head, saying--

“Send for a hansom--fly--fly!”

And thus exhorted and catching a spark of the other’s excitement, she
ran out of the room and hurriedly dispatched a heavy-eyed and amazed
footman for the cab, with many lively and impressive gesticulations.

When she returned she found that Madeline had already fastened her
dress, flung on a cape and the first hat she could find, and, with a
purse in one hand and her gloves in another, was actually ready. So
was the hansom, for one had been found outside, still lingering and
hoping for a fare. Madeline did not delay a second. She ran downstairs
between the fading lights, the tropical palms, the withering flowers,
which had had their one little day, and it was over. Down she fled
along the red-cloth carpetings, under the gay awnings, and sprang into
the vehicle.

Josephine, who hurried after her, was just in time to see her dash from
the door.

“Grand ciel!” she ejaculated to two amazed men-servants, who now stood
beside her, looking very limp in the bright summer morning. “Did any
one ever see the like of that? She has gone away in her white satin
ball-slippers.”

“What’s up? What’s the matter?” demanded one of her companions
authoritatively. “What’s the meaning of Miss West running out of the
house as if she was going for a fire-engine or the police? Is she mad?”

“I can’t tell you. It was something that she heard by telegram. Some
one is ill. She talked of life or death; she is mad with fear of
something. Oh, you should have seen her eyes! She looked, when she
opened the paper, awful! I thought she would have struck me because I
kept it back.”

“Anyhow, whatever it is, she could not have gone before,” said the
first footman, with solemn importance. “But what the devil can it be?”
he added, as he stroked his chin reflectively.

This was precisely the question upon which no one could throw the
least glimmer of light; and, leaving the three servants to their
speculations, we follow Madeline down to the Holt. She caught an early
train. She was equally lucky in getting a fly at the station (by
bribing heavily) and implored the driver to gallop the whole way. She
arrived at the farm at eight o’clock, and rushed up the garden and
burst into the kitchen white and breathless. But she was too late. The
truth came home to her with an agonizing pang. She felt as if a dagger
had been thrust into her heart, for there at the table sat Mrs. Holt,
her elbows resting on it, her apron thrown over her head. She was
sobbing long, long gasping sobs, and looked the picture of grief.

Madeline shook as if seized with a sudden palsy as she stood in the
doorway. Her lips refused to move or form a sound; her heart was
beating in her very throat, and would assuredly choke her. She could
not have asked a question if her life depended on it.

Mrs. Holt, hearing steps, threw down her apron and confronted her.

“Ay, I thought it might be you!” she ejaculated in a husky voice.
“Well, it’s all over!... He died, poor darling, at daybreak, in these
arms!” holding out those two hard-working extremities to their fullest
extent, with a gesture that spoke volumes.

“I will not believe it; it is not true; it--it is impossible!” broke
in the wretched girl. “The doctor said that there was no danger. Oh,
Mrs. Holt, for God’s sake, I implore you to tell me that you are only
_frightening_ me! You think I have not been a good mother, that I want
a lesson, that--that--I will see for myself,” hurrying across the
kitchen and opening a well-known door.




                           CHAPTER XXXVIII.

                          DEATH AND SICKNESS.


Alas! what was this that she beheld, and that turned every vein in
her body to ice? It was death for the first time. There before her,
in the small cot, lay a little still figure, with closed eyes and
folded hands, a lily between them; the bed around it--yes, it was now
_it_--already strewn with white flowers, on which the morning dew still
lingered. Who strews white flowers on the living? Yes, Harry was dead!
There was no look of suffering now on the little brow; he seemed as if
he was sleeping; his soft fair curls fell naturally over his forehead;
his long dark lashes swept his cheek. He _might_ be asleep! But why was
he so still? No breath, no gentle rising and falling disturb his tiny
crossed hands, so lately full of life and mischief--and now!

With a low cry Madeline fell upon her knees beside the child, and laid
her lips on his. How cold they were! But, no he could not be dead!
“Harry, Harry,” she whispered. “Harry, I have come. Open your eyes,
darling, for me, only _one_ moment, and look at me, or I shall go
_mad_!”

“So you have come,” said a voice close to her, and starting round she
saw Laurence, pale and haggard from a long vigil, and stern as an
avenging angel. “It was hardly worthwhile now; there is nothing to need
your care any longer. Poor little child! he is gone. He wanted you;
he called as long as he could articulate for his ‘mummy’--his ‘pretty,
pretty mummy.’” Here his faltering voice broke, and he paused for a
second, then continued in a sudden burst of indignation. “And whilst
he was dying, his mother was dancing!” glancing as he spoke at her
visible, and incriminating white satin shoes.

“I only got the telegram this morning at six o’clock,” returned
Madeline with awful calmness. The full reality had not come home to her
yet.

“You were summoned when the child was first taken ill. Yes, I know you
had a great social part to play--that you dared not be absent, that
you dared not tell your father that another, the holiest, nearest,
dearest of claims, appealed to you,” pointing to the child. “You have
sacrificed us, you have sacrificed all, to your Moloch--money. But it
is not fitting that I should reproach you here; your conscience--and
surely you are not totally hardened--will tell you far sadder, sterner
truths than any human lips.” She stood gazing at him vacantly, holding
the brass bar at the head of the bed in both hands. “It may be some
poor consolation to you to know that, although your presence would have
been a comfort, nothing could have saved him. From the time the change
set in last evening, the doctor pronounced the case hopeless.”

Madeline still stood and looked at the speaker as if she were in a
trance, and he, although he spoke with a certain sort of deliberation,
and as if he was addressing one whose mind found it difficult to grasp
a subject, surveyed her with a pale set face, and his eyes shone like a
flame.

“There is no occasion for you to remain; I will make all arrangements.
The tie between us is severed: you and I are as dead to one another as
the child is to us both. We have nothing now in common but a grave.”
His grief and indignation left no room for pity.

Incidents which take some time to describe, are occasionally almost
instantaneous in action. It was barely five minutes since Madeline had
entered the farmhouse, and become aware of her loss, and now she was
looking with stony eyes upon the destruction of everything that in her
inmost soul she valued. Her child had wound himself into her heart.
He was dead; he had died in a stranger’s arms, neglected by his own
mother. Laurence was also lost to her for ever!

“Have you nothing to say?” he asked at last, as she still remained
silent and immovable.

She clutched the brass rail fiercely in her grasp; there was a
desperate expression in her face. She looked like some guilty,
undefended prisoner, standing at the bar of judgment.

“Have you no feeling, no words--nothing?”

Still she stared at him wildly--speechless. He scrutinized her sharply.
Her lips were parched and open. There was acute suffering in her pallid
face, and dazed, dilated eyes. And, before he had time to realize what
was about to happen, she had fallen in a dead faint.

Mrs. Holt was hastily summoned, and she was laid upon Mrs. Holt’s spare
bed, whilst burnt feathers were applied to her nostrils; her hands
were violently rubbed, and every old-fashioned remedy was exhausted.
The farmer’s wife could scarcely contain her resentment against this
young woman, who had not deserved to be the mother of her dead darling,
especially as she took notice of the diamonds still glittering in her
ears, and of her white silk stockings and satin shoes. These latter
items outraged her sense of propriety even more than Madeline’s absence
the previous night. She lifted up one of these dainty slippers from
where it had fallen on the floor, as its owner was being carried to
bed, and surveyed it indignantly.

“It’s danced a good lot, this ’ere shoe! Look at the sole. Look at the
satin, there; it’s frayed, and it was new last night, I’ll be bound!
It’s a pretty little foot, though; but you need not fear for her, Mr.
Wynne. It’s not grief as ails her as much as you think. _She_ never
was one as had much _feeling_--it’s just dancing! She’s been on the
floor the whole night, and she is just about done.” And, tossing the
miserable tell-tale shoe indignantly to one side, she added, “It’s
dancing--not grief!”

When Madeline recovered consciousness, she could not at first remember
where she was, but gradually the dreadful truth dawned upon her mind;
yet, strange to say, she never shed one single tear.

“No; not one tear, as I live by bread,” Mrs. Holt reported truthfully.
“Her face was as dry as a flint. Did ever any one know the like?” The
worthy woman, who had wept copiously herself, and whose eyes and nose
testified to the fact for days, did not know, had never yet seen “the
grief too deep for tears.”

Madeline went--her husband having returned to town--and locked herself
into the room, and sat alone with the little corpse. Her sorrow was
stony-eyed and hard; her grief the worst of grief--the loss of a
child. And it was edged with what gave it a searching and agonizing
point--remorse. Oh, that she might have him back--half her life for
half a day--to look in his eyes, to whisper in his ears! But those
pretty brown eyes were closed for ever; that little waxen ear would
never more listen to a human voice. Surely she was the most unhappy
woman who ever walked the earth, for to her was denied the comfort
of atonement! She had been weak, wicked, unnatural; she had been
a neglectful mother to her poor little son. And now, that she was
yearning to be all that a mother should, now that she would verily give
her life for his, it was too late!

So long did she remain still and silent, so long was there no sound,
not even of sobs, in that darkened room, that Mrs. Holt became alarmed;
and towards sundown came authoritatively to the door with loud knocks
and a cup of tea.

“A fly had arrived to take her back to the station. Mr. Wynne had
ordered it, and she must come out and have a cup of tea and go. She
would do no good to any one by making herself ill.”

And, by reason of her importunities, Mrs. Holt prevailed. The door was
thrown back, and Mrs. Wynne came out with a face that--the farmer’s
wife subsequently described--fairly frightened her. She had to stand
over her and make her drink the tea, and had all the work in the world
to prevail on her and coax her to go back to town. No, she would
remain; she was determined to remain.

However, Mrs. Holt had a still more robust will, and gradually coaxed
her guest into returning home for just that one night. Anyway, she must
go and fetch her clothes. She would be coming for the funeral. Mr.
Wynne had said something about Friday. She could return. Best go _now_.

“Yes,” answered Madeline, leaning against the doorway from pure
physical weakness, and speaking in a curious, husky voice. “I am going
to tell my father all, and I shall return to-morrow.”

And then she went reluctantly down the walk, looking back over and
over again at a certain window with a drawn blind, still wearing her
white shoes--Mrs. Holt’s were three sizes too large for her--and, still
without one single tear, she got into the fly and was driven away.

When she returned to Belgrave Square--haggard, distraught, and ghastly
in colour--she found that Mr. West had kept his room the whole day;
that the house had returned to its normal condition, the palms and
awnings were gone, and “dinner was laid in the library.” Thus she was
blandly informed by the butler as she passed upstairs, the butler
being far too gentlemanly a person to even hint his amazement at her
appearance by look or tone.

But Miss West did not dine in the library. She went to bed, which she
never left for six long weeks. Diphtheria developed itself. The drains
of 365, Belgrave Square, were unjustly blamed. Miss West had got a
chill the night of the dance, and it was known in society that for
many, many days the charming hostess lay between life and death.

Josephine, a romantic and imaginative Gaul, had long believed that her
mistress had a secret love affair. She drew her own inferences; she
sympathized, and she commanded the household to keep silence respecting
Miss West’s mysterious errand. The morning after the ball, when
diphtheria developed, the house was rapidly emptied. Even Josephine
fled, and left her lady in the hands of trained nurses. Mr. West and
a few domestics stuck to their posts, the infected quarter being
rigorously isolated by means of sheets dipped in disinfectant fluid.

Few of the gay guests ventured to leave cards at the house. Diphtheria
is an awful scourge, and this is the age of microbes. In old times
ignorance was bliss.

Many kind inquiries and anxious messages came by letter, and not a few
men questioned Mr. West at his club. His daughter was such a lovely
creature, so full of vitality, she enjoyed every moment of her life.
Oh, it would be a thousand pities if she were to die!

Strange as it seemed, there was no more regular inquirer than Mr.
Wynne. On the day when Madeline was at her worst, when three grave
doctors consulted together in her boudoir, Mr. Wynne actually came to
the house; and later he appeared to be continually in the club--which
was more or less empty. The season was past. People were on the wing
for the seaside or the moors; but Mr. Wynne still lingered on in town.
Mr. West was constantly knocking up against him in the club hall or
reading-room, and the more he saw of him the better he liked him. He
was always so sympathetic somehow about Madeline, although he had
scarcely known her, and took a sincere interest in hearing what the
doctors said, and how they could not understand how or where she had
caught the infection. There was not a single case of diphtheria in
their neighbourhood.

And his daughter’s dangerous illness was not the little man’s only
anxiety. Part of his great fortune was also in a very dangerous
condition. The panic in Australia was spreading, and though he bore a
stout heart and refused to sell--indeed, it was impossible to dispose
of much of his stock--yet he never knew the hour or day when he might
not find himself a comparatively poor man. As soon as Madeline was
better and fit to move he would go to Sydney, and look after his own
affairs. Meanwhile he began to retrench; he withdrew his commission
for the lease of a moor, for a diamond and emerald _parure_; he put
down all his horses but two; and he placed the Belgrave mansion on the
market. The house was too large to be comfortable, and the sanitary
arrangements were apparently unsafe.

As soon as the invalid was pronounced fit to move she was taken to
Brighton, where, there being no risk of infection, Mr. and Miss West
and suite were comfortably established in one of the best hotels, and
at first the invalid made tolerable progress towards recovery. By the
1st of September she was permitted to go out in a bath-chair, or even
to take a short drive daily. All who saw her agreed that her illness
had told upon her most terribly. Her colour had departed, her eyes and
cheeks were hollow; her beauty was indeed a faded flower--a thing of
the past!




                            CHAPTER XXXIX.

                            WHITE FLOWERS.


As soon as practicable Madeline stole a visit to Mrs. Holt, Mr. West
having much business of importance in London.

“I have been ill,” she gasped as she tottered into the familiar
kitchen, “or I would have come back long ago.”

“So you have, I declare. Dear heart alive! and aged by years, and
just skin and bone. Sit down, sit down,” dragging forward a chair and
feeling for the keys, with a view to a glass of wine for Mrs. Wynne,
who looked like fainting.

“No, no. Never mind; I can’t stay. But tell me where it is, Mrs.
Holt--where have they buried him?”

“No, no. Now sit you down,” enforcing her request with her hand. “Mr.
Wynne was thinking of burying him with his own people in Kent; but it
was too far away, so he is laid in Monks Norton, with a lovely stone
over him. I’ve been there,” and then she proceeded to give the unhappy
mother a minute description of the funeral, the coffin with silver
plates, and a full account of the last resting-place, keeping all the
while an angry and incredulous eye on her visitor’s coloured dress.

“You are not in black, I see,” looking at her own new black merino with
some complacency.

“No, Mrs. Holt; I--I never thought of it, if you will believe me. My
head was full of other things and my heart too sore; but I will wear
mourning outwardly, as I wear it in my soul, and--heart--to the end of
my days.”

“Well, I do wonder as you never thought of a bit of black,” sniffed the
other, incredulously. “’Tis mostly the first thing!”

“Sometimes, I suppose,” responded her visitor wearily. “And now, Mrs.
Holt, I must go; I know that you think badly of me, and I deserve it.”

“Well, ma’am, I can’t say but I _do_!” Her tone was of an intensity
that conveyed a far greater degree of disapproval than mere words could
convey. “But my opinion ain’t of no value to the likes of _you_.”

“You were very good to him. You took my place; I will not thank you.
You do not want my thanks. You did all for his own sake and for pure
love. Oh, Mrs. Holt, if I could only live the last two years over
again!”

“There’s nothing like beginning a new leaf, ma’am. You have Mr. Wynne
still.”

“Mr. Wynne will never forgive me--never. He said so. He said----” Then
her voice failed. “Good-bye, Mrs. Holt.”

“Ay, I’m coming to the gate with you. I’ll tell Tom Holler where to
take ye; it’s in or about three miles. You’d like a few white flowers?
The lilies are just a wonder for beauty.”

“No, no, no. I won’t trouble you. I won’t take them,” she protested
tremulously.

“Oh, but indeed you must!” Mrs. Holt was determined that, as far as
lay in _her_ power, Mrs. Wynne should respect _les convenances_, and,
seizing a knife as they passed through the kitchen, cut quite a sheaf
of white lilies, whilst Madeline stood apathetically beside her, as if
she was a girl in a dream.

Monks Norton was an old, a very old grey country church, thickly
surrounded by gravestones--a picturesque place on the side of a hill,
far away from any habitation, save the clerk’s cottage and a pretty old
rectory house smothered in ivy.

As Madeline pushed open the heavy lych gate, she was aware that she
was not the only visitor to the churchyard. On a walk some little
way off stood two smartly dressed girls, whom she knew--London
acquaintances--and an elderly gentleman, with a High Church waistcoat,
apparently the rector.

They had their backs turned towards her, and were talking in a very
animated manner. They paused for a second as they noticed a tall lady
turn slowly down a pathway, as if she was looking for something--for a
grave, of course. Then resumed their discussion, just where they had
left it off.

“It’s _too_ sweet!” said one of the girls rapturously, “quite a
beautiful idea, and you say put up recently?”

“Yes,” assented the rector, who took a personal pride in all the nice
new tombstones, “only last Saturday week. It’s quite a work of art, is
it not?”

“Yes,” returned the second lady. “You say that it was a child,
brought by the father, and that he was very much cut up. His name was
Wynne--one of _the_ Wynnes. It can’t be our Mr. Wynne, Laura; he is not
married.”

“Oh, there are dozens of Wynnes,” replied her sister. “And you said it
was a sad little funeral, did you not, Uncle Fred? Only the father and
a friend and two country-people. The mother----”

At this moment the girl was aware of some one coming behind her--a
tall person, who could look over her shoulder--some one whose approach
had not been noticed on the grass; and, turning quickly, she found
herself face to face with--of all people in the world!--Miss West, who
was carrying an immense bunch of freshly cut lilies. She gave a little
exclamation of surprise as she put out her hand, saying--

“Miss West, I’m so charmed to see you. I heard you had been so ill. I
hope you are better?”

“Yes, I have been ill,” returned the other languidly, wishing most
fervently that these gay Miss Dancers would go away and leave her alone
with her dead.

They were standing before the very grave she was in search of--a
white, upright marble cross, on the foot of which was written in gilt
letters--

                              HARRY WYNNE,

                     DIED [here followed the date],

                       AGED 2 YEARS AND 7 MONTHS.

       “Is it well with the child? It is well!” (2 Kings iv. 26).

“We have just been admiring this pretty tombstone, Miss West--so
uncommon and so appropriate. I have never seen that text before, have
you?”

Madeline turned away her eyes, and with wonderful self-command said,
“No, she never had.”

“I wonder what Wynnes he belonged to. It does not say. The head of the
Wynnes is very poor. The old estate of Rivals Wynne has passed out of
the family. I saw it last summer. It is a lovely old place--about two
miles from Aunt Jessie’s--delightful for picnics. Such woods! But the
house is almost a ruin. The old chapel and banqueting-hall and ladies’
gallery are roofless. It’s a pity when these old families go down, is
it not, and die out?”

“Yes, a pity,” she answered mechanically.

There was, after this, a rather long silence. Miss West was not
disposed to converse. Oh, why could they not go away? and her time was
so precious! Perhaps they divined something of her thoughts; for the
sisters looked at one another--a look that mutually expressed amazement
at finding the gay Miss West among the tombs of a lonely rural
churchyard; and one of them said--

“Is it not delightful to get into the country? I suppose you are
staying in the neighbourhood for the yeomanry ball?”

Madeline made no reply. Possibly her illness had affected her hearing.

“This old church is considered quite the local sight. Our uncle is the
rector. If you have come to look for any particular grave, we know the
whole churchyard, and can help you to find it with pleasure.”

This was one of the remarks that Miss Laura Dancer subsequently wished
she had not made.

Miss West murmured her thanks, and shook her head. And the girls,
seeing that she evidently wished to be by herself--and, after begging
her with one breath to “come and have tea at the rectory”--pranced down
to the lych gate on their high-heeled shoes, followed more leisurely by
the rector.

And at last Madeline was alone. But how could she kneel on the turf
and press her lips to the cold marble and drop her bitter tears over
her lost darling with other eyes upon her? How could she tell that
the windows in yonder rectory did not overlook every corner and every
grave? She laid the lilies on the turf, and stood at the foot of the
new little mound for half an hour, kissed the name upon the cross,
gathered a few blades of grass, and then went away.

The Miss Dancers, who had a fair share of their mother Eve’s curiosity,
had been vainly laying their heads together to discover what had
brought Miss West to Monk’s Norton church; and over the tea-table they
had been telling their aunt and uncle what a very important personage
Miss West was in the eyes of society--how wealthy, how run after, how
beautiful, and what a catch she would be for some young man if she
could be caught! But she was so difficult to please. She was so cold;
she froze her admirers if they ever got further than asking for dances.

“All heiresses are said to be handsome, no matter what their looks. She
is no beauty, poor thing! She looks as if she is dying. How can any one
admire lantern jaws, sunken eyes, and a pale face? Give me round rosy
cheeks.” And the rector glanced significantly at his two nieces, who
were not slow to accept the compliment.

“Oh, aunty, she is shockingly changed since I saw her last,” said
Laura. “She really _was_ pretty; every one said so--even other women.
She had an immense reputation as a beauty; and when she came into a
ballroom nobody else was looked at.”

“Well, my lasses,” said the rector, rising and brushing the crumbs
of cake from his knees, “the world’s idea of beauty must have altered
_very_ much since I was a young man; or else your friend has altered
greatly. Believe _me_, she would not be looked at _now_.”

So saying, he went off to his study, presumably to write his Sunday
sermon--perhaps to read the newspaper.

His nieces put on their hats again, and went out and had a game of
tennis. Tennis between sisters is a little slow; and after a time Laura
said--

“Look here, Dolly, supposing we go up to the churchyard and see where
she has left those flowers. There would be no harm in that, would
there?”

Her sister warmly agreed to the suggestion, and the two set forth on
their quest with eager alacrity.

They discovered the object of their walk without any difficulty; for
the lovely white lilies were quite a prominent object on the green turf.

Miss West had laid them upon the new grave--the child’s grave. How
strange!




                              CHAPTER XL.

                            A FORLORN HOPE.


The hurried expedition to the Holt Farm, and subsequent visit to Monk’s
Norton, had not agreed with Miss West. She had a most mysterious
relapse, inexplicable alike to her father and her medical adviser.

The former had left her comparatively better, ere starting for a long
day in London. Little did he guess that the invalid had followed him
by the next train, had given Josephine a holiday, had travelled into
Hampshire, and gone through more mental and bodily stress than would
exhaust a woman in robust health, had returned but an hour before him
in a prostrate condition--and had subsequently kept her room for days.

“I cannot account for it,” the doctor said. “Great physical debility.
But, besides this, there is some _mental_ trouble.”

“Impossible!” rejoined Mr. West, emphatically.

“At any rate she must be roused, or I cannot answer for the
consequences. She has no wish to get well. She won’t take the trouble
to live. I think, if you could manage to get her on board ship, a sea
voyage might have a good effect.”

Yes, that would be the very thing, and fall in with Mr. West’s plans. A
trip to Australia.

“How about a trip out to Sydney?”

“Yes; and the sooner you can get her off the better. Her illness is
more mental than physical. She will perhaps recover amid totally
strange surroundings, and where there is nothing to recall whatever is
preying on her mind.”

“Preying on--stuff and nonsense--preying on a goose’s mind!” cried Mr.
West, irascibly.

“I dare say whatever preyed upon a goose’s mind would have a scanty
meal,” said the physician rather stiffly.

“But she has never had a care in her life!”

“Umph!” rejoined the other doubtfully. “_No_ love affairs?”

“Not one.”

“Well, I won’t conceal from you that she is in a most critical state.
Take her abroad at once; you have given up your town house, you tell
me; you have no anchor, no ties. You should start immediately, and be
sure you humour her, and coax her into the trip, for it is only right
to tell you that it’s just touch and go!”

This was terrible news to Mr. West. His daughter had lost her looks,
her spirits, her health; was he to lose her altogether? He broke the
news of a sea voyage to her rather timidly that same evening. She
listened to his eager schemes, his glowing word-paintings, his prophecy
of a jolly good time, with a dull vacant eye, and totally indifferent
air.

“Yes, if he wished--whatever he pleased,” she assented languidly. It
was all the same, she reflected, _where_ she died, on land or sea. But
to one item she dissented--she objected to the proffered company of
Mrs. Leach.

“This was just a sick girl’s whim!” said Mr. West to himself, and he
would not argue out the matter at present; but he was secretly resolved
that the charming widow should be one of the party. She had written him
such heart-broken letters about Madeline from Scarborough (but she had
not seen Madeline since her illness had been pronounced infectious).
There was no fear _now_, and the doctor had said that a cheerful lady
companion, whom the invalid liked, and who would share her cabin and
look after her and cheer her, was essential. Who so suitable as Mrs.
Leach? He would pay her return passage and all expenses; and when
Madeline had retired, he sat down and penned an eager letter to her to
that effect.

In two days Mrs. Leach was at Brighton, with a quantity of
luggage--boxes, bags--and in a fascinating cloak and hat, had rushed
into the hand-shake of her dear Mr. West. She was looking remarkably
brilliant. Oh, what a contrast to his poor emaciated child, who
increased her forlorn appearance by wearing a black dress! She did not
give Mrs. Leach a particularly cordial reception.

“She does not care to see _any one_,” explained Mr. West
apologetically, when he and his enchantress sat _vis-à-vis_ over
dessert. “She takes no interest in _anything_ on earth--it’s mental,
the doctors say,” touching his forehead. “She has had not only
diphtheria, but some sort of shock. She sits moping and weeping all
day; she never opens a book, never opens her lips; she never listens
to half that is said to her; she won’t eat, she can’t sleep, and she
insists on wearing black. I can’t understand it.”

But Mrs. Leach could; she saw it all. Whoever the man was in the
background of Madeline’s life, he was dead. Either that, or he had
deceived her, and, as a result, she was almost crazy with grief. And
what a wreck!

Mrs. Leach took everything firmly in her grasp at once; she was
unusually active and busy. They were to sail in ten days, and there was
Madeline’s outfit; but here no interference was permitted. Madeline
selected her own wardrobe--a few black gowns. However, on the other
hand, Mrs. Leach looked well after Madeline’s correspondence; all
letters were brought first to her. She did not wish Mr. West’s sharp
eyes to notice the swarms of bills which pursued her, and she passed
all his and his daughter’s letters in review ere they were laid upon
the breakfast or afternoon tea-table. Madeline never appeared until
the afternoon, and exhibited no interest in the daily post; she was,
however, pleased to see Lady Rachel and her brother, who came down from
town, ere their departure to Scotland, expressly to wish her a _bon
voyage_ and a speedy return. They were really quite affected when they
beheld what was neither more nor less than the spectre of Madeline
West--the gay and radiant girl of last season!

They had brought her books, flowers, her favourite Fuller’s sweets,
many scraps of news, and, under the influence of their infectious
spirits, she cheered up temporarily. Mrs. Leach, however, despite
the coldness of Lady Rachel and surliness of Lord Tony, remained of
the company, acting as a sort of female warder; and there was no
really free intercourse. In spite of broad hints, she stuck most
pertinaciously to her seat and her silk sock, throwing in observations
every now and then. Certainly she _was_ thick-skinned.

At last Lady Rachel said boldly--

“Now, Madeline, take me to your room, my dear.”

Madeline rose with an effort.

“Oh, my dearest, you must not go into the draught on any account! I’ll
take Lady Rachel to mine.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Leach; I rather wish to have Miss West to myself
for a little, and I dare say she can wrap up if the draughts are so
much keener _now_ than at any other time of the day,” and Lady Rachel
carried her point.

“I wanted to speak to you alone, Maddie,” she said as she closed the
door, “and that odious, thick-skinned, alligator of a woman never gave
me a chance! She knows that I loathe her, and might put you on your
guard.”

“I am on my guard. I know her, I think, even better than you do.”

“And you don’t like her?”

“No, I don’t _trust_ her.”

“I should hope not. She is a regular sort of society adventuress;
a notorious evil-speaker, liar, and slanderer; always poking into
secrets, and levying genteel blackmail. I had _such_ an account of her
from Mrs. Berthon lately. I never liked her--never; but I was not up to
all her history. Her father was a coal merchant, and a man of very low
origin--she is a nobody. Major Leach was caught; he thought she had a
quantity of money. That is always her bait--display, dress, diamonds.
His family no longer speak to her, though she quotes them on all
occasions, and gives them as reference to hotels and banks, and lets
them in. She owes my dressmaker six hundred pounds, and she has put
her off with the excuse that she is going to marry an immensely rich
man!”

“Really! who can it be?” indifferently.

“Can’t you _guess_, you dear blind bat?”

“Not my father?”

“Well, I hope _not_. You must rouse yourself and interfere; elderly men
are so easily made fools of. Is it true that she is going with you to
Sydney, or is it just a piece of gossip?”

“Yes, it is quite true.”

“Then you must stop it; you really _must_, unless you wish to have her
as a stepmother. She will be engaged before you are at Gib. I think I
can see her in smart board-ship frocks, very pleasant, very helpless;
your father, an idle man, waiting on her assiduously, and carrying her
wraps and books; you below, _hors de combat_. Oh, she will not lose
her opportunity, and she sticks at _nothing_.”

“I’m afraid I can’t stop her!”

“I tell you you must. I wish I was going with you instead.”

“Oh, how I wish you were!”

“But I can’t; my plans are cut and dried by Mr. J. I shall write to
you often, dear, and expect to see you back in six months, or at least
twelve, looking quite yourself; now, promise me.”

Madeline, whose spirits were running down and a reaction setting in,
made no answer, save tears.

Lady Rachel’s warning sank into fruitful soil. Madeline plucked up
sufficient energy to urge her father to relieve her of her incubus.

“I should much prefer being alone; I should indeed.”

“Pooh, pooh, my dear!” recalling her doctor’s advice, and thinking
what an agreeable shipmate he was providing, not only for Madeline,
but himself. “Nonsense; it’s all settled, passages booked. No change
possible.”

“I shall be far happier without her.”

“Oh, rubbish! You are just weak now, and fanciful. Mrs. Leach is
devoted to you.”

“I doubt it; and, father, let me tell you a secret. I don’t like her. I
am sure she is not sincere. She is not straight.”

“Come, come; she is as sincere as most women. I wonder who has been
putting these notions into your head--Lady Rachel, eh? Mrs. Leach gave
me a hint. Lady Rachel is all very well, and very pleasant; but a bit
rapid, you know.”

“Whatever she does is open and above-board,” protested Madeline warmly.

“I’m not so sure of _that_, my dear. Mrs. Leach knows a few things that
would never stand the light, and her ladyship is aware of this, and
that’s why she hates our good friend, and wants to set you against her.”

Madeline, weak and miserable, could not argue. She was powerless
against the attractive widow. She, poor hollow-eyed wreck, was no
fitting opponent for the fascinating Flora, whose battery of beauty and
smiles was most effective, and had captivated Madeline’s susceptible
parent. Her influence was far more powerful than Madeline’s, on the
question of what was for the benefit of the invalid, and the invalid
saw that it was useless to prolong the secret struggle, and succumbed
to her fate.

Laurence Wynne had not come across Mr. West for a considerable time;
but he knew that the Wests were at Brighton, and that Miss West was
almost convalescent. It was the end of October, London was filling, and
he was lunching at his club, with one or two acquaintances at the same
table, when one of them said--

“Hullo! there’s old West. I must go and have a word with him presently.
He looks rather down; not half as smart and perky as last year.”

“He has lost a good deal of money!” observed the other.

“Yes; but not as much as is supposed. He is an uncommonly shrewd old
boy, and knows when to save himself; but he can’t save himself from his
present trouble. He is going to lose his daughter?”

“His what?” put in Wynne, quickly.

“Daughter. Surely you’ve heard of the lovely Miss West? She was the
rage for two seasons. She got diphtheria in the summer, and----”

“Yes, yes; I know,” impatiently.

“Well, he took her down to Brighton, and she had a bad relapse of some
kind. I was there on Saturday last, and I saw her. Her carriage had
stopped at a shop I was coming out of. I give you my honour I had to
look at her three times before I was sure of her; she has lost every
particle of colour and flesh and beauty. She might be thirty-five, and
gives one the idea of a person who had seen a ghost, and never got over
it. Yes”--in answer to the expression of his listeners’ eyes--“it’s
rather awful. She used to be so pretty; now she has death in her face.”

“Are you in earnest, Ruscombe?”

“Why, of course I am. Old West is in a deadly funk, and taking her off
to Australia, as a sort of forlorn hope. But he will never get her
there alive.”

“Who says so?” he asked sharply.

“I thought you did not know her, man! The doctor who attends her
happens to be my brother-in-law; and, of course, we are all interested
in the _beauty_. He has a very poor opinion----Oh, are you off? The
fellow is mad. He hasn’t touched a morsel. What the dickens!--Oh,
ho! Now, what does _that_ mean--he is button-holing the old squatter
himself?”

“No, Wynne, not seen you for ages,” Mr. West was saying. “I never come
to the club. No spirits for anything. My daughter is ill--got a sort of
relapse. The doctors say that she has some trouble on her mind--must
have had a shock. Extraordinary case! She has never had a care in her
life!”

Mr. Wynne made no answer, and looked down.

“She can’t get up any strength, and--and takes no notice of anything,
does not want to recover, and is just fading away!”

“Ah, that’s bad! I suppose you have the best advice that is possible?”

What a nice, kind fellow Wynne was! When one was in trouble he quite
took it to heart too; he appeared--or was it the bad light--actually
grave and anxious.

“I’m taking her to Sydney, to try the effect of the sea and change;
it’s just a chance--a last chance.”

“And when do you start?” he asked, taking out his handkerchief and
wiping his brow.

“The day after to-morrow, in the _Victoria_. We go from Tilbury Docks;
as she couldn’t stand the journey across, and, in fact, the more sea
the better. A lady friend is very kindly coming as her companion, just
for the trip; but Madeline and I will not return to England for a year
or two. I’ll see how her native climate will suit her.”

“Yes; I hope sincerely that it will,” said Wynne. There was an
atmosphere of sympathy in his vicinity that had the effect of
compelling confidences.

“I think the London racketing knocked her up, and I’m never going to
have a town house again. When I come back, I shall buy some ancient
historical mansion, the seat of some old family that have died out, and
restore it. That is, of course, if Madeline----” He left his listener
to fill in the sentence.

“Yes,” rather absently.

“I dare say you’ll be married and settled by the time I see you again.”

“I am not likely to marry,” he returned quietly.

“Oh yes, yes; I forgot--a widower, eh? And how’s the child? I always
forgot to ask?”

“The child is dead,” he answered gravely.

“Dear me, that’s a pity; children are a terrible anxiety, as _I_ know!
Well, I hope to come across you again, Wynne.”

“I think it very likely that we shall meet again, and very shortly, for
I am going out to Australia myself, almost immediately.”

“No! Oh, I’m delighted to hear it! Law business, of course, with an
immense fee, eh?”

“On most important business, at any rate. And now I’ll say good-bye for
the present, for I have a great deal to do before I start.”

“And I’ve been jawing away about my family affairs and taking up your
precious time! I’m awfully sorry. I say, I wish you could manage to
come out with us in the _Victoria_. Could you?”

“I’ll do my best.” And he hurried off to wire to Fenchurch Street to
secure a berth.




                             CHAPTER XLI.

                              “LAURENCE!”


The _Victoria_ was a crowded ship. There was a large contingent of
Australian passengers, also many Anglo-Indians who changed at Aden,
and a number of society swallows who were bound for Italy and Egypt.
Madeline and Mrs. Leach shared a four-berthed cabin, and enjoyed
the luxury of two spare berths, which served as holdalls for their
belongings. Mrs. Leach had innumerable parcels, bags, boxes, books, a
jewel-case, a tea-basket. She busied herself ere starting, in fixing
up her affairs, and annexed fully three-quarters of the available
space. Madeline was tired, and put on a tea-gown and lay in her berth
languidly watching her partner making her toilette, arranging her hair,
her dress, her rings, ere sallying forth to dinner and conquest. She
looked remarkably handsome, prosperous, and triumphant as she turned to
the wretched girl in the berth, and surveyed her exhaustively. She had
adopted a curious way of staring at her the last few days--a gaze of
polite, half-veiled insolence--that was distinctly irritating.

“Well, dear Madeline”--the steamer had left the docks, and was steadily
throbbing down the Thames--“so we are off, you see, and I am of the
party--no thanks to _you_. Oh, I know all about it, dearest, and I know
what you would little guess.”

“What?”

“Ah, no matter,” with a meaning smile.

“No, I suppose it is no matter,” wearily. Nothing mattered, she was so
tired--oh, so tired. She wished she was dead, and she slowly closed her
eyes on her companion.

Mrs. Leach gazed at her in amazement. What she knew _did_ matter very
much. It was all very fine for Madeline to close her eyes, and waive
away a subject. She would discover that she, Flora Leach, had her in
her power--she held her in the hollow of her hand. Luck--she called
it--had dealt her an ace of trumps! People were settling into their
places as Mrs. Leach entered, and there was the usual confusion in the
saloon--incidental to starting. Mr. West had secured a capital seat,
and he and Mrs. Leach dined happily together--and were generally taken
for man and wife. The dinner and wine was good, the motion almost
_nil_, a mere slight shaking, and the widow enjoyed herself vastly.
Madeline was rather tired, she said; Josephine was looking after her.
A little soup was all she would take. Should she tell him _now_? No,
the situation was too public, he would probably shout and make a scene.
She would wait for a day or two, until they had their two deck chairs
comfortably drawn up side by side, under the lee of a cabin, and when
the dusk had come and the stars were out, she would whisper into his
ear his daughter’s secret.

When Mrs. Leach retired to her cabin that night, Madeline was asleep.
How pale and wan her face, how thin her hands, she might be dead--she
wished she were. Then she took her bag out of the bottom berth--she
occupied a top one by preference--and searching in its pockets, got
out a letter-case, extracted a letter, and sat down to read it. It was
pleasant reading, to judge by her expression, and she went over it
no less than twice. The motion of the steamer was not so agreeable;
in fact, it was becoming more remarkable every moment. The things on
hooks were getting lively and beginning to swing. She crushed the note
hastily into its envelope, thrust it into her bag and began to undress
as quickly as possible.

The next morning they were off Dover and the _Victoria_ was rolling
considerably. Mrs. Leach was wretchedly squeamish. She attempted to
rise, she dressed with less than her usual elaboration, and staggered
out into the saloon. Alas! she was too bold; the smell of fried fish
was her undoing, and routed her with great slaughter. She lay in her
berth all day, and all the next day. Also Madeline; but she was not a
prey to Neptune--only so tired--so tired of life, and everything.

Late in the afternoon, a bustling, talkative stewardess came in and,
willy-nilly, got her up, helped her to dress, put a long cloak about
her, and assisted her upon deck about dusk.

“The air will do you good, miss. You are no more sea-sick than I am. If
you stop in that stuffy cabin, you’ll be real bad, and the gentleman
said as I was to fetch you, if you could stand. There’s a nice long
chair, and cushions and rug, all waiting for you in a sheltered place.”

And in this chair she soon found herself, whilst her father fussed
round and wrapped her up. The weather was certainly boisterous, the
waves broke over occasionally with a long and vicious swish; but the
air was strong and invigorating, and the pallid girl leant back and
drank it eagerly.

“There are a whole lot of people on board you know, Maddie,” said Mr.
West, sinking into a seat beside her.

“Are there? I am sorry to hear it,” she answered querulously.

“Oh, I say; come, come! and all so anxious to see you again.”

“See me again!” with a weary little laugh, “they won’t _know_ me when
they do see me.”

“There is Lady Stiff-Staff going out to Bombay with her daughters, and
Captain Vansittart, and Miss De Ville, who was at school with you.”

“Oh, I can’t _bear_ her!” was the petulant reply.

He was about to add, “and Mr. Wynne,” but she could not bear him
either, nor dare he mention that it was Mr. Wynne who had urged him to
get Miss West on deck, at all costs, if she was not sea-sick; Mr. Wynne
who had helped to find a stray corner, and brought up cushions and rugs
(Mr. Wynne who had secretly tipped the stewardess a sovereign). He was
a nice, warm-hearted fellow. He was glad he was on board (Wynne was a
whist player), he liked him. A pity Maddie had such a prejudice against
him.

Mr. West talked on, asked for poor Mrs. Leach. “Josephine, I hear, is
dead,” he remarked, “or _says_ she’s dead. It’s a mercy you are a good
sailor. This bit of a breeze is nothing. Wait till you see how it blows
off the Lewin! And I dare say, once we are round Finisterre, it will be
a mill-pond. Now I’m dying to smoke, and as I know you can’t stand it,
I’ll go for a bit. Shall I ask Lady De la Crême to come and sit here in
my place, and amuse you--eh?”

“Oh no--no. I don’t want any one, I’m going down soon.”

She remained for some time in a half-dreamy state, watching the sea,
the flying wrack of clouds, the somewhat faint and timid young moon,
which occasionally peeped forth. Her eyes had become accustomed to the
dim light, when she was rather surprised, and annoyed, to see a tall
man approach and coolly seat himself in her father’s chair--which was
drawn up alongside, and almost touching hers. Presently he spoke.

“Madeline,” he whispered, leaning towards her.

“Laurence! Not Laurence?” she exclaimed faintly.

“Yes--I hope you are better?”

“No.” A long pause, and then, in a dead dull tone, she added, “I hope I
am going to die.”

“What is the matter with you?”

“They call it by some long Latin name; but you and I know what it is.”

“Your father is still in the dark?”

“Yes, it is scarcely worth while to tell him _now_; no need to worry
him for nothing. When I am dead you will forgive me, Laurence, and--and
think less hardly of me?”

“You are not dead, or going to die, and I prefer to forgive you when
you are alive.”

“And will you--but no, you won’t--you cannot--why should you? I don’t
expect it,” she said in hurried gasps. “What can I do now to atone?”

“Get better, get quite well, and I will forgive you _everything_.”

She laughed, a queer little hollow laugh, and then said--

“How strange that you should be on board. Are you going to Egypt?”

“No--to Sydney.”

“Why? Have you friends there, or business?”

“Both; urgent affairs, and I expect to meet friends. Your father says
he is delighted that I am a fellow-passenger. He likes me.”

“How--how extraordinary!”

“Yes; you do not flatter me. But at least it is fortunate----Well,
now, you will have to go down. It is getting rather chilly.”

“Oh no, no; I like being here. And the cabin is stuffy, and Mrs. Leach
is so--so--such a wretched sailor.”

“Then, I am truly sorry for you. But you really must go. I’ll guarantee
to take you below quite safely.”

“No, no. Papa will----”

“It’s as much as he can do to keep his legs, much less steer another.
But, if you prefer it, I’ll call the stewardess.”

“No; never mind”--rising and staggering, and putting a mere skeleton
hand on his; and, as he supported her tremulous steps, he realized how
fearfully weak she was.

They got downstairs safely, and, as she paused, breathless, for a
moment under the great electric light, they looked into one another’s
faces for the first time since that June morning.

It was all that Wynne could do to repress an exclamation of horror, as
a white, hollow-cheeked spectre raised her sunken, hopeless-looking
eyes to his. Even the doctor’s brother-in-law had not prepared him for
_this_.

“Stewardess,” he said, as soon as he could control his voice, “take
great care of this lady. Make her eat. Get her some supper at
once--some hot soup and a glass of Burgundy. You must have something to
eat before you turn in.”

“Oh no; I could not,” she protested feebly. “I don’t want anything.”

“Oh yes you do; and you will be sure to come up early to-morrow. I’ll
come and fetch you about eleven o’clock, weather permitting.” And he
walked off, and went on deck to a distant part of the ship, and leant
over the bulwarks alone.

His old feeling for Madeline had come to life. That wasted form, those
tragic eyes had touched him--cut him to the heart. Yes; she looked as
if she was about to follow the child. If she had been to blame, he
himself was not guiltless. He had upbraided her too bitterly; he had
left her to bear her grief alone; he had not made sufficient allowance
for her youth, her natural craving for the pleasures and delights of
girls of her age. The domestic yoke had been laid upon her childish
shoulders, and what a cruel weight it had proved! Why should he have
been astonished that she should be glad to slip her neck from under it
for a year or two! She had no girlhood. She was endowed with a gay,
happy, sun-loving temperament. He should not have left the telling of
their secret in her hands; he should have spoken to Mr. West himself.
He would do so now, within the next few days. If Madeline was going to
die, she should leave the world as _Mrs. Wynne_! But, whether she was
to live or die, she should have his incessant care.

Day by day Madeline appeared on deck, and day by day gained some
steady but scarcely perceptible improvement. Mr. Wynne took much of
her father’s attendance off his hands, and left him free to smoke and
gossip and play whist. He arranged her pillows and rugs in her chair;
saw that it was sheltered; talked to her when she was inclined to
talk; told her everything that was likely to amuse her; brought up,
or caused to appear at frequent intervals, soup, grapes, champagne,
tea, arrowroot, and used all his persuasions to induce her to
partake of them. He had an unlimited supply of magazines, books, and
picture-papers, which he read to her when she was disposed to listen;
and, when she had looked them over, occasionally she fell asleep; and
he sat beside her, contemplating her white and death-like appearance
with a countenance to match.

However, every sleep, every smile, was an inch on the road to recovery.
Mr. West was extremely obliged to him for his kind attentions to
his daughter. He himself was very fond of Madeline, and, naturally
most anxious about his only child. But he confessed that he did not
understand sick people, and was no hand at nursing. He felt doubly
grateful to Wynne for his assiduity, and the politeness and interest
with which he listened to his own discourse.

He talked to Wynne confidentially--chiefly about finance. He had
lost some money lately--a good deal more than he liked. But he never
put his eggs into one basket, and had a fair amount in sound English
securities.

Wynne was a steady--well--friend. Mr. West had recently experienced
(and resented) a certain palpable change in the social temperature.
He was no longer flattered, deferred to--or even _listened_ to--as
formerly. He was credited with the loss of most of his fortune--every
one knew he had shares in the “Tom and Jerry” Bank--and his daughter
with the loss of her beauty.

“The Wests didn’t amount to much now,” to quote an American lady.
This conviction made Mr. West extremely wroth. People thought he was
played-out. Whoever was particularly civil to him _now_ he took to his
heart, and kept there.

One evening Laurence made his way into the smoke-room, and stood
looking on at the termination of a rather hard-fought rubber. His
father-in-law was playing. He was, moreover, holding good cards, and
in a state of high jubilation. His partner was Lord de la Crême. Could
this trim, rather jaunty little man, holding the cards he was about to
deal, and laughing a loud, rather forced laugh at one of his lordship’s
good things--_i.e._ a very middling joke--be a terrible domestic
autocrat? Who would believe it? But Laurence looked below the surface.
That quick, fiery little eye, now beaming so brightly, told a tale that
he could read. It spoke of choler, obstinacy, of restless ambition,
self-seeking, and fury. Madeline, doubtless, knew the capabilities of
that eye, and feared it.

When the whist party had dissolved, and people were gone to their
berths, Mr. West--who was always prepared to sit up--and Wynne were
alone.

“I suppose Madeline went below long ago? You have been looking after
her as usual?”

“Yes, I took her down.”

“That’s all right”--pausing. “Then play a game of _écarté_. There’s
another half-hour yet before lights-out.”

“No, thanks. The fact is”--seating himself opposite, and squaring his
arms on the table--“I want to have a few words with you.”

“With _me_? Certainly, certainly”--with a momentary glance of surprise.
“About those investments?”

“No; it’s a more personal matter. You”--hesitating for a second--“have
seemed to like me, Mr. West.”

“Seemed! Why, I don’t know a single young fellow that I like as well.
You are clever, you are good company, you are making yourself a name. I
only wish I had a son like you!”




                             CHAPTER XLII.

                             WON ALREADY.


“Then, what would you think of taking me for a son-in-law?” said Mr.
Wynne, fixing his dark eyes steadily on the little man opposite to him,
who was busily shuffling the cards.

“Eh!” was his only reply for quite a long time--an “eh!” incredulous,
indignant, and yet not wholly combative--a long, sonorous exclamation.
“Personally I like you, Wynne--could not like you better; but”--and he
paused--“Madeline is my only child; she is remarkably handsome--_was_,
I should say for the present--and created quite a sensation in town.
You are a very good fellow, and a gentleman, but don’t be offended if I
confess that I am looking higher for her. I expect the man she marries
to place a coronet on her head, and you must admit that she will grace
it!”

Laurence Wynne said nothing, merely nodded his assent, and his
companion--who loved the sound of his own voice--resumed volubly.

“Besides, Wynne, you are a widower! And she does not like you; it’s all
very well when she is ill and helpless, and tolerates you; it’s truest
kindness to tell you--and, indeed, you must see it _yourself_! You have
no idea the iceberg she can be. I often wonder who she is waiting for,
or what she expects?”

“Look here, Mr. West, I can quite understand your views. Mad--I mean
Miss West--would, of course, grace a coronet, as you say, but let me
tell you that we Wynnes, of Rivals Wynne, have bluer blood in our veins
than any of the mushroom titles of the last two hundred years. You will
see, if you look in Burke, that we were at home before the Normans came
over. We were Saxons, and still a power in the land. Our family title
is extinct; but it only wants money to restore it. I have relations
who--like some relations--turned away their faces when I was poor; but
were I to become rich and successful, they would receive me with open
arms, and introduce my wife and myself to circles as exclusive and as
far beyond the stray third-rate noble paupers who prey on your--your
good-nature and--pardon me--your ignorance as the moon is above the
earth. I speak plainly.”

“You do, sir, and with a vengeance!” said Mr. West, a little overawed
by the other’s imperious manner, for Mr. Wynne had said to himself,
why should he be timid before this man, who at most was a _bourgeois_,
whose father--best not seek to inquire into his history--whose
forefathers had gone to their graves unwept, unhonoured, and unsung,
whilst he, Laurence Wynne, though he boasted of no unearned increment,
was descended from men who were princes at the time of the Heptarchy!

“You value good birth, I see, Mr. West,” holding out his hand as if to
convey the fact that he had scored a point. “And you value success. I
am succeeding, and I shall succeed. I feel it. I know it--if my health
is spared. I have brains, a ready tongue, an indomitable will; I shall
go into Parliament; think what a vast field of possibilities that
opens out! Which of your other would-be sons-in-law aims at political
life? Look at Levanter, the reputation he would bring you.” Laurence
shuddered as he spoke. “Do not all honest men shun him? What decent
club would own him? Look at Montycute, what has he to offer, but his
ugly person, his title, and his debts? He and others like him propose
to barter their wretched names and, as they would pretend, the _entrée_
to society--not for your daughter’s personal attractions, of which they
think but little, but her fortune, of which they think a great deal!”

“Young man, young man!” gasped Mr. West, inarticulately, “you speak
boldly--far too boldly.”

“I speak the sacred truth, and nothing but the truth,” said Wynne,
impetuously. “I offer myself, my talents, my career, my ancient
lineage, and unblemished name for your daughter. As to her fortune,
I do not want it; I am now an independent man. Give me your answer,
sir--yes or no.”

Many possibilities floated through Mr. West’s brain as he sat for some
moments in silence revolving this offer. Levanter and Montycute were
all that this impetuous young fellow had described. He had good blood
in his veins; he was handsome, clever, rising, whilst they were like
leeches, ready to live upon him, and giving nothing in exchange but
their barren names. This man’s career was already talked of; he could
vouch for one success, which had agreeably affected his own pocket,
and, with the proverbial gratitude, he looked in the same direction for
favours to come. He had an eloquent tongue, a ready pen, and a fiery
manner that carried all before it. He would go into the House, he would
(oh! castle-building Mr. West) be one of the great men--Chancellor of
the Exchequer--some day. He shut his eyes--he saw it all. He saw his
son-in-law addressing the House, and every ear within its walls hanging
on his words. He saw himself, a distinguished visitor, and Madeline
among the peeresses.

Laurence Wynne, keen and acute, was convinced that some grand idea was
working in his companion’s mind, and struck while the iron was hot.

“May I hope for your consent, sir?” he asked quickly.

“Well, yes, you may, if you can win her. You are welcome, as far as
I am concerned. Yes!” holding out his rather short, stubby hand,
with one big diamond blazing on his little finger. “It’s time she was
settled, and I’m afraid she will never be what she was, as regards
her looks. I did hanker after a ready-made title, but one can’t have
everything! I like you. You are tolerant of an old man’s whims; you
don’t laugh at me under my own roof, and think I don’t see it like some
young cubs; you are a gentleman, and I give you Maddie and welcome, now
that I have talked it over; but the hitch, you will find, will be the
girl herself. She is, as you may see, utterly broken down and altered,
and in no mind to listen to a love-tale; but, well or ill, I must tell
you honestly that I would not give much for your chance.”

“What would you say, sir,” said Laurence, now becoming a shade paler,
“if I were to tell you that I had won her _already_?”

Mr. West looked at him sharply.

“The deuce you have! And when?”

“More than three years ago.”

“What! before I came home? when she was at Harpers’? Were _you_ the
half-starved fellow that I heard was hanging about? Oh, never!”

“I don’t think I was half-starved, but I was most desperately in love
with her.”

“Oh, so it’s an old affair?”

“Yes, an old affair, as you say, Mr. West. And you have given me
Madeline if I can win her, have you not?--that is a promise?”

“Yes,” rather impatiently. “I never go back on a promise.”

“Well, now,” leaning forward and resting his head on his hand, and
speaking more deliberately, “I am going to tell you something that I
am certain will surprise, and I fear will incense you; but you will
hear me out to the end. We have been married for more than three
years!” He paused--not unnaturally nervous--awaiting the result of this
tardy announcement.

“Why! what--what--what the devil do you mean?” stammered Mr. West, his
little eyes nearly starting from their sockets. “What do you mean,
sir? I--I don’t believe you, so there!--don’t believe a word of it!”
breathing hard.

“If you will only listen to me patiently, you _will_ believe me. I
am going to tell you many things that you ought to have been made
acquainted with long ago.”

Mr. West opened his mouth. No sound came. He was speechless. And
his son-in-law proceeded very steadily. “Four years ago you were
said to be bankrupt, if not dead. Mrs. Harper gave you no law when
your bills were not paid. You have never heard that Madeline, from
being the show-pupil and favourite, sank to be the shabby school
drudge--half-fed, half-clothed, and not paid for the work of two
governesses. This went on for a whole year. I saw her at a breaking-up
affair, when she played all night for her schoolfellows to dance. I
fell in love with her then. Miss Selina hated us both, and, to satisfy
her hate and malice, managed--one night in the holidays--to leave us
both behind at Riverside, late for the last train. We had all been to
the theatre. The affair was planned. We waited where we were desired
to wait, and lost the train. Next morning I called to explain to
Miss Harper; but Madeline’s character was gone--she was turned out,
dismissed without mercy. She had no friends, no salary, no reference.
I had, at least, bread-and-cheese--so I took her to London and married
her.”

He stopped and looked at Mr. West, who was livid, and who cried out in
a loud, strange voice--

“Go on, sir--go on--and get it over, before I go mad!”

“I was poor. We lived in lodgings; but we were very happy. After a
time poverty and sickness knocked at our door. I had typhoid fever.
It was an unhealthy season, and I nearly died. I have sometimes since
thought that it would have been well if I _had_ died, and thus cut the
Gordian knot, and released Madeline. However, I hung on, a miserable,
expensive, useless invalid. In the middle of all this a child was
born.”

Mr. West started out of his chair; but subsequently resumed it.

“It was a boy----”

“A boy! Where is it?” demanded his listener, fiercely.

“You shall hear presently,” said his son-in-law, gravely. “Madeline was
the kindest of wives, nurses, mothers.”

“Madeline--_my_ Madeline?” said her father, in a tone of querulous
incredulity and shrill irritation.

“We had no money--none. I had kept aloof from many acquaintances since
I married, and my relations dropped me with one consent. We pawned all
we had, save the clothes on our backs. We were almost starving. In
those days Madeline was a model of courage, cheerfulness, endurance,
and devotion. When I recall those days, I can forgive her much.”

“Forgive her! Madeline pawning clothes! Madeline starving!” cried her
father, so loudly that a sleepy cabin-steward looked in.

Mr. Wynne signed to him to go away, and continued, “Ay, she was. We
could barely keep the wolf out. Then came your letter to the Harpers,
and they advertised for Madeline. She saw the message, and pawned her
wedding-ring to go to them. And they, never dreaming that she was
married, received her with rapture as Miss West. She had no tell-tale
ring, and Mrs. Harper heard that she had been in a shop in London,
in the mantle department. In an evil moment Madeline saw your letter
wherein you spoke very strongly against a poor love affair, and
possible marriage. So, in desperation, and to get money and bread for
her child and for me, she deceived you. Later on, when the influence
of wealth and power and luxury ate their way into her soul, she still
deceived you--and forgot us. I must speak the truth.”

Mr. West nodded.

“She put off the dreaded day of telling you all, and I was out of
patience. She would not allow me to break the news. You remember one
evening that I called in Belgrave Square, and we went to look at a
picture together? It was then that I made my last appeal.”

“She gave you up, then?” he asked abruptly.

“She did.”

“And the child?” eagerly. “My grandson, my heir!”

“You remember the great ball you gave last June?”

“Of course--of course,” irritably. “It will not be forgotten in a
hurry.”

“He died that night,” said Mr. Wynne, slowly.

“Eh! what did you say? Nonsense!”

“He died of diphtheria. Madeline came too late to see him alive. It
was from the child she caught the infection. Yes, I believe she kissed
him. He was a lovely boy--with such a bright little face and fair hair.
We kept him at a Hampshire farmhouse. Many a time I told Madeline that
the very sight of him would soften you towards us; but she would not
listen. She made promises and broke them. She feared you too much.”

“Feared _me_!”

“Since his death, I have had nothing to say to her; but I heard that
she was very ill in London; and I used to find how she was going on
from various people, including yourself, as you may remember. I
thought my heart was steeled against her, but I find it is not. I am
ready to make friends. I heard accidentally that she was in a most
critical state--that day I saw you at the club--and I threw up all my
briefs and business and took a passage.”

“And so _she_ is your business in Sydney?”

“She--she is most woefully changed. When I first saw her under the
lamp, I--I--I--cannot tell you----” He paused, and drew in a long, slow
breath, which said much.

“Poor girl! No wonder she looks as if she had seen great troubles. I
wonder she is alive. Well, I’ll not add to them! She treated me badly;
but she has treated you worse. And afraid of me! Why, every one knows
that my bark is worse than my bite--in fact, I have no bite. And you
stuck to her when she had no friends! Oh what a treacherous old serpent
was that Harper--harridan. Steady payment for nine years. And to treat
my daughter so! And I actually gave that sour old maid a present for
her _kindness_ to Maddie. They did not know you were married to her?”

“No; scarcely any one know.”

“And what’s to be done! How is it to be declared, this marriage. How
is the world to be told that Madeline has been humbugging them for the
last two years as Miss West?”

“The wedding can easily be put in the paper as having taken place in
London, with no date. It will only be a nine-days wonder. We can send
it from the first place we touch at.”

“Ah, you are a clever fellow, Wynne. Hallo! the lights are going out,
and we shall be in darkness.”

“But you are no longer in darkness respecting me.”

“Well, I feel in a regular fog. And so you’re my son-in-law!”

“Yes; there is no doubt about that.”

“It’s odd that I always cottoned to you.”

“You will not be harsh with Madeline, will you?”

“Do you take me for a Choctaw Indian, sir? I’ll say nothing at present.
Board ship is no place for scenes. She’s very shaky still, though
better.”

“Yes, I think she is a shade better now she is on deck all day.”

“It was an awful pity about the little boy, Wynne, and----”

Here the electric light suddenly went out, and Mr. West had to
grope his way as best he could to his own cabin. He lay awake for
hours, listening to the seas washing against the side of his berth,
thinking--thinking of what he had been told that night, thinking of
Madeline and Wynne in a new light, and thinking most of all of the
little fair-haired grandchild that he had never seen.




                            CHAPTER XLIII.

                          HEARTS ARE TRUMPS.


The night of the conversation in the smoking-room, when Mr. West
scrambled below in the dark--not knowing, as he subsequently explained
it, whether he stood on his head or his heels--was the occasion of a
curious incident in Miss West’s cabin. Each day as she grew stronger
and better, recovering energy and appetite, Mrs. Leach became worse,
and the weather to correspond. She sustained existence on Brand’s
essence and champagne, and counted the hours until they were in the
Mediterranean--not that even the tideless sea can be reckoned on in
October. Mrs. Leach felt miserably ill, peevish, and envious; and when
Madeline came down to go to bed, she asked her to get her a bottle out
of her dressing-bag--“something to make her sleep.”

“Shall I hand the bag up to you?”

“No, no, it’s open. A long, greenish bottle--in the pocket next the
blotter.”

Yes, the bag was not locked; the contents were in great
confusion--combs, pins, handkerchiefs, note-paper. It was not so easy
to discover the little green bottle. In turning out the loose articles,
Madeline came upon a letter addressed, in Mrs. Kane’s scrawl, to “Miss
West, care of Mrs. Harper, Streambridge,” forwarded to Belgrave Square,
and from Belgrave Square to Brighton. Some one had kindly saved her the
trouble of opening it, presumably the lady in the top berth and the
owner of the bag.

“Well, have you not found it yet? Dear me, how slow you are!” she
exclaimed fretfully.

“Oh yes. I’ve found it.”

“Then do be quick. I feel as if I should _die_ from this nausea and
weakness.”

Fortunately the little bottle turned up at this instant, and Madeline
(having closed the bag and secured her letter) handed it up to Mrs.
Leach, who next demanded “eau de Cologne, a handkerchief, another
shawl, a tumbler, and some hairpins.”

It was some time before she was at rest behind her curtains. The
positions were reversed, and Madeline, the invalid on land, was not
the invalid at sea. At last she sat down to read her letter. She had
had no communication with Mrs. Kane since she had been at Harperton,
from whence she had sent her a ten-pound note. Luckily for her, Mrs.
Kane never saw the society papers, and had no idea that her late lodger
had blossomed out into a society beauty, much less that she lived in
London, otherwise undoubtedly she would have had the pleasure (?) of a
visit from her correspondent. The letter said:--

  “2, Solferino Place.

  “DEAR MADAM,

 “I hope, in remembrance of _old times_, you will excuse my writing;
 but I am very hard set just at present, and would feel obliged if you
 could spare me a small matter of twenty pounds, Kane being out of
 employment since Easter Monday. I hope Mr. Wynne and your dear baby
 are well. The baby must be a fine big fellow by this time--two last
 winter--and a _great amusement_. Has your pa ever found out the trick
 as you played--how, when he thought you was snug at school, you were a
 whole year living in London in this house?

 “I hope you won’t disappoint me regarding the money, as having your
 _own_ interests to consider as well as I have _mine_.

                                                  “Yours affectionately,
                                                  “ELIZA KANE.”

The postmark on the envelope was dated two days before they had left
Brighton. And this was what Mrs. Leach meant by her hints and looks.
This stolen letter was to be her trump card.

The next morning, when Madeline left her cabin, she was met by
Laurence. He was, as usual, waiting, hanging about the passage and
companion-ladder. At last a tall, slight figure in black appeared, a
figure that walked with a firmer and more active step, and that no
longer crawled listlessly from cabin to deck. It was Madeline, with a
faint colour in her face, she accosted him eagerly.

“Oh, Laurence!” she began, “I have something to tell you. Come into the
music-room; it is sure to be empty.”

And then, in a few hurried sentences, she unfolded her discovery and
placed Mrs. Kane’s nice little letter in his hands.

“Of course, now I shall speak. Of course, I seem a miserably mean,
cowardly creature! It is only when forced by circumstances that I open
my lips at last. Mrs. Leach has long guessed that I had a secret and
a _past_--but, strive as she would, she could never find out anything
definite.”

“This is very definite,” said Laurence, dryly.

“It is, indeed. I could not understand her intense scorn for me
latterly. Laurence, I meant to have told my father immediately
after--after last June, but I was ill; and then, as I used to lie
thinking, thinking, I said to myself, I may as well carry the secret to
the grave, for now the child is gone, and Laurence is gone, what is the
use of speaking?”

“But you see that Laurence is not gone!” he exclaimed expressively;
“and we will let bygones be bygones instead. I am before both you and
Mrs. Leach. I told your father last night. He took it, on the whole,
surprisingly well! I have not seen him this morning, though. He won’t
allude to it at present. Board ship is no place for scenes, he says;
and I am entirely of his opinion; so, my dear, you need not look so
ghastly. Now, come along on deck. We shall soon sight Tarifa. Ah! here
is Mr. West at last.”

The music-room was pretty full as the little man came slowly towards
the pair, who sat apart on a couch at the end of it. He looked
unusually solemn, and he had discarded his ordinary blue bird’s-eye
tie for a black one. He avoided his daughter’s glance, and fixed his
attention on her mourning-gown, as he said--

“Well, how are you to-day, Madeline, my love?”

“I feel better--much better.”

“That is good news! Then come on deck and see the Spanish coast?”

He sat next to her--their steamer chairs placed closely side by
side--in silence for a long time, smoking, and apparently buried in
thought; then, as he suddenly noticed Wynne’s signet-ring on her
wedding finger, he leant forward, took her fragile hand in his--it
trembled, for he held it long and contemplated it intently--and at last
released it with surprising gentleness.

“Madeline,” he said, “I _know_ you’ve had enough trouble. I’m not going
to say one word; but I’m greatly cut up about what happened--last
summer;” and Madeline drew her veil over her face to hide her streaming
tears.

       *       *       *       *       *

After they had crossed the notorious Gulf of Lyons, Mrs. Leach
appeared, with languid airs, expecting attention, solicitude, and
sympathy. Alas! for expectations. What a change was here! Mr. West
was entirely engrossed with Madeline, and was positively curt and
gruff (he had heard the history of the letter in the bag); and when at
last she found an opportunity of talking to him privately, and began
with little preamble about “dear Maddie--such a marvellous sailor--so
_much_ better--getting away from some dreadful hold on her--and
influence--seems to have transformed her into a new creature!” Mr. West
looked at the speaker keenly. The sea-breeze is searching, and the
southern sun pitiless. Ten days’ sickness had transformed Mrs. Leach
into an _old_ creature! She was fifty-five or more, with her sunken
cheeks, and all those hard lines about her mouth and eyes. What did
they signify?

“Do I see Mr. Wynne on board?” she asked, with a tragic air--“over by
the boats? How strange, how audacious!”

“Do you think so? He is Madeline’s husband, and a great friend of mine.”

Mrs. Leach gasped! The wind had been taken out of her sails.

“Then _you_ know all about it?”

“Yes, I know all about it,” said Mr. West collectedly.

“You have not known it for long--not when we sailed?”

“No, not quite as long as _you_ have, Mrs. Leach”--looking at her
expressively.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, for one thing, that I obtained my information through a
legitimate channel; that, as you are such a victim to the sea, it will
be only humane to land you at Naples. It would be _cruel_ to take you
on to Melbourne; and Madeline has a companion entirely to her taste in
Laurence Wynne.”

“And oh what a tale for London!” she exclaimed with a ghastly sneer. “I
am feeling the motion a good deal--perhaps you will be kind enough to
assist me to get below? I find I must lie down.”

To tell the truth, she had been completely bowled over--thanks to a
strong breeze and a strong opponent.

Mrs. Leach landed at Naples and enjoyed an exceedingly pleasant winter
in Rome--due to a handsome cheque which she had received from Mr. West,
nominally as a return for her kind interest in his daughter, and really
as a golden padlock for her lips.

Mr. West, once in Sydney, contrived to pull a good many chestnuts out
of the fire, and returned to England as wealthy as ever, purchased the
old estate of the Wynnes, and restored the half-ruined house in a style
in keeping with its ancient name.

Madeline and her husband spend a great deal of their time at Rivals
Wynne, though their headquarters are in London, and some day the old
home will descend to the old race. The children are beautiful; another
little Harry is the picture of the one that is lost, but not forgotten,
as fresh white wreaths upon a certain grave can testify. Mr. Clay, the
rector, has seen Mrs. Wynne placing them there with her own hands. She
made no secret of it _now_.

“It is the grave,” she explained, “of our eldest little boy. I will
bring his brother and sister here by-and-by.”

The rector, when he takes strangers round the churchyard, and points
out the most noticeable tombstones, halts for a good while before a
certain marble cross, and relates the story of a mysterious young
couple who visited the grave separately, but who now come together,
with other children in their train.

Mr. Laurence Wynne continues to “rise.” He is in Parliament, and a man
of such note that Mr. West no longer casts a thought on Madeline’s lost
coronet. Lord Montycute has married a rich widow twenty years older
than himself. Lord Tony is happily settled, and Lady Tony and Madeline
are fast friends. Lady Rachel is little Madeline’s godmother. She is
a pretty child, sufficiently spoiled by her father, but ruined by her
doting grandpapa. She is an imperious little person, but obedient and
docile with her mother. It is only poor grandpapa whose miserably
scanty locks she puts into curl papers, whom she drives about in a pair
of long red reins, and whom she rules with a rod of iron.


                               THE END.


              PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
                          LONDON AND BECCLES.




                          Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation errors and omissions have been corrected.

Page 41: “this parpicular” changed to “this particular”

Page 76: "inperturbably" changed to "imperturbably"