He considered that Wynne had behaved like a madman in marrying on nothing; but certainly the girl was an immense temptation—so young, so pretty—such eyes he had never seen—so unsophisticated and fresh, and yet possessing excellent sense and an elastic and dauntless spirit. Here for once was an instance in which poverty had not thrust love out of the window. Strange, but true, their reverses had only served to draw the Wynnes more closely together. They afforded a refreshing study to Mr. Jessop, who was a cynic and a philosopher in a small way, and who sneered and snarled and marvelled. Things had not even come to the worst with these unfortunate people, not until a third was added to the establishment in the shape of a Master Wynne, who puckered up his wrinkled red face, thrust his creasy fists into his eyes, and made hideous grimaces at the world in which he found himself—and in which, to tell the truth, he was not particularly wanted, except by his mother, to whom he was not only welcome, but, in her partial eyes, a little household god!
His father, who was slowly recovering—an emaciated spectre of what he had been—was dubious with regard to the striking resemblance to himself, and frequently wondered in his inmost soul, as to what was to be the future of his son and heir? How was he to be fed, clothed, and educated? Dismal echoes answered, “How?” for the Wynnes were now desperately poor.
I mean by this, that Mr. Wynne’s watch had long been ticketed in a pawnbroker’s window, that Madeline’s one little brooch had gone the same way; also—oh, breathe it not!—her best gown and hat; also Mr. Wynne’s top coat and evening dress clothes; that the invalid alone tasted meat—and in scanty portions—Madeline telling many clever fibs with regard to her own dinner. Her inexhaustible spirits and vivacity seemed to sustain her—that, and a little bread and tea.
The one person who was well-to-do was the baby. He was clothed in a beautiful cloak and hood—Mr. Jessop’s gifts—purchased, with many blushes, by that keen-eyed, close-shaven gentleman, and presented with pride to his godson and namesake. More than once Madeline’s mental eye had seen these sumptuous garments smuggled away to the pawnbroker’s round the corner, but she fought hard with the idea, and had sternly kept it at bay—as yet. Their circumstances were, indeed, all but desperate, when one evening Mr. Jessop came thundering up the stairs, newspaper in hand, and panted out, as he threw himself into the nearest chair and took off his hat—
“I say, Mrs. Wynne, what was your name before you were married?”
“My name,” she echoed, looking blankly at him, for she was trying to keep the baby quiet and to do some copying simultaneously—vain and exasperating task—“was West—Madeline West.”
“Ah! I thought so!” he cried triumphantly, clearing his throat and unfolding his paper with a flourish.
“Then just listen to this:—‘Madeline West.—If this should meet the eye of Madeline Sidney West, she is earnestly implored to communicate with Mrs. H. of H. House, at once, when she will hear of something greatly to her advantage.’ Now what do you think of that?” he demanded of his friend, who, drawn up near a handful of cinders, had been poring over a law book. “Looks like a legacy, doesn’t it?”
“Too good to be true, I’m afraid. Eh, Madeline?”
Madeline turned her face alternately on the two men. A faint colour had invaded her thin, white cheeks, and her eyes brightened as she said—