Madeline shrank from her lady’s maid, but she was a necessity—noblesse oblige. She did not wish the sharp-eyed Parisienne to spy out the nakedness of the land, as far as her own wardrobe was concerned, and was at many a shift to postpone her arrival until she had garments more befitting her background and her father’s purse. Indeed he had not been pleased with her gowns, “they looked cheap,” he had remarked with a frown.
“Is that all you have, Madeline, that black thing?” he asked rather querulously one evening, as they stood in the drawing-room awaiting Lord Anthony, and a friend.
“Yes, papa; and it is nearly new,” she said in a tone of deprecation. “It does very well for the present, and I must wear it out.”
“Wear out! Stuff and nonsense!” irritably. “One would think you had a shingle loose. I really sometimes fancy, when I hear you talking of the price of this and that, and so on, and economy, that you have known what it is to be poor—poor as Job! Whereas, by George! you have never known what it is to want for a single thing ever since you were born. You have as much idea of poverty as your prize black poodle has!”
Had she? Had she not known what it was to frequent pawnshops, to battle with wolfish want, to experience not merely the pleasures of a healthy appetite, but the actual pangs of painful hunger. Oh, had she not known what it was to be poor! She gave a little half-choked nervous laugh, and carefully avoided her father’s interrogative eyes.
“I’ll give you a cheque to-morrow,” he resumed, “and do go to some good dressmaker, and get yourself some smart clothes. Lady Rachel, Lord Tony’s sister, is going to call, ask her to take you to some first-class place, and choose half a dozen gowns. I really mean it; and put this thing,” flicking her fifty-shilling costume with a contemptuous finger and thumb, “behind the fire. You are not like your mother; she made the money fly. However, she was always well turned out. I don’t want you to ruin me; but there is a medium in all things. What is the good of a daughter who is a beauty if she won’t set herself off?”
“Do you really think me pretty, father?” she asked, rather timidly.
“Why, of course I do! We shall have you setting the fashions and figuring in the papers, and painted full life-size, when you have more assurance, and know how to make the most of yourself. Remember this,” now giving his collar a chuck, and speaking with sudden gravity, “that when you marry”—Madeline blushed—“when you marry, I say,” noticing this blush, “you must go into the peerage, nothing else would suit me, never forget that. Now that you know my views, there can be no misunderstandings later on. Never send a commoner to ask for my consent.”
“But, father,” she ventured boldly, now raising her eyes to his, that surveyed her like two little fiery brown beads, “supposing that I loved a poor man, what then? How would it be then?”
“Folly!” he almost yelled. “Poor man. Poor devil! Love! rot and nonsense, bred from reading trashy novels. Love a poor man! Do you want to drive me mad? Never mention it, never think of it, if I am to keep my senses.” And he began to pace about.