As he looked round the various groups at picnics and tennis parties—he now and then went for an hour—he saw no one who approached Madeline in any way—face, figure, grace, or gait—especially Madeline as he had last seen her—in her very fine feathers. Doubtless any of these girls would have made a more manageable wife, he thought to himself bitterly. Yes! she had now taken the bit completely within her teeth, and he was powerless to control her. She went and came and stayed away when she pleased, and for precisely as long as it suited her. Her desertion—it was that—was all in pursuit of his interests—his and the child’s. What a fool she must think him! She had evidently resolved to play the rôle of daughter first, wife next, and mother very much the last of all! Her neglect of him he could tolerate, but her neglect of her child made him excessively angry. She had wholly consigned it to Mrs. Holt, and lightly shaken off all a mother’s duties. She a mother! She did not look the part as she chattered fashionable gossip to those idiotic young men on Euston platform, and never cast a thought to the infant she was turning her back on in a certain country farmhouse. She had been away nearly four months, and she had written—oh yes, pretty frequently, but the tone of her letters was a little forced, their gaiety was not natural—perhaps the tone of his own epistles was somewhat curt. The relations between Mr. and Mrs. Wynne were becoming strained—a crisis was impending.
Among the departures from Kingstown on a certain date were Mr. and Miss West and suite, who duly arrived at Belgrave Square, and found London filling fast. Their arrival, however, was somewhat unexpected—the housekeeper had barely time to despatch her sister’s family back to Manchester, and the poor woman was compelled to put off an evening party for which she had issued invitations among her own set.
Mr. West had a great deal of business to transact, and spent most of his days in the city—and this was Madeline’s opportunity.
She lost no time in paying a visit to the Inner Temple, arriving on foot, plainly dressed, and wearing a thick veil. She was a good deal bewildered by the old courts and passages, but at last discovered Mr. Wynne’s chambers. Here she was received by an elderly, bare-armed, irascible-looking woman—with a palpable beard—who, after looking her over leisurely from head to foot, told her to “Go up to the second flight front. She could tell nothing of Mr. Wynne; he was in and out all day, like a dog in a fair.”
Further up the narrow stairs she came face-to-face with two gentlemen, who paused—she felt it—and looked back at her as she knocked and rang at the door of “Mr. Laurence Wynne.” Truly, such an elegant-looking young lady was not to be met about the old Temple every day; and never had such an apparition been seen on Mr. Wynne’s landing. The outer room was occupied by two clerks, who stared at the visitor in unqualified amazement. Here was something spicy in the shape of a client! Very, very different to the usual run. “A breach of promise,” was their immediate and mutual idea. Something more to the purpose than cranky old fogies fighting about rights of way, or an involved legacy case. This was a pretty girl, and a swell.
So much they noted with their sharp, semi-judicial eyes, as she stood timidly in the doorway and raised her veil.
One of them instantly bounded off his seat, and asked what he could do for her?
“Could she see Mr. Wynne?” she faltered, as her eyes roved round the outer office, with its great double desk piled with documents, its rows of law books ranged round the room on staggering, rickety shelves, its threadbare carpet, its rusty fender, its grimy windows, and last, not least, two bottles of stout, and a pewter mug.
Still, these two youths might be Laurence’s clerks. Could it be possible? Could it be possible that these immense piles of papers concerned Laurence? If so, he was getting on—really getting on at last. But what a horrible musty place! The very air smelt of dust and leather and law books.