“Her cheek beats all! Shall I go and interfere?” asked the first speaker, in an awestruck whisper.
“No; you just leave her alone,” said number two, who had the bump of caution well developed. “It ain’t our business; but I did think he was about the last man in the world to have a lady coming and routing among his things. There ain’t nothing that she’ll find as will make her any wiser,” he concluded contemptuously.
But here he was mistaken! She discovered a great deal that surprised her much—very much. Here were cards from old judges and stupid law fogies, requesting the pleasure of Mr. Wynne’s company at dinner. That was easily understood. But there were several invitations to entertainments to which she and her father had been bidden! and also, what was the strangest thing of all, blazoned cards of invitation to houses to which her father had not been able to obtain an entrée, smile he never so assiduously on the smart or noble hosts. She stood for several minutes with one of these precious cards in her hand, and turned it over reflectively as she recalled the desperate and unavailing efforts of her parent to obtain a similar honour—the toadying, the flattery, the back-stair crawling that it made her crimson to recall! And, such is poor human nature—poor, frail human nature!—this bit of pasteboard did more to raise her husband in her estimation than all the briefs she saw piled upon his desk. She now began to contemplate him from a new point of view. Hitherto she had been very fond of Laurence—in a way—her own way. He had been good to her when she had no friends, he had borne their poverty with wonderful patience. Yes, certainly he had. But she had thought—rather resentfully at times—that a man without some preparation for such a rainy day as they had experienced ought not to have married; he should have left her as he found her. She did not hold these views at the time. She liked Laurence better than any one, all the same; but the horrible intimacy of dire want had bred—well, yes, a little contempt; his illness, his helplessness had made her put herself somewhat above him in her own secret thoughts. She (for a time) had been bread-winner and house-band, and well and bravely she had struggled at that desperate crisis; but, alas! that it must be recorded, riches had spoiled her. She had inherited a luxurious, pleasure-loving nature, which cultivation had fostered, until, from a small and scarcely noticeable plant, it had grown into an overwhelming jungle! The longer she lived in her father’s home the less disposed was she to return to her own modest roof-tree; and especially, looking round with a wry face, to such a place as this! She was now necessary to her father. He was something (he said) of an invalid; whilst Laurence was young and strong. Every day she was hoping to see her way to making the great disclosure, and every day the chance of making that disclosure seemed to become more and more remote. Laurence was evidently well thought of in influential circles, and, “of course, Laurence is of good family. Any one can see that at a glance,” she mentally remarked; “and, no doubt, his own people had now taken him by the hand.”
The discovery that he moved in a set above her own had raised him in her opinion. Latterly she had been looking down on Laurence, as already stated—perhaps only an inch or so, but still, she placed herself above him. He had drawn a great and unexpected prize in the matrimonial lottery, but he scarcely seemed to realize the value of his treasure! She had bracketed Laurence mentally with obscurity, shabbiness, and poverty, and had a vague idea that only through her means could he ever emerge into the sunshine of prosperity. She had a kind of protecting affection for him, dating from the days when she had starved for his sake, and made his bed and his beef tea, and washed his shirts. She looked down upon him just a little. It is possible to be fond of a man and to entertain this feeling. And now Laurence’s busy clerks, and these coroneted envelopes had given her ideas a shock. She went over and stood in the window, and drummed idly upon the small old-fashioned panes, where not a few names and initials were cut. As she stood thus—certainly a very pretty figure to be seen in any one’s window, much less that of an avowed anchorite like Laurence Wynne—a young gentleman sauntered to the opposite casement, with his hands in his pockets and his mouth widely yawning, as if he were on the point of swallowing up the whole premises. He paused in mute astonishment, and gazed incredulously across the narrow lane that divided the two buildings. Then Madeline distinctly heard him shout in a stentorian voice—
“I say, Wallace, come here, quick—quick, and look at the girl in Wynne’s window! My wig, ain’t that a joke?”
On hearing this summons she instantly backed out of sight, and had the amusement of seeing three heads peering across, vainly endeavouring to catch a glimpse of the promised apparition. However, they saw her depart—although she was not aware of the fact—and they were highly pleased with her figure, her walk, and her feet, and took care to tell Mr. Wynne of their gratifying and flattering opinion, and to poke him in the ribs with a walking-stick—not as agreeable or facetious an action as it sounds—and to assure him that “he was a sly old bird, and that still waters run deep, and that they had no idea he had such good taste;” all of which witticisms Mr. Wynne took in anything but good part, especially as he could not tell them that the lady upon whom they passed such enthusiastic encomiums was his wife. Indeed, if he had done so they would only have roared with laughter, and flatly refused to believe him.
Madeline waited three-quarters of an hour, and then made up her mind to return home. As she walked through the outer office, once more thickly veiled, the alert clerk sprang forward to open the door. As he held it back, with an inky hand, he said, with a benevolent grin—
“When Mr. Wynne comes back, who shall I say called, miss?”
Madeline hesitated for a moment, and then, turning to the youth in her most stately manner, said—“Say Miss West,” and having thus left her name, with all due dignity she passed through the door with a slight inclination of her head and walked downstairs.
She met a good many cheery-looking young barristers, in wigs and flyaway gowns, as she passed through the precincts of the inns, and wondered if she would come across Laurence, and if she would recognize him in that funny dress. For, of course, he wore a wig and gown too; but he had always kept them in his chambers, and she had never seen them. But she did not meet Laurence—so she took a hansom, did a little shopping in Bond Street, and then got home just in nice time for afternoon tea.