Lady Rachel and Madame Coralie, between them, soon metamorphosed the appearance of Miss West. She took to her elegant dresses and mantles and tea-gowns with astonishing facility; also to her landau and pair, victoria and cobs, diamonds, dignities, and the last fashion in dogs—a Chinese spaniel. It was not a specimen of animal she especially admired; but her father paid a long price for Chow-chow, because he was the rage, and he looked well on the back seat of the victoria. Yes, Madeline was remarkably adaptable; she developed a predilection for all the sensual accessories of colour and perfume. She also developed a fastidious taste at table, and a rare talent for laying out money.
And what of Laurence Wynne during the time that his wife is revelling in luxury?
He has been making rapid strides on the road to recovery; he is almost well; and the end of his sojourn with the friendly farmer’s family is now drawing perceptibly near. He has letters from Madeline, as she finds means to post them with her own hands—letters full of descriptions of her new life, her new friends, and all the wonderful new world that has been opened to her view.
She, who was never at a dance, excepting at the two breaking-up parties at Mrs. Harper’s, has been living in a round of gaiety, which has whirled faster and faster as the season waned—thanks to Lady Rachel’s introductions and chaperonage; thanks to her beauty, and her father’s great wealth.
Miss West has already become known—already her brilliant colouring and perfect profile have been noted by great and competent connoisseurs. Her face was already familiar in the park.
Luckily for her, dark beauties were coming into fashion; in every way she was fortunate. Her carriage was pointed out in the Row; her table was littered with big square monogramed envelopes and cards of invitation, far too numerous for acceptance. And Miss West, the Australian heiress as she was called, had opened many doors by that potent pass-key, a pretty face, and admitted not only herself, but also her proud and happy parent.
Madeline does not say all this in so many long sentences to Laurence; not that he would be jealous, dear fellow! She knows him better than that; but she is sensible that there is a certain incongruity between their circumstances just at present, and she will not enlarge on her successes more than is absolutely needful. Yet a word drops out here and slips in there, which tells Laurence far more than she supposes. Besides this, Laurence is no fool. He can draw inferences; he can put two and two together—it is his profession. Moreover, he sees the daily, society, and illustrated papers, thanks to Mr. Jessop, who has given a liberal order to his news-agent, believing that his gifted friend, who always lived at high brain-pressure, must be developing into a state of coma in his rural quarters, among cows and pigs and geese.
Laurence reads the letters between the lines. He reads society’s doings, and in the warm June and July evenings, as he strolls about the fields alone, has plenty of leisure for reflection. These are not very happy times for Laurence Wynne. He has found some consolation in work. One or two articles from his pen have made their way into leading reviews, and been praised for their style, substance, and wit. A short sketch of a country tragedy has added another feather to his cap. In these long, lonely, empty days, he had given ample time and brain-work (his best) to these vivid articles, readily scanned in a quarter of an hour. They recalled his name; at any rate, people began to remember Laurence Wynne—a clever chap who made a foolish marriage, and subsequently lived in a slum, and then nearly went and died. Apparently, he was not dead yet! There was a good deal of vitality in him still, and that of a very marketable description. Success, however small, breeds success, and a little sun began to shine on Laurence Wynne at last. He was asked to contribute articles to the Razor and the Present, two of the most up-to-date periodicals. He was well paid—cash down. He was independent once more, and he felt as if he would like to go out into the fields and shout for joy.
Now and then he ventured to write to his wife—to Miss West, 365, Belgrave Square; and Miss West eagerly snatches the letter from under a pile of society notes, in thick fashionable envelopes, plunges it into her pocket, and reads it greedily alone; for although she is a little bit carried away by admiration, money, and power, yet a letter from Laurence puts all these pleasures completely into the shade, as yet.
This is his last that she holds in her hand, written after long meditation, and with many a pause between the sentences. He had turned out an article for the Razor in half the time.