“Mademoiselle,” she said, “your father is very ill, so his man says. The doctor has been sent for. They think he has got inflammation of the lungs.”
Madeline sprang out of bed, huddled on some clothes, and went at once to her parent’s room. He was very ill—in high fever, his breath coming in quick labouring gasps. It was, as Josephine had said, inflammation of the lungs, and the doctor added, “a very sharp attack.” It had come to a crisis with extraordinary rapidity. It was, he admitted, a grave case; he would like another opinion, and two hospital nurses must be procured at once. How quickly every alleviation, every possible remedy for sickness, every luxury, flows into a rich man’s sick-room!
Was he dangerously ill? asked Madeline, with bated breath.
“Well, there was always a danger in these sudden attacks, and Mr. West had lived a hard life and taken an immensity of wear and tear out of his nerves and vitality. His heart was weak; but still, he had pulled people through worse cases, and she must not think that because her father was seriously ill he was bound to—to——” and he left her to fill in the blank herself, not wishing to hint at that ugly word—death.
And thus was Madeline’s confession postponed sine die, and Madeline felt that she had been reprieved. Yes, the personal fascination of Laurence’s presence had already faded. She wrote a long affectionate letter, and explained the state of the case to Laurence, and sent him constant bulletins of her father’s progress, and except for one flying visit to the Holt Farm and once to church on Sundays, she never left the house for the whole month of November. However, she was cheered in her monotonous duties by the company of Mrs. Leach, who, on hearing of dear Mr. West’s illness, had written from Brighton and volunteered her services to her darling Madeline. Then she had arrived in person, and urged her request with persistence. She would look after the house, see callers, write notes, and leave Madeline unlimited time to spend with the dear invalid.
At first Mr. West, fretful and weary, would not hear of her arrangement. It was one thing to look into the fair widow’s eyes and hold her hand and listen to her flatteries, when in good health, on an idle autumn day; it was another to have her coming and quartering herself thus on a sick house. However, after many messages and intrigues and excuses, Madeline gave way. She was weak, the besieger was strong, and she begged her father to accept the proffered favour.
“I cannot get rid of her, dear. She is determined to come, and, after all, you won’t see her, you know.” But here she reckoned without her guest.
In less than a week Mrs. Leach was frequently smoothing the sick man’s pillow. She paid him a little visit daily, to which he actually looked forward. She told him all the latest news, she flattered him, and she made an agreeable object in the sick-room, with her charming gowns and handsome face.
After all, she took no part in the management of the house, nor did she see visitors, or write notes. She was (she said) so stupid about domestic matters. It seemed to Madeline that their pre-arranged rôles were exchanged; she kept to her usual duties as housekeeper and mistress of the establishment, and Mrs. Leach gave more and more of her time to the sick-room. She had a pleasant voice which never tired, and read aloud to the invalid for hours. She made him his afternoon tea with her own fair hands, and always took a cup with him. Indeed Mrs. Leach cruelly maligned herself when she called herself stupid; on the contrary, she was an excessively clever woman, twice as worldly wise as her pretty Madeline. In her heart of hearts, she had determined to be Madeline’s stepmother; but Madeline must marry, she would prefer the house to herself, and she looked round the gorgeous yellow drawing-room with the air of a proprietor, and indeed had already mentally altered the arrangement of the furniture! Why did not Madeline accept one of the gilded youths who fluttered round her? There was some story in Madeline’s past, and if she could not steal the key to her skeleton cupboard, she was determined to pick the lock, for she had had a glimpse through the keyhole—and there was something inside! This glimpse had been afforded her by means of a young lady who had stayed at the same hotel at Harrogate, a Miss De Ville, who had been for several years at the same school as the lovely Miss West. Crafty Mrs. Leach affected a very faint acquaintance with Miss West but a very warm interest in Miss De Ville and her school days, and even went so far as to ask her in to tea in her own little sitting-room, and showed her the photographs of her cousins, the Countess of Cabinteely and the Honourable Mrs. Greene-Pease.
“And so you were at school with Madeline West, the Australian heiress?” she said.