“I’ve seen her driving in the Park, beautifully dressed; but I am sure she is painted. Perhaps some day I shall call, or rather get my aunt to take me.”
“Well, dear, there is the first dressing-bell, so I must send you away. Good-bye, for the present. I have enjoyed this little chat so much, you have such a way of interesting one.” And really, for once, Mrs. Leach was speaking the pure and unadulterated truth.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A PORTIÈRE WHICH INTERVENED.
Mr. West was ably nursed, he was wiry, and he struggled back to a most trying, peevish convalescence, greatly hastened by Mrs. Leach’s assiduous attentions; and early in January he was ordered off to the Riviera without delay. He was to go to Nice, and, of course, he was not to go alone. Madeline would accompany him. What would Laurence say to this?
In her father’s present precarious state of health, she dared not tell him her news, it would be too great a shock; and yet she almost dreaded facing her husband with another excuse.
Laurence was not to be trifled with, still less her father. What an unlucky creature she was! she said to herself tearfully.
Between these two men, who had such claims upon her, what was she to do? Which was to be sacrificed, father or husband? And then there was little Harry.
And yet her father clung to her as tenaciously, as if he were a child, and could scarcely endure her out of his sight.
Circumstances put tremendous pressure upon her, circumstances in the shape of doctors, her father, and her fears; and she allowed herself, as usual, to drift.
It was quite settled that she was to go to Nice—in fact, there had never been any question of her remaining behind—and to stay there until May. She had no alternative in the character of Miss West, go she must; but in her character of Mrs. Wynne, how was she to act? What about her husband and son?