“It is all right, my dear,” whispered Mrs. Leach, receiving her with a significant nod. “I told your father you had gone to lunch with the Countess of Cabinteely, and he was perfectly satisfied.”
In another week Madeline was very pleasantly settled in a charming villa at Nice looking out over the blue tideless sea and the Promenade des Anglais. She had a landau and pair, a pony carriage, and an “at home” day, for not a few of their London acquaintances, early as it was, had come south.
Her father rapidly regained his usual health and amiability, and lavished presents upon her. The horizon before her was literally and metaphorically bright. She was surrounded by quite a brilliant pageantry of flatterers and followers, and could not help feeling a pardonable pride in the sensation she created and in her remarkable social triumphs—in finding bouquets left daily at her door, in seeing her name in enthusiastic little paragraphs in the local papers, in hearing that the fact of her expected presence brought numbers to an assembly or entertainment in order to see the lovely Miss West, to know that she had not an ambition in the world unfulfilled.
Was not this all-sufficient to prove that her millennium of happiness had commenced? She was the beauty of the season, though she was in this particular the victim of an unsought reputation; she had never aspired to the honour, and the character had been forced upon her. All the same, she did not dislike the position of social queen; and as to Mr. West, he gloried in the fact, and basked in the light of her reflected splendour. He was even content to be known as “Miss West’s father.” As some men pride themselves on their family, their estates, race-horses, pictures, collection of old china, or silver, he prided himself upon his daughter, and was convinced that he got more enjoyment out of his hobby than most people. She was always en evidence, and he could see the curious, envious, and admiring eyes, as he drove with her about Nice, walked with her on the British Quarterdeck at Monte Carlo, or escorted her to concerts, receptions, balls, or garden parties. Foreign dukes and princes were supremely affable to him—all on account of the beaux yeux of his charming and celebrated Madeline.
Worth and Doucet had carte blanche, for Madeline’s costumes must be worthy of her, and Madeline was not averse to the idea. A new hat, which became the rage, was named after her. Such is fame! A new yacht had been honoured by the same distinction. Youth, beauty, wealth, celebrity—even Fortune seemed to go out of her way to crowd favours upon this lucky young lady; but, alas! we all know that fortune is a fickle jade, who smiles at one moment, and who scowls the next. Thus, as a kind of social divinity in a gay, earthly Paradise, winter glided on with Madeline. Spring had appeared with a radiant face and a train of flowers; the turf under the olives was covered with anemones, the valleys were starred with primroses; jonquils, tea-roses, and narcissus filled the air with fragrance. Sea and sky reflected one another—sunbeams glanced from the waves, the water seemed to laugh, and the whole face of Nature was one good-natured smile.
The Riviera was full, the carnival about to commence. Madeline was in a state of feverish gaiety and exhilaration. She could not now exist without excitement; she must always be doing something or going somewhere, and required a rapid succession of amusements, from a “promenade aux ânes” up the valleys, to riding a bicycle; from a tea picnic to playing trente et quarante. All her regrets, and all her little twinges of remorse (and she had experienced some) had succumbed to the anodyne of a season on the Riviera—and such a season! But on the very first day of the carnival her spirits received a rude shock in the form of an ill-spelt scrawl from Mrs. Holt, which ran as follows:—
“Honoured Madam,
“I think it rite to let you no, as little Harry has been verry poorly the last two days; in case he is not better I think you ought to know, and mite wish to come home. It’s his back teath. The Docter looked very cerrius last evening, and spoke of konvulshions, but I don’t wish to frighten you.
“I am your humble servant,
“Kate Holt.”