“Well, I won’t conceal from you that she is in a most critical state. Take her abroad at once; you have given up your town house, you tell me; you have no anchor, no ties. You should start immediately, and be sure you humour her, and coax her into the trip, for it is only right to tell you that it’s just touch and go!”
This was terrible news to Mr. West. His daughter had lost her looks, her spirits, her health; was he to lose her altogether? He broke the news of a sea voyage to her rather timidly that same evening. She listened to his eager schemes, his glowing word-paintings, his prophecy of a jolly good time, with a dull vacant eye, and totally indifferent air.
“Yes, if he wished—whatever he pleased,” she assented languidly. It was all the same, she reflected, where she died, on land or sea. But to one item she dissented—she objected to the proffered company of Mrs. Leach.
“This was just a sick girl’s whim!” said Mr. West to himself, and he would not argue out the matter at present; but he was secretly resolved that the charming widow should be one of the party. She had written him such heart-broken letters about Madeline from Scarborough (but she had not seen Madeline since her illness had been pronounced infectious). There was no fear now, and the doctor had said that a cheerful lady companion, whom the invalid liked, and who would share her cabin and look after her and cheer her, was essential. Who so suitable as Mrs. Leach? He would pay her return passage and all expenses; and when Madeline had retired, he sat down and penned an eager letter to her to that effect.
In two days Mrs. Leach was at Brighton, with a quantity of luggage—boxes, bags—and in a fascinating cloak and hat, had rushed into the hand-shake of her dear Mr. West. She was looking remarkably brilliant. Oh, what a contrast to his poor emaciated child, who increased her forlorn appearance by wearing a black dress! She did not give Mrs. Leach a particularly cordial reception.
“She does not care to see any one,” explained Mr. West apologetically, when he and his enchantress sat vis-à-vis over dessert. “She takes no interest in anything on earth—it’s mental, the doctors say,” touching his forehead. “She has had not only diphtheria, but some sort of shock. She sits moping and weeping all day; she never opens a book, never opens her lips; she never listens to half that is said to her; she won’t eat, she can’t sleep, and she insists on wearing black. I can’t understand it.”
But Mrs. Leach could; she saw it all. Whoever the man was in the background of Madeline’s life, he was dead. Either that, or he had deceived her, and, as a result, she was almost crazy with grief. And what a wreck!
Mrs. Leach took everything firmly in her grasp at once; she was unusually active and busy. They were to sail in ten days, and there was Madeline’s outfit; but here no interference was permitted. Madeline selected her own wardrobe—a few black gowns. However, on the other hand, Mrs. Leach looked well after Madeline’s correspondence; all letters were brought first to her. She did not wish Mr. West’s sharp eyes to notice the swarms of bills which pursued her, and she passed all his and his daughter’s letters in review ere they were laid upon the breakfast or afternoon tea-table. Madeline never appeared until the afternoon, and exhibited no interest in the daily post; she was, however, pleased to see Lady Rachel and her brother, who came down from town, ere their departure to Scotland, expressly to wish her a bon voyage and a speedy return. They were really quite affected when they beheld what was neither more nor less than the spectre of Madeline West—the gay and radiant girl of last season!
They had brought her books, flowers, her favourite Fuller’s sweets, many scraps of news, and, under the influence of their infectious spirits, she cheered up temporarily. Mrs. Leach, however, despite the coldness of Lady Rachel and surliness of Lord Tony, remained of the company, acting as a sort of female warder; and there was no really free intercourse. In spite of broad hints, she stuck most pertinaciously to her seat and her silk sock, throwing in observations every now and then. Certainly she was thick-skinned.
At last Lady Rachel said boldly—