“I believe you don’t care whether I never write to you or not; nor to hear what I’m doing?”
“Oh, but, you know, I am always well posted in the society papers.”
“Society papers!”
“Yes; I see them at my club. Besides, I can actually rise to a couple of sixpences a week—and I read how the lovely Miss West was at a ball, looking very smart in straw colour; or had been observed at church parade wearing her new sables; or shopping in Bond Street, looking very bright and happy; or—at—the theatre glorified in diamonds and gold embroideries. However, I have at last made your father’s acquaintance; he does not seem to be such a terrible ogre! You may have noticed how pleasant he was to me; we got on like a house on fire. I do not think that your disclosure will have the awful consequence you anticipate, and I am perfectly confident that it will be attended with no ill effects as regards his health. I am sure you have taken a wrong estimate of his character. He may fly into a passion just at first—I fancy you may expect that—but he will calm down, and we shall all be very good friends; and I am certain he will be delighted with Harry.”
“I am not at all so sanguine as to that,” returned his wife dubiously; “and you have not yet told me, Laurence—and we have no time to lose—what has brought you here?”
“I came, as I have said before, to answer your letter in person. I am glad I have done so, I have seen things with my own eyes, and I can realize your position more clearly than hitherto. I see you surrounded with luxury. A duchess could have no more. I see your father, by no means the frail invalid that I was led to expect; I see your friends—your—pausing expressively—admirers! I’ve had, in short, a glimpse into your life, and realized the powerful cords—you call them claims—that bind you here, and have drawn you away from me.” He paused again for a moment, making a quick gesture with his hand to show that Madeline must hear him out. “And now I have come to tell you my last word. You will—or, if you wish, I will—tell your father the truth now—within the hour. It will then depend upon circumstances, whether you leave England or not. If your father wishes to have you and Harry with him, I shall say nothing against it.”
Madeline listened to this long and authoritative speech with some dismay. This plan would not suit her at all. What would all her gay society friends say—and most of them were coming to the Riviera—if, instead of the brilliant Miss West, they found Mrs. Wynne—a prodigal daughter who had married without leave, and who was hampered with a teething baby? And Laurence was really becoming quite too overbearing! She would not give in—if she succumbed now, it was for always. What a fuss he was making, simply because she was going abroad for three months with her father.
“Surely you can wait until we come back. You see, papa is not in a state now for any sudden excitement. I will tell him if you wish in a month, when he has completely recovered——”
“I will wait no longer,” interrupted her husband. “I have already waited on your good pleasure for close upon a year; put off time after time, with excuse after excuse, until such a period as you could manage to screw your courage to the sticking-point. I now apprehend that that period will be of the same epoch as the Greek Kalends! Frankly, Madeline, I am not going to stand any more nonsense. I am your husband; I can support you—certainly only in a very modest fashion compared to this,” looking round. “You will have no carriage, no maid, no fine clothes—at least not yet, they may come by-and-by. Your father is quite fit to travel alone; he ate a remarkably good tea, and told me that he had played two games of billiards this afternoon; were he really feeble, it would be a different affair. It is shameful—yes, that is the only word that will fit the subject—that I should have to remind you of your child! He should be your first care. Now, he is delicate, if you like;—he wants his mother, poor little chap! You will stay at home and look after him. It may not be your pleasure, but it is unquestionably your duty. You can go to Mrs. Holt’s and remain there and be welcome as long as you like. You were very happy there once, Maddie,” he added rather wistfully. No answer; she merely raised her eyes, and surveyed him fixedly. “I will look about for a small furnished flat; a little villa at Norwood, or wherever you like. Lodgings, after this, would be too terrible a change—I must admit.”
“So would the villa, or even the small flat,” she said to herself. In one glance she beheld her future: two servants, perhaps; two sitting-rooms, perhaps; a strip of back garden with stockings on a line; Laurence absent from morning till night; nothing to do all day long, but attend to her frugal housekeeping; no smart frocks; no smart friends; no excitement, amusements, or society.