MARRIED OR SINGLE?

BY
B. M. CROKER
AUTHOR OF “DIANA BARRINGTON,” “A FAMILY LIKENESS,” ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. I.

LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1895

CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

MARRIED OR SINGLE?

CHAPTER I.
THE PUPIL-TEACHER.

The above, engraved in bold characters on a highly-polished brass plate, may be read on the gate of an imposing mansion situated in the far-spreading suburbs of Riverside, one of the principal mercantile towns in England. “Harperton” is a solid and secluded residence, standing in its own grounds (of two acres, one perch). It is planned to resemble a country house of some pretensions, but the symmetry of its proportions is spoiled by a long, low building jutting out at the side, that may be taken for anything from a stable to a billiard-room, but is, in fact, the scene of Mrs. Harper’s scholastic labours, erected at her own cost—in other words, the schoolroom. This apartment is illuminated by six windows, the lower halves of which are, of course, of muffled glass. The floor is carpeted here and there, as it were, in squares or plots, and in the midst of each square there is a desk and a comfortable cushioned chair. These indicate the localities of the various classes. The schoolroom walls are covered with maps, book-cases, lists of rules, and practising hours, and lined with narrow desks and benches. A worn piano, a prim, white-faced clock, and a high wire fender comprise most of the furniture—ornamental and otherwise; unless we include the two young ladies who are sitting at one of the far desks, making the most of their time whilst the boarders are out for their usual walk. One of these damsels has mendaciously pleaded ear-ache in order to escape the hateful daily promenade. The other—that nondescript character, a pupil-teacher—is fulfilling a part of her duties, and diligently darning the “little ones’” stockings, whilst her companion, with both elbows on the desk, and both hands in her ruffled hair, watches her and talks.

“This must be perfectly awful for you, Maddie dear,” she was saying. “Don’t you loathe it all, and wish you could run away? I should, if I were in your shoes.”

“Run away! What nonsense, Flo! Where could I run to, even supposing such an insane idea had entered my head, which it never has done? You forget that I have no friends in England; and, after all, I am not such an object of pity as you seem to imagine,” darning steadily all the time.

“If you are not, I should like to know who is!” demanded her schoolfellow, emphatically. “You are one day at the top of the tree, the head of the first class, the best pupil Herr Kroot ever had, adored by the Harpies”—here Miss Blewitt alluded to her respected instructress and daughters—“always exquisitely dressed, with heaps of pocket-money, sleeping in the best room, allowed a fire in winter, every extra—claret and coffee—and I don’t know what! After years and years of this style of thing, and when you are seventeen, and almost finished, your father suddenly stops supplies, you are not paid for for three whole terms, and the hateful Harpies make you into a regular drudge—a pupil-teacher, a nursery governess, a servant! You sleep in the attic with those odious little Smiths—wash, dress, and teach them; you go messages to the shops, and even into Riverside—you, who were never allowed to stir one yard alone; you mend and darn and teach.”

She paused, not from lack of words, but from want of breath.

“And a very good thing that I can do something to pay for my living,” remarked the other, with composure. “If I could not sew and mend and teach, what would become of me, I should be glad to know? I could scarcely expect the Harpers to go on keeping me at their own expense; and now I take the fifth class, the little ones’ music, and I save a servant for those Indian children, I work for my bread—and I am worth it.”

“I should rather think you were,” rejoined her listener, sarcastically. “You are worth a hundred a year to them as teacher, besides being dressmaker and nursery-maid. It makes me wild—I feel quite crazy—when I see all that they get out of you, early and late, and the shameful way they treat you! Once upon a time you were ‘darling Madeline’—their ‘dear, bright-faced girl,’ their ‘model pupil,’ now you are ‘Madeline West,’ or ‘Miss West,’ and you are ‘slow,’ ‘awkward,’ ‘lazy,’ and ‘impertinent.’ Oh dear me! dear me! sometimes I feel as if I should like to fly at Miss Selina and bite a piece out of her, I am so savage.”

“I hope to goodness you will restrain your feelings,” said Madeline, with a smile, as she threaded a long needleful of black wool, and commenced on a gaping heel. “The Harpers are only human, after all! It was very hard on them, my father having failed; and all my music-lessons, and painting, and singing, and German, for two terms, had to be paid for out of their own pockets. Signor Squaletti charges half a guinea an hour. Then there were my clothes. I feel hot all over when I remember the quantity of money I laid out, believing that it would be all settled, as usual, by father’s cheque at Christmas. There was that white dress for the breaking-up party——”

“In which you made such an impression on the Wolfertons’ friend, young Mr. Wynne,” interrupted Florence, with a meaning nudge. “Oh yes, I remember the white dress!”

“Don’t, Flo! Your elbow is like a knife,” expostulated her friend, with some discernible increase of colour. “As to Mr. Wynne, what you say is nonsense, and you know Mrs. Harper forbids us to speak of—of—such things.”

“I know that Mrs. Harper was most uneasy in her mind when she saw him dancing four times with you running—yes, dance after dance—and she came up and introduced him to Julia Flowers’ two red-haired sisters, and said that gentlemen were so scarce, and her girls were not out, and all that sort of rubbish; and she sent him down to supper with old Mrs. Browne, and she sent you to bed because you looked pale! Oh yes, I saw it all—all. I saw that Mr. Wynne never danced again, but stood with his back to the wall for the rest of the evening, looking as cross as two sticks. Very likely he would never have given you a thought, if you had not been so plainly and openly banished: absence makes the heart grow fonder! Mrs. Harper put the idea into his head by making such a stupid fuss—and she has only herself to thank. He sent you those flowers, he came to our church, and Miss Selina took it all to herself—the ridiculous old cat! As if he would look at her! She closed on the flowers: much good may they do her!”

“Now, Flo, how do you know that they were not for her?” asked her companion with a smile. “But, don’t let us talk about them. It is an old story.”

“But I will talk about them,” persisted Flo, angrily. “I’ll talk about your nice green tailor-made, and your winter coat trimmed with fur, and your opera cloak, and your white dress—the white dress, which they took away from you!”

“Well, they had paid for them, you see,” rejoined Madeline quietly. “I am glad they did take them—I owe them the less.”

“Thank goodness your gloves and boots were too small,” continued Flo, in a tone of fervent congratulation, “otherwise they would have gone also. They are rather different from the Harpers’ chaussure, which is of the canal-boat type and size. Now I know what pedestrians mean when they talk of ‘covering’ miles of ground.”

“Well, my dear excited Flo, they did not make their own feet,” said the other coolly.

“How philosophical you are becoming! Quite an old head on young shoulders! Who made their tempers, I should be glad to know?—or their tongues? Thank goodness, this is my last half! Good-bye to early rising, lectures, scoldings, resurrection pies, milk and water, and rice puddings. Good-bye to Harperton—penitentiary and prison. Good-bye to Harpies, and hurrah for home!”—throwing, as she spoke, a dictionary up to the ceiling; failing to catch which, it fell open, face downwards, with a bang.

“That is May’s dictionary, Flo,” remonstrated the other. “You will not improve its poor back.”

“If you stay here long, Madeline, you will certainly become just as preaching and particular as one of the Harpies themselves. You are tremendously sobered as it is. Who would think, to look at you darning away so industriously, that this time last year you were the queen and moving spirit of the school; always getting up charades, dances, and concerts, and carrying your point on every question, and figuratively snapping your fingers at the Harpies if they interfered with your schemes—which, to do them justice, was very seldom! Ah! my poor Maddie, since then what a change has come o’er the spirit of your dream! It is terrible. If you had always been a pupil-teacher it would be another matter, or if you had gone to another school, where no one knew that you had fallen from your high estate; but here, the scene of your triumphs, to make the descent to the very foot of the ladder, is—is frightful. I often wonder how you can bear it so well.”

“I often wonder too,” said Madeline shortly, winking her tears back with a great effort. “You are not going the best way to work to help me to endure my lot, Flo, raking up all these things. Bad or good, I must submit. I have no alternative—nowhere to go, until my father comes home. The best thing I can do is to be patient, and try and repay the Harpers for some of the money they have expended on me.”

“Repay them!” echoed Miss Blewitt, scornfully. “They made a very good thing out of you for nine years—large profits and quick returns. Now, although your father has not sent his usual remittance—is not that the word?—and they have heard that he is in business difficulties, yet I think they might have given you a little more law—a longer day. They might have exercised some patience. You have not heard of your father for more than a year, have you?” she added bluntly.

“No, not for sixteen months,” answered the pupil-teacher.

“But even if he were dead,” proceeded Flo, with a fine disregard of her friend’s feelings, and an open defiance of the laws of good breeding, such as is occasionally to be found in girls of her age, “you could not honestly pretend to be very much cut up! You have not seen him since you were a small child. You left Australia when you were seven years old. He is a stranger to you.”

“A stranger, certainly, in one way; but still he is my father, and I have a presentiment that we shall meet again, and before long,” rolling up a pair of stockings as she spoke, and averting her eyes from her outspoken schoolfellow.

“Pooh! I don’t believe in presentiments. I had a presentiment that father was going to give me a cart and cob last holidays, and it ended in smoke. If your father had been in the land of the living, surely you would have heard. I know I am saying this very baldly and plainly, but there is no use in beating about the bush—is there? You must face the position sooner or later.”

“You mean the position of being an orphan?” said Madeline, tremulously. “But I refuse to accept that until I have not one grain of hope left. It is easy for you, who have your father and mother and five brothers at home, to talk in this way. Remember, I have only one relation in the world, and when I lose him I lose all.”

“Well, all I can say is, that I hope your presentiment will turn out better than mine! Oh, here are the girls coming back!” she exclaimed peevishly, as a long file of figures appeared, passing the windows two and two. “What a bore they are! They seem to have only been out a quarter of an hour, and here they come marching in, disturbing our nice comfortable little talk.”

Florence Blewitt, who so successfully practised the art of plain speaking and trampling on other people’s susceptibilities—people were welcome to trample on hers, she declared; she had none—was a short, squarely-built girl of sixteen, with a sharp nose, thick brown hair, intelligent grey eyes, and a very dark skin—a skin that betrayed no soupçon of foreign blood, but was, nevertheless, more brown than white. She was brusque, eccentric, clever, and indolent. Florence could—if she would—but she so seldom would. She preferred the ease of an undisturbed seat at the very bottom of the class to ambitious battlings and feverish strivings for the first place. She was the spoiled only daughter of a wealthy merchant and shipowner, and, being deferred to and made much of at home, was disposed to be both arbitrary and independent at school. Moreover, she was selfish, which is not a taking trait in a young woman’s character, and was anything but a popular idol. She would borrow readily, but hated to lend; and the only thing with which she was generous was her advice; the sole present she was ever known to make was her opinion—gratis. Few were honoured by her liking, and if she had a friend at Harperton, it was the girl who sat beside her, conscientiously mending a basketful of most hopeless-looking stockings.

“I wonder what your fate will be, Maddie?” said Flo, staring at her meditatively, and studying her delicate profile, her pencilled eyebrows, her shining hair.

“I wonder too,” echoed Madeline, with a profound sigh.

Madeline West had been born in Melbourne, and sent home at the age of seven to Mrs. Harper’s establishment, where she had remained for ten years. From a skinny, elf-like, wildly excitable child, she had grown up into an extremely pretty girl, with what the drawing-master termed “wonderful colouring.” Her hair, eyebrows, and lashes were dark, her eyes two shades lighter, but it was in her complexion and the exquisite modelling of her head and features that her chief beauty lay. Her head was small, and beautifully set upon her shoulders; her skin was of creamy fairness, with a faint shade of carmine in her cheeks—a colour so delicate that it went and came at a look or word. She was tall, slight, and wonderfully graceful; full of vivacity, activity, versatility and resource, ready to throw herself warmly into any scheme for amusement or mischief—that was to say, twelve months previously. She was by far the most striking-looking and admired of Mrs. Harper’s forty boarders, and, notwithstanding this drawback to feminine goodwill, was a great favourite with pupils, teachers, and servants. Her popularity had even survived that terrible test of altered circumstances—that dire fall from the wealthy Australian heiress to the unpaid slavey of the establishment. She changed, of course, her ringing laugh and her happy air; her merry repartee and snatches of songs had disappeared with the pretty frocks and hats and shoes which she had loved so well. She was developing a staid, grown-up manner, according to her fellow-pupils; she held back from their advances—abdicated of her own accord, and her place as queen of the school was filled, after a decent interregnum, by a rich Cockney, who was as lavish of her shillings, as she was frugal in the matter of h’s, and who, according to Flo Blewitt, was “a harmless, good-natured, vulgar, poor creature.”

It must not be supposed that Madeline West did not keenly feel her altered position. Many a bitter tear she shed in secret; many a sleepless hour she lay awake, when all her companions—with only to-morrow’s lessons on their minds—were slumbering peacefully in the arms of Morpheus. Every small indignity, every slighting speech and sharp glance entered as an iron into her soul, but she made no remonstrance or reply; her swiftly changing colour was the sole index to her feelings, and what were a school-girl’s—a pauper school-girl’s—feelings to Mrs. Harper? To tell the truth, Madeline had never asserted herself even in her days of sunshine. She never could face an unpleasant situation; she put aside a crisis with a laugh or a gay word; her sensitive, luxurious nature shrank instinctively from all unpleasant things. She was a moral coward, though no one suspected it.

The present clouds on her sky had brought out, in an unexpected manner, unexpected depths in her character. Madeline, the humble semi-nursemaid, was an industrious, prudent, self-possessed person, who laboured gravely, doggedly from morning to night, a totally different girl to the extravagant, generous, easy-going Madeline, the butterfly who had fluttered the happy hours away for nine whole years. She was now at another seminary. Adversity is said to be an excellent school, and offers a fine test of character. Anomalous as it sounds, Madeline West had risen to the state of life into which she had fallen.

CHAPTER II.
NO NEWS.

Three months had passed, and still no sign or token from Mr. Robert West. How anxiously his daughter’s eyes followed Miss Selina’s skinny fingers, as they dealt out the letters every morning during breakfast time—these letters having previously been thoroughly turned over, examined, felt, and even smelt, by that lady and her relatives. It was always the same in answer to Madeline’s unspoken appeal. “No, nothing for you, Madeline,” or, “No letter yet, Miss West,” according to the frame of mind in which Miss Selina found herself. And then Mrs. Harper, who was seated behind an immense copper tea apparatus, would peer round it, with her keen little eyes and bobbing grey curls, and shake her head at the pupil-teacher, in a manner which signified that she did not approve of her at all! As if poor Madeline was not sick with hope deferred, and wild with a frenzied desire to get away and never pass another night under that lady’s roof-tree; only there was one big but, one immense drawback to her own most eager wishes, she had nowhere else to go.

The Miss Harpers, who were fully alive to Madeline’s value, were by no means equally anxious for her departure. She corrected exercises, ruled copybooks, relieved them of several distasteful duties, and took the little ones’ music—an agonizing ordeal. She really did as much as any two paid teachers, and—an ecstatic fact—for nothing! Moreover, they had the delicious sensation that they were performing a charitable action all the time, and looked primly self-conscious and benevolent when their friends exclaimed: “How good of you, you dear, kind, Christian people, to keep that unfortunate Australian girl!”

Miss Selina, who was forty, with a complexion like that of a wax doll who has been left lying in the sun, would sigh softly and murmur the word “duty,” when perhaps at that very moment the unfortunate Australian was fulfilling the least agreeable of hers—putting those fretful, ungovernable, sickly little Anglo-Indians to bed—and to sleep.

They were too young for school routine; spoiled, fractious, disobedient, and mischievous, they were Madeline’s almost entire charge. Happy Madeline!

It is winter when we once more enter the schoolroom at Harperton, a bitterly cold day, and the small fire behind the wire screen does not half heat that great bare apartment, with its numerous doors and windows. Those at a distance are “out in the cold” indeed, for a double file of girls is gathered closely round the fender, talking four at a time, and making noise enough for a rookery. This is the half-hour after tea, and exclusively their own; they are indemnifying themselves for many hours of silence and French—which almost amounts to the same thing. Their speech is vigorous and unpolished, for no teacher is present except Madeline—if teacher she can be called. She is standing at a remote desk, mounting a drawing by the light of a cheap little hand-lamp. The gas is never turned on in the schoolroom until half-past six, because the twilight is so delightful (so economical they meant), quoth the thrifty Miss Harpers.

The coals, which have been angrily stirred up, throw a good blaze, and reveal the faces and figures of the fire-worshippers assembled round the screen, especially the face and figure of Isabella Jones, the present reigning potentate. She has hitched herself up on the edge of the fire-guard, holding on there by the mantelpiece, and from this elevated position is dispensing law, wit, snubs, and patronage. She is very tall and thin, stoops a good deal, and is the proprietor of a tip-tilted nose, a pair of quick little brown eyes, and millions of freckles. She is also the proprietor of a quantity of pretty dresses, of unlimited pocket-money, a vast amount of self-esteem, and the largest and reddest hands in the room.

Mrs. Harper’s seminary is only intended for the offspring of wealthy folk. Izzie’s father has made his pile in margarine, and has desired that his daughter may have the best of everything—every accomplishment, every extra, just like a duchess. Izzie has, accordingly, a separate bedroom, and lessons from the most expensive masters; nevertheless, she is far—oh! very far—from being like a duchess. Her education was begun too late; she is naturally dull.

“I say, girls,” she is screaming sociably, “isn’t it grand to think that in ten days more we shall all be at ’ome?

“‘This day fortnight, where shall I be?

Not in this academee,

Eating scrape and drinking tea.

This day fortnight, where shall I be?’”

She chanted in a sing-song voice, more or less through her nose.

“And there is the breaking-up dance,” put in one of her satellites; “I don’t want to go home till that is over.”

“Gracious! I should hope not. What fun it will be,” exclaimed Miss Jones. “I hope there will be lots of men this time. I ’inted as much to Miss Selina. What is the use of going to the expense of supper, and us all getting new dresses, just for the day boarders? That’s what I say.”

“What good, indeed!” put in Flo, sarcastically, as she elbowed her way to the very middle of the fire. “But pray do not make yourselves unhappy about the expense of the supper, my dear young friends. It will not concern us. I heard Mrs. Harper telling mademoiselle that they did not intend to have the girls in on this occasion, gobbling up the ices and confectionery, like so many locusts.”

“I did not know that locusts went in for confectionery,” remarked Isabella, with a sniff of scorn.

“This marvellous discovery in natural history was Mrs. Harper’s, not mine,” said Flo, with swelling dignity. “However, the meaning is plain. We are not to sup. We are to ’ave”—mimicking her schoolfellow—“buns and egg-sandwiches ’anded round in the schoolroom, whilst the company are carousing downstairs.”

The “take-off” was entirely lost on Isabella, who was far too much impressed with the intelligence to be alive to Flo’s impertinence. A dead silence followed this disagreeable announcement, which was at length broken by Miss Jones, who, sliding from the top of the screen in the excitement of the moment, shrilly exclaimed—

“Well, I declare! I won’t stand it! I shall tell Mrs. H. so to her face. Why, our parents pay for the supper! Locusts, indeed! My father pays handsomely for extras and everything, breaking-up party and all; and to be put off with a bun! I think I see myself—I just do! Why”—warming with her theme—“supper is ’alf the fun! There are the crackers and mottoes and jokes, and every one taken down by a gentleman, arm-in-arm. I’ll go to supper for one, and stay up to the last. I did not get my new pink dress just to dance with girls, and eat an egg sandwich and go to bed. Rather not. Leave it to me, girls”—looking round on her companions with an air of friendly encouragement—“I shall have a word with Miss Selina. We shall all go to supper, or Isabella Jones will know the reason why.”

“Oh, you dear, good Izzy!” cried two voices simultaneously. And one continued, “You know you can do anything with Snappy, and if you ask, it will be all right. But about partners, I am afraid they will be few and far between; Snappy and Miss Harper keep the best for themselves and their friends. Anything is good enough for the girls. Last time I was thankful to dance all night with a little boy in a jacket; however, it was a shade better than sitting-out.”

“There are the Wolfertons,” observed Flo, “and they generally bring two or three men. Last year there was Mr. Wynne, who was tremendously struck with Madeline.” Then raising her voice, “Maddie, do you remember Mr. Wynne? Come over here, and let us see if you are blushing.”

“Mr. Wynne, Fred Wolferton’s friend!” cried Isabella, with great animation. “He is a barrister, and, of course, without a penny to jingle on a milestone—poor as Job. My father don’t approve of my getting to know these paupers. You know I’m an heiress”—giggling—“and father says——”

“Oh never mind your father!” broke in Flo, rudely. “You need not be alarmed; Mr. Wynne won’t look at you as long as Madeline is in the room—and perhaps he may not come. Who else are invited—the Sangsters, the Wallers, the Rays?”

“All common sort of people,” remarked the grand-daughter of a baron. “Very worthy in their way, and well enough for a girls’ school breaking-up; but I should not dream of knowing them at home, or of bowing if I met them anywhere;” and she threw up her chin, and looked about her superciliously.

No one combated this dire announcement; they were all a little in awe of Miss De Ville and her ancestors—especially of the one who had fought in Palestine—and they were silent and impressed, being young. At length a word was whispered, which quickly set every tongue wagging. That magic word was “dress.” What were they all going to wear? One lacked new shoes, another gloves; a fan was lent—in prospect—in return for good offices in the hair-dressing line. Amidst this gabble, Isabella’s piercing voice was heard high and shrill above all, describing the body of her new pink dress. Madeline had joined the crowd, looking white and cold—and no wonder.

“Keep away your fingers, my dear, if they are sticky,” said Flo; “and, by the way, what are you going to adorn yourself in? Your white dress was taken by the Harpies, as most unsuitable to you now.”

“I have nothing but my black cashmere,” she returned, “and this”—holding out a shabby serge sleeve.

“They really must give you something!” cried Isabella, impressively, “if only for the look of the thing. For the credit of the establishment, they can’t have you appear like an old rag-picker.”

Madeline coloured vividly. “I don’t mind giving you a dress myself, if you will take it.”

“Now, I call that a French compliment, Isabella Jones,” remarked Flo, with her usual candour, “and you know it. If Madeline has to wear the old black, so much the worse; but, whatever she wears, she will always look a—lady,” accompanying the remark with a glance at Miss Jones that gave it point and significance, and made that young person feel that it would be a pleasure to take the big ink-bottle off the chimney-piece, and fling it at Florence Blewitt’s solid, square-looking head.

“You need not trouble about my dress, Flo, nor need I,” said Madeline, trying to find room on the top of the screen for her benumbed fingers. “Miss Selina told me this morning to practise up my dance music. I am to play——”

“Oh, what a shame!” chorused half a dozen voices. “Saving the usual piano player, and a guinea—the skinflints!”

But human nature is human nature, and not a few of these fair creatures felt a conviction that Madeline and her pretty face were best at the piano—turned towards the wall—and that it was only fair to give others a chance, meaning their sweet, unsophisticated selves. They had a very distinct vision of the benefit that would accrue to them as a result of this economical arrangement on the part of the Harpers.

“But what will Mr. Wynne do?” inquired Miss De Ville, with the corners of her mouth drawn down.

She was a tall, pale, sandy-haired girl, with white lashes, and a scornful countenance. Madeline’s eyes flashed. She was on the point of answering, but the words were taken out of her mouth by Flo, who replied—

“He will dance with you instead, my dear.”

“You know we are not allowed to talk about gentlemen,” put in a prim girl, with very prominent teeth and a painfully stiff white collar.

“Bosh!” exclaimed Isabella. “I’ll talk of whom I please, from the old gentleman upwards. I’ll talk of Mr. Wynne, Mr. Wolferton, Mr. Lancy, Mr. Sangster, Mr. Summers, Mr. Ferraby, Mr. Armstrong——”

“Young ladies!” said an awful voice that made them all start, and fall away from the fender like a flock of frightened sheep. “What vulgarity is this? How often have I told you that I highly disapprove of such conversation! It will come to this, I see”—looking severely around—“you will have no half-hour after tea if you cannot be trusted. I am exceedingly displeased and shocked, especially”—seizing on her scapegoat—“with you, Madeline West. You are old enough to know better, and to have some influence; and to find you in the very middle of all this unladylike chatter, discussing gentlemen, is really too odious. A girl in your position might have a little decency and self-respect. I am extremely disgusted with you. Now go; it is quite time the little Smiths were in bed. How is it that you have always to be reminded of your duties?” she concluded venomously.

Madeline opened her mouth to speak.

“No answer; you know the rule. Now, young ladies, light the gas, and get to your work.”

A great commotion and bustle ensued. Exit Madeline, trying vainly to keep back her tears, and with a burning sense of injustice in her breast. Indeed, for once, she forgot herself, and slammed the door—not violently, but still with a decided touch of temper. It was a foolish impulse, foolishly indulged.

She was called back, and imperatively desired to “remember who she was, and to walk out of the room quietly, and close the door after her in a ladylike and becoming manner.”

So even this slight safety-valve for her feelings was denied to her, and she left the apartment for a second time completely crushed.

CHAPTER III.
THE BREAKING-UP DANCE.

The great day of breaking-up dawned at last. What preparations were made! A cartload of hired chairs for the company was the first arrival; then a consignment of glass and crockery, baskets of hot-house flowers from the friends of wealthy pupils, and finally, in a confectioner’s van—the supper! Mrs. Harper, her cap askew, her curls bristling, was nearly crazy with excitement and fuss. The Misses Harper were busy, important, and dangerous to accost. The girls, from an early tea, had retired upstairs to indulge in the next best amusement to dancing—dressing. Oh, with what leisurely enjoyment were heads tired, white dresses donned, and gloves drawn on! How often was the following artful query put with an artless air:—

“You are looking awfully nice, dear! Now, tell me candidly, what do you think of me?”

Madeline had no trouble with her toilette. The black high-necked day-gown, with a white fichu and lace ruffles, was all the embellishment within her power; but she was in much request, and very busy dressing and decorating her more fortunate schoolfellows. The bell rang. Down they all trooped, conscious, conceited, coquettish, or careless, and filed past Miss Selina, who held a full-dress inspection in the hall—Miss Selina, whose face was flushed to the hue of her new crimson silk, flushed to a shade that set pearl powder at defiance, and scorned the application of Rowland’s Kalydor. The young ladies passed muster creditably—with some few exceptions, such as “Minnie, your dress is too short;” “Fanny, those flowers are frightful!” “Jocelyn, where did you get such horrible gloves?” The bevy of fair creatures passed into the schoolroom, where, on a raised platform, were seats for the chorus, two pianos, a harmonium—in short, all the preparations for a concert, the one drawback to the young ladies’ absolute felicity—that is to say, those young ladies who were compelled to perform, and who now awaited the audience in a kind of cold shiver, with clammy hands and quickly pulsing hearts. Presently Herr Kroot arrived in elaborate evening dress, frilled shirt, white gloves, and an immense accession of dignity, and talked and scolded, commanded and encouraged, his miserable pupils. Much as they dreaded the audience, they were trebly afraid of him, and dared not break down with his eye upon them, his hand turning over the leaves, his low “counting” in their ears. The large room filled soon, and filled fast, with day boarders, their friends, parents, a few outsiders, and the Misses Harper’s own circle—chiefly clerical. There was quite a notable sprinkling of the sterner sex, for Mrs. Harper’s establishment was reported to include some beauties. Very nice, indeed, the young people looked from the body of the concert hall, so young and fresh and fair in their simple white dresses, with their downcast eyes—that noted everything all the same. Among other facts, they noted the arrival of all the Wolfertons and Mr. Wynne, whose presence on the occasion Miss Selina attributed solely to her own attractions. She was fourteen years older than him, but what of that? He was old for his age, and she was young for hers. She flattered herself that in a becoming dress, by lamplight, or behind a spotted veil, she did not look a day more than seven and twenty. By all accounts Mr. Wynne was a briefless barrister (but then Selina’s share of the family stocking was by no means contemptible), he had the reputation of being clever, and would “get on” of course. The Wolfertons declared that he was highly thought of as a rising man, and of fine old family—but poor. Strange that he should come to the breaking-up this year too—“made quite a point of it,” Amy Wolferton had whispered, and Amy had looked as if she would have liked to have added more.

As he pressed her hand, and she glanced at him from under her scanty eyelashes, a delicious conviction assured Miss Selina that he had not forgotten her—their charming walk from church, or the little picnic party, at which he had sat beside her, and when the second supply of plates had failed, and with regard to the remains of some cold chicken, said in the most marked manner, “Miss Selina, will you permit me to lay my bones beside yours?” What was this but a proposal? Certainly in a novel form, unquestionably it meant that they would share the same grave. It was a distinct invitation to the family vault of the blue-blooded Wynnes. How agreeable he was—these barristers always were! How good-looking! What a contrast to Mr. Murphy, the red-haired Irish curate, on whom, with his loud, rich brogue, her sister Letitia had built her hopes matrimonial (N. B. and it had been building on a quicksand), casting a contemptuous glance at the well-oiled red head to her left.

These complacent reflections were chasing each other through the good lady’s brain as she sat in the attitude of solicitous attention during the opening cantata. A shrewd, keen, calculating woman with regard to every-day matters, such as school accounts, butchers’ bills, extras, and with a lynx eye for the failings and shortcomings of her flock, but where vanity whispered, and a possible (or impossible) husband loomed on her horizon, Miss Selina was a completely different character, and an absolute fool, as giddy, as credulous, as feather-headed as any of the young ladies meekly facing her behind these sheets of music—nay, worse, for has not every one heard the proverb—“There is no fool like an old one”? Far-seeing, crafty girls were clever enough to discover Miss Selina’s weak side, and to use their discovery to their own advantage. They plied her with compliments, ludicrously inappropriate. They called her “their own beautiful Miss Selina,” hinted that she had only to come, to be seen, and to conquer, etc., the result being that these wise young virgins were frequently invited to tea in the drawing-room, to supper in Mrs. Harper’s own private refectory, were taken to concerts, were “let off” on various occasions, and laughed at “Old Selina” (or Snappy) in their sleeve; called her a ridiculous goose, as ugly as sin, and as vain as a peacock. It is necessary to reveal the younger Miss Harper in her true colours in order to explain how a woman in her position could imagine for a moment that a young man would fall in love with her elderly charms, in spite of the overwhelming advantages possessed by at least twenty young rivals—her own pupils. She had long regarded the girls en masse as her natural enemies, not as pretty creatures of from sixteen to eighteen years of age, with bright eyes, brilliant complexions, and angelic dispositions! She ticketed them in her own mind as disagreeable female children, with loud voices, voracious appetites, and sly ways. Nevertheless, she was reluctantly aware, that Madeline could be no longer considered a child, that some people considered her appearance pleasing! She stared hard at her now, where her black dress made a sort of blot among the snowy gowns of the first trebles. What a colour! was she rouged? She looked just like a doll. Doll or no doll, Miss Selina made a mental note that she should not be of the happy band who were going in to supper. She might be getting ideas into her mind—foolish ideas. People perhaps would notice her, as they had done last year, and turn her giddy head. The cantata came to a satisfactory conclusion. A fierce, tempestuous bravura, performed with desperate energy by a long-fingered young lady, succeeded it. Poor girl! she was trembling with terror as she sat down. What with the audience before her, and Herr Kroot behind her, she occupied the proverbial situation of being between the devil and the deep sea, and played with a courage that was absolutely reckless.

The bravura was followed by a duet, the duet by a violin solo, then one or two songs. With regard to the last of these, the miserable performer found her feelings quite too overpowering, and after some gurgling in the throat, and sniffing in her handkerchief, she collapsed into floods of tears, and was briskly hustled into the background and hidden behind the others, whilst, at a moment’s notice, Madeline West was commanded to take her place and step into the gap.

Poor Madeline! It had not been intended that she should perform. She had no friends among the audience; no complacent relations to clap their hands and look proud and important. When the last words of “A Finland Love Song” had died away in silence—a silence caused by surprise and emotion—there was a pause of a full minute, and then a tremendous hurricane of applause burst forth. Ladies winked away unaccustomed tears, and clapped in a manner that was trying to their new ten-button gloves; their hearts were moved for the moment; some chord had been touched by that fresh young voice, by those sympathetic words, a chord that vibrated, and woke up old memories of the days when they were young—those days so sad, so sweet, that were no more.

The men encored tumultuously, not only because the singer had a lovely voice, and sang from her very heart, but—oh, well, because men will be men, and because the girl in black was uncommonly pretty. “Auld Robin Gray” was vociferously commanded, but the fair vocalist was adamant; she only curtseyed timidly, and curtseyed again. No one but herself had seen Miss Selina’s emphatic shake of the head, as she met her cold grey eye in that “little look across the crowd.” No, there was to be no encore.

After the concert, the room was cleared for dancing, and Madeline took up her post at the best (the drawing-room) piano and played first a set of lancers, to set every one going, and to polish off the dowagers and duty dances, and then a waltz—and yet another waltz. It was very dull work for her. She was placed with her back to the company, and could neither see nor be seen—which was precisely what Miss Selina had intended; but the pretty singer was not to be so easily concealed. More than one would-be partner vainly begged for an introduction. More than one crafty young man pleaded fatigue, and halted long in the neighbourhood of the piano, where he could obtain a good view of the charming pianiste. After the third waltz, played by Madeline’s weary fingers, Mr. Wynne approached, and said, as she stood up selecting the next piece on the programme—

“Miss West, we have all to thank you for your capital playing,” holding out his hand as he spoke. “And now I hope you will give me the pleasure of this dance?” She touched his hand timidly, and shook her head. “Oh! I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed, with a quick glance at her black dress. “Let me, at least, take you to the tea-room. You must want some refreshment after your exertions.”

“No, thank you very much,” she answered, once more seating herself at the instrument. “I have had my tea!”

“You don’t mean to say that you are going to play again?” he asked in a tone of indignant astonishment.

“Yes, I am going to play all the evening,” she replied, turning over the leaves and finding the place, with a considerably heightened colour.

“But last year you danced all the evening. What does it mean?”

“It means, Mr. Wynne, that I was then one of the boarders; now, I am only a pupil-teacher. Circumstances are changed; it is my duty to play—and,” faltering slightly, “I like it.”

“I find it difficult to believe that, Miss West,” he exclaimed; “but I suppose I must endeavour to do so. Will you permit me to turn over the leaves?”

“No, no!” she protested eagerly; “on no account. You must dance.”

“‘Je n’en vois pas la nécessité,’” he quoted, seating himself deliberately as he spoke. “I am afraid you have lost a relative,” he continued, in a lower voice. “Your father?”

“I have in one sense,” now striking up another waltz. “My father has not been heard of for a whole year and a half. When last he wrote he had lost a great deal of money. He was always a speculator. He has never written since——” She paused expressively.

“And have you no friend or relation in this country?”

“No, none that I have any claim upon. I have been at school here since I was seven years old.”

“And, good heavens! you don’t mean to tell me that you have no resource but to remain on here as pupil-teacher?”

“No other. You see I have no home in this country. I had one long ago in Melbourne—the only one I ever knew.”

“Do you remember it?” he asked rather abstractedly.

“Yes, I remember the big white house and the bright, sunny climate.”

“Has your father never come home to see you all these years?”

“Never! I’m afraid—I’m afraid——” She paused, unable to articulate, but her fingers still played steadily on.

“I’m afraid,” he said in a low voice, bending forward, “that you are not happy here,” contrasting rapidly in his own mind the brilliant figure she had made last year, as the belle of the evening, the cynosure of all eyes, to what she now appeared, the poor piano-playing drudge, not so much as rewarded with a “thank you,” and dressed in a gown that even he could see was shabby and old-fashioned.

“Oh, Mr. Wynne!” said a sprightly staccato voice at his elbow. “Oh! you naughty man! Why are you not dancing? Come away; I cannot have you distracting Miss West’s attention, you dreadful person! We are going to have another set of lancers, and you shall be my partner.”

With this heavy bribe, he was summarily detached from his post by the piano, and carried off by the triumphant Miss Selina (swearing to himself, despite a smiling countenance). Madeline played and played, until she felt that her fingers had no feeling, and were just as stiff and mechanical as the teeth in a musical-box. At length supper released her. She stood up, half expectant, as the others flocked past two and two, each happy girl provided with a cavalier—beaming, giggling, blushing, as the case might be! Whilst she waited, a bony, much-beringed hand was laid heavily upon her shoulder, and she beheld Miss Selina, who had arrested Mr. Wynne.

“Madeline, my dear,” she whispered, “I am sorry there is no room for you. I’ll send you out a sandwich, or something.” And then she passed on, leaving poor Madeline alone in that big empty room, with a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes.

Miss West was occasionally foolish enough to cut off her nose to spite her face, and she indignantly declined the subsequent sandwich brought in on a plate by the sympathetic parlourmaid, who vowed “it was a shame,” but met with no encouragement to relieve her mind further on the subject.

Madeline knew that she dared not go to bed. She had still to play—“it was in the bond.” So she had not even that small comfort; nor might she, as yet, indulge herself in the further luxury of a thoroughly good cry.

“What a difference money makes!” she said to herself bitterly. “What a contrast between this night and last year! Who would have believed—I, least of all—that that night twelve months I should be sitting here alone? However, I don’t suppose,” she added, half aloud, with a catch in her voice, “that any one misses me.”

In this supposition she was wrong. Many people missed the girl in black, who had sung the song of the concert, who had played unremittingly all the evening, and who had such a shabby dress, and such a sweetly pretty face!

Not a few of Mrs. Harper’s guests, who were eating her good things and sipping her champagne, were registering a black mark against her all the same, and thinking that they would be sorry if any friend of theirs had to fill the post of her present “pupil-teacher.”

Mr. Wynne dissembled—as they used to say in good old melodramas—and was most agreeable to his partner, Miss Selina, but inwardly he was raging. With professional cleverness he drew her out, and cross-examined her with regard to Miss West, and she—her tongue unloosened by two glasses of champagne, her vanity stimulated by his attentions (to her plate)—was completely off her guard, and as easily turned inside-out as any quaking witness at the Old Bailey.

She expounded eloquently on Mr. West’s enormities, the vast sums expended on his daughter, the fact that “but for them she would be friendless and homeless—probably begging from door to door. The wretched swindler was dead, the girl had no relatives or friends, and only for their charity——” Here she paused impressively, expecting Mr. Wynne to fill up the blank, with some neat and appropriate speech; but, for once, she was doomed to disappointment.

“Only for your charity she would be a governess, would she not?” he remarked carelessly. “With such musical talents she is sure of a lucrative situation—a hundred or so a year. But, of course, under your roof she has all that she can wish for—a happy home, among her old companions—and any one can see with half an eye that Mrs. Harper is a mother to her,” he concluded with immovable features.

Miss Selina started and became of a yet richer shade of crimson. This idea of a governess, at one hundred pounds a year, was something entirely novel. The girl was clever and accomplished! Was Mr. Wynne speaking ironically, when he alluded to a mother’s care and a happy home? Impossible! His face was as unmoved, his eyes as smiling, his manner as sociable and friendly as usual. It was a wild, foolish idea, and she immediately dismissed it from her mind, and plunged into a discussion on platonic friendships—and a second helping of a most excellent truffle.

Mr. Wynne managed to have a few words with Mrs. Wolferton after supper. He stated his case concisely, pointed out Miss West, and strongly commended her to the kind lady’s notice. Mrs. Wolferton was the mother of Fred (Mr. Wynne’s schoolfellow, college friend, and chum), and was very fond of Laurence, whom she had known from the time when he was an audacious boy in jacket upwards. As she listened to the sorry history of pretty Miss West, her motherly heart was touched, and she immediately begged to be introduced to her.

“Remembered her well,” she declared, “from last year. Hoped she would come and see her during the holidays.” And, finally, being a woman who believed in deeds as well as words, took off her gloves, removed a jingling bracelet, and seated herself at the piano for the remainder of the night, in spite of Mrs. Harper’s horrified face and excited expostulations, saying pleasantly to Madeline, “Now, my dear, my dancing days are over; yours are just beginning. Go and dance, Laurence; Miss West has not danced a step this evening.”

The hint was superfluous. Already Laurence and Miss West were at the other end of the room, and already a very portentous frown had settled deep on Miss Selina’s brow; but it availed nothing. The two offenders were dauntless.

Mr. Wynne was a capital partner. He introduced Madeline to various others, who voted the girl in black quite the prettiest they had seen for months, and who were the more eager to make her acquaintance, and to dance with her, from seeing that their attentions were palpably displeasing to the Harper family. Madeline danced until the end of the evening, although Miss Selina had hissed into her ear, as she stood near her, “You are a bold, pushing, unladylike girl.”

She knew she would have to pay dearly for these present delights on the morrow, and was resolved to drain the cup of pleasure—yes, to the very dregs! She looked supremely lovely, if slightly defiant; the exercise of dancing had made her eyes brighter, her colour deeper. Mr. Wynne told himself that she was the prettiest—ay, and the nicest—girl he had ever met in the whole course of his life; but he must not lose his head—no, a briefless barrister could not afford to fall in love with a penniless pupil-teacher!

CHAPTER IV.
THE LAST TRAIN.

The holidays commenced. The young ladies went north, south, east, and west to their several homes, and Madeline had the whole big schoolroom, and the much-disputed fire, absolutely to herself. She was monarch of all she surveyed, but she was nearly as lonely as Robinson Crusoe on the desert island. The Miss Harpers were not covetous of her company; nor was she ever bidden to the friendly luncheons or the merry little suppers which repeatedly took place. She, on these occasions, enjoyed(?) a plate of cold meat, or bread and butter, and a glass of water in the privacy of the schoolroom. There was no necessity, the Miss Harpers averred, to introduce her to their friends. It would be a mistake to spoil her; she was quite conceited enough. But Mrs. Wolferton had no such scruples: she called, she wrote, she persevered, she carried her point. She insisted on having Miss West to spend an occasional day with her. What a contrast to the schoolroom at Harperton House that dainty drawing-room, with its mirrors, pictures, easy-chairs, Persian carpets, exotic flowers, and genial Mrs. Wolferton knitting and talking and begging her “to make herself at home.” Then there was a tempting luncheon, a drive, a sociable dinner—which included Fred Wolferton, Mr. Wynne, and one or two others—finally, music and round games, in the midst of which would come the disagreeable announcement—“A servant for Miss West, if you please.” Fred Wolferton and Mr. Wynne invariably escorted her home all the same, leaving her on Mrs. Harper’s spotless doorstep; but not coming in, nor making any move in that direction—as Miss Selina angrily remarked from behind the drawing-room blind. Miss Selina had become very “cold” in her manner to Madeline—in fact, she was more than cold: she was actually and actively hostile—and glared at the unlucky pupil-teacher as if she were some kind of poisonous domestic reptile she had nourished in her bosom. Mrs. Wolferton’s praise, Mrs. Wolferton’s partiality for Miss West, did not please her; but, happily, the old lady was going away to the south of France to escape the east winds, and when she returned she would probably have forgotten her passing fancy! Miss Selina was good enough to judge others by her own standard.

One day there came tickets for the Theatre Royal at Riverside, for Mrs. and the Misses Harper, and Miss West: with Mr. Fred Wolferton’s compliments. He had not left home—and Mr. Wynne was still his guest.

“To go, or not to go?” that was a question which was debated with great spirit in Mrs. Harper’s own bedroom. They were only too willing to accept with pleasure; but what about that girl—must they take her also? There was no other alternative. If she had only a slight cold, or even a sty on her eye; but, unfortunately, she was never better in her life. They had no excuse beyond their own disinclination; go she must. Very grudgingly they broke the news to Madeline, as she sat over a slacked-down fire in the schoolroom, dividing her thoughts between a child’s story-book and Mr. Wynne—needless to ask which had the largest share. She could not help thinking a good deal of Mr. Wynne. It was wrong, it was foolish! Miss Selina would have declared that it was indelicate! Probably he never gave her a second thought. Her cheeks grew hot at the idea; but an inward voice whispered another tale. If he did not think of her, why did he always monopolize her at Mrs. Wolferton’s, usurping Fred’s place at the piano, why sit beside her at cards? Why had he begged permission to keep a flower? Why had he hinted that only for his poverty he would marry—or, at least, ask some girl to marry him—a girl who had no home? Who could that be? Dare she breathe, even to her inmost soul, that the girl’s name was Madeline West? If he had not thought of her, why did he tell her so much about himself, his dead father and mother, his rich, high, and mighty relations: relations who looked upon empty pockets as a crime; but who patronized him, asked him to dinner, and hinted that if he were to place himself on the cotton or soap markets, where heiresses were plentiful, he might, on the strength of his connections and his pedigree, secure one of these young ladies, and perhaps fifty thousand pounds!

But these suggestions he had not taken in good part, quite between ourselves; and, equally between ourselves, he asked himself what his grand relations would say if they knew he was head-over-ears in love with a pretty little pupil-teacher—a perfect lady, certainly, and not unworthy to bear the name of Wynne, but absolutely without sixpence? The poor child liked him too—he was sure of it. He could not offer her a decent home—could not presume to suppose that what was barely sufficient for one would afford a comfortable maintenance for two. Best leave her, if he could, in maiden meditation fancy free—leave her for some luckier fellow, leave his heart in her unconscious keeping. This visit to the theatre was to be positively the last meeting he would allow himself; and then for his dismal, solitary old chambers in the Temple, and work. Plenty of work is an excellent and healing medicine for any affection of a sentimental nature, so he had read, so he had been assured, and now he was about to test its efficacy.

The great evening came. With hot and trembling fingers Madeline made her modest toilet, donned her hat and cape, and awaited the rest of the party in the hall in a state of feverish suspense. She had rarely been inside a theatre in her life, and her heart was fluttering with happy anticipation. What a night this would be to look back upon! Henry Irving she had often longed to see, and now she was going to witness The Lyons Mail in company with Mr. Wynne. Oh, it was too much pleasure to be squeezed into one evening. If it could but be spread over three or four days, instead of being all compressed into two or three hours!

“Madeline!” said a sharp voice, that startled her from her delightful meditations, “just come into the drawing-room for a moment. I wish to speak to you!” leading the way into that dull apartment, lit at present by one dim gas-burner, and innocent of such extravagance as a fire. “I wish to speak to you,” seriously repeated Miss Selina, “about the preposterous way you are going on with Mr. Wynne! You are really quite shameless!”

“What have I done, Miss Selina? What do you mean?” she asked, breathless with horror.

“What have you not done? Flirted with him, run after him to Mrs. Wolferton’s, made yourself the talk of the whole place. Even the very servants have remarked it. Don’t imagine for one moment that he thinks of you as anything but a silly chit of a schoolgirl, who is head-over-ears in love with him, and whom he finds it amusing to draw out, and laugh at afterwards with Mr. Fred Wolferton.”

“Miss Selina!” cried Madeline, stung to the quick, turning white as death, and grasping the back of a chair for support, as she stammered passionately. “How dare you? How dare you say such things? You know they are not true. I went to Mrs. Wolferton’s because she was kind—because she asked me. I never ran after Mr. Wynne—never!”

“And pray what are you doing to-night?” with grim, ironical interrogation.

“If you think that I am running after him in going to the theatre, I can easily remain at home. I”—(oh, what a wrench was this! but her pride was roused)—“will stay at home,” removing her hat as she spoke. “The matter is easily settled.”

Not so easily as she supposed, for at this moment the sound of loud, cheery, masculine voices in the hall broke in upon them. The door was flung wide; enter Fred Wolferton, Mr. Murphy—(hush! you must not tell the bishop!) an elderly escort for Mrs. Harper; last, not least, Mr. Wynne. And although Madeline, with considerable embarrassment, firmly and positively assured every one that “she was not going,” as she could offer no sane reason for her sudden announcement, and was unquestionably dressed for the theatre, public opinion and public clamour carried the day.

She replaced her hat, in answer to an impatient signal from Miss Selina, and went; but the gilt had been removed from the gingerbread, and all the way in the train—they were ten miles from Riverside—she was pale and silent, and pointedly avoided Mr. Wynne, to Miss Selina’s great content. However, Mr. Wynne declined to be avoided. He ignored Miss Selina’s hints, and the vacant place next to her, which she patted invitingly, as much as to say, “Come and sit here, and be happy!” and seated himself at the other side of Madeline, whose eyes were straying over the theatre, and who, once the overture commenced, began to realize that she was enjoying herself extremely, and would not allow Miss Selina’s dreadful insinuations to spoil her whole evening.

Miss Selina, with tightly compressed lips and an angry glare in her little grey eyes, was aware that she had been publicly slighted. What is that line about “A woman scorned?” She felt capable of anything. Her rage against Mr. Wynne was as hot and as consuming as her bitter jealousy of Madeline West. Well, they should suffer for their intolerable behaviour, as she called it, meaning the simple fact of their sitting together, talking with much animation between the acts, and looking supremely happy. Yes, her feelings must have immediate relief. She would find a way to punish them; and, as she sat silent, her eyes fixed upon the drop scene, she was revolving a portentous plan in her own mind—a scheme that would rid her of her ex-pupil, and avenge her on the rising barrister by one swift blow—a scheme that would not be for the benefit of the smiling young couple—no, quite the reverse.

The orchestra was playing a wild Polish dance, its burthen full of sadness, despair, and weird, fantastic chords at one period; at another gaily frolicsome, and full of outbursts of mad mirth—an air that exercised a strange influence upon them, especially on Madeline, in her present state of highly strung nerves, and repressed mental excitement. She drank in that wild melody; it haunted her as long as she lived. When heard among other scenes, it always recalled this night—this momentous night, the very crisis of her existence. She gazed at the stage, at the big, red, mysterious curtain, the bent figures in the orchestra, the florally ornamented theatre, the gay company, with fans and opera-glasses, and asked herself, “Was it all real?”

At last the play was over; the actors had been called before the footlights and vociferously applauded, and had bowed themselves away. And now people began to move, to look about for cloaks and wraps and overcoats, and to hurry off, as if the place was on fire! The crowd was great. Outside it was snowing hard, and inside the crush was almost suffocating.

“I’ll look after you, Miss West,” said Mr. Wynne, eagerly, as they found a footing in the passage among hundreds of the recent audience.

“Very well. Be sure you do!” put in Miss Selina, with unwonted briskness. “We are certain to get separated. Look here, Madeline”—lowering her voice suddenly—“meet us at the bottom of the station steps. You know the place. Mind you are not late; it’s the last train!”

And with this injunction on her lips, she was borne away in the crowd, in her smart, pink opera mantle—once the property of the rich Miss West—and soon lost to sight.

“Let us wait until the rush is over, and take it quietly,” said Wynne, struggling vainly to look at his watch. “We will get a hansom, and be at the station in no time—before them, ten to one—for they are a large party.”

Inwardly he marvelled at Miss Selina’s arrangement. He was not aware that she had her reasons—well-thought-out plans—and he was too well satisfied to question the matter. After a little, when the crush had lessened, he made his way down to the portico, secured a hansom, and drove with his charge to the place of rendezvous, the foot of the steps—a covered entry, luckily, for the snow was falling thick and fast. They waited—it was bitterly cold—a chill little wind rose, and sobbed and wailed round them. Five minutes, and no one came to meet them. Ten minutes! still no one, and the hurrying crowd that had passed up had now entirely ceased.

“I hope they have not come to grief!” said Wynne. And, suddenly looking at his watch, he added, “I’ll tell you what—we can’t wait any longer, or we will miss our train. We must run for it as it is,” springing quickly up the steps.

Too late! Too late! The red light of the last train to Streambridge was just disappearing into the big tunnel. What was to be done? He stood for a moment irresolute. Yes; it was the last train, and it was gone. A cab was the first idea. Leaving Madeline, who was benumbed with waiting, and a good deal frightened, he hurried to the cab-rank. It was empty and void. He waylaid a passing cabby, and told him the state of the case.

“Ten miles in deep snow! Couldn’t be done, sir, at no price.”

The same story was repeated elsewhere. There was nothing for it but to go back to Madeline, who was now shivering over the dying fire in the ladies’ waiting-room.

“Well?” she asked, raising her face expectantly.

“No cab to be had,” he rejoined, with assumed sangfroid.

“No cab to be had!” she repeated, her eyes darkening and dilating with horror. “Oh, Mr. Wynne, can we walk?” Mad project!

“No. I fancy the best thing will be to stop here all night—I mean at the Railway Hotel—and go on by the first train in the morning. I will go to the landlady and ask her to look after you, and I will find quarters elsewhere. It will be all right,” he continued reassuringly. “Are you certain that Miss Selina said the foot of the steps?” he asked, as if struck by an afterthought.

“Yes; quite certain,” resolutely.

“Here!” he called to a sleepy porter. “Did you see a party looking for people by the last train—three ladies and three gentlemen?”

“Yes, sir; stout old party and two elderly ladies”—(oh, ye gods! if the Miss Harpers had heard him!)—“three gents. They came by the West Street entrance; they did seem looking—that is, the gents was—but one of the ladies said you were all right, and bundled the whole pack into a carriage. She seemed in a terrible flurry.”

“Well, we can do no good by waiting here,” said Wynne, at length. “Come along, there is nothing to be frightened at, Miss West.” (Miss West was crying quietly, and very much alarmed indeed.) “You will be back in time for breakfast. It was all an accident—a misunderstanding, and if there is any one to blame, or to be blamed, you must blame me.”

“I know they will be awfully angry,” said Madeline, turning her white face to his. “I don’t know what they will say!”

“Not angry, when I have explained everything to their entire satisfaction. I will go security that you will not get into any trouble. I will see Mrs. Harper myself.”

And, really, half an hour later, as Madeline sat with her feet on the fender of a luxurious bedroom in the Railway Hotel—a magnificent apartment to her benighted eyes—with a hot coal fire before her, and a cup of steaming coffee in her hand, she began to cheer up, and to take a brighter view of the situation. What harm was it, after all? Missing a train—nothing so very dreadful. She would only get a scolding, at the worst. Alas! she was but too well accustomed to scoldings!

But Laurence Wynne, as he fought his way to another hotel through the soft, spongy snow, with the collar of his coat turned up, and his head bent against the stinging sleet, looked graver than he had done when he was talking to his late companion. It was an exceedingly awkward business, and he had an uncomfortable conviction that Miss Selina was at the bottom of the situation. She had sent them to one entrance, and arrived at the other herself; had requested them to wait—and miss the train. There had been an expression in her eye that was distinctly hostile, as he had suddenly encountered it over the top of her fan. Selina Harper meant mischief—had laid a neat little trap into which he had artlessly tumbled. “However,” he said to himself, as he entered the coffee-room of a palatial hotel, “half the evils in the world are those which have never happened. No doubt the worst of the adventure would merely resolve itself into a bad quarter of an hour—for him—with Mrs. Harper.”

CHAPTER V.
EXPELLED.

The next morning, leaving Madeline at the station to follow by a later train, Mr. Wynne called at Harperton, in order to have a little explanation. The maid’s face (she was an old maid) looked portentously solemn as she opened the door; and—oh! ominous objects!—two good-sized basket trunks, and a bonnet-box, stood waiting in the hall. As he glanced at them in passing, some one came out through a door just behind him, and said, in a biting tone—

“Dear me! I am surprised to see Mr. Wynne under the circumstances; but, as he is here, perhaps he can give an address for Miss West’s boxes?”

“May I ask what you mean, Miss Selina?” he said, turning to confront her the instant the drawing-room door was closed.

“I mean,” she replied, flushing to a dull brick colour, “that after her escapade of last evening, Miss West never enters this house again—a young lady who stayed out all night!” she concluded with a wild, dramatic gesture.

“But, you know, that was not her fault, Miss Selina. We waited exactly where you told us—at the bottom of the steps—and so missed the train. I could not get a cab, though I did my utmost, the snow was too deep. I left Miss West at the Railway Hotel and brought her from there this morning. She——”

“Oh,” interrupted his listener, throwing up both hands, “pray spare me the details! It is nothing to me whom she was with, or where she went. We have quite done with her. It was a planned thing between you, no doubt.”

“Miss Selina,” cried Mr. Wynne, “your sex protects you! A man dared not say what you have permitted yourself to utter, and do not in your own heart believe. Am I to understand that because, through waiting for you, by your own express direction, Miss West lost her only train home last night, and was obliged to remain in Riverside, you would blast her reputation, and thrust her out of doors?”

“You are!” she returned, defiantly, looking him full in the face with her cold, cruel, little eyes.

“And may I ask what is to become of the young lady?” he inquired, with a forced calmness that was ominous enough.

“Nay,” shrugging her shoulders, “that is a matter between her and you.” Then she added, with an evil smile, “She need not refer to us for a character.”

“Perhaps your mother will be more lenient,” he said, making a great effort to restrain his temper. “Remember that Miss West has no home and no friends. Can I see Mrs. Harper?”

“I am speaking for my mother,” she answered sharply. “She refuses to see the girl, or allow her inside our door. There is no use in your persisting—it is waste of time. We are not rich, but, at any rate,” choking with excitement, “we have always been respectable!”

“I am delighted to hear it,” he replied, making a low, ironical bow; “and as there is nothing further to be said, I will wish you good morning.”

“Good morning!” replied Miss Selina, ringing the bell, and curtseying simultaneously. “You will be pleased to remove Miss West’s boxes at once, and inform her that letters from her will be returned unopened”—thereby securing the last shot, and the last word. And Mr. Wynne walked out of the house in a bewildered and confused state of mind, outwardly cool, but in reality at boiling point.

He had not proceeded far when he met Madeline coming towards him, with a terrified and expectant face. Now was the moment for action. His senses were stung to alertness, his mind cleared of misgivings; he made a desperate resolve. She was thrust out homeless and alone in the wide, wide world! She should share his home, such as it was; it was better than none. She should, an she would, be his wife—and rich in love if in nothing else. Prudence had hitherto sealed his lips—for her sake chiefly. Now that she had no resources, no place open to receive her, he could and would speak.

The first thing he did was to hail a cab, and despatch the man straight back to Harperton for Miss West’s luggage, desiring him to bring it to the station.

“Why, what does it mean? Are they so very angry?” she asked with blanched cheeks. “Oh, you don’t mean that they are sending me away?” For she noticed that Mr. Wynne looked unusually pale and grave.

“Come down here with me,” leading her into some public gardens that they were passing, “and I will tell you all about it.”

The gardens were miserably wintry. Snow lay on the ground, a couple of boys were snowballing, some starving red-wings fluttered across the path, a granite-grey sky lowered overhead. Surely it was the last place on God’s earth in which to relate a love tale; and the girl herself, what a picture of misery! Oh! thought the young man, if Mrs. Wolferton had but been at home—but, alas! she was abroad—she would have been a true friend to this poor forlorn child. Madeline was, of course, wearing her evening dress, such as it was—at any rate, it was thin. A shabby little plush opera cloak barely covered her perishing neck and arms. Over this was drawn a meagre black cape. On her head she wore a sunburnt sailor hat; in her frozen, mittened hand she held a fan; her face was pinched with cold, and white with anxiety. No lovely lady-fair was here to woo this bleak January forenoon. And what of ambition—the stern, jealous mistress to whom he was pledged?

“They are very angry, senselessly angry,” began the young man. “They won’t take you back again, and have actually packed your boxes ready for removal. However, when one door shuts, another opens. There is a home ready for you, Madeline. Can you guess where it is?”

She gazed at Mr. Wynne, and stood perfectly still and very white, with her thin, sensitive lips tightly pressed together, and made no reply.

“You know that it is my home,” he continued eagerly. “I need not tell you that I love you, and so well do I love you, that until now I have never dared even to whisper my love. I am poor, I have my way to make as yet, it may be a life of struggling poverty. Can you share it—will you venture, Madeline?”

The girl stepped back a pace, and suddenly sat down upon an iron garden bench, still silent, and covered her face with her mittened hands.

“Will you not answer me!” he pleaded. He dared not remove her hands, or offer her a caress. The snowballing had ceased; the present scene in real life attracted the two boys, who had drawn near. The lady was sick, or looked like it.

“You do not mean it,” she faltered. “I know you are very, very kind, but I cannot accept your pity, for that is what it comes to.”

“I solemnly declare to you that it is not,” he rejoined with emphasis; “but even if it were, have you not heard that pity is akin to love?”

“It is utterly impossible,” she said slowly. “You are speaking out of the goodness of your heart, on the impulse of the moment. This time yesterday, tell me honestly,” raising her lovely eyes to his, “had you any intention of—of—of this?”

“To be truthful, then, I had not.”

“There, you see, that is enough. There is your answer,” with a quick little gesture.

“No, no, hear me out. It was on your account that I held my tongue. If I had had a decent income I would have spoken to you long ago; but I felt that I had no right to remove you from Mrs. Harper’s care without having a comfortable home to offer you. I meant to work very hard and to return next year. Now all has been changed. Circumstances alter cases. I ask you now, Madeline, will you be afraid to begin with me at the bottom of the ladder—something tells me that I shall reach the top?”

“I shall only be a dead weight and a burden,” she replied in a broken voice. She was relenting. Her own heart was an eloquent advocate for Mr. Wynne.

“What will your relations say when they hear that you wish to marry a portionless girl, a—beggar?” she murmured tremulously.

“They will say nothing that can affect us. I am independent. I have no claims on them, and they have no right to dictate to me. By the time they hear the news, we shall, I hope, be married. We have nothing to wait for, and the sooner you have a home of your own the better. I wish I had a sister or some near relative that I could take you to, but I am almost as much alone in the world as you are.”

In the end Mr. Wynne prevailed—was not talking his trade?—and Madeline West walked out of that wintry white garden his affianced wife.

Rash young man! Rash young woman! One would have thought that they had the wealth of Crœsus, the full consent and warmest wishes of tribes of wealthy relations, to look at their faces as they passed through the gates side by side.

Miss West did not feel the snow soaking through her thin walking shoes. No, she was treading on air—had thrown all doubts and misgivings to the winds, and was prepared to make the most of this heaven-sent period. She was about to enter on a new and happy life, believing that, although a poor man’s wife, her path would be strewn with roses.

She had about as much practical experience of household cares—the value of pounds, shillings, and pence—as one of the children in the third class at Harperton. As for Laurence Wynne, Madeline was his, Madeline was an angel, young, unspoiled, and unsophisticated, with modest wishes, and a firm faith in him. Their future was before them! It was!

CHAPTER VI.
“POVERTY COMES IN AT THE DOOR.”

In a very short time Madeline West was Madeline Wynne. She was married at a little old church in the City, with no other witnesses than the verger and the clerk; and Mr. and Mrs. Wynne spent a week in Paris ere they set up housekeeping, in modest lodgings not far from the Temple, and from which, by leaning well out of the drawing-room window, and nearly dislocating your neck, you could obtain a glimpse of the Thames Embankment.

The good old days, when Traddles and Sophy lived in chambers, and entertained half a dozen of “the dear girls,” were no more. Mr. Wynne was obliged to set up his little tent outside the venerable precincts, in the second floor front of Solferino Place. To Madeline it was a palace, because it was her very own. Here she might poke the fire, alter the arrangement of the furniture, pile on coals, order tea at any time, and go out and come in as she pleased. She could scarcely realize such liberty! Neither could she realize her wedding-ring, and she frequently stared for a moment in doubt when she heard herself called “Mrs. Wynne.”

Laurence was not so poor as she imagined, for he hired a piano, bought her songs, flowers, and—oh! joy—three such pretty new dresses; he took her to the theatres, for walks in the parks (when he had time), he showed her most of the sights of London—St. Paul’s, Westminster Abbey, the National Gallery, and the Tower.

He was even extravagant in one line. He laid out for her a reckless amount of shillings and half-crowns on literary papers, magazines, and books. Laurence was fond of reading; she was not, and she little knew how she startled him when she exclaimed, “Besides all the other hateful things you have delivered me from, Laurence, you have delivered me from books! I never wish to open one again!”

Now Laurence had been looking forward to introducing his pretty Madeline to all the great masters in English literature, to hearing her fresh comments, to sharing her raptures, to comparing first impressions, favourite pieces, favourite characters; in short, to opening for this girl of eighteen the portals of a new world. Alas! it soon became evident that Madeline had an absolute lack of literary taste. She had a taste for music, for flowers; a marvellous taste in colours, and in dress; but for reading, as he understood it, not an atom. (At first he had had visions of reading her some sketches and articles of his own, but soon changed his mind, and kept his MS. in his writing-desk.) He read aloud well, and selected, as he believed, gems; but, unfortunately, Mrs. Wynne preferred paste!

Lamb’s essays were “quite too awfully dry.” Wordsworth was ten times worse—she could hardly stifle her yawns. And even when he was reading “Silas Marner,” and, as he considered, George Eliot’s masterpiece, he noticed that Madeline was shyly perusing the advertisements in a ladies’ newspaper. She looked so nonplussed and unhappy if he paused and suddenly asked her, “If that was not fine? and how such and such a passage struck her?”

At length he relinquished his efforts. It was time, when Madeline, with a pretty pout, said, “My dear Laurence, I might as well be at school; you are just talking like Mr. Falk, our professor of English literature. Such an ugly little mummy.”

“And to whom you never listened?”

“Not I; and I never could remember names, periods, or dates. You must make the best of me. In some ways you will find that I am hopelessly stupid.”

In spite of these tiresome readings, Madeline was thoroughly happy; there was not one single drawback, not one little cloud on her sky, if we except an occasionally heavy magazine article to which she was obliged to lend her ears. And Laurence was happy too. It was delightful to come home those dark, wet nights, and find a kiss, a blazing fire, and his pretty Madeline awaiting him. She was always smiling, always so ready to see the comic side of everything, a veritable sunbeam in that drawing-room.

“Who would be a bachelor?” he asked himself contemptuously, as he watched her flitting to and fro after dinner, pulling up his armchair and filling his pipe. If he had one little arrière pensée, it was this, that she would not always give him mutton chops, and a wish that her ideas of a menu were a little more expansive.

Nevertheless he was perfectly content. He had an incentive to work hard now, and he did work. He was getting known in a small way. He had the gift of oratory, of what is known as legal tact, a handsome presence, and the power—given to so few—of swaying men’s minds with his eloquence, as the flame of a candle in the wind. But, then, he was only twenty-eight—a mere boy in the eyes of the ancient profession, where a man begins to make a start about fifty. Still Laurence Wynne had his foot on the lower rung of the ladder. More than one shrewd solicitor had noted him. His luck had turned; his marriage had brought him good fortune, though it had scared away all his relations, and he had completely dropped out of society.

But this fool’s Paradise was not to last—it never does. The angel that opened the gate, and drove the foolish pair out into the everyday, hard, stony world was typhoid fever.

The hot summer succeeding their marriage was a trying one, and in the sultry September days typhoid fever laid hold on many victims, among others on the hard-working young barrister—seized him with a death-like grip, flung him on a sick bed, and kept him there for months.

The fever was so difficult to shake off, and it had brought so many other ills in its train. Finances were low—as they are sure to be when the bread-winner is idle. Doctors’ bills and chemists’ bills were mounting up, as well as the butcher’s and baker’s, not to speak of the landlady’s little account.

All the burden now lay upon one pair of young shoulders—Madeline’s; and, to quote a homely but expressive phrase, she absolutely did not know where to turn. She had neither money nor friends. Her husband had no capital; his slender fortune had been invested in his education and profession. And as to his friends and his distant connections, they had disowned him. When they had heard of what they were good enough to call “his low marriage with a teacher in a school,” they had washed their hands of him with wonderful unanimity. Society had lost sight of him for months; Mr. and Mrs. Wynne had no acquaintances. Poor Madeline was in terrible straits, but her courage rose with the occasion; she was brave and energetic, and did not sit down with her hands before her and cry.

A schoolfellow of her husband’s (another young barrister) came to see her and him, and gave help in the shape of advice, which for once was valuable. They moved to the top story—the attics. (That was a step of which their landlady highly approved.) And he procured some law copying for Madeline—who wrote a clear, neat hand—which brought in a few shillings, and kept the actual wolf from the door. He sent fish, grapes, and other little delicacies to the invalid, and was in truth that rara avis—a friend in need.

He considered that Wynne had behaved like a madman in marrying on nothing; but certainly the girl was an immense temptation—so young, so pretty—such eyes he had never seen—so unsophisticated and fresh, and yet possessing excellent sense and an elastic and dauntless spirit. Here for once was an instance in which poverty had not thrust love out of the window. Strange, but true, their reverses had only served to draw the Wynnes more closely together. They afforded a refreshing study to Mr. Jessop, who was a cynic and a philosopher in a small way, and who sneered and snarled and marvelled. Things had not even come to the worst with these unfortunate people, not until a third was added to the establishment in the shape of a Master Wynne, who puckered up his wrinkled red face, thrust his creasy fists into his eyes, and made hideous grimaces at the world in which he found himself—and in which, to tell the truth, he was not particularly wanted, except by his mother, to whom he was not only welcome, but, in her partial eyes, a little household god!

His father, who was slowly recovering—an emaciated spectre of what he had been—was dubious with regard to the striking resemblance to himself, and frequently wondered in his inmost soul, as to what was to be the future of his son and heir? How was he to be fed, clothed, and educated? Dismal echoes answered, “How?” for the Wynnes were now desperately poor.

I mean by this, that Mr. Wynne’s watch had long been ticketed in a pawnbroker’s window, that Madeline’s one little brooch had gone the same way; also—oh, breathe it not!—her best gown and hat; also Mr. Wynne’s top coat and evening dress clothes; that the invalid alone tasted meat—and in scanty portions—Madeline telling many clever fibs with regard to her own dinner. Her inexhaustible spirits and vivacity seemed to sustain her—that, and a little bread and tea.

The one person who was well-to-do was the baby. He was clothed in a beautiful cloak and hood—Mr. Jessop’s gifts—purchased, with many blushes, by that keen-eyed, close-shaven gentleman, and presented with pride to his godson and namesake. More than once Madeline’s mental eye had seen these sumptuous garments smuggled away to the pawnbroker’s round the corner, but she fought hard with the idea, and had sternly kept it at bay—as yet. Their circumstances were, indeed, all but desperate, when one evening Mr. Jessop came thundering up the stairs, newspaper in hand, and panted out, as he threw himself into the nearest chair and took off his hat—

“I say, Mrs. Wynne, what was your name before you were married?”

“My name,” she echoed, looking blankly at him, for she was trying to keep the baby quiet and to do some copying simultaneously—vain and exasperating task—“was West—Madeline West.”

“Ah! I thought so!” he cried triumphantly, clearing his throat and unfolding his paper with a flourish.

“Then just listen to this:—‘Madeline West.—If this should meet the eye of Madeline Sidney West, she is earnestly implored to communicate with Mrs. H. of H. House, at once, when she will hear of something greatly to her advantage.’ Now what do you think of that?” he demanded of his friend, who, drawn up near a handful of cinders, had been poring over a law book. “Looks like a legacy, doesn’t it?”

“Too good to be true, I’m afraid. Eh, Madeline?”

Madeline turned her face alternately on the two men. A faint colour had invaded her thin, white cheeks, and her eyes brightened as she said—

“There is no harm in answering the notice; it may mean something.”

“Why, of course it does,” cried Mr. Jessop, emphatically. “Get a pen, give me the infant, and write a line now, and I’ll post it.”

And Madeline accordingly sat down and wrote to Mrs. Harper on the spot, whilst her companions watched her in silence.

“Dear Mrs. Harper,

“I have seen your notice in the Times of to-day. My address is—2, Solferino Place, Westminster.

“Yours truly,
“M. W.”

She was so accustomed to sign merely her initials, and was so flurried between anticipation, anxiety, excitement, and the screams of the baby, that she never had the presence of mind to write her full name, and on this slight omission, this one little cog, turned a most important factor in her future career.

CHAPTER VII.
A TELEGRAM FOR MISS WEST.

The very morning after Madeline had despatched her letter, a telegram was handed in for Miss West, 2, Solferino Place. The landlady herself mounted, breathless, to the attics, with the tan-coloured envelope in her hand.

“I was just for sending it away, Mrs. Wynne,” she gasped, surveying her with an inquiring eye; “but it came into my mind as I’d show it to you on the chance.”

“Thank you; it is for me,” rejoined her lodger, hastily tearing it open and running her eyes over it. As she read, she became crimson with amazement and agitation. “Come at once—to-day if possible. News of your father.—From Mrs. Harper, Streambridge,” was the message.

“But it’s for Miss West, and you’ve gone and opened it!” exclaimed the landlady, suspiciously. “How is that, eh? I never would have supposed—no, never,” folding her arms belligerently, “as you wasn’t on the square; and as I’ve allus kep’ a respectable ’ouse, I couldn’t think——”

“You need not think, Mrs. Kane; you need not alarm yourself about the matter, it is all quite right. I am Mrs. Wynne, but I was Miss West once upon a time. The sender of the message does not know that I am married,” interrupted Madeline, speaking with studied composure—though her heart was beating fearfully fast.

Insolent as Mrs. Kane was, she dared not quarrel with her. Her roof covered them on sufferance. Were she to thrust them forth, where were they to go? They were entirely at her mercy, for they owed her money; and latterly she had been inclined to take out a large amount of interest in rude insolence, biting gibes, and unpleasant hints with regard to “paupers a coming and settling down on poor, honest, hard-working people—paupers as could afford dress, and theatres, and pianos once, and saved nothing for a rainy day!”

Paupers—impecunious people like the Wynnes, especially Mrs. Wynne, who bore the brunt of these encounters—could not afford to stand on their dignity, and be independent and “move on.” They must submit humbly; but it was insufferably galling—as galling to Madeline as Miss Selina’s yoke, that had pressed upon her so sorely but one little year ago.

Who but herself knew with what deprecating eyes and voice she had pleaded with her impatient landlady for a little time, how humbly she ventured to ask for coals, how stealthily she crept up and down stairs, carrying baby, and doing her own miserable errands, making her presence as unobtrusive as possible, for fear of offending her hostess’s threatening eyes.

The hostess’s threatening eyes were fixed upon her now, with a look that was an insult, as she listened to her hurried explanation with a down-drawn lip.

“Oh, well, I suppose, as I know no better, I must believe you,” and with a noisy sniff that intimated quite the reverse, Mrs. Kane glared once round their squalid sitting-room, to see if anything were broken or missing, or the valuable property damaged in any way; and, failing to discover the smallest pretext for complaint, passed out of the apartment with a heavy and aggressive strut, and banged the door behind her.

Madeline lost not a second in rushing to the invalid with the great news, and placing the slip of pink paper in his hand.

“There is something at last! I feel that a change is coming; these terrible days cannot—cannot go on for ever. I believe my father is alive, and coming home! What do you think, Laurence?” she asked, and her voice trembled.

Laurence, still holding the telegram in his thin, transparent hand, gazed at his wife for some seconds in silence. How changed she was, he thought, with a pang of self-reproach. She was shabby—very genteelly shabby. Her black dress was all mended and pieced, her face was haggard, her eyes sunken, their look eager, anxious, almost desperate.

An intelligent spectator would have declared that she was obviously half-starved, and so she was. But how furiously she would have disclaimed such a pronouncement. She would rather have died than have admitted that truth. As long as Laurence had meat once a day, as long as baby had milk, she did very well on anything, and anything may mean almost nothing—it is an elastic word. Meanwhile, Laurence had been telling himself that he had been a culpable wretch to marry Madeline West. What would he say to her father when he placed his daughter in his arms—a daughter in all but rags, with a face pinched with famine, without a friend, without a penny, and weighted with a dying husband and a peculiarly ill-tempered baby?

How much better would it have been if he had curbed his foolish fancy—nipped it in the bud, and left Madeline to her fate. Why had he not wired to Mrs. Wolferton? What would her father say? Would he cast her off?

Madeline had hinted that, as well as she could judge her father from his letters, he was fond of show and style and great people. He wished her to dance and sing and play well, and to speak French; but he had never said a word about literature, or the English classics, or what Laurence called “the higher education of women.” On the other hand, he hoped that she would always make acquaintance with girls her equals, or even superiors, and never lower herself by school-friendships that it would be impossible for him to recognize. Madeline had once innocently repeated this to her husband verbatim, and it came vividly before him now. Madeline had done more than form a friendship of which her aspiring parent would disapprove, a friendship that could be slipped out of like an old glove. Here she was tied for life to a poor man, whose only career seemed likely to be that of an invalid—a stone round her neck as long as he lived.

He had but faint hopes of his own recovery; everything was against it. He knew that this could not be helped, and he was very patient. If he had good wine, wholesome delicacies to tempt his appetite, instead of gruesome scraps of stale, ill-cooked meat and poisonous port at a shilling; if he could have a change to pure, invigorating air, he might yet have a chance. And he knew that he might as well long for the moon—for the entire firmament!

“What is to be done, Laurence?” asked Madeline, rather surprised at his long silence. “What do you think of it?”

“You must go, of course,” he returned at last. “Go to-day.”

“To-day! My dear Laurence, what are you thinking of?” sitting down on a rush chair as she spoke, and staring at him in amazement. “Where is the money to come from? Look here,” producing a shabby little purse, with a brass clasp, and turning out the pitiably small contents, “all I possess is two and sevenpence.”

“Still you must go, Maddie, by hook or crook; much may depend on it. A return third-class——”

“A return third-class would be twenty-two shillings—one pound two,” she interrupted. “And, besides, I could not go in this,” looking down at her gown; “now,” appealingly, “could I?”

“No, you could not,” he replied, with a little flush on his pale face. “And you must get something out. To get something out something else must go in. And,” speaking with an effort, “I never thought to part with them, but they could not go in a better cause. I mean,” wiping his damp forehead, “my mother’s miniature and my father’s medals. The miniature is framed in seed pearls; the back is gold—it ought to fetch a couple of pounds. It’s in my desk, Maddie, in a little morocco case.” There were other things in his desk—neatly-copied-out manuscripts. These, alas! were valueless—he had proved them. “Take it, my dear, and welcome; and the medals—they will fetch a few shillings.”

“Oh, Laurence,” suddenly kneeling down beside him, “I don’t like to! Must I really? I know you think so much of them. They are the only relics you possess. No, no; I really can’t!”

“Yes, you can, and you shall,” said the sick man, with sudden decision. “Here, at last, is an opening for you, my poor Maddie. Something tells me that your father is alive—is coming home rich. You are his only child, his heiress. You will be looked after and cherished when I am gone. Yes, my dear, it will be best for you in the end. It was most wicked of me to marry you. I see it all now, only too plainly. I had put by nothing for such a strait, and I had no wealthy friends. But I never dreamt that it would come to this, Maddie; believe me, I never did. Forgive me!” he urged, and tears, born of weakness and remorse, stood in his hollow eyes.

“Laurence!” she interrupted, attempting to place her hand on his mouth.

“I should have walked home in the snow that night; I should have taken you to the Wolfertons’ house, and telegraphed for her; I should have gone to the parish clergyman—done anything but what I did, and which led to my dragging you into such a pit as this!” with an inclusive wave of his hand and a glance round the mean little attic. “But it won’t be for long now,” he added in a lower voice.

“Oh, Laurence,” she almost screamed as she seized his arm, “why are you telling me such terrible things, when we have a little gleam of hope at last? It is cruel—cruel of you. You couldn’t mean that, after all we have gone through together—that when we are approaching smooth water—you—you would leave me!”

And here she suddenly broke down and burst into tears, for, alas! she had an agonizing inward conviction that there was truth in what he said. How pale and thin and wasted he looked! No one would recognize him who had seen him last year, with his shorn head, gaunt cheekbones, and sunken eyes; and she had a heart-breaking feeling that it was not mere actual illness, nor the dregs of that terrible fever, that were to blame for this, but that cruel, pitiless, ferocious wolf called WANT. He was dying of the lack of mere necessaries, and she, miserable woman, was powerless to procure them; and for this she laid down her head and wept as if her heart would burst—her passionate sobbing fairly frightened Laurence. Madeline’s tears were rarely seen; Madeline was always bright, cheery, almost gay, at the very worst of times; and now came a reaction, and she was weeping as he had never seen any one weep before.

“Don’t, Maddie, don’t,” he whispered, feebly stroking her hair; “you will be better without me, though you don’t think so now. You are young—only nineteen—many bright days may be in store for you. I will leave you contentedly, if your father has come home. The greatest horror I have ever known will be lifted from my mind. You don’t know, dearest, what torments have racked me as I lay awake through the long, dark nights, listening to the clocks striking hour after hour, and wondering what would become of you? Now Providence has answered the question; your father will give you and the child a home. There, Maddie, there, don’t; I can’t bear to see you cry like this; and I—I may get over it, and—— And now, you see, you have awakened the baby!” as a shrill, querulous cry from the next room interrupted what he was about to say.

The maternal instinct thus roused, he hoped that her tears would cease, as he was powerless to arrest them. And Madeline completely broken down—Madeline, who was always so brave, who had come out in a new light under the scorching flames of the furnace of affliction—was a sight that completely unmanned him.

Madeline hastily dried her eyes, strangled her sobs, took her shrieking offspring out of his cradle, and gave him his midday bottle—an operation which appeased his appetite and soothed his feelings. Then she came back to her husband with the child in her arms, and said in a husky voice, “If you had change of air, good food, properly cooked, fruit, wine, and the little delicacies all sick people require, you would get well—I know you would. Promise me, promise that you will try to get better! Promise me that you will wish to get better, Laurence,” she continued tremulously, “for—for our sake.”

“I can promise that, at any rate, Maddie,” he answered with a dim smile; “but you know the old proverb about wishes.”

“And you know that while there’s life there’s hope,” she answered quickly. “I have hope; you must have hope too! And now I am going out, you will have to mind baby,” placing the white bundle beside his father, who eyed his charge dubiously, as it stared at him stolidly, thumb in mouth.

Madeline hurriedly put on her hat and jacket, and, taking a key, unlocked a brass-bound desk, and, after a little search, drew out the morocco case. “Is this it?” she asked, holding it up. “This is what you mean?”

A nod assured her that it was.

“You would like to look at it once more,” she said, gently laying it in his hand. “I don’t know how to take it. You are so like her, too,” looking down at the little oval miniature of a pretty, spirited girl with dark eyes and dark hair, and seeing her husband’s gaze fixed greedily on the portrait. “You were so fond of her, Laurence.”

“Not more than I am of you, Maddie,” he answered, closing the case with a decisive snap. “And my father’s medals,” he said, as he held them up, and looked at them wistfully. “Well, they will fetch a few shillings, and they go in a good cause. Here, take them, my dear, and go, and don’t be long.”

Needless to add this formula. Was she ever long? But time passed very slowly when Madeline was absent from those two poor attics which were called home.

CHAPTER VIII.
NOT MARRIED AFTER ALL.

“He has not awoke since, has he?” asked the anxious mother, as, fully an hour later, she reappeared with a bundle and a basket. “No”—with a sigh of relief—“I see he is sound,” laying down her load as she spoke. “And now to begin at the very beginning, and to tell you everything, Laurence,” opening the basket and producing a bottle. “Here is some good port wine; I’ve carried it most carefully, so as not to shake it. You must have a glass at once—that is to be the beginning.”

“Oh, Maddie, what extravagance! When you——”

“Hush! please to listen,” exhibiting as she spoke a hunch of grapes, six fresh eggs, a jar of Bovril, and a packet of biscuits from her seemingly inexhaustible store, and laying them on the table.

“Then you are not going!” exclaimed her husband, in a tone of deep disapproval.

“Oh yes, I am,” she answered promptly, now opening the bundle, and shaking out a dress that she had pawned, and regarding it with an expression that showed it was an old and favourite friend. “Here is an A B C guide. I go to-night when I have left you comfortable, and baby asleep. Mrs. Kane’s niece has promised to look after you to-morrow, and to-morrow night I return, all being well.”

“Then they gave you a good price for the miniature and the medals.”

“Price!” she echoed indignantly. “They turned the miniature over and over, and sneered at it, and said they had no sale for such like; but they could not say that it wasn’t real gold and pearls, and they gave me eighteen shillings, and said it was more than it was worth, and ten shillings on the medals. Medals are a drug in the market.”

“Then how—where did you get money for your journey?” asked her husband, in a tone of amazement bordering on impatience.

“See here!” holding up both her bare hands. Very pretty hands they were, but now a little coarse from hard work. “Do you miss anything, Laurence?” colouring guiltily.

“Yes, your—wedding-ring—and keeper,” after a moment’s pause—a pause of incredulity.

“You won’t be angry with me, dear, will you?” she said coaxingly, coming and kneeling beside him. “It makes no real difference, does it? Please—please don’t be vexed; but I got a sovereign on them, and they are the first things I shall redeem. You must have nourishing food, even if I had to steal it; and I would steal for you!” she added, passionately. “I shall only take a single ticket—third class. Mrs. Harper will surely lend me a few pounds, and I will be able to leave ten shillings for you to go on with.”

“How can I be angry with you, Maddie?” he replied. “It is all my fault—the fault of my rashness, thoughtlessness, selfishness—that you have had to do this, my poor child! Oh, that snowy night was a bad one for you! I ought to have left you, and walked back.”