MARRIED OR SINGLE?

NEW NOVELS AT ALL LIBRARIES.

HEART OF OAK: A Three-Stranded Yarn. By W. Clark Russell. 3 vols.

THE PROFESSOR’S EXPERIMENT. By Mrs. Hungerford. 3 vols.

THE WOMAN IN THE DARK. By F. W. Robinson. 2 vols.

THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER. By L. T. Meade. 3 vols.

SONS OF BELIAL. By William Westall. 2 vols.

LILITH. By George MacDonald. 1 vol.

LADY KILPATRICK. By Robert Buchanan. 1 vol.

CLARENCE. By Bret Harte. 1 vol.

THE IMPRESSIONS OF AUREOLE. A Diary of To-Day. 1 vol.

DAGONET ABROAD. By George R. Sims. 1 vol.

THE KING IN YELLOW. By Robert W. Chambers. 1 vol.

IN THE QUARTER. By Robert W. Chambers. 1 vol.

London: CHATTO & WINDUS, Piccadilly.

MARRIED OR SINGLE?

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

IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. II.

LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1895

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

MARRIED OR SINGLE?

CHAPTER XIV.
A SOCIAL GODMOTHER.

The next day Lord Tony’s only sister, Lady Rachel Jenkins, arrived to call—but not for the first time—upon Miss West. She was an extremely vivacious and agreeable little woman, with dark eyes and flashing teeth. She took Madeline out with her in her own brougham, and—oh, great favour!—introduced her to her pet dressmaker. This august person viewed Miss West’s stone-coloured costume with an air of amused contempt; it was not good style; the cut of the skirt was quite “out,” and she finally wound up by uttering the awful words, “Ready made.” It was not what Madeline liked, or even thought she would like, but what Lady Rachel suggested and Madame Coralie approved, that was selected.

“Your father, my dear,” patting the girl’s hand confidentially, “met me on the stairs, and we had a few words together. I’m going to show you what we do in London, and what we wear, and whom we know; and what we don’t wear, and whom we don’t know, my little country mouse!”

So the country mouse was endowed with half a dozen fine dresses chosen entirely by Lady Rachel—dresses for morning, afternoon, and evening.

“I only order six, my dear,” said her chaperon cheerily, “as the season is getting over, and these will carry you on till August, if you have a good maid. Madame Coralie, we can only give you five days,” rising as she spoke.

But Madame Coralie threw up eyes and hands and gesticulated, and volubly declared that it was absolument impossible! She had so many gowns for Ascot and the royal garden party. Nevertheless, Lady Rachel was imperious, and carried her point.

“The opera mantle is to be lined with pink brocade, and you will line the cloth skirt with shot sulphur-coloured silk; and that body I chose is to be almost drowned in chiffon and silver.”

She was to be female bear-leader to this young heiress, and was resolved that her appearance should not disgrace her, and that “the old squatter,” as she called him, should be taken at his word, and made to pay and look pleasant.

The succeeding visit was to a milliner’s; the next to a shoe shop, when the same scene was rehearsed. Madeline looked on and said nothing, but made an angry mental note that she would never again go out shopping with this imperious little lady. Why, even the poorest had the privilege of choosing their own clothes! Why should this little black-browed woman, barely up to her shoulder, tyrannize over her thus? Simply because, my dear, unsophisticated Madeline, she has promised to bring you out—to be your social godmother, to introduce you to society, such as your father loveth, and to be friendly. Besides all this, she has already decided in her own mind that “you will do very well,” and are not nearly as rustic as she expected; and she has made up her mind—precisely as she did about your satin dinner-dress—that you are to marry her brother. Oh, happy prospect!

Lady Rachel was Lord Anthony’s only sister—a woman of five and thirty, who, thirteen years previously, had married a rich parvenu—plain, homely, much older than herself—for his money. She had no fortune as Lady Rachel Foster, and she was not particularly pretty; so she made the best available use of her title, and changed it for twenty thousand a year and the name of Jenkins. Mr. Jenkins liked being announced as “Lady Rachel, and Mr. Jenkins;” to be asked in a loud voice, in public places, “How is your wife—Lady Rachel?” For her part, she liked her fine house, servants, carriages, and jewels; and both were, to a certain extent, satisfied with their bargain. Perhaps of late years there had been a certain amount of disappointment. Lady Rachel went more and more into society, and drifted widely apart from Mr. Jenkins and his city friends. Mr. Jenkins was not considered an acquisition in her circles, which were a little rapid. He was given to understand—by deeds, not words—that he was rather a bore, and that he must not always be expecting to be tied to the tail of his brilliant, fashionable, frivolous little wife—and then, Mr. Jenkins was jealous!

It was quite time that Anthony was married, thought his sister. He was not prepossessing in appearance. He was well known in society, and especially in her own set, as a fellow with an empty head, empty pockets, and a roving nature. He was not popular. She was aware that he had been rejected by heiress after heiress. He would not be modest and content with a plain girl, or an elderly widow, or even a faded spinster on the shady side of forty! No; Lord Anthony Foster must have beauty and money to boot, and there was no bidding for his coronet in the quarters these came from. Prudent mammas had set a mark against his name, and where his attentions would have been welcomed, he turned up his nose, and talked in a high moral manner about the sin of marrying one’s grandmother. His affectionate sister had vainly suggested one or two ladies that she had thought suitable, but until now Lord Tony had been too difficile, and her pains had gone for nothing!

But now, oh, joy at last, he had found a girl almost, as one might say, to order—young, accomplished, ladylike, very pretty, and very rich.

Lady Rachel already considered Madeline her sister-in-law, and had already selected her own gown for the wedding, so far ahead do some active, imaginative natures throw their mental life. There was nothing to wait for. Tony was willing—the old squatter was willing—and the girl—well, she was willing, of course.

Madame Coralie’s dresses came home punctually, and were all that the most fastidious could desire, in fit, style, colour, and cut. Madeline spent the whole afternoon, in the retirement of her own room, slowly trying on all six, one after the other, with ever-increasing approbation. The climax was an oyster-white satin, with a turquoise velvet and silver bodice—a dream of a dress, to quote the enraptured Josephine.

Madeline had an æsthetic appreciation of herself as she stood before a glass and contemplated the slim figure, white rounded arms, the rich glistening skirt, the exquisitely moulded bodice. Could this apparition be the same young woman who had humbled herself before Mrs. Kane, and carried up her own coals? What a difference dress made—in self-respect and self-importance! Dress, as she now realized it, was a powerful engine in cultivating one’s own self-esteem. Yes, a silk-lined skirt could impart a surprising amount of confidence! She glanced over one shoulder, then over the other, then looked full at her reflection, and said to herself, with a smile, “I do love pretty clothes!”

CHAPTER XV.
MR. JESSOP DOES HIS DUTY.

Lady Rachel and Madame Coralie, between them, soon metamorphosed the appearance of Miss West. She took to her elegant dresses and mantles and tea-gowns with astonishing facility; also to her landau and pair, victoria and cobs, diamonds, dignities, and the last fashion in dogs—a Chinese spaniel. It was not a specimen of animal she especially admired; but her father paid a long price for Chow-chow, because he was the rage, and he looked well on the back seat of the victoria. Yes, Madeline was remarkably adaptable; she developed a predilection for all the sensual accessories of colour and perfume. She also developed a fastidious taste at table, and a rare talent for laying out money.

And what of Laurence Wynne during the time that his wife is revelling in luxury?

He has been making rapid strides on the road to recovery; he is almost well; and the end of his sojourn with the friendly farmer’s family is now drawing perceptibly near. He has letters from Madeline, as she finds means to post them with her own hands—letters full of descriptions of her new life, her new friends, and all the wonderful new world that has been opened to her view.

She, who was never at a dance, excepting at the two breaking-up parties at Mrs. Harper’s, has been living in a round of gaiety, which has whirled faster and faster as the season waned—thanks to Lady Rachel’s introductions and chaperonage; thanks to her beauty, and her father’s great wealth.

Miss West has already become known—already her brilliant colouring and perfect profile have been noted by great and competent connoisseurs. Her face was already familiar in the park.

Luckily for her, dark beauties were coming into fashion; in every way she was fortunate. Her carriage was pointed out in the Row; her table was littered with big square monogramed envelopes and cards of invitation, far too numerous for acceptance. And Miss West, the Australian heiress as she was called, had opened many doors by that potent pass-key, a pretty face, and admitted not only herself, but also her proud and happy parent.

Madeline does not say all this in so many long sentences to Laurence; not that he would be jealous, dear fellow! She knows him better than that; but she is sensible that there is a certain incongruity between their circumstances just at present, and she will not enlarge on her successes more than is absolutely needful. Yet a word drops out here and slips in there, which tells Laurence far more than she supposes. Besides this, Laurence is no fool. He can draw inferences; he can put two and two together—it is his profession. Moreover, he sees the daily, society, and illustrated papers, thanks to Mr. Jessop, who has given a liberal order to his news-agent, believing that his gifted friend, who always lived at high brain-pressure, must be developing into a state of coma in his rural quarters, among cows and pigs and geese.

Laurence reads the letters between the lines. He reads society’s doings, and in the warm June and July evenings, as he strolls about the fields alone, has plenty of leisure for reflection. These are not very happy times for Laurence Wynne. He has found some consolation in work. One or two articles from his pen have made their way into leading reviews, and been praised for their style, substance, and wit. A short sketch of a country tragedy has added another feather to his cap. In these long, lonely, empty days, he had given ample time and brain-work (his best) to these vivid articles, readily scanned in a quarter of an hour. They recalled his name; at any rate, people began to remember Laurence Wynne—a clever chap who made a foolish marriage, and subsequently lived in a slum, and then nearly went and died. Apparently, he was not dead yet! There was a good deal of vitality in him still, and that of a very marketable description. Success, however small, breeds success, and a little sun began to shine on Laurence Wynne at last. He was asked to contribute articles to the Razor and the Present, two of the most up-to-date periodicals. He was well paid—cash down. He was independent once more, and he felt as if he would like to go out into the fields and shout for joy.

Now and then he ventured to write to his wife—to Miss West, 365, Belgrave Square; and Miss West eagerly snatches the letter from under a pile of society notes, in thick fashionable envelopes, plunges it into her pocket, and reads it greedily alone; for although she is a little bit carried away by admiration, money, and power, yet a letter from Laurence puts all these pleasures completely into the shade, as yet.

This is his last that she holds in her hand, written after long meditation, and with many a pause between the sentences. He had turned out an article for the Razor in half the time.

“Holt Hill Farm.”

“My dearest Madeline,”

“Your welcome letter is at present lying before me; and now that the household is asleep, and that there is not a stir on the premises, nor a sound, except the loud ticking of the kitchen clock, I sit down to write to you without fear of being disturbed, for this, my dear Maddie, is going to be an important epistle. I am sincerely glad to hear that you are so happy; that your father shows that he has affection for you; that you and he are no longer strangers, but getting on together capitally. I hope his tenderness will be able to survive the news you have to tell him, and must tell him soon—the fact, in short, that you are married. I can quite understand how you are dreading the evil moment, and can fully enter into your feelings of shrinking reluctance to dispel this beautiful new life, this kind of enchanted existence, by just one magic word, and that word to be uttered by your own lips. But if you are adverse to mentioning this one word—which must be spoken, sooner or later—let me take the commission on myself. I will speak to your father. I will bear the full blast and fury of his indignation and disappointment. After all, we have nothing to be ashamed of. If I had known that you were the heiress of a millionaire, I would never have ventured to marry you—of that you may be sure. But, under other circumstances, it was different. In the days when you had neither father nor home, I offered you my home, such as it was. There was no disparity between our two walks in life, nothing to indicate the barrier which has subsequently arisen between us.

“Maddie, we have come to the cross-roads. You will have to choose one way or the other. You will have to choose between your father and me—between riches and poverty. If your father will not listen to the idea of your having changed your name, you must let me testify to the fact; and if he shuts his doors on you afterwards, you are no worse off than a year ago. If I thought you would ever again have such a terrible struggle to live as you experienced last winter, I would not be so barbarous, so cruel, as to ask you to leave your present luxurious home. But things look brighter. I am, thank God, restored to health. I have a prospect of earning a livelihood; our dark days are, I trust, a thing of the past. I am resolved to set to work next week. I cannot endure the idea of living in idleness on your father’s money; for although the whole of our stay here has cost less than you say he has recently given for a dog, still it is his money all the same—money for your education, money diverted from its original use, money expended on a fraud. Of late I have not touched it, having another resource. I only wish I could replace every halfpenny. Let us have an end of this secrecy and double-dealing. And now that we have once more got a foothold on life, and the means of existence, I believe I shall be able to scramble up the ladder! Who knows but you may be a judge’s wife yet! I wish I could give you even a tithe of the luxuries with which you are now surrounded. I would pawn years of my future to do it. But if I cannot endow you with diamonds and carriages, I can give you what money cannot buy, Maddie, an undivided heart, that loves you with every pulse of its existence.

“Now I have said my say. I only await a line from you to go at once to town, and lay bare our secret to your father. It is the right thing to do; it is, indeed. You cannot continue to live this double life—and your real home is with your husband and child. It is now three months and more since you drove away down the lane with Farmer Holt—three long, long months to me, Maddie. You have had ample time to make an inroad on your father’s affections. You can do a great deal in that way in less than three months. If he is what you say, he will not be implacable. You are his only child. You tell me that he thinks so much of good blood and birth—at least in this respect the Wynnes should please him. He will find out all about us in Burke. We were barons of the twelfth century; and there is a dormant title in the family. The candle is just out, and I must say good-bye. But I could go on writing to you for another hour. The text of my discourse, if not sufficiently plain already, is, let me tell your father of our marriage. One line will bring me to town at once.

“I am, your loving husband,
“Laurence Wynne.

“Do not think that I am complaining that you have not been down here. I fully understand that your father, having no occupation, is much at home, perhaps too much at home, and can’t bear you out of his sight—which is natural, and that to come and go to the Holt Farm would take four hours—hours for which you would be called on to account. And you dared not venture—dared not deceive him. Deceive him no longer in any way, Maddie. Send me a wire, and he shall know all before to-morrow night.”

Madeline read this letter over slowly, with rapidly changing colour. Some sentences she perused two or three times, and when she came to the last word, she recommenced at the beginning—then she folded it up, put it into its envelope, thrust it into her dressing-case, and turned the key.

She was a good deal disturbed; you could read that by her face, as she went and stood in the window, playing with the charms on her bangle. She had a colour in her cheeks and a frown upon her brow.

How impatient Laurence was! Why would he not give her time? What was three months to prepare papa? And was it really three months? It seemed more like three weeks. Yes, April; and this was the beginning of July.

Her eyes slowly travelled round the luxurious apartment, with its pale blue silk hangings, inlaid satin-wood furniture, and Persian carpet, her toilet-table loaded with silver bottles and boxes, a large silver-framed mirror, draped in real lace, the silver-backed brushes, the cases of perfume; and she thought with a shudder of the poor little room at No. 2, with its rickety table, shilling glass, and jug without a handle. Deliberately, she stood before the dressing-table, and deliberately studied her reflection in the costly mirror. How different she looked to poor, haggard, shabby Mrs. Wynne, the slave of a sick husband and a screaming baby, with all the cares of a miserable home upon her young shoulders; with no money in her purse, no hope in her heart, no future, and no friends!

Here she beheld Miss West, radiant with health and beauty, her abundant hair charmingly arranged by the deft-fingered Josephine, her pretty, slim figure shown off by a simply made but artistic twenty-guinea gown; her little watch was set in brilliants, her fingers were glittering with the same. She had just risen from a dainty lunch, where she was served by two powdered footmen and the clerical butler. Her carriage is even now waiting at the door, through the open window she can hear the impatient stamping of her six-hundred-guinea horses.

She was about to call for an earl’s daughter, who was to chaperone her to a fête, where, from previous experience, she knew that many and many a head would be turned to look after pretty Miss West; and she liked to be admired! She had never gauged her own capacity for pleasure until the last few months. And Laurence required her to give up all this, to rend the veil from her secret, and stand before the world once more, shabby, faded, insignificant Mrs. Wynne, the wife of a briefless barrister!

Of course she was devoted to Laurence. “Oh,” angrily to her own conscience, “do not think that I can ever change to him! But the hideous contrast between that life and this! He must give me a little more time—he must, he must! I must enjoy myself a little!” she reiterated passionately to her beautiful reflection. “Once papa knows, I shall be thrust out to beggary. I know I shall; and I shall never have a carriage or a French gown again.”

And this was the girl who, four months previously, had pawned her clothes for her husband’s necessaries, and walked miles to save twopence!

Sudden riches are a terrible test—a severe trial of moral fibre, especially when they raise a girl of nineteen, with inherited luxurious tastes, from poverty, touching starvation, to be mistress of unbounded wealth, the daughter, only child and heiress of an open-handed Crœsus, with thousands as plentiful now as coppers once had been.

“I will go down and see him. I must risk it; there is no other plan,” she murmured, as she rang her bell preparatory to putting herself in the hands of her maid. “Letters are so stupid. I will seize the first chance I can find, and steal down to the Holts, if it is but for half an hour, and tell Laurence that he must wait; he must be patient.”

And so he was—pathetically patient, as morning after morning he waited in the road and waylaid the postman, who seldom had occasion to come up to the farm; and still there was no letter.

Madeline was daily intending to rush down, and day followed day without her finding the opportunity or the courage to carry out her purpose. And still Laurence waited; and then he began to fear that she must be ill. A whole week and no letter! He would go to town and inquire. No sooner thought of than done. Fear and keen anxiety now took the place of any other sensation, and hurriedly making a change in his clothes, and leaving a message for Mrs. Holt, he set off to the station—three miles—on foot, and took a third-class return to London. Once there, he made his way—and a long way it was—to the fashionable quarter of Belgrave Square. It was a sultry July afternoon, the very pavement was hot, the air oppressive—people were beginning to talk of Cowes and Scotland.

Nevertheless, many gay equipages were dashing about, containing society notabilities and bright parasols. One of these swept round a corner just as Laurence was about to cross the street; he had only a fleeting glimpse as it passed by. A landau and pair of bay steppers, with what is called “extravagant” action, powdered servants, two ladies in light summer dresses, and a young man, with a button-hole and lavender gloves, on the back seat.

One of the ladies had a faint resemblance to Madeline, as well as could be gathered, from an impression of bright dark eyes, shaded by a French picture-hat and a chiffon sunshade. No, it could not be her. This was some patrician beauty, who looked as if she had been accustomed to such an equipage from the days of her perambulator.

It was merely a passing idea, and quickly brushed aside by Laurence as he once more walked on rapidly. At length he approached the house—he was at the same side of the square—within four numbers now. His heart beat rather quickly as he glanced up. No; none of the upper blinds were pulled down, he observed with relief, and then he took in the dimensions of this palatial mansion, with a porch and pillars, conservatory, billiard-room, and buildings built out, and built on, wherever they could be crammed. The awnings were out—gay red and white striped ones—banks of flowers bloomed in the balconies. Oh, what a contrast to Solferino Place! Would not Madeline see it too? he asked himself, with a pang. After a moment’s hesitation he rang the bell, and almost instantly the door was opened by a tall, supercilious looking footman.

“Is—is—Miss—West at home?” stammered her husband.

“Not at home,” replied the servant, in a parrot voice, holding out his hand for the card that he presumed would be forthcoming.

“Is she quite well?” ventured the visitor.

“Quite well, sir, thank you,” having studied the questioner, and come to the conclusion that he was not one of your nobodies, like his worthy master. “Who shall I say?” he asked confidentially.

“It is of no consequence. I have forgotten my cards. I will call again,” turning as he spoke and slowly descending the steps.

This was a most rum go in Jeames’s opinion. He might, at least, have left his name! But no. Jeames stood gazing after him, with what is called “the door in his hand,” for two whole minutes, glanced sleepily around the big, white, hot-looking square, and then went in to study the paper and the latest betting on Goodwood.

Laurence made his way to Mr. Jessop’s chambers, in—oh, extravagance!—a hansom, and found that gentleman extremely busy, and, as he expressed it, “up to his ears.” He, however, knocked off for the time being, in order to have a smoke and a chat with his friend, whom he declared that he found looking as fit as a fiddle, and requested to know when he was going to put his shoulder to the wheel again?

“Lots for you to do, my boy. Martin has married an heiress and cut the concern. My sister has married the son of old Baggs, of the great firm of Baggs and Keepe, solicitors. My fortune is made, and so is yours!”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“And, by Jove, old chap! those articles of yours, in the Pepper and Salt Magazine, have taken the whole baking—are regular scorchers; lots of people are talking of them, and asking if they are by the same Laurence Wynne, of the Inner Temple—fellow with a beard? Who would have thought of your breaking out in that line, eh? as ready with your pen as your tongue.”

“Readier.”

“And look here, Larry, there is that case of Cox v. Fox coming on, and you can have a finger in the pie if you like.”

Larry did not clutch at this lucrative opening; he puffed away moodily at a cigarette, and stared out of the window in rather an abstracted fashion.

His keen-eyed friend noted this, and said, in a totally different key—

“And what about Mrs. Wynne?”

His companion looked at him quickly, coloured faintly, threw his cigarette out of the window, and said nothing.

“She has not told the old gentleman yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“So I surmised, as they say in America. I saw her at the opera last night, the cynosure of all eyes, and her proud and happy father noting that half the glasses in the house were fixed on Miss West. Ahem! How long is it to go on—this little comedy? Eh?”

“I can’t tell you!” impatiently. “Not another hour as far as I am concerned. I don’t wish her to sail under false colours any longer. I came up to see her to-day.”

“The deuce you did!” in blunt amazement.

“But she was out.”

“I suppose you saw the house and the style. By Jove! it’s like royalty. I dined there last week.”

“You did?” in unfeigned amazement.

“Yes, your most humble servant. I’ve met Mr. West at my club; he knows a friend of mine—an impecunious lord—that is all. The dinner was a banquet, a feast fit for Lucullus himself. I had the honour of being presented to Miss West.”

“Indeed!”

“Of course I had never seen her before,” winking at his friend. “And, upon my word, I declare I scarcely recognized her! Dress, diamonds, and manner—manner begotten of importance, appreciation, wealth, and luxurious surroundings. Not that Mrs. Wynne’s manners were not always those of a gentlewoman, but there is a difference between doing the honours of a couple of herrings and a sheep’s head, in one living room, and being the hostess presiding over a French dinner—with perfect appointments and exotic flowers—entertaining lords and ladies and bishops—eh?—and doing it well, too. But wherever she got her good blood, Laurence, it did not come from her father’s side of the house. I sometimes felt inclined to run my fork into him, or to shy a wine-glass at his head. He is so blatantly proud of Robert West, his success, his money, his grand acquaintances, and, above all, his daughter. Excuse me, he is a thundering little bounder!”

“You think he will be furious when he knows that he has a son-in-law?” said Laurence, gravely.

“If you were a lord—or even a baronet—and had some sort of handle to your name——”

“But as I have nothing—not even Q.C.?”

“I think, from what I know of him, that he will be unpleasant, my dear Larry—very unpleasant.”

“And the first shape that his unpleasantness will take will be to turn Madeline out of doors?”

“Yes, I should say so—I think the odds are fifty to one.”

“Well, she has her own home, at any rate. I shall set to work on Monday. I’ll go round and see about my old chambers. You can send me those papers, and tell Tom, the clerk, that I am coming back for good. I shall take lodgings as soon as I have looked round—in a more airy locality than Solferino Place. Mrs. Holt will keep the child till we are settled.”

“You—er—mean—you and Mrs. Wynne?” looking curiously at his companion.

“Well, yes; who else should I mean?”

“Does she say anything about returning?”

“No-o,” staring confusedly; “but it is understood.”

Here ensued a short silence, during which Mr. Jessop was nerving himself to speak his mind to his friend—to speak for that friend’s good—a thankless task, but he assured himself that it was his duty.

“Larry, old chap, you and I have been pals since we were in jackets at Harrow, and I’ve been your ally ever since the day you licked Thompson, major, for pitching into me. We’ve always stuck together somehow ever since. I think a great deal about your concerns. What hurts you hurts me.”

“Out with it,” cried the other, brusquely. “Out with it. I know you are going to say something disagreeable. That will do for the overture!”

“I must say one word to prepare you, old man,” suddenly standing up, laying his hand on his companion’s shoulder, and looking down into his face. “It is a fatal mistake to expect too much in life—to be too sanguine! Don’t—don’t be too sure that she wants to come back.”

CHAPTER XVI.
TWO VISITS AND A LETTER.

Miss West returned from her drive. She had been to Lord’s to see the Oxford and Cambridge cricket match. She had been surrounded by admirers, like flies round a pot of honey, and had the most eligible partis of the season endeavouring to win their way to her good graces as she promenaded up and down between the innings, and partook of tea and strawberries in the tents; and Lady Rachel (who had her own diversions) looked on and said to herself, “That Madeline was becoming much too run after, and Tony would have to mind what he was about.” Meanwhile, Mr. West, for whose society there was no competition, hugged himself with joy, as he saw a baronet and a baron approach Madeline in turn. This was precisely as it should be! Then he went up to Lord Tony and said, “I say, Tony, wasn’t that the Duke of Margate I saw you talking to just now—a funny old Johnny, with a shabby hat and red face?”

“Ye-e-s—I—I believe so,” shrinking instinctively from what he knew was to follow—as per usual.

“Then just, when you get a nice little opening, introduce me, there’s a good fellow. Watch him when he comes out of the long tent; he is having tea with the FitzMorse Montagues. I’ll do as much for you another time.”

Lord Tony dreaded these demands. He even went so far as to hide from Mr. West, or to absent himself altogether from gatherings where they were likely to meet. He had introduced his sister to the Wests. He liked Madeline immensely. His aunt, Lady Clapperclaw, had called, and Miss West had got cards from a few good houses, but he really drew the line at presenting “the old squatter,” as Mr. West was nicknamed by all his acquaintances. People did not like it. They glared fiercely when this dapper, well-dressed, white-spatted, white-hatted little person was introduced to them—a man who bowed and talked, and talked and grinned, exactly like a toy monkey! Confound Tony Foster, who the deuce was this infernal little cad? What was Tony about? He was always mixed up with a second-rate set, but why thrust his shoddy friends on them? However, when it came to be hinted that the “squatter” was rolling in money, and dying to spend it—literally panting to give entertainments of the costliest description—a second Monte Cristo, with a spirit of unbounded generosity and one lovely daughter—matters took a different complexion. Mr. West was elected to a couple of good clubs, some visiting-cards and invitations were left on Mr. and Miss West by footmen who had descended from coroneted landaus. Ladies with slim, smiling, scapegrace sons called on the heiress. Fast young married women, who looked forward to dances and all manner of festivities, called (and made their friends leave cards). Young men who had seen and admired Miss West got introduced, and dropped in on Sundays. Lord Moneycute, an elderly baron, who had long been looking for a wife with money, also Sir Crete Levanter, called—and they subsequently dined—frequently at 365. Many people whom the ignorant colonial thought smart, grand, and distinguished, called; but it was not all gold that glittered; there was a great deal of brass about some of these visitors! On the other hand, pretty mammas, with daughters who were in the best set, set their faces against these parvenus. Mammas with rich and titled sons were equally stand-off. One or two great ladies, who had been introduced, as it were, accidentally to Miss West, cut her at once.

But the Wests were as yet ignorant of the lights and shades of London society, and they were both—Mr. West especially—perfectly satisfied that, though not in the Marlborough House set, they were close upon its borders.

“A gentleman had called to see her,” murmured Miss West languidly, as she drew off her gloves on the threshold of the morning-room. “Did he leave his card?”

“No, ma’am, he did not; he said he had forgotten it.”

“And he asked for me—not for Mr. West?” she continued indifferently, glancing at her parent, who was rapidly turning over a pile of notes, and picking out those emblazoned with a coronet.

“I’ll tell you who it was,” he broke in; “it was Lord Maltravers. He came about that macaw he promised you.”

“No, sir,” put in Jeames, firmly but respectfully; “it was no gentleman I ever saw before—certainly not Lord Maltravers—though he might have been a lord for all I know to the contrary.”

“It wasn’t a tradesman?”

“Oh no, sir!” most emphatically.

“What was he like?” inquired Madeline, opening a letter very deliberately as she spoke, her thoughts very far away from Laurence.

“Well, ma’am, he looked quite the gentleman. He was tall, about my ’ight” (complacently), “very dark eyes, a short beard—what you’d consider a ’andsome young man. He carried a queer-looking stick with a ivory top, and he seemed disappointed as you were not at home!”

“A queer-looking cane with an ivory top, and he seemed disappointed!” The letter fluttered out of Madeline’s hands, and fell to the ground, as the unconscious Jeames thus blandly announced that the visitor had been her husband! She was glad to stoop quickly, and thus hide her face, with its sudden increase of colour. Laurence had come up to see her! What rashness! What madness!

“Well!” exclaimed her father, looking at her sharply, “have you made out your mysterious visitor, eh?—eh?—eh?”

“I think he must have been the brother of one of my school-fellows from the description,” she said, with wonderful composure, tearing open another letter as she spoke.

“Humph!” grunted Mr. West, in a tone that showed that school-fellows’ brothers were not at all in his line.

“Here is an invitation to Lord Carbuncle’s for Thursday week,” said his daughter, dexterously turning the current of his thoughts into a much less dangerous channel, and holding out the note for his perusal.

“Thursday week. Let’s see; what is there for Thursday week, eh?”

“We dine with the Thompson-Thompsons in Portland Place.”

“Oh dear me, yes, so we do,” querulously. “What a confounded nuisance!” in a tone of intense exasperation. “Can’t we throw them over?”

But his daughter gave him no encouragement, knowing full well the enormity of throwing people over when a better engagement presented itself, and that such proceedings were not countenanced by good society in Vanity Fair.

So Mr. West (who was cheered by another coroneted invitation-card) was fain to submit with what grace he could muster.

The next morning Miss West resolved upon a bold step. She pleaded a headache as an excuse from attending Sandown, and as soon as she had seen her parent safely off the premises, she hurried upstairs, dressed herself very plainly, put a black veil in her pocket—also a well-filled purse—and, walking to a short distance, took a hansom for Waterloo Station. This time she travelled first class, of course, and hired a fly to take her to the farm—at least, to the lane leading to the farm—and there to wait, in case Mr. Holt was unable to drive her back. She desired to give every one an agreeable surprise.

Mrs. Holt, who was in the kitchen shelling peas into a yellow bowl, gave a little scream when she beheld Mrs. Wynne standing on the threshold, between her and the sunshine, and, upsetting half the pods, rushed at her hospitably, wiping her hands on her apron, and assuring her that “she was more welcome than the flowers in May. Baby was well, and growing a rare size, but Mr. Wynne was out; he and the farmer had gone away together just after breakfast, and would not be back till late, and did ever anything happen so contrary?”

Her square brow knit into lines of disappointment when the young lady, in answer to her eager queries, informed her that she was not come to stay—that, in fact, she was going to Ireland in two or three days with her father and a party of friends. He had taken the shooting of a large estate in the south, and was most anxious to inspect it.

“Ay, dearie, dearie me!” said Mrs. Holt, after an eloquent pause, “and what will Mr. Wynne say to that? I’m thinking he will not be for letting you go,” and she shook her head dubiously.

This was precisely the subject that Madeline had come to discuss with him, and he was away for the day. How excessively provoking and tiresome!

Mrs. Kane had been won over with money, Mrs. Harper with valuable presents, and the hint of an invitation to stay at Belgrave Square. There remained but Laurence to deal with. He really must learn to be patient—to wait for the auspicious moment when, having gained the whole of her father’s confidence and affection, he began to realize that she was so absolutely necessary to his happiness and to his social success that he could never spare her. Then, and not till then, would she throw herself into his arms and confess to him that she was married to Laurence Wynne. Laurence and the baby would be brought to Belgrave Square in triumph, and share her lot in basking in the sun of wealth and luxury. This was Mrs. Wynne’s nice little programme, and ten times a day she repeated to herself this formula—“Laurence must wait.”

She kissed her little boy, and praised his rosy cheeks, and asked many questions about her husband, and was so surprised to hear that he wrote for hours and hours; but Mrs. Holt remarked that she took no interest now in the chickens, calves, or dogs—or, what she once found irresistible, the dairy!

Also Mrs. Holt’s quick woman’s eye did not fail to notice her blazing rings when she pulled off her gloves, her valuable little wristlet-watch, which she consulted nervously from time to time, her plain but expensive dress, that rustled when she moved. Ah! she could see—although she tried not to show it—that Mrs. Wynne had changed. Her mind was possessed now by riches, and he, poor young man, would never be able to keep her contented, now she had had the taste of money, and knew what it was to be a great lady; and Mrs. Holt shook her head wistfully, as she made a red-currant tart. Meanwhile Madeline carried baby down to the gate and looked out for Laurence, but no Laurence came, and baby was surprisingly heavy. Then she went round the garden. Oh, how small it looked somehow, and there was horrid green weed on the pool! Then she made her way into their sitting-room, with its old glass book-case, brass-faced clock, samplers hanging on the walls, and plain red tiles underfoot. A dainty summer breeze was playing with the white curtains through the open lattice, and the great hollyhocks and sunflowers were rearing their heads and endeavouring to peep in from the garden. There was Laurence’s pipe; there, in a corner, stood the stick which had betrayed him; and there was his writing, just as he had left it—ruled sermon paper. No, not a letter! What was it all about? And she took it up and glanced over it. It was some rubbish, headed, “Middle-aged Matrons.” How absurd!

Then, on the spur of the moment, she called in Mrs. Holt, and consigned Master Harry to her motherly arms, whilst she sat down to indite a letter to Laurence, with his own favourite pen and at his own table.

“Dear Laurence” (she said),

“I came down on purpose to see you, and am so dreadfully disappointed to find you are out, for I dare not wait, and I had so much to say to you. I am delighted to find baby so grown, and to hear such good accounts of yourself. I believe you were at Belgrave Square yesterday. Laurence, how could you be so rash? Fortunately, no one suspected who you were, or that you were anything to Miss West. I feel quite another person than Miss West now that I am down in the country, and looking out of the window in front of me into this dear old garden and the far-away wooded hills.

“I feel as if money was nothing in comparison to youth and domesticity and peace, and that I could be happy here for ever with you; but I know that, once back in my own boudoir this very selfsame evening, I shall change my mind again, and look upon rustic life as intolerable—a living death, a being buried alive without a fashionable funeral. Money and money’s worth I must attain; love I have. I wish to command both—love and money. We know what love is without money, don’t we? I shall never, never change to you, Laurence, you may rely on that.

“I received your last letter safely, and have laid to heart all you say; but, dear, dear Laurence, you must let me take my own time with papa. I will tell him sooner or later; but, indeed, I am the best judge of how and when and where. You used to say I was foreseeing and prudent and wise, in the days of No. 2. Surely I am not changed in three months’ time! Leave it all to me. He will come round yet, and, like the good people in the fairy-tales, we shall live happy ever after. On Sunday night we all go to Ireland by the mail from Euston. It is quite a sudden idea. Papa has given up the idea of the Scotch moors, and was talked into taking this shooting and deer-forest and castle by an agreeable Irish nobleman he met at his club. There is every inducement to sportsmen, from red deer to black cock, as well as three thousand acres of ground and a castle.

“We are to have a succession of visitors. I hope to do great things in three months, and will write to you every week and report progress.

“Ever, dear Laurence, your loving wife,

“M. W.”

His loving wife put this effusion into an envelope, directed it, and placed it on the mantelpiece, where it would be sure to catch his eye, and then she felt considerably relieved in heart and mind, and had tea in the kitchen with Mrs. Holt, turning the cakes and praising the butter, and softening Mrs. Holt’s feelings the longer she stayed in her company. Then she had a confidential chat about baby and his clothes, and placed twenty pounds in her listener’s hand for his wardrobe, in spite of that good woman’s protestation that it was just five times too much. She also made the farmer’s wife a substantial present of money, telling her very prettily, with tears in her eyes, that it was not in return for her kindness, for no sum could repay that, but as a small token of gratitude.

By various means she reinstated herself in Mrs. Holt’s good graces, and having hugged the baby and kissed him over and over again, and taken a hearty leave of her hostess, she set off briskly on foot to where the patient fly awaited her. She paused at the end of the lane, and looked back on the Holt farm. It was a homely, sequestered spot, buried in fields and trees, and very peaceful; but it looked somehow more insignificant—shabbier than she had fancied. How small the windows were! How close it stood to the big yard, with its swarming poultry and calves and dirty duck-pond! And what horrible knives and spoons Mrs. Holt used, and what fearful shoes she wore! However, she was a good old soul, and had taken great care of baby. Then she once more turned her back on the farm, and set her face towards her father’s luxurious mansion. Luckily for herself, she was home before him—was dressed, and sitting half buried in a chair, engrossed in a novel, when he returned in high good humour. He had been winning and losing in the best of company, and was very eloquent about a certain Roman prince who had been uncommonly pleasant, and had said he “would like to be presented to you, Madeline!” His little hard head was so full of this new acquaintance that he had not room for a thought as to where or how his daughter had spent the day. Indeed, from all evidence to the contrary, she might never have been out of the house.

Laurence found Madeline’s letter staring at him from the mantelpiece when he came home. He snatched it eagerly, and devoured it then and there, and as he came to the last line his sensations were those of exceedingly bitter disappointment—yes, and something more, he was hurt. It seemed to him that through the epistle ran an under-current of jaunty indifference, and this cut him to the quick.

And she was going to Ireland for three months! Well, at any rate, he would see her off; a railway station was open to the public. She need not necessarily see him; but he would see her. The next day he carried out his intention, travelling up to town early in the morning, visiting his chambers, dining with his friend Jessop, and being in good time to speed the Irish mail at Euston. He watched and waited, and saw many parties approach; but yet not his particular party. They did not appear until within five minutes of the departure of the train.

And what a fuss they made! More than all their predecessors put together. There was one footman running for tickets, another being carried madly along the platform in tow of two powerful setters, one retainer had the booking of the luggage, another was arranging the interior of their Pullman sleeping-car, and then the party came up to it, and Laurence beheld his father-in-law for the first time—a neat, trim, bustling little man, talking vociferously and gesticulating about Lady Rachel’s luggage. There was a very well-dressed, dark little woman, not young, but juvenile in air and style, who laughed and talked incessantly to a big man in a tweed suit, and looked at Mr. West with contemptuous grimaces, and shrugged her shapely shoulders. There was a “lout” in wonderful knicker-bockers—so he mentally ticketed Lord Tony. There was a tall girl in a sort of long racing-coat. There were two lady’s-maids; and last, but not least, there was Madeline—Madeline so altered that he could scarcely believe his eyes—Madeline in a regal travelling-cloak, carrying a Chinese lap-dog, giving directions to hurrying footmen and maids, and dispensing smiling adieux among a group of young men who had come to see them off—meaning Miss West. This was surely not his Madeline—the little school-girl he had married, the devoted, struggling, hard-working wife and mother, late of 2, Solferino Place. He stood back for a moment in the shadow of the book-stall, and realized for the first time the immense gulf that divided him from Mr. West’s heiress—the great yawning chasm which lay between him and Madeline. What would fill it—what? He could think of no bridge but money.

Very poignant were his thoughts as he stood thus—poor, aloof, and alone, whilst his radiant wife made her beaming farewells from the window of the Pullman car.

“She should say good-bye to him too,” he declared to himself, with sudden fierce resolve, and, stepping forward, he stood out in the full light, a little apart from the gay group who were now removing their hats with a real or simulated air of regret as the great long train, that was to carry the popular heiress westward, began slowly to move. Madeline smiled and nodded and waved her hand. But who was that standing a little aside, farther down the platform? It was Laurence—Laurence, whom she had not beheld for three months. It gave her quite a shock to see him—but a pleasant shock, that sent the blood tingling through her veins.

How well he looked!—quite himself again; and how well he contrasted with these gilded youths whom she had just (she hoped) seen the last of! She would have blown him a kiss had she dared; but her father’s little beady eyes were upon her, and she could only sit and look—she might not even bow! Then, with sudden compunction, and justly alarmed by the expression on his face, she leant quickly out of the window and nodded and smiled.

The other young men accepted this final signal with demonstrations of rapture. Little did they guess that it was not for them, but for that quiet, gentlemanly-looking fellow a few yards to their left. If they were not aware of this, he was.

“Who is that man on the platform,” said Lady Rachel, “that looks as if he was seeing us off too? There is no one else in the car but ourselves.”

“Oh, I’m sure I don’t know,” responded Mr. West. “There are heaps of people going over, though I dare say he belongs to the Ravenstayle party. Lord Ravenstayle is in the train. It would not surprise me if it were his nephew, Cosmo Woodwing—aristocratic-looking sort of chap—and took a good stare at you, eh, Maddie?” facetiously. “Will know you again next time he sees you?”—highly delighted at his own conceit. “I suppose you have no idea who he is, eh?”

Madeline had an excellent idea of who he was, but this was no time to confide her secret to her parent—better to save this little domestic bomb for a more discreet opportunity.

Madeline had a shrewd idea that the mysterious gentleman who had taken a good long look at her—the presumable Lord Cosmo Woodwing—was her own husband!

CHAPTER XVII.
GONE TO IRELAND.

Laurence Wynne stood upon the platform and watched the Irish mail—“The Wild Irishman”—wind its great long body slowly out of the station—watched till the red light, like a fiery eye, became smaller and smaller, and disappeared from view. Then he hurried off to Waterloo to catch his own train—which he missed—and, going by the next, walked from Guildford, a distance of twelve miles, arriving home at one o’clock in the morning, to the intense relief of Mrs. Holt, who had been sitting up for him in a nightcap of portentous dimensions, and who, seeing that he looked tired and dusty, and what she mentally termed “down,” was disposed to be a very mother to him, even to setting a cold supper before him at that unparalleled and improper hour, and staying him with a flagon of her own home-brewed ale—a sure token of favour.

“And so she’s gone!” she exclaimed at last, when she could absolutely contain herself no longer. “Actually gone to Ireland.”

“Yes, Mrs. Holt, she is gone,” acquiesced her lodger, coolly.

“And goodness knows when she will come back,” she continued indignantly. “Dear, dear, dear! I wonder what my master would say if I’d a done the like—just walking off and leaving him and an infant to fend for themselves; but I suppose fine folk is different, and don’t mind?” giving her cap-frills a mighty toss.

Laurence said nothing. He was not going to tell this worthy and virtuously irate matron, that he did mind very much. No matter how he felt himself, he would have every one else think well of Maddie. He would hardly admit to his own heart that she was not quite perfect, that he was beginning to feel sorely jealous of her father, her fine surroundings, and her fashionable friends. However, there was no use in thinking; what he had to do was to work, and endeavour to win for himself name, fame, and fortune.

The next morning he set himself to make a real beginning. He packed up his slender belongings, he took his last walk round the fields and garden with farmer Holt, he consigned his son to the care of his kind hostess for the present, and, promising to run down often and look them up, he, in his turn, was taken to the station by the chestnut colt, and departed to make a fresh start in life, whilst the burly farmer stood on the platform and flourished his adieux with a red-spotted handkerchief. Then, returning slowly home, agreed with the missus in finding the place “summat lonely-like now,” in missing their late inmate, and in praising him up to the skies. Mrs. Holt was inclined to improve the occasion by drawing invidious comparisons between Mr. Wynne and his wife. “She was not like him—he had more true worth in his little finger than she had in the whole of her body,” etc.

But the worthy master, who had not been blind to Madeline’s pretty face and fascinating smiles, would not listen for a moment to such treason, and told his better half, rather sharply, to “hold her tongue!”

Laurence Wynne took up his quarters in the Temple temporarily—in a set of gloomy old chambers, with small, narrow windows and small panes, looking out on nothing in particular—at any rate he had no view to distract his attention from his work, and of work he had plenty.

His friend Jessop (unlike some so-called friends), having got a good start up the ladder of law, reached back a hand to his struggling schoolfellow; and an opening—a good opening—was all that his struggling schoolfellow required. His brains, his ceaseless industry, his good address, and his handsome appearance did the rest. He was far cleverer than his friend Jessop, and had twice his perseverance and talent for steady application. Jessop could keep a bar dinner in a roar of laughter, but Wynne could hold, as it were, in his hand, the eyes and ears of a jury. He had a natural gift for oratory; he had a clear, sonorous voice; he was never at a loss for a word—the right word; never said too much, or too little; never lost an opportunity of making a point, or of driving home an argument. In short, among the juniors he was a pearl of price. His brilliant articles of biting satire, which were read by every one, had brought his name up, and his name had been speedily followed by his appearance in person—his appearance in a successful case. In short, a tide in his affairs had come, and he had taken it at the flood, and the little skiff “success” was sailing over the waves in gallant style.

He had been most fortunate in one or two minor cases; he could not afford to be careless, like great men who had made their reputations. He began to be spoken of as a very rising junior, and to be consulted on crotchety points of law, to be listened to whenever he opened his lips, to be asked out to many professional dinners, and to receive—oh, joy!—not a few briefs on which the name of Laurence Wynne was inscribed in a round legal hand.

Yes, he was getting on rapidly. He could now afford to pay well for the maintenance of Master Wynne, to make handsome presents to the Holts, to allow himself new clothes and books, and the luxury of belonging to a good club.

And what about Mrs. Wynne all this time?

Madeline was rather agitated by so unexpectedly beholding her husband on the platform, the night they left for Ireland. Her heart beat fast, and her eyes were rather dim as they lost sight of his figure in the crowd.

“Poor Laurence! How fond he was of her,” she said to herself, with a sharp pang of compunction. “Fancy his coming up all that way, for just one glimpse, one little look across the crowd!” But, latterly, Madeline West had been so overwhelmed with attention, that she now took many things as a matter of course, and but a proper tribute to her own importance.

She and Lady Rachel occupied the same sleeping compartment, and her ladyship, who was an old and experienced traveller, wasted no time in gazing dreamily out of the window like Madeline, but took off her hat and dress and lay down in her berth, and was soon asleep, whilst the other sat with her eyes fixed on the dusky country through which they were passing, asking herself many disturbing questions, and fighting out a battle in her own breast between Laurence and luxury. At times she had almost resolved to tell her father all within the next twelve hours, and to accept the consequences, whatever they might be. She was wrong to deceive him; she was wrong to leave Laurence and the child. Yes; she would do the right thing at last—confess and go back.

With this decision laboriously arrived at, her mind was more at ease—a load seemed lifted from her brain; and she laid her head on her pillow at last and fell asleep.

But morning brings counsel—we do not say that it always brings wisdom. In the cool, very cool dawn, as she sat on the deck of the Ireland and watched the sun rise and the shores of Erin rise into view, her courage ebbed away; and as she partook of a cup of hot coffee at Kingsbridge Station, and encountered her father, who was exceedingly short in his temper, owing to a bad night’s rest, her good intentions melted as snow before the sun. No, no, she told herself; she must wait until her parent was in a more genial, indulgent mood. To speak now would be fatal, even supposing there was an opportunity for a few moments’ tête-à-tête.

The party travelled down at express speed to Mallow Junction, and from there a short rail journey brought them near their destination. It was four o’clock on a superb August afternoon as they drove up to Clane Castle. The owner and agent had not misled the new tenants; it was a castle, a fine commanding structure tucked under the wing of a great purple mountain, and was approached by an avenue that wound for a full Irish mile through a delightful demesne. What oaks! what beeches! what green glades and scuttling rabbits! what cover for woodcock! and, outlined against the sky-line on the mountain, was that a deer?

The exclamations of pleasure and astonishment from his daughter and his guests made Mr. West’s tongue wag freely.

“Yes; it’s a fine place. I said, ‘None of your picnic shanties for me.’ I said, ‘I must have a decent house and a fair head of game—money no object,’” he explained volubly, as he strutted before the party into a noble dining-room, where a very recherché meal awaited them.

The travellers, fortified by an excellent repast, and filled with an agreeable sense of well-being, repaired to their several chambers to get rid of their dusty garments, and met once more in the library, and sallied forth to see the place, Mr. West acting as guide and cicerone, and conducting his followers as if he had been born on the premises. The eyes of appreciative sportsmen sparkled as they took in the miles of mountain, the forests, the extent of heather, stretching widely to the horizon, and felt more than ever, that little West, by Jove! knew what he was about when he asked a fellow to shoot, and did you right well.

Besides the far-reaching mountains, there were other attractions—a lake and boathouse, a fine garden and pleasure-ground, a tennis-court, and—oh, joy!—a capital billiard-table. Every one expressed their delight with the castle, the scenery, the weather, and soon settled down to enjoy themselves in their several ways.

The twelfth of August produced a splendid bag of grouse, surpassing even the head-keeper’s fondest prediction. Every one of the neighbouring “quality” called of their own free will. There were celebrated tennis-parties, and dinners at the Castle (Mr. West had brought his own cook), and the fame of the excellent shooting went far and near. Mr. West was jubilant; he felt a grand seigneur. Never had he been a personage of such importance, and he actually began to look down on his London acquaintances.

“The shooting is A1—every one knows that,” he said. “Courtenay wants to know how I like the place?—a deuce deal better than I like him; and Dafford writes to ask if I can give him a day or two? I’m not very hot on Dafford. He wasn’t over and above civil, and he never got his sister, Lady Dovetail, to call; but he’d like to make use of me now. If I’m not good enough for him in London, he isn’t good enough for me here. Oh no, Mr. Dafford; you don’t come to Clane Castle!” And putting his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, Mr. West trotted up and down his daughter’s morning-room exuberantly happy.

Madeline was happy, too, but from other causes. The lovely scenery, the free yet luxurious life, the entire novelty of her surroundings, the impulsive gay-spirited gentry, the finest peasantry in the world, with their soft brogue, wit, blarney, and dark eyes, all enchanted her. The only little clouds upon her sky were a spirit of discontent among her English retinue, and a certain indefinable coolness and constraint in Laurence’s weekly letter.

CHAPTER XVIII.
WANTED—A REASON.

The guests at the castle were, as notified in a local paper, Lady Rachel Jenkins and Mr. Jenkins, the Honourable Mrs. Leach, Lord Anthony Foster, Miss Pamela Pace, Miss Peggy Lumley, Captain Vansittart, and Major Mostyn, of the Royal Sedleitz Dragoons.

The Honourable Mrs. Leach was a handsome widow, whose income was much beneath her requirements. She was acquainted with some colonials, who had come home in the same ship as Mr. West, and was indebted to them for an introduction to her present comfortable quarters. She had a smooth, slow sort of manner, a pair of wonderfully expressive eyes—and her own little plans. It did not suit her to walk with the guns, or join in long expeditions, entailing wear and tear of clothes, nerves, complexion, and tissues. She much preferred to lounge over a novel in the grounds, having breakfasted in her own room, and would appear at teatime before the battered, sun-burnt, sun-blistered company, a miracle of cool grace, in a costume to correspond. And her brilliant appearance of an evening was a pleasure that was generally looked forward to. What toilettes!—so rich, so well-chosen and becoming! What diamonds! (Yes; but these were the best French paste.) She made herself pleasant to every one, especially to Mr. West, and treated Madeline almost as if she were some fond elder sister.

Miss Pamela Pace was excessively lively—the soul of the party, always ready to shoot, ride, or fish; to play billiards, gooseberry, or the banjo; to dance or to act charades. She had a fund of riddles, games, and ghost stories. Without being pretty, she was neat, smart, and a general favourite.

Miss Lumley was her cousin and her foil—tall, fair, statuesque, and silent. However, she was a capital tennis and billiard player, an untiring pedestrian; and, as Lady Rachel talked enough for two ordinary women, she made up for Miss Lumley’s shortcomings.

Lady Rachel was most anxious to get her brother settled—married to a nice girl, such as Madeline, with a large fortune, and she intended to forward the match in every way. She lost no opportunity of sounding Tony’s praises to Madeline, or of plying him with encouragement and advice. Advice, especially given as such for his own good, he shirked, as a child does physic. He admired Miss West. She was unaffected; there was no nonsense about her; she was handsome and ladylike. She would accept him, of course; and he really might do worse. He did not particularly want to marry her, or any one; but his income, no matter how well contrived and cut, was far too small for a man of his position. And money was a pleasant thing.

Wound up by his anxious sister, Lord Tony had asked for and obtained Mr. West’s permission to speak to his daughter, and now the only thing that remained to do was to ask the young lady to ratify the treaty. They had been nearly three weeks in Ireland, whilst this affair was quietly brewing.

Madeline had no suspicion of her father’s wishes, or her suitor’s intentions; such an idea would have filled her—as it subsequently did—with horror. She liked dancing and tennis, and amusing herself as much as other young women of her age; but the notion of any one falling in love with her, in her new and attractive character, never once entered her brain. Pretty speeches and compliments she laughed at and turned aside; and it was generally mooted that the Australian heiress was as cold as the typical iceberg, and had a genius for administering the most crushing snubs if any one ventured on to the borderland, yea, the very suburbs of love-making; and it had been hinted that either there was some pauper lover in the background, or that Miss West was waiting for a duke—English or foreign—to lay his strawberry leaves at her feet. She thought Lord Tony extremely plain, and rather stupid; but he was so easily entertained, and cheery, and helped to make things go off well, that she was glad he formed one of the party. She had seen so much of him in London, she knew him better than any of their young men acquaintances; and he was always so good-tempered, so unassuming, and so confidential, that she entertained quite a sisterly regard for him.

Of Lord Anthony’s present views and intentions she had no more idea than her pet Chinese spaniel. If he was épris with any one, it was with the dashing Pamela, who told his fortune by cards, and played him even at billiards; and his proposal came upon her without any preparation, and like a bolt from the blue. The bolt fell in this fashion, and on a certain sleepy Sunday afternoon.

Sunday at Clane had many empty hours. Mr. West was old-fashioned, and set his face against shooting, tennis, billiards, or even that curate’s own game—croquet. The hours after lunch were spent in smoking, sleeping, novel-reading, devouring fruit in the big garden, or sitting under the lime-trees. It was thus that Lord Anthony found Madeline, surveying the misty haze of a hot August afternoon with a pair of abstracted eyes. Mr. West had given him a hint of her whereabouts, and that here was the hour, and he was the man!

“She is a cold, undemonstrative, distant sort of girl,” he explained. “She has never had a fancy, that I know of” (no, certainly as yet, he had not known of it). “She likes you, I am sure; it will be all plain sailing.” And, thus encouraged, the suitor figuratively put to sea.

Madeline sat alone under the lime-trees in a low wicker chair, having been deserted by Lady Rachel, who had gone to have a comfortable snooze ere teatime.

It was a drowsy afternoon; the bees buzzed lazily over a bed of mignonette, which sent its fragrance far and near. Madeline’s book lay neglected in her lap. Her thoughts were far from it and Clane; they were with a certain hard-working barrister in London, who had written her a very rough, outspoken letter. Poor Laurence! Why could he not wait? Why could he not have patience? He was beginning to get on so well. She had seen a long review of one of his articles in Tooth and Nail. He was becoming quite a literary celebrity.

And, once he was up the ladder, even a few rungs, she would not feel the change so bitter, supposing her father was furious and implacable. Of course it would be a change! And she sighed as she smoothed out her cambric gown—which had cost eighteen guineas—with a pretty, delicate hand, laden with magnificent rings. Could it be possible that those soft white hands had ever blackened grates and made beds and washed up plates? Oh, such greasy plates and dishes!

“You seem to be in a day-dream, Miss West,” said Lord Anthony, as he approached, “and all the rest of the folk have gone to sleep.”

“Have they?” she exclaimed. “Well, one cannot wonder! It is a broiling afternoon, and, after that long sermon, you must make allowances.”

“Oh, I’m always making allowances. I’m an easy-going sort of fellow, you know,” and he cast himself into a well-cushioned chair. “I want to have a little talk with you.” Hitching this chair nearer he added, “May I?”

“Why, of course! But are we in a talking humour? Isn’t it rather hot? Pray don’t bore yourself to entertain me! I can always amuse myself,” and she slowly agitated her great green fan.

“Yes; I suppose you can say ‘My mind to me a kingdom is’?” he asked, with a smile.

“I think I can,” she answered languidly.

“I wish I could say as much. My mind is a poor, barren, unpopulated country. I should like to take a trip into your territory, and share your pleasant thoughts, Miss West!” then suddenly spurred by a recollection of a solemn promise to his sister, and that he was wasting a golden opportunity, “I have something important to say to you.”

“To say to me?” she echoed, with raised brows. “What can it be? What makes you look so strange? You are not feeling ill, are you?”

“Ill! No; but my mind is ill at ease. Can you not form an idea why?” leaning forward as he spoke, and looking straight into her eyes.

His look was an illumination to Madeline. But as yet she did not think of herself; she mentally glanced at lively Pamela, with her high spirits and low stature. She had seen her present companion carry his rather boisterous attentions to that young lady’s shrine. She amused him, and his loud, long laugh often resounded in her neighbourhood. He was come to ask for her good offices; but she did not suppose that Miss Pam would be unusually difficult to win.

“Oh, I think I have an idea now,” she murmured, with a significant smile. “I have guessed.”

“You have?” he replied, in a tone of great relief. “And—and, may I venture to hope?”

“I really cannot tell you. But I see no reason why you should not,” she returned reassuringly.

“Madeline”—now moving his chair a whole foot nearer, and suddenly taking her hand—“you have made me the happiest of men!”

“I don’t think I quite understand you,” she replied, struggling to withdraw her fingers, and feeling desperately uncomfortable.

“Then I must speak out more plainly. I want you to promise to be my wife.”

For a second she stared at him as if she could not credit her ears. Then she suddenly wrenched her fingers away, sprang to her feet, and stood facing him with crimson cheeks.

“What do you mean? Are you—mad?” she asked sharply.

“Mad?—no!” replied her suitor, both amazed and affronted. “One would think I was a dangerous lunatic, the way you behave. I am quite sane, and in deadly earnest. I have your father’s good wishes, Rachel’s good wishes——”

“My father’s good wishes!” she interrupted, her mind in a perfect tumult at this totally unlooked-for dilemma.

“What is the matter with you, Miss West? Why are you so upset and agitated? Am I so totally unworthy? Is there anything so extravagantly strange in my wishing to marry you?”

“Oh no, no!”—endeavouring to control her feelings, and not give herself away. “But—but——” A scarlet wave rushed into her cheeks. But what would Laurence say?

“Is it to be ‘Yes’ or ‘No’?” he pleaded.

She simply shook her head, and drew back a step or two.

He had never been so near to loving this tall pretty girl, standing under the lime-trees with flushed, averted face, as now, when she shook her head.

“At least you will give me reason,” he demanded, rather sulkily.

As the words left his lips he saw an odd change pass across her face, an expression that he could not understand. It was a look half of fear, half of contemptuous derision.

“There is no reason,” she answered quietly, “beyond the usual one in a similar case. I do not wish to marry you.”

“And why?” he asked, after an appreciable pause.

“Well, really, I have never thought about you, Lord Anthony, but as a pleasant acquaintance. As an acquaintance I like you very much,” she answered, with astounding calmness. “An acquaintance—but nothing more.” And she turned to take up her parasol.

Opposition always roused Lord Anthony; it acted as a spur. In a short five minutes he saw everything from his sister’s point of view, and had suddenly developed a passion for Miss West.

“Every marriage begins by an acquaintance. Perhaps in time,” he urged—“in a few short months, my dearest Madeline——”

“I am not your ‘dearest Madeline,’ Lord Anthony,” she interrupted quickly. “Pray consider the subject closed once for all; and remember, for the future, that I am Miss West.”

She was getting angry with his persistency. He was getting angry with her persistency.

There ensued a long silence, unbroken by speech. And at last he said—

“There is some other fellow, of course. You are engaged already.”

“I am not. Oh, Pamela, I did not see you”—as that vivacious young lady suddenly came upon the scene with a strong escort of dogs.

From her window she had noted the conference, and had hastily descended in order to discover what it might portend. A proposal! Well, if he had proposed, he had not been accepted, she remarked to herself complacently.

They both looked confused and ill at ease. Evidently they had been quarrelling. Lord Anthony was ridiculously red, and Madeline was white as a sheet.

“How delightfully cool and comfortable you two look!” she mendaciously ejaculated, sinking into Madeline’s chair with a gesture of exhaustion. “This is quite the nicest place, under these motherly old trees. I’ve been trying to sleep, but it did not come off. I was driven quite frantic by a diabolical bluebottle, that would not keep away from my face.”

“I’m sure I don’t wonder,” said Lord Anthony, who was recovering his good temper, which was never lost for long.

“And so I came out. You will have tea here, Maddie, won’t you, like a duck?”

“I’m not sure that ducks care for tea,” rejoined Madeline. “Their weakness is snails. But I’ll run in and order it. It must be after five.” And in another minute her tall white figure was half-way to the castle, and Miss Pamela and Lord Anthony were alone.

Both were eager to question the other in a delicate, roundabout way. Strange to say, the man got out his query first. Throwing himself once more into a chair, and crossing his legs, he said—

“Girls know girls and their affairs, as men know men, and are up to their little games. Now, you saw a lot of Miss West in town. Same dressmaker, same dentist, same bootmaker. Look here, now; I want to know something.” And he bent over and gazed into Miss Pam’s pale little dancing eyes.

“I am quite at your service,” she answered smilingly. “Her waist is twenty inches. She takes a longer skirt than you would think. She has no false teeth, and only a little stuffing in one back molar. Her size in shoes is fours.”

“Bosh! What do I care about her teeth and her shoes? I want to know—and I’ll do as much for you some day—if Miss West has any hanger-on—any lover loafing round? Of course I know she had heaps of Johnnies who admired her. But did she seem sweet on them? ‘Lookers-on see most of the game.’”

“Yes, when there is any game to see,” retorted the young lady. “In this case there was none. Or, if there was, it was double dummy.”

“No one?” he said incredulously.

“No one,” she answered. “She talks like an old grandmother, who has been through every phase of life; talks in the abstract, of course. She has never, as far as I know, and in the language of romance, ‘smiled on any suitor.’”

“Most extraordinary!” muttered Lord Anthony. “A new woman who bars men. However, there is always the one exception; and, by George”—to himself—“I’ll have another try!”

CHAPTER XIX.
A DISAGREEABLE INTERVIEW.

“Well!” said Mr. West, when he found himself alone in the smoking-room with Lord Anthony. How much can be expressed in that exclamation.

“It was not well, sir. She will have nothing to say to me. I had no luck.”

“Do you mean with Maddie?” exclaimed her father, in a tone of fretful amazement.

“Yes. I had a long talk with her, and she won’t have anything to say to me!”

“What—what reason did she give you?” demanded Mr. West. “What reason, I say?”

“None, except that she did not wish to marry me; and she seemed to think that reason enough.”

“And did you not press her?”

“It was of no use; but, all the same, I intend to try again—that is, if there is no one else, and Miss West has no attachment elsewhere.”

“Attachment elsewhere? Nonsense!” irritably. “Why, she was at school till I came home—till she met me on the steamer with her governess! You saw her yourself; so you may put that out of your head. She’s a mere girl, and does not know her own mind; but I know mine, and if she marries to please me, I’ll settle forty thousand pounds on her on her wedding day, and allow her five thousand a year. It’s not many girls in England who have as much pinned to their petticoat; and she will have considerably more at my death. If you stick to Maddie, you will see she will marry you eventually. She knows you, and is getting used to you—coming in and out in London; and you have a great pull over other men, staying here in the same house, with lots of wet days perhaps!”

The following morning Madeline was sent for by her father. He felt that he could speak with more authority from the ’vantage ground of the hearthrug in his own writing-room; and after breakfast was the time he selected for the audience. Evidently Madeline had no idea of what was awaiting her, for she came up to him and laid her hand upon his arm, and gave him an extra morning kiss.

“I suppose it’s about this picnic to the Devil’s Pie-dish?” she began.

In no part of the world has the devil so much and such a various property as in Ireland—glens, mountains, bridges, punch-bowls, bits, ladders—there is scarcely a county in which he has not some possessions—and they say he is a resident landlord.

Mr. West propped himself against the mantelpiece and surveyed her critically. She was certainly a most beautiful creature—in her parent’s fond eyes—and quite fitted to be sister-in-law to a duke.

“It’s not about the picnic; that must be put off, the day has broken. It’s something far more important. Ahem!” clearing his throat. “What’s all this about you and Foster?”

“Why?” she stammered, colouring deeply, and struck by a peculiar ring in his voice.

“Why?” impatiently. “He tells me that he proposed to you yesterday, and you refused him point-blank; and now, in my turn, I ask why?”

Madeline was silent. She began to feel very uncomfortable, and her heart beat fearfully fast.

“Well, is it true?” he demanded sharply.

“Yes, quite true,” fiddling with her bangles.

“And may I know why you have said no to a highly eligible young man, of a station far above your own, the son of a duke—a man young, agreeable, whose name has never appeared in any flagrant society scandal, who is well-principled and—and—good-looking—a suitor who has my warmest approval? Come now.” And he took off his glasses and rapped them on his thumb nail.

“I do not wish to marry,” she replied in a low voice.

“And you do wish to drive me out of my senses! What foolery, what tommy rot! Of course, you must marry some day—you are bound to as my heiress; and I look to you to do something decent, and to bring me in an equivalent return for my outlay.”

“And you wish me to marry Lord Anthony?” inquired his unhappy daughter, pale to the lips. Oh, if she could but muster up courage to confess the truth! But she dared not, with those fiery little eyes fixed upon her so fiercely. “Father, I cannot. I cannot, indeed!” she whispered, wringing her hands together in an agony.

“Why?” he demanded in a hoarse, dry voice.

“Would you barter me and your money for a title?” she cried, plucking up some spirit in her desperation, “as if I was not a living creature, and had no feeling. I have feeling. I have a heart; and it is useless for you to attempt to control it—it is out of your power!”

This unexpected speech took her parent aback. She spoke with such passionate vehemence that he scarcely recognized his gay, cool, smiling, and unemotional Madeline.

This imperious girl, with trembling hands, sharply knit brows, and low, agitated voice, was entirely another person. This was not Madeline, his everyday daughter. At last it dawned upon his mind that there was something behind it all, some curious hidden reason in the background, some secret cause for this astonishing behaviour! Suddenly griping her arm in a vice-like grasp, as an awful possibility stirred his inflammable spirit, he whispered through his teeth—

“Who is it?”

“Who is who?” she gasped faintly.

Ah! now it was coming. She shook as if she had the ague.

“Who is this scoundrel, this low-born adventurer that you are in love with? Is it the man you knew at school? Is it the damned dancing-master, or some half-starved curate? Is it him you want to marry? Madeline, on your oath,” shaking her in his furious excitement and passion of apprehension, “is it him you want to marry?” he reiterated.

Madeline turned cold, but she looked full into the enraged face, so close to hers, and as he repeated, “On your oath, remember!” she answered with unfaltering and distinctly audible voice, “On my oath—no!” She spoke the truth, too! Was she not married to him already? Oh, if her father only guessed it! She dared not speculate on the idea! He would be worse, far worse than her worst anticipations. She could never tell him now.

“Father, I have said ‘No,’” she continued. “Let go my hand, you hurt me.” With the utterance of the last word she broke down and collapsed upon the nearest chair, sobbing hysterically.

“What the devil are you crying for?” he demanded angrily. “What I’ve said and done, I’ve done for your good. Take your own time, in reason; but marry you shall, and a title. Foster is the man of my choice. I don’t see what you can bring against him. We will all live together, and, for my own part, I should like it. You go to no poorer home, you become a lady of rank,—what more can any girl want? Money as much as she can spend, a husband and a father who hit it off to a T, both only too anxious to please her in every possible way, rank, and riches; what more would you have, eh?”

“Yes, I know all that!” gasped Madeline, making a great effort to master her agitation. She must protest now or never. “I know everything you would say; but I shall never marry Lord Anthony, and I would be wrong to let you think so. I like him; but, if he persists, I shall hate him. I have said ‘No’ once; let that be sufficient for him—and you!” Then, dreading the consequences of this rashly courageous speech, she got up and hurried out of the room, leaving her father in sole possession of the rug, and actually gasping for speech, his thin lips opening and shutting like a fish’s mouth—when the fish has just been landed. At last he found his voice.

“I don’t care one (a big D) for Madeline and her fancies, and this thunder in the air has upset her. A woman’s no means yes; and she shall marry Foster as sure as my name is Robert West.” To Lord Anthony he said, “I’d a little quiet talk with Madeline, and your name came up. She admitted that she liked you; so you just bide your time and wait. Everything comes to those who wait.”

To this Lord Tony nodded a dubious acquiescence. The poor fellow was thinking of his creditors. How would they like this motto? and how much longer would they wait?

“I told you she liked you,” pursued Mr. West consolingly—“she said so; so you have not even to begin with a little aversion. She has set her face against marriage; she declared she would not marry, and what’s more—and this scores for you—she gave me her word of honour that there was no one she wished to marry. So it’s a clear course and no favour, and the best man wins. And remember, Tony,” said her shrewd little parent, thumping, as he spoke, that gentleman’s reluctant shoulder, “that I back you, and it’s a good thing to have the father and the money on your side, let me tell you.”