MARRIED OR SINGLE?

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London: CHATTO & WINDUS, Piccadilly.

MARRIED OR SINGLE?

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

IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. III.

LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1895

CONTENTS OF VOL. III.

MARRIED OR SINGLE?

CHAPTER XXIX.
“MR. WYNNE!”

A few days before their departure for the sunny south, Miss West, her father, and several visitors were sitting in the drawing-room, the tall shaded lamps were lit, the fragrant five-o’clock cup was being dispensed by Madeline; who was not, as Lady Rachel remarked, in her usual good spirits. Lady Rachel had thrown off her furs, she had secured a comfortable seat in a becoming light, and was flirting audaciously with a congenial spirit. Mrs. Leach was of course present, and an elderly colonel, Mrs. Veryphast (a smart society matron), her sister, and a couple of Guardsmen—quite a gathering. Mrs. Veryphast was laughing uproariously, Mrs. Leach was solemnly comparing notes respecting dressmakers with Mrs. Veryphast’s sister. The colonel, Mr. West, and Lord Tony, were discussing the share list. The Guardsmen were devoting themselves to the fair tea-maker, when the anteroom door was flung open with a flourish, and a footman announced “Mr. Wynne!”

This name was merely that of an ordinary visitor—one of the multitude who flocked to offer incense to his daughter, a partner and a slave, in fact, in the ears of every one save two—Lord Tony’s, and Mrs. Wynne’s. The latter felt as if she had been turned to stone. Had Laurence come to make a scene? to claim her? She breathed hard, living a whole year of anxiety in a few seconds of time. The hand that held the sugar-tongs actually became rigid through fear. She glanced at her father. He, poor innocent individual, was totally unconscious of the crisis, and little supposed that the good-looking young fellow now shaking hands with Madeline was actually his son-in-law!

“Oh, how do you do?” faltered Miss West, and raising a swift, appealing, half-terrified look to the stranger. “Papa, let me introduce Mr. Wynne.”

Mr. Wynne bowed, uttered a few commonplaces to the invalid, and stood talking to him for some time.

Meanwhile, Mr. West noticed with satisfaction the air of refinement and of blue blood (which he adored) in the visitor’s appearance and carriage. Wynne was a good name.

No one guessed at the situation, except Lord Tony. His breath was taken away, he looked, he gaped, he repeated the same thing four times over to Mrs. Veryphast—who began to think that this jovial little nobleman was a fool. To see Miss West thus calmly (it looked so at a distance) present her husband to her father, as he afterwards expressed it, “completely floored him.” And the old chap, innocent as an infant, and Wynne as cool as a cucumber, as self-possessed as it was possible to be!

And then suddenly Lady Rachel turned round and saw him, and called out in her shrill, clear voice, “Why, Mr. Wynne, is it possible! who would have thought of seeing you here? Come over and sit beside me,” making room on the Chesterfield couch, “and amuse me.”

“I’m afraid I’m not a very amusing person,” he replied, accepting her beringed fingers, and standing before her.

“You can be, if you like; but perhaps you now reserve all your witty sayings for your stories. Are you writing anything at present?” (Stereotyped question to author.)

“No, not at present,” rather stiffly.

“I did not know you knew the Wests. Maddie, dear,” raising her voice, “you never told me that you and Mr. Wynne were acquaintances.”

Madeline affected not to hear, and stooped to pick up the tea-cosy, and hide a face which had grown haggard; whilst Mr. West, who had gathered that Wynne was a rising man, and that his books were getting talked about, invited him to come and sit near him, and tell him if there was anything going on—anything in the evening papers?

“You see, I’m still a bit of an invalid,” indicating a walking-stick; “shaky on my pins, and not allowed to go to my club. I’ve had a very sharp attack, and I’m only waiting till the weather is a little milder to start for the south of France.” He had taken quite a fancy to this Wynne (and he did not often fall in love at first sight).

Madeline looked on as she handed her husband a cup of tea, by her parent’s orders, and was spellbound with amazement and trepidation to see Laurence and her father, seated side by side, amiably talking politics, both being, as it providentially happened, of the same party. This was to her almost as startling a spectacle as if an actual miracle had been performed in the drawing-room before her eyes.

That her attention strayed in one particular direction did not escape Mrs. Leach’s observation. Could this be——But no, he was far too presentable, he was evidently one of the Wynnes of Rivals Wynne; she herself saw the strong family likeness. He was absolutely at his ease, he scarcely noticed Miss West, though she glanced repeatedly at him, was looking pale and agitated, talked extreme nonsense, and filled cups at random.

No, no; this man was not the mysterious friend. No such luck for Madeline; and, if he had been, he never could have had the nerve to walk boldly and alone into the very lion’s den. But he probably knew the real Simon Pure, and was a go-between and messenger. Yes, that was it. Having thus disposed of her question to her entire satisfaction, and carefully studied Mr. Wynne, from the parting of his hair to the buttons of his boots, she turned and exercised her fascinations on the colonel, who was one of her sworn admirers.

Lady Rachel, who had wearied of her companion, threw him off with an airy grace—which is one of the finest products of civilization—and, on pretence of having a little talk with Mr. West, cleverly managed to monopolize Mr. West’s companion, chatting away most volubly—though now and then Mr. West, who was well on the road to recovery, insisted on having his say; and, as he discoursed, Laurence had leisure to take in the magnificence of his surroundings. The lofty rooms, silken hangings, velvet pile carpets, priceless old china, and wealth of exotic flowers. Everything seemed to cry out in chorus, “Money! money! money! Money everywhere.” Madeline, in a velvet gown, sitting in the midst of it, mistress of all she surveyed, with a young baronet on one side and a duke’s heir on the other absolutely hanging on her words. Her beauty, in its setting of brilliant dress, soft light, and a thousand feminine surroundings, failed to impress him. It was for this—looking about, and taking in footmen, pictures, gildings, silver tea equipage, the heavy scented flowers, soft shaded lamps, the sparkle of diamonds, the titled, appreciative friends in one searching glance—that she had deserted—yes, that was the proper word—deserted him and Harry. Even as he watched her, she was nursing a Chinese lap dog (a hideous beast in his opinion), and calling the attention of her companions to her darling Chow-chow’s charms. “Look at his lovely curled tail!” he heard her exclaim, “and his beautiful little black tongue!” And, meanwhile, the farmer’s wife was nursing her child, who did not recognize his mother when he saw her.

CHAPTER XXX.
MARRIED OR SINGLE?

Mr. West and his new acquaintance had apparently an inexhaustible capital of conversation, and still kept up the ball, as other people departed one after the other. Madeline knew that Laurence was resolved to sit them all out, for, as he laid his cup and saucer beside her, he said, in a whisper only audible to her, “I’m going to wait, I must have a word with you alone.”

After a time, when he was positively the last visitor, and the clock was pointing to half past six, he too rose and took leave of Mr. West—who expressed a cordial hope that they would see him whenever they came back to town—and of Madeline, who instead of ringing the bell, crossed the room with the visitor, airily remarking to her father, “I’m just going to show Mr. Wynne that last little picture you bought at Christy’s—he is so fond of paintings. I’ll be back immediately”—effecting her escape at the same moment by opening another door, through which she waved her husband, saying hurriedly, “In here, in here, the picture is there. Come along and stand before it; and now what is it?”

The room was dimly lit, and there was not much light upon the painting, but that was of no consequence to Laurence Wynne. He, however, took his stand before it, glanced at it, and then, turning to his companion, said gravely, “All right. I’ve come to answer your letter in person.”

“Laurence! I never knew of such madness! Talk of my going to your chambers—it was nothing; but for you to venture here——” and her eyes and gesture became tragic. “Positively, when I saw you walk in, I felt on the point of fainting.”

“I am glad, however, that you did not get beyond that point. I was surprised to see your father so well; after your account of him——”

“Oh, that was written more than a fortnight ago; he is much better—but weather bound—on account of the snow in the south.

“Well, yes; and your letter was overlooked, and not forwarded. I’ve been away on circuit.”

“I believe you don’t care whether I never write to you or not; nor to hear what I’m doing?”

“Oh, but, you know, I am always well posted in the society papers.”

“Society papers!”

“Yes; I see them at my club. Besides, I can actually rise to a couple of sixpences a week—and I read how the lovely Miss West was at a ball, looking very smart in straw colour; or had been observed at church parade wearing her new sables; or shopping in Bond Street, looking very bright and happy; or—at—the theatre glorified in diamonds and gold embroideries. However, I have at last made your father’s acquaintance; he does not seem to be such a terrible ogre! You may have noticed how pleasant he was to me; we got on like a house on fire. I do not think that your disclosure will have the awful consequence you anticipate, and I am perfectly confident that it will be attended with no ill effects as regards his health. I am sure you have taken a wrong estimate of his character. He may fly into a passion just at first—I fancy you may expect that—but he will calm down, and we shall all be very good friends; and I am certain he will be delighted with Harry.”

“I am not at all so sanguine as to that,” returned his wife dubiously; “and you have not yet told me, Laurence—and we have no time to lose—what has brought you here?”

“I came, as I have said before, to answer your letter in person. I am glad I have done so, I have seen things with my own eyes, and I can realize your position more clearly than hitherto. I see you surrounded with luxury. A duchess could have no more. I see your father, by no means the frail invalid that I was led to expect; I see your friends—your—pausing expressively—admirers! I’ve had, in short, a glimpse into your life, and realized the powerful cords—you call them claims—that bind you here, and have drawn you away from me.” He paused again for a moment, making a quick gesture with his hand to show that Madeline must hear him out. “And now I have come to tell you my last word. You will—or, if you wish, I will—tell your father the truth now—within the hour. It will then depend upon circumstances, whether you leave England or not. If your father wishes to have you and Harry with him, I shall say nothing against it.”

Madeline listened to this long and authoritative speech with some dismay. This plan would not suit her at all. What would all her gay society friends say—and most of them were coming to the Riviera—if, instead of the brilliant Miss West, they found Mrs. Wynne—a prodigal daughter who had married without leave, and who was hampered with a teething baby? And Laurence was really becoming quite too overbearing! She would not give in—if she succumbed now, it was for always. What a fuss he was making, simply because she was going abroad for three months with her father.

“Surely you can wait until we come back. You see, papa is not in a state now for any sudden excitement. I will tell him if you wish in a month, when he has completely recovered——”

“I will wait no longer,” interrupted her husband. “I have already waited on your good pleasure for close upon a year; put off time after time, with excuse after excuse, until such a period as you could manage to screw your courage to the sticking-point. I now apprehend that that period will be of the same epoch as the Greek Kalends! Frankly, Madeline, I am not going to stand any more nonsense. I am your husband; I can support you—certainly only in a very modest fashion compared to this,” looking round. “You will have no carriage, no maid, no fine clothes—at least not yet, they may come by-and-by. Your father is quite fit to travel alone; he ate a remarkably good tea, and told me that he had played two games of billiards this afternoon; were he really feeble, it would be a different affair. It is shameful—yes, that is the only word that will fit the subject—that I should have to remind you of your child! He should be your first care. Now, he is delicate, if you like;—he wants his mother, poor little chap! You will stay at home and look after him. It may not be your pleasure, but it is unquestionably your duty. You can go to Mrs. Holt’s and remain there and be welcome as long as you like. You were very happy there once, Maddie,” he added rather wistfully. No answer; she merely raised her eyes, and surveyed him fixedly. “I will look about for a small furnished flat; a little villa at Norwood, or wherever you like. Lodgings, after this, would be too terrible a change—I must admit.”

“So would the villa, or even the small flat,” she said to herself. In one glance she beheld her future: two servants, perhaps; two sitting-rooms, perhaps; a strip of back garden with stockings on a line; Laurence absent from morning till night; nothing to do all day long, but attend to her frugal housekeeping; no smart frocks; no smart friends; no excitement, amusements, or society.

She glanced at Laurence. Yes, his linen was frayed, there was a hole in one of his gloves, and in her heart there flared up a passionate hatred of genteel poverty; it was not life, it was a mere dragged-out existence, from Sunday to Sunday—from a sirloin of beef to a fore-quarter of mutton. Ugh! And, on the other hand, the trip on the Princesse de Lynxky’s yacht, the already made up party for the carnival, the dresses that she had ordered for both; the costumes that were to dazzle Nice; the sketch for her carriage at the battle of flowers. At last she said—

“The child is perfectly well, Laurence. I saw him a week ago, and he was then the picture of health. He is too young to trouble any one yet, and Mrs. Holt is an excellent person. Pray how many children are sent out to nurse, and their parents never see them for two or three years? It is always done in France, where they manage things so much better than we do. When Harry is older, it will be quite different; at present it is all the same to a baby where he is, as long as he is well cared for. You have suddenly become most arbitrary and tyrannical; and as to my leaving you for a few months, what is it after all? Look how wives leave their husbands in India, and come home for years!” resolved that all the hard hitting should not be on his side. “You are not like what you used to be, and you are very cruel to call my conduct shameful—and very rude, too. You are not going the right way to work, if you want to recall me home—to your home. I may be led, but I won’t be driven. I shall take my own way about papa, and tell him at my own time; and, what is more, I shall certainly accompany him to the Riviera, and when I return I hope,” speaking breathlessly, and in little short gasps, “I hope that I shall find you in a more agreeable frame of mind.”

There was an appreciable pause, and then he said, in a tone of angry astonishment, “Are you in earnest, Madeline?”

“In earnest? Of course I am!”

She looked at him; he had grown visibly paler, and there was a strange expression in his eyes that she did not remember to have ever seen before. Then, speaking in a low repressed voice—

“In that case I must ask you now to make your choice, once for all, between your two characters. You must for the future always be known as Miss West, or Mrs. Wynne. We will not have this double-dealing any longer. Now, which will you be, married or single?” keeping his eyes steadily fixed on her with a look of quiet determination. “If you wish, we can bury the past.”

No reply. Madeline’s mind was a battle-field of doubt, fear, amazement, anger, and self-will.

“Speak, Madeline!” he reiterated impatiently. “Married or single?”

“If it were not for the child,” she burst out passionately; “if my life is to be made a burthen to me like this; if you are always to be reproaching and scolding me——”

“I see,” he interrupted quickly, “you would rather be Miss West. The child, I know, is a flimsy excuse, and of no importance; but please to give me a direct answer. I must have it from your own lips.”

At this critical juncture the door was opened, and Mr. West, somewhat irascible from having been left so long alone (Mrs. Leach was dressing for dinner) came in, saying, “Well—well—well—Madeline, what is the meaning of this? the room is half in darkness. What the deuce has kept you—has that fellow——? Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Wynne, I did not know you were still here. Can’t have seen much of the pictures, unless you and Madeline have eyes like cats.” (No, they had only been fighting like cats.)

“Answer me, Madeline,” whispered Laurence in a hurried undertone, holding her hand like a vice. This action was not seen by Mr. West, who had his back to them, and was occupied with the poker. “Married or single? Now is the time—I shall tell him.”

“Single!” replied Madeline, hastily wrenching her hand away, spurred by immediate fears, and regardless of all but the present moment.

“So be it,” was the low rejoinder.

And Mr. West, as he vigorously poked the fire, and furiously pressed the bell, had no more idea than poker or button of the important tie that had just been severed.

Mr. Wynne, looking rather white and stern, came over, and again took his leave and, without any farewell to Madeline, who was still standing in the background in the dusk, he opened the door and departed.

“What have you been doing in here all this time?” asked Mr. West querulously. “What the deuce have you been about? Looked to me as if you and that fellow had been having a row. Never saw him before. Nice gentlemanly chap. None of your ‘Yaw-haw’ sort of people, with no more brains than a pin, and as much conceit as a flock of peacocks. No, this man has sense. I——By the way, Maddie, you look rather put out, too, eh? He has not been proposing for you, has he? Come now, tell your old daddy,” facetiously. “Make a clean breast of it.”

“No, papa,” she answered, in a rather shaky tone, “he has not; that is just the last thing he would do. You won’t see him again, that’s one comfort!” she added, with a final blaze of temper.

“Comfort, comfort? Not a bit of it. I’d like to see more of him; and when we come back, remind me to ask him to dinner—he belongs to the Foolscap Club—don’t forget. What’s his name—Wills—Witts?”

“Wynne.”

“Yes, yes, to be sure! A barrister. Humph! one of the Wynnes of Rivals Wynne—good old family. Looks a clever chap, too. Bound to win, eh? Not bad, eh?” chuckling. “But what were you talking about. You’ve not told me that yet?”

“We were quarrelling, papa, that’s all. Our first and last quarrel,” attempting to laugh it off, with a laugh that was almost hysterical. “There’s the first gong!”

“So it is; and I’m quite peckish. Look sharp and dress!” setting an example on the spot by hurrying out of the room, stick in hand, which stick went tapping all the way down the corridor, till the sound was lost in the distance.

Still, Madeline did not stir. She took a step and looked at the picture. Strange omen! It represented a farewell—a man and a girl. The man was a soldier, one of Bonaparte’s heroes, and his face was turned away—the girl was weeping. Then she walked over to the fire, and stood looking into it with her hands tightly clasped, her heart beating rather quickly—the after-effects of her late exciting interview. Her mind was tossed about among conflicting emotions—indignation with Laurence, relief, regret, all stirring like a swarm of bees suddenly disturbed. “What had possessed her to marry Laurence Wynne?” she asked herself, now looking back on their marriage from the lofty eminence of a spoiled, adulated, and wealthy beauty. A certain bitter grudge against him and their days of poverty, and the hateful existence into which he would drag her back, animated her feelings as she stood before the fire alone.

Such an overbearing, obstinate sort of partner would never suit her now. He deserved to be taken at his word—though of course he never meant it. The idea of any sane man relinquishing such a wife never dawned upon her. Yes—her heart was hot within her—he might go. As to the child, that was another matter; he was still, of course, her own pretty darling.

They had never, she and Laurence, had a rift upon the tuneful lute; and now a little plain speaking and a few angry words had parted them for life, as he had said. So be it.

“So be it,” she echoed aloud, and pulling a chain from the inside of her dress, she unfastened it, slipped off her wedding ring, and dropped it into the fire, which her father had poked up to some purpose—little dreaming for what an occasion it would serve.

Then Madeline went at last, and scrambled into her tea-gown with haste, and was just down, luckily for herself, in the nick of time.

After dinner, she was quite feverishly gay. She meant to thoroughly enjoy herself, without any arrières pensées. Her sword of Damocles had been removed. She went to the piano, and sang song after song with a feeling that she must do something to keep up her somewhat limp self-esteem and her rapidly falling spirits.

CHAPTER XXXI.
A FALSE ALARM.

Mr. West had enjoyed his dinner; his appetite was excellent—on a par with his daughter’s spirits. He asked no more troublesome questions, and departed to bed at an early hour. Mrs. Leach, too, had retired (pleading fatigue), to enjoy a French novel and cocaine, leaving Madeline to sing and make merry alone! After a while she went over and sat on the fender-stool, and had a long conversation with herself, and tried to persuade her conscience that she had done right. She offered it a sop in assuring herself that the next morning she would go down to the Holt farm and see Harry, and have a comfortable talk with his nurse. Her father would not be out of bed till twelve o’clock. Mrs. Leach, too, rarely appeared before lunch. The coast would be clear. She carried out this resolution to the letter, starting from Waterloo by an early train, arriving a little after ten at the farm in the station fly, greatly to Mrs. Holt’s amazement.

She asked many questions, and was warmly assured that “though little Harry was not to say a big, strong boy, like Tom the ploughman’s child, of the same age, yet that nothing ailed him but his teeth, and that his eye teeth were through, and that she (his mother) need not give herself no uneasiness. Mr. Wynne was full of fancies. He was down twice last week, and had been alarming her for nothing.”

“Mr. Wynne—Mr. Wynne,” said Madeline, becoming agitated and feeling a certain tightness in her throat; but knowing that the fact she was about to disclose must come out sooner or later, and that the first blow was half the battle; “Mr. Wynne and I have had a serious disagreement. We have agreed to differ—and to part,” looking steadily out of the window, whilst her face took a delicate shade of red.

“Laws! gracious mercy!” ejaculated her listener, nearly dropping Master Wynne. “You don’t say so! Goodness gracious! you don’t mean it, ma’am; you are joking.”

“No, indeed”—very decidedly—“I am not, Mrs. Holt; and you need not call me ma’am any more, for though I am married, I am going back to be Miss West—always. Please never call me Mrs. Wynne again.”

“But you can’t do that,” exclaimed Mrs. Holt, in a loud tone of expostulation; “you are married right and tight as I am, unless,” lowering her voice, “it’s a divorce you are after getting?”

“Divorce? No. Nothing of the kind; but Mr. Wynne and I have agreed to be—be strangers, and to forget that we have ever been married; and as I am only known to most people as Miss West, it will be quite easy.”

“It’s nothing of the sort, ma’am,” cried the other, energetically, “and you are mad to think of it. Why, I might just as well go and call myself Kate Fisher once more, and give out I was never wed to Holt! That would be a fine how-do-you-do! And where there’s children it’s worse and more wicked, and more ridiculous to think of still. What’s to be said and done about this boy? Who is his mother? You can’t say Miss West, now can you? Believe me,” seeing her visitor’s face of crimson astonishment, “it won’t do. It’s just one of those common squabbles among married folks that blow over. Why, Holt and I has ’ad many a tiff, and we are none the worse. You and Mr. Wynne just make it up. You are both young, and maybe he is determined, and likes to have his own way, as most men do; but—excuse me, ma’am, as an humble friend and a much older woman than yourself, if I make too bold—you are a bit trying. You see it’s not usual for a young fellow to have his wife leave him, and go galavanting about as a single lady; and then Mr. Wynne is greatly set upon the child. A man, of course, expects that his wife will look after his children herself. Excuse me again if I make too free, but I don’t like to see a young girl going astray, whoever she be, without just giving her a word,” wiping her face with a red-spotted handkerchief. (The family was largely supplied with this favourite pattern.)

Madeline sat in silence, feeling very uncomfortable and wretched; but all the same, obstinately bent on her own way.

“Mrs. Holt, you forget there are two sides to a question,” she said at last. “I know you mean very kindly; but I have to consider my father. He has no one but me. He is an invalid, and I am his only child, and must study his wishes.”

“Maybe if he wasn’t so rich, you wouldn’t think of him so much,” put in Mrs. Holt, bluntly.

“Yes, I would,” retorted Madeline, stung by the sneer; “but I see you are prejudiced, Mrs. Holt. You forget what the Bible says about honouring your father and mother.”

“No, no, I don’t; but the Bible says a deal about husbands and wives too. I don’t forget that. Stick to your husband; it’s the law o’ the land and the law o’ the Bible,” said Mrs. Holt in her most unyielding voice.

She said a great deal more, but she failed to persuade her visitor or to bend her pride, and she soon perceived that it was of no avail. Money and grandeur, she told herself, had turned her poor head. Some day she would be sorry for what she was doing now; and, anyway, it was an ill and thankless task for a third person to meddle between a married couple. She had always known that he was the better of the two; and maybe Holt would allow she was right now! Here was a young lady, turning her back on husband and child, taking her maiden name again, and going off to foreign countries. Pretty doings! pretty doings!

At eleven o’clock the fly-man notified that time was up, and the lady must go if she wanted to catch her train. She kissed little Harry over and over again, and wept one or two tears as she said—

“How I wish I could take him with me, even if I could smuggle him as my maid’s little boy!”

“Sakes and stars! Mrs. Wynne,” exclaimed Mrs. Holt, angrily. “Whatever are you thinking of? I wish his father heard you pass him off as a servant’s child. Well, upon my word! I never——” At this crisis words ran short and utterance completely failed her.

“Mind you write to me often, Mrs. Holt—even one line. I have left you a packet of addressed and stamped envelopes. Please write at least once a week,” and, with a hurried good-bye she stepped into the fly, pulled down her veil, and was driven off, leaving Mrs. Holt and her son upon the steps, the former exclaiming—

“Well, if she don’t beat all!” whilst Master Wynne dragged violently at her apron, and, pointing to the rapidly disappearing carriage, shouted gleefully—

“Gee-gee! Gee-gee!”

“It is all right, my dear,” whispered Mrs. Leach, receiving her with a significant nod. “I told your father you had gone to lunch with the Countess of Cabinteely, and he was perfectly satisfied.”

In another week Madeline was very pleasantly settled in a charming villa at Nice looking out over the blue tideless sea and the Promenade des Anglais. She had a landau and pair, a pony carriage, and an “at home” day, for not a few of their London acquaintances, early as it was, had come south.

Her father rapidly regained his usual health and amiability, and lavished presents upon her. The horizon before her was literally and metaphorically bright. She was surrounded by quite a brilliant pageantry of flatterers and followers, and could not help feeling a pardonable pride in the sensation she created and in her remarkable social triumphs—in finding bouquets left daily at her door, in seeing her name in enthusiastic little paragraphs in the local papers, in hearing that the fact of her expected presence brought numbers to an assembly or entertainment in order to see the lovely Miss West, to know that she had not an ambition in the world unfulfilled.

Was not this all-sufficient to prove that her millennium of happiness had commenced? She was the beauty of the season, though she was in this particular the victim of an unsought reputation; she had never aspired to the honour, and the character had been forced upon her. All the same, she did not dislike the position of social queen; and as to Mr. West, he gloried in the fact, and basked in the light of her reflected splendour. He was even content to be known as “Miss West’s father.” As some men pride themselves on their family, their estates, race-horses, pictures, collection of old china, or silver, he prided himself upon his daughter, and was convinced that he got more enjoyment out of his hobby than most people. She was always en evidence, and he could see the curious, envious, and admiring eyes, as he drove with her about Nice, walked with her on the British Quarterdeck at Monte Carlo, or escorted her to concerts, receptions, balls, or garden parties. Foreign dukes and princes were supremely affable to him—all on account of the beaux yeux of his charming and celebrated Madeline.

Worth and Doucet had carte blanche, for Madeline’s costumes must be worthy of her, and Madeline was not averse to the idea. A new hat, which became the rage, was named after her. Such is fame! A new yacht had been honoured by the same distinction. Youth, beauty, wealth, celebrity—even Fortune seemed to go out of her way to crowd favours upon this lucky young lady; but, alas! we all know that fortune is a fickle jade, who smiles at one moment, and who scowls the next. Thus, as a kind of social divinity in a gay, earthly Paradise, winter glided on with Madeline. Spring had appeared with a radiant face and a train of flowers; the turf under the olives was covered with anemones, the valleys were starred with primroses; jonquils, tea-roses, and narcissus filled the air with fragrance. Sea and sky reflected one another—sunbeams glanced from the waves, the water seemed to laugh, and the whole face of Nature was one good-natured smile.

The Riviera was full, the carnival about to commence. Madeline was in a state of feverish gaiety and exhilaration. She could not now exist without excitement; she must always be doing something or going somewhere, and required a rapid succession of amusements, from a “promenade aux ânes” up the valleys, to riding a bicycle; from a tea picnic to playing trente et quarante. All her regrets, and all her little twinges of remorse (and she had experienced some) had succumbed to the anodyne of a season on the Riviera—and such a season! But on the very first day of the carnival her spirits received a rude shock in the form of an ill-spelt scrawl from Mrs. Holt, which ran as follows:—

“Honoured Madam,

“I think it rite to let you no, as little Harry has been verry poorly the last two days; in case he is not better I think you ought to know, and mite wish to come home. It’s his back teath. The Docter looked very cerrius last evening, and spoke of konvulshions, but I don’t wish to frighten you.

“I am your humble servant,
“Kate Holt.”

This was a heavy blow. The rush of maternal impulse swept everything else out of her mind. Madeline thrust aside her diamonds, ball dress, masks, bouquets, and hurried off on foot to the telegraph office, and despatched a message—“If he is not better I start to-night; reply paid.” And then she returned to the Villa Coralie, quivering and trembling with impatience.

In case of the worst, she told Josephine to pack a few things, as she might be going to England that night by the Rapide.

Josephine’s jaw dropped; she was enjoying herself enormously. One of the waiters at the Cercle was her cousin. The carnival was just commencing; this was terrible—must she he torn away too! Her face expressed her feelings most accurately, and her mistress hastened to reassure her.

“I shall not require you, Josephine; I only go to see a sick friend. If I hear no good news, I start this evening; if the tidings are better, I remain—but I am almost sure to go.”

“Et monsieur?” elevating hands and eyebrows.

Yes, how was she to announce her departure to her father? She made the plunge at once. Her fears and her anxieties were not on his account now. She was desperate, and ready to brave anything or anybody.

She ran down into his cool sanctum, with its wide-open windows overlooking the bay, its gaudy, striped awnings, and verandah full of flowers, and finding her parent smoking a cigarette and absorbed in the Financial News, began at once.

“Papa, I’ve had bad news from England. A—one who is very dear to me is ill, and if I don’t hear better news by telegram, I wish to start to-night for London.”

“Madeline!” he cried, laying down the paper and gazing at her in angry astonishment. “What are you thinking about? Your sick friend has her own relatives; they would never expect you to go flying to her bedside from the other end of France. Nonsense, nonsense!” he concluded imperatively, once more taking up the news, and arranging his pince-nez with grave deliberation.

The matter was decided. But Madeline was resolved to make an equal show of determination, and said, in a stubborn tone—

“Papa, in this I must have my way. It is not often I take my own course; I do everything and go everywhere to please you. You must allow me to please myself for once.”

Mr. West pushed back his chair a full yard, and gazed at his daughter.

“Do not throw any obstacle in my way, papa, nor seek to know where I am going.”

“Ah, ah! Not a lover, I hope, madam?” he gasped. “The curate, the—the drawing-master?”

“No; let that suffice, and let us understand one another, once for all. I have been an obedient daughter to you; I have made sacrifices that you have never dreamt of”—(Ah! the poor curate! thought Mr. West)—“and you must give me more liberty. I am of age to go and come as I please unquestioned. I will do nothing wrong; you may trust me. I can take excellent care of myself, and I must have more freedom.”

“Must, must, must! How many more ‘musts’? Well, at any rate, you are a girl to be trusted, and there is something in what you say. I dare say you have sacrificed some girlish fancy; you have nursed me; you are a credit to me. Yes, and you shall come and go as you please, on the trust-me-all-in-all principle, and the understanding that you do not compromise yourself in any way; but you have your advantages, Madeline—a fine home and position, and everything money can buy. Remember, you will miss the best ball if you start to-night, and the Princess Raggawuffinsky was to call for you. Have you thought of that?”

“Oh!” with a frantic wave of her hand, “what is a ball?”

“Well, well, well! How much cash do you require, and when will you be back?”

“I have plenty of money. If all goes well, I shall be back in a few days—as soon as possible—for the regatta, perhaps.”

And so, with a few more remarks and assurances, and expostulations on Mr. West’s part at her travelling alone, she pocketed a cheque pressed upon her, and left the room victorious.

Her father was easier to deal with than she had anticipated. Laurence was right—for once!

Then she ran upstairs to her own sanctum and locked the door, pulled off her dress, put on her cool dressing-wrapper, and sat down in a fever of mind and body to wait for the telegram. She remained motionless, with her eyes fastened on the clock, a prey to the wildest fears. Supposing the child was dead!—she shuddered involuntarily; if it were, she would go out of her senses. Her anxiety increased with every hour. She was in a frenzy of impatience, now pacing the room, now sitting, now standing, now kneeling in prayer.

At last there was a knock at the door—Josephine’s knock. Josephine’s voice, “Une dépêche pour vous, mademoiselle.”

Mademoiselle’s hand shook so much that she could hardly open the door, hardly tear asunder the envelope, or read its contents—at a gulp. Josephine had never seen her mistress in this frenzied, distraught condition—her colour like death, her face haggard, her eyes staring, her hair hanging in loose abandon. What did it mean? The telegram brought good news. It said, “He is much better, and in no danger. You need not come.”

The sender’s name was not notified. Whoever it was, it mattered little; the relief was inexpressible. What a fright Mrs. Holt had given her, and all for nothing!

Miss West went to the ball that night, and danced until the dawn flickered along the horizon. She was one of the most brilliant figures at the carnival, and received marked notice in distinguished quarters. At the battle of flowers, she and her equipage were the cynosure of all eyes. The open victoria was made to counterfeit a crown, and covered with pink and white azaleas. Miss West was attired to correspond. Four beautiful white horses were harnessed in pink, and ridden by postilions in pink satin jackets; and the general effect was such that the committee promptly awarded the first banner to “la belle Anglaise,” despite the close rivalry of a celebrated demi-mondaine, who furiously flung the second banner in the faces of the judges, and, with her yellow flowers and four black ponies, had whirled off in high dudgeon and a cloud of dust.

At last this enchanting period was brought to an end by the Riviera’s own best patron—the sun. People melted away as if by magic. Some went on to the Italian lakes, some to Switzerland, many to England. Madeline and her father deferred their return until the end of May, stopping in Paris en route; and when they reached home the season was at its height, and the hall and library tables were white from a heavy fall of visiting-cards and notes of invitation.

Lady Rachel and Lord Tony came in on the evening of their arrival to pay a little neighbourly call, and to tell them that they must on no account miss a great match—the final in a polo tournament at Hurlingham—the next afternoon. Every one would be there.

This speech acted as a trumpet-call to Mr. West.

“Every one will see that we have returned,” he said to himself, and it will save a lot of trouble. Then, aloud, “All right, then, Lady Rachel, we shall certainly go. Madeline must trot out some one of her smart Paris frocks. And, Madeline, you might send a wire over to Mrs. Leach, and offer her a seat down.”

CHAPTER XXXII.
MR. JESSOP’S SUGGESTION.

Laurence Wynne had taken but one person into his confidence, and that was Mr. Jessop. As he sat smoking a post-midnight cigar over the fire in his friend’s chambers, he told him that Mrs. Wynne no longer existed. She preferred to stick to her name of West, and wished to keep her marriage a secret always from—not alone her father, but the whole world.

This much he had divulged. He felt that he must speak to some one. His heart was so sore that he could not maintain total silence, and who so fitting a confidant as his old friend Dick Jessop? He was chivalrous to Madeline in spite of all that had come and gone, and veiled her defects as skilfully as he could, not speaking out of the full bitterness of his soul. But Mr. Jessop’s active imagination filled in all the delicately traced outline—perhaps in rather too black a shading, if the truth were known!

However, he kept his surmises discreetly to himself, and puffed and pondered for a long time in silence. At last he spoke.

“I would let her alone, and not bother my head about her, Laurence! She is bound to come back.”

“I don’t think so,” responded the other, curtly.

“Yes; she will return on account of the child.”

“And what would such a coming-back be worth to me? It will not be for my sake,” said Wynne, holding his feelings under strong restraint.

“I know of something that would bring her, like a shot out of a seventy-four pounder,” observed Mr. Jessop after another pause, surveying the coals meditatively as he spoke.

“What?”

“Your paying attention to another woman. Get up a strong and remarkable flirtation with some pretty, smart society matron. Lots of them love your stories. Love me, love my stories. Love my stories, love me, eh? Show yourself in the park, at theatres—better still, a little dinner at the Savoy—and Mrs. Wynne will be on in the scene before you can say Jack Robinson! Jealousy will fetch her!”

“I wouldn’t give a straw for the affection of a woman who was influenced solely by what you have suggested. No, no; I married her before she knew her own mind—before she had a chance of seeing other people, and the world. Now she has seen other people, and become acquainted with the world, she prefers both to me. On five or six hundred a year, with no rich relations, Madeline and I would have been happy enough. As it is, she is happy enough. I must get on alone as well as I can. I made a mistake. I was too hasty.”

“Yes, marry in haste, and repent at leisure!” said Mr. Jessop, grimly.

“I don’t mean that; I mean that I mulled that business at Mrs. Harper’s. I should have wired to Mrs. Wolferton, or insisted on Mrs. Harper taking Madeline back, and given her time to turn round and to reflect; but I rushed the whole thing. However, I must now abide by the position I am placed in with what fortitude I can.”

“You married her, and gave her a home, when she had no friend,” put in Mr. Jessop, sharply. Mr. Jessop was devoted to Laurence, and excessively angry with Laurence’s wife.

“It is not every one I would confide in, Dick,” said his companion; “but you are my oldest chum. You are welcome to be introduced to the skeleton in my cupboard—an old friend’s privilege. We need never talk of this again. I suppose people get over these things in time! There is nothing for it but work—plenty of work.”

Although he discoursed in this cool, self-restrained manner, Mr. Jessop knew, by years of experience, that his friend—who never made much, or, indeed, any, fuss about his feelings—had felt the blow in every nerve of his body.

“Do not think too hardly of her, Dicky,” he exclaimed, promptly reading the other’s thoughts. “She is very young, and very pretty. I’m only a poor, hard-working barrister; and she had an awful time once—you know when! We must never forget how she came through that ordeal. And, after all, I have no human rival. If she does not care for me, she cares for no other man. She is blessed with a particularly cool, unsusceptible temperament. My only rival is riches. It is the money that has ousted me. The enormous strength of wealth has pushed me out of her heart, and barred the door. Time, another powerful engine, may thrust her out of mine!”

“Time! Bosh. Time will never thrust away the fact that she is the mother of your child. He is a tie between you that neither time, riches, nor any amount of balderdash you may talk—nor any number of matrimonial squabbles—can ever break.”

“You are mistaken in your idea of the whole case, Jessop, and under a totally wrong impression. Nothing can bridge the gulf between Madeline and me, unless she chooses to come back of her own accord, and unsay a good deal that she has said; and this she will never do—never. She does not care a straw for me. I merely remind her of days of squallor, sickness, and hideous poverty. She was delighted to accept the freedom which I offered her——”

“And what a fool you were to do it!” exclaimed his listener, contemptuously.

“Not at all; but I should be a fool were I to try to keep a wife, who is not even one in name, and never casts a thought to me from month’s end to month’s end. I shall be—nay, I am—free too.”

“But not in a legal sense, my dear boy; you cannot marry again.”

“No, thank you,” emphatically knocking the ashes off his cigar with great deliberation as he spoke. “The burnt child dreads the fire. I made a bad start this time, and even if I had the chance—which, please God, I never shall have—I would not tempt Fate again, no matter what the provocation. Women are a great mystery: their chief faults and virtues are so unexpected. Look at Madeline: when we were paupers she was a ministering angel. Now that she is rich, she is merely, a smart society girl, and——”

“And milliners, jewellers, flatterers minister to her,” broke in Jessop.

“I intend to make my profession my mistress, and to devote myself to her heart and soul. The law is a steady old lady.”

“And a very cantankerous, hard, flinty-faced, capricious old hag you’ll find the goddess of Justice, my dear fellow. I am going to give up paying my addresses to her! My uncle has left me a tidy legacy. I intend to settle down in comfort in his old manor-house—shoot, fish, hunt, burn my wig, gown, and law books, and turn my back for ever on the Inns of Court.”

“Jessop, you are not in earnest.”

“I am,” impressively; “and what’s one man’s loss is another man’s gain. It will be all the better for you, Laurence, since you are so bent upon the woolsack. I’ll give you a heave-up with pleasure. You will now get all Bagge and Keepe’s business, for one thing—and, let me tell you, that that is no trifle.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.
“ONE OF YOUR GREATEST ADMIRERS.”

It was a perfect afternoon, and Hurlingham was crowded. Every seat bordering the polo ground was occupied, and the brilliant hues of hats, gowns, and parasols made a sort of ribbon border to the brilliant green turf. Mr. West—a fussy or punctual man, according to people’s point of view—had arrived early with his party, and, so to speak, planted his fair charges under one of the umbrella awnings, and in a most central and commanding situation, where Madeline, in a white costume, which set off her vivid dark beauty, was seen and greeted by many acquaintances. Lord Montycute, Captain Vansittart, and a smart lady friend (Mrs. Veryphast) shared the shade of the canvas umbrella, and spasmodically proffered morsels of the latest and choicest news, for the polo was absorbing, the match very fast and closely contested, the excitement intense. During an interval Lady Rachel drifted near—clad in a rainbow costume, and talking volubly and emphatically to a man. Her quick, roving eye caught sight of Madeline’s comfortable little party, and she swept down upon her at once.

“Oh, Maddie, my dear girl, how nice and cool you look, and I’m half dead, standing baking in the sun, and not a chair to be had for love or money! Ah, you have two to spare, I see! Here—here is actually one for you.” She called to her escort, who had stopped to speak to a passing friend. “Madeline,” she continued, “I think you know Mr. Wynne, who writes. Mr. Wynne, Miss West is one of your greatest admirers! She knows all your stories by heart.”

This was a fiction, invented on the spur of the moment. Her ladyship coined many a little lie.

Madeline looked up bewildered. The gentleman who was taking off his hat to her was—Laurence!—and yet not Laurence. What had he done to himself? He had discarded his beard, and was fashionably clean-shaven; moreover he was fashionably dressed in the orthodox long frock-coat, and wore a flower in his buttonhole, and the most absolutely correct gloves and tie.

So much depends upon the style, shape, and colour of a man’s tie—and the very maker’s name! A rashly selected tie may stamp a man’s taste quite as fatally as the wrong number and pattern of buttons proclaim the date of his coat!

The removal of his beard had entirely changed Laurence Wynne’s appearance. He looked much younger: he had a very square chin, his mouth was expressive—more sarcastic than smiling—with thin, firmly closed, but well-cut lips. Had she known of that mouth and chin, had she guessed at them—well, she would have thought twice before she married their proprietor. As she looked up she coloured to her hair when she met his steady, cool glance. This meeting was no surprise to him, for he had noted the entrée of the beauty, her marvellous costume, and her train of admirers. He had not, however, intended to come to such close quarters. He was taken unawares when he found himself in her neighbourhood, and he was determined to escape immediately, in spite of Lady Rachel. The silence that followed Lady Rachel’s loud prattle was becoming noticeable, and curious eyes were turned upon him when he said very distinctly—

“I don’t know if I am so fortunate as to be remembered by—Miss West?”

“Oh yes,” she answered, rather obviously avoiding looking at him, with a bright patch of colour on either cheek.

“Miss West has such an enormous acquaintance of young men that she must get a little confused sometimes—a little mixed, don’t you, Maddie? Now, Mr. Wynne, I see what you are up to,” said Lady Rachel; “but no, you shall not run away. Here, sit upon this chair. I had great difficulty in capturing you, you are so run-after and spoilt, and now I am not going to let you desert. You ought to be thankful for a seat in the shade, and amongst such pleasant company!” As he reluctantly seated himself at the very outskirts of the group, she continued—“Now, you must not sit there looking like a snared animal, watching for some chance of escape. Do tell me all about the heroine of your last story. How is it that you are so familiar with all our little ways, and weaknesses? You know too much. One would almost suppose that you were a married man!”

“I think it must be time to go to tea,” said Madeline, glancing appealingly at her father, who had just joined them.

“Tea! Don’t you wish you may get it! There is not a single vacant table on the lawn. I’ve just been to look. Hullo! Ah—er—Wynne, how do you do?”

Mr. Wynne had been pointed out to him as a rising junior at the bar—a coming man in literature, who wielded an able pen, and was quite one of the season’s minor celebrities. His sketches were a feature of the day—a short one, naturally. Every one was talking of him.

Mr. West loved a celebrity—if he was gentlemanly and in good society, bien entendu—nearly as much as he loved a lord, but not quite; and he added—

“I remember you were at our house last winter, and you are interested in paintings and art. You must look us up, eh?—and come and dine.”

“Thank you. You are very kind.”

“We’ve just come back from the Riviera. Delightful place! Were you ever there?”

“No, I’ve never been nearer to it than Lyons.”

“But I’ve been there,” broke in Lady Rachel; “and I shall never go again, on account of the earthquakes, although it was capital fun at the time.”

“Fun!” repeated Mr. West, with a look of amazement.

“Yes, half the refugees were running about in blankets fastened with hairpins, afraid to return for their clothes. Oh, they were too absurd! A whole train full went to Paris in their dressing-gowns—some in bare feet. Every one was different—‘out of themselves,’ as they say in France. One old lady, in her mad excitement in speeding some relations, actually tore off her wig and waved it after them.”

“Poor old dear! How she must have regretted it subsequently!” said Lord Montycute. “My sister was there at the same time, and paid twenty pounds a night for the luxury of sleeping in the hotel omnibus. Nothing would induce her to go to bed indoors. The hotel was cracked from top to bottom!”

“I don’t care for the Riviera,” remarked Lady Rachel. “It’s too hot, and the scenery is ridiculously gaudy. It always reminded me of a drop-scene. I declare to you, sitting on a promenade, facing the blue sea and blue sky, and pale, buff promontories and palms, with a band playing in the neighbourhood, I have felt as if I was in the stalls of a theatre.”

“Oh, shame!” cried Mrs. Leach. “You have no feeling for the beauties of Nature.”

“I thought Monte Carlo lovely—the garden too exquisite for words.”

“And the tables?” inquired Mr. West significantly.

“Yes, I had my own pet table; and at first I was successful. I always went on the ‘doz-ens,’ or ‘passe.’ One day I made ninety pounds in an hour; but, alas! I lost it all in about ten minutes.”

“The tables always do win in the long run,” said Mr. West, sententiously.

“Yes,” agreed Lord Montycute, “they have no feeling, no emotions. When they gain they are not excited; when they lose they are not depressed; and this is their advantage.”

“Oh, but they cannot leave off if they are losing,” cried Lady Rachel. “We score there.”

“You did not score, at any rate,” remarked Mrs. Leach, with a smile.

“No; I wish I had left off. There is Mrs. Raymond Tufto. Did you see her at Nice, Madeline?”

“Oh yes; she went everywhere.”

“She is wearing that same flower toque. I am so sick of it,” cried Mrs. Veryphast, impatiently.

“Nevertheless she is one of the prettiest women in London,” observed Captain Vansittart. “She has such a saintly expression, and she looks so good.”

“She is a horribly heartless wretch. She goes off for months on the Continent, and leaves her children to nurses at home,” said Lady Rachel, viciously. “She has one dear little tot of two, that actually does not know her by sight.”

“It is quite the French fashion to board out babies,” remarked Mrs. Leach, who was invariably in opposition to Lady Rachel.

“Turn them out to walk like young hounds,” drawled Captain Vansittart.

“Mrs. Tufto, bad as she may be, is nothing to Lady Blazer,” continued Mrs. Leach, impressively. “She has a nursery full of girls, and yet, what do you think? When she was asked the other day to subscribe to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, she said, ‘Delighted! There is only one species of animal I loathe, and that’s a child.’”

“Oh, I say—come! I don’t believe that,” cried Mr. West, “of any woman—or even a man. I’m rather partial to nice small children myself.”

“Mr. Wynne,” said Lady Rachel, turning on him suddenly, “why are you so silent? You know it is your métier to talk.”

“Then why do you grudge me a well-earned holiday?” he asked imperturbably.

“I believe you are studying us for your next sketch; taking us in your literary kodak.”

“No, indeed! I am not a reporter for a society paper.”

“Oh, I don’t mean about our dresses and hats, or that; I mean character sketches.”

“How I should like to sit to you for mine!” said Mrs. Veryphast, vivaciously, moving her chair an inch or two nearer to his. “I do wish you would make a study of me, and put me in one of your charming stories or dialogues.”

“It would have a fabulous circulation if you were the heroine,” said Lord Montycute, with a bow.

Mrs. Veryphast smiled, well pleased. She was not always able to distinguish between impertinence and flattery. Mrs. Veryphast was evidently anxious to annex another ladies’ friend, who had edged himself so far away that he was quite an outsider. But he would not be appropriated, neither could he effect his escape.

“Mr. Wynne,” said Lady Rachel, briskly, “you are up in all the principal subjects of the day. Do tell us what you think of the new woman.”

“That she will be an old woman in a few years.”

“So shall I. You are meanly evading the question.”

“I think——Let me think again.”

“You mean, let me dream again. You seem to be half asleep this afternoon. Well?”

“On reflection, I consider that she is a devastating social influence.”

“That can be read in two ways, you wary fox. What is your opinion of the emancipation of women—wives especially?”

“Upon my word! Lady Rachel, I must protest!” he answered, with a somewhat fixed smile. “You are endeavouring to obtain my opinion gratis. I cannot afford it. How am I to live?”

Meanwhile Madeline, looking rather pale, listened furtively to this passage of arms.

“I think you are too horrid. At any-rate, it cannot hurt your pocket to tell me if you approve of the higher education of my sex.”

“No; I prefer the ancient Greek mode—complete isolation, wool-spinning, and no books.”

“Gracious! I shall pity your wife.”

His eyes and Madeline’s met for one half-second all the way across Lady Rachel’s bonnet and Captain Vansittart’s broad shoulders. Then he stood up.

“What—going? Oh, Mr. Wynne!” protested his captor, with a little scream.

“I am extremely sorry; but I really must. I see a man over there that I want to speak to particularly; and I shall lose sight of him if I don’t look sharp.” And taking off his hat with a comprehensive smile, he was gone.

Yes, Madeline watched him under her parasol. He looked as well as any one—in fact, quite distinguished. She wondered vaguely who was his tailor.

Then people began to discuss him, and she gathered by a word from Mrs. Veryphast, and another from Captain Vansittart, that the general opinion of Laurence Wynne was highly favourable.

“Of fine old stock, but poor; but brains, and good race, ought to bring him something,” said Mrs. Leach.

“An heiress!” suggested Mrs. Veryphast, with a giggle. “And now I propose that we do adjourn, and go to tea.”

From a distance Laurence noted the party en route to refreshments, Madeline and Lord Montycute bringing up the rear. She belonged to another world than his, there was no room in her life for him and Harry. As he had chafed in Lady Rachel’s chains, he had caught snatches of the conversation of the butterflies who fluttered round his wife. He heard of balls, river parties, rides, picnics. He was aware that Miss West’s society was in immense demand; he caught one laughing announcement “that she had four engagements for the next evening, and not a spare hour for the next three weeks.”

Not long after that, as he and a friend were walking down to Parsons Green station, they were passed by a splendid carriage, which gave a glimpse of two frothy-looking parasols, and two tall hats.

“There goes Miss West,” explained his companion, “the Australian heiress and beauty, with Lord Tony on the back seat. I hear it is quite settled, they are to be married in the autumn.”

“Are they? Who is your authority?”

“I can’t say; it’s in the air. I wonder she was not snapped up, long ago, for although old West is about as common as they make ’em, yet every one allows that his daughter is charming.”

CHAPTER XXXIV.
MR. WYNNE IS A WIDOWER.

The first opportunity that Madeline could find she ventured a visit to the Holts. It was a lovely June morning as she walked up to the front entrance of the sequestered Farm. She found Harry—her Harry, a pretty little fellow with fair soft hair and surprised dark eyes, sitting alone upon the doorstep, and nursing a pointer pup. It was useless for her to ask in her most winning manner—

“Harry dear, don’t you know me? Darling, I am your own mother; your own mummy!”

Harry simply frowned and shook his curls, and clutched the puppy tightly in his clasp as if he meant to throttle it.

Presently Mrs. Holt came upon the scene, with turned-up sleeves, and stout bare arms, fresh from the dairy. She was exceedingly civil, and exceedingly cool; invited Miss West into the little parlour, dusted a chair for her, and did her best to soften the rigidity and hauteur of little Harry’s aspect.

After some conversation about his double teeth, the weather, and Nice, she said—

“Suppose you and he just go round the garden, ma’am, and make friends. I’ll leave you to yourselves, whilst I go and see after the dinner.”

“But pray don’t get anything extra for me, Mrs. Holt,” implored Madeline. “Just what you have yourselves. I shall be very angry if you make a stranger of me.”

Mrs. Holt muttered some incoherent reply, and went away saying to herself—

“Not make a stranger of you! and what else? Not make any difference for you! I’m thinking you’d look very glum if I were to set you down to beans and bacon, my grand young London madame. Dear me, but she is changed! She cannot stir without a sound of rustling; and the price of one of her rings would build a new barn!”

Meanwhile, Harry and his mother went round the garden as desired, hand-in-hand. He could talk very plainly for his age, and trotted along by her side, considerably thawed in manner. This process was due to a lovely ball she had unexpectedly produced, a gay picture-book, and a packet of candy. He chattered away in a most friendly style, and showed her the pigeons, the bees, and where the lark was buried—in fact, all what he considered the lions of the place; and every moment unfolded to his delighted companion some additional marvel and charm.

By the time that one-o’clock dinner was ready, the couple were on excellent terms, and he had even gone so far as to kiss her, and to put his little holland-clad arms round her neck of his own accord. The sensation was extremely pleasant.

After dinner—not consisting of beans and bacon—Mrs. Holt and her guest had a long tête-à-tête. The condition of Harry’s health was first disposed of, then the state of his wardrobe came under discussion.

“I should tell you, ma’am, since you ask, that all the lovely frocks and pelisses you sent from France are just laying there. Mr. Wynne won’t allow him to wear one of them, nor anything you gave him.”

“And why not, pray?” demanded the young lady with considerably heightened colour.

“He told me quite serious, one day,” said Mrs. Holt, now speaking with ill-suppressed satisfaction, “that what he had worn and was wearing, as you gave him, he might wear out; but no new things were to be accepted, as you had nothing to do with the child now. So I put them all by, just as they came, in the front room wardrobe, and there they are.”

“What does he mean?” asked Madeline, in a sharp key.

“I’m sure, ma’am, you know better than I do; he said as he had no objection to your seeing the child, now and then, but that was all. I expect Mr. Wynne can be real stiff and determined,” smoothing out her apron with an air of solemn disapproval, not of him, but of her visitor.

Madeline said nothing, but she felt a good deal. Mrs. Holt, from her manner more than from her words, sat in judgment upon her. She, this wife of a common farmer, actually dared to criticise the beautiful and admired and spoiled Miss West.

“You see, ma’am,” she continued, “you are, and you are not, the child’s mother. He does not recognize you as that—I mean the child himself—you have kept away too long. In course you can’t be in two places at once, nor be both Miss West and Mrs. Wynne. ’Tisn’t my wish, nor my own doing, as I have taken your place with the child. He is main fond of me. And then, poor Mr. Wynne, he felt your leaving him at first, no doubt of that; but he is getting over it now; men haven’t as much feeling as we think.”

Madeline listened with a guilty conscience, every word went home to her with as much force as a blow. She had chosen her line, and she must stick to single blessedness. There was to be no going back, at any rate at present.

This conviction made her reckless, and she rushed with eagerness into the full tide of London gaiety with a passionate desire to escape from the past, to get away from the clamouring of a still articulate conscience, to annihilate memory by some great and effective action, and to be happy! But memory was not so easily stifled, and now that Laurence had disappeared from her life—such is the contrariness of humanity—she wished him back. At times, at races, at Hurlingham, in great assemblies, at the theatre, or in the Row, she searched the crowds for him in vain. Mrs. Leach, who was her constant companion and self-elected chaperon, reading her young friend by the light of her own memories, noticed that she was not like other girls, content and happy with her company and surroundings. There was a restlessness in her manner; she seemed to be continually looking for some one—some one who never came, who was never to be seen.

Madeline preferred Lady Rachel’s, or Mrs. Lorimer’s company to the splendid widow’s society, and made futile efforts to shake off her shackles—efforts which were vain.

Yes, among all Madeline’s social successes, in the midst of her most dazzling triumphs, she ever cast a glance around in search of Laurence. Surely, if he went to see her in the full blaze of her triumph, he would think twice ere he permanently renounced such a treasure! She felt hot and angry when she thought of him, but nevertheless she longed to see him once more—odious, unreasonable, and tyrannical as he was. Surely he did not mean to abandon her in reality. That idea had no place in her mind when she was abroad. There everything and everybody seemed different. It was easy, in a strange country, far away from Laurence and Harry, to drop a misty cloud over the past, and to feel as if she really was Miss West. But here in London, where she had lived as a married woman, and had struggled—and oh, what a struggle!—with the awful question of how to support a household on nothing, the idea was unnatural—nay, it went further, it was improper. She would perhaps write to him some day, and hold out the olive branch; but not yet, and meanwhile she must see him.

Mr. West was still extremely uneasy about himself. He found the heat, and dust, and noise of London trying to his health, he declared; and, much to the disgust of Mrs. Leach and other interested friends, he announced that the middle of July would not find him in England. He was going to Carlsbad, to Switzerland, and to winter abroad—probably at Biarritz.

Ere she was thus carried off, Madeline resolved to see Laurence. She prevailed upon Lady Rachel to take her to the Temple church. She was aware that he went there every Sunday, and Lady Rachel, little guessing the reason of her friend’s sudden enthusiasm for the venerable edifice, and anxiety to hear a certain well-known preacher, procured two tickets for benchers’ seats, and occupied them the ensuing sabbath.

These seats were roomy and elevated, and commanded an excellent view of the whole centre of the church where the members of the various inns sat. They came in gradually, not in legal garb, as Madeline had half expected, but in their usual dress; and she strained her eyes so eagerly that her sharp little friend nudged her and said, “For whom are you looking, Maddie?”

“Oh, no one,” colouring. “It is such a very interesting old place. I like staring about. What crowds of people who cannot get seats, and have to stand!”

At this juncture the organ pealed out, and every one stood up as the choir filed in, and just immediately afterwards, Lady Rachel exclaimed in an excited whisper, “There’s Mr. Wynne—look!”

Of course Madeline never moved her eyes from him; they followed him, as he found a seat at the end of a pew, luckily well within her view. He could not see her, but she could study him, especially when she knelt down, with her two hands shielding either side of her face, from watchful Lady Rachel.

He looked well, a little grave perhaps, a little worn; no doubt he was working hard. He did not stare about as did others, nor cast a single glance at the radiant figure in the benchers’ seats. At times he seemed preoccupied and buried in thought, but he gave his undivided attention to the sermon, to which he listened with folded arms and a critical air, as if he were weighing every word of it in his mind, and as though it were a summing up of evidence being laid before a jury of which he was a member. There was no abstracted air about him, his mind was on the alert, he had cast the past or future aside, and was absorbed in the present.

The sermon concluded, crowds flocked through the ancient doorway, and scattered outside. Lady Rachel still lingered, and looked about eagerly, ere taking her departure westward, and then she exclaimed, in a disgusted voice—

“I wanted to have asked Mr. Wynne to lunch, if I had seen him to speak to,” shaking out her parasol and opening it with a jerk of annoyance. “But there he goes, marched off by that girl in the green and blue frock—the very sight of it turns me cold! And do you see the old papa rushing after them, and accosting him with rapture? The way in which girls throw themselves at men’s heads nowadays, is abominable. However, it’s a mistake for these bold creatures to imagine that men will marry them. They either take a wife from the stage or music-hall, or some quiet little country mouse. As for Mr. Wynne, he is a widower, and I believe his wife was a perfect horror—so he will not be caught again! Ah, here’s a hansom! Now, my dear girl, get in, get in. These dry sermons make me frightfully thirsty. I am dying for my lunch.”

CHAPTER XXXV.
INFORMATION THANKFULLY RECEIVED.

The house in Belgrave Square remained closed for many months, whilst its master roamed from one fashionable continental resort to another, in search of what he called health—but which was merely another name for variety and amusement. Madeline was at first averse to this protracted absence; but she had excellent news of little Harry. Laurence was still in what she called “the sulks;” and every day weakened her hold more and more on her former ties, and bound her to her present condition. In the early twenties a girl is very adaptable, and it had come to this, that at times Miss West forgot that she had ever had other than this sunny butterfly existence; and, if her conscience occasionally made a claim on behalf of her child, she promptly told herself that he was well cared for, and that Lady Frederick Talboys sent all her children out to nurse until they were three years of age, and Harry was barely two. As for Laurence, he would come to his senses in time; and the idea of telling her father of her marriage she now put away in the lumber-room of her brain, and rarely looked at.

About Christmas Mr. and Miss West and suite arrived at Biarritz, put up at a large and fashionable hotel, and occupied the best rooms on the first floor. They found Biarritz charming, Madeline liked the sea, the rolling Atlantic breakers, the Basque tongue, and the bronzed semi-Spanish peasantry. Mr. West was charmed with the society, the golf links, and the Casino.

One day Mrs. Leach casually arrived at their hotel, with a number of basket-trunks and a maid, looking very handsome, and was enchanted to meet dearest Madeline and dear Mr. West. She had heard that they were at Pau, and was so surprised to discover them. Madeline was such a naughty girl about writing, such a hopelessly lazy correspondent.

To tell the truth, Miss West was secretly anxious to shake off the tenacious widow, and was purposely silent.

In less than a week the lady had resumed her sway over Madeline’s papa. Her soft manners, pathetic eyes, stately presence, and low, caressing voice, proved his undoing. He had almost forgotten the Honourable Mrs. Leach—and here, in three days, he was as much, or more, her slave as ever. So much for men’s vanity and women’s wiles. She flattered—he confided. It came to pass, as a matter of course, that the lady occupied a seat beside Madeline in the landau every afternoon. Her maid tripped down with her wraps and parasol precisely as if it were her mistress’s own carriage. Her mistress also occupied Miss West’s private sitting-room, received her friends in it, wrote, and worked, and read all the Wests’ papers and books, shared their table at meals in the salle à manger, and (but this was never known to Madeline) her little weekly account for room and board was always furnished to and settled by Madeline’s papa; a few whispered words on the balcony one night had arranged this trifling matter. The handsome widow was completely identified with the West family, and was included in all their invitations as well as their accounts. Every evening, after dinner, she and Mr. West sat aloof in a little alcove whilst he smoked cigarettes, or on the verandah whilst he smoked and sipped his coffee, and she amused him and cut up many of the gay and unsuspicious company for his delectation. She was also confidential respecting her own affairs. If she had told him their true position his few scanty locks would have stood on end. She was almost at the end of her wits, and he was her sole hope, her last resource. For years she had lived beyond her income—a small one. Her dressmaker’s bills would have staggered even him. She owed money in all directions; her creditors were pressing, her society friends were not pressing with invitations; her husband’s connections ignored her. But if she could establish herself in Mr. West’s heart and home, as his second wife, she would have before her a new and delightful career. And she had begun well! Certainly Madeline was irresponsive and cool, but always pleasant and polite. Why was Madeline changed? However, once she was Madeline’s mamma, Madeline would find a difference! Every night, as Mrs. Leach stepped into the lift, to be borne aloft to her own bower, she said to herself, “He will certainly propose to-morrow,” but alas! one evening these cheering presentiments were crushed.

The conversation had turned upon Madeline. She was a favourite subject with her father.

“She nursed me well and pulled me through that nasty illness last winter. I shall never forget her. One would have said she was accustomed to nursing—and nursing a man too, ha, ha! I should miss her terribly if she married.”

“But there is no prospect of that at present, is there?” asked his listener softly.

“No. She is too stand-off. She will ride and dance, and talk and laugh, but once a man’s attentions become marked, she freezes up! I’m afraid she is serious when she says she won’t marry. There’s Lord Tony hanging after her.”

“Oh, don’t you think he is very much épris with Miss Teale of New York?”

“Not he!” impatiently. “I dare say he and Madeline will settle it some day.”

“And then how lonely you will be, dear Mr. West! I know what it is like.”

“Yes, I suppose it will be a little dull, unless the young people will live with me.”

“Oh!” rather sharply, “they won’t do that!”

“If they don’t, I shall have to set up another housekeeper, to get some one to take pity on me and marry again,” and he looked significantly into Mrs. Leach’s unabashed eyes.