“POVERTY COMES IN AT THE DOOR.”
In a very short time Madeline West was Madeline Wynne. She was married
at a little old church in the City, with no other witnesses than the
verger and the clerk; and Mr. and Mrs. Wynne spent a week in Paris ere
they set up housekeeping, in modest lodgings not far from the Temple,
and from which, by leaning well out of the drawing-room window, and
nearly dislocating your neck, you could obtain a glimpse of the Thames
Embankment.
The good old days, when Traddles and Sophy lived in chambers, and
entertained half a dozen of “the dear girls,” were no more. Mr. Wynne
was obliged to set up his little tent outside the venerable precincts,
in the second floor front of Solferino Place. To Madeline it was a
palace, because it was her very own. Here she might poke the fire,
alter the arrangement of the furniture, pile on coals, order tea at any
time, and go out and come in as she pleased. She could scarcely realize
such liberty! Neither could she realize her wedding-ring, and she
frequently stared for a moment in doubt when she heard herself called
“Mrs. Wynne.”
Laurence was not so poor as she imagined, for he hired a piano, bought
her songs, flowers, and--oh! joy--three such pretty new dresses; he
took her to the theatres, for walks in the parks (when he had time),
he showed her most of the sights of London--St. Paul’s, Westminster
Abbey, the National Gallery, and the Tower.
He was even extravagant in one line. He laid out for her a reckless
amount of shillings and half-crowns on literary papers, magazines, and
books. Laurence was fond of reading; she was not, and she little knew
how she startled him when she exclaimed, “Besides all the other hateful
things you have delivered me from, Laurence, you have delivered me from
_books_! I never wish to open one again!”
Now Laurence had been looking forward to introducing his pretty
Madeline to all the great masters in English literature, to hearing
her fresh comments, to sharing her raptures, to comparing first
impressions, favourite pieces, favourite characters; in short, to
opening for this girl of eighteen the portals of a new world. Alas!
it soon became evident that Madeline had an absolute lack of literary
taste. She had a taste for music, for flowers; a marvellous taste in
colours, and in dress; but for reading, as he understood it, not an
atom. (At first he had had visions of reading her some sketches and
articles of his own, but soon changed his mind, and kept his MS. in his
writing-desk.) He read aloud well, and selected, as he believed, gems;
but, unfortunately, Mrs. Wynne preferred paste!
Lamb’s essays were “quite too awfully dry.” Wordsworth was ten times
worse--she could hardly stifle her yawns. And even when he was reading
“Silas Marner,” and, as he considered, George Eliot’s masterpiece,
he noticed that Madeline was shyly perusing the advertisements in a
ladies’ newspaper. She looked so nonplussed and unhappy if he paused
and suddenly asked her, “If that was not fine? and how such and such a
passage struck her?”
At length he relinquished his efforts. It was time, when Madeline,
with a pretty pout, said, “My dear Laurence, I might as well be at
school; you are just talking like Mr. Falk, our professor of English
literature. Such an ugly little mummy.”
“And to whom you never listened?”
“Not I; and I never could remember names, periods, or dates. You must
make the best of me. In some ways you will find that I am hopelessly
stupid.”
In spite of these tiresome readings, Madeline was thoroughly happy;
there was not one single drawback, not one little cloud on her sky,
if we except an occasionally heavy magazine article to which she
was obliged to lend her ears. And Laurence was happy too. It was
delightful to come home those dark, wet nights, and find a kiss, a
blazing fire, and his pretty Madeline awaiting him. She was always
smiling, always so ready to see the comic side of everything, a
veritable sunbeam in that drawing-room.
“Who would be a bachelor?” he asked himself contemptuously, as he
watched her flitting to and fro after dinner, pulling up his armchair
and filling his pipe. If he had one little _arrière pensée_, it was
this, that she would not _always_ give him mutton chops, and a wish
that her ideas of a _menu_ were a little more expansive.
Nevertheless he was perfectly content. He had an incentive to work
hard now, and he did work. He was getting known in a small way. He
had the gift of oratory, of what is known as legal tact, a handsome
presence, and the power--given to so few--of swaying men’s minds with
his eloquence, as the flame of a candle in the wind. But, then, he was
only twenty-eight--a mere boy in the eyes of the ancient profession,
where a man begins to make a start about fifty. Still Laurence Wynne
had his foot on the lower rung of the ladder. More than one shrewd
solicitor had noted him. His luck had turned; his marriage had brought
him good fortune, though it had scared away all his relations, and he
had completely dropped out of society.
But this fool’s Paradise was not to last--it never does. The angel that
opened the gate, and drove the foolish pair out into the everyday,
hard, stony world was typhoid fever.
The hot summer succeeding their marriage was a trying one, and in
the sultry September days typhoid fever laid hold on many victims,
among others on the hard-working young barrister--seized him with a
death-like grip, flung him on a sick bed, and kept him there for months.
The fever was so difficult to shake off, and it had brought so many
other ills in its train. Finances were low--as they are sure to be
when the bread-winner is idle. Doctors’ bills and chemists’ bills were
mounting up, as well as the butcher’s and baker’s, not to speak of the
landlady’s little account.
All the burden now lay upon one pair of young shoulders--Madeline’s;
and, to quote a homely but expressive phrase, she absolutely did not
know where to turn. She had neither money nor friends. Her husband had
no capital; his slender fortune had been invested in his education and
profession. And as to his friends and his distant connections, they
had disowned him. When they had heard of what they were good enough to
call “his low marriage with a teacher in a school,” they had washed
their hands of him with wonderful unanimity. Society had lost sight of
him for months; Mr. and Mrs. Wynne had no acquaintances. Poor Madeline
was in terrible straits, but her courage rose with the occasion; she
was brave and energetic, and did not sit down with her hands before her
and cry.
A schoolfellow of her husband’s (another young barrister) came to see
her and him, and gave help in the shape of advice, which for once was
valuable. They moved to the top story--the attics. (That was a step
of which their landlady highly approved.) And he procured some law
copying for Madeline--who wrote a clear, neat hand--which brought in a
few shillings, and kept the actual wolf from the door. He sent fish,
grapes, and other little delicacies to the invalid, and was in truth
that _rara avis_--a friend in need.
He considered that Wynne had behaved like a madman in marrying on
nothing; but certainly the girl was an immense temptation--so young,
so pretty--such eyes he had never seen--so unsophisticated and fresh,
and yet possessing excellent sense and an elastic and dauntless spirit.
Here for once was an instance in which poverty had not thrust love
out of the window. Strange, but true, their reverses had only served
to draw the Wynnes more closely together. They afforded a refreshing
study to Mr. Jessop, who was a cynic and a philosopher in a small way,
and who sneered and snarled and marvelled. Things had not even come to
the worst with these unfortunate people, not until a third was added
to the establishment in the shape of a Master Wynne, who puckered up
his wrinkled red face, thrust his creasy fists into his eyes, and
made hideous grimaces at the world in which he found himself--and in
which, to tell the truth, he was not particularly wanted, except by his
mother, to whom he was not only welcome, but, in her partial eyes, a
little household god!
His father, who was slowly recovering--an emaciated spectre of what
he had been--was dubious with regard to the striking resemblance to
himself, and frequently wondered in his inmost soul, as to what was
to be the future of his son and heir? How was he to be fed, clothed,
and educated? Dismal echoes answered, “How?” for the Wynnes were now
desperately poor.
I mean by this, that Mr. Wynne’s watch had long been ticketed in a
pawnbroker’s window, that Madeline’s one little brooch had gone the
same way; also--oh, breathe it not!--her best gown and hat; also Mr.
Wynne’s top coat and evening dress clothes; that the invalid alone
tasted meat--and in scanty portions--Madeline telling many clever fibs
with regard to her own dinner. Her inexhaustible spirits and vivacity
seemed to sustain her--that, and a little bread and tea.
The one person who was well-to-do was the baby. He was clothed in a
beautiful cloak and hood--Mr. Jessop’s gifts--purchased, with many
blushes, by that keen-eyed, close-shaven gentleman, and presented with
pride to his godson and namesake. More than once Madeline’s mental eye
had seen these sumptuous garments smuggled away to the pawnbroker’s
round the corner, but she fought hard with the idea, and had sternly
kept it at bay--as yet. Their circumstances were, indeed, all but
desperate, when one evening Mr. Jessop came thundering up the stairs,
newspaper in hand, and panted out, as he threw himself into the nearest
chair and took off his hat--
“I say, Mrs. Wynne, what was your name before you were married?”
“My name,” she echoed, looking blankly at him, for she was trying to
keep the baby quiet and to do some copying simultaneously--vain and
exasperating task--“was West--Madeline West.”
“Ah! I thought so!” he cried triumphantly, clearing his throat and
unfolding his paper with a flourish.
“Then just listen to this:--‘MADELINE WEST.--If this should meet the
eye of Madeline Sidney West, she is earnestly implored to communicate
with Mrs. H. of H. House, at once, when she will hear of something
greatly to her advantage.’ Now what do you think of that?” he demanded
of his friend, who, drawn up near a handful of cinders, had been poring
over a law book. “Looks like a legacy, doesn’t it?”
“Too good to be true, I’m afraid. Eh, Madeline?”
Madeline turned her face alternately on the two men. A faint colour had
invaded her thin, white cheeks, and her eyes brightened as she said--
“There is no harm in answering the notice; it may mean something.”
“Why, of course it does,” cried Mr. Jessop, emphatically. “Get a pen,
give me the infant, and write a line now, and I’ll post it.”
And Madeline accordingly sat down and wrote to Mrs. Harper on the spot,
whilst her companions watched her in silence.
“DEAR MRS. HARPER,
“I have seen your notice in the _Times_ of to-day. My address is--2,
Solferino Place, Westminster.
“Yours truly,
“M. W.”
She was so accustomed to sign merely her initials, and was so flurried
between anticipation, anxiety, excitement, and the screams of the baby,
that she never had the presence of mind to write her full name, and
on this slight omission, this one little cog, turned a most important
factor in her future career.