NOT MARRIED AFTER ALL.
“He has not awoke since, has he?” asked the anxious mother, as, fully
an hour later, she reappeared with a bundle and a basket. “No”--with a
sigh of relief--“I see he is sound,” laying down her load as she spoke.
“And now to begin at the very beginning, and to tell you everything,
Laurence,” opening the basket and producing a bottle. “Here is some
good port wine; I’ve carried it most carefully, so as not to shake it.
You must have a glass at once--that is to be the beginning.”
“Oh, Maddie, what extravagance! When you----”
“Hush! please to listen,” exhibiting as she spoke a bunch of grapes,
six fresh eggs, a jar of Bovril, and a packet of biscuits from her
seemingly inexhaustible store, and laying them on the table.
“Then you are _not_ going!” exclaimed her husband, in a tone of deep
disapproval.
“Oh yes, I am,” she answered promptly, now opening the bundle, and
shaking out a dress that she had pawned, and regarding it with an
expression that showed it was an old and favourite friend. “Here is an
A B C guide. I go to-night when I have left you comfortable, and baby
asleep. Mrs. Kane’s niece has promised to look after you to-morrow, and
to-morrow night I return, all being well.”
“Then they gave you a good price for the miniature and the medals.”
“Price!” she echoed indignantly. “They turned the miniature over and
over, and sneered at it, and said they had no sale for such like; but
they could not say that it wasn’t real gold and pearls, and they gave
me eighteen shillings, and said it was more than it was worth, and ten
shillings on the medals. Medals are a drug in the market.”
“Then how--where did you get money for your journey?” asked her
husband, in a tone of amazement bordering on impatience.
“See here!” holding up both her bare hands. Very pretty hands they
were, but now a little coarse from hard work. “Do you miss anything,
Laurence?” colouring guiltily.
“Yes, your--wedding-ring--and keeper,” after a moment’s pause--a pause
of incredulity.
“You won’t be angry with me, dear, will you?” she said coaxingly,
coming and kneeling beside him. “It makes no real difference, does it?
Please--please don’t be vexed; but I got a sovereign on them, and they
are the first things I shall redeem. You must have nourishing food,
even if I had to steal it; and I would steal for you!” she added,
passionately. “I shall only take a single ticket--third class. Mrs.
Harper will surely lend me a few pounds, and I will be able to leave
ten shillings for you to go on with.”
“How can I be angry with you, Maddie?” he replied. “It is all my
fault--the fault of my rashness, thoughtlessness, selfishness--that you
have had to do this, my poor child! Oh, that snowy night was a bad one
for you! I ought to have left you, and walked back.”
“Such nonsense!” cried his wife, whose spirits were rising. “I won’t
hear you say such things! It’s a long lane that has no turning. I
think--oh, I believe and pray--that I do see the end of ours! And
now there is a nice roast chicken for your dinner. I left it with
Mrs. Kane downstairs. She asked me if I had come in for a fortune? A
fortune, indeed! It was only three and three-pence, but I told her that
I believed that I _had_. Oh dear, oh dear, I hope my words will come
true!”
* * * * *
Madeline’s packing was represented by changing her dress; her
preparations were confined to brushing, rubbing, and inking her hat,
mending her gloves, which, like the typical landlady, “had seen better
days,” and to washing and getting up a pair of cuffs with her own hands.
“You look quite smart, Maddie,” said Laurence, as she completed her
toilet, and came and showed herself to him.
“Yes; I don’t look so very, _very_ poor, do I?”
“No-o,” rather dubiously. Then he added, with a smile, “No one who
looks at your face will think of your clothes; and, indeed, Maddie,
it is not fit that such a pretty girl as you are should be travelling
alone, and third class, such a long journey.”
“Rubbish! rubbish! rubbish!” she answered emphatically. “I’ll wear a
veil, if _that_ will please you; and, indeed, no one will notice me.
If they do, they will think I am some poor girl going to a situation.
You think every one must admire what you thought pretty, you stupid
Laurence; but I heard Mrs. Kane saying the other day that I’d grown
‘awfully plain.’ And it’s not my face Mrs. Harper will notice--you may
be certain of that!”
Ten minutes later she had kissed the sleeping baby, taken leave of
Laurence, given many whispered directions to Mrs. Kane’s niece, and a
whole half-sovereign from her little fund; and then, with a beating
heart, started on foot for a distant terminus. No, she would not take
even a twopenny fare in a ’bus; she must save every penny, and she
would have plenty of rest in the train. And so she had, of a sort, on
the hard, upright seat of a crowded third-class carriage for eight
mortal hours. There is not much repose in such a situation, nor much
sleep to be obtained; and the train roared along through the inky black
night, and tore through small stations with a shriek of contempt
that shook them to their foundations, and nearly shook the teeth of
the unhappy third-class passengers out of their heads. After a whole
night’s travelling of this uneasy description, Madeline arrived at
her destination--Riverside--and quickly alighted on the platform. One
trouble was spared her--luggage.
She went and washed her face and hands, arranged her hair, shook off
some of the dust in the waiting-room, invested fourpence in a bun and
cup of coffee, and felt herself sufficiently fortified to encounter
Mrs. Harper--but not Miss Selina. Another journey by rail, a short
walk, and she found herself once more on the familiar doorstep of
Harperton House, and rang timidly.
A strange maid (who knew not the delinquencies of Miss West) opened
the door, and was evidently surprised to behold such an early visitor.
She informed her that Mrs. Harper was not down yet, nor Miss Harper,
and showed her into the drawing-room, which was in process of being
dusted. Here she waited for some time, whilst a sound of hasty
footsteps and voices was very audible above her head. She looked around
the room, and felt as if she had only quitted it yesterday. And oh!
what a gap there was in her life between the last time she stood there,
listening to Miss Selina’s spiteful remonstrances, and now! But the
room was precisely the same. There was the best piano, on which she
had had many a music-lesson. There was Alice Burns’ big coloured-chalk
drawing, Amy Watson’s two water-colours; Florence Blewitt’s brass work,
and Isabella Jones’s photograph screen--all votive offerings to the
Harper family, and advertisements to pupils’ relatives who came to make
inquiries about the school.
Presently the door opened, and Miss Harper--if we may dare to say
so--burst into the room.
“Oh, Madeline!” she exclaimed, “so it’s you. She only said a young
lady. How more than thankful I am to see you!” shaking hands as
she spoke, and looking into her face with eager scrutiny. “You are
thin--very thin; but thin or fat, you are welcome back. Come up at once
to my mother’s room; she is dressing. She does not come down early now,
and she wants to see you” (here was an honour). “Come, the girls are
all in the schoolroom. The breakfast-bell will be rung in ten minutes,”
turning to lead the way. Then she paused for a moment, with the handle
in her hand. “You have heard about Selina?” she asked, with a red
spot on either cheek, and a spark in either eye. “What! Have you _not_
heard?” she added hurriedly.
Miss Selina! It was not of Miss Selina Madeline had come to hear; and
she shook her head and answered, “No; is she dead?”
“Dead! She’s married. She married nearly a year ago,” returned her
sister, impressively, “Mr. Murphy, the red-haired curate. She--she
behaved atrociously. Don’t mention her to my mother, nor ask about her,
on any account. We don’t speak,” flinging the door wide as she gasped
out the last sentence.
All the reply Madeline made was “Indeed!” But nevertheless she felt a
very lively satisfaction to hear that her old enemy was no longer an
inmate of Harperton, and had gone away, like herself, in disgrace.
“You will find my mother rather changed,” whispered Miss Harper, as
she rapidly preceded her upstairs. “She’s had a slight stroke. All the
troubles and annoyance about Selina were enough to kill her, and she is
not what she was. She never comes down till the afternoon; but take no
notice.”
“Madeline!” cried the old lady, as Madeline entered her room and beheld
her propped up in bed, in her best day cap. “This is too good to be
true! I scarcely expected it, though I have advertised every day in the
_Times_. Come here, my dear, and kiss me”--tendering a withered cheek.
The old lady’s mind was certainly affected, thought her late pupil.
That she who had been so ignominiously cast out should be thus welcomed
back, and with kisses, was scarcely credible, unless viewed from the
idea that Mrs. Harper had become imbecile in the meanwhile. But no, the
reason of this astonishing change from the frost of neglect to the sun
of welcome--affectionate welcome--was a very potent one indeed. It was
nothing less than the prospect of a large sum of money.
Since Madeline had been banished, nothing had gone well. Her place
had been taken by a governess who had actually required a salary,
as well as civility, and had been a great encumbrance and expense.
Then came Selina’s wicked tampering with her sister’s sweet-heart, a
heart-burning scandal, family linen sent to the public wash, and a
serious falling off in the school. Things were going badly. Every step
was down hill--one girl leaving after another, and there were many
vacant places at the long dinner-table.
At last came a letter--from Mr. West of all people! enclosing a
large draft on his bankers, and announcing his return a wealthy and
successful man. The draft was to pay for two years’ schooling, with
interest up to date; but for a whole year Miss West had been elsewhere!
How could they honestly claim these badly-wanted pounds? They had
banished the man’s daughter, and the money must be restored.
Viewed now--in a softer light, through a golden atmosphere--Madeline’s
deeds were excusable. The poor girl had been Selina’s victim, and
therefore more to be pitied than blamed. Madeline must be sought and,
if possible, discovered and reinstated as if there had been no hiatus,
as if nothing disagreeable had occurred. And we have seen the “state of
life” in which Madeline had been found.
“Letitia, do you go down now, and presently send up a nice breakfast
for two--two fresh eggs--whilst I have a talk with dear Madeline.”
Thus the old lady, who still held the reins of authority, although she
had lost the use of her right hand; and Letitia, having previously
rehearsed the whole “talk” with her mother, and fearing that “too many
cooks might spoil the broth,” departed with meek obedience.
“Take off your hat and jacket, my love, and make yourself at home.
I am sure you will not be surprised to hear--yes, put them on the
ottoman--that your father is alive and well, and returning an
_im_mensely”--dwelling lovingly on the word--“rich man.”
Madeline’s heart bounded into her mouth, her face became like flame. So
her presentiment had come true!
“Ah! I see you are surprised, darling: so were we when we got his
letter, a week ago. Here, bring me that case, the green one on the
little table, and I’ll read it to you at once--or you may read it
yourself if you like, Madeline.”
Madeline did as requested, picked out a foreign letter in a well-known
hand, and sat down to peruse it beside Mrs. Harper’s bed. That lady,
having assumed her spectacles for the nonce, scanned her late pupil’s
face with keen intentness.
This is what the letter said:--
“Royal Kangaroo Club,
“Collins Street, Melbourne.
“MY DEAR MRS. HARPER,
“After such a long silence, you will be surprised to see my writing,
but here I am. I am afraid Madeline has been rather uneasy about
me--and, indeed, no wonder. I met with some terrible losses in bank
shares two years ago: nearly the whole of my life’s earnings were
engulphed in an unparalleled financial catastrophe. The anxiety and
trouble all but killed me--threw me into a fever, from the effects
of which I was laid up for months--many months, and when I again put
my shoulder to the wheel I was determined not to write home until I
was as rich a man as ever. I knew that you, who had had the care of
Madeline since she was seven, would trust me, and everything would go
on as usual. I had always been such punctual pay, you would give me
time for once. I am now, I am glad to say, a wealthy man. Some lots
of land I bought years ago have turned up trumps--in short, gold. I
am not going to speculate again, but am returning home a millionaire,
and Maddie shall keep house in London, and hold up her head among the
best. Stray bits of news have drifted to my ears. I heard a foolish
story about some beggarly barrister or curate and her. A schoolgirl
wrote it to her brother; but I am certain it was only girls’
tittle-tattle. Surely you would never allow my _heiress_ to play the
fool! If she did, she knows very well that I would disown her. I am
a fond father in my way, and a good father, as _you_ can testify,
but I’ll have no pauper fortune-hunters, or puling love affairs. A
hint from you to Madeline, that at the least nonsense of _that_ sort
I marry again, and let her please herself, will be, at any rate, a
stitch in time. She has had a good education. She can earn her bread;
but I know it is not necessary to continue this subject. You are a
sensible woman; Madeline is a sensible girl, if she is my daughter.
And I have great views for her, very great views. I shall follow this
letter in about six weeks’ time, and will write again before I leave.
I shall come by the _Ophir_, Orient Line, and you and Maddie can meet
me in Plymouth. I enclose a draft on my agents for six hundred pounds,
five hundred for Maddie’s schooling and outfit for two years, and the
balance for pocket-money and a few new frocks, so that she may be
smart when her old daddie comes home.”
Madeline paused, and shook the letter. No, no draft fluttered out.
“I have banked it,” put in Mrs. Harper, precipitately, who had been
scrutinizing every change in the girl’s face. “It is quite safe.”
“And now I must wind up, hoping soon to see Madeline, and with love
to her and compliments to yourself and daughters, especially the
lively Miss Selina.
“Yours faithfully,
“ROBERT WEST.”
“Well, Madeline, tell me what you think of that?” demanded Mrs. Harper,
wiping her glasses.
“I--I--am very glad of course,” she returned, her brain and ideas
in a whirl; but now fully comprehending the cause of Mrs. Harper’s
blandishments and welcome.
“We are so sorry, love, that we were so hasty about Mr. Wynne. It
was entirely Selina’s doing, I do assure you. I am most thankful to
see--especially after your father’s letter--that you did _not_ marry
him after all!”
“Not marry him,” echoed the girl, colouring vividly. “What do you
mean?”
“I see you are not married by your hand,” pointing a long finger at
Madeline’s ringless member. “Is not that sufficient proof?” she asked
sharply.
Madeline was suddenly aware that she was at a crisis--a great moral
crisis--in her life, when she must take action at once, an action that
meant much. Her father’s letter, Mrs. Harper’s conclusion, her own
dire want, all prompted the quick decision made on the instant. She
would for the present temporise--at least till she had met her father,
told him her story in her own way, and accomplished a full pardon. To
declare _now_ that she was a wife would be ruin--ruin to her, death to
Laurence, for of course her father would cut her off with a shilling.
She was aware that he had very strong prejudices, a grotesque
adoration for rank and success, and a corresponding abhorrence of those
who were poor, needy, and obscure; also that he was a man of his word.
This she had gleaned out in Australia when but seven years of age.
They had lived in a splendid mansion in Toorak, the most fashionable
suburb of Melbourne, and an elderly reduced Englishwoman had been her
governess. But because she had permitted her to play with some children
whose father was in difficulties, who was socially ostracised, she had
been discharged at a week’s notice, and Madeline had been despatched
to England. Her father was peculiar--yes. In a second her mind was
resolved, and, with hands that shook as she folded up the crackling
foreign notepaper, she reassumed the character of Miss West!