MRS. KANE BECOMES AFFECTIONATE.
Mrs. Harper would not hear of Madeline returning to London by night.
No, it was a most shocking idea, and not to be entertained. She must
remain until the next day at least, “and travel properly,” which
meant that Miss Harper herself conducted the heiress to Riverside,
and saw her off by the morning express, first class. It was in vain
that Madeline protested that such precautions were quite unnecessary.
She was anxious to save her fare, and return third; for, even with
such wealth as one hundred and eighty pounds, every shilling would
be required. But her voice was silenced. Miss Harper carried the day,
took her late pupil to the station, gave her into the charge of the
guard, and even went so far as to present her with a two-shilling
novel, to wile away the journey (an attention that she hoped would
bear fruit by-and-by). But Madeline did not need it; her own thoughts
were sufficient to absorb her whole attention as she travelled rapidly
homeward. She was sensible of some disquieting pangs when she thought
of Laurence. Would he be angry when he heard that his wife had once
more assumed her maiden name, and pretended that she was still Madeline
West?
No, no; he must forgive her, when there was so much at stake. Her hand
closed involuntarily on her purse, that precious purse which contained
the first payment for the fraud, she had been compelled to practise.
About five o’clock that evening Madeline’s quick foot was once more
heard ascending the stairs, and with hasty fingers she opened the
sitting-room door, and rushed into her husband’s presence. He was up
and dressed--(at all but the worst of times he would insist on dragging
himself out of bed and dressing)--seated at her table, laboriously
doing some copying, with slow and shaky fingers.
It should here be stated, in justice to Mrs. Harper, that she had
passed Madeline under the harrow of searching inquiries, and elicited
the intelligence that she made her livelihood by law copying, and she
was satisfied that it was a respectable employment.
“Ah!” exclaimed the astute dame, “I suppose Mr. Wynne put that bit of
work in your way, did he?” Fortunately for her new _rôle_, Madeline
could truthfully reply “No,” for it was not Laurence who had been the
means of procuring this employment, such as it was, but Mr. Jessop.
“You will give me your permanent address, Madeline,” said Mrs. Harper,
austerely. “That must be thoroughly understood.”
“But you have it already, Mrs. Harper.”
“Have you lodged there long?” she asked, feeling confident that no
well-known counsel at the bar could outdo her in crafty questions.
“Fourteen months,” said her pupil, rather shortly.
“Then you must have been pretty comfortable?”
To which Madeline evasively replied that she had been quite happy. (No
thanks to Mrs. Kane.)
And Mrs. Harper was satisfied. She had found out all she wished to
know. Madeline’s past was as clear as daylight now! _Was it?_
And now behold Madeline at home once more, flushed with excitement,
exhilarated by the change, by the money in her purse, and with her
bright eyes, bright colour, and new hat, making quite a cheerful and
brilliant appearance before the amazed and languid invalid.
He was looking very ill to-day. These close stifling rooms and
sleepless nights were gradually sapping his scanty stock of vitality.
“Baby is asleep,” she said, glancing eagerly into the cradle. “And now
I am going to tell you all about it,” taking off her hat and gloves,
and pushing aside her husband’s writing materials, filling him up a
glass of port, fetching a biscuit, and taking a seat opposite to him,
all within the space of three minutes.
“You have good news, Maddie, I see,” he remarked as he looked at her,
and noticed her condition of suppressed excitement, and her sparkling
eyes.
“Good?--news, yes; and money!” pulling out her purse and displaying
thick rolls of Bank of England notes, and some shining sovereigns.
“Oh, Laurence dear, I feel so happy, all but in one little corner
of my conscience, and I’m afraid you’ll be angry with me--about
something--that is the one drawback! I don’t know how to begin to tell
you--best begin with the worst. I’ve gone back to being Madeline West
once more; they don’t know that I am married.”
“Madeline!” he ejaculated sternly. “You are not in earnest.”
“Now, dear, don’t; don’t speak till you hear all. You know how I left,
how I travelled with the price of my rings. I arrived, was shown up
into Mrs. Harper’s own room--where, in old times, girls were sent for
to have bad news broken to them. She has had a stroke. Miss Selina is
married, and Mr. Murphy is gone. The school is going down. So when
Mrs. Harper had a letter from my father, enclosing five hundred pounds
for two years’ expenses, and one hundred for me for pocket-money, it
was a most welcome surprise, and they were anxious to find me, of
course”--pausing for a second to take breath. “Don’t interrupt me,
_yet_,” she pleaded, with outstretched hands. “Mrs. Harper gave me
papa’s letter to read. He had lost money, he had been ill for a long
time, he had no wish to write until he was again a rich man. Now he is
a millionaire, and is coming home immediately, expecting to find me
still at the Harpers’, and still Miss West. I am to be a great heiress.
I am to keep his house; and, Laurence dear, he had heard a hint of
_you_. I know it was that detestable gossip, Maggie Wilkinson. She had
a cousin in an office in Melbourne, and used to write him volumes. And,
oh, he says dreadful things--I mean my father--if I marry a poor man,
as he has such--such--views. That was the word; and if I disappoint
him, I am to be turned from his door penniless, to earn my own bread!”
“As you are doing now,” observed her listener bitterly.
“Yes!” with a gesture of despair; “but what is it--for you and me and
baby--what are nine shillings a week? Then Mrs. Harper exclaimed, with
great relief, ‘I see you are not married!’ pointing to my hand; and it
all came into my mind like a flash. I did not say I was not married,
I uttered no actual untruth; but I allowed her to think so. The
temptation was too great; there was the wealth for the taking--money
that would bring you health. I said I would steal for you, Laurence;
but it was not stealing, it was, in a sense, my own money, intended for
my use. Are you very angry with me for what I have done, dear?” she
wound up rather timidly.
“No, Madeline. I see you could not help yourself, poor child, with
starvation staring you in the face, and a sick husband and infant to
support! Your father has views for you, has he? I wonder how this
view”--indicating himself and the cradle--“would strike him. As far as
I am concerned, it won’t be for long, and your father will forgive you;
but the child Maddie--on his account your marriage----”
“Laurence!” she almost screamed, “don’t! Do you think the child would
make up for you? Am I not doing all this for _you_--acting a part,
clothing myself in deceit, for you--only for _you_? Do not tell me that
it is all to go for nothing! If I thought that, I would give it up at
once. My sole object is to gain time, and money, until you are yourself
once more, and able to earn our living at your profession. Then, having
done all to smooth the way, I shall confess my marriage to my father.
If he renounces me, I shall still have you, and you will have me.
But, without this money to go on with, to get the best advice, plenty
of nourishment, and change of air, I don’t know what I should do?” And
she surveyed him with a pair of truly tragic eyes. “It has come to me
like a reprieve to a condemned criminal. Say, Laurence, that I have
done right. Oh, please, say it!” putting out her hands, with a pretty
begging gesture.
“No, dearest Maddie, I cannot say that; but I will say that, under the
circumstances, it was a great, an almost irresistible temptation.”
“Then, at least, say you are not angry with me.”
“I can say no to that from the bottom of my heart. How can I be angry,
when I myself am the cause--when it has all been done for _me_? The
only thing is, that there maybe difficulties later on,” looking into
the future with his practical lawyer’s eye. “There may be difficulties
and a desperate entanglement in store for you, my pretty, reckless
Maddie. You know the lines--
“‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When once we practise to deceive.’”
“At any rate, I shall make the best of _my_ web,” said his wife,
springing up. “I am going to take Mr. Jessop into my confidence.”
“Are you? Well, I suppose it will be best.”
“Yes, of course it will; I am going to write to him now. The very first
doctor in London is to come and see you; and, as soon as you can be
moved, you go into the country--that I insist upon.”
“I go into the country, do I?” with a grim smile. He was saying to
himself, as he looked at her eager anxious face, that the only country
he would ever go into now would be down to the old burying-place of the
Wynne family. At least his relations could not refuse him admission
there, or close that door--the door of the family vault--in his face.
And when he was at rest, under the walls of the old grey church,
Madeline, as a widow, would be as much her father’s heiress and
housekeeper as if she had never been a wife. In fact, her days of
misfortune would enhance her domestic worth, at least she had learnt
the value of money! As for himself, he was reduced to such a low ebb,
mentally and physically, that death would be a release. To return to
life--with a capital L--and to take up his heavy load, and plod on and
on like an omnibus horse, was not an alluring prospect. Madeline’s
future was safe, and he would rather be under the green sod, with all
the dead and gone Wynnes--when, after life’s fitful fever, they slept
well.
It will be seen from this that Mr. Wynne was in a bad way--too weak,
too hopeless, even to care to struggle back to health. But Madeline had
now sufficient energy for two. Hope pervaded her young veins, decision
and prompt action were its outcome, and money was power.
In the first place, she scribbled a hasty note to Mr. Jessop, and
begged him to call on them that evening without fail. This she
despatched by a little boy, paying a precious sixpence to save time.
Then she descended like a whirlwind upon Mrs. Kane, and begged to
see her for a moment alone. She had made a bold resolve--there was
no alternative. She was about to take Mrs. Kane--the insolent, the
red-faced, the incredulous--into her confidence. She had Hobson’s
choice, and, in fact, was at her wits’ end. Supposing inquiries were
made, supposing Mrs. Harper wrote and asked awkward questions, and who
so ready to answer them--unless previously prepared, previously bribed,
previously flattered, by being let into the secret--as Mrs. Kane?
“Mrs. Kane,” said Madeline, knocking at that lady’s door, the door of
her own sanctum, “I have something to say to you in private.”
“Bless me, Mrs. Wynne, how white your face is!” exclaimed the other
tartly, having been just about to sit down to her supper--tripe and
bottled stout. “Whatever is the matter _now_? Not the bailiffs--that I
do hope.”
“No, no, no; quite the contrary.” Then, struck by a happy thought, “How
much do we owe you, Mrs. Kane?”
“Ah, owe me!” rather staggered. “Let’s see, thirteen weeks, at ten
shillings, is six pounds ten; then the coal----Here,” making a raid
on a rickety writing-table, “I have it all down,” searching among
some papers. “Yes, here it is. Coal, one pound one, kindling wood,
matches, postage on a parcel--total, eight pounds, thirteen and
sevenpence-halfpenny. Are you going to settle it?” she asked briskly.
“Yes, I am,” replied Madeline, now drawing out her full, her
overflowing purse. What courage, what confidence were conferred by the
very feel of its contents! Mrs. Kane gazed at it with eyes as distended
as those of a bull frog, and with her mouth half-open. “A ten-pound
note, Mrs. Kane.” And Mrs. Wynne tendered one as she spoke.
“So I see,” in a milder key. “I’ll get you change, and, though I says
it as shouldn’t, it’s not everybody, you know yourself, who would
have----”
“Yes, quite true, I know all that already, thank you, Mrs. Kane. Never
mind the change just now, it can go towards the milk bill. What I
wanted to speak to you about is to tell you a family secret--which
concerns me.”
“A family secret! Laws, Mrs. Wynne!” suddenly seating herself with
a plunge, and looking at her lodger with a countenance of gratified
anticipation, “whatever can it be?”
“Promise, on your solemn word of honour, not to tell any one.”
“Oh, I’m as safe as a church; no one will get anything out of
me”--mentally resolving to tell her niece and husband without any
churlish delay--“unless it’s something not on the square.”
“It is quite on the square; you need not fear. Once I was a Miss West.”
“So you told me,” nodding her head.
“I was at school near Riverside for a good many years. My father is an
Australian merchant--very rich.”
“Oh, indeed!” in a comfortable tone.
“But for two years he had not been heard of, we thought that he was
dead, and I became a teacher at school. Mr. Wynne saw me there, and
paid me attention, which displeased Mrs. Harper very much. I was sent
away, and we were married. We have been here ever since.”
“So you have,” agreed Mrs. Kane, as much as to say, “And it’s highly to
your credit!”
“Well, now my father has written at last; he is coming home, immensely
rich. He has not heard of my marriage.”
“Laws, you don’t say so!” in a tone of admiration and astonishment.
“No one has heard of it, you see. I had no friends. And if my father
knew that I had married a poor man, he would be dreadfully angry--at
least at first. I went down to Mrs. Harper’s; she showed me his letter.
She thinks I am not married, for,” holding up her bare left hand, “I
pawned my rings to pay my railway fare.”
“Oh, my goodness! Did you really, now?”
“And she took it for granted that I was still Miss West. I confessed
nothing. I told her I had lived here for fourteen months, that I worked
at law stationery, and was very poor, and she was apparently satisfied;
but, all the same, I firmly believe she will write and ask you all
about me. Neither she nor my father must know of my marriage--_yet_.
And now, are you quite prepared? I am Miss West, you know, who has
lived with you since last January year. You understand, Mrs. Kane?”
“Oh yes!” with an expressive wink. “A nice, quiet, respectable young
lady--never going nowhere, keeping no company, and I only wishes I had
a dozen like her. I’ll give it her all pat, you be quite certain,” said
her landlady, rubbing her bare fat arms with the liveliest delight at
her own _rôle_ in the piece. “But how about Mr. Wynne and the baby?”
she asked slyly.
“You need not mention them. It will be all right later on, when I see
my father and prepare him, you know. But now I am obliged to keep him
in the dark. Mrs. Harper would not have given me my money, had she
known. It’s only for a short time that I am forced to resume my old
name, and I assure you, Mrs. Kane, that it’s not very pleasant.”
“Ay, well now, I think it’s rather a joke--something like a play at the
Adelphi, where in the end the father comes in and blesses the young
couple, and they all live together, happy as sand-boys, ever after.
That will be your case, you’ll see!” emphatically.
“I hope so, but I doubt it,” returned her lodger. “I will be content
if my husband recovers his health. Money is nothing in comparison to
health.”
“Ay, may be so; but money is a great comfort all the same,” said Mrs.
Kane, squeezing the note affectionately in her hand, and wondering how
many more of the same quality were in Mrs. Wynne’s purse--“a great
comfort!”
“Well then, now you know all, Mrs. Kane,” said the other, rising, “I
can depend on you? You will be our friend in this matter, and, believe
me, you will be no loser.”
“Certainly you can’t say fairer nor that, can you, ma’am?--though,
as far as I’m concerned, I’m always delighted to oblige a lady for
nothing, and I always fancied you from the first time I saw you in the
hall, and you knocked over that pot of musk, and so Maria will tell
you. As for the secret, wild horses would not tear it from me; and
I’m that interested in you, as I couldn’t express to you, and allus
was--you ask Maria--just as if you was my own daughter. I can’t say
fairer nor that, can I?”
And opening the door with a wide flourish, she waved Madeline through,
who, rather staggered by this unexpected compliment, passed quickly
into the lobby, and with a farewell nod, hurried back to her family
in the upper regions, and set about preparing tea. She also made
preparations for the expected visit of their chief counsellor, Mr.
Henry Jessop.