CHANGE OF AIR AND SCENE.
Mr. Jessop duly arrived, and found, to his amazement, that his fish
and fruit had been forestalled; and there were other and yet greater
surprises in store for him.
He listened to Madeline’s plainly told tale, with his glass rigidly
screwed into his eye, his mouth pinched up as if he had an unusually
intricate “case” under his consideration.
He never once interrupted her, until she brought her recital to an end,
and she, in the heat and haste of her narrative, had permitted him to
know more of their poverty than he had dreamt of.
The Wynnes were as proud as they were poor; the extremity of their
straits was kept for their own exclusive experience. Mr. Jessop gave
an involuntary little gasp as he listened to the revelation about the
pawnbroker, the history of the miniature, and medals, and rings.
“By the way, I am going to redeem them the first thing to-morrow!” said
Madeline hurriedly.
“No, no, no, my dear Mrs. Wynne; such places for you are simply out
of the question. I will go,” protested Mr. Jessop, who had never been
inside such an institution in his life.
“No, certainly not; they know me quite well at Cohen’s, and you are a
stranger. I don’t mind one bit, as it will be for the last time; and
why should it be more out of the question _now_, than yesterday? Does
money make such a difference in a few hours?” (Money sometimes makes a
difference in a few minutes.)
* * * * *
On the whole, Mr. Jessop approved. The scheme was rash, romantic,
risky; but it was the only plan he could see for the present.
Mrs. Wynne must take her father in hand, and talk him over. “He did not
think she would have much trouble,” he added consolingly, as he looked
at her pretty, animated face; and he told himself that the old fellow
must have indeed a rocky heart if he could resist that. And now for
business, for action, for a council of war.
In a quarter of an hour it was all settled, so unanimous were Madeline
and Mr. Jessop.
A great doctor, whose speciality was low fever, was to be summoned the
next morning. If he consented, Mr. Jessop was to come in the afternoon
with a very, very easy brougham, and take the invalid at once to
Waterloo station, and by rail and carriage to a farm house that he knew
of, about fifty miles from London, where there was pure air, pure milk,
and every incentive to health. The baby and Madeline were to follow
the next day, after everything had been packed up and stored with Mrs.
Kane, who was now amenable to anything, and amiable to imbecility.
The prescribed journey did take place by luxurious and easy stages,
and actually the next night Mr. Wynne passed under the red-tiled
roof of the farm in Hampshire. He was worn out by fatigue, and slept
well--slept till the crowing of the cocks and the lowing of the cows
had announced, long previously, that the day was commenced for
them. He sat in a lattice-paned sitting-room, looking into a sunny
old-fashioned garden (filled in summer with hollyhocks, sunflowers,
roses, and lavender, and many sweet-scented flowers well beloved of
bees), and felt better already, and made an excellent early dinner,
although his portly hostess declared, as she carried the dishes into
the kitchen, “that the poor sick gentleman--and ay, deary me, he do
look bad--had no more appetite than a canary!”
The sick gentleman’s wife and baby appeared on the scene in the course
of the afternoon, “a rare tall, pretty young lady she were,” quoth the
farm folk. A country girl took charge of the infant, who, as long as he
had plenty of milk in his bottle, and that bottle in his clutch, was
fairly peaceable and contented with things in general; and was much
taken with Mrs. Holt’s cap frills, with her bright tin dishes on the
kitchen shelves, and with various other new and strange objects.
Madeline was thankful to get into the peaceful country, with its
placid green fields and budding hedges; to live in Farmer Holt’s old
red-roofed house, with the clipped yew trees in the sunny garden, and
the big pool at the foot of it overshadowed by elder trees. Thankful
to enjoy this haven of rest, away from murky London, with its roar of
hurrying existence and deafening street traffic that never seemed to
cease, night or day, in the neighbourhood of Solferino Place.
Here the lusty crowing of rival cocks, the lowing of cows, the noise
of the churn were the only sounds that broke a silence that was as
impressive as it was refreshing. All things have an end. Madeline’s
three weeks’ leave soon came to a conclusion; and she most reluctantly
tore herself away from the farm, the evening before she was due at
Harperton. How happy she was here! Why must she go?
Laurence was better, a great deal better. He walked in the garden,
leaning on her arm at first, then in the lanes with no support but his
stick. He was more hopeful, more like his former self--he was actually
engaged in tying flies for Farmer Holt, as Madeline watched him
wistfully, with her chin on her hand. She loved the farm itself--the
farmer’s wife (kind Mrs. Holt, with a heart to match her ample person).
The sweet little chickens, and ducks, and calves, and foals, were all
delightful to Madeline, who, active as ever, had helped to feed the
former, learned to make butter, to make griddle-cakes, to milk, and
was on foot from six in the morning until nine o’clock at night, and
had recovered the look of youth and well-being which had so long been
missing from her appearance.
The farmer himself was to drive her to the station in his dog-cart,
and she and Laurence strolled down the lane together to say a few last
words ere they parted--for how long?
Laurence was hopeful now, and Madeline was tearfully despondent. He
was recovering, and felt more self-reliance every day. He would soon,
please God, be back at work.
“I don’t know what has come over me, Laurence,” said his wife, as
they came to the gate and a full stop. “I feel so low, so depressed,
something tells me that I shall not see you again for _ages_,” her eyes
filling with tears. “And I feel so nervous about meeting papa,” and
her lips quivered as she spoke.
“Nonsense, Maddie! you must never meet trouble half way. Your father
cannot but be pleased with you, and when you tell him about me----”
“Oh, but I won’t, I dare not at first,” she interrupted hastily. “It
all comes back to me now. The days in that big house in Toorak, and how
I used to be afraid when I heard his voice in the entrance-hall--his
voice when he was angry. I used to run away and hide under a bed!”
“Nevertheless you must tell him, all the same; you are not a child now.
And when you point out to him that his silence for two years and a half
left you to a certain extent your own mistress, and that your unlucky
marriage was the result of the reins being thrown on your neck----”
“Now, Laurence!” putting her hand on his arm, “you know I won’t listen
to that; and if the worst comes to the worst, I can run away _again_!”
“So you can; and I think in another fortnight I shall be fit for--for
harness. Jessop says----”
“If Mr. Jessop say anything so wicked, he and I will quarrel!”
exclaimed Madeline indignantly. “You are not to do anything for three
months; there is plenty of money left yet.”
“Yes; but, Maddie,” producing some notes, “you know you can’t appear
before your father like that,” pointing to her dress. “You will need a
couple of decent gowns; and I don’t think much of that hat. You must
take forty pounds, without any nonsense, you know.”
“No, I won’t,” pushing it away impatiently. “I don’t require it.”
“But you do, and must take it, and do as I desire you--goodness knows
it’s little enough! Promise me to spend every farthing on yourself.
You ought to be respectably dressed when you meet your father. Where
is your common sense? And naturally he will ask--Where is the hundred
pounds he gave you for new frocks? Remember, Maddie, if he is _very_
angry, you can always come back to me”--kissing her. “And now that I am
not so down on my luck, I feel anxious to work for you, and the sooner
the better; and the sooner you return the better. Here is Holt,” as the
farmer, driving a slashing long-tailed colt, came quickly round the
corner into view. “He is driving that crazy four-year-old! I hope he
will take care of you. Mind you leave her there safely, farmer,” as his
nimble wife climbed up into the lofty dog-cart. “Good-bye, Maddie; be
sure you write to-morrow.” Stepping aside as they dashed through the
gate, carried forward by the impatient chestnut.
Madeline looked back, and waved her handkerchief. Yes, he was still
standing gazing after them, even when they had gone quite a distance;
finally she applied the handkerchief to her eyes.
“Now, don’t take on so, ma’am,” murmured the farmer, his eyes fixed
on the colt’s quivering ears. “We’ll take good care of him! He is a
real nice young gentleman; and as to baby, I don’t see how the missus
will ever part with him. You cheer up! Ain’t you a-going to meet your
father?”
“Yes, Mr. Holt,” she faltered; “but I may as well tell you that he has
not seen me for more than twelve years. He--I--we thought he was dead.
He does not know that I am married!”
“Oh, great gooseberries!” ejaculated her listener emphatically. “What a
taking he’ll be in!”
“No, and he is not to know just yet. I am Miss West, not Mrs. Wynne,
until I have paved the way. I’ve told your wife all about it; she
knows.”
“I don’t see what your father can have to say agin Mr. Wynne?” said
Holt stoutly. “He is a gentleman. The king himself is no more.”
“Ah, yes; but he has no money,” sighed Madeline.
“Maybe he has brains; and them does just as well. Don’t let your father
come between you--you know the Bible says, ‘As----’”
“Mr. Holt!” she exclaimed, flushing indignantly, “do you think I
would ever desert Laurence? No, not for fifty fathers. No, not if my
father came all the way from London on his knees, would I ever give up
Laurence and baby, or forget them for one single hour!”
“Nay, I’m sure you wouldn’t, excuse me, ma’am. But, you see, your
father’s very rich, and you are just wonderful pretty, and when the
old gent--meaning no offence--has you living in a kind of palace,
with servants, and carriages and ’osses, and tricked out in dress and
jewels, and every one pushing and jostling one another to tell you
what a grand and beautiful lady you be--why, maybe, _then_ you won’t
be so keen for coming back; you know it would be only human nature--at
least,” coolly correcting himself--“woman’s natur.”
“Well, Mr. Holt,” she returned rather stiffly, “time will tell. I
cannot say more than that,” unintentionally quoting from Mrs. Kane. “I
know myself that I shall come back, and soon. Remember,” stopping when
she had jumped down, and holding his bony hand tightly in both of hers,
“remember,” she repeated, looking up into his honest rugged face, with
dim and wistful eyes, “I leave them in your charge. Don’t let Laurence
overtire himself--don’t let him walk too far. Don’t let the baby have a
halfpenny to play with again--or the toasting-fork. And, oh, I must go!
Remember, above all, that I shall soon return.”
Exit Miss West, running to take her ticket and claim her luggage; and
Farmer Holt, fearing the effect of the train, for the first time, on
his rampant colt, prudently turned his head back towards the cool green
lanes without any dangerous delay.