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.