“GONE OFF IN HER WHITE SHOES!”
In due time all preparations were completed for the reception of Mr.
and Miss West’s guests. The grand staircase was lined with palm-trees
and immense tropical ferns, and lights were cunningly arranged amid the
dusky foliage; a fountain of scent played at the head of this splendid
and unique approach, and here stood the host and hostess side by side.
Mr. West was adorned in a plain evening suit--(would, oh! would that
he might have decked himself with chains and orders!)--and a perennial
smile. His daughter was arrayed in a French gown of white satin and
white chiffon, powdered with silver. Diamonds shone on her bodice, her
neck, and in her hair. She required no such adjuncts to set off her
appearance, but there they were! Although tired and fagged, she looked
as superior to most of her lady guests--who were chiefly of average
everyday prettiness--as a Eucharist lily to a single dahlia. Her colour
and eyes were exceptionally bright, for she was flushed by fatigue,
excitement, and anxiety.
No news was good news, she told herself. The last telegram was
reassuring. There was no need to fret and worry. Half the miseries
in the world are those that have never happened! So she cast doubt
and care behind her as she took her place in the state quadrille and
prepared to abandon herself to the occasion. No one in their senses
would suspect for a moment that the beautiful, brilliant Miss West had
a care on her mind, much less that her heart was aching with suspense
with regard to her sick child.
She indeed lulled her fears to sleep, and played the part of hostess
to perfection--not dancing over much, as became the lady of the house,
till quite late in the evening, or rather early in the morning, and
having a word--the right word--and a smile for everybody.
* * * * *
The ball went off without a single drawback. The most fastidious young
men avowed they had been “well done;” the most critical chaperones
could detect no shortcomings in manners, partners, or refreshments.
People enjoyed themselves; there was no after-supper exodus; the men
and maidens found that they were not bored, and changed their minds
about “going on.”
Yes, distinguished guests remained unusually late. The supper, floor,
and arrangements were faultless; and Mr. West was informed by one or
two important folk “that such an entertainment reminded them of the
Arabian Nights for its magnificence. It was a ball of balls.”
The little speculator was almost beside himself with pride and
self-satisfaction. Truly those many cheques that had to be drawn were
already redeemed. He must, of course, pay for his whistle; but it was a
pretty whistle, and worth its price.
He unfolded his feelings to his daughter as they stood alone in the big
ballroom, after the last guest had taken leave and the carriages were
rapidly rolling from the door. His sharp little eyes shone, his mouth
twitched, his hand actually shook, not with champagne, but triumph.
“You did it splendidly, Maddie. If you were a duchess you could not
have hit it off better! I often wonder where you get your manners and
air and way of saying things. Your mother was something of the same
style, too. She had real blue blood in her veins; but she was not so
sparkling as you are, though very vivacious. I must say those Miss
Harpers did their duty by you. Well,” looking round, “it’s all over.
They are putting out the candles, and there’s broad daylight outside.
It’s been a success--a triumph! I wish some of my old chums had seen
it. Bless me, how they would stare! A trifle better than Colonial
dances. And wouldn’t they like to get hold of this in the Sydney
_Bulletin_. There’s a personal paper for you! I feel a bit giddy. I
expect I shall be knocked up to-morrow--I mean to-day. Don’t you rise
before dinner-time. There’s the sun streaming in. Get away to your bed!”
Madeline had listened to this pæan of triumphant complacency without
any re-remark, merely opening her mouth to yawn, and yawn, and yawn.
She was very tired; and now that the stir and whirl and excitement
was over, felt ready to collapse from sheer fatigue. She, therefore,
readily obeyed her parent’s behest, and, kissing him on his wrinkled
cheek, walked off to her own room.
Josephine, half asleep, was sitting up for her, the wax candles were
guttering in their sockets, the electric light was struggling at the
shutters with the sun.
“Oh, mademoiselle!” said the maid, rubbing her eyes, “I’ve been
asleep, I do believe. I’ve waited to unlace your dress, though you
said I need not; but I know you could never do it yourself,” beginning
her task at once, whilst her equally sleepy mistress stood before the
mirror and slowly removed her gloves, bangles, and diamonds, and yawned
at her own reflection.
“It was splendid, mademoiselle. Jamais--pas même à Paris--did I see
such a fête! I saw it well from a place behind the band. What crowds,
what toilettes! but mademoiselle was the most charmante of all. Ah!
there is nothing like a French dressmaker--and a good figure, bien
entendu. There were some costumes that were ravishing in the ladies’
room. I helped. I saw them.”
“It went off well, I think, Josephine, and papa is pleased; but I am
glad that it is over,” said her mistress, wearily. “Mind you don’t let
me sleep later than twelve o’clock on any account.”
“Twelve o’clock! and it is now six!” cried Josephine in a tone of
horror. “Mademoiselle, you will be knocked up--you----”
“Oh! _what_ is this?” interrupted her mistress in a strange voice,
snatching up a telegram that lay upon a table, its tan-coloured
envelope as yet intact, and which had hitherto been concealed by a
silver-backed hand-glass, as if it were of no importance.
“Oh, I forgot! I fell asleep, you see. It came for you at eleven
o’clock last night, just as the company were arriving, and I could not
disturb you. I hope it is of no consequence.”
But, evidently, it was of great consequence, for the young lady was
reading it with a drawn, ghastly countenance, and her hand holding the
message shook so much that the paper rattled as if in a breeze of wind.
And this is what she was reading with strained eyes. “Mrs. Holt to Miss
West, 9.30.--Come immediately; there is a change.” And this was sent
eight hours ago.
“Josephine,” she said, with a look that appalled the little
Frenchwoman, “why did you not give me this? It is a matter of life and
death. If--if,” with a queer catch in her breath, “I am too late, I
shall never, never, never forgive you! Here”--with a gesture of frenzy,
tearing off her dress--“take away this rag and these hateful things,”
dragging the tiara out of her hair and flinging it passionately on the
floor, “for which I have sold myself. Get me a common gown, woman.
Quick, quick! and don’t stand looking like a fool!”
Josephine had indeed been looking on as if she was petrified, and
asking herself if her mistress had not suddenly gone stark-staring mad?
Mechanically she picked up the despised ball-dress and brought out a
morning cotton, which Madeline wrested from her hands and flung over
her head, saying--
“Send for a hansom--fly--fly!”
And thus exhorted and catching a spark of the other’s excitement, she
ran out of the room and hurriedly dispatched a heavy-eyed and amazed
footman for the cab, with many lively and impressive gesticulations.
When she returned she found that Madeline had already fastened her
dress, flung on a cape and the first hat she could find, and, with a
purse in one hand and her gloves in another, was actually ready. So
was the hansom, for one had been found outside, still lingering and
hoping for a fare. Madeline did not delay a second. She ran downstairs
between the fading lights, the tropical palms, the withering flowers,
which had had their one little day, and it was over. Down she fled
along the red-cloth carpetings, under the gay awnings, and sprang into
the vehicle.
Josephine, who hurried after her, was just in time to see her dash from
the door.
“Grand ciel!” she ejaculated to two amazed men-servants, who now stood
beside her, looking very limp in the bright summer morning. “Did any
one ever see the like of that? She has gone away in her white satin
ball-slippers.”
“What’s up? What’s the matter?” demanded one of her companions
authoritatively. “What’s the meaning of Miss West running out of the
house as if she was going for a fire-engine or the police? Is she mad?”
“I can’t tell you. It was something that she heard by telegram. Some
one is ill. She talked of life or death; she is mad with fear of
something. Oh, you should have seen her eyes! She looked, when she
opened the paper, awful! I thought she would have struck me because I
kept it back.”
“Anyhow, whatever it is, she could not have gone before,” said the
first footman, with solemn importance. “But what the devil can it be?”
he added, as he stroked his chin reflectively.
This was precisely the question upon which no one could throw the
least glimmer of light; and, leaving the three servants to their
speculations, we follow Madeline down to the Holt. She caught an early
train. She was equally lucky in getting a fly at the station (by
bribing heavily) and implored the driver to gallop the whole way. She
arrived at the farm at eight o’clock, and rushed up the garden and
burst into the kitchen white and breathless. But she was too late. The
truth came home to her with an agonizing pang. She felt as if a dagger
had been thrust into her heart, for there at the table sat Mrs. Holt,
her elbows resting on it, her apron thrown over her head. She was
sobbing long, long gasping sobs, and looked the picture of grief.
Madeline shook as if seized with a sudden palsy as she stood in the
doorway. Her lips refused to move or form a sound; her heart was
beating in her very throat, and would assuredly choke her. She could
not have asked a question if her life depended on it.
Mrs. Holt, hearing steps, threw down her apron and confronted her.
“Ay, I thought it might be you!” she ejaculated in a husky voice.
“Well, it’s all over!... He died, poor darling, at daybreak, in these
arms!” holding out those two hard-working extremities to their fullest
extent, with a gesture that spoke volumes.
“I will not believe it; it is not true; it--it is impossible!” broke
in the wretched girl. “The doctor said that there was no danger. Oh,
Mrs. Holt, for God’s sake, I implore you to tell me that you are only
_frightening_ me! You think I have not been a good mother, that I want
a lesson, that--that--I will see for myself,” hurrying across the
kitchen and opening a well-known door.