A FORLORN HOPE.
The hurried expedition to the Holt Farm, and subsequent visit to Monk’s
Norton, had not agreed with Miss West. She had a most mysterious
relapse, inexplicable alike to her father and her medical adviser.
The former had left her comparatively better, ere starting for a long
day in London. Little did he guess that the invalid had followed him
by the next train, had given Josephine a holiday, had travelled into
Hampshire, and gone through more mental and bodily stress than would
exhaust a woman in robust health, had returned but an hour before him
in a prostrate condition--and had subsequently kept her room for days.
“I cannot account for it,” the doctor said. “Great physical debility.
But, besides this, there is some _mental_ trouble.”
“Impossible!” rejoined Mr. West, emphatically.
“At any rate she must be roused, or I cannot answer for the
consequences. She has no wish to get well. She won’t take the trouble
to live. I think, if you could manage to get her on board ship, a sea
voyage might have a good effect.”
Yes, that would be the very thing, and fall in with Mr. West’s plans. A
trip to Australia.
“How about a trip out to Sydney?”
“Yes; and the sooner you can get her off the better. Her illness is
more mental than physical. She will perhaps recover amid totally
strange surroundings, and where there is nothing to recall whatever is
preying on her mind.”
“Preying on--stuff and nonsense--preying on a goose’s mind!” cried Mr.
West, irascibly.
“I dare say whatever preyed upon a goose’s mind would have a scanty
meal,” said the physician rather stiffly.
“But she has never had a care in her life!”
“Umph!” rejoined the other doubtfully. “_No_ love affairs?”
“Not one.”
“Well, I won’t conceal from you that she is in a most critical state.
Take her abroad at once; you have given up your town house, you tell
me; you have no anchor, no ties. You should start immediately, and be
sure you humour her, and coax her into the trip, for it is only right
to tell you that it’s just touch and go!”
This was terrible news to Mr. West. His daughter had lost her looks,
her spirits, her health; was he to lose her altogether? He broke the
news of a sea voyage to her rather timidly that same evening. She
listened to his eager schemes, his glowing word-paintings, his prophecy
of a jolly good time, with a dull vacant eye, and totally indifferent
air.
“Yes, if he wished--whatever he pleased,” she assented languidly. It
was all the same, she reflected, _where_ she died, on land or sea. But
to one item she dissented--she objected to the proffered company of
Mrs. Leach.
“This was just a sick girl’s whim!” said Mr. West to himself, and he
would not argue out the matter at present; but he was secretly resolved
that the charming widow should be one of the party. She had written him
such heart-broken letters about Madeline from Scarborough (but she had
not seen Madeline since her illness had been pronounced infectious).
There was no fear _now_, and the doctor had said that a cheerful lady
companion, whom the invalid liked, and who would share her cabin and
look after her and cheer her, was essential. Who so suitable as Mrs.
Leach? He would pay her return passage and all expenses; and when
Madeline had retired, he sat down and penned an eager letter to her to
that effect.
In two days Mrs. Leach was at Brighton, with a quantity of
luggage--boxes, bags--and in a fascinating cloak and hat, had rushed
into the hand-shake of her dear Mr. West. She was looking remarkably
brilliant. Oh, what a contrast to his poor emaciated child, who
increased her forlorn appearance by wearing a black dress! She did not
give Mrs. Leach a particularly cordial reception.
“She does not care to see _any one_,” explained Mr. West
apologetically, when he and his enchantress sat _vis-à-vis_ over
dessert. “She takes no interest in _anything_ on earth--it’s mental,
the doctors say,” touching his forehead. “She has had not only
diphtheria, but some sort of shock. She sits moping and weeping all
day; she never opens a book, never opens her lips; she never listens
to half that is said to her; she won’t eat, she can’t sleep, and she
insists on wearing black. I can’t understand it.”
But Mrs. Leach could; she saw it all. Whoever the man was in the
background of Madeline’s life, he was dead. Either that, or he had
deceived her, and, as a result, she was almost crazy with grief. And
what a wreck!
Mrs. Leach took everything firmly in her grasp at once; she was
unusually active and busy. They were to sail in ten days, and there was
Madeline’s outfit; but here no interference was permitted. Madeline
selected her own wardrobe--a few black gowns. However, on the other
hand, Mrs. Leach looked well after Madeline’s correspondence; all
letters were brought first to her. She did not wish Mr. West’s sharp
eyes to notice the swarms of bills which pursued her, and she passed
all his and his daughter’s letters in review ere they were laid upon
the breakfast or afternoon tea-table. Madeline never appeared until
the afternoon, and exhibited no interest in the daily post; she was,
however, pleased to see Lady Rachel and her brother, who came down from
town, ere their departure to Scotland, expressly to wish her a _bon
voyage_ and a speedy return. They were really quite affected when they
beheld what was neither more nor less than the spectre of Madeline
West--the gay and radiant girl of last season!
They had brought her books, flowers, her favourite Fuller’s sweets,
many scraps of news, and, under the influence of their infectious
spirits, she cheered up temporarily. Mrs. Leach, however, despite
the coldness of Lady Rachel and surliness of Lord Tony, remained of
the company, acting as a sort of female warder; and there was no
really free intercourse. In spite of broad hints, she stuck most
pertinaciously to her seat and her silk sock, throwing in observations
every now and then. Certainly she _was_ thick-skinned.
At last Lady Rachel said boldly--
“Now, Madeline, take me to your room, my dear.”
Madeline rose with an effort.
“Oh, my dearest, you must not go into the draught on any account! I’ll
take Lady Rachel to mine.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Leach; I rather wish to have Miss West to myself
for a little, and I dare say she can wrap up if the draughts are so
much keener _now_ than at any other time of the day,” and Lady Rachel
carried her point.
“I wanted to speak to you alone, Maddie,” she said as she closed the
door, “and that odious, thick-skinned, alligator of a woman never gave
me a chance! She knows that I loathe her, and might put you on your
guard.”
“I am on my guard. I know her, I think, even better than you do.”
“And you don’t like her?”
“No, I don’t _trust_ her.”
“I should hope not. She is a regular sort of society adventuress;
a notorious evil-speaker, liar, and slanderer; always poking into
secrets, and levying genteel blackmail. I had _such_ an account of her
from Mrs. Berthon lately. I never liked her--never; but I was not up to
all her history. Her father was a coal merchant, and a man of very low
origin--she is a nobody. Major Leach was caught; he thought she had a
quantity of money. That is always her bait--display, dress, diamonds.
His family no longer speak to her, though she quotes them on all
occasions, and gives them as reference to hotels and banks, and lets
them in. She owes my dressmaker six hundred pounds, and she has put
her off with the excuse that she is going to marry an immensely rich
man!”
“Really! who can it be?” indifferently.
“Can’t you _guess_, you dear blind bat?”
“Not my father?”
“Well, I hope _not_. You must rouse yourself and interfere; elderly men
are so easily made fools of. Is it true that she is going with you to
Sydney, or is it just a piece of gossip?”
“Yes, it is quite true.”
“Then you must stop it; you really _must_, unless you wish to have her
as a stepmother. She will be engaged before you are at Gib. I think I
can see her in smart board-ship frocks, very pleasant, very helpless;
your father, an idle man, waiting on her assiduously, and carrying her
wraps and books; you below, _hors de combat_. Oh, she will not lose
her opportunity, and she sticks at _nothing_.”
“I’m afraid I can’t stop her!”
“I tell you you must. I wish I was going with you instead.”
“Oh, how I wish you were!”
“But I can’t; my plans are cut and dried by Mr. J. I shall write to
you often, dear, and expect to see you back in six months, or at least
twelve, looking quite yourself; now, promise me.”
Madeline, whose spirits were running down and a reaction setting in,
made no answer, save tears.
Lady Rachel’s warning sank into fruitful soil. Madeline plucked up
sufficient energy to urge her father to relieve her of her incubus.
“I should much prefer being alone; I should indeed.”
“Pooh, pooh, my dear!” recalling her doctor’s advice, and thinking
what an agreeable shipmate he was providing, not only for Madeline,
but himself. “Nonsense; it’s all settled, passages booked. No change
possible.”
“I shall be far happier without her.”
“Oh, rubbish! You are just weak now, and fanciful. Mrs. Leach is
devoted to you.”
“I doubt it; and, father, let me tell you a secret. I don’t like her. I
am sure she is not sincere. She is not straight.”
“Come, come; she is as sincere as most women. I wonder who has been
putting these notions into your head--Lady Rachel, eh? Mrs. Leach gave
me a hint. Lady Rachel is all very well, and very pleasant; but a bit
rapid, you know.”
“Whatever she does is open and above-board,” protested Madeline warmly.
“I’m not so sure of _that_, my dear. Mrs. Leach knows a few things that
would never stand the light, and her ladyship is aware of this, and
that’s why she hates our good friend, and wants to set you against her.”
Madeline, weak and miserable, could not argue. She was powerless
against the attractive widow. She, poor hollow-eyed wreck, was no
fitting opponent for the fascinating Flora, whose battery of beauty and
smiles was most effective, and had captivated Madeline’s susceptible
parent. Her influence was far more powerful than Madeline’s, on the
question of what was for the benefit of the invalid, and the invalid
saw that it was useless to prolong the secret struggle, and succumbed
to her fate.
Laurence Wynne had not come across Mr. West for a considerable time;
but he knew that the Wests were at Brighton, and that Miss West was
almost convalescent. It was the end of October, London was filling, and
he was lunching at his club, with one or two acquaintances at the same
table, when one of them said--
“Hullo! there’s old West. I must go and have a word with him presently.
He looks rather down; not half as smart and perky as last year.”
“He has lost a good deal of money!” observed the other.
“Yes; but not as much as is supposed. He is an uncommonly shrewd old
boy, and knows when to save himself; but he can’t save himself from his
present trouble. He is going to lose his daughter?”
“His what?” put in Wynne, quickly.
“Daughter. Surely you’ve heard of the lovely Miss West? She was the
rage for two seasons. She got diphtheria in the summer, and----”
“Yes, yes; I know,” impatiently.
“Well, he took her down to Brighton, and she had a bad relapse of some
kind. I was there on Saturday last, and I saw her. Her carriage had
stopped at a shop I was coming out of. I give you my honour I had to
look at her three times before I was sure of her; she has lost every
particle of colour and flesh and beauty. She might be thirty-five, and
gives one the idea of a person who had seen a ghost, and never got over
it. Yes”--in answer to the expression of his listeners’ eyes--“it’s
rather awful. She used to be so pretty; now she has death in her face.”
“Are you in earnest, Ruscombe?”
“Why, of course I am. Old West is in a deadly funk, and taking her off
to Australia, as a sort of forlorn hope. But he will never get her
there alive.”
“Who says so?” he asked sharply.
“I thought you did not know her, man! The doctor who attends her
happens to be my brother-in-law; and, of course, we are all interested
in the _beauty_. He has a very poor opinion----Oh, are you off? The
fellow is mad. He hasn’t touched a morsel. What the dickens!--Oh,
ho! Now, what does _that_ mean--he is button-holing the old squatter
himself?”
“No, Wynne, not seen you for ages,” Mr. West was saying. “I never come
to the club. No spirits for anything. My daughter is ill--got a sort of
relapse. The doctors say that she has some trouble on her mind--must
have had a shock. Extraordinary case! She has never had a care in her
life!”
Mr. Wynne made no answer, and looked down.
“She can’t get up any strength, and--and takes no notice of anything,
does not want to recover, and is just fading away!”
“Ah, that’s bad! I suppose you have the best advice that is possible?”
What a nice, kind fellow Wynne was! When one was in trouble he quite
took it to heart too; he appeared--or was it the bad light--actually
grave and anxious.
“I’m taking her to Sydney, to try the effect of the sea and change;
it’s just a chance--a last chance.”
“And when do you start?” he asked, taking out his handkerchief and
wiping his brow.
“The day after to-morrow, in the _Victoria_. We go from Tilbury Docks;
as she couldn’t stand the journey across, and, in fact, the more sea
the better. A lady friend is very kindly coming as her companion, just
for the trip; but Madeline and I will not return to England for a year
or two. I’ll see how her native climate will suit her.”
“Yes; I hope sincerely that it will,” said Wynne. There was an
atmosphere of sympathy in his vicinity that had the effect of
compelling confidences.
“I think the London racketing knocked her up, and I’m never going to
have a town house again. When I come back, I shall buy some ancient
historical mansion, the seat of some old family that have died out, and
restore it. That is, of course, if Madeline----” He left his listener
to fill in the sentence.
“Yes,” rather absently.
“I dare say you’ll be married and settled by the time I see you again.”
“I am not likely to marry,” he returned quietly.
“Oh yes, yes; I forgot--a widower, eh? And how’s the child? I always
forgot to ask?”
“The child is dead,” he answered gravely.
“Dear me, that’s a pity; children are a terrible anxiety, as _I_ know!
Well, I hope to come across you again, Wynne.”
“I think it very likely that we shall meet again, and very shortly, for
I am going out to Australia myself, almost immediately.”
“No! Oh, I’m delighted to hear it! Law business, of course, with an
immense fee, eh?”
“On most important business, at any rate. And now I’ll say good-bye for
the present, for I have a great deal to do before I start.”
“And I’ve been jawing away about my family affairs and taking up your
precious time! I’m awfully sorry. I say, I wish you could manage to
come out with us in the _Victoria_. Could you?”
“I’ll do my best.” And he hurried off to wire to Fenchurch Street to
secure a berth.