TWO VISITS AND A LETTER.
Miss West returned from her drive. She had been to Lord’s to see
the Oxford and Cambridge cricket match. She had been surrounded by
admirers, like flies round a pot of honey, and had the most eligible
_partis_ of the season endeavouring to win their way to her good graces
as she promenaded up and down between the innings, and partook of
tea and strawberries in the tents; and Lady Rachel (who had her own
diversions) looked on and said to herself, “That Madeline was becoming
much too run after, and Tony would have to mind what he was about.”
Meanwhile, Mr. West, for whose society there was no competition, hugged
himself with joy, as he saw a baronet and a baron approach Madeline
in turn. This was precisely as it should be! Then he went up to Lord
Tony and said, “I say, Tony, wasn’t that the Duke of Margate I saw you
talking to just now--a funny old Johnny, with a shabby hat and red
face?”
“Ye-e-s--I--I believe so,” shrinking instinctively from what he knew
was to follow--as per usual.
“Then just, when you get a nice little opening, introduce _me_, there’s
a good fellow. Watch him when he comes out of the long tent; he is
having tea with the FitzMorse Montagues. I’ll do as much for you
another time.”
Lord Tony dreaded these demands. He even went so far as to hide from
Mr. West, or to absent himself altogether from gatherings where they
were likely to meet. He had introduced his sister to the Wests. He
liked Madeline immensely. His aunt, Lady Clapperclaw, had called, and
Miss West had got cards from a few good houses, but he really drew the
line at presenting “the old squatter,” as Mr. West was nicknamed by
all his acquaintances. People did not _like_ it. They glared fiercely
when this dapper, well-dressed, white-spatted, white-hatted little
person was introduced to them--a man who bowed and talked, and talked
and grinned, exactly like a toy monkey! Confound Tony Foster, who the
deuce was this infernal little cad? What was Tony about? He was always
mixed up with a second-rate set, but why thrust his shoddy friends
on _them_? However, when it came to be hinted that the “squatter” was
rolling in money, and dying to spend it--literally panting to give
entertainments of the costliest description--a second Monte Cristo,
with a spirit of unbounded generosity and one lovely daughter--matters
took a different complexion. Mr. West was elected to a couple of
good clubs, some visiting-cards and invitations were left on Mr.
and Miss West by footmen who had descended from coroneted landaus.
Ladies with slim, smiling, scapegrace sons called on the heiress. Fast
young married women, who looked forward to dances and all manner of
festivities, called (and made their friends leave cards). Young men
who had seen and admired Miss West got introduced, and dropped in on
Sundays. Lord Moneycute, an elderly baron, who had long been looking
for a wife with money, also Sir Crete Levanter, called--and they
subsequently dined--frequently at 365. Many people whom the ignorant
colonial thought smart, grand, and distinguished, called; but it was
not all gold that glittered; there was a great deal of brass about some
of these visitors! On the other hand, pretty mammas, with daughters who
were in the best set, set their faces against these parvenus. Mammas
with rich and titled sons were equally stand-off. One or two great
ladies, who had been introduced, as it were, accidentally to Miss West,
cut her at once.
But the Wests were as yet ignorant of the lights and shades of London
society, and they were both--Mr. West especially--perfectly satisfied
that, though not in the Marlborough House set, they were close upon
its borders.
* * * * *
“A gentleman had called to see her,” murmured Miss West languidly, as
she drew off her gloves on the threshold of the morning-room. “Did he
leave his card?”
“No, ma’am, he did not; he said he had forgotten it.”
“And he asked for me--not for Mr. West?” she continued indifferently,
glancing at her parent, who was rapidly turning over a pile of notes,
and picking out those emblazoned with a coronet.
“I’ll tell you who it was,” he broke in; “it was Lord Maltravers. He
came about that macaw he promised you.”
“No, sir,” put in Jeames, firmly but respectfully; “it was no gentleman
I ever saw before--certainly not Lord Maltravers--though he might have
been a lord for all I know to the contrary.”
“It wasn’t a tradesman?”
“Oh no, sir!” most emphatically.
“What was he like?” inquired Madeline, opening a letter very
deliberately as she spoke, her thoughts very far away from Laurence.
“Well, ma’am, he looked quite the gentleman. He was tall, about my
’ight” (complacently), “very dark eyes, a short beard--what you’d
consider a ’andsome young man. He carried a queer-looking stick with a
ivory top, and he seemed disappointed as you were not at home!”
“A queer-looking cane with an ivory top, and he seemed disappointed!”
The letter fluttered out of Madeline’s hands, and fell to the ground,
as the unconscious Jeames thus blandly announced that the visitor had
been her husband! She was glad to stoop quickly, and thus hide her
face, with its sudden increase of colour. Laurence had come up to see
her! What rashness! What madness!
“Well!” exclaimed her father, looking at her sharply, “have you made
out your mysterious visitor, eh?--eh?--eh?”
“I think he must have been the brother of one of my school-fellows from
the description,” she said, with wonderful composure, tearing open
another letter as she spoke.
“Humph!” grunted Mr. West, in a tone that showed that school-fellows’
brothers were not at all in his line.
“Here is an invitation to Lord Carbuncle’s for Thursday week,” said his
daughter, dexterously turning the current of his thoughts into a much
less dangerous channel, and holding out the note for his perusal.
“Thursday week. Let’s see; what is there for Thursday week, eh?”
“We dine with the Thompson-Thompsons in Portland Place.”
“Oh dear me, yes, so we do,” querulously. “What a confounded nuisance!”
in a tone of intense exasperation. “Can’t we throw them over?”
But his daughter gave him no encouragement, knowing full well the
enormity of throwing people over when a better engagement presented
itself, and that such proceedings were not countenanced by good society
in Vanity Fair.
So Mr. West (who was cheered by another coroneted invitation-card) was
fain to submit with what grace he could muster.
* * * * *
The next morning Miss West resolved upon a bold step. She pleaded
a headache as an excuse from attending Sandown, and as soon as she
had seen her parent safely off the premises, she hurried upstairs,
dressed herself very plainly, put a black veil in her pocket--also a
well-filled purse--and, walking to a short distance, took a hansom for
Waterloo Station. This time she travelled first class, of course, and
hired a fly to take her to the farm--at least, to the lane leading to
the farm--and there to wait, in case Mr. Holt was unable to drive her
back. She desired to give every one an agreeable surprise.
Mrs. Holt, who was in the kitchen shelling peas into a yellow bowl,
gave a little scream when she beheld Mrs. Wynne standing on the
threshold, between her and the sunshine, and, upsetting half the pods,
rushed at her hospitably, wiping her hands on her apron, and assuring
her that “she was more welcome than the flowers in May. Baby was well,
and growing a rare size, but Mr. Wynne was out; he and the farmer had
gone away together just after breakfast, and would not be back till
late, and did ever anything happen so contrary?”
Her square brow knit into lines of disappointment when the young lady,
in answer to her eager queries, informed her that she was not come to
stay--that, in fact, she was going to Ireland in two or three days with
her father and a party of friends. He had taken the shooting of a large
estate in the south, and was most anxious to inspect it.
“Ay, dearie, dearie me!” said Mrs. Holt, after an eloquent pause, “and
what _will_ Mr. Wynne say to that? I’m thinking he will not be for
letting you go,” and she shook her head dubiously.
This was precisely the subject that Madeline had come to discuss
with him, and he was away for the day. How excessively provoking and
tiresome!
Mrs. Kane had been won over with money, Mrs. Harper with valuable
presents, and the hint of an invitation to stay at Belgrave Square.
There remained but Laurence to deal with. He really must learn to be
patient--to wait for the auspicious moment when, having gained the
whole of her father’s confidence and affection, he began to realize
that she was so absolutely necessary to his happiness and to his social
success that he could never spare her. Then, and not till then, would
she throw herself into his arms and confess to him that she was married
to Laurence Wynne. Laurence and the baby would be brought to Belgrave
Square in triumph, and share her lot in basking in the sun of wealth
and luxury. This was Mrs. Wynne’s nice little programme, and ten times
a day she repeated to herself this formula--“Laurence must wait.”
She kissed her little boy, and praised his rosy cheeks, and asked
many questions about her husband, and was so surprised to hear that
he wrote for hours and hours; but Mrs. Holt remarked that she took no
interest now in the chickens, calves, or dogs--or, what she once found
irresistible, the dairy!
Also Mrs. Holt’s quick woman’s eye did not fail to notice her
blazing rings when she pulled off her gloves, her valuable little
wristlet-watch, which she consulted nervously from time to time, her
plain but expensive dress, that rustled when she moved. Ah! she could
see--although she tried not to show it--that Mrs. Wynne had changed.
Her mind was possessed now by riches, and he, poor young man, would
never be able to keep her contented, now she had had the taste of
money, and knew what it was to be a great lady; and Mrs. Holt shook
her head wistfully, as she made a red-currant tart. Meanwhile Madeline
carried baby down to the gate and looked out for Laurence, but no
Laurence came, and baby was surprisingly heavy. Then she went round
the garden. Oh, how small it looked somehow, and there was horrid
green weed on the pool! Then she made her way into their sitting-room,
with its old glass book-case, brass-faced clock, samplers hanging
on the walls, and plain red tiles underfoot. A dainty summer breeze
was playing with the white curtains through the open lattice, and
the great hollyhocks and sunflowers were rearing their heads and
endeavouring to peep in from the garden. There was Laurence’s pipe;
there, in a corner, stood the stick which had betrayed him; and there
was his writing, just as he had left it--ruled sermon paper. No, not a
letter! What was it all about? And she took it up and glanced over it.
It was some rubbish, headed, “Middle-aged Matrons.” How absurd!
Then, on the spur of the moment, she called in Mrs. Holt, and consigned
Master Harry to her motherly arms, whilst she sat down to indite a
letter to Laurence, with his own favourite pen and at his own table.
“DEAR LAURENCE” (she said),
“I came down on purpose to see you, and am so dreadfully disappointed
to find you are out, for I dare not wait, and I had so much to say
to you. I am delighted to find baby so grown, and to hear such good
accounts of yourself. I believe you were at Belgrave Square yesterday.
Laurence, how could you be so rash? Fortunately, no one suspected who
you were, or that you were anything to Miss West. I feel quite another
person than Miss West now that I am down in the country, and looking
out of the window in front of me into this dear old garden and the
far-away wooded hills.
“I feel as if money was nothing in comparison to youth and domesticity
and peace, and that I could be happy here for ever with you;
but I know that, once back in my own boudoir this very selfsame
evening, I shall change my mind again, and look upon rustic life
as intolerable--a living death, a being buried alive without a
fashionable funeral. Money and money’s worth I must attain; love I
have. I wish to command both--love and money. We know what love is
without money, don’t we? I shall never, never change to you, Laurence,
you may rely on that.
“I received your last letter safely, and have laid to heart all you
say; but, dear, dear Laurence, you must let me take my own time with
papa. I will tell him sooner or later; but, indeed, I am the best
judge of how and when and where. You used to say I was foreseeing and
prudent and wise, in the days of No. 2. Surely I am not changed in
three months’ time! Leave it all to me. He will come round yet, and,
like the good people in the fairy-tales, we shall live happy ever
after. On Sunday night we all go to Ireland by the mail from Euston.
It is quite a sudden idea. Papa has given up the idea of the Scotch
moors, and was talked into taking this shooting and deer-forest and
castle by an agreeable Irish nobleman he met at his club. There is
every inducement to sportsmen, from red deer to black cock, as well as
three thousand acres of ground and a castle.
“We are to have a succession of visitors. I hope to do great things in
three months, and will write to you every week and report progress.
“Ever, dear Laurence, your loving wife,
“M. W.”
His loving wife put this effusion into an envelope, directed it, and
placed it on the mantelpiece, where it would be sure to catch his eye,
and then she felt considerably relieved in heart and mind, and had tea
in the kitchen with Mrs. Holt, turning the cakes and praising the
butter, and softening Mrs. Holt’s feelings the longer she stayed in her
company. Then she had a confidential chat about baby and his clothes,
and placed twenty pounds in her listener’s hand for his wardrobe, in
spite of that good woman’s protestation that it was just five times too
much. She also made the farmer’s wife a substantial present of money,
telling her very prettily, with tears in her eyes, that it was not in
return for her kindness, for no sum could repay _that_, but as a small
token of gratitude.
By various means she reinstated herself in Mrs. Holt’s good graces, and
having hugged the baby and kissed him over and over again, and taken
a hearty leave of her hostess, she set off briskly on foot to where
the patient fly awaited her. She paused at the end of the lane, and
looked back on the Holt farm. It was a homely, sequestered spot, buried
in fields and trees, and very peaceful; but it looked somehow more
insignificant--shabbier than she had fancied. How small the windows
were! How close it stood to the big yard, with its swarming poultry and
calves and dirty duck-pond! And what horrible knives and spoons Mrs.
Holt used, and what fearful shoes she wore! However, she was a good
old soul, and had taken great care of baby. Then she once more turned
her back on the farm, and set her face towards her father’s luxurious
mansion. Luckily for herself, she was home before him--was dressed, and
sitting half buried in a chair, engrossed in a novel, when he returned
in high good humour. He had been winning and losing in the best of
company, and was very eloquent about a certain Roman prince who had
been uncommonly pleasant, and had said he “would like to be presented
to you, Madeline!” His little hard head was so full of this new
acquaintance that he had not room for a thought as to where or how his
daughter had spent the day. Indeed, from all evidence to the contrary,
she might never have been out of the house.
Laurence found Madeline’s letter staring at him from the mantelpiece
when he came home. He snatched it eagerly, and devoured it then and
there, and as he came to the last line his sensations were those of
exceedingly bitter disappointment--yes, and something more, he was
hurt. It seemed to him that through the epistle ran an under-current of
jaunty indifference, and this cut him to the quick.
And she was going to Ireland for three months! Well, at any rate, he
would see her off; a railway station was open to the public. She need
not necessarily see him; but he would see her. The next day he carried
out his intention, travelling up to town early in the morning, visiting
his chambers, dining with his friend Jessop, and being in good time to
speed the Irish mail at Euston. He watched and waited, and saw many
parties approach; but yet not his particular party. They did not appear
until within five minutes of the departure of the train.
And what a fuss they made! More than all their predecessors put
together. There was one footman running for tickets, another being
carried madly along the platform in tow of two powerful setters, one
retainer had the booking of the luggage, another was arranging the
interior of their Pullman sleeping-car, and then the party came up to
it, and Laurence beheld his father-in-law for the first time--a neat,
trim, bustling little man, talking vociferously and gesticulating about
Lady Rachel’s luggage. There was a very well-dressed, dark little
woman, not young, but juvenile in air and style, who laughed and talked
incessantly to a big man in a tweed suit, and looked at Mr. West with
contemptuous grimaces, and shrugged her shapely shoulders. There was a
“lout” in wonderful knicker-bockers--so he mentally ticketed Lord Tony.
There was a tall girl in a sort of long racing-coat. There were two
lady’s-maids; and last, but not least, there was Madeline--Madeline so
altered that he could scarcely believe his eyes--Madeline in a regal
travelling-cloak, carrying a Chinese lap-dog, giving directions to
hurrying footmen and maids, and dispensing smiling adieux among a group
of young men who had come to see them off--meaning Miss West. This was
surely not his Madeline--the little school-girl he had married, the
devoted, struggling, hard-working wife and mother, late of 2, Solferino
Place. He stood back for a moment in the shadow of the book-stall, and
realized for the first time the immense gulf that divided him from
Mr. West’s heiress--the great yawning chasm which lay between him and
Madeline. What would fill it--what? He could think of no bridge but
money.
Very poignant were his thoughts as he stood thus--poor, aloof, and
alone, whilst his radiant wife made her beaming farewells from the
window of the Pullman car.
“She should say good-bye to him too,” he declared to himself, with
sudden fierce resolve, and, stepping forward, he stood out in the
full light, a little apart from the gay group who were now removing
their hats with a real or simulated air of regret as the great long
train, that was to carry the popular heiress westward, began slowly
to move. Madeline smiled and nodded and waved her hand. But who was
that standing a little aside, farther down the platform? It was
Laurence--Laurence, whom she had not beheld for three months. It gave
her quite a shock to see him--but a pleasant shock, that sent the blood
tingling through her veins.
How well he looked!--quite himself again; and how well he contrasted
with these gilded youths whom she had just (she hoped) seen the last
of! She would have blown him a kiss had she dared; but her father’s
little beady eyes were upon her, and she could only sit and look--she
might not even bow! Then, with sudden compunction, and justly alarmed
by the expression on his face, she leant quickly out of the window and
nodded and smiled.
The other young men accepted this final signal with demonstrations of
rapture. Little did they guess that it was not for them, but for that
quiet, gentlemanly-looking fellow a few yards to their left. If they
were not aware of this, he was.
“Who is that man on the platform,” said Lady Rachel, “that looks as
if he was seeing us off too? There is no one else in the car but
ourselves.”
“Oh, I’m sure I don’t know,” responded Mr. West. “There are heaps of
people going over, though I dare say he belongs to the Ravenstayle
party. Lord Ravenstayle is in the train. It would not surprise me
if it were his nephew, Cosmo Woodwing--aristocratic-looking sort of
chap--and took a good stare at you, eh, Maddie?” facetiously. “Will
know you again next time he sees you?”--highly delighted at his own
conceit. “I suppose you have no idea who he is, eh?”
Madeline had an excellent idea of who he was, but this was no time to
confide her secret to her parent--better to save this little domestic
bomb for a more discreet opportunity.
Madeline had a shrewd idea that the mysterious gentleman who had taken
a good long look at her--the presumable Lord Cosmo Woodwing--was her
own husband!