MR. WYNNE’S VISITOR.
And meanwhile what of Laurence Wynne? His short, smart sketches had
made a hit. He was becoming a man of mark in literary as well as legal
circles, and was overwhelmed with invitations to dinners, luncheons,
and “at homes;” for be it known that Laurence Wynne was looked upon
with favourable eyes by not a few mammas and daughters as a clever,
rising, good-looking young bachelor. Some had heard a vague rumour
that there once upon a time had been a Mrs. Wynne, a girl whom he had
married out of a lodging-house or restaurant, but who, fortunately for
him, had died in the first year of her marriage. Some said this was
not true, some said it was. All agreed with extraordinary unanimity in
never alluding to Mrs. Wynne in his company. After all, in these days
of feverish haste, a story is soon forgotten, and people have too much
to do to waste time in turning over the back pages of other folks’
lives. The ladies had not been slow in picking up sundry hints and
allusions to “Wynne,” as dropped across dinner tables by their husbands
and fathers, and not a few hospitable families had made up their minds
that they would cultivate Mr. Wynne.
In vain they were assured that he was not a society man and hated
ladies--which, of course, was nonsense. He was busy and industrious,
that was all; and now and then he did come out of his shell, and sit
at their tables, and stand against the wall at their dances, and made
himself so agreeable that he was figuratively patted on the back, and
requested to come again; but he so seldom came again.
It was part of his duty, he told himself, to be on good terms with
his august seniors--to respond to their first invitations, to make
himself pleasant to their wives and daughters, hand tea-cups, turn over
music, open doors, talk suitable commonplaces; but when any of these
same young ladies sat down, so to speak, before him, and commenced to
open the trenches for a flirtation, he began to feel uncomfortable.
Long ago, before he met Madeline West, this sort of thing was well
enough--but even then a little of it had gone a long way.
Now, with Madeline in the background, and amusing herself, no doubt
very delightfully, and not thinking of him, he could not--no, he could
not--like others less conscientious, laugh and exchange sallies and
cross swords and glances with any of these pretty, sprightly girls,
knowing full well in his heart that he was all the time that wolf in
sheep’s clothing--_a married man_! And then he was critical at heart,
and hard to please.
As he looked round the various groups at picnics and tennis parties--he
now and then went for an hour--he saw no one who approached Madeline
in any way--face, figure, grace, or gait--especially Madeline as he
had last seen her--in her very fine feathers. Doubtless any of these
girls would have made a more manageable wife, he thought to himself
bitterly. Yes! she had now taken the bit completely within her teeth,
and he was powerless to control her. She went and came and stayed away
when she pleased, and for precisely as long as it suited her. Her
desertion--it was that--was all in pursuit of his interests--his and
the child’s. What a fool she must think him! She had evidently resolved
to play the _rôle_ of daughter first, wife next, and mother very much
the last of all! Her neglect of him he could tolerate, but her neglect
of her child made him excessively angry. She had wholly consigned it to
Mrs. Holt, and lightly shaken off all a mother’s duties. She a mother!
She did not look the part as she chattered fashionable gossip to those
idiotic young men on Euston platform, and never cast a thought to the
infant she was turning her back on in a certain country farmhouse.
She had been away nearly four months, and she had written--oh yes,
pretty frequently, but the tone of her letters was a little forced,
their gaiety was not natural--perhaps the tone of his own epistles was
somewhat curt. The relations between Mr. and Mrs. Wynne were becoming
strained--a crisis was impending.
* * * * *
Among the departures from Kingstown on a certain date were Mr. and Miss
West and suite, who duly arrived at Belgrave Square, and found London
filling fast. Their arrival, however, was somewhat unexpected--the
housekeeper had barely time to despatch her sister’s family back to
Manchester, and the poor woman was compelled to put off an evening
party for which she had issued invitations among her own set.
Mr. West had a great deal of business to transact, and spent most of
his days in the city--and this was Madeline’s opportunity.
She lost no time in paying a visit to the Inner Temple, arriving on
foot, plainly dressed, and wearing a thick veil. She was a good deal
bewildered by the old courts and passages, but at last discovered Mr.
Wynne’s chambers. Here she was received by an elderly, bare-armed,
irascible-looking woman--with a palpable beard--who, after looking her
over leisurely from head to foot, told her to “Go up to the second
flight front. She could tell nothing of Mr. Wynne; he was in and out
all day, like a dog in a fair.”
Further up the narrow stairs she came face-to-face with two
gentlemen, who paused--she felt it--and looked back at her as she
knocked and rang at the door of “Mr. Laurence Wynne.” Truly, such an
elegant-looking young lady was not to be met about the old Temple every
day; and never had such an apparition been seen on Mr. Wynne’s landing.
The outer room was occupied by two clerks, who stared at the visitor
in unqualified amazement. Here was something spicy in the shape of a
client! Very, very different to the usual run. “A breach of promise,”
was their immediate and mutual idea. Something more to the purpose than
cranky old fogies fighting about rights of way, or an involved legacy
case. This was a pretty girl, and a swell.
So much they noted with their sharp, semi-judicial eyes, as she stood
timidly in the doorway and raised her veil.
One of them instantly bounded off his seat, and asked what he could do
for her?
“Could she see Mr. Wynne?” she faltered, as her eyes roved round the
outer office, with its great double desk piled with documents, its rows
of law books ranged round the room on staggering, rickety shelves, its
threadbare carpet, its rusty fender, its grimy windows, and last, not
least, two bottles of stout, and a pewter mug.
Still, these two youths might be Laurence’s clerks. Could it be
possible? Could it be possible that these immense piles of papers
concerned Laurence? If so, he was getting on--really getting on at
last. But what a horrible musty place! The very air smelt of dust and
leather and law books.
“Mr. Wynne, miss, did you say? Very sorry, but Mr. Wynne is in court,”
said the clerk, briskly.
“When will he be back?” she inquired, advancing and standing in the
front of another door, evidently Mr. Wynne’s own sanctum.
“Afraid I cannot say, miss; he is to speak in the case of Fuller _v._
Potts--breach of contract. Any business, any message----”
But the words died upon his lips--this uncommonly cool young party had
actually walked into Mr. Wynne’s own sitting-room.
“It’s all right,” she remarked carelessly, divining his horror. “Mr.
Wynne knows me.”
And she went and sat down in his armchair, in front of a table piled
with documents, all more or less neatly tied up and docketed.
There were numbers of letters under little weights. There was a law
book, a couple of open notes, and all the apparatus of a busy legal
man. She shrugged her shoulders and looked round the room; it was dingy
and shabby (furniture taken at a valuation from the last tenant); the
carpet between the door and the fireplace was worn threadbare, as if it
were a pathway--which it was.
Another pathway ran from the window to the wall, which the inmate had
probably paced as he made up his speeches. There was her especial
abomination, horse-hair furniture, a queer spindle-legged sideboard,
some casual old prints on the wall; certainly there was nothing in the
room to divert Laurence’s attention. Outside there was no prospect
beyond a similar set of chambers, a very ugly block of buildings, and
one forlorn tree waving its branches restlessly to and fro.
She got up and glanced into an adjoining apartment. The clerks were
not now watching her--Mr. Wynne did not tolerate idleness. This was
his bedroom, a still barer scene. No carpet whatever, no curtains,
a small iron bedstead, a big bath, a battalion of boots. Laurence,
she remembered, was always extremely particular about his boots,
and _hated_ to wear them when patched; these were whole, well cut,
and in good case. There was a sixpenny glass on the wall, a painted
chest of drawers and washstand, also one chair. Spartan simplicity,
indeed! What a horrible contrast to her own luxurious home! She
closed the door with a little shudder, and as she did so a quantity
of large, important-looking cards and envelopes, stuck about the
dusty chimney-piece mirror and the pipe-rack, caught her eye, and she
immediately proceeded to examine them with dainty fingers.
“Blest if she ain’t overhauling his invitations!” exclaimed one of the
clerks, who, by tilting his chair back until it was at a most hazardous
angle, caught a glimpse of what he and his coadjutor began to think was
“Mr. Wynne’s young woman.”
“Her cheek beats all! Shall I go and interfere?” asked the first
speaker, in an awestruck whisper.
“No; you just leave her alone,” said number two, who had the bump of
caution well developed. “It ain’t our business; but I _did_ think he
was about the last man in the world to have a lady coming and routing
among his things. There ain’t nothing that she’ll find as will make
her any wiser,” he concluded contemptuously.
But here he was mistaken! She discovered a great deal that surprised
her much--very much. Here were cards from old judges and stupid law
fogies, requesting the pleasure of Mr. Wynne’s company at dinner.
That was easily understood. But there were several invitations to
entertainments to which she and her father had been bidden! and also,
what was the strangest thing of all, blazoned cards of invitation to
houses to which her father had not been able to obtain an _entrée_,
smile he never so assiduously on the smart or noble hosts. She stood
for several minutes with one of these precious cards in her hand,
and turned it over reflectively as she recalled the desperate and
unavailing efforts of her parent to obtain a similar honour--the
toadying, the flattery, the back-stair crawling that it made her
crimson to recall! And, such is poor human nature--poor, frail human
nature!--this bit of pasteboard did more to raise her husband in
her estimation than all the briefs she saw piled upon his desk. She
now began to contemplate him from a new point of view. Hitherto she
had been very fond of Laurence--in a way--her own way. He had been
good to her when she had no friends, he had borne their poverty with
wonderful patience. Yes, certainly he had. But she had thought--rather
resentfully at times--that a man without some preparation for such a
rainy day as they had experienced ought not to have married; he should
have left her as he found her. She did not hold these views at the
time. She liked Laurence better than any one, all the same; but the
horrible intimacy of dire want had bred--well, yes, a little contempt;
his illness, his helplessness had made her put herself somewhat above
him in her own secret thoughts. She (for a time) had been bread-winner
and house-band, and well and bravely she had struggled at that
desperate crisis; but, alas! that it must be recorded, riches had
spoiled her. She had inherited a luxurious, pleasure-loving nature,
which cultivation had fostered, until, from a small and scarcely
noticeable plant, it had grown into an overwhelming jungle! The longer
she lived in her father’s home the less disposed was she to return to
her own modest roof-tree; and especially, looking round with a wry
face, to such a place as this! She was now necessary to her father. He
was something (he said) of an invalid; whilst Laurence was young and
strong. Every day she was hoping to see her way to making the great
disclosure, and every day the chance of making that disclosure seemed
to become more and more remote. Laurence was evidently well thought of
in influential circles, and, “of course, Laurence is of good family.
Any one can see that at a glance,” she mentally remarked; “and, no
doubt, his own people had now taken him by the hand.”
The discovery that he moved in a set above her own had raised him
in her opinion. Latterly she had been looking down on Laurence, as
already stated--perhaps only an inch or so, but still, she placed
herself above him. He had drawn a great and unexpected prize in the
matrimonial lottery, but he scarcely seemed to realize the value of
his treasure! She had bracketed Laurence mentally with obscurity,
shabbiness, and poverty, and had a vague idea that only through her
means could he ever emerge into the sunshine of prosperity. She had a
kind of protecting affection for him, dating from the days when she had
starved for his sake, and made his bed and his beef tea, and washed his
shirts. She looked down upon him just a little. It is possible to be
fond of a man and to entertain this feeling. And now Laurence’s busy
clerks, and these coroneted envelopes had given her ideas a _shock_.
She went over and stood in the window, and drummed idly upon the small
old-fashioned panes, where not a few names and initials were cut. As
she stood thus--certainly a very pretty figure to be seen in any one’s
window, much less that of an avowed anchorite like Laurence Wynne--a
young gentleman sauntered to the opposite casement, with his hands in
his pockets and his mouth widely yawning, as if he were on the point
of swallowing up the whole premises. He paused in mute astonishment,
and gazed incredulously across the narrow lane that divided the two
buildings. Then Madeline distinctly heard him shout in a stentorian
voice--
“I say, Wallace, come here, quick--quick, and look at the girl in
Wynne’s window! My wig, ain’t that a joke?”
On hearing this summons she instantly backed out of sight, and had the
amusement of seeing three heads peering across, vainly endeavouring
to catch a glimpse of the promised apparition. However, they saw her
depart--although she was not aware of the fact--and they were highly
pleased with her figure, her walk, and her feet, and took care to
tell Mr. Wynne of their gratifying and flattering opinion, and to poke
him in the ribs with a walking-stick--not as agreeable or facetious an
action as it sounds--and to assure him that “he was a sly old bird, and
that still waters run deep, and that they had no idea he had such good
taste;” all of which witticisms Mr. Wynne took in anything but good
part, especially as he could not tell them that the lady upon whom they
passed such enthusiastic encomiums was his wife. Indeed, if he had done
so they would only have roared with laughter, and flatly refused to
believe him.
Madeline waited three-quarters of an hour, and then made up her mind to
return home. As she walked through the outer office, once more thickly
veiled, the alert clerk sprang forward to open the door. As he held it
back, with an inky hand, he said, with a benevolent grin--
“When Mr. Wynne comes back, who shall I say called, miss?”
Madeline hesitated for a moment, and then, turning to the youth in her
most stately manner, said--“Say Miss West,” and having thus left her
name, with all due dignity she passed through the door with a slight
inclination of her head and walked downstairs.
She met a good many cheery-looking young barristers, in wigs and
flyaway gowns, as she passed through the precincts of the inns, and
wondered if she would come across Laurence, and if she would recognize
him in that funny dress. For, of course, he wore a wig and gown too;
but he had always kept them in his chambers, and she had never seen
them. But she did not meet Laurence--so she took a hansom, did a
little shopping in Bond Street, and then got home just in nice time for
afternoon tea.
As she sat sipping it in her luxurious tea-jacket, and with her feet on
the fender-stool, Mr. Wynne returned home, tired, hoarse, and cold. His
fire was out. And, moreover, there was no sign of his modest evening
meal.
“Confound that old hag downstairs!” he muttered.
“Please, sir,” said one of the clerks who had been busy locking up, and
who now followed him into his sanctum, “there was a party to see you
while you were out--a party as waited for a good bit of an hour.”
“Well, well, couldn’t you have dealt with him?” impatiently. “What did
he want?”
“It was a lady,” impressively.
“A lady!” he echoed. “Oh yes, I know, old Mrs. Redhead--about that
appeal----”
“No, it was not; it was a young lady.”
“Oh, a young lady?” he repeated.
“Yes, and she bid me be sure to tell you,” embroidering a little to
give colour to his story, “as she was very sorry not to see you, and to
say that Miss West had called.”
“Miss West? Are you sure she said West?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take an oath to it, if you like.”
“All right, then. Yes, yes, it’s all right. You can go,” dismissing him
with a wave of his arm, and, suddenly pitching his wig in one direction
and his gown in another, he sat down to digest the news.
So Madeline had come to beard him in his den. What did it all mean? and
did she intend to return?
For fully an hour he sat in the dusk--nay, the darkness--pondering this
question, forgetful of fire, light, and food. He would have liked to
have cross-examined his clerk as to where she sat, and what she said;
but no, he could not stoop to that; and then his mind reverted again to
that crucial and as yet unanswered question--“Did she intend to come
back?”