PLAIN SPEAKING.
All went merry as a marriage bell. The dinner was a success. There
was no hitch; the laundress (with interludes devoted to the crack in
the door) safely brought up course after course. Now they had ceased,
and the company were discussing dessert, and many of the topics of
last season--Henley, Ascot, Mrs. Pat Campbell, the rival charms of
Hurlingham and Ranelagh.
“Wynne here never goes to these frivolous places,” said Treherne.
“I’m not a member, you see.”
“‘Can’t afford it,’ that’s his cry to all these delights. He can afford
it well--a single man, no claims on his purse, and getting such fees.”
“Fees, indeed! How long have I been getting a fee at all?” he asked
good-humouredly.
“There’s Milton, who has not half your screw--keeps his hunters.”
“Ah, but he has a private income. I’m a poor man.”
“You old miser! You don’t even know the meaning of the word ‘poverty.’
How do you define it?”
“In the words of the plebeian philosopher, ‘It ain’t no crime--only an
infernal ill-convenience.’”
“Well, I shouldn’t think it had ever ill-convenienced you much--eh,
Miss West?”
Miss West--born actress--made a gesture of airy negation, and, turning
quickly to Mr. Fitzherbert, asked him “if he remembered Mrs. Veryphast
last season, and her extraordinary costumes. She quite gloried in her
shame, and liked to know that every eye was fixed upon her. She had
one awful gown--pale yellow, with enormous spots. She reminded me of a
Noah’s-ark dog. It was her Sunday frock; but it was not as bad as her
hat, which was like an animated lobster salad--claws and all.”
Then Mr. Fitzherbert had his turn, and told several anecdotes that had
already seen some service, but which made Miss West laugh with charming
unrestraint. Presently it occurred to the two gentlemen guests that the
lady had come for an audience, that it was nearly nine o’clock, and,
making one or more lame excuses, which, however, were very readily
accepted, they rose reluctantly, and, taking a deferential leave of
Miss West, with a “By-bye, old chappie,” to their host, effected their
exit, leaving--had they but known it--Mr. and Mrs. Wynne _tête-à-tête_,
alone.
“Well, Laurence,” exclaimed Madeline, with her usual smiling and
_insouciant_ air, rising slowly, coming to the fire, and spreading her
hands to the blaze.
“Well, Madeline,” he echoed, following her, laying his arm on the
mantelpiece, and looking as severe as if he were going to cross-examine
a witness. “What does this mean? Have you gone mad, or have you come to
stay?”
“Not I,” she replied coolly, now putting an extremely neat little shoe
upon the fender. “Papa is away, and won’t be back until late, and I
took it into my head that I would come over and dine with you, and
give you an agreeable surprise; but”--with a laugh--“seemingly it has
been a surprise only; the word ‘agreeable’ we may leave out.”
“You may,” he said roughly. “I wonder you have not more sense! If you
had sent me a wire that you were coming--if you had even had yourself
ushered in under your lawful name; but to come masquerading here as
Miss West is--is too much, and I tell you plainly, Madeline, that I
won’t have it. What must those fellows have thought of you to-night?
Fitzherbert will blazon it all over London. Have you no regard for your
reputation--your good name?”
“There, there, Laurence, my dear,” raising her hands with a gesture of
graceful deprecation, “that is lecturing enough--that will do!”
“But it won’t do,” he repeated angrily. “I really believe that you
are beginning to think of me as a miserable, weak-minded idiot, who
will stand anything. There’s not another man in England would have
stood as much as I have done, and, by George! I’ve had enough of it,”
with a wave of his hand in his turn. “This visit of yours is the last
straw. If you have no regard for Miss West’s reputation, be good enough
to think of _mine_. I do not choose to have gaily-dressed young women
coming flaunting to my humble chambers at any hour of the day. I’ve
been hitherto considered rather a steady, respectable sort of fellow;
I wonder what people will think of me now? Your visit will be all over
the Inns to-morrow, and half my circuit will be clamouring to know ‘who
my friend was?’”
“Nonsense, Laurence! What an old-fashioned frump you are! Girls do all
sorts of things nowadays, and no one minds. It is the fashion to be
emancipated. Why, the two De Minxskys go and dine with men, and do a
theatre afterwards! Chaperons are utterly exploded! And look at girls
over in America.”
“We are not in America, but London, where people ask for explanations.”
“Well, you can easily explain _me_ away! You must be a very bad lawyer
if you are not equal to such a trifling occasion as this! Oh, my dear
Laurence,” beginning to laugh at the mere recollection, “I wish you
could have seen your own face when I walked in--a study in sepia,
a nocturne in black. Come, now, you can tell your anxious friends
that I’m a client, and they will be _so_ envious; or that I’m your
step-sister, a sister-in-law, or any little fib you fancy. And as you
so seldom have the pleasure of my society, make much of me”--drawing
forward a chair, and seating herself--“and tell that old woman of yours
to bring me a cup of coffee.” There was nothing like taking high ground.
“Yes, presently; but before that there is something that I wish to
say to you,” also taking a seat. “We won’t have any more of this
shilly-shallying, Madeline. You will have to make your choice _now_--to
be either Miss West or Mrs. Wynne, permanently and publicly.”
A pause, during which a cinder fell out of the grate, and the clock
ticked sixty seconds. Then Madeline, who would not have believed, she
told herself, that Laurence could be so shockingly bearish, plucked up
spirit and said--
“I will be both for the present! And soon I will be Mrs. Wynne only.
Papa is not well now--worried, and very cross. I began to try and tell
him only two nights ago, and his very look paralyzed me. I must have a
little more time. As it is, I think, between my visits to the Holt farm
and here, I play my two parts extremely well!”
“Then you must permit me to differ with you,” said her husband, in
a frosty voice. “The part of wife, as played for many months, has
certainly been a farce; but, to put the case in a mild form, it has not
been a success. As to your _rôle_ of mother, the less said the better.”
“Laurence”--aghast, and drawing in her breath--“how can you speak to me
in that way? It is not like you!”
“How do you know what I am like _now_? People change. And since _you_
are so much changed, you need not be astonished if I am changed too!”
“And oh, Laurence, I am so--so angry with you about one thing!” she
exclaimed irrelevantly. “I went to the Holts’ on Tuesday and saw Harry;
he looks a perfect little angel!”
“Is that why you are so angry?”
“Nonsense! Why did you tell Mrs. Holt to refuse my money? Why may I not
pay for him?”
“Because it is not your affair, but mine.”
“Not my affair?” she repeated incredulously.
“No; it is my business to maintain my son. And I shall certainly not
suffer him to be paid for by Mr. West’s money!”
“It is mine; he gives it to me for my own use.”
“No doubt--to expend in dress and such things. Not for the support
of his unknown grandchild. You would be taking his money under false
pretences. Your father pays for his daughter’s expenses; I pay for my
son’s expenses.”
“And I may not?”
“No.” He shook his head curtly.
“But I am his mother!” she said excitedly.
“I thought you had forgotten that! Now, look here, Maddie, I am not
going to be put off with words any longer! You cannot run with the hare
and hunt with the hounds. You must come home at once. Tell your father
the truth, or let _me_ tell him the truth, and make your choice once
for all. This double life, where all of it is spent in one sphere,
and only the shadow falls on the other, won’t do. Think of your
child”--with rising heat--“growing up a stranger to you! Poor chap! he
believes that Mrs. Holt is his mother. I--I try and see him; but what
good am I? I’m only a man, and not much of a hand with small children.
Madeline, this cursed money has poisoned your mind! Admiration has
turned your head. You are no more what you once were----”
“Don’t say it, Laurence!” she cried, springing up and laying her head
on his mouth. “I have been waiting, waiting, waiting, trying to bring
my courage to the sticking-point, and hoping to bring you and my
father quietly together. I see I have been wrong. I--I will tell him
to-morrow--yes, there is my hand on it; and if he turns me out, as
is most probable, I shall be sitting here making your tea to-morrow
evening! You believe me, Laurence?” standing over him as he leant his
head in his hand, and looked into the fire.
“There have been so many to-morrows, Maddie. I’m like the man in the
fable about the boy and the wolves; but”--suddenly pulling himself
together, and confronting her--“I will believe that this time it really
_is_ wolf.” Standing up and looking at her, he added, “I will believe
you, and trust you. And now”--ringing the bell as he spoke--“you shall
have your coffee, and I am going to take you home in a hansom.”
“Home! It’s too early yet--ten past nine. Take me to the theatre for an
hour. Take me to the Haymarket; it will be such fun!”
“Fun!” he echoed impatiently. “Supposing any one was to see you--any
of your friends--what would they think? They do not know that I am
your husband; they would only take me for some admirer, who, presuming
on your father’s absence, had escorted you to the theatre, under the
rose--that would be capital fun!”
“What harm would it be? I like puzzling people. I like to give them
something to talk about,” she answered recklessly.
“And I do not. And I suppose I know a little more of the world than you
do. You seem to think it would be a joke to fling down your good name,
and allow it to be destroyed from pure wantonness, but I shall not
permit it.”
“Laurence how you do talk! One would think you were addressing a jury,
or were some old fogey laying down the law!”
“I am laying down the law.”
“You must please remember that I am accustomed to be spoiled. Now, _my_
wishes are law in Belgrave Square, and you are going to carry them
out, and take me to see ‘The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith.’”
“Take care that you do not become the notorious Miss West.”
“Now, Laurence, you know you cannot really say ‘no’ to me. Oh!”--with
a slight start--“here comes the coffee at last!” as the laundress, who
insisted upon doing this little errand in person, in order to have what
she called “a rare good look,” fumbled at the door, pushed it open
with her knee, and marched in, carrying a small tray, which she laid
very slowly on the table, her eyes all the while being fixed on the
beautiful vision standing by the fire.
She had her face turned away; but Mr. Wynne, who was leaning his head
on his hand, and his elbow on the mantelpiece, confronted her steadily
and said, in a less cordial tone than usual, “There, Mrs. Potts,
that will do! You need not wait. Call a hansom as soon as you go
downstairs,” and Mrs. Potts very reluctantly shuffled out. She had seen
a good deal, but was as much at sea as ever.
The young woman had her hand on Mr. Wynne’s arm when she went in,
and was saying, “you know you cannot say ‘no’ to _me_, and are going
to take me to the theatre.” Was ever such a brazen piece! He had his
head turned away, and looked as if he’d rather have her room than
her company. The girls run after the men now, and no mistake! It was
scandalous! The haystack after the cow! Supposing this young person’s
folk were to know of her carryings on--and with Mr. Wynne, of all men!
It beat everything that Mrs. Potts had come across right away into a
cocked hat!
A few minutes later they were coming down the stairs, miss all wrapped
up in a long velvet cloak, which velvet cloak Mrs. Potts having found
in the outer office, had done herself the pleasure of examining,
and--low be it spoken--trying on. None of your “paletot things,” as
she expressed it, but a long mantle of crimson velvet, reaching down
to the floor, trimmed with thick, soft fur, and lined with satin,
smelling powerfully of some sweet perfume--violets. Mrs. Potts, being
squat and of short stature, was lost in it. But the time when she was
enveloped in a six-hundred-pound wrap was indisputably one of her
happiest moments. There was a pocket inside, and in that pocket a
dainty lace-edged handkerchief, which, I am sorry to say, Mrs. Potts
felt called upon to confiscate as a souvenir.
It did not appear to be one of Mr. Wynne’s happiest moments, as
he pulled on his great coat, and followed the daintily tripping,
high-heeled steps of his visitor downstairs.
Mrs. Potts, who had naturally hung about the door below, did herself
the honour of seeing the couple into the hansom, and heard the
order--“Haymarket theatre.”
“So she had got her way,” said the charwoman, as she stood boldly
in the doorway and looked after them. Then she went upstairs to Mr.
Wynne’s room and finished the sherry, poured herself out a cup of
coffee, which she sipped at her leisure, as she sat comfortably over
the fire in Mr. Wynne’s own chair. One half of the world certainly does
not know how the other half lives!
“Really, it is very ridiculous of you to be so strait-laced and
grumpy, Laurence!” said his wife. “Think of all I am going to
relinquish for your sake!”--touching her furs. “This mantle, which
makes other women green with envy, cost nearly six hundred pounds!”
“Six hundred fiddlesticks!” he echoed incredulously.
“You can see the bill, if you like.”
“You ought to be ashamed to wear it, Maddie!”
“Not at all, my dear. It is for the good of trade. If some people did
not buy and wear fine feathers, what would become of trade?”
“Six hundred pounds! More than he could earn in twelve months! And she
paid that for an opera-cloak!”
“You really must make yourself agreeable, Laurence. This may be the
last time I shall play the fairy princess, before I go back to my
rags. No, no, I don’t mean that.”
“Something tells me, all the same, that this will not be your last
appearance in your present character. Not that I question for a moment
your good intentions, Maddie, or disbelieve your word. But I have a
presentiment--a sort of depressing sensation that I cannot account
for--that, far from your returning home to-morrow, our lives will
somehow have drifted farther apart than ever.”
“Fancy a clever man like you, dear, believing in such foolish things
as presentiments! They are merely remnants of the dark ages. I hope we
shall be able to get a box,” she added, as they drew up at the theatre,
“no matter how tiny; a stall would be too conspicuous.”
The Wynnes were late. The orchestra was playing during an interval, and
they had the great good luck to secure a box overlooking the stage.
Madeline removed her mantle, and, taking a seat with her back to the
house, having glanced round with affected nervousness, said to her
companion, in a smothered whisper--
“Sister Ann, Sister Ann! do you see anybody looking? Do you think any
one recognized me by my back hair?”
Laurence had noted several familiar faces; and one man in an opposite
box had recognized him. But this was of no importance, as he could not
possibly identify Madeline.
Madeline whispered and laughed and chattered to him behind her fan.
He told himself that he was a sour, sulky brute to be so gruff and
irresponsive to the beautiful girl opposite to him, although he could
hardly realize that she was his wife as he glanced at her at this
special moment, as she sat with her head resting on her hand, diamonds
glittering on her gown and in her hair, a gay smile on her lips, no
wedding-ring on her finger. Could this really be Madeline West, Mrs.
Harper’s pupil-teacher, and his wife?
His acquaintance in the opposite box was astonished to see Wynne over
against him. Surely it was not to another man that he was thus bending
forward and stooping his head so politely, as if to lose nothing of
what was being told him! Ah, no--he thought not! as presently a very
pretty hand, wrist, and arm emerged from the shadow of the curtain, and
lay upon the velvet cushion.
He snatched up his excellent opera-glass, and noted a sparkling
bracelet and diamond rings. But no--there was not a wedding-ring
amongst them!