A PROMISE POSTPONED.
“A telegram for you, sir,” said one of the clerks to Laurence
Wynne, the following morning. Telegrams were a common arrival; but
instinctively he felt that there was something unusual about this one,
as he tore it open and glanced over it.
“My father is dangerously ill. Impossible to fulfil promise. Writing.”
“I knew it,” he said, as he crumpled the paper in his hand, then
smoothed it and read it over again. “No,” to the clerk, who had a bet
on an imminent big race, and had gathered alarm from Mr. Wynne’s
expression; “no, Stevens; there is no answer.”
* * * * *
“Mr. West had come in and gone to bed,” so Miss West was impressively
informed by the butler. Yes, he had inquired for her, and he had told
him that, to the best of his belief, she was spending the evening with
Lady Rachel.
Madeline breathed again freely, and hurried up to her own room, almost
afraid of encountering her fussy and inquisitive parent on the stairs,
and being rigidly questioned then and there.
But Mr. West had not been feeling well, and complained of his chest
and breathing, and had gone straight to bed, so said Josephine.
Consequently there was no chance of his loitering about in passages,
awaiting her, and catching cold.
Madeline sat over her fire, for a long time, wondering how she could
bring herself to tell him, and what would be the result of her great
piece of news. It must be told--and told to-morrow; Laurence was
evidently serious. She had not known till now that Laurence could be
hard, stern, and immovable. Well--well--she wished the ordeal was over,
and well over; this time to-morrow it would be a thing of the past.
“Perhaps, nay, most likely,” she said to herself half-aloud, “this
is the very last time I shall sit at this fire; the last time I
shall have a maid to lay out my things and brush my hair. Heigho! I
wish--no--no--I don’t wish I had not married Laurence, but there is no
harm in wishing that he was _rich_!”
Madeline’s terror of her inevitable interview kept her awake for hours;
her heart beat so loudly, that it would not suffer her to sleep, and
it was really morning when she fell into a troubled doze, from which
she was aroused by Josephine with an unusually long face, and no
morning tea in her hand.
“Mademoiselle,” she said, “your father is very ill, so his man says.
The doctor has been sent for. They think he has got inflammation of the
lungs.”
Madeline sprang out of bed, huddled on some clothes, and went at once
to her parent’s room. He was very ill--in high fever, his breath coming
in quick labouring gasps. It was, as Josephine had said, inflammation
of the lungs, and the doctor added, “a very sharp attack.” It had come
to a crisis with extraordinary rapidity. It was, he admitted, a grave
case; he would like another opinion, and two hospital nurses must be
procured at once. How quickly every alleviation, every possible remedy
for sickness, every luxury, flows into a rich man’s sick-room!
Was he dangerously ill? asked Madeline, with bated breath.
“Well, there was always a danger in these sudden attacks, and Mr. West
had lived a hard life and taken an immensity of wear and tear out of
his nerves and vitality. His heart was weak; but still, he had pulled
people through worse cases, and she must not think that because her
father was seriously ill he was bound to--to----” and he left her to
fill in the blank herself, not wishing to hint at that ugly word--death.
And thus was Madeline’s confession postponed _sine die_, and Madeline
felt that she had been reprieved. Yes, the personal fascination of
Laurence’s presence had already faded. She wrote a long affectionate
letter, and explained the state of the case to Laurence, and sent him
constant bulletins of her father’s progress, and except for one flying
visit to the Holt Farm and once to church on Sundays, she never left
the house for the whole month of November. However, she was cheered in
her monotonous duties by the company of Mrs. Leach, who, on hearing of
dear Mr. West’s illness, had written from Brighton and volunteered her
services to her darling Madeline. Then she had arrived in person, and
urged her request with persistence. She would look after the house, see
callers, write notes, and leave Madeline unlimited time to spend with
the dear invalid.
At first Mr. West, fretful and weary, would not hear of her
arrangement. It was one thing to look into the fair widow’s eyes and
hold her hand and listen to her flatteries, when in good health, on
an idle autumn day; it was another to have her coming and quartering
herself thus on a sick house. However, after many messages and
intrigues and excuses, Madeline gave way. She was weak, the besieger
was strong, and she begged her father to accept the proffered favour.
“I cannot get rid of her, dear. She is determined to come, and, after
all, you won’t see her, you know.” But here she reckoned without her
guest.
In less than a week Mrs. Leach was frequently smoothing the sick man’s
pillow. She paid him a little visit daily, to which he actually looked
forward. She told him all the latest news, she flattered him, and she
made an agreeable object in the sick-room, with her charming gowns and
handsome face.
After all, she took no part in the management of the house, nor did
she see visitors, or write notes. She was (she said) so stupid about
domestic matters. It seemed to Madeline that their pre-arranged _rôles_
were exchanged; she kept to her usual duties as housekeeper and
mistress of the establishment, and Mrs. Leach gave more and more of her
time to the sick-room. She had a pleasant voice which never tired, and
read aloud to the invalid for hours. She made him his afternoon tea
with her own fair hands, and always took a cup with him. Indeed Mrs.
Leach cruelly maligned herself when she called herself stupid; on the
contrary, she was an excessively clever woman, twice as worldly wise as
her pretty Madeline. In her heart of hearts, she had determined to be
Madeline’s stepmother; but Madeline must marry, she would prefer the
house to herself, and she looked round the gorgeous yellow drawing-room
with the air of a proprietor, and indeed had already mentally altered
the arrangement of the furniture! Why did not Madeline accept one of
the gilded youths who fluttered round her? There was some story in
Madeline’s past, and if she could not steal the key to her skeleton
cupboard, she was determined to pick the lock, for she had had a
glimpse through the keyhole--and there _was_ something inside! This
glimpse had been afforded her by means of a young lady who had stayed
at the same hotel at Harrogate, a Miss De Ville, who had been for
several years at the same school as the lovely Miss West. Crafty Mrs.
Leach affected a very faint acquaintance with Miss West but a very
warm interest in Miss De Ville and her school days, and even went so
far as to ask her in to tea in her own little sitting-room, and showed
her the photographs of her cousins, the Countess of Cabinteely and the
Honourable Mrs. Greene-Pease.
“And so you were at school with Madeline West, the Australian heiress?”
she said.
“Yes, for several years; the last year and a half she was a pauper--a
pupil-teacher who received no pay--and I do believe wore Miss Selina’s
old shoes.”
“How extraordinary!”
“Yes; her father never paid for her, though for years before he had
paid very highly. She learnt everything, even swimming and riding, and
had most lovely clothes. Then he disappeared. However, he has bobbed up
again with quantities of money, by all accounts--_at present_.”
“And when he came home was he not ashamed of himself? What excuse had
he when he found his daughter in such a condition?” demanded Mrs. Leach.
“I don’t know; he _did_ find her there. But this is the funny thing:
she had been sent away in _disgrace_, so it was whispered, one
Christmas holidays, and was absent for a good while.”
Mrs. Leach opened her great dark eyes and exclaimed, “Good gracious!
Where was she? What had she done?”
“Well, it happened in the holidays, you see, and just afterwards there
was a great piece of fuss about Miss Selina’s marriage and quarrel with
Mrs. Harper, so that put the thing aside; but we did hear through the
servants,” and here she had the grace to redden, “that Miss West had
ran away from school.”
“And was that all?”
“Well, Mrs. Leach, don’t you think it a good deal?”
“Of course, of course!” impatiently, “shocking, abominable! But were
there no details and no particulars--no reason given for her escapade?”
“No; and Mrs. Harper and Miss Letitia, when I asked them plump out one
day, when I was staying in the neighbourhood and was having supper with
them, denied it most emphatically. They were quite _angry_.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Leach, with a gasp of disappointment. “Hushed it
up for the credit of the school, eh?”
“No, they said Miss Selina had made dreadful mischief, and been the
cause of Madeline being sent away for a little time; but we have never
heard Miss Selina’s version of the story,” she added expressively.
“Where is _she_ now?”
“Oh, she married a clergyman much younger than herself, and has gone to
the South Sea islands.”
“Yes, well out of the way. And are you intimate with Miss West?”
“No; we had a quarrel the last year she was at school with me, and did
not speak for months.”
“What was it about?”
“Oh, something trivial--hairpins, I think, or not passing the butter;
but I never really liked her. Still, for old times’ sake, I have
sometimes thought of calling. My aunt, Lady Mac Weasle, knows her, and
says the Wests give magnificent entertainments and go everywhere.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve seen her driving in the Park, beautifully dressed; but I am sure
she is painted. Perhaps some day I shall call, or rather get my aunt to
take me.”
“Well, dear, there is the first dressing-bell, so I must send you away.
Good-bye, for the present. I have enjoyed this little chat so much, you
have such a way of interesting one.” And really, for once, Mrs. Leach
was speaking the pure and unadulterated truth.