Married or single?, Vol. 1 (of 3)

Mrs. Harper would not hear of Madeline returning to London by night. No, it was a most shocking idea, and not to be entertained. She must remain until the next day at least, “and travel properly,” which meant that Miss Harper herself conducted the heiress to Riverside, and saw her off by the morning express, first class. It was in vain that Madeline protested that such precautions were quite unnecessary. She was anxious to save her fare, and return third; for, even with such wealth as one hundred and eighty pounds, every shilling would be required. But her voice was silenced. Miss Harper carried the day, took her late pupil to the station, gave her into the charge of the guard, and even went so far as to present her with a two-shilling novel, to wile away the journey (an attention that she hoped would bear fruit by-and-by). But Madeline did not need it; her own thoughts were sufficient to absorb her whole attention as she travelled rapidly homeward. She was sensible of some disquieting pangs when she thought of Laurence. Would he be angry when he heard that his wife had once more assumed her maiden name, and pretended that she was still Madeline West?

No, no; he must forgive her, when there was so much at stake. Her hand closed involuntarily on her purse, that precious purse which contained the first payment for the fraud, she had been compelled to practise. About five o’clock that evening Madeline’s quick foot was once more heard ascending the stairs, and with hasty fingers she opened the sitting-room door, and rushed into her husband’s presence. He was up and dressed—(at all but the worst of times he would insist on dragging himself out of bed and dressing)—seated at her table, laboriously doing some copying, with slow and shaky fingers.

It should here be stated, in justice to Mrs. Harper, that she had passed Madeline under the harrow of searching inquiries, and elicited the intelligence that she made her livelihood by law copying, and she was satisfied that it was a respectable employment.

“Ah!” exclaimed the astute dame, “I suppose Mr. Wynne put that bit of work in your way, did he?” Fortunately for her new rôle, Madeline could truthfully reply “No,” for it was not Laurence who had been the means of procuring this employment, such as it was, but Mr. Jessop.

“You will give me your permanent address, Madeline,” said Mrs. Harper, austerely. “That must be thoroughly understood.”

“But you have it already, Mrs. Harper.”

“Have you lodged there long?” she asked, feeling confident that no well-known counsel at the bar could outdo her in crafty questions.

“Fourteen months,” said her pupil, rather shortly.

“Then you must have been pretty comfortable?”

To which Madeline evasively replied that she had been quite happy. (No thanks to Mrs. Kane.)

And Mrs. Harper was satisfied. She had found out all she wished to know. Madeline’s past was as clear as daylight now! Was it?

And now behold Madeline at home once more, flushed with excitement, exhilarated by the change, by the money in her purse, and with her bright eyes, bright colour, and new hat, making quite a cheerful and brilliant appearance before the amazed and languid invalid.

He was looking very ill to-day. These close stifling rooms and sleepless nights were gradually sapping his scanty stock of vitality.

“Baby is asleep,” she said, glancing eagerly into the cradle. “And now I am going to tell you all about it,” taking off her hat and gloves, and pushing aside her husband’s writing materials, filling him up a glass of port, fetching a biscuit, and taking a seat opposite to him, all within the space of three minutes.

“You have good news, Maddie, I see,” he remarked as he looked at her, and noticed her condition of suppressed excitement, and her sparkling eyes.

“Good?—news, yes; and money!” pulling out her purse and displaying thick rolls of Bank of England notes, and some shining sovereigns. “Oh, Laurence dear, I feel so happy, all but in one little corner of my conscience, and I’m afraid you’ll be angry with me—about something—that is the one drawback! I don’t know how to begin to tell you—best begin with the worst. I’ve gone back to being Madeline West once more; they don’t know that I am married.”

“Madeline!” he ejaculated sternly. “You are not in earnest.”

“Now, dear, don’t; don’t speak till you hear all. You know how I left, how I travelled with the price of my rings. I arrived, was shown up into Mrs. Harper’s own room—where, in old times, girls were sent for to have bad news broken to them. She has had a stroke. Miss Selina is married, and Mr. Murphy is gone. The school is going down. So when Mrs. Harper had a letter from my father, enclosing five hundred pounds for two years’ expenses, and one hundred for me for pocket-money, it was a most welcome surprise, and they were anxious to find me, of course”—pausing for a second to take breath. “Don’t interrupt me, yet,” she pleaded, with outstretched hands. “Mrs. Harper gave me papa’s letter to read. He had lost money, he had been ill for a long time, he had no wish to write until he was again a rich man. Now he is a millionaire, and is coming home immediately, expecting to find me still at the Harpers’, and still Miss West. I am to be a great heiress. I am to keep his house; and, Laurence dear, he had heard a hint of you. I know it was that detestable gossip, Maggie Wilkinson. She had a cousin in an office in Melbourne, and used to write him volumes. And, oh, he says dreadful things—I mean my father—if I marry a poor man, as he has such—such—views. That was the word; and if I disappoint him, I am to be turned from his door penniless, to earn my own bread!”

“As you are doing now,” observed her listener bitterly.

“Yes!” with a gesture of despair; “but what is it—for you and me and baby—what are nine shillings a week? Then Mrs. Harper exclaimed, with great relief, ‘I see you are not married!’ pointing to my hand; and it all came into my mind like a flash. I did not say I was not married, I uttered no actual untruth; but I allowed her to think so. The temptation was too great; there was the wealth for the taking—money that would bring you health. I said I would steal for you, Laurence; but it was not stealing, it was, in a sense, my own money, intended for my use. Are you very angry with me for what I have done, dear?” she wound up rather timidly.

“No, Madeline. I see you could not help yourself, poor child, with starvation staring you in the face, and a sick husband and infant to support! Your father has views for you, has he? I wonder how this view”—indicating himself and the cradle—“would strike him. As far as I am concerned, it won’t be for long, and your father will forgive you; but the child Maddie—on his account your marriage——”

“Laurence!” she almost screamed, “don’t! Do you think the child would make up for you? Am I not doing all this for you—acting a part, clothing myself in deceit, for you—only for you? Do not tell me that it is all to go for nothing! If I thought that, I would give it up at once. My sole object is to gain time, and money, until you are yourself once more, and able to earn our living at your profession. Then, having done all to smooth the way, I shall confess my marriage to my father. If he renounces me, I shall still have you, and you will have me. But, without this money to go on with, to get the best advice, plenty of nourishment, and change of air, I don’t know what I should do?” And she surveyed him with a pair of truly tragic eyes. “It has come to me like a reprieve to a condemned criminal. Say, Laurence, that I have done right. Oh, please, say it!” putting out her hands, with a pretty begging gesture.

“No, dearest Maddie, I cannot say that; but I will say that, under the circumstances, it was a great, an almost irresistible temptation.”

“Then, at least, say you are not angry with me.”

“I can say no to that from the bottom of my heart. How can I be angry, when I myself am the cause—when it has all been done for me? The only thing is, that there maybe difficulties later on,” looking into the future with his practical lawyer’s eye. “There may be difficulties and a desperate entanglement in store for you, my pretty, reckless Maddie. You know the lines—

“At any rate, I shall make the best of my web,” said his wife, springing up. “I am going to take Mr. Jessop into my confidence.”

“Are you? Well, I suppose it will be best.”

“Yes, of course it will; I am going to write to him now. The very first doctor in London is to come and see you; and, as soon as you can be moved, you go into the country—that I insist upon.”

“I go into the country, do I?” with a grim smile. He was saying to himself, as he looked at her eager anxious face, that the only country he would ever go into now would be down to the old burying-place of the Wynne family. At least his relations could not refuse him admission there, or close that door—the door of the family vault—in his face.

And when he was at rest, under the walls of the old grey church, Madeline, as a widow, would be as much her father’s heiress and housekeeper as if she had never been a wife. In fact, her days of misfortune would enhance her domestic worth, at least she had learnt the value of money! As for himself, he was reduced to such a low ebb, mentally and physically, that death would be a release. To return to life—with a capital L—and to take up his heavy load, and plod on and on like an omnibus horse, was not an alluring prospect. Madeline’s future was safe, and he would rather be under the green sod, with all the dead and gone Wynnes—when, after life’s fitful fever, they slept well.

It will be seen from this that Mr. Wynne was in a bad way—too weak, too hopeless, even to care to struggle back to health. But Madeline had now sufficient energy for two. Hope pervaded her young veins, decision and prompt action were its outcome, and money was power.

In the first place, she scribbled a hasty note to Mr. Jessop, and begged him to call on them that evening without fail. This she despatched by a little boy, paying a precious sixpence to save time. Then she descended like a whirlwind upon Mrs. Kane, and begged to see her for a moment alone. She had made a bold resolve—there was no alternative. She was about to take Mrs. Kane—the insolent, the red-faced, the incredulous—into her confidence. She had Hobson’s choice, and, in fact, was at her wits’ end. Supposing inquiries were made, supposing Mrs. Harper wrote and asked awkward questions, and who so ready to answer them—unless previously prepared, previously bribed, previously flattered, by being let into the secret—as Mrs. Kane?

“Mrs. Kane,” said Madeline, knocking at that lady’s door, the door of her own sanctum, “I have something to say to you in private.”

“Bless me, Mrs. Wynne, how white your face is!” exclaimed the other tartly, having been just about to sit down to her supper—tripe and bottled stout. “Whatever is the matter now? Not the bailiffs—that I do hope.”

“No, no, no; quite the contrary.” Then, struck by a happy thought, “How much do we owe you, Mrs. Kane?”

“Ah, owe me!” rather staggered. “Let’s see, thirteen weeks, at ten shillings, is six pounds ten; then the coal——Here,” making a raid on a rickety writing-table, “I have it all down,” searching among some papers. “Yes, here it is. Coal, one pound one, kindling wood, matches, postage on a parcel—total, eight pounds, thirteen and sevenpence-halfpenny. Are you going to settle it?” she asked briskly.

“Yes, I am,” replied Madeline, now drawing out her full, her overflowing purse. What courage, what confidence were conferred by the very feel of its contents! Mrs. Kane gazed at it with eyes as distended as those of a bull frog, and with her mouth half-open. “A ten-pound note, Mrs. Kane.” And Mrs. Wynne tendered one as she spoke.

“So I see,” in a milder key. “I’ll get you change, and, though I says it as shouldn’t, it’s not everybody, you know yourself, who would have——”

“Yes, quite true, I know all that already, thank you, Mrs. Kane. Never mind the change just now, it can go towards the milk bill. What I wanted to speak to you about is to tell you a family secret—which concerns me.”

“A family secret! Laws, Mrs. Wynne!” suddenly seating herself with a plunge, and looking at her lodger with a countenance of gratified anticipation, “whatever can it be?”

“Promise, on your solemn word of honour, not to tell any one.”

“Oh, I’m as safe as a church; no one will get anything out of me”—mentally resolving to tell her niece and husband without any churlish delay—“unless it’s something not on the square.”

“It is quite on the square; you need not fear. Once I was a Miss West.”

“So you told me,” nodding her head.

“I was at school near Riverside for a good many years. My father is an Australian merchant—very rich.”

“Oh, indeed!” in a comfortable tone.

“But for two years he had not been heard of, we thought that he was dead, and I became a teacher at school. Mr. Wynne saw me there, and paid me attention, which displeased Mrs. Harper very much. I was sent away, and we were married. We have been here ever since.”

“So you have,” agreed Mrs. Kane, as much as to say, “And it’s highly to your credit!”

“Well, now my father has written at last; he is coming home, immensely rich. He has not heard of my marriage.”

“Laws, you don’t say so!” in a tone of admiration and astonishment.

“No one has heard of it, you see. I had no friends. And if my father knew that I had married a poor man, he would be dreadfully angry—at least at first. I went down to Mrs. Harper’s; she showed me his letter. She thinks I am not married, for,” holding up her bare left hand, “I pawned my rings to pay my railway fare.”

“Oh, my goodness! Did you really, now?”

“And she took it for granted that I was still Miss West. I confessed nothing. I told her I had lived here for fourteen months, that I worked at law stationery, and was very poor, and she was apparently satisfied; but, all the same, I firmly believe she will write and ask you all about me. Neither she nor my father must know of my marriage—yet. And now, are you quite prepared? I am Miss West, you know, who has lived with you since last January year. You understand, Mrs. Kane?”

“Oh yes!” with an expressive wink. “A nice, quiet, respectable young lady—never going nowhere, keeping no company, and I only wishes I had a dozen like her. I’ll give it her all pat, you be quite certain,” said her landlady, rubbing her bare fat arms with the liveliest delight at her own rôle in the piece. “But how about Mr. Wynne and the baby?” she asked slyly.

“You need not mention them. It will be all right later on, when I see my father and prepare him, you know. But now I am obliged to keep him in the dark. Mrs. Harper would not have given me my money, had she known. It’s only for a short time that I am forced to resume my old name, and I assure you, Mrs. Kane, that it’s not very pleasant.”

“Ay, well now, I think it’s rather a joke—something like a play at the Adelphi, where in the end the father comes in and blesses the young couple, and they all live together, happy as sand-boys, ever after. That will be your case, you’ll see!” emphatically.

“I hope so, but I doubt it,” returned her lodger. “I will be content if my husband recovers his health. Money is nothing in comparison to health.”

“Ay, may be so; but money is a great comfort all the same,” said Mrs. Kane, squeezing the note affectionately in her hand, and wondering how many more of the same quality were in Mrs. Wynne’s purse—“a great comfort!”

“Well then, now you know all, Mrs. Kane,” said the other, rising, “I can depend on you? You will be our friend in this matter, and, believe me, you will be no loser.”

“Certainly you can’t say fairer nor that, can you, ma’am?—though, as far as I’m concerned, I’m always delighted to oblige a lady for nothing, and I always fancied you from the first time I saw you in the hall, and you knocked over that pot of musk, and so Maria will tell you. As for the secret, wild horses would not tear it from me; and I’m that interested in you, as I couldn’t express to you, and allus was—you ask Maria—just as if you was my own daughter. I can’t say fairer nor that, can I?”

And opening the door with a wide flourish, she waved Madeline through, who, rather staggered by this unexpected compliment, passed quickly into the lobby, and with a farewell nod, hurried back to her family in the upper regions, and set about preparing tea. She also made preparations for the expected visit of their chief counsellor, Mr. Henry Jessop.