CHAPTER IV.
THE LAST TRAIN.
The holidays commenced. The young ladies went north, south, east, and west to their several homes, and Madeline had the whole big schoolroom, and the much-disputed fire, absolutely to herself. She was monarch of all she surveyed, but she was nearly as lonely as Robinson Crusoe on the desert island. The Miss Harpers were not covetous of her company; nor was she ever bidden to the friendly luncheons or the merry little suppers which repeatedly took place. She, on these occasions, enjoyed(?) a plate of cold meat, or bread and butter, and a glass of water in the privacy of the schoolroom. There was no necessity, the Miss Harpers averred, to introduce her to their friends. It would be a mistake to spoil her; she was quite conceited enough. But Mrs. Wolferton had no such scruples: she called, she wrote, she persevered, she carried her point. She insisted on having Miss West to spend an occasional day with her. What a contrast to the schoolroom at Harperton House that dainty drawing-room, with its mirrors, pictures, easy-chairs, Persian carpets, exotic flowers, and genial Mrs. Wolferton knitting and talking and begging her “to make herself at home.” Then there was a tempting luncheon, a drive, a sociable dinner—which included Fred Wolferton, Mr. Wynne, and one or two others—finally, music and round games, in the midst of which would come the disagreeable announcement—“A servant for Miss West, if you please.” Fred Wolferton and Mr. Wynne invariably escorted her home all the same, leaving her on Mrs. Harper’s spotless doorstep; but not coming in, nor making any move in that direction—as Miss Selina angrily remarked from behind the drawing-room blind. Miss Selina had become very “cold” in her manner to Madeline—in fact, she was more than cold: she was actually and actively hostile—and glared at the unlucky pupil-teacher as if she were some kind of poisonous domestic reptile she had nourished in her bosom. Mrs. Wolferton’s praise, Mrs. Wolferton’s partiality for Miss West, did not please her; but, happily, the old lady was going away to the south of France to escape the east winds, and when she returned she would probably have forgotten her passing fancy! Miss Selina was good enough to judge others by her own standard.
One day there came tickets for the Theatre Royal at Riverside, for Mrs. and the Misses Harper, and Miss West: with Mr. Fred Wolferton’s compliments. He had not left home—and Mr. Wynne was still his guest.
“To go, or not to go?” that was a question which was debated with great spirit in Mrs. Harper’s own bedroom. They were only too willing to accept with pleasure; but what about that girl—must they take her also? There was no other alternative. If she had only a slight cold, or even a sty on her eye; but, unfortunately, she was never better in her life. They had no excuse beyond their own disinclination; go she must. Very grudgingly they broke the news to Madeline, as she sat over a slacked-down fire in the schoolroom, dividing her thoughts between a child’s story-book and Mr. Wynne—needless to ask which had the largest share. She could not help thinking a good deal of Mr. Wynne. It was wrong, it was foolish! Miss Selina would have declared that it was indelicate! Probably he never gave her a second thought. Her cheeks grew hot at the idea; but an inward voice whispered another tale. If he did not think of her, why did he always monopolize her at Mrs. Wolferton’s, usurping Fred’s place at the piano, why sit beside her at cards? Why had he begged permission to keep a flower? Why had he hinted that only for his poverty he would marry—or, at least, ask some girl to marry him—a girl who had no home? Who could that be? Dare she breathe, even to her inmost soul, that the girl’s name was Madeline West? If he had not thought of her, why did he tell her so much about himself, his dead father and mother, his rich, high, and mighty relations: relations who looked upon empty pockets as a crime; but who patronized him, asked him to dinner, and hinted that if he were to place himself on the cotton or soap markets, where heiresses were plentiful, he might, on the strength of his connections and his pedigree, secure one of these young ladies, and perhaps fifty thousand pounds!
But these suggestions he had not taken in good part, quite between ourselves; and, equally between ourselves, he asked himself what his grand relations would say if they knew he was head-over-ears in love with a pretty little pupil-teacher—a perfect lady, certainly, and not unworthy to bear the name of Wynne, but absolutely without sixpence? The poor child liked him too—he was sure of it. He could not offer her a decent home—could not presume to suppose that what was barely sufficient for one would afford a comfortable maintenance for two. Best leave her, if he could, in maiden meditation fancy free—leave her for some luckier fellow, leave his heart in her unconscious keeping. This visit to the theatre was to be positively the last meeting he would allow himself; and then for his dismal, solitary old chambers in the Temple, and work. Plenty of work is an excellent and healing medicine for any affection of a sentimental nature, so he had read, so he had been assured, and now he was about to test its efficacy.
The great evening came. With hot and trembling fingers Madeline made her modest toilet, donned her hat and cape, and awaited the rest of the party in the hall in a state of feverish suspense. She had rarely been inside a theatre in her life, and her heart was fluttering with happy anticipation. What a night this would be to look back upon! Henry Irving she had often longed to see, and now she was going to witness The Lyons Mail in company with Mr. Wynne. Oh, it was too much pleasure to be squeezed into one evening. If it could but be spread over three or four days, instead of being all compressed into two or three hours!
“Madeline!” said a sharp voice, that startled her from her delightful meditations, “just come into the drawing-room for a moment. I wish to speak to you!” leading the way into that dull apartment, lit at present by one dim gas-burner, and innocent of such extravagance as a fire. “I wish to speak to you,” seriously repeated Miss Selina, “about the preposterous way you are going on with Mr. Wynne! You are really quite shameless!”
“What have I done, Miss Selina? What do you mean?” she asked, breathless with horror.
“What have you not done? Flirted with him, run after him to Mrs. Wolferton’s, made yourself the talk of the whole place. Even the very servants have remarked it. Don’t imagine for one moment that he thinks of you as anything but a silly chit of a schoolgirl, who is head-over-ears in love with him, and whom he finds it amusing to draw out, and laugh at afterwards with Mr. Fred Wolferton.”
“Miss Selina!” cried Madeline, stung to the quick, turning white as death, and grasping the back of a chair for support, as she stammered passionately. “How dare you? How dare you say such things? You know they are not true. I went to Mrs. Wolferton’s because she was kind—because she asked me. I never ran after Mr. Wynne—never!”
“And pray what are you doing to-night?” with grim, ironical interrogation.
“If you think that I am running after him in going to the theatre, I can easily remain at home. I”—(oh, what a wrench was this! but her pride was roused)—“will stay at home,” removing her hat as she spoke. “The matter is easily settled.”
Not so easily as she supposed, for at this moment the sound of loud, cheery, masculine voices in the hall broke in upon them. The door was flung wide; enter Fred Wolferton, Mr. Murphy—(hush! you must not tell the bishop!) an elderly escort for Mrs. Harper; last, not least, Mr. Wynne. And although Madeline, with considerable embarrassment, firmly and positively assured every one that “she was not going,” as she could offer no sane reason for her sudden announcement, and was unquestionably dressed for the theatre, public opinion and public clamour carried the day.
She replaced her hat, in answer to an impatient signal from Miss Selina, and went; but the gilt had been removed from the gingerbread, and all the way in the train—they were ten miles from Riverside—she was pale and silent, and pointedly avoided Mr. Wynne, to Miss Selina’s great content. However, Mr. Wynne declined to be avoided. He ignored Miss Selina’s hints, and the vacant place next to her, which she patted invitingly, as much as to say, “Come and sit here, and be happy!” and seated himself at the other side of Madeline, whose eyes were straying over the theatre, and who, once the overture commenced, began to realize that she was enjoying herself extremely, and would not allow Miss Selina’s dreadful insinuations to spoil her whole evening.
Miss Selina, with tightly compressed lips and an angry glare in her little grey eyes, was aware that she had been publicly slighted. What is that line about “A woman scorned?” She felt capable of anything. Her rage against Mr. Wynne was as hot and as consuming as her bitter jealousy of Madeline West. Well, they should suffer for their intolerable behaviour, as she called it, meaning the simple fact of their sitting together, talking with much animation between the acts, and looking supremely happy. Yes, her feelings must have immediate relief. She would find a way to punish them; and, as she sat silent, her eyes fixed upon the drop scene, she was revolving a portentous plan in her own mind—a scheme that would rid her of her ex-pupil, and avenge her on the rising barrister by one swift blow—a scheme that would not be for the benefit of the smiling young couple—no, quite the reverse.
The orchestra was playing a wild Polish dance, its burthen full of sadness, despair, and weird, fantastic chords at one period; at another gaily frolicsome, and full of outbursts of mad mirth—an air that exercised a strange influence upon them, especially on Madeline, in her present state of highly strung nerves, and repressed mental excitement. She drank in that wild melody; it haunted her as long as she lived. When heard among other scenes, it always recalled this night—this momentous night, the very crisis of her existence. She gazed at the stage, at the big, red, mysterious curtain, the bent figures in the orchestra, the florally ornamented theatre, the gay company, with fans and opera-glasses, and asked herself, “Was it all real?”
At last the play was over; the actors had been called before the footlights and vociferously applauded, and had bowed themselves away. And now people began to move, to look about for cloaks and wraps and overcoats, and to hurry off, as if the place was on fire! The crowd was great. Outside it was snowing hard, and inside the crush was almost suffocating.
“I’ll look after you, Miss West,” said Mr. Wynne, eagerly, as they found a footing in the passage among hundreds of the recent audience.
“Very well. Be sure you do!” put in Miss Selina, with unwonted briskness. “We are certain to get separated. Look here, Madeline”—lowering her voice suddenly—“meet us at the bottom of the station steps. You know the place. Mind you are not late; it’s the last train!”
And with this injunction on her lips, she was borne away in the crowd, in her smart, pink opera mantle—once the property of the rich Miss West—and soon lost to sight.
“Let us wait until the rush is over, and take it quietly,” said Wynne, struggling vainly to look at his watch. “We will get a hansom, and be at the station in no time—before them, ten to one—for they are a large party.”
Inwardly he marvelled at Miss Selina’s arrangement. He was not aware that she had her reasons—well-thought-out plans—and he was too well satisfied to question the matter. After a little, when the crush had lessened, he made his way down to the portico, secured a hansom, and drove with his charge to the place of rendezvous, the foot of the steps—a covered entry, luckily, for the snow was falling thick and fast. They waited—it was bitterly cold—a chill little wind rose, and sobbed and wailed round them. Five minutes, and no one came to meet them. Ten minutes! still no one, and the hurrying crowd that had passed up had now entirely ceased.
“I hope they have not come to grief!” said Wynne. And, suddenly looking at his watch, he added, “I’ll tell you what—we can’t wait any longer, or we will miss our train. We must run for it as it is,” springing quickly up the steps.
Too late! Too late! The red light of the last train to Streambridge was just disappearing into the big tunnel. What was to be done? He stood for a moment irresolute. Yes; it was the last train, and it was gone. A cab was the first idea. Leaving Madeline, who was benumbed with waiting, and a good deal frightened, he hurried to the cab-rank. It was empty and void. He waylaid a passing cabby, and told him the state of the case.
“Ten miles in deep snow! Couldn’t be done, sir, at no price.”
The same story was repeated elsewhere. There was nothing for it but to go back to Madeline, who was now shivering over the dying fire in the ladies’ waiting-room.
“Well?” she asked, raising her face expectantly.
“No cab to be had,” he rejoined, with assumed sangfroid.
“No cab to be had!” she repeated, her eyes darkening and dilating with horror. “Oh, Mr. Wynne, can we walk?” Mad project!
“No. I fancy the best thing will be to stop here all night—I mean at the Railway Hotel—and go on by the first train in the morning. I will go to the landlady and ask her to look after you, and I will find quarters elsewhere. It will be all right,” he continued reassuringly. “Are you certain that Miss Selina said the foot of the steps?” he asked, as if struck by an afterthought.
“Yes; quite certain,” resolutely.
“Here!” he called to a sleepy porter. “Did you see a party looking for people by the last train—three ladies and three gentlemen?”
“Yes, sir; stout old party and two elderly ladies”—(oh, ye gods! if the Miss Harpers had heard him!)—“three gents. They came by the West Street entrance; they did seem looking—that is, the gents was—but one of the ladies said you were all right, and bundled the whole pack into a carriage. She seemed in a terrible flurry.”
“Well, we can do no good by waiting here,” said Wynne, at length. “Come along, there is nothing to be frightened at, Miss West.” (Miss West was crying quietly, and very much alarmed indeed.) “You will be back in time for breakfast. It was all an accident—a misunderstanding, and if there is any one to blame, or to be blamed, you must blame me.”
“I know they will be awfully angry,” said Madeline, turning her white face to his. “I don’t know what they will say!”
“Not angry, when I have explained everything to their entire satisfaction. I will go security that you will not get into any trouble. I will see Mrs. Harper myself.”
And, really, half an hour later, as Madeline sat with her feet on the fender of a luxurious bedroom in the Railway Hotel—a magnificent apartment to her benighted eyes—with a hot coal fire before her, and a cup of steaming coffee in her hand, she began to cheer up, and to take a brighter view of the situation. What harm was it, after all? Missing a train—nothing so very dreadful. She would only get a scolding, at the worst. Alas! she was but too well accustomed to scoldings!
But Laurence Wynne, as he fought his way to another hotel through the soft, spongy snow, with the collar of his coat turned up, and his head bent against the stinging sleet, looked graver than he had done when he was talking to his late companion. It was an exceedingly awkward business, and he had an uncomfortable conviction that Miss Selina was at the bottom of the situation. She had sent them to one entrance, and arrived at the other herself; had requested them to wait—and miss the train. There had been an expression in her eye that was distinctly hostile, as he had suddenly encountered it over the top of her fan. Selina Harper meant mischief—had laid a neat little trap into which he had artlessly tumbled. “However,” he said to himself, as he entered the coffee-room of a palatial hotel, “half the evils in the world are those which have never happened. No doubt the worst of the adventure would merely resolve itself into a bad quarter of an hour—for him—with Mrs. Harper.”