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

“He has not awoke since, has he?” asked the anxious mother, as, fully an hour later, she reappeared with a bundle and a basket. “No”—with a sigh of relief—“I see he is sound,” laying down her load as she spoke. “And now to begin at the very beginning, and to tell you everything, Laurence,” opening the basket and producing a bottle. “Here is some good port wine; I’ve carried it most carefully, so as not to shake it. You must have a glass at once—that is to be the beginning.”

“Oh, Maddie, what extravagance! When you——”

“Hush! please to listen,” exhibiting as she spoke a bunch of grapes, six fresh eggs, a jar of Bovril, and a packet of biscuits from her seemingly inexhaustible store, and laying them on the table.

“Then you are not going!” exclaimed her husband, in a tone of deep disapproval.

“Oh yes, I am,” she answered promptly, now opening the bundle, and shaking out a dress that she had pawned, and regarding it with an expression that showed it was an old and favourite friend. “Here is an A B C guide. I go to-night when I have left you comfortable, and baby asleep. Mrs. Kane’s niece has promised to look after you to-morrow, and to-morrow night I return, all being well.”

“Then they gave you a good price for the miniature and the medals.”

“Price!” she echoed indignantly. “They turned the miniature over and over, and sneered at it, and said they had no sale for such like; but they could not say that it wasn’t real gold and pearls, and they gave me eighteen shillings, and said it was more than it was worth, and ten shillings on the medals. Medals are a drug in the market.”

“Then how—where did you get money for your journey?” asked her husband, in a tone of amazement bordering on impatience.

“See here!” holding up both her bare hands. Very pretty hands they were, but now a little coarse from hard work. “Do you miss anything, Laurence?” colouring guiltily.

“Yes, your—wedding-ring—and keeper,” after a moment’s pause—a pause of incredulity.

“You won’t be angry with me, dear, will you?” she said coaxingly, coming and kneeling beside him. “It makes no real difference, does it? Please—please don’t be vexed; but I got a sovereign on them, and they are the first things I shall redeem. You must have nourishing food, even if I had to steal it; and I would steal for you!” she added, passionately. “I shall only take a single ticket—third class. Mrs. Harper will surely lend me a few pounds, and I will be able to leave ten shillings for you to go on with.”

“How can I be angry with you, Maddie?” he replied. “It is all my fault—the fault of my rashness, thoughtlessness, selfishness—that you have had to do this, my poor child! Oh, that snowy night was a bad one for you! I ought to have left you, and walked back.”

“Such nonsense!” cried his wife, whose spirits were rising. “I won’t hear you say such things! It’s a long lane that has no turning. I think—oh, I believe and pray—that I do see the end of ours! And now there is a nice roast chicken for your dinner. I left it with Mrs. Kane downstairs. She asked me if I had come in for a fortune? A fortune, indeed! It was only three and three-pence, but I told her that I believed that I had. Oh dear, oh dear, I hope my words will come true!”

Madeline’s packing was represented by changing her dress; her preparations were confined to brushing, rubbing, and inking her hat, mending her gloves, which, like the typical landlady, “had seen better days,” and to washing and getting up a pair of cuffs with her own hands.

“You look quite smart, Maddie,” said Laurence, as she completed her toilet, and came and showed herself to him.

“Yes; I don’t look so very, very poor, do I?”

“No-o,” rather dubiously. Then he added, with a smile, “No one who looks at your face will think of your clothes; and, indeed, Maddie, it is not fit that such a pretty girl as you are should be travelling alone, and third class, such a long journey.”

“Rubbish! rubbish! rubbish!” she answered emphatically. “I’ll wear a veil, if that will please you; and, indeed, no one will notice me. If they do, they will think I am some poor girl going to a situation. You think every one must admire what you thought pretty, you stupid Laurence; but I heard Mrs. Kane saying the other day that I’d grown ‘awfully plain.’ And it’s not my face Mrs. Harper will notice—you may be certain of that!”

Ten minutes later she had kissed the sleeping baby, taken leave of Laurence, given many whispered directions to Mrs. Kane’s niece, and a whole half-sovereign from her little fund; and then, with a beating heart, started on foot for a distant terminus. No, she would not take even a twopenny fare in a ’bus; she must save every penny, and she would have plenty of rest in the train. And so she had, of a sort, on the hard, upright seat of a crowded third-class carriage for eight mortal hours. There is not much repose in such a situation, nor much sleep to be obtained; and the train roared along through the inky black night, and tore through small stations with a shriek of contempt that shook them to their foundations, and nearly shook the teeth of the unhappy third-class passengers out of their heads. After a whole night’s travelling of this uneasy description, Madeline arrived at her destination—Riverside—and quickly alighted on the platform. One trouble was spared her—luggage.

She went and washed her face and hands, arranged her hair, shook off some of the dust in the waiting-room, invested fourpence in a bun and cup of coffee, and felt herself sufficiently fortified to encounter Mrs. Harper—but not Miss Selina. Another journey by rail, a short walk, and she found herself once more on the familiar doorstep of Harperton House, and rang timidly.

A strange maid (who knew not the delinquencies of Miss West) opened the door, and was evidently surprised to behold such an early visitor.

She informed her that Mrs. Harper was not down yet, nor Miss Harper, and showed her into the drawing-room, which was in process of being dusted. Here she waited for some time, whilst a sound of hasty footsteps and voices was very audible above her head. She looked around the room, and felt as if she had only quitted it yesterday. And oh! what a gap there was in her life between the last time she stood there, listening to Miss Selina’s spiteful remonstrances, and now! But the room was precisely the same. There was the best piano, on which she had had many a music-lesson. There was Alice Burns’ big coloured-chalk drawing, Amy Watson’s two water-colours; Florence Blewitt’s brass work, and Isabella Jones’s photograph screen—all votive offerings to the Harper family, and advertisements to pupils’ relatives who came to make inquiries about the school.

Presently the door opened, and Miss Harper—if we may dare to say so—burst into the room.

“Oh, Madeline!” she exclaimed, “so it’s you. She only said a young lady. How more than thankful I am to see you!” shaking hands as she spoke, and looking into her face with eager scrutiny. “You are thin—very thin; but thin or fat, you are welcome back. Come up at once to my mother’s room; she is dressing. She does not come down early now, and she wants to see you” (here was an honour). “Come, the girls are all in the schoolroom. The breakfast-bell will be rung in ten minutes,” turning to lead the way. Then she paused for a moment, with the handle in her hand. “You have heard about Selina?” she asked, with a red spot on either cheek, and a spark in either eye. “What! Have you not heard?” she added hurriedly.

Miss Selina! It was not of Miss Selina Madeline had come to hear; and she shook her head and answered, “No; is she dead?”

“Dead! She’s married. She married nearly a year ago,” returned her sister, impressively, “Mr. Murphy, the red-haired curate. She—she behaved atrociously. Don’t mention her to my mother, nor ask about her, on any account. We don’t speak,” flinging the door wide as she gasped out the last sentence.

All the reply Madeline made was “Indeed!” But nevertheless she felt a very lively satisfaction to hear that her old enemy was no longer an inmate of Harperton, and had gone away, like herself, in disgrace.

“You will find my mother rather changed,” whispered Miss Harper, as she rapidly preceded her upstairs. “She’s had a slight stroke. All the troubles and annoyance about Selina were enough to kill her, and she is not what she was. She never comes down till the afternoon; but take no notice.”

“Madeline!” cried the old lady, as Madeline entered her room and beheld her propped up in bed, in her best day cap. “This is too good to be true! I scarcely expected it, though I have advertised every day in the Times. Come here, my dear, and kiss me”—tendering a withered cheek. The old lady’s mind was certainly affected, thought her late pupil. That she who had been so ignominiously cast out should be thus welcomed back, and with kisses, was scarcely credible, unless viewed from the idea that Mrs. Harper had become imbecile in the meanwhile. But no, the reason of this astonishing change from the frost of neglect to the sun of welcome—affectionate welcome—was a very potent one indeed. It was nothing less than the prospect of a large sum of money.

Since Madeline had been banished, nothing had gone well. Her place had been taken by a governess who had actually required a salary, as well as civility, and had been a great encumbrance and expense. Then came Selina’s wicked tampering with her sister’s sweet-heart, a heart-burning scandal, family linen sent to the public wash, and a serious falling off in the school. Things were going badly. Every step was down hill—one girl leaving after another, and there were many vacant places at the long dinner-table.

At last came a letter—from Mr. West of all people! enclosing a large draft on his bankers, and announcing his return a wealthy and successful man. The draft was to pay for two years’ schooling, with interest up to date; but for a whole year Miss West had been elsewhere! How could they honestly claim these badly-wanted pounds? They had banished the man’s daughter, and the money must be restored.

Viewed now—in a softer light, through a golden atmosphere—Madeline’s deeds were excusable. The poor girl had been Selina’s victim, and therefore more to be pitied than blamed. Madeline must be sought and, if possible, discovered and reinstated as if there had been no hiatus, as if nothing disagreeable had occurred. And we have seen the “state of life” in which Madeline had been found.

“Letitia, do you go down now, and presently send up a nice breakfast for two—two fresh eggs—whilst I have a talk with dear Madeline.” Thus the old lady, who still held the reins of authority, although she had lost the use of her right hand; and Letitia, having previously rehearsed the whole “talk” with her mother, and fearing that “too many cooks might spoil the broth,” departed with meek obedience.

“Take off your hat and jacket, my love, and make yourself at home. I am sure you will not be surprised to hear—yes, put them on the ottoman—that your father is alive and well, and returning an immensely”—dwelling lovingly on the word—“rich man.”

Madeline’s heart bounded into her mouth, her face became like flame. So her presentiment had come true!

“Ah! I see you are surprised, darling: so were we when we got his letter, a week ago. Here, bring me that case, the green one on the little table, and I’ll read it to you at once—or you may read it yourself if you like, Madeline.”

Madeline did as requested, picked out a foreign letter in a well-known hand, and sat down to peruse it beside Mrs. Harper’s bed. That lady, having assumed her spectacles for the nonce, scanned her late pupil’s face with keen intentness.

This is what the letter said:—

Madeline paused, and shook the letter. No, no draft fluttered out.

“I have banked it,” put in Mrs. Harper, precipitately, who had been scrutinizing every change in the girl’s face. “It is quite safe.”

“Well, Madeline, tell me what you think of that?” demanded Mrs. Harper, wiping her glasses.

“I—I—am very glad of course,” she returned, her brain and ideas in a whirl; but now fully comprehending the cause of Mrs. Harper’s blandishments and welcome.

“We are so sorry, love, that we were so hasty about Mr. Wynne. It was entirely Selina’s doing, I do assure you. I am most thankful to see—especially after your father’s letter—that you did not marry him after all!”

“Not marry him,” echoed the girl, colouring vividly. “What do you mean?”

“I see you are not married by your hand,” pointing a long finger at Madeline’s ringless member. “Is not that sufficient proof?” she asked sharply.

Madeline was suddenly aware that she was at a crisis—a great moral crisis—in her life, when she must take action at once, an action that meant much. Her father’s letter, Mrs. Harper’s conclusion, her own dire want, all prompted the quick decision made on the instant. She would for the present temporise—at least till she had met her father, told him her story in her own way, and accomplished a full pardon. To declare now that she was a wife would be ruin—ruin to her, death to Laurence, for of course her father would cut her off with a shilling. She was aware that he had very strong prejudices, a grotesque adoration for rank and success, and a corresponding abhorrence of those who were poor, needy, and obscure; also that he was a man of his word. This she had gleaned out in Australia when but seven years of age. They had lived in a splendid mansion in Toorak, the most fashionable suburb of Melbourne, and an elderly reduced Englishwoman had been her governess. But because she had permitted her to play with some children whose father was in difficulties, who was socially ostracised, she had been discharged at a week’s notice, and Madeline had been despatched to England. Her father was peculiar—yes. In a second her mind was resolved, and, with hands that shook as she folded up the crackling foreign notepaper, she reassumed the character of Miss West!