CHAPTER XXII.
MR. WYNNE’S VISITOR.
And meanwhile what of Laurence Wynne? His short, smart sketches had made a hit. He was becoming a man of mark in literary as well as legal circles, and was overwhelmed with invitations to dinners, luncheons, and “at homes;” for be it known that Laurence Wynne was looked upon with favourable eyes by not a few mammas and daughters as a clever, rising, good-looking young bachelor. Some had heard a vague rumour that there once upon a time had been a Mrs. Wynne, a girl whom he had married out of a lodging-house or restaurant, but who, fortunately for him, had died in the first year of her marriage. Some said this was not true, some said it was. All agreed with extraordinary unanimity in never alluding to Mrs. Wynne in his company. After all, in these days of feverish haste, a story is soon forgotten, and people have too much to do to waste time in turning over the back pages of other folks’ lives. The ladies had not been slow in picking up sundry hints and allusions to “Wynne,” as dropped across dinner tables by their husbands and fathers, and not a few hospitable families had made up their minds that they would cultivate Mr. Wynne.
In vain they were assured that he was not a society man and hated ladies—which, of course, was nonsense. He was busy and industrious, that was all; and now and then he did come out of his shell, and sit at their tables, and stand against the wall at their dances, and made himself so agreeable that he was figuratively patted on the back, and requested to come again; but he so seldom came again.
It was part of his duty, he told himself, to be on good terms with his august seniors—to respond to their first invitations, to make himself pleasant to their wives and daughters, hand tea-cups, turn over music, open doors, talk suitable commonplaces; but when any of these same young ladies sat down, so to speak, before him, and commenced to open the trenches for a flirtation, he began to feel uncomfortable. Long ago, before he met Madeline West, this sort of thing was well enough—but even then a little of it had gone a long way.
Now, with Madeline in the background, and amusing herself, no doubt very delightfully, and not thinking of him, he could not—no, he could not—like others less conscientious, laugh and exchange sallies and cross swords and glances with any of these pretty, sprightly girls, knowing full well in his heart that he was all the time that wolf in sheep’s clothing—a married man! And then he was critical at heart, and hard to please.
As he looked round the various groups at picnics and tennis parties—he now and then went for an hour—he saw no one who approached Madeline in any way—face, figure, grace, or gait—especially Madeline as he had last seen her—in her very fine feathers. Doubtless any of these girls would have made a more manageable wife, he thought to himself bitterly. Yes! she had now taken the bit completely within her teeth, and he was powerless to control her. She went and came and stayed away when she pleased, and for precisely as long as it suited her. Her desertion—it was that—was all in pursuit of his interests—his and the child’s. What a fool she must think him! She had evidently resolved to play the rôle of daughter first, wife next, and mother very much the last of all! Her neglect of him he could tolerate, but her neglect of her child made him excessively angry. She had wholly consigned it to Mrs. Holt, and lightly shaken off all a mother’s duties. She a mother! She did not look the part as she chattered fashionable gossip to those idiotic young men on Euston platform, and never cast a thought to the infant she was turning her back on in a certain country farmhouse. She had been away nearly four months, and she had written—oh yes, pretty frequently, but the tone of her letters was a little forced, their gaiety was not natural—perhaps the tone of his own epistles was somewhat curt. The relations between Mr. and Mrs. Wynne were becoming strained—a crisis was impending.
Among the departures from Kingstown on a certain date were Mr. and Miss West and suite, who duly arrived at Belgrave Square, and found London filling fast. Their arrival, however, was somewhat unexpected—the housekeeper had barely time to despatch her sister’s family back to Manchester, and the poor woman was compelled to put off an evening party for which she had issued invitations among her own set.
Mr. West had a great deal of business to transact, and spent most of his days in the city—and this was Madeline’s opportunity.
She lost no time in paying a visit to the Inner Temple, arriving on foot, plainly dressed, and wearing a thick veil. She was a good deal bewildered by the old courts and passages, but at last discovered Mr. Wynne’s chambers. Here she was received by an elderly, bare-armed, irascible-looking woman—with a palpable beard—who, after looking her over leisurely from head to foot, told her to “Go up to the second flight front. She could tell nothing of Mr. Wynne; he was in and out all day, like a dog in a fair.”
Further up the narrow stairs she came face-to-face with two gentlemen, who paused—she felt it—and looked back at her as she knocked and rang at the door of “Mr. Laurence Wynne.” Truly, such an elegant-looking young lady was not to be met about the old Temple every day; and never had such an apparition been seen on Mr. Wynne’s landing. The outer room was occupied by two clerks, who stared at the visitor in unqualified amazement. Here was something spicy in the shape of a client! Very, very different to the usual run. “A breach of promise,” was their immediate and mutual idea. Something more to the purpose than cranky old fogies fighting about rights of way, or an involved legacy case. This was a pretty girl, and a swell.
So much they noted with their sharp, semi-judicial eyes, as she stood timidly in the doorway and raised her veil.
One of them instantly bounded off his seat, and asked what he could do for her?
“Could she see Mr. Wynne?” she faltered, as her eyes roved round the outer office, with its great double desk piled with documents, its rows of law books ranged round the room on staggering, rickety shelves, its threadbare carpet, its rusty fender, its grimy windows, and last, not least, two bottles of stout, and a pewter mug.
Still, these two youths might be Laurence’s clerks. Could it be possible? Could it be possible that these immense piles of papers concerned Laurence? If so, he was getting on—really getting on at last. But what a horrible musty place! The very air smelt of dust and leather and law books.
“Mr. Wynne, miss, did you say? Very sorry, but Mr. Wynne is in court,” said the clerk, briskly.
“When will he be back?” she inquired, advancing and standing in the front of another door, evidently Mr. Wynne’s own sanctum.
“Afraid I cannot say, miss; he is to speak in the case of Fuller v. Potts—breach of contract. Any business, any message——”
But the words died upon his lips—this uncommonly cool young party had actually walked into Mr. Wynne’s own sitting-room.
“It’s all right,” she remarked carelessly, divining his horror. “Mr. Wynne knows me.”
And she went and sat down in his armchair, in front of a table piled with documents, all more or less neatly tied up and docketed.
There were numbers of letters under little weights. There was a law book, a couple of open notes, and all the apparatus of a busy legal man. She shrugged her shoulders and looked round the room; it was dingy and shabby (furniture taken at a valuation from the last tenant); the carpet between the door and the fireplace was worn threadbare, as if it were a pathway—which it was.
Another pathway ran from the window to the wall, which the inmate had probably paced as he made up his speeches. There was her especial abomination, horse-hair furniture, a queer spindle-legged sideboard, some casual old prints on the wall; certainly there was nothing in the room to divert Laurence’s attention. Outside there was no prospect beyond a similar set of chambers, a very ugly block of buildings, and one forlorn tree waving its branches restlessly to and fro.
She got up and glanced into an adjoining apartment. The clerks were not now watching her—Mr. Wynne did not tolerate idleness. This was his bedroom, a still barer scene. No carpet whatever, no curtains, a small iron bedstead, a big bath, a battalion of boots. Laurence, she remembered, was always extremely particular about his boots, and hated to wear them when patched; these were whole, well cut, and in good case. There was a sixpenny glass on the wall, a painted chest of drawers and washstand, also one chair. Spartan simplicity, indeed! What a horrible contrast to her own luxurious home! She closed the door with a little shudder, and as she did so a quantity of large, important-looking cards and envelopes, stuck about the dusty chimney-piece mirror and the pipe-rack, caught her eye, and she immediately proceeded to examine them with dainty fingers.
“Blest if she ain’t overhauling his invitations!” exclaimed one of the clerks, who, by tilting his chair back until it was at a most hazardous angle, caught a glimpse of what he and his coadjutor began to think was “Mr. Wynne’s young woman.”
“Her cheek beats all! Shall I go and interfere?” asked the first speaker, in an awestruck whisper.
“No; you just leave her alone,” said number two, who had the bump of caution well developed. “It ain’t our business; but I did think he was about the last man in the world to have a lady coming and routing among his things. There ain’t nothing that she’ll find as will make her any wiser,” he concluded contemptuously.
But here he was mistaken! She discovered a great deal that surprised her much—very much. Here were cards from old judges and stupid law fogies, requesting the pleasure of Mr. Wynne’s company at dinner. That was easily understood. But there were several invitations to entertainments to which she and her father had been bidden! and also, what was the strangest thing of all, blazoned cards of invitation to houses to which her father had not been able to obtain an entrée, smile he never so assiduously on the smart or noble hosts. She stood for several minutes with one of these precious cards in her hand, and turned it over reflectively as she recalled the desperate and unavailing efforts of her parent to obtain a similar honour—the toadying, the flattery, the back-stair crawling that it made her crimson to recall! And, such is poor human nature—poor, frail human nature!—this bit of pasteboard did more to raise her husband in her estimation than all the briefs she saw piled upon his desk. She now began to contemplate him from a new point of view. Hitherto she had been very fond of Laurence—in a way—her own way. He had been good to her when she had no friends, he had borne their poverty with wonderful patience. Yes, certainly he had. But she had thought—rather resentfully at times—that a man without some preparation for such a rainy day as they had experienced ought not to have married; he should have left her as he found her. She did not hold these views at the time. She liked Laurence better than any one, all the same; but the horrible intimacy of dire want had bred—well, yes, a little contempt; his illness, his helplessness had made her put herself somewhat above him in her own secret thoughts. She (for a time) had been bread-winner and house-band, and well and bravely she had struggled at that desperate crisis; but, alas! that it must be recorded, riches had spoiled her. She had inherited a luxurious, pleasure-loving nature, which cultivation had fostered, until, from a small and scarcely noticeable plant, it had grown into an overwhelming jungle! The longer she lived in her father’s home the less disposed was she to return to her own modest roof-tree; and especially, looking round with a wry face, to such a place as this! She was now necessary to her father. He was something (he said) of an invalid; whilst Laurence was young and strong. Every day she was hoping to see her way to making the great disclosure, and every day the chance of making that disclosure seemed to become more and more remote. Laurence was evidently well thought of in influential circles, and, “of course, Laurence is of good family. Any one can see that at a glance,” she mentally remarked; “and, no doubt, his own people had now taken him by the hand.”
The discovery that he moved in a set above her own had raised him in her opinion. Latterly she had been looking down on Laurence, as already stated—perhaps only an inch or so, but still, she placed herself above him. He had drawn a great and unexpected prize in the matrimonial lottery, but he scarcely seemed to realize the value of his treasure! She had bracketed Laurence mentally with obscurity, shabbiness, and poverty, and had a vague idea that only through her means could he ever emerge into the sunshine of prosperity. She had a kind of protecting affection for him, dating from the days when she had starved for his sake, and made his bed and his beef tea, and washed his shirts. She looked down upon him just a little. It is possible to be fond of a man and to entertain this feeling. And now Laurence’s busy clerks, and these coroneted envelopes had given her ideas a shock. She went over and stood in the window, and drummed idly upon the small old-fashioned panes, where not a few names and initials were cut. As she stood thus—certainly a very pretty figure to be seen in any one’s window, much less that of an avowed anchorite like Laurence Wynne—a young gentleman sauntered to the opposite casement, with his hands in his pockets and his mouth widely yawning, as if he were on the point of swallowing up the whole premises. He paused in mute astonishment, and gazed incredulously across the narrow lane that divided the two buildings. Then Madeline distinctly heard him shout in a stentorian voice—
“I say, Wallace, come here, quick—quick, and look at the girl in Wynne’s window! My wig, ain’t that a joke?”
On hearing this summons she instantly backed out of sight, and had the amusement of seeing three heads peering across, vainly endeavouring to catch a glimpse of the promised apparition. However, they saw her depart—although she was not aware of the fact—and they were highly pleased with her figure, her walk, and her feet, and took care to tell Mr. Wynne of their gratifying and flattering opinion, and to poke him in the ribs with a walking-stick—not as agreeable or facetious an action as it sounds—and to assure him that “he was a sly old bird, and that still waters run deep, and that they had no idea he had such good taste;” all of which witticisms Mr. Wynne took in anything but good part, especially as he could not tell them that the lady upon whom they passed such enthusiastic encomiums was his wife. Indeed, if he had done so they would only have roared with laughter, and flatly refused to believe him.
Madeline waited three-quarters of an hour, and then made up her mind to return home. As she walked through the outer office, once more thickly veiled, the alert clerk sprang forward to open the door. As he held it back, with an inky hand, he said, with a benevolent grin—
“When Mr. Wynne comes back, who shall I say called, miss?”
Madeline hesitated for a moment, and then, turning to the youth in her most stately manner, said—“Say Miss West,” and having thus left her name, with all due dignity she passed through the door with a slight inclination of her head and walked downstairs.
She met a good many cheery-looking young barristers, in wigs and flyaway gowns, as she passed through the precincts of the inns, and wondered if she would come across Laurence, and if she would recognize him in that funny dress. For, of course, he wore a wig and gown too; but he had always kept them in his chambers, and she had never seen them. But she did not meet Laurence—so she took a hansom, did a little shopping in Bond Street, and then got home just in nice time for afternoon tea.
As she sat sipping it in her luxurious tea-jacket, and with her feet on the fender-stool, Mr. Wynne returned home, tired, hoarse, and cold. His fire was out. And, moreover, there was no sign of his modest evening meal.
“Confound that old hag downstairs!” he muttered.
“Please, sir,” said one of the clerks who had been busy locking up, and who now followed him into his sanctum, “there was a party to see you while you were out—a party as waited for a good bit of an hour.”
“Well, well, couldn’t you have dealt with him?” impatiently. “What did he want?”
“It was a lady,” impressively.
“A lady!” he echoed. “Oh yes, I know, old Mrs. Redhead—about that appeal——”
“No, it was not; it was a young lady.”
“Oh, a young lady?” he repeated.
“Yes, and she bid me be sure to tell you,” embroidering a little to give colour to his story, “as she was very sorry not to see you, and to say that Miss West had called.”
“Miss West? Are you sure she said West?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take an oath to it, if you like.”
“All right, then. Yes, yes, it’s all right. You can go,” dismissing him with a wave of his arm, and, suddenly pitching his wig in one direction and his gown in another, he sat down to digest the news.
So Madeline had come to beard him in his den. What did it all mean? and did she intend to return?
For fully an hour he sat in the dusk—nay, the darkness—pondering this question, forgetful of fire, light, and food. He would have liked to have cross-examined his clerk as to where she sat, and what she said; but no, he could not stoop to that; and then his mind reverted again to that crucial and as yet unanswered question—“Did she intend to come back?”