CHAPTER XXIV.
AN UNEXPECTED HONOUR.
A dapper man-servant (hired) next came upon the scene, and his astonishment was no less profound, though more skilfully concealed. He looked politely at Madeline, and said in his most proper and parrot-like tone of voice, “Who shall I say, ma’am?”
“Say,” returned the young lady, giving her fringe a little pat, her chiffon frill a little twitch, and smiling slightly all the time, “say Miss West.”
“Miss West!” bawled the waiter, flinging the door open with a violence that nearly tore it from its ancient hinges, and then stood back, eager to witness the effect of his announcement on the company.
Madeline was scarcely less surprised than they were. She beheld a round table, decorated with flowers, wax candles, and coloured shades—really, a most civilized-looking little table—the room well lit up, its shabbiness concealed by the tender rose-coloured light, looking quite venerable and respectable, and, seated at table, Laurence and two other men—one of whom she knew! Horror! This was a great deal more than she had bargained for. She had never dreamt of dropping in thus upon a cosy little bachelor party!
And who shall paint their amazement? They were talking away, just between the soup and fish, and Wynne had been regretting the absence through illness of Mr. Jessop, whose vacant place awaited him. There had been a little professional discussion, an allusion to a big race, a society scandal, a commendation of some excellent dry sherry, and they were all most genial and comfortable, when the door was flung wide open, and “Miss West” was announced in a stentorian voice.
And who the deuce was Miss West? thought the two guests. All looked up and beheld a lady—a young lady—in full evening dress, and literally blazing with diamonds, standing rather doubtfully just within the doorway. Laurence Wynne felt as if he was turned to stone.
“Madeline!” he ejaculated under his breath. Madeline, looking like a fairy princess—but surely Madeline gone mad?
What could he say—what could he do? He might cut the Gordian knot by explaining, “Gentlemen, this beautiful girl, who has dropped, as it were, from the skies, is Mrs. Wynne—my wife”—if she had not heralded her entrance by her maiden name. He might have done this, but now, as matters stood, his lips were sealed. He must take some step immediately. His friends and the waiter were staring at him expectantly. They evidently thought that there had been a mistake.
“Miss West!” he said, suddenly pushing back his chair and rising. “This is, indeed, an unexpected honour. What can I do for you? There is nothing wrong at—at home, I hope?” now approaching her, and shaking hands.
“No, no,” trying to speak calmly, and casting wildly about for some plausible excuse. “I thought I should have found you alone.” Then, colouring violently, “I—I mean disengaged, and I wished to consult you on some—some family business.”
“If you will honour me by taking a seat at table, and partaking of our—er—bachelor fare, Miss West, I shall be entirely at your service afterwards,” he said, conducting her to a vacant place opposite his own. “May I introduce my friend Mr. Treherne”—(Mr. Treherne had seen her on the stairs, and hugged himself as he noted the fact)—“and Mr. Fitzherbert?”
“I think Miss West and I have met before,” said Mr. Fitzherbert, smiling and bowing as he rose simultaneously with Mr. Treherne, and then subsided into his chair. This was nuts. The beautiful Miss West coming quite on the sly to Wynne’s chambers—and Wynne such a staid and proper Johnnie too!—and finding, to her horror, company! It was altogether most peculiar.
However, Mr. Fitzherbert had his wits about him, and was full of society small-talk and presence of mind, and soon he and the lady were conversing vivaciously of mutual friends, and the awkward edge of this extraordinary incident had been blunted.
Soup was brought back for Miss West. The waiter waited as a waiter should wait. The dinner was well chosen and excellent (supplied from a neighbouring restaurant).
Meanwhile the good laundress watched the whole proceedings with her eye glued to a crack in the door, and suffered no look or gesture to escape her. She owed this to the whole of her acquaintance, for surely such a sight as she enjoyed was rarely seen. Three young bachelors, in evening dress, sitting by themselves so nice and proper, and then a grand young lady, in a beautiful dress and jewels, walking in unasked, and taking a place among them! What could it mean? It was surely not the thing for a lady—and she looked that—to be coming alone, and on foot, to chambers in the Temple, and especially to see Mr. Wynne, of all the quiet, reasonable-like men, who never looked at a woman! Oh, it beat all, that it did! And how grave he seemed, though he was talking away pleasant enough.
Thus we leave her, with her eye to the door, thoroughly enjoying herself for once in her life.
It was more than could be said for Laurence Wynne. Never had he felt so uncomfortable. What would Fitzherbert and Treherne think of Miss West? If the story got round the clubs, Madeline’s reputation was at the mercy of every old woman—ay, and old man—in London. What on earth did she mean by descending on him at this hour, and dressed as if she was going to the opera?
He stole a glance across the candle-shades. She was conversing quite at her ease with Mr. Treherne, who was looking all the admiration he no doubt felt—and no doubt Madeline was beautiful.
What a complexion, what eyes, what clean-cut features, what a radiant, vivacious expression—and all set off by youth, a good milliner, and diamonds.
“Who would dream,” he said, as he slowly withdrew his gaze, “that she was the same Madeline who, two years previously, had been Miss Selina’s slave, and had attracted his notice and commiseration in her darned and shabby black gown? or that she was the same Madeline who had pawned the very dress off her back not twelve months ago? She could not be the same.” He looked at her again. The idea of such a thing was grotesque nonsense. She, this brilliant being who had suddenly presented herself at his humble entertainment, had surely never been his hard-working, poverty-stricken, struggling wife. If she had, he could not realize the fact. This magnificent-looking young lady was a stranger to him. This was a woman—or girl—of the world.
There she sat, this charming, unchaperoned young person, dining with three bachelors in the Temple with as much sangfroid as if it were a most conventional and everyday occurrence.
The truth was that, the first shock recovered, the fair guest was actually enjoying herself extremely. She was extraordinarily adaptable. For one thing, she liked the risqué, unusual situation—her two amusing, clever, mystified supporters on either hand, who were doing their utmost to take it all as a matter of course, and to be unusually agreeable and entertaining. And she liked looking across the table at her husband’s handsome, gloomy face, and remarked to herself that this was positively their first dinner-party, and that it should not be her fault if it did not go off well!
Laurence’s silence and gravity implied that it was all very wrong; but it was, nevertheless, delightful. She felt quite carried out of herself with excitement and high spirits, and more than once the idea flashed across her mind—
“Shall I tell—shall I tell? Oh, it would be worth anything to see their faces when they hear that I am Mrs. Wynne!”
But Mrs. Wynne was not very good at telling, as we know, and, without any exhausting effort of self-restraint, she was enabled to hold her peace.