CHAPTER XXVII.
A PROMISE POSTPONED.
“A telegram for you, sir,” said one of the clerks to Laurence Wynne, the following morning. Telegrams were a common arrival; but instinctively he felt that there was something unusual about this one, as he tore it open and glanced over it.
“My father is dangerously ill. Impossible to fulfil promise. Writing.”
“I knew it,” he said, as he crumpled the paper in his hand, then smoothed it and read it over again. “No,” to the clerk, who had a bet on an imminent big race, and had gathered alarm from Mr. Wynne’s expression; “no, Stevens; there is no answer.”
“Mr. West had come in and gone to bed,” so Miss West was impressively informed by the butler. Yes, he had inquired for her, and he had told him that, to the best of his belief, she was spending the evening with Lady Rachel.
Madeline breathed again freely, and hurried up to her own room, almost afraid of encountering her fussy and inquisitive parent on the stairs, and being rigidly questioned then and there.
But Mr. West had not been feeling well, and complained of his chest and breathing, and had gone straight to bed, so said Josephine. Consequently there was no chance of his loitering about in passages, awaiting her, and catching cold.
Madeline sat over her fire, for a long time, wondering how she could bring herself to tell him, and what would be the result of her great piece of news. It must be told—and told to-morrow; Laurence was evidently serious. She had not known till now that Laurence could be hard, stern, and immovable. Well—well—she wished the ordeal was over, and well over; this time to-morrow it would be a thing of the past.
“Perhaps, nay, most likely,” she said to herself half-aloud, “this is the very last time I shall sit at this fire; the last time I shall have a maid to lay out my things and brush my hair. Heigho! I wish—no—no—I don’t wish I had not married Laurence, but there is no harm in wishing that he was rich!”
Madeline’s terror of her inevitable interview kept her awake for hours; her heart beat so loudly, that it would not suffer her to sleep, and it was really morning when she fell into a troubled doze, from which she was aroused by Josephine with an unusually long face, and no morning tea in her hand.
“Mademoiselle,” she said, “your father is very ill, so his man says. The doctor has been sent for. They think he has got inflammation of the lungs.”
Madeline sprang out of bed, huddled on some clothes, and went at once to her parent’s room. He was very ill—in high fever, his breath coming in quick labouring gasps. It was, as Josephine had said, inflammation of the lungs, and the doctor added, “a very sharp attack.” It had come to a crisis with extraordinary rapidity. It was, he admitted, a grave case; he would like another opinion, and two hospital nurses must be procured at once. How quickly every alleviation, every possible remedy for sickness, every luxury, flows into a rich man’s sick-room!
Was he dangerously ill? asked Madeline, with bated breath.
“Well, there was always a danger in these sudden attacks, and Mr. West had lived a hard life and taken an immensity of wear and tear out of his nerves and vitality. His heart was weak; but still, he had pulled people through worse cases, and she must not think that because her father was seriously ill he was bound to—to——” and he left her to fill in the blank herself, not wishing to hint at that ugly word—death.
And thus was Madeline’s confession postponed sine die, and Madeline felt that she had been reprieved. Yes, the personal fascination of Laurence’s presence had already faded. She wrote a long affectionate letter, and explained the state of the case to Laurence, and sent him constant bulletins of her father’s progress, and except for one flying visit to the Holt Farm and once to church on Sundays, she never left the house for the whole month of November. However, she was cheered in her monotonous duties by the company of Mrs. Leach, who, on hearing of dear Mr. West’s illness, had written from Brighton and volunteered her services to her darling Madeline. Then she had arrived in person, and urged her request with persistence. She would look after the house, see callers, write notes, and leave Madeline unlimited time to spend with the dear invalid.
At first Mr. West, fretful and weary, would not hear of her arrangement. It was one thing to look into the fair widow’s eyes and hold her hand and listen to her flatteries, when in good health, on an idle autumn day; it was another to have her coming and quartering herself thus on a sick house. However, after many messages and intrigues and excuses, Madeline gave way. She was weak, the besieger was strong, and she begged her father to accept the proffered favour.
“I cannot get rid of her, dear. She is determined to come, and, after all, you won’t see her, you know.” But here she reckoned without her guest.
In less than a week Mrs. Leach was frequently smoothing the sick man’s pillow. She paid him a little visit daily, to which he actually looked forward. She told him all the latest news, she flattered him, and she made an agreeable object in the sick-room, with her charming gowns and handsome face.
After all, she took no part in the management of the house, nor did she see visitors, or write notes. She was (she said) so stupid about domestic matters. It seemed to Madeline that their pre-arranged rôles were exchanged; she kept to her usual duties as housekeeper and mistress of the establishment, and Mrs. Leach gave more and more of her time to the sick-room. She had a pleasant voice which never tired, and read aloud to the invalid for hours. She made him his afternoon tea with her own fair hands, and always took a cup with him. Indeed Mrs. Leach cruelly maligned herself when she called herself stupid; on the contrary, she was an excessively clever woman, twice as worldly wise as her pretty Madeline. In her heart of hearts, she had determined to be Madeline’s stepmother; but Madeline must marry, she would prefer the house to herself, and she looked round the gorgeous yellow drawing-room with the air of a proprietor, and indeed had already mentally altered the arrangement of the furniture! Why did not Madeline accept one of the gilded youths who fluttered round her? There was some story in Madeline’s past, and if she could not steal the key to her skeleton cupboard, she was determined to pick the lock, for she had had a glimpse through the keyhole—and there was something inside! This glimpse had been afforded her by means of a young lady who had stayed at the same hotel at Harrogate, a Miss De Ville, who had been for several years at the same school as the lovely Miss West. Crafty Mrs. Leach affected a very faint acquaintance with Miss West but a very warm interest in Miss De Ville and her school days, and even went so far as to ask her in to tea in her own little sitting-room, and showed her the photographs of her cousins, the Countess of Cabinteely and the Honourable Mrs. Greene-Pease.
“And so you were at school with Madeline West, the Australian heiress?” she said.
“Yes, for several years; the last year and a half she was a pauper—a pupil-teacher who received no pay—and I do believe wore Miss Selina’s old shoes.”
“How extraordinary!”
“Yes; her father never paid for her, though for years before he had paid very highly. She learnt everything, even swimming and riding, and had most lovely clothes. Then he disappeared. However, he has bobbed up again with quantities of money, by all accounts—at present.”
“And when he came home was he not ashamed of himself? What excuse had he when he found his daughter in such a condition?” demanded Mrs. Leach.
“I don’t know; he did find her there. But this is the funny thing: she had been sent away in disgrace, so it was whispered, one Christmas holidays, and was absent for a good while.”
Mrs. Leach opened her great dark eyes and exclaimed, “Good gracious! Where was she? What had she done?”
“Well, it happened in the holidays, you see, and just afterwards there was a great piece of fuss about Miss Selina’s marriage and quarrel with Mrs. Harper, so that put the thing aside; but we did hear through the servants,” and here she had the grace to redden, “that Miss West had ran away from school.”
“And was that all?”
“Well, Mrs. Leach, don’t you think it a good deal?”
“Of course, of course!” impatiently, “shocking, abominable! But were there no details and no particulars—no reason given for her escapade?”
“No; and Mrs. Harper and Miss Letitia, when I asked them plump out one day, when I was staying in the neighbourhood and was having supper with them, denied it most emphatically. They were quite angry.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Leach, with a gasp of disappointment. “Hushed it up for the credit of the school, eh?”
“No, they said Miss Selina had made dreadful mischief, and been the cause of Madeline being sent away for a little time; but we have never heard Miss Selina’s version of the story,” she added expressively.
“Where is she now?”
“Oh, she married a clergyman much younger than herself, and has gone to the South Sea islands.”
“Yes, well out of the way. And are you intimate with Miss West?”
“No; we had a quarrel the last year she was at school with me, and did not speak for months.”
“What was it about?”
“Oh, something trivial—hairpins, I think, or not passing the butter; but I never really liked her. Still, for old times’ sake, I have sometimes thought of calling. My aunt, Lady Mac Weasle, knows her, and says the Wests give magnificent entertainments and go everywhere.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve seen her driving in the Park, beautifully dressed; but I am sure she is painted. Perhaps some day I shall call, or rather get my aunt to take me.”
“Well, dear, there is the first dressing-bell, so I must send you away. Good-bye, for the present. I have enjoyed this little chat so much, you have such a way of interesting one.” And really, for once, Mrs. Leach was speaking the pure and unadulterated truth.