CHAPTER XXVIII.
A PORTIÈRE WHICH INTERVENED.
Mr. West was ably nursed, he was wiry, and he struggled back to a most trying, peevish convalescence, greatly hastened by Mrs. Leach’s assiduous attentions; and early in January he was ordered off to the Riviera without delay. He was to go to Nice, and, of course, he was not to go alone. Madeline would accompany him. What would Laurence say to this?
In her father’s present precarious state of health, she dared not tell him her news, it would be too great a shock; and yet she almost dreaded facing her husband with another excuse.
Laurence was not to be trifled with, still less her father. What an unlucky creature she was! she said to herself tearfully.
Between these two men, who had such claims upon her, what was she to do? Which was to be sacrificed, father or husband? And then there was little Harry.
And yet her father clung to her as tenaciously, as if he were a child, and could scarcely endure her out of his sight.
Circumstances put tremendous pressure upon her, circumstances in the shape of doctors, her father, and her fears; and she allowed herself, as usual, to drift.
It was quite settled that she was to go to Nice—in fact, there had never been any question of her remaining behind—and to stay there until May. She had no alternative in the character of Miss West, go she must; but in her character of Mrs. Wynne, how was she to act? What about her husband and son?
She dared not again venture a visit to the Temple, so she wrote a very loving pleading little letter, putting everything before Laurence in the best and strongest light, as seen from her own point of view, and imploring him to be patient just a little longer, until her father was well enough to hear the shock—and to live without her. To this letter she received no reply for ten days.
Then Mr. Jessop called; he was an occasional visitor at Belgrave Square. He felt a certain cynical pleasure in watching both “hands” in this curious game. It was ten times more interesting than the best novel going, or even the latest society play, so he told himself. To see little—no, she was not little, but young—Mrs. Wynne once, and to see her as she was now, was indeed a most startling contrast. To see Laurence working away like a horse in a mill, was another fine sight. And to behold a couple, once so devoted, so absolutely indifferent to one another, so totally divided by that great gulf, wealth, was the strangest spectacle of all!
Mr. Jessop occasionally dropped in on a Sunday afternoon, and paid his respects to Miss West and her father. A short time before their departure for the sunny South, he called to take leave and wish them “bon voyage.” It was one gloomy January afternoon. Mr. West was not visible, but Miss West received him and various other visitors in a snug, warm little drawing-room, one of a suite where she dispensed small talk, smiles, and afternoon tea. Mr. Jessop sat out all the other visitors with imperturbable resolution, and when the last had risen and departed, he brought his chair nearer to the fire, unasked, crossed his long legs, stuck his glass in his eye, and, after a momentary pause, said—
“And how does Laurence look upon this little expedition of yours?”
“He has not answered my letter; but, you know, silence gives consent,” was the smiling response. “Are you surprised?” and she awaited his verdict with smiling, upraised eyes.
“Well, frankly, I am.”
“You, under similar circumstances, would not be so complacent.”
“No; I should probably be up before the ‘beak’ for wife-beating.”
“Mr. Jessop!”
“Mrs. Wynne!”
“Hu-s-sh!” with a quick gesture of dismay.
“Well, I will ‘hu-s-sh!’ as you wish it; but it will be shouted on the housetops some day. How you have kept the secret for so long amazes me; even Wynne’s old friends don’t know of your existence. His own distant relations have actually reinstated him. They believe that he made a fool of himself with a penniless shop-girl or teacher, and is now a not disconsolate widower!”
This was a very nasty speech; but Mr. Jessop was in a bad humour. When he looked round this luxurious abode, and had seen Mrs. Wynne receiving homage and dispensing favours among a little court, and then recalled his old schoolfellow’s quarters, his ascetic life, his laborious days—his heart became hot within him.
“Why do you say such horrid things?” she asked petulantly.
“When did you see Laurence last?”
“I’ve not seen him for ages—centuries! Not since I dined with him in his chambers. I walked in and found him entertaining two men. Oh, I wish I could draw their faces!”
“I wish you could! I heard of that. You gave the staircase something to talk about. Laurence is on circuit now. I dined with him a couple of weeks ago. He is working very hard—too hard; but he won’t mind any one. I must say you are a pretty pair!”
“Thank you; it is not often that you pay me a compliment!” she returned, with a bend of her head.
“And Harry?”
“He is very well.”
“I must run down and see him when I can, as one of the duties of a godfather.”
“Yes; he is growing quite a big boy, and will soon be able to use your knife and fork.”
“I’m glad to hear it; but I should have thought he wanted some teeth first!” Then, as a clock chimed, “Hullo! that is half-past six, and I must go; and you are off next week, and go straight through to Nice wagon de luxe, and all that sort of thing?”
“Of course,” with a slightly defiant smile.
“Have you any message for him?”
“No, thank you; I’m afraid you would be an indifferent Mercury. No, I have no message. Good-bye.”
They shook hands rather limply, and he took leave. As the door closed on Mr. Jessop she gave a long sigh of relief, and was about to reseat herself, when her quick ear caught a sound behind a heavy velvet portière which divided the room from an inner sanctum; it was the sound of the dropping of a small article, such as a bangle or thimble, on the parquet. Prompted by a sudden and inexplicable impulse, she pulled aside the curtain, and Mrs. Leach, with a blotter in her hand and an expression of embarrassment on her face, stood revealed.
“I—I—was writing in there, dear, some urgent notes, and I have dropped my pet pen. It is one I am so fond of. Do help me to look for it, darling.”
Mrs. Leach was inclined to embonpoint and rather stiff.
“Oh, it is easily found!” said Madeline, picking it up after a moment’s search. As she handed it to its owner, who had now advanced to the full light, their eyes met. Madeline read in those uneasy, slyly scanning orbs that their owner had her suspicions, that this smiling widow had been listening behind the portière. Should she tax her or not?
Mrs. Leach was an adept at reading faces. She saw that Madeline distrusted her smooth lies, that Madeline was secretly terrified, that Madeline was eagerly searching her mind as to what she could possibly have heard; that it was a critical moment. Accordingly she made a bold move.
“I know what you think, dear,” she said, coming up to the fire and warming one foot—“you think I have been unintentionally eavesdropping.”
She had been eagerly listening, with every nerve strained, for ten whole minutes; but, alas! the portière was very thick, the sounds were muffled, and she had, unfortunately, caught no names. She was certain that she had been in every sense on the threshold of dear Madeline’s secret; but, alas! she had not got beyond that; had only caught a word here and there. The word “Hush!” something about “shop girl,” and “a widower;” something about “a staircase,” and a “compliment;” something about “a knife and fork,” and, lastly, two whole sentences, “How you have kept the secret for so long amazes me!” and “Have you any message for him?”
Whoever this him was, he was Miss West’s lover, the man whose influence enabled her to turn a deaf ear to every other suitor. Presumably he was not presentable. If Madeline would but marry him, or elope with him, the course would be open to her, she would easily step into her place. The main thing was to lull Madeline’s suspicions, to give her plenty of rope—in other words, opportunities for meetings—to pretend to see nothing, yet to allow nothing to escape her vigilance. This man—his name was Jessop—was in Madeline’s secret, the secret she had kept so amazingly! If she played her cards properly, she, too, would soon share it!
“I declare I did not hear a single word. I am a little deaf since I had the influenza; so whatever you were talking about is perfectly safe as far as I am concerned.”
Madeline made no reply, but came and stood before the fire, and her pretty, level brows were knit. She was endeavouring to recall her recent conversation, and as well as she could recollect, she had said nothing that incriminated her. She breathed more freely. The portière was thick—it was wadded; but, all the same, she did not believe her fair companion. Her mouth said smooth things; but her eyes had told tales. Her suspicions were aroused; but she, too, could play a part.
“Of course; no lady ever lends herself to eavesdropping, I know,” she said quietly. “Mr. Jessop and I were merely quarrelling; we often quarrel. He has a knack of rubbing people up the wrong way.”
“Oh, Mr. Jessop! is that his name? He is a most cynical, disagreeable-looking man. When did you first meet him, dear?”
“He called on me.” She did not add where—viz. in Solferino Place. “He is rather amusing when he is in a good humour.”
“What is he?”
“A barrister; a clever, idle barrister.”
“Oh, is he a barrister? Do you know, I rather like them. I wonder if he would take us over one of the inns, and to see the Law Courts and Temple? Wouldn’t you like to see it, some day?”
“No. I don’t think I should care much about it,” rejoined Madeline with studied indifference.
Could—oh, could Mrs. Leach have guessed anything? At any rate, she was getting hot, as they say in magic music; and, to put an end to such hazardous conversation, she went over to the piano and began to play a little thing of Grieg’s. Now that she suspected Mrs. Leach—handsome, well-mannered, charming, low-voiced Mrs. Leach—of wishing to play the spy, her terrified memory recalled many little items which she pieced together: how Mrs. Leach had a careless way of looking over all the letters, of hearing two conversations at the same time, of asking strange and seemingly stupid questions—especially about the last years of her residence at Harperton!
In the early days of Mr. West’s convalescence, when his appearance downstairs and his temper had been somewhat fitful, Madeline found herself one afternoon alone in the library with Lord Toby. He was talking of the theatres, and urging her to accompany him and Lady Rachel to the Haymarket.
“This beastly snow has stopped the hunting, and there is nothing to do but skate and go to the play. Why can’t you come to-night? Your father is pretty nearly all right; and Mrs. Leach will look after him. It’s a capital piece. Oh, I forgot!” and he paused; he had been walking to and fro, with his hands in his pockets.
“Forgot what?” looking up from her embroidery.
“That you’d seen it before.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, gazing at him with dispassionate calm.
“I mean that I saw you there, now I remember; but I didn’t see your chaperon! You needn’t look so stunned; you were with a good-looking chap, in a stage box. You sat with your back to the audience, too.”
“What are you talking about?”
“And you appeared to be delighted with the piece; but I thought your friend seemed a little bored. And, don’t you remember, I spoke to you in the vestibule? Who was he?”
“Oh yes! Looked rather bored, did he? Then surely you can guess who he was!” now smiling expressively.
“Not”—coming to a standstill—“not your——”
“Hush! Yes.”
“Well, I am blessed! He is a gentleman, anyway.”
“Thank you. I must tell him; he will be so pleased.”
“I mean that he looks clean-bred; not like——” and he stopped. “Of course I can easily find out who he is; but, honour bright, I won’t! I will forbear.”
“Then, I’ll take pity on your starving curiosity. His name is Wynne.”
“What, the writing chap?”
“Yes.”
“And you are Mrs. Wynne?”
“I am under that impression.”
“He must be a long-suffering sort of fellow, or——”
“Or what?”
“I was going to say something that might sound rude.”
“Oh, pray don’t hesitate on my account! I’ve often heard you say rude things; and one speech more or less does not signify.”
“Yes; and it may serve as a slight antidote to the large doses of flattery you are forced to swallow.”
“Come! Or what?”
“I was going to say, he does not care a rap about you. It’s a little way married men have, particularly in these days of emancipated womankind—especially wives. Does he care, Mrs. Wynne?”
“You want to know too much,” she answered, without raising her eyes. “Some day I shall make you acquainted with one another, and then you can ask him.”
“All right, then; I will. I suppose Mrs. Leach is going abroad with you?”
“Oh dear, no!” she replied, with unusual emphasis.
“Then she is not living here altogether?”
“Oh no! What an absurd idea!”
“She is a handsome woman for her age, although she will never see fifty again.”
“I think she will.”
“You mean that she will live to a hundred?”
“No. I mean that she is not more than thirty.”
“I should be sorry to be hanging since she was fifty!”
“Every woman is the age she looks,” said Miss West, sententiously.
“So be it; neither Mrs. Leach’s age nor looks concern me. You and she hit it off together pretty well, don’t you?”
“Certainly,” she answered rather loftily.
“Then that is all right!” in a tone of brisk relief.
“What do you mean?”
“Miss West, excuse me, if I repeat your own recent reply to me, you want to know too much.”
“If you imply——” she began, but hesitated, for at this instant the door was opened by a footman, and Mr. West entered, leaning on Mrs. Leach’s arm, whilst his valet followed with a supply of papers, rugs, and cushions. They formed quite an interesting procession.
END OF VOL. II.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.