Married or single?, Vol. 2 (of 3)

Miss West returned from her drive. She had been to Lord’s to see the Oxford and Cambridge cricket match. She had been surrounded by admirers, like flies round a pot of honey, and had the most eligible partis of the season endeavouring to win their way to her good graces as she promenaded up and down between the innings, and partook of tea and strawberries in the tents; and Lady Rachel (who had her own diversions) looked on and said to herself, “That Madeline was becoming much too run after, and Tony would have to mind what he was about.” Meanwhile, Mr. West, for whose society there was no competition, hugged himself with joy, as he saw a baronet and a baron approach Madeline in turn. This was precisely as it should be! Then he went up to Lord Tony and said, “I say, Tony, wasn’t that the Duke of Margate I saw you talking to just now—a funny old Johnny, with a shabby hat and red face?”

“Ye-e-s—I—I believe so,” shrinking instinctively from what he knew was to follow—as per usual.

“Then just, when you get a nice little opening, introduce me, there’s a good fellow. Watch him when he comes out of the long tent; he is having tea with the FitzMorse Montagues. I’ll do as much for you another time.”

Lord Tony dreaded these demands. He even went so far as to hide from Mr. West, or to absent himself altogether from gatherings where they were likely to meet. He had introduced his sister to the Wests. He liked Madeline immensely. His aunt, Lady Clapperclaw, had called, and Miss West had got cards from a few good houses, but he really drew the line at presenting “the old squatter,” as Mr. West was nicknamed by all his acquaintances. People did not like it. They glared fiercely when this dapper, well-dressed, white-spatted, white-hatted little person was introduced to them—a man who bowed and talked, and talked and grinned, exactly like a toy monkey! Confound Tony Foster, who the deuce was this infernal little cad? What was Tony about? He was always mixed up with a second-rate set, but why thrust his shoddy friends on them? However, when it came to be hinted that the “squatter” was rolling in money, and dying to spend it—literally panting to give entertainments of the costliest description—a second Monte Cristo, with a spirit of unbounded generosity and one lovely daughter—matters took a different complexion. Mr. West was elected to a couple of good clubs, some visiting-cards and invitations were left on Mr. and Miss West by footmen who had descended from coroneted landaus. Ladies with slim, smiling, scapegrace sons called on the heiress. Fast young married women, who looked forward to dances and all manner of festivities, called (and made their friends leave cards). Young men who had seen and admired Miss West got introduced, and dropped in on Sundays. Lord Moneycute, an elderly baron, who had long been looking for a wife with money, also Sir Crete Levanter, called—and they subsequently dined—frequently at 365. Many people whom the ignorant colonial thought smart, grand, and distinguished, called; but it was not all gold that glittered; there was a great deal of brass about some of these visitors! On the other hand, pretty mammas, with daughters who were in the best set, set their faces against these parvenus. Mammas with rich and titled sons were equally stand-off. One or two great ladies, who had been introduced, as it were, accidentally to Miss West, cut her at once.

But the Wests were as yet ignorant of the lights and shades of London society, and they were both—Mr. West especially—perfectly satisfied that, though not in the Marlborough House set, they were close upon its borders.

“A gentleman had called to see her,” murmured Miss West languidly, as she drew off her gloves on the threshold of the morning-room. “Did he leave his card?”

“No, ma’am, he did not; he said he had forgotten it.”

“And he asked for me—not for Mr. West?” she continued indifferently, glancing at her parent, who was rapidly turning over a pile of notes, and picking out those emblazoned with a coronet.

“I’ll tell you who it was,” he broke in; “it was Lord Maltravers. He came about that macaw he promised you.”

“No, sir,” put in Jeames, firmly but respectfully; “it was no gentleman I ever saw before—certainly not Lord Maltravers—though he might have been a lord for all I know to the contrary.”

“It wasn’t a tradesman?”

“Oh no, sir!” most emphatically.

“What was he like?” inquired Madeline, opening a letter very deliberately as she spoke, her thoughts very far away from Laurence.

“Well, ma’am, he looked quite the gentleman. He was tall, about my ’ight” (complacently), “very dark eyes, a short beard—what you’d consider a ’andsome young man. He carried a queer-looking stick with a ivory top, and he seemed disappointed as you were not at home!”

“A queer-looking cane with an ivory top, and he seemed disappointed!” The letter fluttered out of Madeline’s hands, and fell to the ground, as the unconscious Jeames thus blandly announced that the visitor had been her husband! She was glad to stoop quickly, and thus hide her face, with its sudden increase of colour. Laurence had come up to see her! What rashness! What madness!

“Well!” exclaimed her father, looking at her sharply, “have you made out your mysterious visitor, eh?—eh?—eh?”

“I think he must have been the brother of one of my school-fellows from the description,” she said, with wonderful composure, tearing open another letter as she spoke.

“Humph!” grunted Mr. West, in a tone that showed that school-fellows’ brothers were not at all in his line.

“Here is an invitation to Lord Carbuncle’s for Thursday week,” said his daughter, dexterously turning the current of his thoughts into a much less dangerous channel, and holding out the note for his perusal.

“Thursday week. Let’s see; what is there for Thursday week, eh?”

“We dine with the Thompson-Thompsons in Portland Place.”

“Oh dear me, yes, so we do,” querulously. “What a confounded nuisance!” in a tone of intense exasperation. “Can’t we throw them over?”

But his daughter gave him no encouragement, knowing full well the enormity of throwing people over when a better engagement presented itself, and that such proceedings were not countenanced by good society in Vanity Fair.

So Mr. West (who was cheered by another coroneted invitation-card) was fain to submit with what grace he could muster.

The next morning Miss West resolved upon a bold step. She pleaded a headache as an excuse from attending Sandown, and as soon as she had seen her parent safely off the premises, she hurried upstairs, dressed herself very plainly, put a black veil in her pocket—also a well-filled purse—and, walking to a short distance, took a hansom for Waterloo Station. This time she travelled first class, of course, and hired a fly to take her to the farm—at least, to the lane leading to the farm—and there to wait, in case Mr. Holt was unable to drive her back. She desired to give every one an agreeable surprise.

Mrs. Holt, who was in the kitchen shelling peas into a yellow bowl, gave a little scream when she beheld Mrs. Wynne standing on the threshold, between her and the sunshine, and, upsetting half the pods, rushed at her hospitably, wiping her hands on her apron, and assuring her that “she was more welcome than the flowers in May. Baby was well, and growing a rare size, but Mr. Wynne was out; he and the farmer had gone away together just after breakfast, and would not be back till late, and did ever anything happen so contrary?”

Her square brow knit into lines of disappointment when the young lady, in answer to her eager queries, informed her that she was not come to stay—that, in fact, she was going to Ireland in two or three days with her father and a party of friends. He had taken the shooting of a large estate in the south, and was most anxious to inspect it.

“Ay, dearie, dearie me!” said Mrs. Holt, after an eloquent pause, “and what will Mr. Wynne say to that? I’m thinking he will not be for letting you go,” and she shook her head dubiously.

This was precisely the subject that Madeline had come to discuss with him, and he was away for the day. How excessively provoking and tiresome!

Mrs. Kane had been won over with money, Mrs. Harper with valuable presents, and the hint of an invitation to stay at Belgrave Square. There remained but Laurence to deal with. He really must learn to be patient—to wait for the auspicious moment when, having gained the whole of her father’s confidence and affection, he began to realize that she was so absolutely necessary to his happiness and to his social success that he could never spare her. Then, and not till then, would she throw herself into his arms and confess to him that she was married to Laurence Wynne. Laurence and the baby would be brought to Belgrave Square in triumph, and share her lot in basking in the sun of wealth and luxury. This was Mrs. Wynne’s nice little programme, and ten times a day she repeated to herself this formula—“Laurence must wait.”

She kissed her little boy, and praised his rosy cheeks, and asked many questions about her husband, and was so surprised to hear that he wrote for hours and hours; but Mrs. Holt remarked that she took no interest now in the chickens, calves, or dogs—or, what she once found irresistible, the dairy!

Also Mrs. Holt’s quick woman’s eye did not fail to notice her blazing rings when she pulled off her gloves, her valuable little wristlet-watch, which she consulted nervously from time to time, her plain but expensive dress, that rustled when she moved. Ah! she could see—although she tried not to show it—that Mrs. Wynne had changed. Her mind was possessed now by riches, and he, poor young man, would never be able to keep her contented, now she had had the taste of money, and knew what it was to be a great lady; and Mrs. Holt shook her head wistfully, as she made a red-currant tart. Meanwhile Madeline carried baby down to the gate and looked out for Laurence, but no Laurence came, and baby was surprisingly heavy. Then she went round the garden. Oh, how small it looked somehow, and there was horrid green weed on the pool! Then she made her way into their sitting-room, with its old glass book-case, brass-faced clock, samplers hanging on the walls, and plain red tiles underfoot. A dainty summer breeze was playing with the white curtains through the open lattice, and the great hollyhocks and sunflowers were rearing their heads and endeavouring to peep in from the garden. There was Laurence’s pipe; there, in a corner, stood the stick which had betrayed him; and there was his writing, just as he had left it—ruled sermon paper. No, not a letter! What was it all about? And she took it up and glanced over it. It was some rubbish, headed, “Middle-aged Matrons.” How absurd!

Then, on the spur of the moment, she called in Mrs. Holt, and consigned Master Harry to her motherly arms, whilst she sat down to indite a letter to Laurence, with his own favourite pen and at his own table.

His loving wife put this effusion into an envelope, directed it, and placed it on the mantelpiece, where it would be sure to catch his eye, and then she felt considerably relieved in heart and mind, and had tea in the kitchen with Mrs. Holt, turning the cakes and praising the butter, and softening Mrs. Holt’s feelings the longer she stayed in her company. Then she had a confidential chat about baby and his clothes, and placed twenty pounds in her listener’s hand for his wardrobe, in spite of that good woman’s protestation that it was just five times too much. She also made the farmer’s wife a substantial present of money, telling her very prettily, with tears in her eyes, that it was not in return for her kindness, for no sum could repay that, but as a small token of gratitude.

By various means she reinstated herself in Mrs. Holt’s good graces, and having hugged the baby and kissed him over and over again, and taken a hearty leave of her hostess, she set off briskly on foot to where the patient fly awaited her. She paused at the end of the lane, and looked back on the Holt farm. It was a homely, sequestered spot, buried in fields and trees, and very peaceful; but it looked somehow more insignificant—shabbier than she had fancied. How small the windows were! How close it stood to the big yard, with its swarming poultry and calves and dirty duck-pond! And what horrible knives and spoons Mrs. Holt used, and what fearful shoes she wore! However, she was a good old soul, and had taken great care of baby. Then she once more turned her back on the farm, and set her face towards her father’s luxurious mansion. Luckily for herself, she was home before him—was dressed, and sitting half buried in a chair, engrossed in a novel, when he returned in high good humour. He had been winning and losing in the best of company, and was very eloquent about a certain Roman prince who had been uncommonly pleasant, and had said he “would like to be presented to you, Madeline!” His little hard head was so full of this new acquaintance that he had not room for a thought as to where or how his daughter had spent the day. Indeed, from all evidence to the contrary, she might never have been out of the house.

Laurence found Madeline’s letter staring at him from the mantelpiece when he came home. He snatched it eagerly, and devoured it then and there, and as he came to the last line his sensations were those of exceedingly bitter disappointment—yes, and something more, he was hurt. It seemed to him that through the epistle ran an under-current of jaunty indifference, and this cut him to the quick.

And she was going to Ireland for three months! Well, at any rate, he would see her off; a railway station was open to the public. She need not necessarily see him; but he would see her. The next day he carried out his intention, travelling up to town early in the morning, visiting his chambers, dining with his friend Jessop, and being in good time to speed the Irish mail at Euston. He watched and waited, and saw many parties approach; but yet not his particular party. They did not appear until within five minutes of the departure of the train.

And what a fuss they made! More than all their predecessors put together. There was one footman running for tickets, another being carried madly along the platform in tow of two powerful setters, one retainer had the booking of the luggage, another was arranging the interior of their Pullman sleeping-car, and then the party came up to it, and Laurence beheld his father-in-law for the first time—a neat, trim, bustling little man, talking vociferously and gesticulating about Lady Rachel’s luggage. There was a very well-dressed, dark little woman, not young, but juvenile in air and style, who laughed and talked incessantly to a big man in a tweed suit, and looked at Mr. West with contemptuous grimaces, and shrugged her shapely shoulders. There was a “lout” in wonderful knicker-bockers—so he mentally ticketed Lord Tony. There was a tall girl in a sort of long racing-coat. There were two lady’s-maids; and last, but not least, there was Madeline—Madeline so altered that he could scarcely believe his eyes—Madeline in a regal travelling-cloak, carrying a Chinese lap-dog, giving directions to hurrying footmen and maids, and dispensing smiling adieux among a group of young men who had come to see them off—meaning Miss West. This was surely not his Madeline—the little school-girl he had married, the devoted, struggling, hard-working wife and mother, late of 2, Solferino Place. He stood back for a moment in the shadow of the book-stall, and realized for the first time the immense gulf that divided him from Mr. West’s heiress—the great yawning chasm which lay between him and Madeline. What would fill it—what? He could think of no bridge but money.

Very poignant were his thoughts as he stood thus—poor, aloof, and alone, whilst his radiant wife made her beaming farewells from the window of the Pullman car.

“She should say good-bye to him too,” he declared to himself, with sudden fierce resolve, and, stepping forward, he stood out in the full light, a little apart from the gay group who were now removing their hats with a real or simulated air of regret as the great long train, that was to carry the popular heiress westward, began slowly to move. Madeline smiled and nodded and waved her hand. But who was that standing a little aside, farther down the platform? It was Laurence—Laurence, whom she had not beheld for three months. It gave her quite a shock to see him—but a pleasant shock, that sent the blood tingling through her veins.

How well he looked!—quite himself again; and how well he contrasted with these gilded youths whom she had just (she hoped) seen the last of! She would have blown him a kiss had she dared; but her father’s little beady eyes were upon her, and she could only sit and look—she might not even bow! Then, with sudden compunction, and justly alarmed by the expression on his face, she leant quickly out of the window and nodded and smiled.

The other young men accepted this final signal with demonstrations of rapture. Little did they guess that it was not for them, but for that quiet, gentlemanly-looking fellow a few yards to their left. If they were not aware of this, he was.

“Who is that man on the platform,” said Lady Rachel, “that looks as if he was seeing us off too? There is no one else in the car but ourselves.”

“Oh, I’m sure I don’t know,” responded Mr. West. “There are heaps of people going over, though I dare say he belongs to the Ravenstayle party. Lord Ravenstayle is in the train. It would not surprise me if it were his nephew, Cosmo Woodwing—aristocratic-looking sort of chap—and took a good stare at you, eh, Maddie?” facetiously. “Will know you again next time he sees you?”—highly delighted at his own conceit. “I suppose you have no idea who he is, eh?”

Madeline had an excellent idea of who he was, but this was no time to confide her secret to her parent—better to save this little domestic bomb for a more discreet opportunity.

Madeline had a shrewd idea that the mysterious gentleman who had taken a good long look at her—the presumable Lord Cosmo Woodwing—was her own husband!