CHAPTER XXXVII.
“GONE OFF IN HER WHITE SHOES!”
In due time all preparations were completed for the reception of Mr. and Miss West’s guests. The grand staircase was lined with palm-trees and immense tropical ferns, and lights were cunningly arranged amid the dusky foliage; a fountain of scent played at the head of this splendid and unique approach, and here stood the host and hostess side by side.
Mr. West was adorned in a plain evening suit—(would, oh! would that he might have decked himself with chains and orders!)—and a perennial smile. His daughter was arrayed in a French gown of white satin and white chiffon, powdered with silver. Diamonds shone on her bodice, her neck, and in her hair. She required no such adjuncts to set off her appearance, but there they were! Although tired and fagged, she looked as superior to most of her lady guests—who were chiefly of average everyday prettiness—as a Eucharist lily to a single dahlia. Her colour and eyes were exceptionally bright, for she was flushed by fatigue, excitement, and anxiety.
No news was good news, she told herself. The last telegram was reassuring. There was no need to fret and worry. Half the miseries in the world are those that have never happened! So she cast doubt and care behind her as she took her place in the state quadrille and prepared to abandon herself to the occasion. No one in their senses would suspect for a moment that the beautiful, brilliant Miss West had a care on her mind, much less that her heart was aching with suspense with regard to her sick child.
She indeed lulled her fears to sleep, and played the part of hostess to perfection—not dancing over much, as became the lady of the house, till quite late in the evening, or rather early in the morning, and having a word—the right word—and a smile for everybody.
The ball went off without a single drawback. The most fastidious young men avowed they had been “well done;” the most critical chaperones could detect no shortcomings in manners, partners, or refreshments. People enjoyed themselves; there was no after-supper exodus; the men and maidens found that they were not bored, and changed their minds about “going on.”
Yes, distinguished guests remained unusually late. The supper, floor, and arrangements were faultless; and Mr. West was informed by one or two important folk “that such an entertainment reminded them of the Arabian Nights for its magnificence. It was a ball of balls.”
The little speculator was almost beside himself with pride and self-satisfaction. Truly those many cheques that had to be drawn were already redeemed. He must, of course, pay for his whistle; but it was a pretty whistle, and worth its price.
He unfolded his feelings to his daughter as they stood alone in the big ballroom, after the last guest had taken leave and the carriages were rapidly rolling from the door. His sharp little eyes shone, his mouth twitched, his hand actually shook, not with champagne, but triumph.
“You did it splendidly, Maddie. If you were a duchess you could not have hit it off better! I often wonder where you get your manners and air and way of saying things. Your mother was something of the same style, too. She had real blue blood in her veins; but she was not so sparkling as you are, though very vivacious. I must say those Miss Harpers did their duty by you. Well,” looking round, “it’s all over. They are putting out the candles, and there’s broad daylight outside. It’s been a success—a triumph! I wish some of my old chums had seen it. Bless me, how they would stare! A trifle better than Colonial dances. And wouldn’t they like to get hold of this in the Sydney Bulletin. There’s a personal paper for you! I feel a bit giddy. I expect I shall be knocked up to-morrow—I mean to-day. Don’t you rise before dinner-time. There’s the sun streaming in. Get away to your bed!”
Madeline had listened to this pæan of triumphant complacency without any re-remark, merely opening her mouth to yawn, and yawn, and yawn. She was very tired; and now that the stir and whirl and excitement was over, felt ready to collapse from sheer fatigue. She, therefore, readily obeyed her parent’s behest, and, kissing him on his wrinkled cheek, walked off to her own room.
Josephine, half asleep, was sitting up for her, the wax candles were guttering in their sockets, the electric light was struggling at the shutters with the sun.
“Oh, mademoiselle!” said the maid, rubbing her eyes, “I’ve been asleep, I do believe. I’ve waited to unlace your dress, though you said I need not; but I know you could never do it yourself,” beginning her task at once, whilst her equally sleepy mistress stood before the mirror and slowly removed her gloves, bangles, and diamonds, and yawned at her own reflection.
“It was splendid, mademoiselle. Jamais—pas même à Paris—did I see such a fête! I saw it well from a place behind the band. What crowds, what toilettes! but mademoiselle was the most charmante of all. Ah! there is nothing like a French dressmaker—and a good figure, bien entendu. There were some costumes that were ravishing in the ladies’ room. I helped. I saw them.”
“It went off well, I think, Josephine, and papa is pleased; but I am glad that it is over,” said her mistress, wearily. “Mind you don’t let me sleep later than twelve o’clock on any account.”
“Twelve o’clock! and it is now six!” cried Josephine in a tone of horror. “Mademoiselle, you will be knocked up—you——”
“Oh! what is this?” interrupted her mistress in a strange voice, snatching up a telegram that lay upon a table, its tan-coloured envelope as yet intact, and which had hitherto been concealed by a silver-backed hand-glass, as if it were of no importance.
“Oh, I forgot! I fell asleep, you see. It came for you at eleven o’clock last night, just as the company were arriving, and I could not disturb you. I hope it is of no consequence.”
But, evidently, it was of great consequence, for the young lady was reading it with a drawn, ghastly countenance, and her hand holding the message shook so much that the paper rattled as if in a breeze of wind.
And this is what she was reading with strained eyes. “Mrs. Holt to Miss West, 9.30.—Come immediately; there is a change.” And this was sent eight hours ago.
“Josephine,” she said, with a look that appalled the little Frenchwoman, “why did you not give me this? It is a matter of life and death. If—if,” with a queer catch in her breath, “I am too late, I shall never, never, never forgive you! Here”—with a gesture of frenzy, tearing off her dress—“take away this rag and these hateful things,” dragging the tiara out of her hair and flinging it passionately on the floor, “for which I have sold myself. Get me a common gown, woman. Quick, quick! and don’t stand looking like a fool!”
Josephine had indeed been looking on as if she was petrified, and asking herself if her mistress had not suddenly gone stark-staring mad? Mechanically she picked up the despised ball-dress and brought out a morning cotton, which Madeline wrested from her hands and flung over her head, saying—
“Send for a hansom—fly—fly!”
And thus exhorted and catching a spark of the other’s excitement, she ran out of the room and hurriedly dispatched a heavy-eyed and amazed footman for the cab, with many lively and impressive gesticulations.
When she returned she found that Madeline had already fastened her dress, flung on a cape and the first hat she could find, and, with a purse in one hand and her gloves in another, was actually ready. So was the hansom, for one had been found outside, still lingering and hoping for a fare. Madeline did not delay a second. She ran downstairs between the fading lights, the tropical palms, the withering flowers, which had had their one little day, and it was over. Down she fled along the red-cloth carpetings, under the gay awnings, and sprang into the vehicle.
Josephine, who hurried after her, was just in time to see her dash from the door.
“Grand ciel!” she ejaculated to two amazed men-servants, who now stood beside her, looking very limp in the bright summer morning. “Did any one ever see the like of that? She has gone away in her white satin ball-slippers.”
“What’s up? What’s the matter?” demanded one of her companions authoritatively. “What’s the meaning of Miss West running out of the house as if she was going for a fire-engine or the police? Is she mad?”
“I can’t tell you. It was something that she heard by telegram. Some one is ill. She talked of life or death; she is mad with fear of something. Oh, you should have seen her eyes! She looked, when she opened the paper, awful! I thought she would have struck me because I kept it back.”
“Anyhow, whatever it is, she could not have gone before,” said the first footman, with solemn importance. “But what the devil can it be?” he added, as he stroked his chin reflectively.
This was precisely the question upon which no one could throw the least glimmer of light; and, leaving the three servants to their speculations, we follow Madeline down to the Holt. She caught an early train. She was equally lucky in getting a fly at the station (by bribing heavily) and implored the driver to gallop the whole way. She arrived at the farm at eight o’clock, and rushed up the garden and burst into the kitchen white and breathless. But she was too late. The truth came home to her with an agonizing pang. She felt as if a dagger had been thrust into her heart, for there at the table sat Mrs. Holt, her elbows resting on it, her apron thrown over her head. She was sobbing long, long gasping sobs, and looked the picture of grief.
Madeline shook as if seized with a sudden palsy as she stood in the doorway. Her lips refused to move or form a sound; her heart was beating in her very throat, and would assuredly choke her. She could not have asked a question if her life depended on it.
Mrs. Holt, hearing steps, threw down her apron and confronted her.
“Ay, I thought it might be you!” she ejaculated in a husky voice. “Well, it’s all over!... He died, poor darling, at daybreak, in these arms!” holding out those two hard-working extremities to their fullest extent, with a gesture that spoke volumes.
“I will not believe it; it is not true; it—it is impossible!” broke in the wretched girl. “The doctor said that there was no danger. Oh, Mrs. Holt, for God’s sake, I implore you to tell me that you are only frightening me! You think I have not been a good mother, that I want a lesson, that—that—I will see for myself,” hurrying across the kitchen and opening a well-known door.