CHAPTER XLI.
“LAURENCE!”
The Victoria was a crowded ship. There was a large contingent of Australian passengers, also many Anglo-Indians who changed at Aden, and a number of society swallows who were bound for Italy and Egypt. Madeline and Mrs. Leach shared a four-berthed cabin, and enjoyed the luxury of two spare berths, which served as holdalls for their belongings. Mrs. Leach had innumerable parcels, bags, boxes, books, a jewel-case, a tea-basket. She busied herself ere starting, in fixing up her affairs, and annexed fully three-quarters of the available space. Madeline was tired, and put on a tea-gown and lay in her berth languidly watching her partner making her toilette, arranging her hair, her dress, her rings, ere sallying forth to dinner and conquest. She looked remarkably handsome, prosperous, and triumphant as she turned to the wretched girl in the berth, and surveyed her exhaustively. She had adopted a curious way of staring at her the last few days—a gaze of polite, half-veiled insolence—that was distinctly irritating.
“Well, dear Madeline”—the steamer had left the docks, and was steadily throbbing down the Thames—“so we are off, you see, and I am of the party—no thanks to you. Oh, I know all about it, dearest, and I know what you would little guess.”
“What?”
“Ah, no matter,” with a meaning smile.
“No, I suppose it is no matter,” wearily. Nothing mattered, she was so tired—oh, so tired. She wished she was dead, and she slowly closed her eyes on her companion.
Mrs. Leach gazed at her in amazement. What she knew did matter very much. It was all very fine for Madeline to close her eyes, and waive away a subject. She would discover that she, Flora Leach, had her in her power—she held her in the hollow of her hand. Luck—she called it—had dealt her an ace of trumps! People were settling into their places as Mrs. Leach entered, and there was the usual confusion in the saloon—incidental to starting. Mr. West had secured a capital seat, and he and Mrs. Leach dined happily together—and were generally taken for man and wife. The dinner and wine was good, the motion almost nil, a mere slight shaking, and the widow enjoyed herself vastly. Madeline was rather tired, she said; Josephine was looking after her. A little soup was all she would take. Should she tell him now? No, the situation was too public, he would probably shout and make a scene. She would wait for a day or two, until they had their two deck chairs comfortably drawn up side by side, under the lee of a cabin, and when the dusk had come and the stars were out, she would whisper into his ear his daughter’s secret.
When Mrs. Leach retired to her cabin that night, Madeline was asleep. How pale and wan her face, how thin her hands, she might be dead—she wished she were. Then she took her bag out of the bottom berth—she occupied a top one by preference—and searching in its pockets, got out a letter-case, extracted a letter, and sat down to read it. It was pleasant reading, to judge by her expression, and she went over it no less than twice. The motion of the steamer was not so agreeable; in fact, it was becoming more remarkable every moment. The things on hooks were getting lively and beginning to swing. She crushed the note hastily into its envelope, thrust it into her bag and began to undress as quickly as possible.
The next morning they were off Dover and the Victoria was rolling considerably. Mrs. Leach was wretchedly squeamish. She attempted to rise, she dressed with less than her usual elaboration, and staggered out into the saloon. Alas! she was too bold; the smell of fried fish was her undoing, and routed her with great slaughter. She lay in her berth all day, and all the next day. Also Madeline; but she was not a prey to Neptune—only so tired—so tired of life, and everything.
Late in the afternoon, a bustling, talkative stewardess came in and, willy-nilly, got her up, helped her to dress, put a long cloak about her, and assisted her upon deck about dusk.
“The air will do you good, miss. You are no more sea-sick than I am. If you stop in that stuffy cabin, you’ll be real bad, and the gentleman said as I was to fetch you, if you could stand. There’s a nice long chair, and cushions and rug, all waiting for you in a sheltered place.”
And in this chair she soon found herself, whilst her father fussed round and wrapped her up. The weather was certainly boisterous, the waves broke over occasionally with a long and vicious swish; but the air was strong and invigorating, and the pallid girl leant back and drank it eagerly.
“There are a whole lot of people on board you know, Maddie,” said Mr. West, sinking into a seat beside her.
“Are there? I am sorry to hear it,” she answered querulously.
“Oh, I say; come, come! and all so anxious to see you again.”
“See me again!” with a weary little laugh, “they won’t know me when they do see me.”
“There is Lady Stiff-Staff going out to Bombay with her daughters, and Captain Vansittart, and Miss De Ville, who was at school with you.”
“Oh, I can’t bear her!” was the petulant reply.
He was about to add, “and Mr. Wynne,” but she could not bear him either, nor dare he mention that it was Mr. Wynne who had urged him to get Miss West on deck, at all costs, if she was not sea-sick; Mr. Wynne who had helped to find a stray corner, and brought up cushions and rugs (Mr. Wynne who had secretly tipped the stewardess a sovereign). He was a nice, warm-hearted fellow. He was glad he was on board (Wynne was a whist player), he liked him. A pity Maddie had such a prejudice against him.
Mr. West talked on, asked for poor Mrs. Leach. “Josephine, I hear, is dead,” he remarked, “or says she’s dead. It’s a mercy you are a good sailor. This bit of a breeze is nothing. Wait till you see how it blows off the Lewin! And I dare say, once we are round Finisterre, it will be a mill-pond. Now I’m dying to smoke, and as I know you can’t stand it, I’ll go for a bit. Shall I ask Lady De la Crême to come and sit here in my place, and amuse you—eh?”
“Oh no—no. I don’t want any one, I’m going down soon.”
She remained for some time in a half-dreamy state, watching the sea, the flying wrack of clouds, the somewhat faint and timid young moon, which occasionally peeped forth. Her eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, when she was rather surprised, and annoyed, to see a tall man approach and coolly seat himself in her father’s chair—which was drawn up alongside, and almost touching hers. Presently he spoke.
“Madeline,” he whispered, leaning towards her.
“Laurence! Not Laurence?” she exclaimed faintly.
“Yes—I hope you are better?”
“No.” A long pause, and then, in a dead dull tone, she added, “I hope I am going to die.”
“What is the matter with you?”
“They call it by some long Latin name; but you and I know what it is.”
“Your father is still in the dark?”
“Yes, it is scarcely worth while to tell him now; no need to worry him for nothing. When I am dead you will forgive me, Laurence, and—and think less hardly of me?”
“You are not dead, or going to die, and I prefer to forgive you when you are alive.”
“And will you—but no, you won’t—you cannot—why should you? I don’t expect it,” she said in hurried gasps. “What can I do now to atone?”
“Get better, get quite well, and I will forgive you everything.”
She laughed, a queer little hollow laugh, and then said—
“How strange that you should be on board. Are you going to Egypt?”
“No—to Sydney.”
“Why? Have you friends there, or business?”
“Both; urgent affairs, and I expect to meet friends. Your father says he is delighted that I am a fellow-passenger. He likes me.”
“How—how extraordinary!”
“Yes; you do not flatter me. But at least it is fortunate——Well, now, you will have to go down. It is getting rather chilly.”
“Oh no, no; I like being here. And the cabin is stuffy, and Mrs. Leach is so—so—such a wretched sailor.”
“Then, I am truly sorry for you. But you really must go. I’ll guarantee to take you below quite safely.”
“No, no. Papa will——”
“It’s as much as he can do to keep his legs, much less steer another. But, if you prefer it, I’ll call the stewardess.”
“No; never mind”—rising and staggering, and putting a mere skeleton hand on his; and, as he supported her tremulous steps, he realized how fearfully weak she was.
They got downstairs safely, and, as she paused, breathless, for a moment under the great electric light, they looked into one another’s faces for the first time since that June morning.
It was all that Wynne could do to repress an exclamation of horror, as a white, hollow-cheeked spectre raised her sunken, hopeless-looking eyes to his. Even the doctor’s brother-in-law had not prepared him for this.
“Stewardess,” he said, as soon as he could control his voice, “take great care of this lady. Make her eat. Get her some supper at once—some hot soup and a glass of Burgundy. You must have something to eat before you turn in.”
“Oh no; I could not,” she protested feebly. “I don’t want anything.”
“Oh yes you do; and you will be sure to come up early to-morrow. I’ll come and fetch you about eleven o’clock, weather permitting.” And he walked off, and went on deck to a distant part of the ship, and leant over the bulwarks alone.
His old feeling for Madeline had come to life. That wasted form, those tragic eyes had touched him—cut him to the heart. Yes; she looked as if she was about to follow the child. If she had been to blame, he himself was not guiltless. He had upbraided her too bitterly; he had left her to bear her grief alone; he had not made sufficient allowance for her youth, her natural craving for the pleasures and delights of girls of her age. The domestic yoke had been laid upon her childish shoulders, and what a cruel weight it had proved! Why should he have been astonished that she should be glad to slip her neck from under it for a year or two! She had no girlhood. She was endowed with a gay, happy, sun-loving temperament. He should not have left the telling of their secret in her hands; he should have spoken to Mr. West himself. He would do so now, within the next few days. If Madeline was going to die, she should leave the world as Mrs. Wynne! But, whether she was to live or die, she should have his incessant care.
Day by day Madeline appeared on deck, and day by day gained some steady but scarcely perceptible improvement. Mr. Wynne took much of her father’s attendance off his hands, and left him free to smoke and gossip and play whist. He arranged her pillows and rugs in her chair; saw that it was sheltered; talked to her when she was inclined to talk; told her everything that was likely to amuse her; brought up, or caused to appear at frequent intervals, soup, grapes, champagne, tea, arrowroot, and used all his persuasions to induce her to partake of them. He had an unlimited supply of magazines, books, and picture-papers, which he read to her when she was disposed to listen; and, when she had looked them over, occasionally she fell asleep; and he sat beside her, contemplating her white and death-like appearance with a countenance to match.
However, every sleep, every smile, was an inch on the road to recovery. Mr. West was extremely obliged to him for his kind attentions to his daughter. He himself was very fond of Madeline, and, naturally most anxious about his only child. But he confessed that he did not understand sick people, and was no hand at nursing. He felt doubly grateful to Wynne for his assiduity, and the politeness and interest with which he listened to his own discourse.
He talked to Wynne confidentially—chiefly about finance. He had lost some money lately—a good deal more than he liked. But he never put his eggs into one basket, and had a fair amount in sound English securities.
Wynne was a steady—well—friend. Mr. West had recently experienced (and resented) a certain palpable change in the social temperature. He was no longer flattered, deferred to—or even listened to—as formerly. He was credited with the loss of most of his fortune—every one knew he had shares in the “Tom and Jerry” Bank—and his daughter with the loss of her beauty.
“The Wests didn’t amount to much now,” to quote an American lady. This conviction made Mr. West extremely wroth. People thought he was played-out. Whoever was particularly civil to him now he took to his heart, and kept there.
One evening Laurence made his way into the smoke-room, and stood looking on at the termination of a rather hard-fought rubber. His father-in-law was playing. He was, moreover, holding good cards, and in a state of high jubilation. His partner was Lord de la Crême. Could this trim, rather jaunty little man, holding the cards he was about to deal, and laughing a loud, rather forced laugh at one of his lordship’s good things—i.e. a very middling joke—be a terrible domestic autocrat? Who would believe it? But Laurence looked below the surface. That quick, fiery little eye, now beaming so brightly, told a tale that he could read. It spoke of choler, obstinacy, of restless ambition, self-seeking, and fury. Madeline, doubtless, knew the capabilities of that eye, and feared it.
When the whist party had dissolved, and people were gone to their berths, Mr. West—who was always prepared to sit up—and Wynne were alone.
“I suppose Madeline went below long ago? You have been looking after her as usual?”
“Yes, I took her down.”
“That’s all right”—pausing. “Then play a game of écarté. There’s another half-hour yet before lights-out.”
“No, thanks. The fact is”—seating himself opposite, and squaring his arms on the table—“I want to have a few words with you.”
“With me? Certainly, certainly”—with a momentary glance of surprise. “About those investments?”
“No; it’s a more personal matter. You”—hesitating for a second—“have seemed to like me, Mr. West.”
“Seemed! Why, I don’t know a single young fellow that I like as well. You are clever, you are good company, you are making yourself a name. I only wish I had a son like you!”