CHAPTER XLII.
WON ALREADY.
“Then, what would you think of taking me for a son-in-law?” said Mr. Wynne, fixing his dark eyes steadily on the little man opposite to him, who was busily shuffling the cards.
“Eh!” was his only reply for quite a long time—an “eh!” incredulous, indignant, and yet not wholly combative—a long, sonorous exclamation. “Personally I like you, Wynne—could not like you better; but”—and he paused—“Madeline is my only child; she is remarkably handsome—was, I should say for the present—and created quite a sensation in town. You are a very good fellow, and a gentleman, but don’t be offended if I confess that I am looking higher for her. I expect the man she marries to place a coronet on her head, and you must admit that she will grace it!”
Laurence Wynne said nothing, merely nodded his assent, and his companion—who loved the sound of his own voice—resumed volubly.
“Besides, Wynne, you are a widower! And she does not like you; it’s all very well when she is ill and helpless, and tolerates you; it’s truest kindness to tell you—and, indeed, you must see it yourself! You have no idea the iceberg she can be. I often wonder who she is waiting for, or what she expects?”
“Look here, Mr. West, I can quite understand your views. Mad—I mean Miss West—would, of course, grace a coronet, as you say, but let me tell you that we Wynnes, of Rivals Wynne, have bluer blood in our veins than any of the mushroom titles of the last two hundred years. You will see, if you look in Burke, that we were at home before the Normans came over. We were Saxons, and still a power in the land. Our family title is extinct; but it only wants money to restore it. I have relations who—like some relations—turned away their faces when I was poor; but were I to become rich and successful, they would receive me with open arms, and introduce my wife and myself to circles as exclusive and as far beyond the stray third-rate noble paupers who prey on your—your good-nature and—pardon me—your ignorance as the moon is above the earth. I speak plainly.”
“You do, sir, and with a vengeance!” said Mr. West, a little overawed by the other’s imperious manner, for Mr. Wynne had said to himself, why should he be timid before this man, who at most was a bourgeois, whose father—best not seek to inquire into his history—whose forefathers had gone to their graves unwept, unhonoured, and unsung, whilst he, Laurence Wynne, though he boasted of no unearned increment, was descended from men who were princes at the time of the Heptarchy!
“You value good birth, I see, Mr. West,” holding out his hand as if to convey the fact that he had scored a point. “And you value success. I am succeeding, and I shall succeed. I feel it. I know it—if my health is spared. I have brains, a ready tongue, an indomitable will; I shall go into Parliament; think what a vast field of possibilities that opens out! Which of your other would-be sons-in-law aims at political life? Look at Levanter, the reputation he would bring you.” Laurence shuddered as he spoke. “Do not all honest men shun him? What decent club would own him? Look at Montycute, what has he to offer, but his ugly person, his title, and his debts? He and others like him propose to barter their wretched names and, as they would pretend, the entrée to society—not for your daughter’s personal attractions, of which they think but little, but her fortune, of which they think a great deal!”
“Young man, young man!” gasped Mr. West, inarticulately, “you speak boldly—far too boldly.”
“I speak the sacred truth, and nothing but the truth,” said Wynne, impetuously. “I offer myself, my talents, my career, my ancient lineage, and unblemished name for your daughter. As to her fortune, I do not want it; I am now an independent man. Give me your answer, sir—yes or no.”
Many possibilities floated through Mr. West’s brain as he sat for some moments in silence revolving this offer. Levanter and Montycute were all that this impetuous young fellow had described. He had good blood in his veins; he was handsome, clever, rising, whilst they were like leeches, ready to live upon him, and giving nothing in exchange but their barren names. This man’s career was already talked of; he could vouch for one success, which had agreeably affected his own pocket, and, with the proverbial gratitude, he looked in the same direction for favours to come. He had an eloquent tongue, a ready pen, and a fiery manner that carried all before it. He would go into the House, he would (oh! castle-building Mr. West) be one of the great men—Chancellor of the Exchequer—some day. He shut his eyes—he saw it all. He saw his son-in-law addressing the House, and every ear within its walls hanging on his words. He saw himself, a distinguished visitor, and Madeline among the peeresses.
Laurence Wynne, keen and acute, was convinced that some grand idea was working in his companion’s mind, and struck while the iron was hot.
“May I hope for your consent, sir?” he asked quickly.
“Well, yes, you may, if you can win her. You are welcome, as far as I am concerned. Yes!” holding out his rather short, stubby hand, with one big diamond blazing on his little finger. “It’s time she was settled, and I’m afraid she will never be what she was, as regards her looks. I did hanker after a ready-made title, but one can’t have everything! I like you. You are tolerant of an old man’s whims; you don’t laugh at me under my own roof, and think I don’t see it like some young cubs; you are a gentleman, and I give you Maddie and welcome, now that I have talked it over; but the hitch, you will find, will be the girl herself. She is, as you may see, utterly broken down and altered, and in no mind to listen to a love-tale; but, well or ill, I must tell you honestly that I would not give much for your chance.”
“What would you say, sir,” said Laurence, now becoming a shade paler, “if I were to tell you that I had won her already?”
Mr. West looked at him sharply.
“The deuce you have! And when?”
“More than three years ago.”
“What! before I came home? when she was at Harpers’? Were you the half-starved fellow that I heard was hanging about? Oh, never!”
“I don’t think I was half-starved, but I was most desperately in love with her.”
“Oh, so it’s an old affair?”
“Yes, an old affair, as you say, Mr. West. And you have given me Madeline if I can win her, have you not?—that is a promise?”
“Yes,” rather impatiently. “I never go back on a promise.”
“Well, now,” leaning forward and resting his head on his hand, and speaking more deliberately, “I am going to tell you something that I am certain will surprise, and I fear will incense you; but you will hear me out to the end. We have been married for more than three years!” He paused—not unnaturally nervous—awaiting the result of this tardy announcement.
“Why! what—what—what the devil do you mean?” stammered Mr. West, his little eyes nearly starting from their sockets. “What do you mean, sir? I—I don’t believe you, so there!—don’t believe a word of it!” breathing hard.
“If you will only listen to me patiently, you will believe me. I am going to tell you many things that you ought to have been made acquainted with long ago.”
Mr. West opened his mouth. No sound came. He was speechless. And his son-in-law proceeded very steadily. “Four years ago you were said to be bankrupt, if not dead. Mrs. Harper gave you no law when your bills were not paid. You have never heard that Madeline, from being the show-pupil and favourite, sank to be the shabby school drudge—half-fed, half-clothed, and not paid for the work of two governesses. This went on for a whole year. I saw her at a breaking-up affair, when she played all night for her schoolfellows to dance. I fell in love with her then. Miss Selina hated us both, and, to satisfy her hate and malice, managed—one night in the holidays—to leave us both behind at Riverside, late for the last train. We had all been to the theatre. The affair was planned. We waited where we were desired to wait, and lost the train. Next morning I called to explain to Miss Harper; but Madeline’s character was gone—she was turned out, dismissed without mercy. She had no friends, no salary, no reference. I had, at least, bread-and-cheese—so I took her to London and married her.”
He stopped and looked at Mr. West, who was livid, and who cried out in a loud, strange voice—
“Go on, sir—go on—and get it over, before I go mad!”
“I was poor. We lived in lodgings; but we were very happy. After a time poverty and sickness knocked at our door. I had typhoid fever. It was an unhealthy season, and I nearly died. I have sometimes since thought that it would have been well if I had died, and thus cut the Gordian knot, and released Madeline. However, I hung on, a miserable, expensive, useless invalid. In the middle of all this a child was born.”
Mr. West started out of his chair; but subsequently resumed it.
“It was a boy——”
“A boy! Where is it?” demanded his listener, fiercely.
“You shall hear presently,” said his son-in-law, gravely. “Madeline was the kindest of wives, nurses, mothers.”
“Madeline—my Madeline?” said her father, in a tone of querulous incredulity and shrill irritation.
“We had no money—none. I had kept aloof from many acquaintances since I married, and my relations dropped me with one consent. We pawned all we had, save the clothes on our backs. We were almost starving. In those days Madeline was a model of courage, cheerfulness, endurance, and devotion. When I recall those days, I can forgive her much.”
“Forgive her! Madeline pawning clothes! Madeline starving!” cried her father, so loudly that a sleepy cabin-steward looked in.
Mr. Wynne signed to him to go away, and continued, “Ay, she was. We could barely keep the wolf out. Then came your letter to the Harpers, and they advertised for Madeline. She saw the message, and pawned her wedding-ring to go to them. And they, never dreaming that she was married, received her with rapture as Miss West. She had no tell-tale ring, and Mrs. Harper heard that she had been in a shop in London, in the mantle department. In an evil moment Madeline saw your letter wherein you spoke very strongly against a poor love affair, and possible marriage. So, in desperation, and to get money and bread for her child and for me, she deceived you. Later on, when the influence of wealth and power and luxury ate their way into her soul, she still deceived you—and forgot us. I must speak the truth.”
Mr. West nodded.
“She put off the dreaded day of telling you all, and I was out of patience. She would not allow me to break the news. You remember one evening that I called in Belgrave Square, and we went to look at a picture together? It was then that I made my last appeal.”
“She gave you up, then?” he asked abruptly.
“She did.”
“And the child?” eagerly. “My grandson, my heir!”
“You remember the great ball you gave last June?”
“Of course—of course,” irritably. “It will not be forgotten in a hurry.”
“He died that night,” said Mr. Wynne, slowly.
“Eh! what did you say? Nonsense!”
“He died of diphtheria. Madeline came too late to see him alive. It was from the child she caught the infection. Yes, I believe she kissed him. He was a lovely boy—with such a bright little face and fair hair. We kept him at a Hampshire farmhouse. Many a time I told Madeline that the very sight of him would soften you towards us; but she would not listen. She made promises and broke them. She feared you too much.”
“Feared me!”
“Since his death, I have had nothing to say to her; but I heard that she was very ill in London; and I used to find how she was going on from various people, including yourself, as you may remember. I thought my heart was steeled against her, but I find it is not. I am ready to make friends. I heard accidentally that she was in a most critical state—that day I saw you at the club—and I threw up all my briefs and business and took a passage.”
“And so she is your business in Sydney?”
“She—she is most woefully changed. When I first saw her under the lamp, I—I—I—cannot tell you——” He paused, and drew in a long, slow breath, which said much.
“Poor girl! No wonder she looks as if she had seen great troubles. I wonder she is alive. Well, I’ll not add to them! She treated me badly; but she has treated you worse. And afraid of me! Why, every one knows that my bark is worse than my bite—in fact, I have no bite. And you stuck to her when she had no friends! Oh what a treacherous old serpent was that Harper—harridan. Steady payment for nine years. And to treat my daughter so! And I actually gave that sour old maid a present for her kindness to Maddie. They did not know you were married to her?”
“No; scarcely any one know.”
“And what’s to be done! How is it to be declared, this marriage. How is the world to be told that Madeline has been humbugging them for the last two years as Miss West?”
“The wedding can easily be put in the paper as having taken place in London, with no date. It will only be a nine-days wonder. We can send it from the first place we touch at.”
“Ah, you are a clever fellow, Wynne. Hallo! the lights are going out, and we shall be in darkness.”
“But you are no longer in darkness respecting me.”
“Well, I feel in a regular fog. And so you’re my son-in-law!”
“Yes; there is no doubt about that.”
“It’s odd that I always cottoned to you.”
“You will not be harsh with Madeline, will you?”
“Do you take me for a Choctaw Indian, sir? I’ll say nothing at present. Board ship is no place for scenes. She’s very shaky still, though better.”
“Yes, I think she is a shade better now she is on deck all day.”
“It was an awful pity about the little boy, Wynne, and——”
Here the electric light suddenly went out, and Mr. West had to grope his way as best he could to his own cabin. He lay awake for hours, listening to the seas washing against the side of his berth, thinking—thinking of what he had been told that night, thinking of Madeline and Wynne in a new light, and thinking most of all of the little fair-haired grandchild that he had never seen.