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

The night of the conversation in the smoking-room, when Mr. West scrambled below in the dark—not knowing, as he subsequently explained it, whether he stood on his head or his heels—was the occasion of a curious incident in Miss West’s cabin. Each day as she grew stronger and better, recovering energy and appetite, Mrs. Leach became worse, and the weather to correspond. She sustained existence on Brand’s essence and champagne, and counted the hours until they were in the Mediterranean—not that even the tideless sea can be reckoned on in October. Mrs. Leach felt miserably ill, peevish, and envious; and when Madeline came down to go to bed, she asked her to get her a bottle out of her dressing-bag—“something to make her sleep.”

“Shall I hand the bag up to you?”

“No, no, it’s open. A long, greenish bottle—in the pocket next the blotter.”

Yes, the bag was not locked; the contents were in great confusion—combs, pins, handkerchiefs, note-paper. It was not so easy to discover the little green bottle. In turning out the loose articles, Madeline came upon a letter addressed, in Mrs. Kane’s scrawl, to “Miss West, care of Mrs. Harper, Streambridge,” forwarded to Belgrave Square, and from Belgrave Square to Brighton. Some one had kindly saved her the trouble of opening it, presumably the lady in the top berth and the owner of the bag.

“Well, have you not found it yet? Dear me, how slow you are!” she exclaimed fretfully.

“Oh yes. I’ve found it.”

“Then do be quick. I feel as if I should die from this nausea and weakness.”

Fortunately the little bottle turned up at this instant, and Madeline (having closed the bag and secured her letter) handed it up to Mrs. Leach, who next demanded “eau de Cologne, a handkerchief, another shawl, a tumbler, and some hairpins.”

It was some time before she was at rest behind her curtains. The positions were reversed, and Madeline, the invalid on land, was not the invalid at sea. At last she sat down to read her letter. She had had no communication with Mrs. Kane since she had been at Harperton, from whence she had sent her a ten-pound note. Luckily for her, Mrs. Kane never saw the society papers, and had no idea that her late lodger had blossomed out into a society beauty, much less that she lived in London, otherwise undoubtedly she would have had the pleasure (?) of a visit from her correspondent. The letter said:—

The postmark on the envelope was dated two days before they had left Brighton. And this was what Mrs. Leach meant by her hints and looks. This stolen letter was to be her trump card.

The next morning, when Madeline left her cabin, she was met by Laurence. He was, as usual, waiting, hanging about the passage and companion-ladder. At last a tall, slight figure in black appeared, a figure that walked with a firmer and more active step, and that no longer crawled listlessly from cabin to deck. It was Madeline, with a faint colour in her face, she accosted him eagerly.

“Oh, Laurence!” she began, “I have something to tell you. Come into the music-room; it is sure to be empty.”

And then, in a few hurried sentences, she unfolded her discovery and placed Mrs. Kane’s nice little letter in his hands.

“Of course, now I shall speak. Of course, I seem a miserably mean, cowardly creature! It is only when forced by circumstances that I open my lips at last. Mrs. Leach has long guessed that I had a secret and a past—but, strive as she would, she could never find out anything definite.”

“This is very definite,” said Laurence, dryly.

“It is, indeed. I could not understand her intense scorn for me latterly. Laurence, I meant to have told my father immediately after—after last June, but I was ill; and then, as I used to lie thinking, thinking, I said to myself, I may as well carry the secret to the grave, for now the child is gone, and Laurence is gone, what is the use of speaking?”

“But you see that Laurence is not gone!” he exclaimed expressively; “and we will let bygones be bygones instead. I am before both you and Mrs. Leach. I told your father last night. He took it, on the whole, surprisingly well! I have not seen him this morning, though. He won’t allude to it at present. Board ship is no place for scenes, he says; and I am entirely of his opinion; so, my dear, you need not look so ghastly. Now, come along on deck. We shall soon sight Tarifa. Ah! here is Mr. West at last.”

The music-room was pretty full as the little man came slowly towards the pair, who sat apart on a couch at the end of it. He looked unusually solemn, and he had discarded his ordinary blue bird’s-eye tie for a black one. He avoided his daughter’s glance, and fixed his attention on her mourning-gown, as he said—

“Well, how are you to-day, Madeline, my love?”

“I feel better—much better.”

“That is good news! Then come on deck and see the Spanish coast?”

He sat next to her—their steamer chairs placed closely side by side—in silence for a long time, smoking, and apparently buried in thought; then, as he suddenly noticed Wynne’s signet-ring on her wedding finger, he leant forward, took her fragile hand in his—it trembled, for he held it long and contemplated it intently—and at last released it with surprising gentleness.

“Madeline,” he said, “I know you’ve had enough trouble. I’m not going to say one word; but I’m greatly cut up about what happened—last summer;” and Madeline drew her veil over her face to hide her streaming tears.

After they had crossed the notorious Gulf of Lyons, Mrs. Leach appeared, with languid airs, expecting attention, solicitude, and sympathy. Alas! for expectations. What a change was here! Mr. West was entirely engrossed with Madeline, and was positively curt and gruff (he had heard the history of the letter in the bag); and when at last she found an opportunity of talking to him privately, and began with little preamble about “dear Maddie—such a marvellous sailor—so much better—getting away from some dreadful hold on her—and influence—seems to have transformed her into a new creature!” Mr. West looked at the speaker keenly. The sea-breeze is searching, and the southern sun pitiless. Ten days’ sickness had transformed Mrs. Leach into an old creature! She was fifty-five or more, with her sunken cheeks, and all those hard lines about her mouth and eyes. What did they signify?

“Do I see Mr. Wynne on board?” she asked, with a tragic air—“over by the boats? How strange, how audacious!”

“Do you think so? He is Madeline’s husband, and a great friend of mine.”

Mrs. Leach gasped! The wind had been taken out of her sails.

“Then you know all about it?”

“Yes, I know all about it,” said Mr. West collectedly.

“You have not known it for long—not when we sailed?”

“No, not quite as long as you have, Mrs. Leach”—looking at her expressively.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, for one thing, that I obtained my information through a legitimate channel; that, as you are such a victim to the sea, it will be only humane to land you at Naples. It would be cruel to take you on to Melbourne; and Madeline has a companion entirely to her taste in Laurence Wynne.”

“And oh what a tale for London!” she exclaimed with a ghastly sneer. “I am feeling the motion a good deal—perhaps you will be kind enough to assist me to get below? I find I must lie down.”

To tell the truth, she had been completely bowled over—thanks to a strong breeze and a strong opponent.

Mrs. Leach landed at Naples and enjoyed an exceedingly pleasant winter in Rome—due to a handsome cheque which she had received from Mr. West, nominally as a return for her kind interest in his daughter, and really as a golden padlock for her lips.

Mr. West, once in Sydney, contrived to pull a good many chestnuts out of the fire, and returned to England as wealthy as ever, purchased the old estate of the Wynnes, and restored the half-ruined house in a style in keeping with its ancient name.

Madeline and her husband spend a great deal of their time at Rivals Wynne, though their headquarters are in London, and some day the old home will descend to the old race. The children are beautiful; another little Harry is the picture of the one that is lost, but not forgotten, as fresh white wreaths upon a certain grave can testify. Mr. Clay, the rector, has seen Mrs. Wynne placing them there with her own hands. She made no secret of it now.

“It is the grave,” she explained, “of our eldest little boy. I will bring his brother and sister here by-and-by.”

The rector, when he takes strangers round the churchyard, and points out the most noticeable tombstones, halts for a good while before a certain marble cross, and relates the story of a mysterious young couple who visited the grave separately, but who now come together, with other children in their train.

Mr. Laurence Wynne continues to “rise.” He is in Parliament, and a man of such note that Mr. West no longer casts a thought on Madeline’s lost coronet. Lord Montycute has married a rich widow twenty years older than himself. Lord Tony is happily settled, and Lady Tony and Madeline are fast friends. Lady Rachel is little Madeline’s godmother. She is a pretty child, sufficiently spoiled by her father, but ruined by her doting grandpapa. She is an imperious little person, but obedient and docile with her mother. It is only poor grandpapa whose miserably scanty locks she puts into curl papers, whom she drives about in a pair of long red reins, and whom she rules with a rod of iron.

THE END.

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