Mr. West had enjoyed his dinner; his appetite was excellent—on a par with his daughter’s spirits. He asked no more troublesome questions, and departed to bed at an early hour. Mrs. Leach, too, had retired (pleading fatigue), to enjoy a French novel and cocaine, leaving Madeline to sing and make merry alone! After a while she went over and sat on the fender-stool, and had a long conversation with herself, and tried to persuade her conscience that she had done right. She offered it a sop in assuring herself that the next morning she would go down to the Holt farm and see Harry, and have a comfortable talk with his nurse. Her father would not be out of bed till twelve o’clock. Mrs. Leach, too, rarely appeared before lunch. The coast would be clear. She carried out this resolution to the letter, starting from Waterloo by an early train, arriving a little after ten at the farm in the station fly, greatly to Mrs. Holt’s amazement.

She asked many questions, and was warmly assured that “though little Harry was not to say a big, strong boy, like Tom the ploughman’s child, of the same age, yet that nothing ailed him but his teeth, and that his eye teeth were through, and that she (his mother) need not give herself no uneasiness. Mr. Wynne was full of fancies. He was down twice last week, and had been alarming her for nothing.”

“Mr. Wynne—Mr. Wynne,” said Madeline, becoming agitated and feeling a certain tightness in her throat; but knowing that the fact she was about to disclose must come out sooner or later, and that the first blow was half the battle; “Mr. Wynne and I have had a serious disagreement. We have agreed to differ—and to part,” looking steadily out of the window, whilst her face took a delicate shade of red.

“Laws! gracious mercy!” ejaculated her listener, nearly dropping Master Wynne. “You don’t say so! Goodness gracious! you don’t mean it, ma’am; you are joking.”

“No, indeed”—very decidedly—“I am not, Mrs. Holt; and you need not call me ma’am any more, for though I am married, I am going back to be Miss West—always. Please never call me Mrs. Wynne again.”

“But you can’t do that,” exclaimed Mrs. Holt, in a loud tone of expostulation; “you are married right and tight as I am, unless,” lowering her voice, “it’s a divorce you are after getting?”

“Divorce? No. Nothing of the kind; but Mr. Wynne and I have agreed to be—be strangers, and to forget that we have ever been married; and as I am only known to most people as Miss West, it will be quite easy.”

“It’s nothing of the sort, ma’am,” cried the other, energetically, “and you are mad to think of it. Why, I might just as well go and call myself Kate Fisher once more, and give out I was never wed to Holt! That would be a fine how-do-you-do! And where there’s children it’s worse and more wicked, and more ridiculous to think of still. What’s to be said and done about this boy? Who is his mother? You can’t say Miss West, now can you? Believe me,” seeing her visitor’s face of crimson astonishment, “it won’t do. It’s just one of those common squabbles among married folks that blow over. Why, Holt and I has ’ad many a tiff, and we are none the worse. You and Mr. Wynne just make it up. You are both young, and maybe he is determined, and likes to have his own way, as most men do; but—excuse me, ma’am, as an humble friend and a much older woman than yourself, if I make too bold—you are a bit trying. You see it’s not usual for a young fellow to have his wife leave him, and go galavanting about as a single lady; and then Mr. Wynne is greatly set upon the child. A man, of course, expects that his wife will look after his children herself. Excuse me again if I make too free, but I don’t like to see a young girl going astray, whoever she be, without just giving her a word,” wiping her face with a red-spotted handkerchief. (The family was largely supplied with this favourite pattern.)

Madeline sat in silence, feeling very uncomfortable and wretched; but all the same, obstinately bent on her own way.

“Mrs. Holt, you forget there are two sides to a question,” she said at last. “I know you mean very kindly; but I have to consider my father. He has no one but me. He is an invalid, and I am his only child, and must study his wishes.”

“Maybe if he wasn’t so rich, you wouldn’t think of him so much,” put in Mrs. Holt, bluntly.

“Yes, I would,” retorted Madeline, stung by the sneer; “but I see you are prejudiced, Mrs. Holt. You forget what the Bible says about honouring your father and mother.”

“No, no, I don’t; but the Bible says a deal about husbands and wives too. I don’t forget that. Stick to your husband; it’s the law o’ the land and the law o’ the Bible,” said Mrs. Holt in her most unyielding voice.

She said a great deal more, but she failed to persuade her visitor or to bend her pride, and she soon perceived that it was of no avail. Money and grandeur, she told herself, had turned her poor head. Some day she would be sorry for what she was doing now; and, anyway, it was an ill and thankless task for a third person to meddle between a married couple. She had always known that he was the better of the two; and maybe Holt would allow she was right now! Here was a young lady, turning her back on husband and child, taking her maiden name again, and going off to foreign countries. Pretty doings! pretty doings!

At eleven o’clock the fly-man notified that time was up, and the lady must go if she wanted to catch her train. She kissed little Harry over and over again, and wept one or two tears as she said—

“How I wish I could take him with me, even if I could smuggle him as my maid’s little boy!”

“Sakes and stars! Mrs. Wynne,” exclaimed Mrs. Holt, angrily. “Whatever are you thinking of? I wish his father heard you pass him off as a servant’s child. Well, upon my word! I never——” At this crisis words ran short and utterance completely failed her.

“Mind you write to me often, Mrs. Holt—even one line. I have left you a packet of addressed and stamped envelopes. Please write at least once a week,” and, with a hurried good-bye she stepped into the fly, pulled down her veil, and was driven off, leaving Mrs. Holt and her son upon the steps, the former exclaiming—

“Well, if she don’t beat all!” whilst Master Wynne dragged violently at her apron, and, pointing to the rapidly disappearing carriage, shouted gleefully—

“Gee-gee! Gee-gee!”

“It is all right, my dear,” whispered Mrs. Leach, receiving her with a significant nod. “I told your father you had gone to lunch with the Countess of Cabinteely, and he was perfectly satisfied.”

In another week Madeline was very pleasantly settled in a charming villa at Nice looking out over the blue tideless sea and the Promenade des Anglais. She had a landau and pair, a pony carriage, and an “at home” day, for not a few of their London acquaintances, early as it was, had come south.

Her father rapidly regained his usual health and amiability, and lavished presents upon her. The horizon before her was literally and metaphorically bright. She was surrounded by quite a brilliant pageantry of flatterers and followers, and could not help feeling a pardonable pride in the sensation she created and in her remarkable social triumphs—in finding bouquets left daily at her door, in seeing her name in enthusiastic little paragraphs in the local papers, in hearing that the fact of her expected presence brought numbers to an assembly or entertainment in order to see the lovely Miss West, to know that she had not an ambition in the world unfulfilled.

Was not this all-sufficient to prove that her millennium of happiness had commenced? She was the beauty of the season, though she was in this particular the victim of an unsought reputation; she had never aspired to the honour, and the character had been forced upon her. All the same, she did not dislike the position of social queen; and as to Mr. West, he gloried in the fact, and basked in the light of her reflected splendour. He was even content to be known as “Miss West’s father.” As some men pride themselves on their family, their estates, race-horses, pictures, collection of old china, or silver, he prided himself upon his daughter, and was convinced that he got more enjoyment out of his hobby than most people. She was always en evidence, and he could see the curious, envious, and admiring eyes, as he drove with her about Nice, walked with her on the British Quarterdeck at Monte Carlo, or escorted her to concerts, receptions, balls, or garden parties. Foreign dukes and princes were supremely affable to him—all on account of the beaux yeux of his charming and celebrated Madeline.

Worth and Doucet had carte blanche, for Madeline’s costumes must be worthy of her, and Madeline was not averse to the idea. A new hat, which became the rage, was named after her. Such is fame! A new yacht had been honoured by the same distinction. Youth, beauty, wealth, celebrity—even Fortune seemed to go out of her way to crowd favours upon this lucky young lady; but, alas! we all know that fortune is a fickle jade, who smiles at one moment, and who scowls the next. Thus, as a kind of social divinity in a gay, earthly Paradise, winter glided on with Madeline. Spring had appeared with a radiant face and a train of flowers; the turf under the olives was covered with anemones, the valleys were starred with primroses; jonquils, tea-roses, and narcissus filled the air with fragrance. Sea and sky reflected one another—sunbeams glanced from the waves, the water seemed to laugh, and the whole face of Nature was one good-natured smile.

The Riviera was full, the carnival about to commence. Madeline was in a state of feverish gaiety and exhilaration. She could not now exist without excitement; she must always be doing something or going somewhere, and required a rapid succession of amusements, from a “promenade aux ânes” up the valleys, to riding a bicycle; from a tea picnic to playing trente et quarante. All her regrets, and all her little twinges of remorse (and she had experienced some) had succumbed to the anodyne of a season on the Riviera—and such a season! But on the very first day of the carnival her spirits received a rude shock in the form of an ill-spelt scrawl from Mrs. Holt, which ran as follows:—

This was a heavy blow. The rush of maternal impulse swept everything else out of her mind. Madeline thrust aside her diamonds, ball dress, masks, bouquets, and hurried off on foot to the telegraph office, and despatched a message—“If he is not better I start to-night; reply paid.” And then she returned to the Villa Coralie, quivering and trembling with impatience.

In case of the worst, she told Josephine to pack a few things, as she might be going to England that night by the Rapide.

Josephine’s jaw dropped; she was enjoying herself enormously. One of the waiters at the Cercle was her cousin. The carnival was just commencing; this was terrible—must she he torn away too! Her face expressed her feelings most accurately, and her mistress hastened to reassure her.

“I shall not require you, Josephine; I only go to see a sick friend. If I hear no good news, I start this evening; if the tidings are better, I remain—but I am almost sure to go.”

“Et monsieur?” elevating hands and eyebrows.

Yes, how was she to announce her departure to her father? She made the plunge at once. Her fears and her anxieties were not on his account now. She was desperate, and ready to brave anything or anybody.

She ran down into his cool sanctum, with its wide-open windows overlooking the bay, its gaudy, striped awnings, and verandah full of flowers, and finding her parent smoking a cigarette and absorbed in the Financial News, began at once.

“Papa, I’ve had bad news from England. A—one who is very dear to me is ill, and if I don’t hear better news by telegram, I wish to start to-night for London.”

“Madeline!” he cried, laying down the paper and gazing at her in angry astonishment. “What are you thinking about? Your sick friend has her own relatives; they would never expect you to go flying to her bedside from the other end of France. Nonsense, nonsense!” he concluded imperatively, once more taking up the news, and arranging his pince-nez with grave deliberation.

The matter was decided. But Madeline was resolved to make an equal show of determination, and said, in a stubborn tone—

“Papa, in this I must have my way. It is not often I take my own course; I do everything and go everywhere to please you. You must allow me to please myself for once.”

Mr. West pushed back his chair a full yard, and gazed at his daughter.

“Do not throw any obstacle in my way, papa, nor seek to know where I am going.”

“Ah, ah! Not a lover, I hope, madam?” he gasped. “The curate, the—the drawing-master?”

“No; let that suffice, and let us understand one another, once for all. I have been an obedient daughter to you; I have made sacrifices that you have never dreamt of”—(Ah! the poor curate! thought Mr. West)—“and you must give me more liberty. I am of age to go and come as I please unquestioned. I will do nothing wrong; you may trust me. I can take excellent care of myself, and I must have more freedom.”

“Must, must, must! How many more ‘musts’? Well, at any rate, you are a girl to be trusted, and there is something in what you say. I dare say you have sacrificed some girlish fancy; you have nursed me; you are a credit to me. Yes, and you shall come and go as you please, on the trust-me-all-in-all principle, and the understanding that you do not compromise yourself in any way; but you have your advantages, Madeline—a fine home and position, and everything money can buy. Remember, you will miss the best ball if you start to-night, and the Princess Raggawuffinsky was to call for you. Have you thought of that?”

“Oh!” with a frantic wave of her hand, “what is a ball?”

“Well, well, well! How much cash do you require, and when will you be back?”

“I have plenty of money. If all goes well, I shall be back in a few days—as soon as possible—for the regatta, perhaps.”

And so, with a few more remarks and assurances, and expostulations on Mr. West’s part at her travelling alone, she pocketed a cheque pressed upon her, and left the room victorious.

Her father was easier to deal with than she had anticipated. Laurence was right—for once!

Then she ran upstairs to her own sanctum and locked the door, pulled off her dress, put on her cool dressing-wrapper, and sat down in a fever of mind and body to wait for the telegram. She remained motionless, with her eyes fastened on the clock, a prey to the wildest fears. Supposing the child was dead!—she shuddered involuntarily; if it were, she would go out of her senses. Her anxiety increased with every hour. She was in a frenzy of impatience, now pacing the room, now sitting, now standing, now kneeling in prayer.

At last there was a knock at the door—Josephine’s knock. Josephine’s voice, “Une dépêche pour vous, mademoiselle.”

Mademoiselle’s hand shook so much that she could hardly open the door, hardly tear asunder the envelope, or read its contents—at a gulp. Josephine had never seen her mistress in this frenzied, distraught condition—her colour like death, her face haggard, her eyes staring, her hair hanging in loose abandon. What did it mean? The telegram brought good news. It said, “He is much better, and in no danger. You need not come.”

The sender’s name was not notified. Whoever it was, it mattered little; the relief was inexpressible. What a fright Mrs. Holt had given her, and all for nothing!

Miss West went to the ball that night, and danced until the dawn flickered along the horizon. She was one of the most brilliant figures at the carnival, and received marked notice in distinguished quarters. At the battle of flowers, she and her equipage were the cynosure of all eyes. The open victoria was made to counterfeit a crown, and covered with pink and white azaleas. Miss West was attired to correspond. Four beautiful white horses were harnessed in pink, and ridden by postilions in pink satin jackets; and the general effect was such that the committee promptly awarded the first banner to “la belle Anglaise,” despite the close rivalry of a celebrated demi-mondaine, who furiously flung the second banner in the faces of the judges, and, with her yellow flowers and four black ponies, had whirled off in high dudgeon and a cloud of dust.

At last this enchanting period was brought to an end by the Riviera’s own best patron—the sun. People melted away as if by magic. Some went on to the Italian lakes, some to Switzerland, many to England. Madeline and her father deferred their return until the end of May, stopping in Paris en route; and when they reached home the season was at its height, and the hall and library tables were white from a heavy fall of visiting-cards and notes of invitation.

Lady Rachel and Lord Tony came in on the evening of their arrival to pay a little neighbourly call, and to tell them that they must on no account miss a great match—the final in a polo tournament at Hurlingham—the next afternoon. Every one would be there.

This speech acted as a trumpet-call to Mr. West.

“Every one will see that we have returned,” he said to himself, and it will save a lot of trouble. Then, aloud, “All right, then, Lady Rachel, we shall certainly go. Madeline must trot out some one of her smart Paris frocks. And, Madeline, you might send a wire over to Mrs. Leach, and offer her a seat down.”