Chapter XV: Mr. Jessop Does His Duty

Lady Rachel and Madame Coralie, between them, soon metamorphosed the appearance of Miss West. She took to her elegant dresses and mantles and tea-gowns with astonishing facility; also to her landau and pair, victoria and cobs, diamonds, dignities, and the last fashion in dogs--a Chinese spaniel. It was not a specimen of animal she especially admired; but her father paid a long price for Chow-chow, because he was the rage, and he looked well on the back seat of the victoria. Yes, Madeline was remarkably adaptable; she developed a predilection for all the sensual accessories of colour and perfume. She also developed a fastidious taste at table, and a rare talent for laying out money.

And what of Laurence Wynne during the time that his wife is revelling in luxury?

He has been making rapid strides on the road to recovery; he is almost well; and the end of his sojourn with the friendly farmer’s family is now drawing perceptibly near. He has letters from Madeline, as she finds means to post them with her own hands--letters full of descriptions of her new life, her new friends, and all the wonderful new world that has been opened to her view.

She, who was never at a dance, excepting at the two breaking-up parties at Mrs. Harper’s, has been living in a round of gaiety, which has whirled faster and faster as the season waned--thanks to Lady Rachel’s introductions and chaperonage; thanks to her beauty, and her father’s great wealth.

Miss West has already become known--already her brilliant colouring and perfect profile have been noted by great and competent connoisseurs. Her face was already familiar in the park.

Luckily for her, dark beauties were coming into fashion; in every way she was fortunate. Her carriage was pointed out in the Row; her table was littered with big square monogramed envelopes and cards of invitation, far too numerous for acceptance. And Miss West, the Australian heiress as she was called, had opened many doors by that potent pass-key, a pretty face, and admitted not only herself, but also her proud and happy parent.

Madeline does not say all this in so many long sentences to Laurence; not that he would be jealous, dear fellow! She knows him better than that; but she is sensible that there is a certain incongruity between their circumstances just at present, and she will not enlarge on her successes more than is absolutely needful. Yet a word drops out here and slips in there, which tells Laurence far more than she supposes. Besides this, Laurence is no fool. He can draw inferences; he can put two and two together--it is his profession. Moreover, he sees the daily, society, and illustrated papers, thanks to Mr. Jessop, who has given a liberal order to his news-agent, believing that his gifted friend, who always lived at high brain-pressure, must be developing into a state of coma in his rural quarters, among cows and pigs and geese.

Laurence reads the letters between the lines. He reads society’s doings, and in the warm June and July evenings, as he strolls about the fields alone, has plenty of leisure for reflection. These are not very happy times for Laurence Wynne. He has found some consolation in work. One or two articles from his pen have made their way into leading reviews, and been praised for their style, substance, and wit. A short sketch of a country tragedy has added another feather to his cap. In these long, lonely, empty days, he had given ample time and brain-work (his best) to these vivid articles, readily scanned in a quarter of an hour. They recalled his name; at any rate, people began to remember Laurence Wynne--a clever chap who made a foolish marriage, and subsequently lived in a slum, and then nearly went and died. Apparently, he was not dead yet! There was a good deal of vitality in him still, and that of a very marketable description. Success, however small, breeds success, and a little sun began to shine on Laurence Wynne at last. He was asked to contribute articles to the _Razor_ and the _Present_, two of the most up-to-date periodicals. He was well paid--cash down. He was independent once more, and he felt as if he would like to go out into the fields and shout for joy.

Now and then he ventured to write to his wife--to Miss West, 365, Belgrave Square; and Miss West eagerly snatches the letter from under a pile of society notes, in thick fashionable envelopes, plunges it into her pocket, and reads it greedily alone; for although she is a little bit carried away by admiration, money, and power, yet a letter from Laurence puts all these pleasures completely into the shade, as yet.

This is his last that she holds in her hand, written after long meditation, and with many a pause between the sentences. He had turned out an article for the _Razor_ in half the time.

“Holt Hill Farm.”

“MY DEAREST MADELINE,”

“Your welcome letter is at present lying before me; and now that the household is asleep, and that there is not a stir on the premises, nor a sound, except the loud ticking of the kitchen clock, I sit down to write to you without fear of being disturbed, for this, my dear Maddie, is going to be an important epistle. I am sincerely glad to hear that you are so happy; that your father shows that he has affection for you; that you and he are no longer strangers, but getting on together capitally. I hope his tenderness will be able to survive the news you have to tell him, and must tell him soon--the fact, in short, that you are married. I can quite understand how you are dreading the evil moment, and can fully enter into your feelings of shrinking reluctance to dispel this beautiful new life, this kind of enchanted existence, by just one magic word, and that word to be uttered by your own lips. But if you are adverse to mentioning this one word--which must be spoken, sooner or later--let me take the commission on myself. I will speak to your father. I will bear the full blast and fury of his indignation and disappointment. After all, we have nothing to be ashamed of. If I had known that you were the heiress of a millionaire, I would never have ventured to marry you--of that you may be sure. But, under other circumstances, it was different. In the days when you had neither father nor home, I offered you my home, such as it was. There was no disparity between our two walks in life, nothing to indicate the barrier which has subsequently arisen between us.

“Maddie, we have come to the cross-roads. You will have to choose one way or the other. You will have to choose between your father and me--between riches and poverty. If your father will not listen to the idea of your having changed your name, you must let me testify to the fact; and if he shuts his doors on you afterwards, you are no worse off than a year ago. If I thought you would ever again have such a terrible struggle to live as you experienced last winter, I would not be so barbarous, so cruel, as to ask you to leave your present luxurious home. But things look brighter. I am, thank God, restored to health. I have a prospect of earning a livelihood; our dark days are, I trust, a thing of the past. I am resolved to set to work next week. I cannot endure the idea of living in idleness on your father’s money; for although the whole of our stay here has cost less than you say he has recently given for a dog, still it _is_ his money all the same--money for your education, money diverted from its original use, money expended on a fraud. Of late I have not touched it, having another resource. I only wish I could replace every halfpenny. Let us have an end of this secrecy and double-dealing. And now that we have once more got a foothold on life, and the means of existence, I believe I shall be able to scramble up the ladder! Who knows but you may be a judge’s wife yet! I wish I could give you even a tithe of the luxuries with which you are now surrounded. I would pawn years of my future to do it. But if I cannot endow you with diamonds and carriages, I can give you what money cannot buy, Maddie, an undivided heart, that loves you with every pulse of its existence.

“Now I have said my say. I only await a line from you to go at once to town, and lay bare our secret to your father. It is the right thing to do; it is, indeed. You cannot continue to live this double life--and your real home is with your husband and child. It is now three months and more since you drove away down the lane with Farmer Holt--three long, long months to me, Maddie. You have had ample time to make an inroad on your father’s affections. You can do a great deal in that way in less than three months. If he is what you say, he will not be implacable. You are his only child. You tell me that he thinks so much of good blood and birth--at least in this respect the Wynnes should please him. He will find out all about us in Burke. We were barons of the twelfth century; and there is a dormant title in the family. The candle is just out, and I must say good-bye. But I could go on writing to you for another hour. The text of my discourse, if not sufficiently plain already, is, let me tell your father of our marriage. One line will bring me to town at once.

“I am, your loving husband,

“LAURENCE WYNNE.

“Do not think that I am complaining that you have not been down here. I fully understand that your father, having no occupation, is much at home, perhaps _too_ much at home, and can’t bear you out of his sight--which is natural, and that to come and go to the Holt Farm would take four hours--hours for which you would be called on to account. And you dared not venture--dared not deceive him. Deceive him no longer in _any way_, Maddie. Send me a wire, and he shall know all before to-morrow night.”

Madeline read this letter over slowly, with rapidly changing colour. Some sentences she perused two or three times, and when she came to the last word, she recommenced at the beginning--then she folded it up, put it into its envelope, thrust it into her dressing-case, and turned the key.

She was a good deal disturbed; you could read that by her face, as she went and stood in the window, playing with the charms on her bangle. She had a colour in her cheeks and a frown upon her brow.

How impatient Laurence was! Why would he not give her time? What was three months to prepare papa? And was it _really_ three months? It seemed more like three weeks. Yes, April; and this was the beginning of July.

Her eyes slowly travelled round the luxurious apartment, with its pale blue silk hangings, inlaid satin-wood furniture, and Persian carpet, her toilet-table loaded with silver bottles and boxes, a large silver-framed mirror, draped in real lace, the silver-backed brushes, the cases of perfume; and she thought with a shudder of the poor little room at No. 2, with its rickety table, shilling glass, and jug without a handle. Deliberately, she stood before the dressing-table, and deliberately studied her reflection in the costly mirror. How different she looked to poor, haggard, shabby Mrs. Wynne, the slave of a sick husband and a screaming baby, with all the cares of a miserable home upon her young shoulders; with no money in her purse, no hope in her heart, no future, and no friends!

Here she beheld Miss West, radiant with health and beauty, her abundant hair charmingly arranged by the deft-fingered Josephine, her pretty, slim figure shown off by a simply made but artistic twenty-guinea gown; her little watch was set in brilliants, her fingers were glittering with the same. She had just risen from a dainty lunch, where she was served by two powdered footmen and the clerical butler. Her carriage is even now waiting at the door, through the open window she can hear the impatient stamping of her six-hundred-guinea horses.

She was about to call for an earl’s daughter, who was to chaperone her to a _fête_, where, from previous experience, she knew that many and many a head would be turned to look after pretty Miss West; and she liked to be admired! She had never gauged her own capacity for pleasure until the last few months. And Laurence required her to give up all this, to rend the veil from her secret, and stand before the world once more, shabby, faded, insignificant Mrs. Wynne, the wife of a briefless barrister!

Of course she was devoted to Laurence. “Oh,” angrily to her own conscience, “do not think that I can ever change to him! But the hideous contrast between that life and this! He must give me a little more time--he must, he must! I _must_ enjoy myself a little!” she reiterated passionately to her beautiful reflection. “Once papa knows, I shall be thrust out to beggary. I know I shall; and I shall never have a carriage or a French gown again.”

And this was the girl who, four months previously, had pawned her clothes for her husband’s necessaries, and walked miles to save twopence!

Sudden riches are a terrible test--a severe trial of moral fibre, especially when they raise a girl of nineteen, with inherited luxurious tastes, from poverty, touching starvation, to be mistress of unbounded wealth, the daughter, only child and heiress of an open-handed Crœsus, with thousands as plentiful now as coppers once had been.

“I will go down and see him. I must risk it; there is no other plan,” she murmured, as she rang her bell preparatory to putting herself in the hands of her maid. “Letters are so stupid. I will seize the first chance I can find, and steal down to the Holts, if it is but for half an hour, and tell Laurence that he _must_ wait; he must be patient.”

And so he was--pathetically patient, as morning after morning he waited in the road and waylaid the postman, who seldom had occasion to come up to the farm; and still there was no letter.

Madeline was daily intending to rush down, and day followed day without her finding the opportunity or the courage to carry out her purpose. And still Laurence waited; and then he began to fear that she must be ill. A whole week and no letter! He would go to town and inquire. No sooner thought of than done. Fear and keen anxiety now took the place of any other sensation, and hurriedly making a change in his clothes, and leaving a message for Mrs. Holt, he set off to the station--three miles--on foot, and took a third-class return to London. Once there, he made his way--and a long way it was--to the fashionable quarter of Belgrave Square. It was a sultry July afternoon, the very pavement was hot, the air oppressive--people were beginning to talk of Cowes and Scotland.

Nevertheless, many gay equipages were dashing about, containing society notabilities and bright parasols. One of these swept round a corner just as Laurence was about to cross the street; he had only a fleeting glimpse as it passed by. A landau and pair of bay steppers, with what is called “extravagant” action, powdered servants, two ladies in light summer dresses, and a young man, with a button-hole and lavender gloves, on the back seat.

One of the ladies had a faint resemblance to Madeline, as well as could be gathered, from an impression of bright dark eyes, shaded by a French picture-hat and a chiffon sunshade. No, it could not be her. This was some patrician beauty, who looked as if she had been accustomed to such an equipage from the days of her perambulator.

It was merely a passing idea, and quickly brushed aside by Laurence as he once more walked on rapidly. At length he approached the house--he was at the same side of the square--within four numbers now. His heart beat rather quickly as he glanced up. No; none of the upper blinds were pulled down, he observed with relief, and then he took in the dimensions of this palatial mansion, with a porch and pillars, conservatory, billiard-room, and buildings built out, and built on, wherever they could be crammed. The awnings were out--gay red and white striped ones--banks of flowers bloomed in the balconies. Oh, what a contrast to Solferino Place! Would not Madeline see it too? he asked himself, with a pang. After a moment’s hesitation he rang the bell, and almost instantly the door was opened by a tall, supercilious looking footman.

“Is--is--Miss--West at home?” stammered her husband.

“Not at home,” replied the servant, in a parrot voice, holding out his hand for the card that he presumed would be forthcoming.

“Is she quite well?” ventured the visitor.

“Quite well, sir, thank you,” having studied the questioner, and come to the conclusion that he was not one of your nobodies, like his worthy master. “Who shall I say?” he asked confidentially.

“It is of no consequence. I have forgotten my cards. I will call again,” turning as he spoke and slowly descending the steps.

This was a most rum go in Jeames’s opinion. He might, at least, have left his name! But no. Jeames stood gazing after him, with what is called “the door in his hand,” for two whole minutes, glanced sleepily around the big, white, hot-looking square, and then went in to study the paper and the latest betting on Goodwood.

Laurence made his way to Mr. Jessop’s chambers, in--oh, extravagance!--a hansom, and found that gentleman extremely busy, and, as he expressed it, “up to his ears.” He, however, knocked off for the time being, in order to have a smoke and a chat with his friend, whom he declared that he found looking as fit as a fiddle, and requested to know when he was going to put his shoulder to the wheel again?

“Lots for you to do, my boy. Martin has married an heiress and cut the concern. My sister has married the son of old Baggs, of the great firm of Baggs and Keepe, solicitors. My fortune is made, and so is yours!”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“And, by Jove, old chap! those articles of yours, in the _Pepper and Salt Magazine_, have taken the whole baking--are regular scorchers; lots of people are talking of them, and asking if they are by the same Laurence Wynne, of the Inner Temple--fellow with a beard? Who would have thought of your breaking out in that line, eh? as ready with your pen as your tongue.”

“Readier.”

“And look here, Larry, there is that case of Cox _v._ Fox coming on, and you can have a finger in the pie if you like.”

Larry did not clutch at this lucrative opening; he puffed away moodily at a cigarette, and stared out of the window in rather an abstracted fashion.

His keen-eyed friend noted this, and said, in a totally different key--

“And what about Mrs. Wynne?”

His companion looked at him quickly, coloured faintly, threw his cigarette out of the window, and said nothing.

“She has not told the old gentleman yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“So I surmised, as they say in America. I saw her at the opera last night, the cynosure of all eyes, and her proud and happy father noting that half the glasses in the house were fixed on Miss West. Ahem! How long is it to go on--this little comedy? Eh?”

“I can’t tell you!” impatiently. “Not another hour as far as I am concerned. I don’t wish her to sail under false colours any longer. I came up to see her to-day.”

“The deuce you did!” in blunt amazement.

“But she was out.”

“I suppose you saw the house and the style. By Jove! it’s like royalty. I dined there last week.”

“_You_ did?” in unfeigned amazement.

“Yes, your most humble servant. I’ve met Mr. West at my club; he knows a friend of mine--an impecunious lord--that is all. The dinner was a banquet, a feast fit for Lucullus himself. I had the honour of being presented to Miss West.”

“Indeed!”

“Of course I had never seen her before,” winking at his friend. “And, upon my word, I declare I scarcely recognized her! Dress, diamonds, and manner--manner begotten of importance, appreciation, wealth, and luxurious surroundings. Not that Mrs. Wynne’s manners were not always those of a gentlewoman, but there is a difference between doing the honours of a couple of herrings and a sheep’s head, in one living room, and being the hostess presiding over a French dinner--with perfect appointments and exotic flowers--entertaining lords and ladies and bishops--eh?--and doing it well, too. But wherever she got her good blood, Laurence, it did not come from her father’s side of the house. I sometimes felt inclined to run my fork into him, or to shy a wine-glass at his head. He is so blatantly proud of Robert West, his success, his money, his grand acquaintances, and, above _all_, his daughter. Excuse me, he is a thundering little bounder!”

“You think he will be furious when he knows that he has a son-in-law?” said Laurence, gravely.

“If you were a lord--or even a baronet--and had some sort of handle to your name----”

“But as I have nothing--not even Q.C.?”

“I think, from what I know of him, that he will be unpleasant, my dear Larry--very unpleasant.”

“And the first shape that his unpleasantness will take will be to turn Madeline out of doors?”

“Yes, I should say so--I think the odds are fifty to one.”

“Well, she has her own home, at any rate. I shall set to work on Monday. I’ll go round and see about my old chambers. You can send me those papers, and tell Tom, the clerk, that I am coming back for good. I shall take lodgings as soon as I have looked round--in a more airy locality than Solferino Place. Mrs. Holt will keep the child till we are settled.”

“You--er--mean--you and Mrs. Wynne?” looking curiously at his companion.

“Well, yes; who else should I mean?”

“Does she say anything about returning?”

“No-o,” staring confusedly; “but it is understood.”

Here ensued a short silence, during which Mr. Jessop was nerving himself to speak his mind to his friend--to speak for that friend’s good--a thankless task, but he assured himself that it was his _duty_.

“Larry, old chap, you and I have been pals since we were in jackets at Harrow, and I’ve been your ally ever since the day you licked Thompson, major, for pitching into me. We’ve always stuck together somehow ever since. I think a great deal about your concerns. What hurts you hurts me.”

“Out with it,” cried the other, brusquely. “Out with it. I know you are going to say something disagreeable. That will do for the overture!”

“I must say one word to prepare you, old man,” suddenly standing up, laying his hand on his companion’s shoulder, and looking down into his face. “It is a fatal mistake to expect too much in life--to be too sanguine! Don’t--don’t be too sure that she _wants_ to come back.”