"No," I said.
"I should be most pleased to conduct you over mine, if you liked to call some day at the Row. I could take you there immediately after luncheon, and show you the premises any day you liked. Eh! Did you speak?"
"I am very much occupied with my mother, and seldom or never go anywhere without her," was my reply to this audacious proposal. I then turned my shoulder upon my aggressive neighbour, and began to talk frantically to a lady at my other side. She was a dull little woman, and I could scarcely get a word out of her. Her name was Mrs. Sampson; she was slightly deaf, and said "Eh, eh!" to each remark of mine. But she was a refuge from the intolerable Mr. Fanning, and I roused myself to be most polite to her during the remainder of the meal.
Mr. Fanning followed us upstairs after dinner. I greatly hoped that he was the sort of man who would not often frequent the drawing-room, but I soon perceived my mistake. He not only entered that apartment, but attached himself as soon as possible to my side. He was beyond doubt the most disagreeable boarder we had yet secured. Indeed, Mrs. and Miss Armstrong were delightful compared to him. I now saw Miss Armstrong glance two or three times both at him and me, and rising deliberately, I crossed the room, and with a motion of my hand, asked him to accompany me. I then introduced him to that young lady. She blushed when I did so, and bridled a little. She did not evidently think him at all objectionable. I went back immediately to my seat near mother, and could scarcely suppress a feeling of pleasure at Mr. Fanning's too evident discomfiture.
I generally sang a couple of songs in the evening, and I was asked, as usual, to do so to-night. My voice was a rather sweet mezzo soprano, and I had been well taught. I sat down before the piano, as usual. When Mr. Randolph was in the room healways came and turned the pages of my music for me, but he was not present this evening, although he had dined with us; he had evidently gone out immediately afterwards. Now a voice sounded in my ears. I turned, and saw the objectionable and irrepressible Mr. Fanning.
"Why did you play me that trick?" he said.
"What trick?" I asked. "I do not play tricks; I do not understand you."
"You do understand me perfectly well. Oh, pray do sing this song; I am sure it is charming. It is an old English ditty, is it not?—'Begone, Dull Care, You and I will Never Agree.' Now, that is just my way of thinking. I hate dismal people, and as to care, I never bother with it. To hear such a sprightly song from your lips will be indeed what I may call a pick-me-up."
I almost rose from the piano, but knowing that such a proceeding would call public attention to Mr. Fanning's most unpleasant remarks, I said in a low, emphatic voice—
"I will not play for you, nor allow you to turn my music, if you talk to me as you are now doing. You must address me as you would any other lady, and I will not permit what you consider compliments."
"Oh, I am sure I have no wish to offend. Sorry I spoke," he said. He did not blush—I do not think he could—but he passed his hand across his rather ugly mouth, and gave me a peculiar glanceout of his queer blue eyes. He then said in a low voice—
"Believe me, it will be my utmost endeavour to make myself agreeable. I quite see what you mean. You do not want folks to remark; that's it, and I absolutely understand. But you must not play me those sort of tricks again, you know. I really cannot be introduced to ladies of the sort you just gave me an introduction to."
"Miss Armstrong is an excellent girl," I said, "and I shall ask her to sing when I leave the piano. She is very talented, and has a love both for music and art."
I then sang my one song, enduring the odious proximity of this most unpleasant man. I fancied I saw a conscious expression on the faces of several of our guests, and resolved that whatever happened, Mr. Fanning must leave on the following day. Such a man could not be permitted to remain in the place.
Later on, as I was going to bed, there came a tap at my door. I opened it, half hoping, half fearing, that Jane herself might have come to see me. On the contrary, somewhat to my surprise, I saw Mrs. Furlong. She asked me if she might come in. I eagerly begged of her to do so, and drew a comfortable chair forward for her acceptance.
"What is the matter?" I said. "Do you want to say anything special?"
"I do, my dear Miss Wickham," replied the lady. "I have come for the purpose."
"Yes?" I said in a slight tone of query.
"How did that objectionable man, Mr. Fanning, get here?"
"I suppose he came because he wanted to," I replied. "The house is open to any one who will pay, and who bears a respectable character."
"The house ought only to be open to those who bear agreeable characters, and know how to act as gentlemen," replied Mrs. Furlong stoutly. "Now my husband and I dislike that person extremely, but after all the fact of whether we like him or not matters but little; it is because he tries to annoy you that we are really concerned. Would you not rather at dinner come and sit at our end of the table? It always seems very hard to us that you should sit with your housekeeper, Miss Mullins, and amongst the least nice members of the establishment."
"But you must please remember," I said, "that Jane is not a housekeeper, she is one of the partners in this concern. It is kind of you to think of me, but I cannot do what you propose. I must help Jane in every way in my power. You do not know how good and true she is, and how little I really do for her. If I sat with you we should have a regular clique in the place, and by degrees the boarders would go, at least those boarders who were not included in our set."
"I see," answered Mrs. Furlong. "It is all most unsuitable," she added, and she stared straight beforeher. After a moment's pause she looked at me again.
"It is the queerest arrangement I ever heard of in all my life. Don't you think you are peculiarly unsuited to your present life?"
"I don't know; I hope not."
"You are a lady."
"That is my birthright. The boarding-house cannot deprive me of it," I answered.
"Oh, I know all that, but the life is not suitable. You will find it less and less suitable as time goes on. At present you have got your mother to protect you, but——"
"What do you mean by at present I have got my mother?" I cried. "My mother is young, comparatively young; she is not more than three and forty. What do you mean, Mrs. Furlong?"
"Oh nothing, dear," she said, colouring, "nothing at all. One always has, you know, in this uncertain world to contemplate the possibility of loss, but don't think again of what I have said. The fact is the life is quite as unsuitable for her as for you. You are put in a position which you cannot possibly maintain, my dear Miss Wickham. That awful man felt to-night that he had a right to pay you disagreeable attentions. Now is this thing to go on? I assure you Captain Furlong and I were quite distressed when we saw how he behaved to you when you were at the piano."
The tears rushed to my eyes.
"It is kind of you to sympathise with me," I said. "I am going to speak to Jane Mullins to-morrow. If possible Mr. Fanning must go."
"But there is another thing," began Mrs. Furlong. She paused, and I saw that she was about to say something, even more disagreeable than anything she had yet uttered.
"You have your mother, of course," she continued slowly, "but you yourself are very young, and—now I don't want to compliment you—but you are much nicer looking than many girls; you have quite a different air and appearance from any other girl in this house. Oh, I hate interfering, but your mother, Miss Wickham, must be a particularly innocent woman."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"I mean Mr. Randolph," she answered, and she raised her eyes and fixed them on my face.
"Mr. Randolph?" I said. "Surely you must admit that he at least is a gentleman?"
"He is not only a gentleman, but he is more highly born and has more money than any one else in the house; he does not belong to the set who fill this house at all. Why does he come? This is no place for him. In one way it is quite as unsuitable to have him here as it is to have a man like Mr. Fanning here. Those two men represent opposite extremes. People will talk."
"What about?" I asked.
"About you, dear."
"They cannot. I will not permit it." Then I said abruptly, standing up in my excitement, "After all, I don't care whether they talk or not; I was prepared for misunderstandings when I came here. Mother likes Mr. Randolph; he at least shall stay."
"But, my child, it is not nice to be talked about; it is never nice for a young girl. People like my husband and myself quite understand. We know well that you and your mother are at present out of your right position, but others will not be so considerate. Mr. Randolph is always here."
"You think," I said, stammering, "that he comes because——"
She smiled, got up and kissed me.
"What else could he come for, Westenra?" she said softly.
"He comes because—because of mother," I answered. "He likes her; he told me so. He is anxious about her, for he thinks she misses her old life very much; he wants to make things easier for her. He is a very good man, and I respect him. I don't mind what any one says, I know in my heart he comes here because——"
"No, you do not," said Mrs. Furlong, and she looked me full in the eyes, and I found myself colouring and stammering.
"Believe me I have not intruded upon you thisevening without cause," said the little woman. "I talked the matter over with my husband. I would rather Mr. Fanning were here than Mr. Randolph. Mr. Fanning is impossible, Mr. Randolph is not. He does not come here on account of your mother, he comes here because he likes you. I am very sorry; I felt I must speak; my husband agrees with me."
"Do not say another word now," I said. "I am sure you mean all this kindly, but please do not say any more now. I will think over what you have said."
"I will leave you then, dear," she said.
She went as far as the door; she was a very kindly little woman, she was a real lady, and she meant well, but she had hurt me so indescribably that at that moment I almost hated her. When she reached the door she turned and said—
"If ever my husband and I can help you, Miss Wickham (but we are poor people), if ever we can help you, we will be glad to do so. I know you are angry with me now, but your anger won't remain, you will see who are your true friends by-and-by."
She closed the door softly, and I heard her gentle steps going downstairs. I will frankly say that I did not go to bed for some time, that I paced indignantly up and down my room. I hated Jane, I hated Mr. Fanning, I still more cordially hated Mr. Randolph at that moment. Mr. Fanning must go, Mr. Randolph must go. I could not allow myself to be spoken about. How intolerable of Mr. Randolphto have come as he had done, to have forced himself upon us, to have invited us to go out with him, to have——and then I stopped, and a great lump rose in my throat, and I burst into tears, for in my heart of hearts I knew well that I did not think what he did intolerable at all, that I respected him, and—but I did not dare to allow my thoughts to go any further.
I even hated myself for being good-looking, until I suddenly remembered that I had the same features as my father had. He had conquered in all the battles in which he had borne part through his life. My face must be a good one if it was like his. I would try to live up to the character which my face seemed to express, and I would immediately endeavour to get things on a different footing.
Accordingly, the next day at breakfast I studiously avoided Mr. Randolph, and I equally studiously avoided Mr. Fanning. The consequence was that, being as it were between two fires, I had a most uncomfortable time, for Mr. Randolph showed me by certain glances which he threw in my direction that he was most anxious to consult me about something, and Mr. Fanning seemed to intercept these glances, and to make his own most unpleasant comments about them; and if Mr. Fanning intercepted them, so did Mrs. and Miss Armstrong.
Miss Armstrong had now given up Mr. Randolph as almost hopeless with regard to a flirtation, andwas turning her attention in the direction of Mr. Fanning. She talked ArtatMr. Fanning assiduously all during breakfast, and having learned by some accident that he was a publisher, boldly demanded from him if he would not like her to illustrate some of his books. In reply to this he gave a profound bow, and told her, with a certain awkward jerk of his body, that he never gave orders in advance, that he never gave orders on the score of friendliness, that when it came to the relations between publisher and artist he was brutal.
"That's the word for it, Miss Armstrong," he said, "I am brutal when it comes to a bargain. I try to make the very best I can for myself. I never think of the artist at all. I want all the£ s dto go into my own pocket"—and here he slapped his waistcoat loudly, and uttered a harsh laugh, which showed all his broken teeth in a most disagreeable manner. Miss Armstrong and her mother seemed to think he was excellent fun, and Mrs. Armstrong said, with a quick glance first at Mr. Randolph and then at me, that it was refreshing to hear any man so frank, and that for her part she respected people who gave themselves no h'airs.
Breakfast came to an end, and I sought Jane in her sanctum.
"Now, Jane," I said, "you must put away your accounts, you must cease to think of housekeeping. You must listen to me."
"What is it, Westenra?" she said. "Has anything vexed you?" she continued; "sit down and tell me all about it."
"Several things vex me," I answered. "Jane, we must come to an understanding."
"What about?" she asked in some alarm; "an understanding! I thought that was all arranged when our legal agreement was drawn up."
"Oh, I know nothing about lawyers nor about legal agreements," I answered; "but, Jane, there are some things I cannot put up with, and one of them is——"
"I know," she answered; "Mr. Fanning."
"He is horrible, hateful; he is going to make himself most hateful to me. Jane, dear Jane, he must go."
Jane looked puzzled and distressed. I expected her to say—
"He shall certainly go, my dear, I will tell him that his room is required, and that he must leave at the end of the week." But on the contrary she sighed. After a long pause she said—
"You want this house to be a success, I presume."
"I certainly do, but we cannot have it a success on the present arrangement. Mr. Fanning must go, and also Mr. Randolph."
"Mr. Randolph, Mr. James Randolph!" said Jane, now colouring high, and a sparkle of something, which seemed to be a curious mixture of fear and indignation, filling her eyes. "And why should he go? You do not know what you are talking about."
"I do. He must go. Ask—ask Mrs. Furlong. They talk about him here, these hateful people; they put false constructions on his kindness; I know he is kind and he is a gentleman, but he does me harm, Jane, even as much harm as that horrible Mr. Fanning."
"Now, look here, Westenra Wickham," said Jane Mullins. "Are you going to throw up the sponge, or are you not?"
"Throw up the sponge! I certainly don't mean to fail."
"You will do so if you send those two men out of the house. If you cannot hold your own, whatever men come here, you are not the girl I took you for. As to Mr. Randolph, be quite assured that he will never do anything to annoy you. If people talk let them talk. When they see nothing comes of their idle silly gossip, they will soon cease to utter it. And as to Mr. Fanning, they will equally cease to worry about him. If he pays he must stay, for as it is, it is difficult to let the first-floor rooms. People don't want to pay five guineas a week to live in Bloomsbury, and he has a small room; and it is a great relief to me that he should be here and pay so good a sum for his room. The thing must be met commercially, or I for one give it up."
"You, Jane, you! then indeed we shall be ruined."
"I don't really mean to, my dear child, I don't mean for a single moment to desert you; but I must say that if 17 Graham Square is to go on, it must go on commercial principles; and we cannot sendour best boarders away. You ask me coolly, just because things are a little uncomfortable for you, you ask me to dismiss ten guineas a week, for Mr. Randolph pays five guineas for his room, and Mr. Fanning five guineas for his, and I don't know any other gentleman who would pay an equal sum, and we must have it to balance matters. What is to meet the rent, my dear? What is to meet the taxes? What is to meet the butcher's, the baker's, the grocer's, the fishmonger's bills if we dismissed our tenants. I often have a terrible fear that we were rash to take a great expensive house like this, and unless it is full from attic to drawing-room floor, we have not the slightest chance of meeting our expenses. Even then I fear!—but there I won't croak before the time; only, Westenra, you have to make up your mind. You can go away on a visit if you wish to, I do not counsel this for a moment, for I know you are a great attraction here. It is because you are pretty and wear nice dresses, and look different from the other boarders, that you attract them; and—yes, I will say it—Mr. Randolph also attracts them. They can get no small change out of Mr. James Randolph, so they need not try it on, but once for all we cannot decline the people who are willing to pay us good money, that is a foregone conclusion. Now you have got to accept the agreeables with the disagreeables, or this whole great scheme of yours will tumble about our heads like a pack of cards."
On that very day I searched through mother's wardrobe and found a piece of brown barége. It was a harsh and by no means pretty material. I held it up to the light, and asked her what she was going to do with it.
"Nothing," she answered, "I bought it ten years ago at a sale of remnants, and why it has stuck to me all these years is more than I can tell."
"May I have it?" was my next query.
"Certainly," replied mother, "but you surely are not going to have a dress made of that ugly thing?"
"May I have it?" I asked again.
"Yes, dear, yes."
I did not say any more with regard to the barége. I turned the conversation to indifferent matters, but when I left the room I took it with me. I made it into a parcel and took it out. I went to a little dressmaker in a street near by. I asked her if she would make the ugly brown barége into an evening dress. She measured the material, and said it was somewhat scanty.
"That does not matter," I said, "Iwantan uglydress—can you manage to make a really ugly dress for me out of it?"
"Well, Miss Wickham," she replied, fixing her pale brown eyes on my face, "I never do go in for making ugly dresses, it would be against my profession. You don't mean it, do you, Miss Wickham?"
"Put your best work into it," I said, suddenly changing my tone. "Make it according to your own ideas of the fashion. Picture a young girl going to a play, or a ball, in that dress, and make it according to your own ideas."
"May I trim it with golden yellow chiffon and turquoise blue silk bows?" she asked eagerly, her eyes shining.
"You may," I replied, suppressing an internal shudder. I gave her a few further directions; she named a day when I should come to be fitted, and I went home.
In less than a week's time the brown barége arrived back, ready for me to wear. It was made according to Annie Starr's ideas of a fashionable evening gown. It was the sort of garment which would have sent the Duchess or Lady Thesiger into fits on the spot. In the first place, the bodice was full of wrinkles, it was too wide in the waist, and too narrow across the chest, but this was a small matter to complain of. It was the irritating air of vulgarity all over the dress which was so hard to bear. But, notwithstanding all these defects, itpleased me. It would, I hoped, answer my purpose, and succeed in making me appear very unattractive in the eyes of Mr. Randolph.
That evening I put on the brown barége for dinner. The yellow chiffon and the turquoise blue bows were much in evidence, and I did really feel that I was a martyr when I went downstairs in that dress with itsoutrétrimmings.
When I entered the drawing-room, mother glanced up at me as if she did not know me; she then started, the colour came into her face, and she motioned me imperatively to her side.
"Go upstairs at once and take that off," she said.
"Oh no, mother," I answered, "there is no time now, besides I—I chose it, I admire it."
"Take it off immediately, Westenra."
"But it is your dear barége that you have kept for ten years," I said, trying to be playful; "I must wear it, at least to-night."
I knew that I had never looked worse, and I quite gloried in the fact. I saw Mr. Randolph from his seat near mother glance at me several times in a puzzled way, and Mr. Fanning, after one or two astonished glances, during which he took in thetout ensembleof the ugly robe, began to enter into a playful bear-like flirtation with Miss Armstrong. Dear brown barége, what service it was doing me! I secretly determined that it should be my dinner dress every evening until it wore itself to rags.When the turquoise blue bows became too shabby, I might substitute them for magenta ones. I felt that I had suddenly found an opening out of my difficulty. If I ceased to appear attractive, Mr. Randolph and Mr. Fanning would cease to worry me, the rest of the boarders would accept me for what I was, and my Gordian knot would be cut. Little did I guess! It was by no means so easy to carry out my fixed determination as I had hoped. In the first place, poor darling mother nearly fretted herself into an illness on account of my evening dress. She absolutely cried when she saw me in it, and said that if I was determined to deteriorate in that way, she would give up the boarding-house and go to the cottage in the country without a moment's hesitation. After wearing the dress for three or four days I was forced, very much against my will, to put on one of my pretty black dresses, and the barége made by Annie Starr resumed its place in my wardrobe. I determined to wear it now and then, however—it had already done me good service. I began to hope that neither Mr. Randolph nor Mr. Fanning thought me worth looking at when I appeared in it.
On this evening, as I was dressing for dinner, I heard a wonderful bumping going on in the stairs. It was the noise made by very heavy trunks, trunks so large that they seemed scarcely able to be brought upstairs. They were arriving at the attics, too—theywere entering the attic next to mine. Now that special attic had up to the present remained untenanted. It was the most disagreeable room in the house. Most of the attics were quite excellent, but this room had a decidedly sloping roof, and rather small windows, and the paper on the walls was ugly, and the accommodation scanty, and what those huge boxes were going to do there was more than I could tell. The boxes, however, entered that special attic, and then a bodily presence followed them briskly, a loud hearty voice was heard to speak. It said in cheerful tones—
"Thank you, that will do nicely. A large can of hot water, please, and a couple more candles. Thanks. What hour did you say the company dined?"
The reply was made in a low tone which I could not catch, and the attic door was shut.
I was down in the drawing-room in my black dress—(how comfortable I felt in it, how hateful that brown barége was, after all)—when the door was opened, and a large, stoutly-made woman, most richly dressed, came in. She had a quantity of grizzly grey hair, which was turned back from her expansive forehead; a cap of almost every colour in the rainbow bedizened her head, she wore diamond pendants in her ears, and had a flashing diamond brooch fastening the front of her dress. Her complexion was high, she had a broad mouth and a constant smile. She walked straight up to Jane Mullins.
"Well," she said, "here I am. I have not unpacked my big trunk, as your servant said there was very little time before dinner. Please can you tell me when Albert will be in?"
"Mr. Fanning generally comes home about now," I heard Jane say. "Mrs. Fanning, may I introduce you to my dear young friend, Miss Wickham—Mrs. Wickham has not yet appeared."
To my horror I saw Miss Mullins advancing across the drawing-room, accompanied by the stout woman; they approached to my side.
"May I introduce Mrs. Fanning," said Miss Mullins—"Mr. Fanning's mother."
"The mother of dear, godly Albert," said the stout lady. "I am proud to say I am the mother of one of the best of sons. I am right pleased to meet you, Miss Wickham. I may as well say at once that Albert Fanning, my dear and only son, has mentioned your name to me, and with an approval which would make your young cheeks blush. Yes, I am the last person to encourage vanity in the young, but I must repeat that if you knew all that Albert has said, you would feel that flutter of the heart which only joy brings forth. Now, shall we both sit in a cosy corner and enjoy ourselves, and talk about Albert until dinner is ready?"
This treat was certainly not likely to cause my young cheeks to blush. On the contrary, I felt myself turning pale, and I looked round with a desperateintention of flying to Jane for protection, when the stout lady took one of my hands.
"Ah," she said, "quite up to date, a slim young hand, and a slim young figure, and a slim young face, too, for that matter. All that Albert says is true, you are averynice-looking girl. I should not say that you had much durance in you, that remains to be proved. But come, here's a cosy corner, I have a great deal to say."
That hand of Mrs. Fanning's had a wonderfully clinging effect; it seemed to encircle my fingers something like an octopus, and she pulled me gently towards the corner she had in view, and presently had pinned me there, seating herself well in front of me, so that there was no possible escape.
The rest of the boarders now entered the drawing-room. Mother amongst others made her appearance; she went to her accustomed corner, glanced at me, saw that I was in one of my black dresses, nodded approval, concluding in her dear mind that I had probably met some old friend in the extraordinary person who was shutting me into the corner, and took no further notice.
Captain and Mrs. Furlong were well pleased to see that I was only talking to a woman, it did not matter at all to them who that woman was. And as to me I sat perfectly silent while Mrs. Fanning discoursed on Albert. She never for a single moment, I will say for her, turned the conversationinto another channel. Albert was her theme, and she stuck to him with the pertinacity which would have done any leader of a debate credit. The debate was Albert. She intended before dinner was announced to give me a true insight into that remarkable man's most remarkable character.
"Yes," she said, "what Albert thinks is always to the point. Since a child he never gave me what you would call a real heartache. Determined, self-willed he is; you look, the next time you see him, at his chin, you observe the cleft in the middle; there never was a chin like that yet without a mind according—a mind, so to speak, set on the duty ahead of it—a mind that is determined to conquer. That is Albert, that is my only, godly son. You observe, when you have an opportunity, Albert's eyes. Did you ever see anything more open than the way they look at you? He don't mind whether it hurts your feelings or not; if he wants to look at you, look he will."
When she said this I nodded my head emphatically, for I had found this most disagreeable trait in Albert's eyes from the first moment I had been unfortunate enough to make his acquaintance. But Mrs. Fanning took my nod in high good humour.
"Ah, you have observed it," she said, "and no wonder, no wonder. Now, when you get an opportunity, do pull him to pieces, feature by feature; notice his brow, how lofty it is; there's talent there,and t'aint what you would call a fly-away talent, such as those art talents that make me quite sick. He has no talent, thank Heaven, for painting or for poetry, or for any fal-lal of that kind, his talent lies in a sound business direction. Oh, he has made me roar, the way he talks of young authors and young artists, how they come to him with their wares, and how he beats them down. It's in Albert's brow where his talent for business lies. You mark his nose too, it's somewhat long and a little pointed, but it's the nose of a man who will make his mark; yes, he'll make his mark some day, and I have told him so over and over."
Having gone through all Albert's features, she next proceeded to describe Albert's character, and then went on to Albert's future. From this it was an easy step to Albert's wife, and Albert's wife took up a great deal of the good woman's attention.
"It is because I am thinking he'll soon be falling into the snares of matrimony that I have come to stay at 17 Graham Square," continued Mrs. Fanning. "And it's because I want my dear and godly son to get a wife who will be on the pattern of Solomon's virtuous woman that I have given up my home and broken up my establishment and come here. Now, Miss Wickham, my dear young lady, did you or did you not hear the noise of my boxes being brought upstairs?"
"I certainly did," I replied.
"Then you happen to occupy the bedroom next to mine?"
"I do," I said.
"That is very nice indeed, for often of an evening we will keep each other company and discourse on Albert, to the joy of both our hearts. The boxes are receptacles for my household gods, dear, those dear mementoes of the past, that I could not quite part with. Don't suppose for a moment that they are full of dresses, for although my taste is light and festive, Albert likes gay colours, he says they remind him of the sales of remnants in the autumn. Dear fellow, it was the most poetical thing he ever uttered, but he has said it once or twice. I can show you my household treasures when you feel disposed to have an evening's real recreation. The burden of this house, and with so delicate a mother as your good Ma, must be heavy upon a young lass like you, but Albert tells me—but there! I won't say any more just now, for you'll blush, and I don't want you to blush, and I don't want to encourage those hopes that may never be realised. I may as well whisper, though, that Albert is looking out for a wife who will be a pattern of Solomon's virtuous woman, and when he finds her, why she'll be lucky, that's all I can say."
Just then the pretty silver gong sounded, and people began to stand up preparatory to going down to dinner. It was difficult even then to move Mrs.Fanning, and for a wild moment I had a fear that I might be imprisoned behind her in the drawing-room all during dinner, while she still discoursed upon Albert and his attractions. Miss Mullins, however, came to the rescue.
"Come, Miss Wickham," she cried, "we must lead the way," and accordingly Jane, my mother, and I went down first, and the different boarders followed us.
To my infinite distress Mrs. Fanning, being a complete stranger, had her seat next mine. I had one comfort, however, she was better than Albert; and Albert, who arrived presently himself, found that he was seated next Miss Armstrong. He nodded across at his mother.
"How do, old lady," he said, "glad to find you cosily established; everything all right, eh?"
"Yes, Albert, my son," replied the good woman, "everything is all right, and I have been having a long conversation about you with my interesting young friend here, Miss Westenra Wickham. By-the-by, dear, would you kindly tell me how you got that outlandish name, I never heard it before, and I do not believe it belongs to the Christian religion."
"I did not know there was anything heathenish about it," I could not help answering; "it happens to be my name, and I was fully baptized by it."
"I will see presently whether I can take to it," responded the old lady. "Soup? Yes, please. I will trouble you, my good girl, for (turning to themaid) a table-spoon; I never take soup with a dessert spoon. Thanks; that's better."
Mrs. Fanning now gave me a few moments peace, and I found, to my great satisfaction, that she had an excellent appetite, and was also extremely critical with regard to her food. I introduced her to her next door neighbour, who happened to be a fat little woman, something like herself in build. They were both gourmands, and criticised adversely the meal to their mutual pleasure. Thus I had time to look around me, and to consider this new aspect of affairs. Things were scarcely likely to be more comfortable if Albert had now got his mother to plead his cause with me. He glanced at me several times during the meal, and once even favoured me with a broad wink—he was really intolerable.
Meanwhile Miss Armstrong was all blushes and smirks. I heard her suggest to Mr. Fanning that she should go the next day to see him, and bring some of her drawings with her, and I heard him tell her in what he was pleased to call his brutal manner that he would not be at home, and if he were and she came would certainly not see her. This seemed to be considered a tremendous joke by Miss Armstrong, and her mother also joined in it, and gave Mr. Fanning a dig in the ribs, and told him that he was the soul of wit, and had the true spirit of heart.
Meanwhile, Mr. Randolph, my mother, Captainand Mrs. Furlong, and the more refined portion of the establishment enjoyed themselves at the other end of the table. I saw Mr. Randolph glance down in my direction once or twice, and I am sure, although he was not able to judge of the difference, the fact of seeing me once more in my properly made black evening dress relieved his mind, for he looked quite contented, and turned in a cheerful manner to my mother, and when dinner was over, and we returned to the drawing-room, I was lucky enough to be able to escape Mrs. Fanning and to go up to the other end of the room, where I seated myself close to mother, took hold of her hand, leant against her chair, and indulged in the luxury of talking to Mr. Randolph. He was in a very good humour, and suggested that we should make a party on the following evening to another play, which was then very much in vogue.
"But not in the chocolate-coloured brougham with the pair of horses," I said.
"We will have a cab from the nearest stand, if you prefer it," was his instant response.
"I should much," I answered.
"And we will not dine at the Cecil," he continued; "we can have a sort of high tea here before we start."
"That I should also like infinitely better," I answered.
"It shall be as you please," was his response. Then he began to tell us something of the playwhich we were about to see, and I forgot all about my discomforts, and enjoyed myself well.
I was putting things in order in the drawing-room that night, for this was always one of my special duties, when Mr. Fanning, who had left the room a long time ago, came back. He came up to me holding his lighted candle in his hand. I started when I saw him.
"Good night," I said coldly.
"Pray don't go for a moment," he said. "I have come back here on the express chance of seeing you."
"I cannot wait now, Mr. Fanning," I replied.
"But I really must have an interview with you, it is of the highest importance,—when can I see you alone? When can you give me an hour of your time quite undisturbed?"
"Never," I answered brusquely.
"Now you will forgive me for saying that that is pure nonsense. If you will not promise me an hour of your own free will I shall take the present opportunity of speaking to you."
"But I shall not stay," I answered with spirit, "and you cannot keep me here against my will. Mr. Fanning, I also will take the present opportunity of telling you that you and I have nothing in common, that I dislike your singling me out for special conversations of any kind, and that I hope in the future you will clearly understand that I do not wish you to do so."
"Oh, that is all very fine," he said, "but come now; what have I done to make myself obnoxious? There is the old lady upstairs, she has taken no end of a fancy to you, she says you are the most charming and the prettiest girl she has ever seen, and what have you to say against my mother? Let me tell you that she has come to this house on purpose to make your acquaintance."
"I have nothing whatever to say against your mother, Mr. Fanning, but I object to the subject of conversation which she chooses to occupy her time with while talking to me. I am not in the least interested in you, and I wish you and your mother clearly to understand this fact as quickly as possible."
I do not think it was in the nature of Mr. Fanning ever to look crestfallen, or my present speech might have made him do so. He did not even change colour, but he looked at me out of those eyes which his mother had so vividly described, and after a moment said softly—
"There will come a day when you will regret this. An honest heart is offered to you and you trample it in the dust, but there will come a day when you will be sorry. How do you think this establishment is working?"
I was so astonished and relieved at his change of conversation that I said—
"It seems to be going very well, don't you think so?"
"It is going well for my purpose," he replied, and then he added, "it is working itself out in a way that will only spell one word—Ruin. Now you ponder on that. Take it as your night-cap, and see what sort of sleep you'll have, and when next I ask for a few moments' conversation perhaps you'll not say no. I will not keep you any longer for the present."
He left the room, I heard his footsteps dying down the corridor, and the next instant he had slammed his bedroom door.
After he had left me, and I was quite certain that I should not see him again that night, I went straight to Jane Mullins' room. Jane was generally up the last in the house, and I had not the slightest doubt I should still find her in her dinner dress, and ready for conversation. I had bidden mother good night long ago, and hoped she was sound asleep, but I did not mind disturbing Jane. I opened the door now and went in. As I expected, Jane was up; she was seated by the fire, she was looking into its depths, and did not turn round at once when I entered. The first thing she did when she became aware of the fact that there was some one else in the room besides herself, was to sigh somewhat deeply. Then she said in a low voice—
"What if it all turns out a mistake?" and then she jumped to her feet and confronted me. "Yes, dear, yes," she said. "Oh, my dear Westenra, why aren't you in bed? It is very bad indeed for young people to be up so late. You will get quite worn and wrinkled. Let me tell you, my love, that we can never get youth back again, and we ought to prize it while we have it. How old are you, Westenra, my love?"
"I shall be twenty-two my next birthday," was my answer.
"Ah, yes, yes, quite young, in the beautiful prime of youth. Nevertheless, the bloom can be rubbed off, and then—well, it never comes back, dear. But go to bed, Westenra, don't stay up bothering your head. I see by that frown between your brows that you are going to say something which I would rather not listen to. Don't tell me to-night, Westenra, love."
"I must tell you," I answered. "I have come to see you for the purpose. You are old enough, Jane, to bear the little disagreeable things I tell you now and then. You are our mainstay, our prop, in this establishment. I cannot go on without confiding in you, and you must listen to me."
"Well, child, sit down, here is a comfortable chair." Jane got up and offered me her own chair. I did not take it.
"What nonsense," I said, "sit down again. Here, this little hassock at your feet will suit me far better."
I seated myself as I spoke, and laid my hand across Jane's knee.
"Now, that is cosy," I said. She touched my arm as though she loved to touch it, and then she laid her firm, weather-beaten hand on my shoulder, and then, as if impelled by an unwonted impulse, she bent forward and kissed me on my cheek.
"You are a very nice girl. Since I knew you lifehas been far pleasanter to me," said Jane Mullins. "I thank you for giving me a bit of love. Whatever happens I want you to remember that."
"I do," I answered; "you have very little idea how much I care for you, Jane, and how immensely I respect you. There are, I think, very few women who would have acted as you have done. I am fully convinced there is a mystery in all your actions which has not yet been explained to me, but I have not come here to-night to talk about that. I have come here to ask you one or two questions, and to tell you one or two things, and my first question is this—Why were you sighing when I came in, and why did you murmur to yourself, 'What if it all turns out a mistake?' Will you explain those words, Jane."
"No," replied Jane stoutly, "for you were eavesdropping when you heard them, and there is no reason why I should explain what you had no right to listen to."
"Thank you; you have answered me very sensibly, and I won't say another word on the subject of your sigh and your remarkable speech. But now to turn to the matter which has brought me to your room so late in the evening."
"Well, dear, it is past midnight, and you know how early I am up. It is a little unreasonable of you; what has brought you, darling?"
"Mr. Fanning has brought me."
"Oh dear, oh dear, that tiresome man again," said Miss Mullins.
"You don't like him yourself, do you, Jane?"
"It is a great pity he is not different," said Jane, "for he is extremely well off."
"O Jane! pray don't talk nonsense. Do you suppose that a person with the name of Fanning could have any interest whatever for me? Now, please, get that silly idea out of your head once for all."
"Oh, as far as any use that there is in it, I have long ago got it out of my head," replied Jane; "but the thing to be considered is this, that he has not got it out of his head—nor has his mother—and that between them they can make things intensely disagreeable. Now, if Mr. Randolph was going to stay here, I should not have an anxious moment."
"What do you mean?" I cried; "is Mr. Randolph going away?" A deep depression seemed suddenly to come over me; I could not quite account for it.
"He is, dear; and it is because he must be absent for two or three months that I am really anxious. He will come back again; but sudden and important news obliges him to go to Australia. He is going in a fortnight, and it is that that frets him. You will be left to the tender mercies of Mr. Fanning and Mrs. Fanning, and you have got so much spirit you are sure to offend them both mortally,and then they will leave, and—oh dear, I do think that things are dark. My dear Westenra, I often wonder if we shall pull through after all."
"That is what I want to speak to you about," I answered. "Mr. Fanning came into the drawing-room just now, and was very rude and very unlike a gentleman. I was alone there, and he said he had something to say to me in private, and, of course, I refused to listen. He wanted to insist on my granting him an interview, and said that he could compel me to listen if he chose. Think of any gentleman speaking like that!"
"They don't mind what they say, nor what they do, when they're in love," muttered Jane.
"I won't allow you to say that," I answered, springing to my feet; "the man is intolerable. Jane, he must go; there is no help for it."
"He must stay, dear, and I cannot disclose all my reasons now."
I stood clasping and unclasping my hands, and staring at Jane.
"You knew beforehand, did you not, Westenra, that there would be disagreeables connected with this scheme?"
"Of course I knew it; but I never did think that the disagreeables would resolve themselves into Mr. Fanning."
"We never know beforehand where the shoe is going to pinch," remarked Jane in a sententious voice.
"Well, I have something else to say," I continued. "Mr. Fanning was not only very unpleasant to me, but he told me something which I can scarcely believe. He said that our boarding-house, which seemed to be going so well, was not going well at all. He said there was only one word to spell how it was going, and that word was RUIN. O Jane! it can't be true?"
"Let us hope not," said Jane, but she turned very white. "I will tell you one thing, Westenra," she continued. "If you don't want to have utter ruin you must go on behaving as nicely as ever you can, bearing with every one, being gentle and considerate, and trying to make every one happy. And in especial, you must bear with Mr. Fanning and with Mrs. Fanning; you must be particularly civil to them both, for if they go others will go; and whatever happens, Westenra, remember your mother is not to be worried. I know what I am saying, your mother is not to be worried. Your mother must never guess that things are not as right as they should be. When Mr. Randolph comes back everything will be right, but during his absence we will have to go through rather a tight place; and Albert Fanning is the sort of person who might take advantage of us, and what you must do, my dear girl, is to be guileful."
"Guileful!" I cried; "never."
"But you must, my love, you must be guilefuland wary; you need not give him a single straw to go upon, but at the same time you must be civil. There now, that is all I can tell you for the present. Go to bed, child, for I have to do the daily accounts, and must be up at six in the morning. It's that new cook, she frets me more than I can say, she don't do things proper; and I noticed that Mrs. Fanning sniffed at her soup instead of eating it this evening, and the turbot was not as fresh as it ought to be. Go to bed, Westenra, go to bed."
I left the room. There was no use in staying any longer with Jane. She certainly had not reassured me. She seemed puzzled and anxious about the establishment; and why were not things going well? And what had Mr. Fanning to do with it; and why, why was Mr. Randolph going away?
The next morning after breakfast I went into the drawing-room for my usual task of dusting and arranging the furniture and refilling the vases with fresh flowers, when Mr. Randolph suddenly came in.
"It will be best for you and Mrs. Wickham to meet me at the Criterion to-night," he said. "As you won't give me the opportunity of offering you dinner at the Cecil, that seems the next best thing to do. I have got a box in a good part of the house, so we need not be there more than a few minutes before it commences. I shall meet you at the entrance and conduct you to your seats."
His manner showed some excitement, quite outof keeping with his ordinary demeanour, and I noticed that he scarcely glanced at me. His face was somewhat worn, too, in expression, and although he generally had himself in complete control, he now looked nearly as anxious and worried as Jane herself. He scarcely waited for my compliance with the arrangement he had proposed, but glancing at the door, spoke abruptly—
"Something unexpected and very grievous has occurred, and I am obliged to leave England by theSmyrna, which sails on Saturday week."
"Miss Mullins told me last night that you were going away," I replied. I also now avoided looking at him. I was playing with some large sprays of mimosa which had been sent in from the market. To my dying day I shall never forget how that mimosa seemed to slip about, and would not get into the best position in the vase in which I was placing it.
"Effective," he said, as he watched my movements, "but it withers quickly; it wants its native air."
"I suppose so," I answered.
"Have you ever seen it growing?"
"No; I have never been to the South."
"You have a good deal to see. I hope some day——" He broke off.
"Where are you going when you do go away?" I asked.
"To Sydney first, perhaps to Melbourne."
"It will be nice for you to leave England during our unpleasant winter weather."
"There is nothing nice about my visit," he said; "I dislike going more than I have any words to express. In particular, I am sorry to leave your mother; but before I go I want"—he dropped his voice and came a step nearer.
"What?" I asked.
"I am anxious that your mother should see a doctor—a specialist, I mean. I am not satisfied with her condition."
"But mother is really quite well," I said impulsively. "You have not known her long, Mr. Randolph; she never was really strong. She is quite as well as she ever was."
"A specialist could assure us on that point, could he not?" was his reply. "I want Dr. Reade to give me a diagnosis of her case."
"Dr. Reade," I cried.
"Yes; I should like her to see him between now and the day when I must leave England. I cannot possibly be back under from four to five months, and if my mind can be relieved of a very pressing anxiety, you would not deny me the satisfaction, would you?"
"But why should your mind be anxious?" I asked boldly. I looked full into his face as I spoke, and then I met a look which caused me to turnfaint, and yet to feel happy, as I had never felt happy before. I lowered my eyes and looked out of the window. He gave a quick sigh, and then said suddenly—
"How like your father you are."
"My father? But you never knew him."
"I never knew him, but I have often looked at his picture. Can you tell me how he won his V.C.?"
"Saving a comrade, bringing one of his brother officers out of the thick of the fight; he received his own fatal wound in doing so. He did not survive the action two months."
"A fine fellow! A splendid action," said Mr. Randolph, enthusiasm in his voice. "You will think over what I have said, and I will not keep you now. We shall meet at the Criterion this evening. Good-bye for the present."
I cannot recall anything about the play. I only know that we had excellent seats and a good view of the house, and that mother seemed to enjoy everything. As to Mr. Randolph, I doubt if he did enjoy that play. He was too much a man of the world to show any of his emotions, but I saw by a certain pallor round his mouth, and a rather dragged look about his eyes, that he was suffering, and I could not imagine why. I had always in my own mind made up a sort of story about Jim Randolph. He was one of the fortunate people of the earth; the good things of the world had fallen abundantly to his share. He was nice to look at and pleasant to talk to, and of course he had plenty of money. He could do what he pleased with his life. I had never associated him with sorrow or trial of any sort, and to see that look now in his eyes and round the corners of his somewhat sensitive and yet beautifully-cut mouth, gave me a new sensation with regard to him. The interest I felt in him immediately became accelerated tenfold. I found myself thinking of him instead of the play. I found myselfanxious to watch his face. I even found, when once our eyes met (his grave and dark, mine, I daresay, bold enough and determined enough), that my heart beat fast, and the colour flew into my face; then, strange to say, the colour came into his face, dying his swarthy cheek just for a moment, but leaving it the next paler than ever. He came a little nearer to me, however, and bending forward so that mother should not hear, said in a semi-whisper—
"You have thought about what I said this morning?"
"I have thought it over a good deal," I replied.
"You think it can be managed?"
"Dr. Anderson, mother's family physician, would do what you require, Mr. Randolph."
"That is a good idea," he said. "Anderson can arrange a consultation. I will see him to-morrow, and suggest it."
I did not say any more, for just then mother turned and said something to Mr. Randolph, and Mr. Randolph bent forward and talked to mother in that worshipping son-like way with which he generally addressed her. If mother had ever been blessed with a son, he could not have been more attentive nor sweeter than Jim Randolph was, and I found myself liking him more than ever, just because he was so good to mother, and my heart ached at the prospect of his enforced and long absence. So much did this thought worry me,that I could not help saying to him as we were leaving the theatre—
"I am very sorry that you are going."
"Is that true?" he said. His face lit up, his eyes sparkled; all the tired expression left his eyes and mouth.
"Are you saying what you mean?" he asked.
"I am most truly sorry. You have become indispensable to mother; she will miss you sorely."
"And you—will you miss me?"
I tried to say "For mother's sake I will," but I did not utter the words. Mr. Randolph gave me a quick glance.
"I have not told your mother yet that I am going," he said.
"I wondered if you had," I replied. "I thought of telling her myself to-day."
"Do not say anything until nearer the time," was his somewhat guarded response. "Ah! here comes the carriage."
"So you did order the carriage after all," I said, seeing that the same neat brougham which he had used on the last occasion stopped the way.
"You never forbade me to see you both home in the carriage," he said with a laugh. "Now then, Mrs. Wickham."
Mother had been standing a little back out of the crowd. He went to her, gave her his arm, and she stepped into the carriage, just as if it belonged toher. Mother had always that way with Mr. Randolph's possessions, and sometimes her manner towards him almost annoyed me. What could it mean. Did she know something about him which I had never heard of nor guessed?
The next day about noon Mr. Randolph entered Jane's sitting-room, where I often spent the mornings.
"I have just come from Anderson's," he said. "He will make an appointment with Dr. Reade to see your mother to-morrow."
"But on what plea?" I asked. "Mother is somewhat nervous. I am sure it would not be at all good for her to think that her indisposition was so great that two doctors must see her."
"Anderson will arrange that," replied Mr. Randolph. "He has told your mother once or twice lately that he thinks her very weak, and would like her to try a new system of diet. Now Reade is a great specialist for diseases of the digestion. Both doctors will guard against any possible shock to your mother."
"Well," I said somewhat petulantly, "I cannot imagine why you are nervous about her. She is quite as well as she ever was."
He looked at me as if he meant to say something more, and I felt certain that he strangled a sigh which never came to the surface. The next moment he left the room, I looked round me in a state of bewilderment.
In Jane's room was a bookcase, and the bookcase contained a heterogeneous mass of books of all sorts. Amongst others was a medical directory. I took it up now, and scarcely knowing why I did so, turned to the name of Reade. Dr. Reade's name was entered in the following way:—
"Reade, Henry, M.D., F.R.C.P., consulting physician to the Brompton Hospital for Consumption, London, and to the Royal Hospital for Diseases of the Chest, Ventnor."
I read these qualifications over slowly, and put the book back in its place. There was nothing whatever said of Dr. Reade's qualifications for treating that vast field of indigestion to which so many sufferers were victims. I resolved to say something to Jane.
"What is it?" said Jane, as she came into the room. "What is fretting you now?"
"Oh, nothing," I answered. "Dr. Reade must be a very clever physician."
"First-class, of course. I am so pleased your mother is going to see him."
"But I thought mother was suffering very much from weakness and want of appetite."
"So she is, poor dear, and I am inventing quite a new sort of soup, which is partly digested beforehand, that I think she will fancy."
"But I have been looking up Dr. Reade's name. He seems to be a great doctor for consumption and other diseases of the chest. There is no allusionto his extraordinary powers of treating people for indigestion."
"Well, my dear, consumptives suffer more than most folks from indigestion. Now, don't you worry your head; never meet troubles half-way. I am extremely pleased that your mother is to see Dr. Reade."
On the following morning mother herself told me that Dr. Reade was coming.
"It is most unnecessary," she said, "and I told Dr. Anderson so. I was only telling him yesterday that I thought his own visits need not be quite so frequent. He is such a dear, kind man, that I do not like to hurt his feelings; but really, Westenra, he charges me so little that it quite goes to my heart. And now we have not our old income, this very expensive consulting physician is not required. I told Dr. Anderson so, but he has made up his mind. He says there is no use in working in the dark, and that he believes I should be much stronger if I ate more."
Dr. Reade called in the course of the morning, and Dr. Anderson came with him. They stayed in mother's room for some little time, and then they both went out, and Jane Mullins had an interview with them first, and then she sent for me.
"Dr. Anderson wants to speak to you, Westenra," she said. She rushed past me as she spoke, and I could not catch sight of her face, so I went into herlittle sitting-room, where both the doctors were waiting for me, and closed the door behind me. I was not at all anxious. I quite believed that mother's ailment was simply want of appetite and weakness, and I had never heard of any one dying just from those causes.
"Let me introduce you to Dr. Reade," said Dr. Anderson.
I looked then towards the great consulting physician. He was standing with his back to the light—he was a little man, younger looking than Dr. Anderson. His hair was only beginning to turn grey, and was falling away a trifle from his temples, and he was very upright, and very thin, and had keen eyes, the keenest eyes I had ever looked at, small, grey and bright, and those eyes seemed to look through you, as though they were forcing a gimlet into the very secrets of your soul. His face was so peculiar, so intellectual, so sharp and keen, and his glance so vivid, that I became absorbed in looking at it, and forgot for the moment Dr. Anderson. Then I glanced round and found that he had vanished, and I was alone with Dr. Reade.
"Won't you sit down, Miss Wickham?" he said kindly.
I seated myself, and then seeing that his eyes were still on me, my heart began to beat a little more quickly, and I began to feel uncomfortable and anxious, and then I knew that I must bracemyself up to listen to something which would be hard to bear.
"I was called in to-day," said Dr. Reade, "to see your mother. I have examined her carefully—Dr. Anderson thinks that it may be best for you Miss Wickham—you seem to be a very brave sort of girl—to know the truth."
"Yes, I should like to know the truth," I answered.
I found these words coming out of my lips slowly, and I found I had difficulty in saying them, and my eyes seemed not to see quite so clearly as usual; and Dr. Reade's keen face seemed to vanish as if behind a mist, but then the mist cleared off, and I remembered that I was father's daughter and that it behoved me to act gallantly if occasion should require, so I got up and went towards the little doctor, and said in a quiet voice—
"You need not mind breaking it to me; I see by your face that you have bad news, but I assure you I am not going to cry nor be hysterical. Please tell me the truth quickly."
"I knew you were a brave girl," he said with admiration, "and I have bad news, your mother's case is——"
"What?" I asked.
"A matter of time," he replied gravely; "she may live for a few months or a year—a year is the outside limit."
"A few months or a year," I said. I repeated the words vaguely; and then I turned my eyes towards the window and looked past it and out into the Square. I saw a carriage drawn by a spirited pair of bays, it passed within sight of the window, and I noticed a girl seated by herself in the carriage. She had on a fashionable hat, and her hair was arranged in a very pretty way, and she had laughing eyes. I was attracted by her appearance, and I even said to myself in an uncertain sort of fashion, "I believe I could copy that hat," but then I turned away from the window and faced the doctor.
"You are very brave," he repeated; "I did not think any girl would be quite so brave."
"My father was a brave man," I said then; "he won his Victoria Cross."
"Ah," replied Dr. Reade, "women often do just as brave actions. Their battles are silent, but none the less magnificent for that."
"I always meant to get the Victoria Cross if I could," was my reply.
"Well," he answered cheerfully, "I know now how to deal with things; I am very glad that you are that sort. You know that Jim Randolph is a friend of mine."
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, Who is Jim Randolph? why should he be a friend of everybody worth knowing? but I did not ask the question. I put it aside and said gravely—
"The person I want to talk about is mother. In the first place, what is the matter with her?"
"A very acute form of heart disease. The aortic valve is affected. She may not, and probably will not, suffer much; but at any moment, Miss Wickham, at any moment, any shock may"—he raised his hand emphatically.
"You mean that any shock may kill her?"
"That is what I mean."
"Then she ought to be kept without anxiety?"
"That is precisely what I intend."
"And if this is done how long will her most precious life be prolonged?"
"As I have just said, a year is about the limit."
"One year," I answered. "Does she know?"
"No, she has not the slightest idea, nor do I want her to be told. She is ready—would to God we were all as ready—why distress her unnecessarily? She would be anxious about you if she thought she was leaving you. It must be your province to give her no anxiety, to guard her. That is an excellent woman, Miss Mullins, she will assist you in every way. I am truly sorry that Jim Randolph has to leave England. However, there is not the slightest doubt that he will hurry home, and when he does come back, will be time sufficient to let your mother know the truth."
I did not answer. Dr. Reade looked at his watch.
"I must be off," he said. "I can only spare onemore moment. I have made certain suggestions to my old friend Anderson, and he will propose certain arrangements which may add to your mother's comfort. I do not want her to go up and down stairs much, but at the same time she must be entertained and kept cheerful. Be assured of one thing, that in no case will she suffer. Now, I have told you all. If you should be perplexed or in any difficulty come to me at once. Come to me as your friend, and remember I am a very special friend of Jim Randolph's. Now, good-bye."
He left the room.
I sat after he had gone for a moment without stirring; I was not suffering exactly. We do not suffer most when the heavy blows fall, it is afterwards that the terrible agony of pain comes on. Of course I believed Dr. Reade—who could doubt him who looked into his face? I guessed him to be what he was, one of the strongest, most faithful, bravest men who ever lived—a man whose whole life was given up to the alleviation of the suffering of others. He was always warding off death, or doing all that man could do to ward it off, and in many many cases death was afraid of him, and retired from his prey, vanquished by that knowledge, that genius, that sympathy, that love for humanity, which overflowed the little doctor's personality.