"But I cannot," I said, and now I began to sob. "Oh, I cannot. You don't want a wife who doesn't love you at all."
"Not even a little bit?" he said, and there was a pathetic ring in his voice. "Aren't you sure that you love me just a very little bit? Well, well, you will some day; you will when you know me better.I am a very rough sort of diamond, Miss Wickham, but I am a diamond all the same, if being true and honourable and honest and straightforward means anything at all. I don't want to speak too well of myself, but I do know that in my entire life I have never done a real mean or shabby thing. I am an honest fellow out and out, Miss Wickham, and I offer you all I have, and I will get you out of this scrape in a twinkling, that I will. You thought, perhaps, your fine friend Mr. Randolph would do it, but when he guessed how things were going he cut off fast enough to the other side of the world."
"I won't let you speak of him like that," I cried, and my voice rose again with anger, and the pity I had felt for Mr. Fanning a moment ago vanished as if it had never existed. "Mr. Randolph has been our true, true friend, and he may be dead now. Oh, you are cruel to speak of him like that!"
"Very well, we won't talk of him. It is unkind to abuse the dead," said Mr. Fanning in a low, considerate sort of voice. "He sailed, poor chap, in theStar of Hope, and theStar of Hopehas been wrecked. He will never come back to bother anybody again, so we won't talk of him."
I was silent. A cold, faint feeling was stealing over me.
"Well, now, you listen to me," continued Mr. Fanning. "You think that it is very hard on you that a man of my sort should want you to be his wife,but men of my sort, when they make fortunes, often do marry girls like you. I have a lot of money, Miss Wickham, plenty and plenty, thousands upon thousands, and it's piling up every day. It is the froth and the light literature that has done it—all those picture-books, coloured, most of 'em, and those children's books, and those nonsense rhymes, and all that sort of thing. We have huge sales all over the world, and the money rolls in for Albert Fanning, and Albert Fanning can marry about any girl he chooses. Why shouldn't he take a wife a peg above him? It's done every day, and why should not his wife be happy? What is there against that house at Highgate, for instance, and what is there against the old woman? Is there an honester or a better heart than hers?"
"That is quite true; I really love your mother," I said.
"Ah, that's a good girl, now." He laid his big hand on mine and gave it a little pat. "And you'll be all right when you come to me; you'll be as comfortable as possible. You'll soon get accustomed to me and my ways."
"But I can never, never come to you," I cried, shrinking away. "I cannot make you that promise."
"I won't take your answer now, and I have not done speaking yet. Do you know that I have cared for you for a long time? I'll tell you how it happened. I was in the Park one day, more than twoyears ago. I had been in Germany, learning book-binding. There was nothing I did not go into as far as my trade was concerned, and I had come back again, and I was in the Park watching the fine folks. My pockets were comfortably lined, and I had not a debt in the world, and I was feeling pretty spry, you may be sure, and thinking, 'Albert Fanning, the time has come for you to take a mate; the time has come for you and your sweetheart to meet, and to have a right good time, and a happy life afterwards.' And I was thinking which of the suburbs I'd live in, and what sort of girl I'd have. Oh, there were plenty ready to come to me for the asking, young girls, too, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes. There was one, I never saw blacker eyes than hers; they were as black as sloes, and I always admired black eyes, because I am fair, you know, and the mater is fair. You always like your opposite as a rule, and as these thoughts were coming to me, and I was thinking of Susan Martin and her black eyes, and the merry laugh she had, and her white teeth, who should come driving slowly by, in the midst of all the other grand folks, but your little self. You were bending forward, doing something for your mother, putting a shawl about her or something, and you just gave the tiniest bit of a smile, and I saw a gleam of your teeth, and I looked at your grey eyes; and, upon my word, it was all over with me. I never knew there were girls like you in existence before. I foundmyself turning at first white and then red, and at first hot and then cold, and I followed that carriage as fast as I could, and whenever I had a chance I took a glance at you. Oh, you were high above me, far away from me, with people that I could never have anything to do with; but I lost my heart to you, and Susan Martin hadn't a chance. I found out from the mater that you were Miss Wickham, and that your father had been a general officer in the army, and you lived in Mayfair, and went into society; and often and often I went into the Park to catch a glimpse of you, and I got the number of your house, and sometimes I passed it by and looked up at the windows, and once I saw you there; you were arranging some flowers. I just caught the bend of your head, and I saw the shape of your throat, and your straight profile, and the whole look of you, and my heart went pitter-pat. I wasn't myself after I had caught a glimpse of you. You filled all my world, and the old mater found out there was something wrong. I am reserved about some things, and I didn't let it out to her, but at last I did, and she said, 'Courage, Albert, courage. If you want her, why shouldn't you have her? You have plenty of money, and you're a right good sort.' And then all of a sudden one day the mater came to me with news, no less news than this, that you, you plucky little darling, were going to start a boarding-house on your own account. After that, it was plain sailing."
"She is poor," said the mother. "She and her mother have lost all their money; they are down in the world, down on their luck, and they are going to do this. So then we arranged that we'd come and live in the boarding-house, and I began my courting in hot earnest, and fortune has favoured me, Miss Wickham; fortune has favoured me, Westenra, and oh! I love you, God knows how much, and I'd be a good husband to you, and you should have your own way in everything. Won't you think of it, Miss Wickham? Won't you?"
I was silent. The tears were running down my cheeks, and I had no voice to speak. I got up at last slowly.
"Won't you think of it?" he said again.
I shook my head.
"Well, I tell you what," he said, turning very pale. "Don't give me your answer now. Wait until this evening or to-morrow. I won't worry you in the drawing-room to-night. I'll keep far away, and I'll try if I can to keep everybody at bay—all those wolves, I mean, that are surrounding you—and maybe you'll think better of it, for the position is a very serious one; maybe you'll think better of it. And remember, whatever happens, there ain't a fellow on earth would make you a better husband than I shall, if you'll let me."
I went slowly home. I walked all the way, I was glad of the exercise, I wanted to tire my body in order that my mind should not think too acutely. When I got in, it was lunch time. I went into the dining-room without taking off my hat. Jane Mullins was there, as usual she was at the foot of the table, she was busy carving, and she was chatting to Mrs. Armstrong, and Mrs. Armstrong was looking somewhat mysterious, and when she saw me she gave me a kindly nod, but I perceived the curiosity in her eyes and turned my face away.
Marion Armstrong was seldom in to lunch, she was at her School of Art doing those drawings by which she hoped to win the hand of Albert Fanning. But what chance had she of Albert Fanning?
Mrs. Fanning was present, and she looked very stout and prosperous, and mysterious and happy, and as I sat down, not far away from her, she suddenly stretched her fat hand across the table and grasped mine and said—
"How are you, dear, and how is your mother?"
I answered that I hoped mother was better, andCaptain and Mrs. Furlong looked at me also with pity. I had never greater difficulty in keeping my composure than I had during that awful meal, but I did eat a cutlet when it was put on my plate, and I did manage to talk to my neighbour, a new boarder who had come up from the country, and did not know her way about anywhere. She was an excitable middle-aged lady of between forty and fifty, and she asked questions which I was able to answer, and helped me more than she knew to get through that terrible meal.
At last it was over and I went up to mother's room. To my great astonishment it was empty. Where was mother? Was she better? What could have happened? With a mingling of alarm and anticipation I ran into the drawing-room. She was there in her old accustomed seat by the window. She looked very much as usual. When she saw me she called me over to her.
"Are you surprised, West?" she said.
"I am greatly surprised," I answered; "are you better, Mummy?" I bent over her, calling her by the old childish, very childish name. She laid her thin hand on mine, her hand was hot, but her face looked, with the colour in her cheeks, and her eyes so feverishly bright, more beautiful than I had ever seen it. I sat down near her.
"You don't know how nice Nurse Marion has been," she said. "When she found I really wishedto get up, she did not oppose me, and she dressed me so carefully, and I am not the least bit tired. I longed to come into the drawing-room, I seem to have quite got over that attack; you need not be anxious, West."
"Very well, I won't be anxious," I answered; "I will sit close to you here and read to you if you will let me."
"I should love to hear you, darling. Read Whittier's poem, 'My Psalm.' Some of the lines have been ringing in my head all day, and I always like the sort of cadence in your voice when you read poetry aloud."
I knew Whittier's "Psalm" well, and without troubling to get the book, I began to repeat the well-known words—
"I mourn no more my vanished years:Beneath a tender rain,An April rain of smiles and tears,My heart is young again.The west-winds blow, and singing low,I hear the glad streams run;The windows of my soul I throwWide open to the sun.No longer forward nor behind,I look in hope and fear:But grateful, take the good I find,The best of now and here."
"I mourn no more my vanished years:Beneath a tender rain,An April rain of smiles and tears,My heart is young again.
"I mourn no more my vanished years:
Beneath a tender rain,
An April rain of smiles and tears,
My heart is young again.
The west-winds blow, and singing low,I hear the glad streams run;The windows of my soul I throwWide open to the sun.
The west-winds blow, and singing low,
I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.
No longer forward nor behind,I look in hope and fear:But grateful, take the good I find,The best of now and here."
No longer forward nor behind,
I look in hope and fear:
But grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now and here."
As I slowly repeated the words, I noticed that mother's gentle soft eyes were fixed on my face.She raised her hand now and then as if to beat time to the rhythm of the poetry. At last I reached the final verses.
"Say them slowly, West," whispered mother; "I know them so well, and they have comforted me so often. Say them very slowly, in particular that verse which speaks about death as 'but a covered way,'"
I continued—
"That more and more a ProvidenceOf Love is understood,Making the springs of time and senseSweet with eternal good;That death seems but a covered way,Which opens into light,Wherein no blinded child can strayBeyond the Father's sight;That care and trial seem at last,Through Memory's sunset air,Like mountain-ranges overpastIn purple distance fair;That all the jarring notes of lifeSeem blending in a psalm,And all the angles of its strifeSlow rounding into calm.And so the shadows fall apart,And so the west-winds play;And all the windows of my heartI open to the day."
"That more and more a ProvidenceOf Love is understood,Making the springs of time and senseSweet with eternal good;
"That more and more a Providence
Of Love is understood,
Making the springs of time and sense
Sweet with eternal good;
That death seems but a covered way,Which opens into light,Wherein no blinded child can strayBeyond the Father's sight;
That death seems but a covered way,
Which opens into light,
Wherein no blinded child can stray
Beyond the Father's sight;
That care and trial seem at last,Through Memory's sunset air,Like mountain-ranges overpastIn purple distance fair;
That care and trial seem at last,
Through Memory's sunset air,
Like mountain-ranges overpast
In purple distance fair;
That all the jarring notes of lifeSeem blending in a psalm,And all the angles of its strifeSlow rounding into calm.
That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife
Slow rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fall apart,And so the west-winds play;And all the windows of my heartI open to the day."
And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west-winds play;
And all the windows of my heart
I open to the day."
"Ah," said mother, when my voice finally ceased, it had very nearly failed me towards the end, "that is just how I am. I sit by the open window, I lookout and beyond, I see no trouble anywhere. The peace is wonderful, wonderful. It is all my Father's doing, my heavenly Father's doing. I am so strangely happy that I cannot quite understand myself. Last night something strange happened, West. Your dear father, my beloved husband, came back to me."
"Mother!" I cried.
"Yes," she said very gently, "he did; you will understand some day, I cannot explain what happened. He came to my room. He looked at me with your eyes, my darling, only older and more grave; eyes with the weight of the knowledge of life in them, and the understanding of the Life beyond in them. He looked at me, and there was both joy and sorrow in his eyes, and the joy seemed greater than the sorrow. He even took my hand in his, and I fancied I heard him say something about our going away together, but I am not quite sure on that point. I only know that he was with me, and that now I feel no pain. Nothing can trouble me again. Even dying cannot trouble me. West, my child, what are you crying for?"
"Oh, I am not crying at all, mother, only, somehow, there is a pathos in your words, but I am not crying."
She took my hand and patted it softly.
"You have no cause for tears, as far as I am concerned," she said. "I am the happiest woman inthe world, I have had a happy life, such a husband, so dear a daughter, and now this wonderful, wonderful peace, this joy, and there is no death, dear West, for those who really love; there is no real parting for those who love."
From where we sat we could see the trees in the Square garden. They had put on their spring green, and most lovely was the mantle they wore. The dust of London had not yet had time to spoil them. The freshness of their appearance on that May morning was as vivid, as perfect, as though those trees lived themselves in the heart of the country; they seemed to be a little bit of God in the middle of that town Square. I kept watching them, and glancing from time to time at mother, but all through there was in my mind another thought, the thought of Mr. Fanning and what he wanted me to do. After all, if the end of life was so full of bliss, what mattered any cross on the journey. I felt ready for sacrifice. I rose very slowly, and softly left the drawing-room.
By a sort of common consent, the boarders had all gone out on this exquisite early summer's afternoon, and mother and I had the room to ourselves. Even Mrs. Fanning had gone out. I crossed the landing, and went into mother's bedroom. Nurse Marion was there. I shut the door behind me.
"How long will mother live?" I said abruptly. I was in the humour not to walk round anythingthat day; I wanted to hear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Nurse Marion looked at me in astonishment.
"You don't look well yourself, Miss Wickham," she answered.
"Never mind about me," I replied, "answer my question. If nothing harms her, if she gets no shock, how long will my mother live?"
"She may live for months and months," replied the nurse.
"And if she gets a shock, a sudden shock?"
"Ah!" the woman held up her hands ominously, "we must keep her from any thing of that sort, even a very little agitation would be bad for her; but I never saw a calmer, sweeter lady. She does not know she is dying, but why should she be troubled, she is close to God Himself, she lives in a sort of Paradise."
"Thank you," I answered. The tears were pressing hard on my eyes, but I would not let them fall.
"She thinks all the world of you, Miss Wickham," continued the nurse. "If she has an anxiety, it is about you; but even for you I do not think she feels real fear now. You will forgive me for speaking so frankly, but I can tell, miss, for I have seen much sorrow myself, that you are perplexed and puzzled and miserable just now, but I assure you you need not be sorry on your mother's account. Shelives in the Land of Beulah. Have you ever read the 'Pilgrim's Progress'? You know, of course, to what I allude?"
"I know to what you allude," I answered; "the Land of Beulah is a beautiful country, but I am too young to understand about it."
"We are none of us too young to understand about that," replied the nurse. "I have been with many people suffering as your mother suffers, but I never before came across any one quite so gentle, so resigned, so happy, so peaceful,—it is the peace of God."
"We must keep her as long as we can," I said; "she is the most precious thing in all the world; we must keep her as long as we ever can. She must not have a shock nor a care."
"Of course not," answered the nurse.
I returned again to the drawing-room, taking some needlework with me. I sat near mother plying my needle, weaving a pattern with coloured silks into my embroidery.
"How lovely the day is!" said mother. She made little remarks of this sort from time to time, but she did not do what was her invariable habit, and the fact of her omitting to do this caused me some surprise. As a rule, whenever she looked at any one, she generally ended by glancing at father's picture, but to-day she did not once look at it. This impressed me as so very strange and so unlike her, that I said—
"Can't you see the picture from where you sit?" We always called itthepicture; it was the one picture for us both.
"I can see it perfectly if I want to," she answered, "but I do not care to look at it to-day. I see his own face wherever I turn, that is much more lifelike, and more interesting, and has more varied expressions than the dear picture can have. He was with me last night, and he is here now. You cannot see him, West, but I can."
"Mother," I said, "you talk as if you were ill. Do you think you are ill?"
"Oh no, darling, just a little weak, but that soon passes. There is nothing to be alarmed about, Westenra. The fact of a person being thoroughly happy does not surely mean that that person is in danger."
"I am so glad you are happy," I said.
"I am wonderfully so; it is the glad presence of God Himself, and also of your dear father. If I have a wish in the world," continued mother then slowly, and she looked at me as she spoke, "it is to see James Randolph. I cannot imagine why he does not write. He has been very good to me, and I like him much. He is a dear fellow, full of courtesy and chivalry; he has a gentle, tender, brave heart; he would make the girl he loves happy, very happy. I should like to see him again, and to thank him."
I did not dare to tell mother what we all now firmly believed with regard to Mr. Randolph. I tried to thread my needle, but there was a mist before my eyes. The needlework nearly fell from my hand. Suddenly, in the midst of our conversation in the quiet drawing-room, I heard a commotion. Some one—two people were coming upstairs—the steps of one were heavy, there was an altercation in the landing, a voice pleaded with another voice, and the strange voice got loud and angry.
I half rose from my seat, and then sat down again.
"What is the matter?" asked mother; "you look very white, Westenra. Is there anything wrong?"
"I don't want strangers to come here just now," I said.
"But you forget, my dear child, that this is everybody's drawing-room. This cosy corner is my special seat, but we cannot possibly keep our boarders out—it is impossible, my darling."
She had scarcely said the words before the door burst open, and a man with red hair and red whiskers, in a loud check suit, entered.
"Ah," he said, "I thought as much; I thought I'd get to headquarters if I came here. Now, is this lady Mrs. Wickham, and is this young lady Miss Wickham? Now, Miss Mullins, I will see them for myself, please; you cannot keep me back; I am determined to have my rights, and——"
I rushed towards the door. One glance at mother's face was enough. It had turned white, the blue look came round her lips, there was a startled gleam in her eyes.
"What is it?" she said, and she looked at Jane.
"Go to her, Jane; stay with her," I said; "I will manage this man. Go to her, and stay with her."
Jane went to mother, and I rushed up to the man.
"I am Miss Wickham," I said; "I know what you want. Come with me into the next room."
He followed me, muttering and grumbling.
"Why shouldn't I see Mrs. Wickham—she is at the head of this establishment? My name is Allthorp; you are all heavily in my debt, and I want to know the reason why I don't see the colour of my money."
"Oh! please do not speak so loud," I implored.
"Why?" he asked. "I am not mealy-mouthed. I want my money, and I am not afraid to ask for it."
"I tell you, you shall have your money, but do not speak so loud. Mrs. Wickham is ill."
"Ah, that's a fine excuse. That's what Miss Mullins tried to put me off with. Miss Mullins seems to be a sort of frost, but I was determined either to see you or Mrs. Wickham."
"I am Miss Wickham."
"And the house belongs to you? I can sue you if I like for my money."
"Certainly you can, and I hope if you sue any one it will be me. How much is owed to you?"
"Eighty-nine pounds, and I tell you what it is, Miss Wickham. It's a shame when a man works hard from early morning to late at night, a black shame that he should not be paid what is due to him. I'd like to know what right you have to take my tea and my coffee, and to eat my preserved fruits, and to make your table comfortable with my groceries, when you never pay me one farthing."
"It is not right," I answered; "it is wrong, and you shall be paid in full." I took a little note-book and entered the amount.
"Give me your address," I said; "you shall be paid."
He did so.
"I'll give you twenty-four hours," he said. "If at the end of that time I do not receive my money infull, yes, infull, mark you, I'll have a man in. I hear it answered very well in the case of Pattens, and it shall answer well in my case. So now you have had my last word."
He left the room noisily and went downstairs. I waited until I heard the hall-door slam behind him, and then I went back to mother. She was leaning back in her chair; her eyes were closed. I bent over her and kissed her.
"What is it, West? What did that horrid man want?"
"He has gone, darling; he won't trouble us any more."
"But I heard him say something about adebt. Is he owed any money?"
"He was very troublesome because his account was not paid quite as soon as he wished," I said; "but that is nothing. He shall have a cheque immediately."
"But I do hope, dear Miss Mullins," said mother, turning to her and looking at her fixedly, "that you pay the tradespeople weekly. It is so much the best plan."
"Quite so," she answered.
"This house is doing splendidly, is it not?" said mother. "We shall make a fortune if we stay on here long enough?"
"Oh, quite so," answered Miss Mullins.
I stole out of the room again. Mother looked satisfied, and although her cheeks were a little too bright in colour, I hoped no grave mischief was done.
I ran downstairs. It was nearly four o'clock. I determined to wait in the hall or in the dining-room, in case any more of those awful men—wolves, Albert Fanning had called them—should arrive. Mother must not be troubled: mother must not run such an awful risk again. Just then I heard steps approaching, and there was the sound of a latch-key in the hall door. Most of our guests had latch-keys. I do not know what I noticed in that sound, but I knew who was there. I entered the hall. Mr. Fanning hadcome in. He did not expect to see me, and he started when he saw my face. I had never cared for Mr. Fanning—never, never. I had almost hated him rather than otherwise; but at that moment I looked at him as a deliverer. There was no one there, and I ran up to him.
"Come into the dining-room," I said. "I must speak to you," and I caught his hand. His great hand closed round mine, and we went into the dining-room, and I shut the door.
"One of them came," I said, "and—and nearly killed mother, and I promised that he—that he should be paid. His name is Allthorp. He has nearly killed mother, and he nearly killed me, and—and will you pay him, and will you pay the others?"
"Do you mean it?" said Albert Fanning. "Do you mean it? Are you asking me to do this, clearly understanding?"
"Clearly, clearly," I said.
"And may I kiss you, just to make the bond all sure?"
"You may," I said faintly. He bent forward, and I felt his kiss on my forehead.
Within a week every debt was paid absolutely and in full. Even the landlord was abundantly satisfied. Jane Mullins lost her look of care, and became cheerful and fat and good-tempered once more. The boarders, who had been merry enough and careless enough all through, suspecting nothing, of course, seemed now to be beside themselves with merriment. The weather was so fine and the house was so pleasant. Jane Mullins quite came out of her shell. She told stories of her early life, and made those boarders who sat near her at dinner quite roar with laughter, and Captain and Mrs. Furlong also came out of their shells, and were most agreeable and kind and chatty; and mother came down to dinner as usual, and sat in the drawing-room as usual, and in the evenings there was music, and I sang my songs and played my pieces and wore my very prettiest dresses, and Albert Fanning looked at me, and looked at me, and Mrs. Fanning nodded approval at me.
Mrs. Armstrong, too, became strangely mysterious, wreathing her face in smiles now and then, and now and then looking strangely sour and disappointed,and Marion Armstrong began to flirt with a young German who had arrived. We never did want to have foreigners in the establishment, but he offered to pay a big sum for a certain room, and Jane said it would be the worst policy to leave him out. He satisfied Marion Armstrong too, which was another thing to be considered, for Marion and her mother were the sort of boarders who are always more or less the backbone of a house like ours. They stay on and on; they pay their money weekly. They speak of their aristocratic neighbours, and are mostly advertisements themselves.
Now that the German, Herr Tiegel, had come, there was certainly very little chance of Mrs. and Miss Armstrong taking their departure until the end of the season.
Jane used to go and have long talks with mother, and spoke about the future, and the extensions we should make, and Albert and his mother too talked about possible extensions. Mrs. Fanning whispered darkly to me that Albert had large ideas now with regard to the boarding-house.
"It's wonderful, my love, the interest he takes in it," she said; "I never saw anything like it in the whole course of my life, and for a publisher too! But his idea is no less than this: When the lease of the next house falls in, we take it too, and break open doors, and have the two houses instead of one. He says the two houses will pay, whereas the one don't, and never could. The boarders, poor things!think that they are doing us a splendid good turn, but this house ain't paying, and it never will, my love."
To these sort of remarks I never made any answer. I was quite cheerful; I had to be cheerful for mother's sake, and it was only at night I let myself go. Even then I tried hard to sleep well and to shut away the future.
Albert Fanning and I, by tacit consent, hardly ever met alone, and that future life which we were to lead together, when a year had expired, was not spoken of between us. A fortnight, however, after all the debts had been paid, and the house had been put upon a very sure and very firm foundation once more, Mrs. Fanning came softly to me where I was sitting in the drawing-room.
"Do you mind going into the little room for a moment," she said.
The little room was on the same floor, it was the room where I had seen Althorp on that dreadful day when I had bound myself in a bondage in many ways worse than death.
"Why?" I asked, looking at her with frightened eyes. She took my hand and patted it softly.
"You are a very good girl and a very brave one," she said, "and there's nothing Albert and I wouldn't do for you. Albert wants to have a chat with you, he's waiting in the other room; you go along, dear. Oh, after the first blush you won't mind a bit; go, dear, go."
I looked at mother, who was talking with Mrs. Furlong. The whole room was peaceful and quiet,a good many of the boarders were out, for it was now the height of the season and almost midsummer. The windows were wide open. I caught mother's eye for an instant; mother smiled at me. Of late she used to wear a very far away look. There was often an expression in her eyes which seemed to say that she and father were holding converse. I caught that glance now, and it steadied my own nerves, and stilled the rebellion at my heart. I got up steadily. Had my stepping down—oh, had my stepping down led to this? It was a bitter thought, and yet when I looked at mother, and felt that I had saved her from intolerable anguish and perhaps sudden death, I felt that it was worth while. I went into the next room.
Albert Fanning, before our engagement—(oh yes, of course, we were engaged, I must use the hated word)—Albert before our engagement had thought little or nothing of his dress, but now he was extremely particular. An evening suit had been made to fit his tall ungainly person by one of the best tailors in the West End. He was wearing it now, and his light flaxen hair was standing up straighter than ever, and he had a kind of nervous smile round his lips. When he saw me enter he came forward and held out his hand.
"Well," he said, "and how is Westenra? Sit down, won't you?"
I did sit down; I sat where some of the summer breeze coming in from across the Square gardencould fan my hot cheeks. I sat down trembling. He stood perfectly still an inch or two away from me. He did not attempt to take my hand again. After a pause, being surprised at his stillness, I looked up at him; I saw his blue eyes fixed on my face, with a very hungry expression. I sighed heavily.
"Oh," I said, "you have been so very good, and I have never even thanked you."
"You never have after, just the first day," he said; "but I did not expect thanks. Thanks were not in the bond,youwere in the bond, you know. That is all I want."
He sat down then near me, and we both must have felt the same summer breeze blowing on our faces.
"I am picturing the time when the year is out," he said slowly, "when you and I are away together in the country. I never cared much for the country, nor for nature, nor for anything of that sort, but I think I should like those things if you were with me. You embody a great deal to me, you make poetry for me. I never knew what poetry was before. I never cared for anything but nonsense rhymes and matters of that sort, until I met you, but you make poetry and beauty for me and all the best things of life. There is nothing I won't promise to do for you when you come to me, and in the meantime——"
"Yes," I said, "in the meantime."
"If you are certain sure, Westenra, that you aregoing to keep your bond, why, I—I won't worry you more than I can help just at present."
"Certain sure that I am going to keep my bond? Yes, I am sure," I said. "Would I take your money and, and deceive you? Would I have asked you to save us and deceive you? No, no; you think I am good. I am not specially good, but I am not so low as that."
"Dear child," he said, and now he took my hand and stroked it softly. He did not squeeze it, or draw it near to him, but he laid it on one of his own huge palms and kept on stroking it.
"The very prettiest little paw I ever saw in my life," he said then; "it's wonderful how slim it is, and how long, and how white, and what little taper fingers; it's wonderful. I never saw anything like it. You are a poem to me, that's just what you are, Westenra, you are a poem to me, and you will make a new man of me, and you will keep the bond, won't you, dear?"
"I will," I said.
"I have put down the date," he said; "I put it down in my note-book; I am going to keep italwaysby me; it is writ in my heart too. I declare I am getting poetical myself when I look at you. It's writ in my heart in gold letters. It was the 18th of May when you promised yourself to me, dear. May is not a lucky month to marry in, so we will marry on the first of June of next year. You'll promise me that, won't you?"
"Yes," I said.
"And in the meantime very likely you would rather not have it known."
"It has been most kind and generous of you and Mrs. Fanning not to speak of it," I answered.
"Just as you like about that; but I can see that, with the care of your mother and one thing or another you find me rather in the way, so I thought I would tell you that I am going off, I am going to Germany to begin with for a fortnight, and then I shall take lodgings in town. Oh, the house at Highgate won't hold me until it holds my little wife as well, but I won't live in this house to be a worry to you morning, noon, and night. And when I am not always there perhaps you'll think of me, and how faithful I am to you, and how truly, truly I love you; and you will think, too, of what you are to me, a poem, yes, that's the right word, a beautiful poem, something holy, something that makes a new man of me, the most lovely bit of a thing I ever saw. Sèvres china is nothing to you. I have seen dainty bits of art sold at Christy's before now, but there never was anything daintier than you before in the world, and I love you, there! I have said it. It means a good deal when a man gives all his love to a woman, and I give it all to you; and when everything is said and done, Westenra, bonny as you are, and lovely, and dainty as you are, you are only a woman and I am only a man."
"I think," I said suddenly, and I found the tearscoming into my eyes and stealing down my cheeks, "that you are one of the best men I ever met. I did not think it. I will tell you frankly that I used to regard you as commonplace, and—as vulgar. I saw nothing but the commonplace and the vulgar in you, but now I do see something else, something which is high, and generous, and even beautiful. I know that you are a good man, a very good man. I don't love you yet, but I will try; I will try at least to like you, and on the first of June next year I will be your wife."
"Thank you, dear," he replied, "you could not have spoken clearer and plainer and more straight if you were to study the matter for ever and ever. Now I know where I am, and I am contented. With your sweet little self to take pattern by, I have not the slightest doubt that I'll win that golden heart of yours yet. I mean to have a right good try for it anyhow. The mater will be so pleased when I tell her how nicely you spoke to me to-night. I am off to Germany first thing in the morning; you won't see me for a fortnight, and I won't write to you, Westenra; you'd be worried by my letters, and I cannot express what I feel except when you are there. I won't even kiss you now, for I know you would rather not, but perhaps I may kiss your hand."
He raised my hand to his lips; I did not look at him, I slowly left the room. He was very good, and I was very fortunate. Oh yes, although my heart kept bleeding.
Mr. Fanning went away and Mrs. Fanning took care of me. She openly did this; she made a tremendous fuss about me, but she never by word or deed alluded to my engagement to her son Albert. She did not talk nearly so much as in former times of her son; perhaps he had told her that I was not to be worried, but she was very good and very nice, and I got sincerely attached to her: and I never saw the Duchess nor Lady Thesiger nor my old friends, although I heard that the Duchess was fairly well again, and was out and going into society; and every one now seemed certain that Jim Randolph had gone to the bottom in theStar of Hope, but by universal consent the boarders decided that the news should be kept from mother, and mother grew much better. The weather was so fine she was able to go out. We got a bath chair for her and took her out every day; and the boarding-house was thronged, absolutely thronged with guests; and by Mrs. Fanning's suggestion Miss Mullins put up the prices, and very considerably too, for the London season, but the boarders paid whatthey were asked willingly, for the house was so sweet and so bright and so comfortable; and Jane had her moment of triumph when she saw that No. 14 in the next street was beginning to imitate us, to put up sun blinds, and even to fix balconies on to the windows, and to have the same hours for meals; and the ladies who kept No. 14 called one day and asked to see Jane Mullins. Jane did give them a spice of her mind, and sent them away without any information whatever with regard to her plans.
"I could not tell them to their faces," said Jane to me that day, "that it wasn't I. I am just a homely body, and can only do the rough homely work; I didn't tell them that it was because I had a lady who had the face of an angel and the ways of a queen in the drawing-room, and a young lady, the princess, her daughter, that the boarding-house prospered. I never let out to them that because you two are real ladies, and know how to be courteous and sympathetic and sweet, and yet to uphold your own dignity through everything, that the place was always full. No, I never told them that. What cheek those Miss Simpsons had to try to pick my brains!"
Yes, undoubtedly, whether we were the cause or not, things seemed to be flourishing, and mother enjoyed her life; but one evening towards the end of June she began to talk of old times, of the Duchess, and the friends she knew in Mayfair, and then quite quietly her conversation turned to asubject ever I believe near her heart, James Randolph and his friendship for her.
"He ought to be back now," she said. "I have counted the months, and he ought to be in England many weeks ago. I cannot understand his silence and his absence."
I did not answer. Mother looked at me.
"He was fond of you, West," she said.
My heart gave a great throb and then stood still. I bent my head, but did not reply.
"He never wished me to tell you," said mother. "He felt, and I agreed with him, that it would be best for him to speak to you himself. He said that he would be back in England early in April at the latest, and then he would speak to you. But he gave me to understand that if for any reason his return was delayed I might act on my own discretion, and tell you what comforts me beyond all possible words, and what may also cheer you, for I can scarcely think, my darling, that the love of a man like that would be unreturned by a girl like you, when once you knew, Westenra, when once you surely knew. Yes, he loves you with all his great heart, and when he comes back you will tell him——"
"Oh don't, mother," I interrupted, "oh don't say any more."
My face, which had been flushed, felt white and cold now, my heart after its one wild bound was beating low and feebly in my breast.
"What is it, West?" said mother.
"I would rather——" I began.
"That he told you himself? Yes, yes, that I understand. Whenever he comes, West, take your mother's blessing with the gift of a good man's heart. He has relieved my anxieties about you, and his friendship has sweetened the end of a pilgrimage full—oh, full to overflowing—of many blessings."
Mother lay quite quiet after these last words, and I did not dare to interrupt her, nor did I dare to speak. After a time she said gently—
"Your father came to me again last night. He sat down by me and held my hand. He looked very happy, almost eager. He did not say much about the life he now leads, but his eyes spoke volumes. I think he will come back to-night. It is quite as though we had resumed our old happy life together."
Mother looked rather sleepy as she spoke, and I bent down and kissed her, and sat with her for some little time. I saw that she was in a sound sleep, and her lips were breaking into smiles every now and then. She had been so well lately that we had sent Nurse Marion away, for her services seemed to be no longer required.
After sitting with mother until nearly midnight I went up to my own room. I sat down then and faced the news that mother had given me.
"I always knew it," I said to myself, "but I would not put it into words before; I always guessed it, and I was happy, although I scarcely knew why. Yes, I have put it into words at last, but I must never do so again, for on the 1st of June next year I am to marry Albert Fanning, and he is a good man, and he loves me."
I stayed awake all night, and early in the morning went downstairs. I entered mother's room. I felt anxious about her, and yet not anxious. The room was very still, and very cool and fresh. The windows were open and the blinds were up; mother always liked to sleep so, and the lovely summer air was filling the room, and there was a scent of heliotrope and roses from the flowering plants on the verandah. Mother herself was lying still as still could be on her bed. Her eyes were shut, and one of her dear white hands was lying outside the coverlet. It was partly open, as though some one had recently clasped it and then let it go.
I went up to the bedside and looked down at mother. One glance at her face told me all. Some onehadclasped her hand, but he had not let it go. Hand in hand my father and mother had gone away, out through that open window, away and away, upward where the stars are and the Golden Gates stand open, and they had gone in together to the Land where there is no Death.
On the evening of mother's funeral, I was sitting in the little room. I had the little room quite to myself, Jane had arranged that. I had gone through, I thought, every phase of emotion, and I was not feeling anything just then; I was sitting quiet, in a sort of stupor. The days which had intervened between mother's death and her funeral had been packed full of events. People had come and gone. Many kind words had been said to me. Mr. Fanning had arrived, and had taken my hand once again and kissed it, and looked with unutterable sorrow into my eyes; and then, seeing that I could not bear his presence, had gone away, and Mrs. Fanning had opened her arms, and taken me to her heart, and sobbed on my neck, but I could not shed a tear in return; and Captain and Mrs. Furlong had been more than kind, and more than good; and the Duchess had arrived one morning and gone into the room where mother lay (that is, what was left of mother), and had sobbed, oh, so bitterly, holding mother's cold hand, and kissing her cheek; and then she had turned to me, and said—
"You must come home with me, Westenra, you must come away from here, you are my charge now."
But I refused to leave mother, and I even said—
"You neglected her while she was alive, and now you want to take me away from her, from the last I shall ever see of her beloved face."
"I could not come; I did not dare to," said the Duchess, "it was on account of Jim. I have been grieving for Jim, and I thought I should have let his death out to her; so I had to stay away, but my heart was aching, and when I heard that she—that she had gone—I"—and then the Duchess buried her face in her hands, and sobbed, oh, so bitterly. But I could not shed a tear.
The Duchess and the Duke both went to the funeral, which made a great impression on all the guests in the boarding-house; and Lady Thesiger went; I saw her at a little distance, as I stood close to mother's grave; but all these things were over, and father and mother were together again. That was my only comfort, and I sat in the little room, and was glad that I could not suffer much more.
Into the midst of my meditations there came a brisk voice, the door was opened suddenly, there was a waft of fresh air, and Lady Thesiger stood near me.
"You are to come with me at once, Westenra," she said, "the carriage is at the door, and Miss Mullins, and that good soul, Mrs. Fanning, are packing your things. You are to come right away from here to-night."
I did not want to go.
I said, "Please leave me, Jasmine, I cannot talk to you now."
"You need not talk," said Jasmine Thesiger, "but come you must."
I opposed her as best I could; but I was weak and tired, and half stunned, and she was all life and energy; and so it came to pass, that in less than an hour, I found myself driving away in her luxurious little brougham to her house in Mayfair. She gave me a pretty room, and was very kind to me.
"I'll leave you alone, you know," she said; "I don't want to worry you in any way, but you must not stay at the boarding-house any longer. Your mother is dead, and you must come back to your own set."
"I can never come back to my own set," I answered; "or rather, my set is no longer yours, Jasmine; I have stepped down for ever."
"That is folly, and worse than folly," she replied.
She came and sat with me constantly and talked. She talked very well. She did her utmost, all that woman could possibly do, to soothe my trouble, and to draw me out, and be good to me; but I was in a queer state, and I did not respond to any of her caresses. I was quite dazed and stupid. After a fortnight I came downstairs to meals just as usual, and I tried to speak when I was spoken to, butthe cloud on my spirit never lifted for a single moment.
It was now the middle of July, and Jasmine and her husband were talking of their summer trip. They would go away to Scotland, and they wanted me to go with them. I said I would rather not, but that fact did not seem to matter in the very least. They wanted me to go; they had it all arranged. I declared that I must go back to Jane to the boarding-house, but they said that for the present I belonged to them. I thought to myself with a dull ache, which never rose to absolute pain, how soon they would give me up, when they knew that I was engaged to Albert Fanning. I had not mentioned this fact yet, though it was on the tip of my tongue often and often. Still I kept it to myself. No one knew of our engagement but Jane Mullins, who, of course, guessed it, and Mrs. Fanning and Albert himself. I respected the Fannings very much for keeping my secret so faithfully, and I respected them still more for not coming to see me.
On a certain evening, I think it was the 15th of July—I remember all the dates of that important and most terrible time; oh, so well—I was alone in Jasmine's drawing-room. Jasmine and her husband had gone to the theatre; they had expressed regret at leaving me, but I was glad, very glad, to be alone. I sat behind one of the silk curtains, and looked with a dull gaze out into the street. It was betweeneight and nine o'clock, and the first twilight was over everything. I sat quite still, my hand lying on my black dress, and my thoughts with mother and father, and in a sort of way also with Mr. Fanning and my future. I wished that I could shut away my future, but I could not. I had done what I had done almost for nothing. Mother's life had only been prolonged a few weeks. My one comfort was, that she had gone to her rest in peace, quite sure with regard to my future, and quite happy about me and my prospects. She was certain, which indeed was the case, that I loved James Randolph, and that whenever he returned, we would marry; and if by any chance his return was delayed the boarding-house was doing well, and my temporal needs were provided for. Yes, she had all this comfort in her dying moments, so I could scarcely regret what I had done.
I sat on by the window, and thought vaguely of mother, and not at all vaguely of Albert Fanning; he was a good man, but to be his wife! my heart failed me at the terrible thought.
Just then I heard the door of the room softly open, and close as softly; there came a quick step across the floor, a hand pushed aside my curtain, and raising my eyes I saw James Randolph. He looked just as I had seen him before he went away; his eyes were full of that indescribable tenderness, and yet suppressed fun, which they so often wore;his cheeks were bronzed, he had the alert look of a man who had gone through life, and seen many adventures. And yet with all that, he was just as he always was. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to have him close to me, and I scarcely changed colour; and, after a moment's pause, said quietly—
"Then you did not die, after all?"
"No," he replied. He spoke in a cheerful, matter-of-fact, everyday voice.
"I was delayed," he said, "but I have come back at last." Then he dropped into a chair near me. "I went to 17 Graham Square," he said, "and they said you were here. I did not ask a single question. I came straight on here. Am I too late? Don't tell me I am too late."
"Oh, you know it," I answered, "you must know it, you are quite, quite too late—too late for everything, for everything!"
There was a sob in my voice, but I would not let it rise. I saw his brow darkening to a frown of perplexity and alarm, and I turned my eyes away. Had he interpreted a double meaning in my words? Did he really even now guess that he was too late for everything?
"Tell me about your mother," he said, in a choking voice; "is she——?"
He looked at me, and I pointed to my black dress. He uttered a sharp exclamation of pain, and then said slowly—
"I understand, Westenra, I am too late; but, thank God, not too late for everything."
As he said this I think the bitterness of death passed over me; for was he not now quite too late for everything—for the love which I could have given him, for the joy which we might both have shared, had he only come back a little sooner. I almost wished at that bitter moment that he had never returned, that he had really died. The next instant, however, a revulsion came over me, and I found that I was glad, very glad, that he was alive, that he was in the land of the living, that I had a chance of seeing him from time to time.
"To-night," I said to myself, "I will not allow anything to temper my joy. He has come back, he is alive. No matter though I must never be his wife, I am glad, glad to see him again."
"I will tell you all about what kept me," he continued, for he half read my thoughts. "We were wrecked, as of course you saw in the papers, off Port Adelaide, and nearly every soul on board perished."
"But your name was not in the lists," I answered.
"That can be accounted for," he said, "by the fact that I had only come on board a couple of hours before at Adelaide, and doubtless the purser had not time to enter my name. I had no intention of taking passage in that special liner until the morning of the day when the wreck occurred. Well, the captain went down with theship, and only one woman, two children, myself, and some of the sailors wore rescued. As the ship went down I was struck by a spar on my head and badly injured. When I was finally picked up I was quite unconscious, and for six weeks and more I was in hospital at Adelaide. As soon as ever I was well enough I took the first boat home; and here I am, Westenra, in time—oh, I hope in time—for the best of all. But tell me, how have things been going? I have been more anxious than I can say. There must have been money difficulties. You can little imagine what I went through. Can you bear just to speak of your mother? And can you bear to tell me how 17 Graham Square has been going?"
"We had hard times, but we pulled through," I answered briefly.
"Did you?" he cried, with a sigh of relief; "what a wonderful creature Jane Mullins is! What an extraordinary head for business she possesses! I must go and see her to-morrow, or—or to-night."
"Don't go to-night," I said, and I stretched out my hand a very little and then drew it in again; but he saw the gesture, and suddenly his strong brown hand took mine and closed over it and held it firmly.
"Then I am in time, in time for the best of all," he said, and he gave a sigh straight from the bottom of his heart. "Now, I must tell you something. Will you listen?"
I drew my hand away, he dropped it, looked at me with a hurt expression, and then went on hurriedly, "I have got something to confess to you."
"I am listening," I said.
"Perhaps you have guessed the truth. I have a great deal to answer for. I cannot tell you how I have reproached myself. I have always taken an interest in you and in your mother. Even as a schoolboy at Eton this has been the case."
"But why?" I asked.
"Did you never know—I hoped not, but your mother knew, only I begged of her not to tell you—I am the son of the man whose life your father saved? His name was Chaloner then, but with some property he changed it to the one which I now bear, and I have been called Randolph almost the whole of my life. When my father died he gave me a charge. He said if ever the time came when you or your mother were in difficulties or peril or danger, I was to remember what your gallant father had done for him. He need not have told me, for the deed had always excited my keenest admiration; but I never came across you until that day when, by the merest chance, I was at the house-agents when you came in. I heard your name and I guessed who you were, but I did not dare to look at you then. I felt strangely overpowered.
"I went away, but I came back again shortlyafterwards, and, forgive me, child, I overheard a great deal of your scheme, and I remembered my father's words and determined to help you. It was I who sought Jane Mullins. Her people had been old retainers of ours, and she had always worshipped the ground on which I walked. I told her exactly what I meant to do, and she helped me straight through at once. The money which smoothed matters with the landlord and enabled you to take the house, was really my money, money which I had inherited from my mother, but which was invested in Australian stocks. At that time these stocks were paying a high dividend, and everything seemed to be going well; but you had not been three months in the boarding-house before the bank in Melbourne which held such a large amount of my money went smash, and I was obliged to go over to secure what was left. The blow was most sudden, and I had no one to help me. I gave Jane Mullins what little money I had left, and went to Australia. I quite hoped I should be back before—before any great trouble came to you. I rescued a large portion of my money, and hoped that everything was all right. Then came the shipwreck, the danger, the awful fight with death in the hospital, the final home-coming, and now—now I find that I shall never see your mother again. What did she think of my long absence, my enforced silence, Westenra? What did she feel about me?"
"She always hoped you would come back, and she always loved you," I said slowly.
"Did she tell you nothing more?"
No colour could come to my face; my heart was too cold, too bitterly cold, too despairing.
"She told me something more," I said in a whisper. He bent close to me.
"That I love you, darling—that I have loved you from the first moment I saw your face—that I love your courage, and your dear, dear self? I am a wealthy man now, Westenra. Money has come to me while I have been away, and I am a wealthy man and in your set, and—and will you come to me, darling? Will you make me happy—will you? Oh! I know you love me—I feel you do. You will come to me?"
But I started up.
"I cannot," I said.
"You cannot! Then you do not love me?"
I made a great struggle. Never in the whole course of my life did I make a struggle like that. My struggle was to keep my lips closed; but I looked wildly up at Jim, and Jim looked at me, and the next moment, against my will, perhaps against his will, I was in his arms, and my head was on his breast.
"You love me; there is your answer," he said. "You need not say any more. You have gone through much. Oh! I am happy, and I will takesuch care of you, little West. I have loved you for so long, and so deeply."
But I managed to wrest myself away.
"I cannot go to you," I said, "and I have never said——"
"You must say it now," he answered. "You do love me?"
"Yes, but I cannot marry you; it is too late. Oh! you have been good, but there is nothing to be said; it is too late. It is as much too late as if I were dead—dead, as mother is dead. Oh! I can say no more."
I forget all about the night that followed. I also forget the next day. I think I stayed in my room most of the time, but the day following I went down to the drawing-room. London was already emptying fast. Jim had not come back. I sat in the drawing-room wondering what was going to happen, feeling that something must happen soon—a great catastrophe—a great shattering of that castle in the air which I had built so proudly a few months ago. While I was sitting there Jasmine bustled in.
"Now that is good, West," she said. "You are better. I want to have a little chat with you."
I raised my eyes. I knew very well what she was going to talk about, but I was not prepared to tell the whole truth yet. There was one matter I kept in reserve—my engagement to Albert Fanning. Whether I did right or wrong, the announcement of that extreme news could not pass my lips. I often struggled to tell it, but never yet had I been able. I knew, of course, that if Jim came to see me again I must tell him everything, but I hoped in my mad misery that he would not come again. Then the next hour Ihoped the other way. I longed most passionately to see him, and so I was torn from hour to hour and from minute to minute with longings and doubts and despairs; but all through everything, I kept my secret untold within my breast.
"It is so nice about Jim Randolph," said Jasmine, sitting down near me. "Do you know that when Sir Henry Severn dies, Jim will be the successor to the baronetcy. While Jim was away in Australia, Sir Henry's son Theodore died quite suddenly. It was awfully sad, and now James is the next in succession. Sir Henry wishes him to live either with him at Severn Towers, in Somersetshire, or to have a house close by. James went down yesterday to see the old man, and will probably be coming back to-morrow. He was very sorry to leave you, but he had to go. He will be a rich man in the future, for Sir Henry Severn is very wealthy. It is a grand chance for Jim. He never for a moment supposed that the title would come to him."
I sat silent. I had a little ring on my finger—a very plain ring, with one tiny diamond in it. It had been given to me by Albert Fanning. I would not allow him to give me a flashy or showy ring, as he wanted to do, and I think he would gladly have spent a couple of hundred pounds on my engagement-ring, but I would not have it, not until the whole thing was known, then he might lavish jewellery on me as much as he pleased for all I cared. I twistedthe little ring round and thought of my bond, and said after a pause—
"I do grieve about one thing, and that is that mother did not see Mr. Randolph before she died."
"But she always knew about everything. It is an open secret," said Jasmine. "I cannot imagine, Westenra, why you are so reserved with me. Every one knows. The Duchess knows, your mother knew, I know that James loves you, that he has loved you for months and months. What else would have taken a young man like James, a man of the world, so polished, so distinguished, so charming, to live in a place like Graham Square? Besides, dear, he has told you himself, has he not?"
I felt myself turning white.
"He has told you, has he not?" repeated Jasmine.
"I would rather not say," I replied.
"Your face tells me; besides, I saw the Duchess yesterday, and she said that she was so happy, for now you would be back again in your own set. You will make a very pretty and graceful Lady Severn."
"I care nothing whatever about that," I said, and I jumped up and walked to the window. "I hate titles," I continued. "I hate rank; I hate the whole thing. It is humbug, Jasmine; humbug. Why is it necessary for us all to class together in Mayfair, or to live in large houses in the country, inorder to love each other? Why should we not go on loving, whatever our worldly position? Oh! it is cruel; the whole thing is cruel."
"But you ought to be rejoiced about James," continued Jasmine, who did not evidently think it worth her while even to answer my last words. "He has come back; he is quite well. In a few years at latest he will be Sir James Severn, for of course he must take the name with the baronetcy, and you will be his pretty wife. Doubtless he will want to marry you very soon—as soon, I mean, darling, as you can bring yourself to go to him after your dear mother's death; but I knew your mother quite well enough, Westenra, to be sure that the sooner you made yourself happy the better pleased she would be, and you will be happy with such a good man. Why, he is a catch in a thousand. I cannot tell you how many girls are in love with him, and I never saw him talk to any one or flirt the least bit in the world except with your charming self. You are lucky, Westenra; very lucky."
I went now and stood by the window, and as I stood there I felt my heart give a great thump, and then go low down in my breast. I turned impulsively.
"I—I am not quite well," I began; but then I hastily thought that I must see it out. The moment had come when Jasmine Thesiger was to have all her doubts answered, her questions replied to, and my future would be clear in her eyes, for I had seen thechocolate-coloured brougham draw up at the door, and Mrs. and Mr. Fanning get out.
"What is the matter? Are you ill?" said Jasmine.
"No, no; I am quite well," I replied. I sank down on a chair. "I only saw some visitors just arrive," I continued.
"Visitors at this hour! I will tell Tomkins we are not at home."
"It is too late," I answered; "they are coming up. They are friends of mine."
"All right, child; but how queer you look," Jasmine gazed at me in great astonishment.
I hoped earnestly that I did not show my emotion too plainly, when the next moment the door was thrown open by Lady Thesiger's smart servant, and Mrs. and Mr. Fanning walked in.
Mrs. Fanning had put on black on my account. She had told me that she meant to go into mourning, as we were practically relations already. I had begged of her not, but she had not regarded my wishes in the least. She was in a heavy black serge dress, and a voluminous cape which came down nearly to her knees, and she had a black bonnet on, and her face was all beaming and twinkling with affection and sympathy and suppressed happiness. And Albert Fanning, also in a most melancholy suit of black, with his hair as upright as ever, came up to my side. I heard his usual formula—
"How is Westenra?" and then I found myselfintroducing him and his mother to Lady Thesiger, and Lady Thesiger gave a haughty little bow, and then sat down, with her eyes very bright, to watch events. Perhaps already she had an inkling of what was about to follow.
"We have come," said Mrs. Fanning, looking at her son and then glancing at me, "to tell you, Westenra, that we think you had better arrange to spend your holidays with us. Considering all things, it seems most fitting."
"What I say is this," interrupted Albert Fanning. "Westenra must do as she pleases. If she likes to come with us to Switzerland we shall be, I need not say, charmed; but if she prefers to stay with her ladyship"—here he gave a profound bow in the direction of Lady Thesiger—"we must submit. It is not in the bond, you know, mother, and anything outside the bond I for one debar."
"You always were so queer, my son Albert," said Mrs. Fanning, who had lost her shyness, and now was determined to speak out her mind fully.
"It's this way, your ladyship," she continued, turning to Lady Thesiger. "I may as well be plain, and I may as well out with the truth. This pretty young girl, this dear girl, belongs to us. She does not belong to you—she belongs to us."
"No, no, mother; you are wrong there," cried Mr. Fanning; "she does not belong to us at present."
"It's all the same," said Mrs. Fanning; "don'ttalk nonsense to me. When a girl is engaged to a man—"
"Engaged! Good heavens!" I heard Lady Thesiger mutter, and then she sat very still, and fixed her eyes for a moment on my face, with a sort of glance which seemed to say, "Are you quite absolutely mad?"
"Yes, engaged," continued Mrs. Fanning. "It is a very queer engagement, it seems to me, but it is abonâ fideone for all that."
"Asbonâ fide," said Mr. Fanning, with a profound sigh, "as there is a sky in the heavens. Asbonâ fideas there is a day and a night; asbonâ fideas that I am in existence; but the marriage is not to be consummated until the 1st of June of next year. That is in the bond, and we have nothing to complain of if—if Westenra"—here his voice dropped to a sound of absolute tenderness—"if Westenra would rather not come with us now."