"Please explain," said Lady Thesiger. "I knew nothing of this. Do you mean to tell me, madam, that my friend Westenra Wickham is engaged to—to whom?"
"To my son Albert," said Mrs. Fanning, with great emphasis and with quite as much pride as Lady Thesiger's own.
"Is that the case, Westenra?" continued Jasmine, looking at me.
I bowed my head. I was silent for a moment; then I said, "I am engaged to Albert Fanning. I mean to marry him on the 1st of June next year."
"Then, of course, I have nothing to say. Do you wish to go away with the Fannings, Westenra? You must do what you wish."
I looked at her and then I looked at Mrs. Fanning, and then I looked at Albert, whose blue eyes were fixed on my face with all the soul he possessed shining out of them. He came close to me, took my hand, and patted it.
"You must do just as you please, little girl," he said; "just exactly as you please."
"Then I will write and let you know," I answered. "I cannot tell you to-day."
"That is all right—that is coming to business," said Mrs. Fanning; "that is as it should be. Albert, we are not wanted here, and we'll go. You'll let us know to-morrow, my dearie dear. Don't keep us waiting long, for we have to order rooms in advance at the big hotels in Switzerland at this time of year. Your ladyship, we will be wishing you good morning, and please understand one thing, that though we may not be quite so stylish, nor quite so up in the world as you are, yet we have got money enough, money enough to give us everything that money can buy, and Westenra will have a right good time with my son Albert and me. Come, Albert."
Albert Fanning gave me a piteous glance, but I could not reply to it just then, and I let them both go away, and felt myself a wretch for being so cold to them, and for their society so thoroughly.
When they were gone, and the sound of wheels had died away in the street, Jasmine turned to me.
"What does it mean?" she cried. "It cannot be true—you, Westenra, engaged to that man! Jim Randolph wants you; he loves you with all his heart; he has been chivalrous about you; he is a splendid fellow, and he is rich and in your own set, and you choose that man!"
"Yes, I choose Albert Fanning," I said. "I can never marry James Randolph."
"But why, why, why?" asked Jasmine.
I told her everything, not then, but on the evening of the same day. She came into my room where I was lying on a sofa, for I was thoroughly prostrated with grief for my mother and—and other great troubles, and she held my hand and I told her. I described Jane's anxiety in the boarding-house, the debts creeping up and up, the aspect of affairs getting more and more serious; I told her about Mrs. Fanning and Albert, and the chocolate-coloured brougham, and the drive to Highgate, and the rooms all furnished according to Albert's taste, and the garden, and the proposal he made to me there, and my horror. And then I told her about mother's gradual fading and the certainty that she would not live long, and the doctor's verdict, and the one caution impressed and impressed upon me—that she was to have no shock of any sort, that everything was to be made smooth and right for her.
I described, further, Jane Mullins' agitation, her despair, her difficulty in going on at all, the dreadful news which had reached us with regard to Jim, the almost certainty that he was drowned.
Then I told her of the awful day when I went to try and borrow a thousand pounds from the Duchess, and how I could not see the Duchess, for she was too ill to see any one, all on account of Jim's supposed death; and then I told her what I found when I came back—the awful greasy little man in the dining-room—the man in possession. I described his attitude that day at dinner, and the surprise and astonishment of the boarders; and then I explained how he had gone and why he had gone, and I told her of my visit to Albert Fanning in Paternoster Row, and what Albert Fanning had said, and how kind he was to me; and, notwithstanding his want of polish, how really chivalrous he was in his own way, and how really he loved me and wanted to help me. I made the very best of him, and I went on still further, and told her of the man who had burst into mother's presence in the drawing-room, and rudely demanded payment for his debt, and then how I had yielded, and told Albert Fanning that I would marry him, and how, after that, everything was smooth, and all the worries about money had disappeared as if by magic.
"I gave him my bond," I said at the conclusion. "I said that I would marry him at the end of a year, and he was satisfied, quite satisfied, and he paid up everything, and mother went to her grave happy. She was sure that all was well with me,and indeed I gave her to understand that all was very well, and she died; and never guessed that 17 Graham Square was an absolute, absolute failure—a castle in the clouds, which was tumbling about our heads."
I paused at the end of my story. Jasmine had tears in her eyes; they were rolling down her cheeks.
"Why didn't you come to me, Westenra?" she said; "my husband is very rich, and we would have lent you the money. Oh! to think that a thousand pounds could have saved you!"
"I did not think of you," I replied. "You must acknowledge, Jasmine, that you were cold and indifferent, and did not help me with a cheery word, nor with much of your presence, during my time in the boarding-house; and when the Duchess failed me, troubles came on too thick and fast to wait for any chance help from outside. I just took the help that was near, and in my way was grateful."
"I see," said Jasmine; "it is a most piteous—most terrible story."
"Do not say that," I answered. "Help me to bear it; don't pity me too much. Help me to see the best, all the best in those two good people with whom I am in future to live. Albert Fanning is not polished, he is not a gentleman outwardly, but he has—O Jasmine! he has in his own way agentleman's heart, and his mother is a dear old soul, and even for Jim I would not break my bond, no, not for fifty Jim Randolphs; but I love Jim—oh, I love him with all my heart and soul."
I did not cry as I said the words; I was quite past tears that evening, and Jasmine continued to sit near me and to talk in soft tones, and after a time she relapsed into silence, a sort of despairing silence, and I lay with my eyes closed, for I could not look at her, and presently I dropped asleep.
At an early hour the next day I wrote to the Fannings to tell them that I would go with them to Switzerland. I went and saw Jasmine after I had written the note.
"I am going with the Fannings to Switzerland on the 4th of August," I said; "will this interfere with your plans? I mean, may I stay on here until they start?"
"Oh yes, you can stay on here, Westenra," she replied. She looked at me fixedly. I thought she would say something to dissuade me, but she did not. She opened her lips once, but no words came. She simply said—
"Is that the letter?"
"Yes."
"I am going out," she said then; "I will post it for you."
"Thank you," I answered. I went back to the drawing-room. I heard Jasmine go downstairsand out, and then I sat quiet. Everything seemed to have come to a sort of end; I could not see my way any further. In a fortnight's time I should have truly stepped down out of sight of those who were my friends. I should have left them for ever and ever. It would be a final stepping down for me. Nevertheless, the faintest thought of being unfaithful to the promise I had made, I am glad to think now, never for a single moment occurred to me.
Jasmine returned to lunch, and after lunch we went to the drawing-room, and she asked me if I would like to drive with her. I said—
"Yes, but not in the Park." Perhaps she guessed what I meant.
"Jim has come back," she remarked; "I had a line from him, and he wants to see you this evening."
"Oh, I cannot see him," I answered.
"I think you must. You ought to tell him yourself; it is only fair to him. Tell him just what you told me; he ought to know, and it will pain him less to hear it from your lips."
I thought for a moment.
"What hour is he coming?" I asked then.
"He will look in after dinner about nine o'clock. I am going to a reception with Henry; you will have the drawing-room to yourselves."
I did not reply. She looked at me, then she said—
"I have written already to tell him that he cancome. It is absolutely necessary, Westenra, that you should go through this; it will be, I know, most painful to you both, but it is only just to him."
Still I did not answer. After a time she said—
"I do not wish to dissuade you; indeed, I cannot myself see how you can get out of this most mistaken engagement, for the man has behaved well, and I am the first to acknowledge that; but has it ever occurred to you that you do a man an absolute and terrible injustice when you marry him, loving with all your heart and soul another man? Do you think it is fair to him? Don't you think he ought at least to know this?"
"I am sure Albert Fanning ought not to know it," I replied, "and I earnestly hope no one will ever tell him. By the time I marry him I shall have"—my lips trembled, I said the words with an effort—"I shall have got over this, at least to a great extent; and oh! he must not know. Yes, I will see Jim to-night, for I agree with you that it is necessary that I should tell him myself, but not again," I continued; "you won't ask me to see him again after to-night?"
"You had much better not," she replied; she looked at me very gravely, and then she went away. Poor Jasmine, she was too restless to stay much with me. She was, I could see, terribly hurt, but she had not been gone an hour before the Duchess came bustling in. She was very motherly and verygood, and she reminded me of my own dear mother. She sat near me, and began to talk. She had heard the whole story. She was terribly shocked, she could not make it out. She could not bring herself to realise that her god-daughter was going to marry a man like Albert Fanning.
"You ought never to have done it, West, never, never," she kept repeating.
At last I interrupted her.
"There is another side to this question," I said; "you think I did something mean and shabby when I promised to marry a man like Albert Fanning. You think I have done something unworthy of your god-daughter, but don't you really, really believe that you would have a much poorer, more contemptible, more worthless sort of god-daughter if she were now to break her bond to the man who saved her mother at considerable expense—the man who was so good, so kind, so faithful? Would you really counsel me to break my bond?"
"No, I would not," said the Duchess, "but I would do one thing, I would up and tell that man the truth. I would put the thing before him and let him decide. Upon my word, that's a very good idea. That's what I would do, Westenra."
"I will not tell him," I replied. "I have promised to marry him on the 1st of June next year. He knows well that I do not love him, but I will keep my bond."
"That is all very fine," said the Duchess. "You may have told him that you do not love him, but you have not told him that you love another man."
"I have certainly not told him that."
"Then you are unfair to him, and also unfair to James Randolph. You think nothing at all of breaking his heart."
"He was away when he might have helped me," I replied. "That was, I know, through no fault of his, but I cannot say any more except that I will not break my bond."
The Duchess went away, and in the evening Jim arrived. He came in with that very quiet manner which he always wore, that absolute self-possession which I do not think under any circumstances would desert him, but I read the anxiety in his grey eyes, the quizzical, half-laughing glance was gone altogether, the eyes were very grave and almost stern.
"Now," he said, "I have come to say very plain words. I want to know why you will not marry me."
"Have you not heard?" I asked.
"I have heard nothing," he answered. "I have been given no reason; you just told me you could not marry me the other night, and you were so upset and shaken that I did not press the matter any further. You know, of course, that I can give you everything now that the heart of girl could desire."
"Do not talk of those things," I said. "I wouldmarry you if you had only a hundred a year; I would marry you if you had nothing a year, provided we could earn our living together. O Jim! I love you so much, I love you so much, so much."
I covered my face with my hands, a deep, dry sob came from my throat.
"Then if that is so," he answered, half bending towards me and yet restraining himself, "why will you not marry me?"
"I cannot, because—because——"
"Take your own time," he said then; "don't speak in a hurry. If you love me as you say you love me, and if you know that I love you, and if you know also, which I think you do, that your mother wished it, and all your friends wish it, why should not we two spend our lives together, shoulder to shoulder, dear, in the thick of the fight, all our lives close together until death does us part? And even death does not really part those who love, Westenra, so we shall in reality never be parted if we do so sincerely love. Why should not these things be?"
"Because I am bound to another man," I said then.
He started away, a stern look came into his face.
"Say that again," was his answer, after a full minute of dead silence.
"I am engaged to another," I said faintly.
"And yet you have dared to say that you love me?"
"It is true."
"In that case you do not love the man to whom you have given your promise?"
"I do not."
"But what does this mean? This puzzles me."
He put up his hand to his forehead as if to push away a weight. He was standing up, and the pallor of his face frightened me.
"I do not understand," he said. "I had put you on a pedestal—are you going to prove yourself common clay after all? but it is impossible. Who is the other man?"
Then I told him.
He uttered a sharp exclamation, then turned on his heel and walked away to the window. He stood there looking out, and I looked at him as his figure was silhouetted against the sky.
After a time he turned sharply round and came back to me and sat down. He did not sit close to me as he had done before, but he spoke quietly, as if he were trying to keep himself in control.
"This is very sudden and terrible," he said; "very inexplicable too. I suppose you will explain?"
"I will," I said. "I knew you were coming to-night; I was cowardly enough to wish that you would not come, but I will explain."
"You are engaged to the man I used to see you talking to at 17 Graham Square?"
"Yes," I said; "do not speak against him."
"I would not be so cruel," he answered. "If youhave promised yourself to him, he must merit some respect; tell me the story."
So I told Jim just the same story I had told Jasmine that morning. I did not use quite the same words, for he did not take it so calmly. I had never seen his self-possession shaken before. As my story drew to an end he had quite a bowed look, almost like an old man; then he said slowly—
"It was my fault; I should not have gone away. To think that you were subjected to this, and that there was no escape."
"There was no escape," I said. "Could I have done otherwise?"
"God knows, child, I cannot say."
"I could not," I replied slowly. "If you had been me you would have acted as I have done; there are times when one must forget one's self."
"There are, truly," he said.
"Then you are not dreadfully angry with me, Jim?"
"Angry?" he said slowly; "angry? You have not given me the worst pain of all, you have not stepped down from your pedestal, you are still the one woman for me. But oh! Westenra, have I lost you? Have I lost you?"
He bowed his head in his hands.
I shall never forget as long as I live that sultry 1st of August; there seemed to be scarcely a breath of air anywhere, all the air of London had that used-up feeling which those who live in it all the year round know so well. It was hot weather, hot in the house, hot in the outside streets, hot in the burnt-up parks, hot everywhere. The sky seemed to radiate heat, and the earth seemed to embrace it; and we poor human beings who were subjected to it scarcely knew what to do with ourselves.
Even in Jasmine's luxurious house, where all the appliances of comfort were abundantly in evidence, even there we gasped and thought of the country with a longing equal to that of thirsty people for water.
Jasmine and her husband were going away the next day, and the Duchess was going away too, and I was to join the Fannings on the 4th. I was to have three more days in Jasmine's house, and then I was to go, I knew well never to return. I had not seen Jim after that night, nearly a fortnight ago, when I had told him everything, and from that hour to now nothing at all had occurred to deliver mefrom my bondage and misery. Mrs. Fanning had come twice to see me; she was very bustling and self-important, and told me honestly that she had a downright hatred for that airified madam her ladyship. She said that we'd have an excellent time in Switzerland, going to the very best hotels, enjoying ourselves everywhere.
"And you two young engaged creatures will have no end of opportunities for flirtation," she said; "I won't be much in the way. You may be quite sure that the old mother will efface herself in order to give her son and her dear new daughter every possible opportunity for enjoying life. Ah! my dear, there is no time like the engaged period—the man makes such a fuss about you then. He don't afterwards, dear; I may as well be frank, but he don't—the best of 'em even take you as if you were common clay; but beforehand you're something of an angel, and they treat you according. It's the way of all men, dear, it is the way of every single one of 'em. Now Albert, for instance, I declare at times I scarcely know him. He used to be a matter-of-fact sort of body, but he is changed in all sorts of ways; and as to the way he speaks of you, you'd think you weren't common clay at all, that your feet had never yet touched the earth. He drives me past patience almost at times; but I say to myself, 'Thank goodness, it won't last.' That's my one consolation, for I cannot bear those high-falutin'ideas, although there's nothing Albert does that seems really wrong to me. He said to me only yesterday, 'Mother, I have a kind of awe over me when I am with her; she is not like any one else, she is so dainty, and so——' I declare I almost laughed in his face; but there, I didn't, and doubtless he has told you those sort of things himself. I don't want to see you blush. Not that you do blush, Westenra; I must say you take things pretty cool. I suppose it is breeding. They say it takes a power of good breeding to get that calm which it strikes me you have to perfection. I never saw any one else with it except that Mr. Randolph, who, I hear, wasn't drowned at all, but came back as safe as ever a few days ago. Well, well, I'm off now. You wouldn't like to come back to the Métropole to me and Albert the day her ladyship goes, would you, child? Say out frankly if you have a wish that way."
"No," I answered, "I have not a wish that way. I will meet you at Victoria Station. I would rather stay here until then."
"Well, well, good-bye, my dearie," said the stout old woman, and she embraced me with her voluminous arms, and patted me on my cheek.
But although she came, as I said, twice, Albert did not come at all, and I thought it extremely nice of him. New proofs of his kindness were meeting me at every turn. He wrote to me several times,and in each letter said that he knew perfectly well that I meant to be free until the year was up, and that he was not going to worry me with overmuch love-making, or any nonsense of that sort; but he thought I would like Switzerland, and the change would do me good, and although he would not say much, and would not even ask me to go out walking with him unless I wished it, yet I was to be certain of one thing, that he was ready to lay down his life for me, and that I was the one thought of his heart, the one treasure of his soul.
"Poor Albert!" I had almost said, "Poor dear Albert!" when I read that last letter. How much he had developed since the days when we first met. It is wonderful what a power love has, how it ennobles and purifies and sanctifies, and raises, and Albert's love was very unselfish—how utterly unselfish, I was to know before long.
But the days went on, and each day seemed a little harder than the last, until I became quite anxious for the complete break to take place when I should have parted with my old friends and my old life for ever. But I knew quite well that even if I did go away, the image of the man I really loved would remain in my heart. As this was likely to be a sin by-and-by—for surely I ought not to marry one man and love another—I must try to fight against all thoughts of Jim, and to banish the one who would not be banished from my thoughts.
I have said that the 1st of August came in with tremendous heat; every window in the house was open, the blinds were all down. Jasmine was quite fretful and irritable. She pined for Scotland; she said that she could scarcely contain herself until she got away.
She and her husband were to go early the next day to the North, and all arrangements were being made, and the final packing was being completed.
The Duchess also was kept in town owing to some special duties, but on the next day she was also to go.
She had asked me two or three times to visit her, but I had written to her begging of her not to press it.
"I must go through with what I have promised," I said, "and to see you only pains me. Do forgive me. Perhaps you will see me once when I return from Switzerland just to say good-bye."
The Duchess had taken no notice of this letter, and I concluded sadly that I was never to see her or hear of her again; but as I was sitting by myself in Jasmine's inner drawing-room on that same 1st of August, about twelve o'clock in the morning, I was startled when the door was thrown open, and the dear Duchess came in. She came up to me, put her arms round me, drew me to her breast, and kissed me several times. She had not, after all, more motherly arms than Mrs. Fanning, but she had a different way about her, and before I knewwhat I was doing, the feel of those arms, and the warm, consoling touch of her sympathy, caused me to burst out crying. Mrs. Fanning would not have thought much of the calm which in her opinion seems to accompany good breeding had she seen me at that moment. But the Duchess knew exactly what to do. She did not speak until I was quieter, and then she made me lie on the sofa, and took my hand and patted it.
"I am thinking of you, Westenra, almost all day long," she said solemnly. "I am terribly concerned about you. Have you got a photograph of that man anywhere near?"
"I have not got one," I replied.
"He never sent you his photograph? I thought they always did."
"He would have liked to. He is very patient, and he is very fond of me, you need not be anxious about me, it is just——"
"But it is the giving of you up, child, that is so painful, and the want of necessity of the whole thing. Sometimes I declare I am so impatient with——"
But what the Duchess meant to say was never finished, for the drawing-room door was opened once more and the footman announced Mr. Fanning.
Albert Fanning entered in his usual, half assured, half nervous style. He had a way of walking on his toes, so that his tall figure seemed to undulate up and down as he approached you. He carried hishat in his hand, and his hair was as upright as usual, his face white, his blue eyes hungry. He was so anxious to see me, and this visit meant so much to him, that he did not even notice the Duchess. He came straight up to me, and when he saw that my cheeks were pale and my eyes red from recent crying, he was so concerned that he stooped, and before I could prevent him gave me the lightest and softest of kisses on my cheek.
"I could not keep away," he said, "and I—I have a message from the mater. Can you listen?"
I was sitting up, my face was crimson, with an involuntary movement I had tried to brush away that offending kiss. He saw me do it, and his face went whiter than ever.
"Introduce me, Westenra," said the voice of the Duchess.
In my emotion at seeing Albert Fanning, I had forgotten her, but now I stood up and made the necessary introduction. Her Grace of Wilmot gave a distant bow, which Mr. Fanning gravely and with no trace of awkwardness returned.
"Won't you sit down?" said the Duchess then; "do you know I have been most anxious to see you?"
"Indeed," he replied. He looked amazed and a little incredulous. He kept glancing from the Duchess to me. I do not know why, but I suddenly began to feel intensely nervous. There wasa gleam in my old friend's soft brown eyes which I had only seen there at moments of intense emotion. She evidently was making up her mind to say something terrible. I exclaimed hastily—
"Albert, if you wish to speak to me, will you come into the next room. You will excuse us for a moment will you not, Duchess?"
"No, Westenra," she replied, and she rose now herself; "I will not excuse you. You must stay here, and so must Mr. Fanning, for I have got something I wish particularly to say to Mr. Fanning."
"Oh, what?" I cried. "Oh, you will not"—she held up her hand to stop my torrent of words.
"The opportunity has come which I have desired," she said, "and I am not going to neglect it. It need make no difference to either of you, but at least you, Mr. Fanning, will not marry my dear girl without knowing how things really are."
"Oh, please don't speak of it, I implore you, you don't know what terrible mischief you will do."
"Hold your tongue, Westenra. Mr. Fanning, this young girl is very dear to me, I have known her since her birth; I stood sponsor for her when she was a baby. I take shame to myself for having to a certain extent neglected her, and also her mother, my most dear friend, during the few months they lived in 17 Graham Square. I take shame to myself, for had I done all that I might have donefor those whom I sincerely loved, the calamity which came about need never have occurred."
"As to that," said Albert Fanning, speaking for the first time, and in quite his usual assured voice, "it could not help occurring, your Grace, for the simple fact that the boarding-house never could have paid, the expenses were greater than the incomings. If you have ever studied political economy, your Grace will know for yourself that when you spend more than you receive it spellsRUIN."
The Duchess stopped speaking when Albert Fanning began, and looked at him with considerable astonishment.
"Then you knew from the first that the extraordinary scheme of my young friend could not succeed."
"I did," he replied, "and I bided my time. I suppose you mean to say something disagreeable to me; you do not think I am in the running with her at all, but as far as that goes I have money, and she has not any, and I love her as I suppose woman never was loved before, and I will make her happy in my own fashion. And I'll never intrude on her grand friends, so that her grand friends can come to see her as often as they like; and as to my mother, she is a right-down good sort, though she wasn't born in the purple like yourself, your Grace; so, as far as I am concerned, I do not know what you have to say to me. I suppose you want to tell me that Westenra here, my pretty little girl, who is goingto give herself to me on the 1st of June next year, does not care for me, but she will care for me by-and-by, for my feeling is that love like mine must be returned in the long run, and if after a year she don't tell your Grace that she is the happiest little wife in the length and breadth of England, I shall be greatly surprised."
Here Albert Fanning slapped his thigh in his excitement, and then stood bolt upright before the Duchess, who in absolute astonishment stared back at him.
"That is not the point," she said. "You do not want to marry a girl who not only does not love you, but who does, with all her heart and soul, love some one else?"
"Why, of course not," he replied, and a frightened look came for the first time into his blue eyes. He turned and faced me.
"Of course not," he repeated, his eyes still devouring mine; "but Westenra cares for nobody, I never saw a girl less of a flirt in the whole course of my life. It is not to be supposed that such a very pretty girl should not have men fall in love with her, but that is neither here nor there."
"You ask her yourself," said the Duchess; "I think from your face that you seem a very honest good sort of man; you are a publisher, are you not?"
"Yes, Madam, I publish books, bright, entertaining books too."
"I repeat that you seem a very honest upright sort of man, who sincerely loves my young friend, and honestly wishes to do his best for her, but I think you will find that there is more behind the scenes than you are aware of, and, in short, that Westenra ought to tell you the truth. Tell him the truth now, Westenra."
"Yes, tell me now, Westenra," he said; "tell me the truth;" and he faced me once more, and I forced myself to look into his eyes.
"I know you don't love me just yet," he continued, "but it will come some day."
"I will do my very best to love you," I answered; "I will try to be a good wife to you, Albert."
"Ay, ay—how sweetly you say those words. May I hold your hand?"
I gave him my hand—he held it as he always did hold it, as if it were something very precious and sacred, letting it lie in his palm, and looking down at it as if it were a sort of white wonder to him.
"But ask her the question," said her Grace, and then I glanced at the Duchess and saw that her cheeks were pink with excitement, and her eyes shining; "ask her that straight, straight question on which all your happiness depends, Mr. Fanning."
"I will, your Grace. You do not love me, Westenra, but you will try to be a good wife to me, and you will try to love me, that is, in the future. There is no one else whom you love now, is there?I know, of course, what your reply will be, darling, and it is a hard question to ask of you, as though I doubted you. There is no one, is there, Westenra? Speak, little girl, don't be afraid, there is no one?"
"But there is," I faltered. I covered my face for a moment, then I checked back my tears and looked at him as steadily as he had looked at me.
"There is another," he repeated, "and you—you love him? Who is he?"
"I won't tell you his name. I shall get over it. I could not help myself—I promised to marry you, but I never said that I could love you, for I don't—not now at least, and there is another, but I will never see him again. It won't make any difference to you, Albert."
"Yes, but it will," he said, "all the difference on earth." He dropped my hand as though it hurt him. He turned and faced the Duchess.
"I suppose you are talking of Mr. Randolph. I quite understand, he belongs to the set in which she was born, but he deserted her when she wanted him most. It can scarcely be that she cares for him. There, I don't want either of you to tell me his name just now. I have heard enough for the present."
He strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
"I have done it now," said the Duchess, "God knows what will be the consequence, but I have at least delivered my soul."
She had scarcely uttered the words before Albert Fanning strode back into the room. He was not the least awkward now, he looked quite manly and dignified.
"Will you oblige me," he said, looking straight at the Duchess, "by giving me the address of Mr. James Randolph?"
"You are not going to do anything," I cried, springing up, "oh, you are not going to say anything? This has been forced out of me, and I have not mentioned any one's name."
"I will do nothing to hurt you, dear," he said very gently, and he looked at me again, and putting his hand on mine forced me quietly back into my seat. Then he turned to the Duchess, waiting for her to give him what he required.
Her face was very white, and her lips tremulous. She tore a sheet out of her little gold-mounted note-book,which always hung at her side, scribbled a few words on it, and handed it to him.
"I am dreadfully sorry to hurt you, you must believe that," she said.
He did not make any response. He bowed to her and then left the room.
"What does it mean? This is terrible," I cried.
The Duchess looked at me.
"Will you come home with me, Westenra? it is best for you," she said. "Come and spend the rest of the day with me."
"No, I cannot," I answered; "I must stay here. Albert may come back again. There is no saying what mischief you have done. I cannot think, I am too miserable, too anxious. Oh, suppose he goes to see Mr. Randolph, and suppose, suppose he tells him."
"I believe in his heart that man is a gentleman. Even if you marry him I shall not be quite so unhappy as I would have been," was the Duchess's next speech, and then seeing that I was not inclined to say anything more she left the room.
I do not know how the rest of the day passed. From the quiet of despair my mind was suddenly roused to a perfect whirl of anxiety, and I could not think consecutively. I could plan nothing, I could hope nothing, but it seemed to me that my journey to Switzerland was indefinitely postponed, and that my future from being settled in every detail, month, week, hour, and all, was as indefinite and vague andshadowy as though I were standing on the brink of the other world.
Jasmine entered the room at tea-time and asked me what was the matter. I replied that I had nothing at all fresh to tell her, for I felt that she must never know what the Duchess had told Albert Fanning. She gazed at me as I spoke as though I were a source of irritation to her, and then said that my stepping down had changed me so absolutely that she was not sure whether I was a nice girl any longer, and whether, after all, the fate of being Albert Fanning's wife was not the best fate for me. Then I said stoutly—
"Albert Fanning is one of the best men in the world, and I am fortunate to be left in such good care." Jasmine got really angry and offended then, and went out of the room. She presently came back to ask me, if I would mind dining alone, as she and Henry wished to spend their last evening with some friends. I said that, of course, I did not mind. In reality I was very glad.
Jasmine went out, and I was again alone. How I hated the house; how I hated the dreary, and yet beautifully-furnished drawing-room; how the heat oppressed me, and seemed to take away the remainder of my strength! I wondered if it were true, that I was only two-and-twenty, just on the verge of womanhood. I felt quite old, and I stretched out my arms, and gave a dreary sigh; and felt that the sadness of youth was just asgreatas the sadness of age; andthat one of its most painful moments was the knowledge that, in the ordinary course of life, I was so far from the end. Yes, I was young, and I must bear my burden, and I was strong too; and there was no chance under any ordinary circumstances of my not living out the full measure of my years.
Just before dinner the drawing-room door was again opened, and Albert Fanning for the third time that day made his appearance. He looked quite brisk, and bright, and like his usual self, except that in some extraordinary way his awkwardness and self-consciousness had completely left him; he was evidently absorbed with some business on hand, which made him a new man for the time.
"Will you come for a walk with me, Westenra?" he asked gravely.
"What, now?" I inquired in some surprise and trepidation.
"Yes," he answered, "or, at least, I want you to drive with me now, and to walk with me afterwards. I have a great desire that we should spend this evening together; and I fancy, somehow, that you won't deny me. I have a carriage outside; I bought it for you, yesterday, a smart little victoria. I will drive you to Richmond, and we can dine there. You will come, won't you, dear?"
I paused to think, then I said, just as gravely as he had addressed me—
"Yes, I'll come."
"That is nice," he remarked, rubbing his hands, "we'll have a good time, little girl. We won't mind what the Duchess said; we'll have a right, good, jolly time, you and I."
"Of course," I answered. I went up to my room, dressed, and came down again.
"I am ready now," I said.
He took my hand.
"It is very good of you, Westenra; we shall have a delightful evening; all that thundery feeling has gone out of the air, everything is crisp and fresh, and you'll enjoy your drive."
None of the servants saw us go out, and it was Albert himself who put me into the victoria. He sat beside me, took the reins, and we were off.
"Don't you think this is a neat little turn-out?" he said, as we drove down in the soft summer air to Richmond.
I praised the victoria to his heart's content, and then I told him that I thought his taste was much improved.
"It is all owing to you, dear," he replied. "You like things to lookgentlesomehow. I could not see myself looking at you in a place withloudthings. It was only this morning I was saying to myself, early this morning, I mean"—he gave a quick sigh as he uttered these last words—"I was saying to myself, that we would furnish the house at Highgate over again according to your ideas. We would just leavea couple of rooms for mother, according to her tastes, and you and I should have the rest of the house furnished as you like. Liberty, Morris, all the rest, everything soft, and cloudy, and dim, and you walking about in the midst of the pretty things, and I coming home, and—but, never mind, dear, only I would like you always to feel, that there is nothing under the sun I would not do for you, nothing."
"You are very, very kind," I murmured.
"Oh, it is not real kindness," he replied with great earnestness. "You must not speak of it as kindness; you cannot call it that, when you love, and I love you so much, little girl, that when I do things for you, I do things for myself; you can never call it justkindnesswhen you please yourself. That is how I feel about the matter. You understand, don't you?"
I nodded. I understood very well. Albert thought me kind when I said gentle and affectionate words to him, but he thought himself rather selfish than otherwise, when he poured out his whole heart at my feet.
As we were driving quickly in the direction of Richmond, he told me many of his plans. I had never heard him speak more freely nor unrestrainedly. Amongst other things he mentioned Jane Mullins.
"She is a capital woman," he said, "and she and I have gone carefully into the matter of the house in Graham Square. Jane wants to give it up, and it is quite too big for her to manage alone. I amstarting her in a little boarding-house in Pimlico, and with her business-like instincts she will do uncommonly well there. She spoke of you when I saw her yesterday, there were tears in her eyes."
"She must come and see us when we are settled at Highgate," I replied, but to this remark of mine he made no answer.
We got to Richmond, and had some dinner, and then we went out, and walked up and down on the terrace outside the hotel. There was a lovely view, and the stars were coming out. Albert said—
"Let us turn down this walk. It is quite sheltered and rather lonely, and at the farther end there is an arbour, they call it the 'Lover's Arbour.' Beyond doubt many lovers have sat there; you and I, Westenra, will sit there to-night."
I had been feeling almost happy in his society—I had almost forgotten the Duchess, and even Jim Randolph had been put into the background of my thoughts; but when Albert proposed that he and I should sit in the "Lover's Arbour" as lovers, I felt a shiver run through me. I said not a word, however, and I do not think he noticed the momentary unwillingness which made me pause and hesitate. We walked between the beautiful flowering shrubs, and under the leafy trees to the little arbour, and we entered. I seated myself; he stood in the doorway.
"Won't you come and sit down, too?" I said.
"Do you ask me?" he answered, a light leaping into his eyes.
"Yes, I do ask you," I replied after a moment.
He sat down—then suddenly without the slightest warning, his arms were round me; he had strained me to his heart; he had kissed me several times on my lips.
"Oh, you ought not," I could not help exclaiming.
"But why not?" he cried, and he did not let me go, but looked into my eyes, almost fiercely it seemed to me. "You are my promised wife, may I not kiss you just once?"
"Oh, I know, you have the right to kiss me, but you have always been——" I could not finish the words. He suddenly dropped his arms, moved away from me, and stood up. His face was gloomy, then the gloom seemed to clear as by a great effort.
"I have kissed you," he said; "I vowed I would, and I have done it. I shall remember that kiss, and the feel of you in my arms, all my life long; but I am not going to think of my own feelings, I have something far more important to say. Do you know, little girl, that I received an awful shock to-day? Now, listen. You gave me your bond, did you not?"
"I did, Albert, I did."
"Just come out here, dear, I want to see your face. Ah! the moon shines on it and lights it up; therenever was a face in all the world like yours, never to me; and I vowed, that because of it, and because of you, I would lead a good life, a beautiful life. A great deal, that I did not think was in me, has been awakened since you were good to me, Westenra."
"You have been very kind to me, Albert," I said, "and I will marry you. I will marry you when a year is up."
"You are a good girl," he said, patting my hand; but he did not squeeze it, nor even take it in his. "You are a very good girl, and you remember your bond. It was faithfully given, was it not?"
"Very faithfully, Albert."
"And you always, always meant to keep it?"
"I always did. I will keep it. Albert, why do you question me? Why do you doubt me?"
"I will tell you in a minute, darling. Now I want to ask you a question. Do you love me the least little scrap? Look well, well into your heart before you answer. I know that when you said you would marry me, you did not love me. You were willing to be bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh; my dear, dear wife, till death us did part; you were willing to be all that?"
"I was," I said.
"And yet had younevera kindly feeling towards me?"
"A very kindly feeling," I answered, "very kindly, but I——"
"I know," he said, "you are a good girl. I won't press you too hard. Still my questions are not quite over. Had you, Westenra, at the time you promised yourself to me, any sort of idea that you cared for another?"
"He was dead, or at least, I thought he was dead," I said, trembling, and turning away. "Had I thought him alive, even for mother's sake, I could not have done it, but I thought him dead."
"And now that he has come back, you are sorry you gave me that bond?"
"Do not question me," I replied; "I will do my best for you; you will never regret that you have taken me to be your wife, but you must not question me."
"Because of your sore, sore heart," he said, looking very kindly at me; and now I looked back at him, and saw that in some wonderful way the expression on his face had changed; the look of passion had left it—it was quite quiet, a very kindly face, a very good face; never were there more honest blue eyes.
"I pressed you hard," he said, "I should not have done it, I see it all now, and you were so good and so unselfish. You gave me that bond for your mother's sake. I meant to put you into a corner; I meant to force your hand. It was unfair, miserably unfair. I did not think so at the time, but now I see it. Well, my dear, you are so gentle, and so different from other girls, that you have opened myeyes. There is a good bit of pain in having one's eyes opened sometimes, but there is also great joy in giving perfect joy to one whom you love, as I love you. So, if you will promise, little girl, faithfully, that never, never shall those debts which I paid for you, be paid back again to me; if you will allow me, for the whole of my life, to feel that I was the one who saved Westenra in her hour of bitter need; I was the one who helped her mother in her last moments to go down to the grave in peace, if you will promise all that, Westenra, there is an end of everything else. You have your bond back again. I don't want it, child, it is yours to do what you will with. You are free, Westenra. If it is hard on me, I am not going to talk of myself; but, I hope, I am manly enough to bear a bit of pain, and not cause the girl I love best on earth to suffer pain to her dying day. You are free, Westenra, that is all."
"But I won't be free," I answered passionately, for at that moment all the heroism in me, all that my dead father had given me before I was born, all that I owed to him, sprang to life in my veins, and I saw Albert Fanning as a hero, and faintly, very faintly, I began to love him in return. Not for a moment with the love I had for Jim, but still with a love which might have made me a blessed if not a happy wife.
"I won't be free, Albert," I cried, "I gave you my bond, and I will keep it; I will marry you."
"Never mind about that just now," he said; "but do you think—" he sat down near me as he spoke, and looked me in the face. "Do you think you could bring yourself to do one last thing for me?"
"It won't be a last thing," I answered, "it will be the first of many; I will do everything for you; I will marry you."
"It is not such a big thing as that," he replied; "but it is a big thing, at least a very big thing to me. It is something that I shall prize all my life. I took you in my arms just now and kissed you—will you kiss me just once of your own accord?"
I did not hesitate; I raised my lips and pressed a kiss on his cheek. He looked at me very mournfully and quietly.
"Thank you," he said, "I shall always have this to make a better man of me."
"But I am going to be yours; you won't cast me off," I pleaded; "I said I would marry you on the 1st of June next year, and I will."
"But I would rather not, my little girl. The fact is this, Westenra, I would not marry you now at any price. I would have married you had I thought I could have won you in the end, but I won't have a wife who loves another. I could not do it on any terms, Westenra. I am low down enough, but I am not as low as that. So I refuse you, dear; I give you up—you understand, don't you?"
I did understand. A wild wave of joy, almostintolerable, surged round my heart, and the next moment Mr. Fanning took my hand and led me out of the arbour just where the moon was shining.
"I asked Mr. Randolph to come down," he said quietly, "I guessed that perhaps he would be wanted. I think this is he."
Footsteps were heard approaching, and Jim Randolph stood in the moonlit path.
"How do you do, Mr. Randolph?" said Albert Fanning, with that new dignity which self-denial gave him. He looked almost grand at the moment.
"I have just been telling this young girl, Mr. Randolph, that I have heard a certain secret about her which she was bravely trying to keep to herself, and in consequence of that secret I can have nothing more to do with her. She wanted to marry me, sir, but I have refused her; she is quite free, free for any one else to woo and win. She is a very good girl, sir, and—but that is all, I have nothing more to say. I have given her back her bond." And then without a word, Albert Fanning walked quickly away through the gloom of the shrubbery, and Jim and I found ourselves alone face to face with the moonlight shining on us both.