A Plucky Girl Part 40

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 one _had_ clasped 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.

CHAPTER XXVII

TOO LATE

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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess, "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 d.u.c.h.ess buried her face in her hands, and sobbed, oh, so bitterly. But I could not shed a tear.

The d.u.c.h.ess 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 pa.s.s, 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, but the 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 between eight 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 G.o.d, not too late for everything."

As he said this I think the bitterness of death pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sage in that special liner until the morning of the day when the wreck occurred. Well, the captain went down with the s.h.i.+p, and only one woman, two children, myself, and some of the sailors wore rescued.

As the s.h.i.+p 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."