A Plucky Girl

CHAPTER XIX

YOU USED TO LOVE US

Mother was very ill for the next few days, and I was so much occupied with her that I had no time to think of either Mr. or Mrs. Fanning. When I was in the drawing-room my heart was full of her; when I forced myself to go to meals, I could only think of her dear face. Was she going to be taken away from me before the year was up? Oh, surely God would at least leave me my one treasure for that short time. In those days I used to go away by myself and struggle to pray to God, but my heart was heavy, and I wondered if He heard my restless and broken words. I used to creep out sometimes and go into a church alone, and try to picture what my future would be when mother was gone; but I could not picture it. It always rose before me as a great blank, and I could not see anything distinctly. It seemed to me that I could see everything when mother was present, and nothing without her. And then I would go back again to her room and rouse myself to be cheerful, and to talk in a pleasant tone. I was doing the utmost that duty required of me just then. I determined that nothing would induce me to look further afield. Life without mother I did not dare to contemplate. But there were moments when the thought of one person came to my heart with a thrill of strength and comfort. I missed Jim Randolph, and longed for him to come back.

As the winter passed away and the spring approached, I began to hope for his return. I began to feel that when once he was back things would be right, anxiety would be removed from Jane's face, the strain would be removed. Mother would have her friend near her, and I also should not be friendless when my time of terrible trouble came, for of course mother was dying. The doctor was right. It was a question perhaps of days, of months at most, but if Mr. Randolph came back I thought that I could bear it.

When mother and I were alone I noticed that she liked to talk of Jim, and I was more than willing to listen to her, and to draw her out, and to ask her questions, for it seemed to me that she knew him a great deal better than I did.

"There always seems to be a mystery surrounding him," I said on one occasion. "You know much more than I do. I like him, of course, and I am sure you like him, mother."

"Except your dear father, West," replied mother, "he is the best fellow I ever met, and he will come back again, dearest. I shall be very glad when he comes back. We ought to hear from him soon now."

The winter was now passing away and the spring coming, and the spring that year happened to be a mild and gracious one, without much east wind, and with many soft westerly breezes, and the trees in the Square garden put on their delicate fragile green clothing, and hope came back to my heart once more.

One day I had gone to do some messages for mother in Regent Street. She had asked me to buy some lace for a new fichu, and one or two other little things. I went off to fulfil my messages with my heart comparatively light.

I went to Dickins & Jones', and was turning over some delicate laces at the lace counter when a hand was laid on my shoulder. I turned with a start to encounter the kind old face of the Duchess of Wilmot.

"My dear Westenra," she said, "this is lucky. How are you? I have heard nothing of you for a long time."

Now, I had always loved the Duchess, not at all because she was a duchess, but because she was a woman with a very womanly heart and a very sweet way, and my whole heart went out to her now – to her gracious appearance, to her gentle, refined tone of voice, to the look in her eyes. I felt that I belonged to her set, and her set were delightful to me just then.

"Where are you going," inquired the Duchess, "after you have made your purchases?"

"Home again," I answered.

"My carriage is at the door; you shall come with me. You shall come and have tea with me."

"I have not time," I said. "Mother is not well, and I must hurry back to her."

"Your mother not well! Mary Wickham not well! I have heard nothing for months. I have written two or three times, but my letters have not been replied to. It is impossible to keep up a friendship of this sort, all on one side, Westenra. And you don't look as well as you did, and oh! my dear child, is that your spring hat?"

"It is; it will do very well," I answered. I spoke almost brusquely; I felt hurt at her remarking it.

"But it is not fresh. It is not the sort of hat I should like my god-daughter to wear. They have some pretty things here. I must get you a suitable hat."

"No, no," I said with passion. "It cannot be."

"You are so ridiculously proud and so ridiculously socialistic in all your ideas. But if you were a true Socialist you would take a present from your old friend without making any fuss over the matter."

As the Duchess spoke she looked at me, and I saw tears in her eyes.

"And I am your godmother," she continued. "I do not like to see you looking as you do. You want a new hat and jacket; may I get them for you?"

At first I felt that I must refuse, but then I reflected that it would please mother to see me in the hat and jacket which the Duchess would purchase. I knew that the buying of such things were a mere bagatelle to her, and the little pleasure which the new smart things would give mother were not a bagatelle. My own feelings must be crushed out of sight. I said humbly, "Just as you like." So the Duchess hurried me into another room, and a hat that suited me was tried on and paid for, and then a new jacket was purchased, and the Duchess made me put on both hat and jacket immediately, and gave the address of 17 Graham Square to have my old things sent to.

The next moment we were bowling away in her carriage.

"Ah," she cried, "now you look more like yourself. Pray give that old hat to the housemaid. Don't put it on again. I mean to drive you home now, Westenra."

"Thank you," I answered.

"I mean to see your mother also. Is she seriously ill?"

"She is," I replied. I lowered my eyes and dropped my voice.

"But what is the matter, my poor child? You seem very sad."

"I have a great deal to make me sad, but I cannot tell you too much now, and you must not question me."

"And Jim has gone, really?"

"Mr. Randolph has gone."

The Duchess seemed about to speak, but she closed her lips.

"He wrote and told me he had to go, but he will come back again. When did you say he went, Westenra?"

"I did not say, Duchess."

"But give me the date, dear, please, and be quick."

I thought for a moment.

"He left England on the 30th of November," I said.

"Ah, and this is the 15th of March. What a nice genial spring we are having. He will be home soon; I am sure of that."

"Have you heard from him?" I asked abruptly.

"Just a line en route. I think it was dated from Colombo. Have you heard?"

"I believe mother had a letter, and I think Jane had."

"He has not written to you?"

"No." I felt the colour leap into my cheeks like an angry flame. I was ashamed of myself for blushing.

The Duchess looked at me attentively, and I saw a pleased expression in her eyes. That look made me still more uncomfortable. She bent towards me, took my hand, and pressed it.

"You like Jim, do you not?" she said.

"Yes," I answered very slowly. "I do not know Mr. Randolph well, but what little I have seen of him I like. He is courteous, and he thinks of others; he is very unselfish; he has much sympathy and tact, too. I think he is very fond of mother."

The Duchess gave the queerest, most inexplicable of smiles.

"He is a dear fellow," she said. "Westenra, when you come back to us we will all rejoice."

"I do not understand you," I answered coldly. "It is impossible for me ever to come back to you. I have stepped down."

"When you come back we will rejoice," she repeated.

"But I am not coming back. I do not even know that I want to. If you had come to see mother sometimes – mother, who is just as much a lady as she ever was, who is sweeter and more beautiful than she ever was – you might have done us a great service, and I could have loved you, oh! so dearly; but you have forsaken us, because we are no longer in your set. Duchess, I must speak the truth. I hate sets; I hate distinctions of rank. You used to love us; I did think your love was genuine. We lived in a nice house in Mayfair, and you were our great and kind friend. Now you do not love us, because – because we are poor."

"You are mistaken, Westenra. I love you still, and I have never forgotten you. I will not come in now, but I will come and see your mother to-morrow."

"That will please her," I answered, drying away the tears which had risen to my eyes. "But please do not disappoint her. I will tell her of your visit. Do not keep her waiting. She is weak; she has been very ill. At what hour will you come?"

"About twelve o'clock. But she must be very bad indeed from the way you speak."

"She is far from well."

"Are you hiding anything from me, Westenra?"

"I am," I replied stoutly. "And you cannot get my secret from me. When you see mother to-morrow perhaps you will know without my speaking. Do not say anything to agitate her."

"My poor, poor child. Westenra, you ought never to have left us. You do not look well; but never mind, spring is coming, and Jim Randolph will be home before May."

CHAPTER XX

RUINED

It was on the afternoon of that same day that Jane Mullins sent for me to go into her private sitting-room.

"Shut the door," she said, "I must talk to you."

Really Jane looked most queer. During the last month or two, ever since Mr. Randolph went away, she had been taking less and less pains with her dress; her hair was rough and thinner than ever; her little round figure had fallen away; she seemed to have aged by many years. She was never a pretty woman, never in any sense of the word, but now there was something grotesque about her, grotesque and at the same time intensely pathetic.

"I have done all I could," she said. "Lock the door, please, Westenra."

I locked the door.

"Now come and sit here, or stand by the window, or do anything you like; but listen with all your might, keep your attention alert."

"Yes," I said, "yes."

"We are ruined, Westenra," said Jane Mullins, "we are ruined."

"What!" I cried.

Jane said the words almost ponderously, and then she threw her hands to her sides and gazed at me with an expression which I cannot by any possibility describe.

"We are ruined," she repeated, "and it is time you should know it."

"But how?" I asked.

"How?" she cried with passion, "because we have debts which we cannot meet – we have debts, debts, debts on every side; debts as high as the house itself. Because we deceived our landlord, unintentionally it is true, but nevertheless we deceived him, with promises which we cannot fulfil, he can take back the lease of this house if he pleases, and take it back he will, because our paying guests don't pay, because the whole thing from first to last is a miserable failure. There, Westenra, that's about the truth. It was your thought in the first instance, child, and though I don't want to blame you, for you did it with good meaning, and in utter ignorance, yet nevertheless you must take some of the brunt of this terrible time. I cannot bear the whole weight any longer. I have kept it to myself, and it has driven me nearly mad. Yes, we are ruined."

"You must explain more fully," was my answer.

Her agitation was so great that by its very force it kept me quiet. I had never seen her absolutely without composure before; her usually brisk, confident manner had deserted her.

"You have kept me in the dark," I continued, "and you have done wrong, very wrong. Now please explain how and why we are ruined."

"Here are some of the accounts; understand them if you can," she said. She opened a drawer and pulled out a great account book. "Now look here," she said, "the house is absolutely full, there is not a single room to be let; I declined four fresh parties only this morning; Emma is perfectly tired opening the door to people who want to come here to board, the house has got a name and a good one. It is said of it that it is in Bloomsbury and yet smacks of the West End. You and your mother and Jim Randolph, bless him! have to answer for that. It's all your doing, and the people have talked. Everything has been done that could be done to make the place popular, and the place is popular, but now, you look here. Here are the takings" – she pointed to one side of the ledger – "here are the expenses" – she pointed to the other – "expenses so much, takings so much, look at the balance, Westenra. Of course you don't know much about accounts, but you can see for yourself."

I did look, and I did see, and my heart seemed to stand still, for the balance on the wrong side of the ledger represented many pounds a week.

"Then this means," I said, for I was sharp enough in my way, "that the longer we go on the heavier we get into debt. Every week we lose so much."

"We do, dear, that's just it."

"But cannot we retrench?"

"Retrench! how? Do you suppose the boarders will do without their comfortable hot coffee, and the other luxuries on the board at breakfast? Do you suppose they will do without their lunch, their afternoon tea with plenty of cakes and plenty of cream, their late dinner, at which appears all the luxuries of the season? – why, the house would be empty in a week. And we cannot have fewer servants, we have only four, very much less than most people would have for an establishment of this kind, and Emma already complains of pains in her legs, and says she is worn out going up and down stairs."

"But the place looks so thriving," I said.

"Looks! what have looks to do with it?" said Jane. "I feel nearly mad, for I always thought I could pull the thing through; but it's going on at a loss, and nothing can go on at a loss; and then, dear, there are bad debts – one or two people have shuffled off without paying, and there are the furniture bills, they are not all met yet."

"But I thought," I said, "that the seven thousand pounds – "

"Ay," cried Jane, "and that is where the bitterness comes in. That money was supposed to be all right, to be as sure and safe as the Bank of England, and it is not all right, it is all wrong. But that is James Randolph's story. When he comes back he will explain the rights of it to you, my dear. If I could only hear from him that the money was safe, we could wind up honourably in the autumn and stop the concern; but I have not heard, I have not heard; there has been nothing but silence, and the silence drives me mad. Westenra, what is to be done?"

"Give the whole thing up now," I said, "there is nothing else to be done. We must stop."

"Stop!" answered Jane. "You talk with the ignorance of a young girl. If we stop now we will have the whole house of cards about our ears; the tradespeople will sue for their money, the bailiffs will be in and will take possession of the furniture, even the very bed your mother sleeps on will be taken from under her. The awful, terrible position is, that we can neither stop nor go on. It is fearful, fearful. Oh, if I could only borrow a thousand pounds within a week, I would not care a farthing. I would not even care if your mother was strong, but to have this crash come about her in her present state of health, why, it would kill her. Westenra, poor child, you are young and unaccustomed to these things, but I must unburden my mind. There is ruin before us; I can scarcely stave it off for another week, and I have not had a line from Mr. Randolph, and I am nearly wild."

"And you think a thousand pounds would keep things going for a little longer," I answered.

"Yes, we could stay on until the end of the season if I could get that money. It would pay the quarter's rent, and the tradespeople's bills, and the big furniture bills. And long before it was out Mr. Randolph must come back and put everything straight. His return is what I am hoping for more than the rising of the sun."

"But oh, Jane, how – how am I to get the thousand pounds?"

"I was thinking that Duchess of yours might lend it."

"No," I said, "I cannot ask her; besides, I know she would not. Though she is a Duchess she has not got a lot of money to spare. The Duke manages everything, and she just has her allowance, and a great deal to do with it. I cannot ask her."

"There is one other way in which ruin could be averted," said Jane slowly, "but that I suppose is not to be thought of. Well, I have told you, and I suppose it is a sort of relief. Things may go on as they are for another week or two, but that's about all."

I felt that I trembled, but I would not let Jane see.

"You have been very brave. You have ruined yourself for our sakes," I cried impulsively. But at the same time I could not help adding, "That friend of yours who promised you seven thousand pounds ought not to have failed you at a critical moment like the present."

"I won't have him blamed," said Jane, her face turning crimson; "it is not his fault. Man could not do more."

"Jane," I said, facing her, "tell me the truth now; what is the name of your friend?"

"You won't get his name out of me," answered Jane. "Mr. Randolph has gone to Australia to put things straight with him. When I hear from Mr. James Randolph all will be well."

"Have you never heard since he left?"

"Twice during the voyage, but not since. It is wonderful why he is so silent. There, I seem to have lost hope."

"Jane," I cried, "why don't you give us up and go back to your own little house?"

"Bless you, child, I'm not the one to leave a sinking ship. Oh, we'll go on a little bit longer, and it has cheered me a little to confide in you. I will work the ship for another week or so, and there will be an extra nice dinner to-night, and spring asparagus, real English grown, and your mother shall have the greater portion of it. Oh dear, oh dear, if the house were twice its size we might make it pay, but as it is it's too big and it's too small; it's one of the betwixt-and-betweens, and betwixt-and-between things never do, never, never. Child, forgive me, I am sorry to add to your cares. If it were not for your mother I should not mind a bit."

I could do nothing to comfort Jane. I went up to her and kissed her, and held her hand for a moment, and then went slowly away to my own room. I did not attempt to shed a tear, I was not going to cry just then, it behoved me to be very brave; there was a great deal to be borne, and if I gave way it seemed to me that everything must come to an end. I felt some pride in my young strength and my courage, and was resolved that they should not fail me in my hour of need. So I put away the new hat and pretty jacket and went down to mother, and I amused mother by showing her the lace I had bought, and I told her all about the Duchess, and mother was much pleased at the thought of seeing her old friend on the following morning, and she and I sat that afternoon in the drawing-room making up the pretty lace fichu, and I resolved that mother should wear it the next day when the Duchess came.

There was the most awful trouble hanging over us all; my mother's days on earth were numbered, and my scheme, my lovely castle in the air, was falling to ruins about my head. But all the same mother and I laughed and were cheerful, and the visitors who came into the drawing-room that afternoon thought what a picturesque group mother and I made, and what a lovely room it was, and how much superior to most boarding-houses; and they inquired, more than one of them, when there would be a vacancy, and said they would write to Miss Mullins on the subject. Poor Jane Mullins! she was bearing the brunt of the storm. I pitied her from the depths of my heart.

CHAPTER XXI

MR. PATTENS

The next day the Duchess called, and mother was looking so well for her, and so pleased to see her old friend again, that I do not think at first the Duchess of Wilmot half realised how ill she was. I just saw her for a moment, and then went out. I came back again at the end of an hour. Mother's cheeks were quite bright, and her eyes shining, and her hand was in the Duchess's hand, and when she looked at me her eyes grew brighter than ever, and she said to me —

"Come here, darling," and she raised her dear lips for me to kiss her.

I did kiss those lips, and I thought them too hot, and I said to the Duchess —

"You are tiring mother, you have stayed with her long enough."

"Oh no, let her stay; I do love so much to see her," said my mother, so I could not have the heart to say any more, and I went away to a distant part of the room, and they began whispering again just like the dearest friends which they really were, and at last the Duchess came up to me and said —

"Come downstairs with, me, West."

I went with her, and wondered why she called me by mother's pet name, but I loved her very much.

"Tell me the truth about your mother," said the Duchess as soon as we got into the hall. "At first I thought her fairly well, but she is feverish, quite feverish now. Have I overtired her?"

"I cannot tell you anything except that she is not strong," I said; "that you have come so seldom to see her, that you have over-excited her now. Oh, I cannot wait, I must go back to her."

"I will come again to-morrow or next day," said the Duchess; "I don't like her appearance at all."

The Duchess went away, and I returned to mother.

"It was nice to see Victoria," said my mother. "She is just the same as ever, not the least changed. She told me about all our old friends."

"You are over-excited," I said, "you ought to stay quiet now."

"On the contrary, I am well and hungry; only I wonder when I shall see her again."

"She said she would come to-morrow or next day," I answered.

In the evening mother certainly seemed by no means worse for the Duchess's visit, and the next day she said to me, "Victoria will certainly call to-morrow." But to-morrow came and the Duchess did not arrive, nor the next day, nor the next, and mother looked rather fagged, and rather sad and disappointed, and at the end of a week or fortnight she ceased to watch anxiously for the sound of wheels in the Square, and said less and less about her dear friend Victoria.

But just then, the thoughts of every one in the house except mother (and the news was carefully kept from her), were full of a great and terrible catastrophe, and even I forgot all about the Duchess, for one of our largest Orient liners had foundered on some sunken rocks not far from Port Adelaide, off the coast of South Australia, and there had been a terrific shipwreck, and almost every one on board was drowned. The vessel was called the Star of Hope. The papers were all full of it, and the news was on every one's lips; but just at first I did not realise how all important, how paralysing this same news was for us. I read the trouble first in Jane's face.

"You must not let your mother know about the shipwreck," she said.

"But I cannot keep the newspapers from mother, and every newspaper is full of it," I replied; "surely, Jane, surely – oh, you cannot mean it – no person that we know was on board?"

"I have a great fear over me," she answered.

I clutched her arm, and looked into her face with wild eyes. My own brain seemed to reel, my heart beat almost to suffocation, then I became quiet. With a mighty effort I controlled myself.

"Surely," I said, "surely."

"His name is not mentioned amongst the list of passengers, that is my one comfort; but it is quite possible, on the other hand, that he may have gone on board at Adelaide," she continued, "for I know he had business close to Adelaide, he told me so. If that was the case they might not have entered his name in the ship's list of passengers, and – oh, I have a great, a terrible fear over me, his silence, and now this. Yes, child, it is true, he was, if all had gone well, to be on his way home about now; but he has never written, and now this shipwreck. I am more anxious, far more anxious than I can say."

That night I did not sleep at all. Thoughts of Jim Randolph filled my mind to the exclusion of all hope of repose. Was he really drowned? Had he left the world? Was I never to see his face again? There was a cry at my heart, and an ache there which ought to have told me the truth, and yet I would not face the truth. I said over and over to myself, "If he dies, it is terrible; if he dies, it means ruin for us;" but nevertheless I knew well, although I would not face the truth, that I was not thinking of the ruin to the house in Graham Square, nor the blow to mother, nor the loss of James Randolph simply as a friend. There was a deeper cause for my grief. It was useless for me to say to my own heart Jim Randolph was nothing to me. I knew well that he was. I knew well that he was more to me than any one else in the wide world; that I – yes, although he had never spoken of his love for me, I loved him, yes, I loved him with my full heart.