Chapter 16 A Plucky Girl by L. T. Meade
GIVE ME YOUR PROMISE
That afternoon I went out late to do some commissions for Jane. I was glad to be out and to be moving, for Dr. Reade's words kept ringing in my ears, and by degrees they were beginning to hurt. I did not want them to hurt badly until night, for nothing would induce me to break down. I had talked to mother more cheerfully than ever that afternoon, and made her laugh heartily, and put her into excellent spirits, and I bought some lovely flowers for her while I was out, and a little special dainty for her dinner. Oh, it would never do for mother to guess that I was unhappy, but I could not have kept up with that growing pain at my heart if it were not for the thought of night and solitude, the long blessed hours when I might give way, when I might let my grief, the first great grief of my life, overpower me.
I was returning home, when suddenly, just before I entered the Square, I came face to face with Mr. Randolph. He was hurrying as if to meet me. When he saw me he slackened his steps and walked by my side.
"This is very fortunate," he said. "I want to talk to you. Where can we go?"
"But it is nearly dinner-time," I answered.
"That does not matter," he replied. "I have but a very few more days in England. I have something I must say to you. Ah, here is the Square garden open; we will go in."
He seemed to take my assent for granted, and I did not at all mind accompanying him. We went into the little garden in the middle of the Square. In the midst of summer, or at most in early spring, it might possibly have been a pleasant place, but now few words could explain its dreariness. The damp leaves of late autumn were lying in sodden masses on the paths. There was very little light too; once I slipped and almost fell. My companion put out his hand and caught mine. He steadied me and then dropped my hand. After a moment of silence he spoke.
"You asked me to-day not to go."
"For mother's sake," I replied.
"I want to tell you now that if I could stay I would; that it is very great pain to me to go away. I think it is due to you that I should give you some slight explanation. I am leaving England thus suddenly because the friend who has helped Jane Mullins with a certain sum of money, in order to enable her to start this boarding-house, has suddenly heard that the capital, which he hoped was absolutely secure, is in great danger of being lost. My friend has commissioned me to see this matter through, for if his worst surmises are fulfilled Miss Mullins, and you also, Miss Wickham, and of course your mother, may find yourselves in an uncomfortable position. You remember doubtless that Mr. Hardcastle would not let you the house if there had not been some capital at the back of your proposal. Miss Mullins, who had long wished for such an opportunity, was delighted to find that she could join forces with you in the matter. Thus 17 Graham Square was started on its present lines. Now there is a possibility that the capital which Jane Mullins was to have as her share in this business may not be forthcoming. It is in jeopardy, and I am going to Australia in order to put things straight; I have every hope that I shall succeed. You may rest assured that I shall remain away for as short a time as possible. I know what grief you are in, but I hope to be back in England soon."
"Is that all you have to say to me?" I asked.
"Not quite all. I am most anxious that while I am away, although you are still kept in the dark, you should believe in me; I want you to trust me and also my friend. Believe that his intentions are honourable, are kind, are just, and that we are acting as we are doing both for your sake and for your mother's and for Miss Mullins'. I know that I ask quite a big thing, Miss Wickham; it is this – I ask you to trust me in the dark."
"It is a big thing and difficult," I replied.
"Your mother does."
"That is true, but mother would trust any one who had been as kind to her as you have been."
"Then will you trust me because your mother does? will you believe that when I come back I shall be in a position to set all her fears and yours also absolutely at rest? I am certain of this, I go away with a hope which I dare not express more fully; I shall come back trusting that that hope may be fulfilled in all its magnificence for myself. I cannot say more at present. I long to, but I dare not. Will you trust me? will you try to understand? Why, what is the matter?"
He turned and looked at me abruptly. Quick sobs were coming from my lips. I suddenly and unexpectedly lost my self-control.
"I shall be all right in a minute," I said. "I have gone through much to-day; it is – it is on account of mother. Don't – don't speak for a moment."
He did not, he stood near me. When I had recovered he said gently —
"Give me your promise. I wish I could say more, much, much more, but will you trust me in the dark?"
"I will," I replied. "I am sorry you are going. Thank you for being kind to mother; come back when you can."
"You may be certain on that point," he replied. "I leave England with extreme unwillingness. Thank you for what you have promised."
He held out his hand and I gave him mine. I felt my heart beat as my hand lay for a moment in his, his fingers closed firmly over it, then he slowly dropped it. We went back to the house.
A few days afterwards Mr. Randolph went away. He went quite quietly, without making the slightest commotion. He just entered the drawing-room quickly one morning after breakfast, and shook hands with mother and shook hands with me, and said that he would be back again before either of us had missed him, and then went downstairs, and I watched behind the curtain as his luggage was put on the roof of the cab. I watched him get in. Jane Mullins was standing near. He shook hands with her. He did not once glance up at our windows, the cab rolled out of the Square and was lost to view. Then I turned round. There were tears in mother's eyes.
"He is the nicest fellow I have ever met," she said, "I am so very sorry that he has gone."
"Well, Mummy darling," I answered, "you are more my care than ever now."
"Oh, I am not thinking of myself," said mother. She looked up at me rather uneasily. It seemed to me as if her eyes wanted to read me through, and I felt that I did not want her to read me through; I did not want any one to read what my feelings were that day.
Jane Mullins came bustling up.
"It is a lovely morning, and your mother must have a drive," she said. "I have ordered a carriage. It will be round in half-an-hour. You and she are to drive in the Park and be back in time for lunch, and see here, Mrs. Wickham, I want you to taste this. I have made it from a receipt in the new invalid cookery book. I think you will say that you never tasted such soup before."
"Oh, you quite spoil me, Jane," said mother, but she took the soup which Jane had prepared so delicately for her, and I ran off, glad to be by myself for a few moments.
At dinner that day Mrs. Fanning and Mrs. Armstrong sat side by side. Mrs. Fanning had taken a great fancy to Mrs. Armstrong, and they usually during the meal sat with their heads bent towards one another, talking eagerly, and often glancing in the direction of Albert Fanning and Miss Armstrong and me. Mrs. Fanning had an emphatic way of bobbing her head whenever she looked at me, and after giving me a steady glance, her eyes involuntarily rolled round in the direction of Mr. Fanning.
I was so well aware of these glances that I now never pretended to see them, but not one of them really escaped my notice. After dinner that evening the good lady came up to my side.
"Well, my dear, well," she said, "and how are you bearing up?"
"Bearing up?" I answered, "I don't quite understand."
Now of course no one in the boarding-house was supposed to know anything whatever with regard to mother's health. The consultation of the doctors had been so contrived that the principal boarders had been out when it took place, therefore I knew that Mrs. Fanning was not alluding to the doctors. She sat down near me.
"Ah," she said, "I thought, and I told my dear son Albert, that a man of that sort would not stay very long. You are bearing up, for you are a plucky sort of girl, but you must be feeling it a good bit. I am sorry for you, you have been a silly girl, casting your eyes at places too high for you, and never seeing those good things which are laid so to speak at your very feet. You are like all the rest of the world, but if you think that my Albert will put up with other people's leavings, you are finely mistaken."
"Really, Mrs. Fanning," I answered, "I am completely at a loss to know what you are talking about."
Here I heard Mrs. Armstrong's hearty and coarse laugh in my ear.
"Ha! ha!" said Mrs. Armstrong, "so she says she doesn't know. Well now then, we won't allude any further to the subject. Of course it ain't likely that she would give herself away. Few young ladies of the Miss Westenra Wickham type do. Whatever else they don't hold with, they hold on to their sinful pride, they quite forget that they are worms of the dust, that their fall will come, and when it comes it's bitter, that's what I say; that's what I have said to Marion, when Marion has been a little put out, poor dear, with the marked and silly attentions of one who never meant anything at all. It was only before dinner I said to Marion, 'You wouldn't like to be in Miss Wickham's shoes to-night, would you, Marion? You wouldn't like to be wearing the willow, would you, my girl?' And she said no, she wouldn't, but then she added, 'With my soul full of Art, mother, I always can have my resources,' and that is where Marion believes, that if she were so unlucky as to be crossed in love, she would have the advantage of you, Miss Wickham, for you have plainly said that you have no soul for h'Art."
"All that talk of Art makes me downright sick," here interrupted Mrs. Fanning. "That's where I admire you, Miss Wickham. You are very nice to look at, and you have no nonsense about you, and it's my belief that you never cared twopence about that high-falutin' young man, and that now he has gone, you'll just know where your bread is buttered. Sit along side of me, dear, and we will have a little discourse about Albert, it's some time since we had a good round talk about my dear and godly son."