Chapter 19 A Plucky Girl by L. T. Meade
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."