Chapter 24 A Plucky Girl by L. T. Meade
THE BOND
I went slowly home. I walked all the way, I was glad of the exercise, I wanted to tire my body in order that my mind should not think too acutely. When I got in, it was lunch time. I went into the dining-room without taking off my hat. Jane Mullins was there, as usual she was at the foot of the table, she was busy carving, and she was chatting to Mrs. Armstrong, and Mrs. Armstrong was looking somewhat mysterious, and when she saw me she gave me a kindly nod, but I perceived the curiosity in her eyes and turned my face away.
Marion Armstrong was seldom in to lunch, she was at her School of Art doing those drawings by which she hoped to win the hand of Albert Fanning. But what chance had she of Albert Fanning?
Mrs. Fanning was present, and she looked very stout and prosperous, and mysterious and happy, and as I sat down, not far away from her, she suddenly stretched her fat hand across the table and grasped mine and said —
"How are you, dear, and how is your mother?"
I answered that I hoped mother was better, and Captain and Mrs. Furlong looked at me also with pity. I had never greater difficulty in keeping my composure than I had during that awful meal, but I did eat a cutlet when it was put on my plate, and I did manage to talk to my neighbour, a new boarder who had come up from the country, and did not know her way about anywhere. She was an excitable middle-aged lady of between forty and fifty, and she asked questions which I was able to answer, and helped me more than she knew to get through that terrible meal.
At last it was over and I went up to mother's room. To my great astonishment it was empty. Where was mother? Was she better? What could have happened? With a mingling of alarm and anticipation I ran into the drawing-room. She was there in her old accustomed seat by the window. She looked very much as usual. When she saw me she called me over to her.
"Are you surprised, West?" she said.
"I am greatly surprised," I answered; "are you better, Mummy?" I bent over her, calling her by the old childish, very childish name. She laid her thin hand on mine, her hand was hot, but her face looked, with the colour in her cheeks, and her eyes so feverishly bright, more beautiful than I had ever seen it. I sat down near her.
"You don't know how nice Nurse Marion has been," she said. "When she found I really wished to get up, she did not oppose me, and she dressed me so carefully, and I am not the least bit tired. I longed to come into the drawing-room, I seem to have quite got over that attack; you need not be anxious, West."
"Very well, I won't be anxious," I answered; "I will sit close to you here and read to you if you will let me."
"I should love to hear you, darling. Read Whittier's poem, 'My Psalm.' Some of the lines have been ringing in my head all day, and I always like the sort of cadence in your voice when you read poetry aloud."
I knew Whittier's "Psalm" well, and without troubling to get the book, I began to repeat the well-known words —
"I mourn no more my vanished years:
Beneath a tender rain,
An April rain of smiles and tears,
My heart is young again.
The west-winds blow, and singing low,
I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.
No longer forward nor behind,
I look in hope and fear:
But grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now and here."
As I slowly repeated the words, I noticed that mother's gentle soft eyes were fixed on my face. She raised her hand now and then as if to beat time to the rhythm of the poetry. At last I reached the final verses.
"Say them slowly, West," whispered mother; "I know them so well, and they have comforted me so often. Say them very slowly, in particular that verse which speaks about death as 'but a covered way,'"
I continued —
"That more and more a Providence
Of Love is understood,
Making the springs of time and sense
Sweet with eternal good;
That death seems but a covered way,
Which opens into light,
Wherein no blinded child can stray
Beyond the Father's sight;
That care and trial seem at last,
Through Memory's sunset air,
Like mountain-ranges overpast
In purple distance fair;
That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife
Slow rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west-winds play;
And all the windows of my heart
I open to the day."
"Ah," said mother, when my voice finally ceased, it had very nearly failed me towards the end, "that is just how I am. I sit by the open window, I look out and beyond, I see no trouble anywhere. The peace is wonderful, wonderful. It is all my Father's doing, my heavenly Father's doing. I am so strangely happy that I cannot quite understand myself. Last night something strange happened, West. Your dear father, my beloved husband, came back to me."
"Mother!" I cried.
"Yes," she said very gently, "he did; you will understand some day, I cannot explain what happened. He came to my room. He looked at me with your eyes, my darling, only older and more grave; eyes with the weight of the knowledge of life in them, and the understanding of the Life beyond in them. He looked at me, and there was both joy and sorrow in his eyes, and the joy seemed greater than the sorrow. He even took my hand in his, and I fancied I heard him say something about our going away together, but I am not quite sure on that point. I only know that he was with me, and that now I feel no pain. Nothing can trouble me again. Even dying cannot trouble me. West, my child, what are you crying for?"
"Oh, I am not crying at all, mother, only, somehow, there is a pathos in your words, but I am not crying."
She took my hand and patted it softly.
"You have no cause for tears, as far as I am concerned," she said. "I am the happiest woman in the world, I have had a happy life, such a husband, so dear a daughter, and now this wonderful, wonderful peace, this joy, and there is no death, dear West, for those who really love; there is no real parting for those who love."
From where we sat we could see the trees in the Square garden. They had put on their spring green, and most lovely was the mantle they wore. The dust of London had not yet had time to spoil them. The freshness of their appearance on that May morning was as vivid, as perfect, as though those trees lived themselves in the heart of the country; they seemed to be a little bit of God in the middle of that town Square. I kept watching them, and glancing from time to time at mother, but all through there was in my mind another thought, the thought of Mr. Fanning and what he wanted me to do. After all, if the end of life was so full of bliss, what mattered any cross on the journey. I felt ready for sacrifice. I rose very slowly, and softly left the drawing-room.
By a sort of common consent, the boarders had all gone out on this exquisite early summer's afternoon, and mother and I had the room to ourselves. Even Mrs. Fanning had gone out. I crossed the landing, and went into mother's bedroom. Nurse Marion was there. I shut the door behind me.
"How long will mother live?" I said abruptly. I was in the humour not to walk round anything that day; I wanted to hear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Nurse Marion looked at me in astonishment.
"You don't look well yourself, Miss Wickham," she answered.
"Never mind about me," I replied, "answer my question. If nothing harms her, if she gets no shock, how long will my mother live?"
"She may live for months and months," replied the nurse.
"And if she gets a shock, a sudden shock?"
"Ah!" the woman held up her hands ominously, "we must keep her from any thing of that sort, even a very little agitation would be bad for her; but I never saw a calmer, sweeter lady. She does not know she is dying, but why should she be troubled, she is close to God Himself, she lives in a sort of Paradise."
"Thank you," I answered. The tears were pressing hard on my eyes, but I would not let them fall.
"She thinks all the world of you, Miss Wickham," continued the nurse. "If she has an anxiety, it is about you; but even for you I do not think she feels real fear now. You will forgive me for speaking so frankly, but I can tell, miss, for I have seen much sorrow myself, that you are perplexed and puzzled and miserable just now, but I assure you you need not be sorry on your mother's account. She lives in the Land of Beulah. Have you ever read the 'Pilgrim's Progress'? You know, of course, to what I allude?"
"I know to what you allude," I answered; "the Land of Beulah is a beautiful country, but I am too young to understand about it."
"We are none of us too young to understand about that," replied the nurse. "I have been with many people suffering as your mother suffers, but I never before came across any one quite so gentle, so resigned, so happy, so peaceful, —it is the peace of God."
"We must keep her as long as we can," I said; "she is the most precious thing in all the world; we must keep her as long as we ever can. She must not have a shock nor a care."
"Of course not," answered the nurse.
I returned again to the drawing-room, taking some needlework with me. I sat near mother plying my needle, weaving a pattern with coloured silks into my embroidery.
"How lovely the day is!" said mother. She made little remarks of this sort from time to time, but she did not do what was her invariable habit, and the fact of her omitting to do this caused me some surprise. As a rule, whenever she looked at any one, she generally ended by glancing at father's picture, but to-day she did not once look at it. This impressed me as so very strange and so unlike her, that I said —
"Can't you see the picture from where you sit?" We always called it the picture; it was the one picture for us both.
"I can see it perfectly if I want to," she answered, "but I do not care to look at it to-day. I see his own face wherever I turn, that is much more lifelike, and more interesting, and has more varied expressions than the dear picture can have. He was with me last night, and he is here now. You cannot see him, West, but I can."
"Mother," I said, "you talk as if you were ill. Do you think you are ill?"
"Oh no, darling, just a little weak, but that soon passes. There is nothing to be alarmed about, Westenra. The fact of a person being thoroughly happy does not surely mean that that person is in danger."
"I am so glad you are happy," I said.
"I am wonderfully so; it is the glad presence of God Himself, and also of your dear father. If I have a wish in the world," continued mother then slowly, and she looked at me as she spoke, "it is to see James Randolph. I cannot imagine why he does not write. He has been very good to me, and I like him much. He is a dear fellow, full of courtesy and chivalry; he has a gentle, tender, brave heart; he would make the girl he loves happy, very happy. I should like to see him again, and to thank him."
I did not dare to tell mother what we all now firmly believed with regard to Mr. Randolph. I tried to thread my needle, but there was a mist before my eyes. The needlework nearly fell from my hand. Suddenly, in the midst of our conversation in the quiet drawing-room, I heard a commotion. Some one – two people were coming upstairs – the steps of one were heavy, there was an altercation in the landing, a voice pleaded with another voice, and the strange voice got loud and angry.
I half rose from my seat, and then sat down again.
"What is the matter?" asked mother; "you look very white, Westenra. Is there anything wrong?"
"I don't want strangers to come here just now," I said.
"But you forget, my dear child, that this is everybody's drawing-room. This cosy corner is my special seat, but we cannot possibly keep our boarders out – it is impossible, my darling."
She had scarcely said the words before the door burst open, and a man with red hair and red whiskers, in a loud check suit, entered.
"Ah," he said, "I thought as much; I thought I'd get to headquarters if I came here. Now, is this lady Mrs. Wickham, and is this young lady Miss Wickham? Now, Miss Mullins, I will see them for myself, please; you cannot keep me back; I am determined to have my rights, and – "
I rushed towards the door. One glance at mother's face was enough. It had turned white, the blue look came round her lips, there was a startled gleam in her eyes.
"What is it?" she said, and she looked at Jane.
"Go to her, Jane; stay with her," I said; "I will manage this man. Go to her, and stay with her."
Jane went to mother, and I rushed up to the man.
"I am Miss Wickham," I said; "I know what you want. Come with me into the next room."
He followed me, muttering and grumbling.
"Why shouldn't I see Mrs. Wickham – she is at the head of this establishment? My name is Allthorp; you are all heavily in my debt, and I want to know the reason why I don't see the colour of my money."
"Oh! please do not speak so loud," I implored.
"Why?" he asked. "I am not mealy-mouthed. I want my money, and I am not afraid to ask for it."
"I tell you, you shall have your money, but do not speak so loud. Mrs. Wickham is ill."
"Ah, that's a fine excuse. That's what Miss Mullins tried to put me off with. Miss Mullins seems to be a sort of frost, but I was determined either to see you or Mrs. Wickham."
"I am Miss Wickham."
"And the house belongs to you? I can sue you if I like for my money."
"Certainly you can, and I hope if you sue any one it will be me. How much is owed to you?"
"Eighty-nine pounds, and I tell you what it is, Miss Wickham. It's a shame when a man works hard from early morning to late at night, a black shame that he should not be paid what is due to him. I'd like to know what right you have to take my tea and my coffee, and to eat my preserved fruits, and to make your table comfortable with my groceries, when you never pay me one farthing."
"It is not right," I answered; "it is wrong, and you shall be paid in full." I took a little note-book and entered the amount.
"Give me your address," I said; "you shall be paid."
He did so.
"I'll give you twenty-four hours," he said. "If at the end of that time I do not receive my money in full, yes, in full, mark you, I'll have a man in. I hear it answered very well in the case of Pattens, and it shall answer well in my case. So now you have had my last word."
He left the room noisily and went downstairs. I waited until I heard the hall-door slam behind him, and then I went back to mother. She was leaning back in her chair; her eyes were closed. I bent over her and kissed her.
"What is it, West? What did that horrid man want?"
"He has gone, darling; he won't trouble us any more."
"But I heard him say something about a debt. Is he owed any money?"
"He was very troublesome because his account was not paid quite as soon as he wished," I said; "but that is nothing. He shall have a cheque immediately."
"But I do hope, dear Miss Mullins," said mother, turning to her and looking at her fixedly, "that you pay the tradespeople weekly. It is so much the best plan."
"Quite so," she answered.
"This house is doing splendidly, is it not?" said mother. "We shall make a fortune if we stay on here long enough?"
"Oh, quite so," answered Miss Mullins.
I stole out of the room again. Mother looked satisfied, and although her cheeks were a little too bright in colour, I hoped no grave mischief was done.
I ran downstairs. It was nearly four o'clock. I determined to wait in the hall or in the dining-room, in case any more of those awful men – wolves, Albert Fanning had called them – should arrive. Mother must not be troubled: mother must not run such an awful risk again. Just then I heard steps approaching, and there was the sound of a latch-key in the hall door. Most of our guests had latch-keys. I do not know what I noticed in that sound, but I knew who was there. I entered the hall. Mr. Fanning had come in. He did not expect to see me, and he started when he saw my face. I had never cared for Mr. Fanning – never, never. I had almost hated him rather than otherwise; but at that moment I looked at him as a deliverer. There was no one there, and I ran up to him.
"Come into the dining-room," I said. "I must speak to you," and I caught his hand. His great hand closed round mine, and we went into the dining-room, and I shut the door.
"One of them came," I said, "and – and nearly killed mother, and I promised that he – that he should be paid. His name is Allthorp. He has nearly killed mother, and he nearly killed me, and – and will you pay him, and will you pay the others?"
"Do you mean it?" said Albert Fanning. "Do you mean it? Are you asking me to do this, clearly understanding?"
"Clearly, clearly," I said.
"And may I kiss you, just to make the bond all sure?"
"You may," I said faintly. He bent forward, and I felt his kiss on my forehead.