Chapter 26 A Plucky Girl by L. T. Meade
HAND IN HAND
"I could not tell them to their faces," said Jane to me that day, "that it wasn't I. I am just a homely body, and can only do the rough homely work; I didn't tell them that it was because I had a lady who had the face of an angel and the ways of a queen in the drawing-room, and a young lady, the princess, her daughter, that the boarding-house prospered. I never let out to them that because you two are real ladies, and know how to be courteous and sympathetic and sweet, and yet to uphold your own dignity through everything, that the place was always full. No, I never told them that. What cheek those Miss Simpsons had to try to pick my brains!"
Yes, undoubtedly, whether we were the cause or not, things seemed to be flourishing, and mother enjoyed her life; but one evening towards the end of June she began to talk of old times, of the Duchess, and the friends she knew in Mayfair, and then quite quietly her conversation turned to a subject ever I believe near her heart, James Randolph and his friendship for her.
"He ought to be back now," she said. "I have counted the months, and he ought to be in England many weeks ago. I cannot understand his silence and his absence."
I did not answer. Mother looked at me.
"He was fond of you, West," she said.
My heart gave a great throb and then stood still. I bent my head, but did not reply.
"He never wished me to tell you," said mother. "He felt, and I agreed with him, that it would be best for him to speak to you himself. He said that he would be back in England early in April at the latest, and then he would speak to you. But he gave me to understand that if for any reason his return was delayed I might act on my own discretion, and tell you what comforts me beyond all possible words, and what may also cheer you, for I can scarcely think, my darling, that the love of a man like that would be unreturned by a girl like you, when once you knew, Westenra, when once you surely knew. Yes, he loves you with all his great heart, and when he comes back you will tell him – "
"Oh don't, mother," I interrupted, "oh don't say any more."
My face, which had been flushed, felt white and cold now, my heart after its one wild bound was beating low and feebly in my breast.
"What is it, West?" said mother.
"I would rather – " I began.
"That he told you himself? Yes, yes, that I understand. Whenever he comes, West, take your mother's blessing with the gift of a good man's heart. He has relieved my anxieties about you, and his friendship has sweetened the end of a pilgrimage full – oh, full to overflowing – of many blessings."
Mother lay quite quiet after these last words, and I did not dare to interrupt her, nor did I dare to speak. After a time she said gently —
"Your father came to me again last night. He sat down by me and held my hand. He looked very happy, almost eager. He did not say much about the life he now leads, but his eyes spoke volumes. I think he will come back to-night. It is quite as though we had resumed our old happy life together."
Mother looked rather sleepy as she spoke, and I bent down and kissed her, and sat with her for some little time. I saw that she was in a sound sleep, and her lips were breaking into smiles every now and then. She had been so well lately that we had sent Nurse Marion away, for her services seemed to be no longer required.
After sitting with mother until nearly midnight I went up to my own room. I sat down then and faced the news that mother had given me.
"I always knew it," I said to myself, "but I would not put it into words before; I always guessed it, and I was happy, although I scarcely knew why. Yes, I have put it into words at last, but I must never do so again, for on the 1st of June next year I am to marry Albert Fanning, and he is a good man, and he loves me."
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.