Kitabı oku: «A Plucky Girl», sayfa 11

CHAPTER XVIII
BUTTERED BREAD

Mrs. Fanning let me cry for a moment or two without interrupting me. I think in her way she had plenty of heart; for once when I raised my head, feeling relieved from the bitter flow of those tears, I found that she was looking at me with a quizzical, but by no means unkindly glance.

"We'll say nothing about this at present," she exclaimed; "you shan't be plagued, my dear. I'll talk to Albert, and say that you are not to be worried; but whether you take him in the long run or not, you want your tea now. Come, child, drink up this nice cup of hot tea."

As she spoke she squeezed herself on to the sofa by my side; and gave me tea according to her taste, and insisted on my drinking it; and I could not refuse her, although my sobs were still coming heavily.

"Ah, you're a proud young girl," she said, "you're one of those who do not know which side their bread is buttered; but you will some day, the knowledge will come to you, and soon, I'm thinking, soon."

Here she looked intensely mysterious, and nodded her head emphatically.

"And there's not a better fellow in the length and breadth of England than my son, Albert," she continued; "there's no one who would give his wife a better time. Kind, he would be to her; firm, he would be no doubt too. He would make her obey him, but he would make her love him too. You will know all about it by-and-by, my dear, all about it by-and-by. For the present we'll say nothing more. Albert shan't drive with us back in the brougham, although I know he meant to do so. Poor fellow! could love go further; his legs cramped up on that little seat at the back, but love feels no pain, dear; no more than pride feels pain. It's a bit of a shock to you, I know. Proposals always are; that is, to modest girls. I felt terribly flustered when Albert's father asked me to marry him. I assure you, my love, I could not bear the sight of him for the next fortnight. I used to say, whenever he entered a room, 'I'm going out, Albert, if you're coming in. Get right away now, if you don't want me to hate you for ever,' but, in the end, my dear love, I was head over ears in love with him. There never was a better husband. He would be masterful as a good man should; but, dear, I worshipped the ground he trod on, and it was he who made the beginning of that fortune which Albert has turned into so big a thing. Well, my love, you have seen the house, and you have gone over the grounds, and you have done something else. You have looked into the great good heart of my son, Albert; and after a time, I have no doubt, you will creep into that heart, and take refuge; but mum's the word at present, mum's the word."

The idea of my creeping into Albert's heart as a final cave of refuge was so funny, that I could scarcely keep back my smiles; and I almost became hysterical between laughing and crying, so much so, that Mrs. Fanning had to put her arms round me and hug me, and call me her dear little girl.

I was very glad she did not say, "dear little thing." By-and-by she ordered the carriage, and we went back to town. She was most affectionate to me. She assured me many times that she quite understood; that she had gone through precisely the same phases with regard to Albert Fanning the first but that it had all come right, and that her passion for the godly man had been very strong by-and-by. I should feel just the same with regard to Albert the second. It was the way of girls; that is, nice girls.

"Don't talk to me about that Miss Marion Armstrong," she said. "The ways of that girl turn me sick. It is the contrast you make to Marion Armstrong which has done the business more than anything else, my dear Miss Wickham. But there, dear, there we'll turn the conversation."

"I earnestly wish you would," I said

"Ah," she said, "how history repeats itself. I used to feel as if I would like to box any one in the face who talked to me about my dear Albert long ago. But oh, how I loved him before all was over, how I loved him!"

She almost shed tears at the recollection. In short, I had a most unpleasant drive home. At last it was over. I got out of the brougham, with its red body and chocolate wheels, and staggered rather than walked into the house. I did not dare to see mother until all traces of emotion had left my face, but I made straight for Jane's sanctum.

"Jane," I said the moment I found myself there, "the Fannings must go away; they must, Jane, they must."

"Why so?" asked Jane.

"I will tell you what has just happened. Mother must never know, but I must tell some one. Mrs. Fanning took me into the country in their new brougham. We went to Highgate; they have a house there. Mr. Fanning was there to meet us. He called me a little thing, and he took me over the house and over the grounds, and told me, on pain of his direst displeasure, that I was never to give him salad without onions, and then he asked me to marry him. O Jane! what is to be done?"

"But didn't you always know that he was going to ask you?" inquired Jane in a low voice.

"Ask me to marry him! How could I suppose anything so preposterous?" I exclaimed.

"Well, dear, I know it goes very sore with you, and I hope, with all my heart and soul, that it may not be necessary."

"Necessary!" I said, "what do you mean? O Jane! don't talk in that way, you'll drive me mad. I cannot stay in the house with the Fannings any more."

"Let me think for a moment," answered Jane. She looked very careworn and distressed, her face had grown thin and haggard. She looked years older than before we had started the boarding-house. I was quite sorry to see the change in her face.

"Our life does not suit you," I said.

"Oh, it suits me well enough," she replied, "and I never leave a sinking ship."

"But why should this ship be sinking? I thought we were doing so well, the house is almost always full."

"It is just this," said Jane: "we charged too little when we started. If the house was choke-full, all the attics and the three different floors let, we could not make the thing pay, that's the awful fact, and you ought to know it, Westenra. We should have begun by charging more."

"Then why didn't we?" I said. "I left all those matters to you, Jane. I was very ignorant, and you came and – "

"I am not blaming you, my dear Westenra," said Jane; "only it is very, very hard to go on toiling, toiling all day and almost all night, and to feel at the same time that the thing cannot pay, that it can never pay."

"But why didn't we begin by charging more, and why can't we charge more now?"

"Because people who live in Bloomsbury never pay more," answered Miss Mullins, "that is it, dear. If we meant this thing to succeed we should have started our boarding-house in Mayfair, and then perhaps we might have had a chance of managing. Perhaps with a connection like yours we could have made it pay."

"Never," I said, "none of our friends would come to us, they would have been scandalised. It would never have done, Jane."

"Well, well, we have got ourselves into a trap, and we must get out the best way we can," was Jane's lugubrious answer.

"Oh, never mind about our being in money difficulties now," I cried, "do think of me, Jane, just for a moment, do make things possible for me. Remember that I am very young, and I was never accustomed to people of the Fanning type. Do, I beseech of you, ask them to go. Mr. Fanning's action to-day will make your request possible. Jane, if I went on my knees and stayed there all my life, I could not marry him, and the sooner he knows it the better."

"I will think things over," said Jane. I never saw anything like the look of despair which was creeping over her face.

"Things are coming to a crisis," she continued, "and I must confide in you fully, but not just now, we must get dinner over first. Your mother was ill while you were away, she won't come to dinner to-night."

"Mother ill! Anything serious?" I cried in alarm.

"Only a little faintness. I have got her comfortably to bed."

"Well, of course, I shan't dine to-night, I shall stay with mother."

"But you must, my love, it is absolutely necessary that you should appear at dinner, and you must be quite cheerful too in her room. She is quite herself now, and is looking over a new book, and when you go to her you will see that she has had a nice dinner, nourishing and suitable. Now go and change your dress, and make yourself look smart. Now that Mr. Randolph is gone, and your mother is too ill to be often in the drawing-room and dining-room, the affairs of the household rest upon you. You must make yourself smart; you must make yourself attractive. It must be done, Westenra, it must, and for your mother's sake."

Jane spoke with such determination that she stimulated my courage, and I went away to my own room determined to act on her advice.

At the other side of the wall I heard Mrs. Fanning's heavy steps as she walked about. She did not seem to be at all depressed at my refusal of her son Albert. On the contrary, she was in very good spirits. She had been in excellent spirits all the way back, and had kept on assuring me that I was only going on the usual tack of the modest maiden, the maiden who was worthy of such a man as her godly son Albert. Had not she herself hated Albert's father for a whole fortnight after his proposal, and had she not been glad, very glad, in the end to creep into his great heart for shelter? Did she suppose that I also would be glad to creep into Albert the second's great heart for shelter? Oh, it was all unbearable. But, nevertheless, there was a spirit of defiance in me. I had tried my ugly dresses in vain, I had tried being grave and distant in vain. I had tried everything, but nothing had availed; Mr. Fanning was determined to have me for his wife. I wondered if the man cared for me, perhaps he did after his fashion, but as no self-denials on my part had the effect of repulsing him, I would give way to my fancy and dress properly for dinner. I put on a very pretty pink dress which I had not yet worn, and ran downstairs.

At dinner I sat opposite Mr. Fanning. Mother's place was empty, and Mrs. Fanning called across the table to know what was the matter with her.

I said that she was tired and had gone to bed, whereupon Mrs. Armstrong immediately remarked, that it was a very good thing we had such an excellent housekeeper as Miss Mullins to look after things in my mother's serious state of health, otherwise the house would go to wreck and ruin, she said.

Mrs. Armstrong looked daggers at me for wearing my pink dress. She had never seen anything so stylish as that soft, graceful robe before, and between her jealousy at seeing me so attired, and her earnest wish to copy it for Marion, she scarcely knew what to do with herself. She darted angry glances at my face, and then tried to measure with her eye the amount of ribbon on the bodice, and the quantity of chiffon round the neck. But Mr. Fanning, to my great relief and delight, did not appear to take the slightest interest in me. I do not think he once glanced at my pretty evening frock. He absorbed himself altogether with Marion Armstrong. He talked to her all during dinner, and invited her in a loud voice to come and see him at his office on the following day.

"I told you, Miss Armstrong," he said, "that as a rule I am brutal to the people who come to me trying to sell their wares. Those silly folks who bring their useless manuscripts and their poor little amateur drawings to my office find that I make short work with them.

"'If you like to leave your manuscript or your drawings,' I say to them, 'you can do so, but as to the chance of their being accepted, well, look for yourselves. Do you see that pile? all that pile of manuscripts has to be read before yours. If you leave your manuscripts they go under the pile at the bottom; there will be nearly a ton of stuff on top of them. You take your chance. You had best go away at once with what you have brought, for I am not likely to require it.' They mostly do go away, Miss Armstrong, for I am brutal in my words and brutal in my tone. There is no use in buoying people up with false hopes." Here he gave a loud guffaw, which reached my ears at the further end of the table.

Captain Furlong bent across at that moment to say something to me, and I saw that he was much displeased at Mr. Fanning's loud, aggressive words. But Mr. Fanning, after all, was nothing to Mrs. Fanning. It was quite pleasant to me to see that he should turn his attentions to Miss Marion Armstrong, but Mrs. Fanning's winks were more than I could endure. They were just as much as to say, "Listen to him now; he is only doing that to draw you on." So plainly did her speaking eyes announce this fact, that I dreaded each moment her saying the awful words aloud, but fortunately she did not go quite so far as that.

When dinner was over Mrs. Armstrong came and sat near me.

"Have you seen any of Marion's drawings lately?" she asked.

"No," I replied; "is she getting on well?"

"Is she getting on well!" retorted Mrs. Armstrong. "The girl is a genius. I told you before that her whole soul was devoted to h'Art. Well, I may as well say now that she has sold a little set of drawings to Mr. Fanning. He means to bring them out in his Christmas number of the Lady's Handbag. Have you ever seen the Lady's Handbag, Miss Wickham?"

"No," I answered; "I cannot say that I have."

"I am surprised to hear it. The Lady's Handbag is one of the most striking and widely read periodicals of the day. It contains information on every single thing that a lady ought to know, and there is nothing in it for those low-down common sort of people who want wild excitement and sickening adventures. But you shall see it for yourself. Marion! Come here, dear Marion."

Marion, behind whose chair Mr. Fanning was standing, rose reluctantly and crossed the room with a frown between her brows.

"You will scarcely believe it, Marion, but Miss Wickham has not seen the Lady's Handbag. I was just telling her that you are to illustrate an article for the Christmas number. Perhaps you could oblige me by bringing a number here. I know Miss Wickham would like to see any of Mr. Fanning's publications."

Miss Armstrong left the room and returned with a copy of the Lady's Handbag. It was handed to me and I turned the pages. It was exactly the sort of fifth-rate production which I should expect a man of Mr. Fanning's calibre to initiate.

I gave it back to Mrs. Armstrong.

"I am so glad that Miss Armstrong is having her first success," I said then, and I thought what a suitable and admirable wife she would make for Mr. Fanning, and hoped that he might by-and-by think so himself.

As I was entering my own room that night, Mrs. Fanning popped her head out of her own door near by.

"One word, Miss Wickham," she said. She looked very funny. She had divested herself of her gay dress and was wearing a night-cap. Her night-cap had large frills which partly encircled her wide face.

"I know you're fretted by the way Albert has gone on this evening," she said, "but he's only doing it on purpose. I am sorry for that poor girl, though. You had better be quick and make up your mind, or Marion Armstrong will fall over head and ears in love with him, but if you imagine for a single moment that he thinks sincerely of her you are greatly mistaken. It's you he wants, and you he'll have. Go to bed now, dear, and dream of him, but I understand your ways perfectly. I felt just the same about Albert the first."

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."