Kitabı oku: «A Plucky Girl», sayfa 9

CHAPTER XIV
ANXIETY

After he had left me, and I was quite certain that I should not see him again that night, I went straight to Jane Mullins' room. Jane was generally up the last in the house, and I had not the slightest doubt I should still find her in her dinner dress, and ready for conversation. I had bidden mother good night long ago, and hoped she was sound asleep, but I did not mind disturbing Jane. I opened the door now and went in. As I expected, Jane was up; she was seated by the fire, she was looking into its depths, and did not turn round at once when I entered. The first thing she did when she became aware of the fact that there was some one else in the room besides herself, was to sigh somewhat deeply. Then she said in a low voice —

"What if it all turns out a mistake?" and then she jumped to her feet and confronted me. "Yes, dear, yes," she said. "Oh, my dear Westenra, why aren't you in bed? It is very bad indeed for young people to be up so late. You will get quite worn and wrinkled. Let me tell you, my love, that we can never get youth back again, and we ought to prize it while we have it. How old are you, Westenra, my love?"

"I shall be twenty-two my next birthday," was my answer.

"Ah, yes, yes, quite young, in the beautiful prime of youth. Nevertheless, the bloom can be rubbed off, and then – well, it never comes back, dear. But go to bed, Westenra, don't stay up bothering your head. I see by that frown between your brows that you are going to say something which I would rather not listen to. Don't tell me to-night, Westenra, love."

"I must tell you," I answered. "I have come to see you for the purpose. You are old enough, Jane, to bear the little disagreeable things I tell you now and then. You are our mainstay, our prop, in this establishment. I cannot go on without confiding in you, and you must listen to me."

"Well, child, sit down, here is a comfortable chair." Jane got up and offered me her own chair. I did not take it.

"What nonsense," I said, "sit down again. Here, this little hassock at your feet will suit me far better."

I seated myself as I spoke, and laid my hand across Jane's knee.

"Now, that is cosy," I said. She touched my arm as though she loved to touch it, and then she laid her firm, weather-beaten hand on my shoulder, and then, as if impelled by an unwonted impulse, she bent forward and kissed me on my cheek.

"You are a very nice girl. Since I knew you life has been far pleasanter to me," said Jane Mullins. "I thank you for giving me a bit of love. Whatever happens I want you to remember that."

"I do," I answered; "you have very little idea how much I care for you, Jane, and how immensely I respect you. There are, I think, very few women who would have acted as you have done. I am fully convinced there is a mystery in all your actions which has not yet been explained to me, but I have not come here to-night to talk about that. I have come here to ask you one or two questions, and to tell you one or two things, and my first question is this – Why were you sighing when I came in, and why did you murmur to yourself, 'What if it all turns out a mistake?' Will you explain those words, Jane."

"No," replied Jane stoutly, "for you were eavesdropping when you heard them, and there is no reason why I should explain what you had no right to listen to."

"Thank you; you have answered me very sensibly, and I won't say another word on the subject of your sigh and your remarkable speech. But now to turn to the matter which has brought me to your room so late in the evening."

"Well, dear, it is past midnight, and you know how early I am up. It is a little unreasonable of you; what has brought you, darling?"

"Mr. Fanning has brought me."

"Oh dear, oh dear, that tiresome man again," said Miss Mullins.

"You don't like him yourself, do you, Jane?"

"It is a great pity he is not different," said Jane, "for he is extremely well off."

"O Jane! pray don't talk nonsense. Do you suppose that a person with the name of Fanning could have any interest whatever for me? Now, please, get that silly idea out of your head once for all."

"Oh, as far as any use that there is in it, I have long ago got it out of my head," replied Jane; "but the thing to be considered is this, that he has not got it out of his head – nor has his mother – and that between them they can make things intensely disagreeable. Now, if Mr. Randolph was going to stay here, I should not have an anxious moment."

"What do you mean?" I cried; "is Mr. Randolph going away?" A deep depression seemed suddenly to come over me; I could not quite account for it.

"He is, dear; and it is because he must be absent for two or three months that I am really anxious. He will come back again; but sudden and important news obliges him to go to Australia. He is going in a fortnight, and it is that that frets him. You will be left to the tender mercies of Mr. Fanning and Mrs. Fanning, and you have got so much spirit you are sure to offend them both mortally, and then they will leave, and – oh dear, I do think that things are dark. My dear Westenra, I often wonder if we shall pull through after all."

"That is what I want to speak to you about," I answered. "Mr. Fanning came into the drawing-room just now, and was very rude and very unlike a gentleman. I was alone there, and he said he had something to say to me in private, and, of course, I refused to listen. He wanted to insist on my granting him an interview, and said that he could compel me to listen if he chose. Think of any gentleman speaking like that!"

"They don't mind what they say, nor what they do, when they're in love," muttered Jane.

"I won't allow you to say that," I answered, springing to my feet; "the man is intolerable. Jane, he must go; there is no help for it."

"He must stay, dear, and I cannot disclose all my reasons now."

I stood clasping and unclasping my hands, and staring at Jane.

"You knew beforehand, did you not, Westenra, that there would be disagreeables connected with this scheme?"

"Of course I knew it; but I never did think that the disagreeables would resolve themselves into Mr. Fanning."

"We never know beforehand where the shoe is going to pinch," remarked Jane in a sententious voice.

"Well, I have something else to say," I continued. "Mr. Fanning was not only very unpleasant to me, but he told me something which I can scarcely believe. He said that our boarding-house, which seemed to be going so well, was not going well at all. He said there was only one word to spell how it was going, and that word was RUIN. O Jane! it can't be true?"

"Let us hope not," said Jane, but she turned very white. "I will tell you one thing, Westenra," she continued. "If you don't want to have utter ruin you must go on behaving as nicely as ever you can, bearing with every one, being gentle and considerate, and trying to make every one happy. And in especial, you must bear with Mr. Fanning and with Mrs. Fanning; you must be particularly civil to them both, for if they go others will go; and whatever happens, Westenra, remember your mother is not to be worried. I know what I am saying, your mother is not to be worried. Your mother must never guess that things are not as right as they should be. When Mr. Randolph comes back everything will be right, but during his absence we will have to go through rather a tight place; and Albert Fanning is the sort of person who might take advantage of us, and what you must do, my dear girl, is to be guileful."

"Guileful!" I cried; "never."

"But you must, my love, you must be guileful and wary; you need not give him a single straw to go upon, but at the same time you must be civil. There now, that is all I can tell you for the present. Go to bed, child, for I have to do the daily accounts, and must be up at six in the morning. It's that new cook, she frets me more than I can say, she don't do things proper; and I noticed that Mrs. Fanning sniffed at her soup instead of eating it this evening, and the turbot was not as fresh as it ought to be. Go to bed, Westenra, go to bed."

I left the room. There was no use in staying any longer with Jane. She certainly had not reassured me. She seemed puzzled and anxious about the establishment; and why were not things going well? And what had Mr. Fanning to do with it; and why, why was Mr. Randolph going away?

The next morning after breakfast I went into the drawing-room for my usual task of dusting and arranging the furniture and refilling the vases with fresh flowers, when Mr. Randolph suddenly came in.

"It will be best for you and Mrs. Wickham to meet me at the Criterion to-night," he said. "As you won't give me the opportunity of offering you dinner at the Cecil, that seems the next best thing to do. I have got a box in a good part of the house, so we need not be there more than a few minutes before it commences. I shall meet you at the entrance and conduct you to your seats."

His manner showed some excitement, quite out of keeping with his ordinary demeanour, and I noticed that he scarcely glanced at me. His face was somewhat worn, too, in expression, and although he generally had himself in complete control, he now looked nearly as anxious and worried as Jane herself. He scarcely waited for my compliance with the arrangement he had proposed, but glancing at the door, spoke abruptly —

"Something unexpected and very grievous has occurred, and I am obliged to leave England by the Smyrna, which sails on Saturday week."

"Miss Mullins told me last night that you were going away," I replied. I also now avoided looking at him. I was playing with some large sprays of mimosa which had been sent in from the market. To my dying day I shall never forget how that mimosa seemed to slip about, and would not get into the best position in the vase in which I was placing it.

"Effective," he said, as he watched my movements, "but it withers quickly; it wants its native air."

"I suppose so," I answered.

"Have you ever seen it growing?"

"No; I have never been to the South."

"You have a good deal to see. I hope some day – " He broke off.

"Where are you going when you do go away?" I asked.

"To Sydney first, perhaps to Melbourne."

"It will be nice for you to leave England during our unpleasant winter weather."

"There is nothing nice about my visit," he said; "I dislike going more than I have any words to express. In particular, I am sorry to leave your mother; but before I go I want" – he dropped his voice and came a step nearer.

"What?" I asked.

"I am anxious that your mother should see a doctor – a specialist, I mean. I am not satisfied with her condition."

"But mother is really quite well," I said impulsively. "You have not known her long, Mr. Randolph; she never was really strong. She is quite as well as she ever was."

"A specialist could assure us on that point, could he not?" was his reply. "I want Dr. Reade to give me a diagnosis of her case."

"Dr. Reade," I cried.

"Yes; I should like her to see him between now and the day when I must leave England. I cannot possibly be back under from four to five months, and if my mind can be relieved of a very pressing anxiety, you would not deny me the satisfaction, would you?"

"But why should your mind be anxious?" I asked boldly. I looked full into his face as I spoke, and then I met a look which caused me to turn faint, and yet to feel happy, as I had never felt happy before. I lowered my eyes and looked out of the window. He gave a quick sigh, and then said suddenly —

"How like your father you are."

"My father? But you never knew him."

"I never knew him, but I have often looked at his picture. Can you tell me how he won his V.C.?"

"Saving a comrade, bringing one of his brother officers out of the thick of the fight; he received his own fatal wound in doing so. He did not survive the action two months."

"A fine fellow! A splendid action," said Mr. Randolph, enthusiasm in his voice. "You will think over what I have said, and I will not keep you now. We shall meet at the Criterion this evening. Good-bye for the present."

CHAPTER XV
DR. READE

I cannot recall anything about the play. I only know that we had excellent seats and a good view of the house, and that mother seemed to enjoy everything. As to Mr. Randolph, I doubt if he did enjoy that play. He was too much a man of the world to show any of his emotions, but I saw by a certain pallor round his mouth, and a rather dragged look about his eyes, that he was suffering, and I could not imagine why. I had always in my own mind made up a sort of story about Jim Randolph. He was one of the fortunate people of the earth; the good things of the world had fallen abundantly to his share. He was nice to look at and pleasant to talk to, and of course he had plenty of money. He could do what he pleased with his life. I had never associated him with sorrow or trial of any sort, and to see that look now in his eyes and round the corners of his somewhat sensitive and yet beautifully-cut mouth, gave me a new sensation with regard to him. The interest I felt in him immediately became accelerated tenfold. I found myself thinking of him instead of the play. I found myself anxious to watch his face. I even found, when once our eyes met (his grave and dark, mine, I daresay, bold enough and determined enough), that my heart beat fast, and the colour flew into my face; then, strange to say, the colour came into his face, dying his swarthy cheek just for a moment, but leaving it the next paler than ever. He came a little nearer to me, however, and bending forward so that mother should not hear, said in a semi-whisper —

"You have thought about what I said this morning?"

"I have thought it over a good deal," I replied.

"You think it can be managed?"

"Dr. Anderson, mother's family physician, would do what you require, Mr. Randolph."

"That is a good idea," he said. "Anderson can arrange a consultation. I will see him to-morrow, and suggest it."

I did not say any more, for just then mother turned and said something to Mr. Randolph, and Mr. Randolph bent forward and talked to mother in that worshipping son-like way with which he generally addressed her. If mother had ever been blessed with a son, he could not have been more attentive nor sweeter than Jim Randolph was, and I found myself liking him more than ever, just because he was so good to mother, and my heart ached at the prospect of his enforced and long absence. So much did this thought worry me, that I could not help saying to him as we were leaving the theatre —

"I am very sorry that you are going."

"Is that true?" he said. His face lit up, his eyes sparkled; all the tired expression left his eyes and mouth.

"Are you saying what you mean?" he asked.

"I am most truly sorry. You have become indispensable to mother; she will miss you sorely."

"And you – will you miss me?"

I tried to say "For mother's sake I will," but I did not utter the words. Mr. Randolph gave me a quick glance.

"I have not told your mother yet that I am going," he said.

"I wondered if you had," I replied. "I thought of telling her myself to-day."

"Do not say anything until nearer the time," was his somewhat guarded response. "Ah! here comes the carriage."

"So you did order the carriage after all," I said, seeing that the same neat brougham which he had used on the last occasion stopped the way.

"You never forbade me to see you both home in the carriage," he said with a laugh. "Now then, Mrs. Wickham."

Mother had been standing a little back out of the crowd. He went to her, gave her his arm, and she stepped into the carriage, just as if it belonged to her. Mother had always that way with Mr. Randolph's possessions, and sometimes her manner towards him almost annoyed me. What could it mean. Did she know something about him which I had never heard of nor guessed?

The next day about noon Mr. Randolph entered Jane's sitting-room, where I often spent the mornings.

"I have just come from Anderson's," he said. "He will make an appointment with Dr. Reade to see your mother to-morrow."

"But on what plea?" I asked. "Mother is somewhat nervous. I am sure it would not be at all good for her to think that her indisposition was so great that two doctors must see her."

"Anderson will arrange that," replied Mr. Randolph. "He has told your mother once or twice lately that he thinks her very weak, and would like her to try a new system of diet. Now Reade is a great specialist for diseases of the digestion. Both doctors will guard against any possible shock to your mother."

"Well," I said somewhat petulantly, "I cannot imagine why you are nervous about her. She is quite as well as she ever was."

He looked at me as if he meant to say something more, and I felt certain that he strangled a sigh which never came to the surface. The next moment he left the room, I looked round me in a state of bewilderment.

In Jane's room was a bookcase, and the bookcase contained a heterogeneous mass of books of all sorts. Amongst others was a medical directory. I took it up now, and scarcely knowing why I did so, turned to the name of Reade. Dr. Reade's name was entered in the following way: —

"Reade, Henry, M.D., F.R.C.P., consulting physician to the Brompton Hospital for Consumption, London, and to the Royal Hospital for Diseases of the Chest, Ventnor."

I read these qualifications over slowly, and put the book back in its place. There was nothing whatever said of Dr. Reade's qualifications for treating that vast field of indigestion to which so many sufferers were victims. I resolved to say something to Jane.

"What is it?" said Jane, as she came into the room. "What is fretting you now?"

"Oh, nothing," I answered. "Dr. Reade must be a very clever physician."

"First-class, of course. I am so pleased your mother is going to see him."

"But I thought mother was suffering very much from weakness and want of appetite."

"So she is, poor dear, and I am inventing quite a new sort of soup, which is partly digested beforehand, that I think she will fancy."

"But I have been looking up Dr. Reade's name. He seems to be a great doctor for consumption and other diseases of the chest. There is no allusion to his extraordinary powers of treating people for indigestion."

"Well, my dear, consumptives suffer more than most folks from indigestion. Now, don't you worry your head; never meet troubles half-way. I am extremely pleased that your mother is to see Dr. Reade."

On the following morning mother herself told me that Dr. Reade was coming.

"It is most unnecessary," she said, "and I told Dr. Anderson so. I was only telling him yesterday that I thought his own visits need not be quite so frequent. He is such a dear, kind man, that I do not like to hurt his feelings; but really, Westenra, he charges me so little that it quite goes to my heart. And now we have not our old income, this very expensive consulting physician is not required. I told Dr. Anderson so, but he has made up his mind. He says there is no use in working in the dark, and that he believes I should be much stronger if I ate more."

Dr. Reade called in the course of the morning, and Dr. Anderson came with him. They stayed in mother's room for some little time, and then they both went out, and Jane Mullins had an interview with them first, and then she sent for me.

"Dr. Anderson wants to speak to you, Westenra," she said. She rushed past me as she spoke, and I could not catch sight of her face, so I went into her little sitting-room, where both the doctors were waiting for me, and closed the door behind me. I was not at all anxious. I quite believed that mother's ailment was simply want of appetite and weakness, and I had never heard of any one dying just from those causes.

"Let me introduce you to Dr. Reade," said Dr. Anderson.

I looked then towards the great consulting physician. He was standing with his back to the light – he was a little man, younger looking than Dr. Anderson. His hair was only beginning to turn grey, and was falling away a trifle from his temples, and he was very upright, and very thin, and had keen eyes, the keenest eyes I had ever looked at, small, grey and bright, and those eyes seemed to look through you, as though they were forcing a gimlet into the very secrets of your soul. His face was so peculiar, so intellectual, so sharp and keen, and his glance so vivid, that I became absorbed in looking at it, and forgot for the moment Dr. Anderson. Then I glanced round and found that he had vanished, and I was alone with Dr. Reade.

"Won't you sit down, Miss Wickham?" he said kindly.

I seated myself, and then seeing that his eyes were still on me, my heart began to beat a little more quickly, and I began to feel uncomfortable and anxious, and then I knew that I must brace myself up to listen to something which would be hard to bear.

"I was called in to-day," said Dr. Reade, "to see your mother. I have examined her carefully – Dr. Anderson thinks that it may be best for you Miss Wickham – you seem to be a very brave sort of girl – to know the truth."

"Yes, I should like to know the truth," I answered.

I found these words coming out of my lips slowly, and I found I had difficulty in saying them, and my eyes seemed not to see quite so clearly as usual; and Dr. Reade's keen face seemed to vanish as if behind a mist, but then the mist cleared off, and I remembered that I was father's daughter and that it behoved me to act gallantly if occasion should require, so I got up and went towards the little doctor, and said in a quiet voice —

"You need not mind breaking it to me; I see by your face that you have bad news, but I assure you I am not going to cry nor be hysterical. Please tell me the truth quickly."

"I knew you were a brave girl," he said with admiration, "and I have bad news, your mother's case is – "

"What?" I asked.

"A matter of time," he replied gravely; "she may live for a few months or a year – a year is the outside limit."

"A few months or a year," I said. I repeated the words vaguely; and then I turned my eyes towards the window and looked past it and out into the Square. I saw a carriage drawn by a spirited pair of bays, it passed within sight of the window, and I noticed a girl seated by herself in the carriage. She had on a fashionable hat, and her hair was arranged in a very pretty way, and she had laughing eyes. I was attracted by her appearance, and I even said to myself in an uncertain sort of fashion, "I believe I could copy that hat," but then I turned away from the window and faced the doctor.

"You are very brave," he repeated; "I did not think any girl would be quite so brave."

"My father was a brave man," I said then; "he won his Victoria Cross."

"Ah," replied Dr. Reade, "women often do just as brave actions. Their battles are silent, but none the less magnificent for that."

"I always meant to get the Victoria Cross if I could," was my reply.

"Well," he answered cheerfully, "I know now how to deal with things; I am very glad that you are that sort. You know that Jim Randolph is a friend of mine."

It was on the tip of my tongue to say, Who is Jim Randolph? why should he be a friend of everybody worth knowing? but I did not ask the question. I put it aside and said gravely —

"The person I want to talk about is mother. In the first place, what is the matter with her?"

"A very acute form of heart disease. The aortic valve is affected. She may not, and probably will not, suffer much; but at any moment, Miss Wickham, at any moment, any shock may" – he raised his hand emphatically.

"You mean that any shock may kill her?"

"That is what I mean."

"Then she ought to be kept without anxiety?"

"That is precisely what I intend."

"And if this is done how long will her most precious life be prolonged?"

"As I have just said, a year is about the limit."

"One year," I answered. "Does she know?"

"No, she has not the slightest idea, nor do I want her to be told. She is ready – would to God we were all as ready – why distress her unnecessarily? She would be anxious about you if she thought she was leaving you. It must be your province to give her no anxiety, to guard her. That is an excellent woman, Miss Mullins, she will assist you in every way. I am truly sorry that Jim Randolph has to leave England. However, there is not the slightest doubt that he will hurry home, and when he does come back, will be time sufficient to let your mother know the truth."

I did not answer. Dr. Reade looked at his watch.

"I must be off," he said. "I can only spare one more moment. I have made certain suggestions to my old friend Anderson, and he will propose certain arrangements which may add to your mother's comfort. I do not want her to go up and down stairs much, but at the same time she must be entertained and kept cheerful. Be assured of one thing, that in no case will she suffer. Now, I have told you all. If you should be perplexed or in any difficulty come to me at once. Come to me as your friend, and remember I am a very special friend of Jim Randolph's. Now, good-bye."

He left the room.

I sat after he had gone for a moment without stirring; I was not suffering exactly. We do not suffer most when the heavy blows fall, it is afterwards that the terrible agony of pain comes on. Of course I believed Dr. Reade – who could doubt him who looked into his face? I guessed him to be what he was, one of the strongest, most faithful, bravest men who ever lived – a man whose whole life was given up to the alleviation of the suffering of others. He was always warding off death, or doing all that man could do to ward it off, and in many many cases death was afraid of him, and retired from his prey, vanquished by that knowledge, that genius, that sympathy, that love for humanity, which overflowed the little doctor's personality.

Just then a hand touched me, and I turned and saw Jim Randolph.

"You know?" he said.

I nodded. Mr. Randolph looked at me very gravely.

"My suspicions have been confirmed," he said; "I always guessed that your mother's state of health was most precarious. I can scarcely explain to you the intense pain I feel in leaving her now. A girl like you ought to have some man at hand to help her, but I must go, there is no help for it. It is a terrible trial to me. I know, Miss Wickham, that you will guard your mother from all sorrows and anxieties, and so cheer her passage from this world to the next. Her death may come suddenly or gradually, there is just a possibility that she may know when she is dying, and at such a time, to know also that you are unprovided for, will give her great and terrible anxiety." Here he looked at me as if he were anxious to say more, but he restrained himself. "I cannot remove her anxiety, I must trust for the very best, and you must wait and – and trust me. I will come back as soon as ever I can."

"But why do you go away?" I asked, "you have been kind – more than kind – to her. O Mr. Randolph! do you think I have made a mistake, a great mistake, in coming here?"

"No," he said emphatically, "do not let that thought ever worry you, you have done a singularly brave thing, you can little guess what I – but there, I said I would not speak, not yet." He shut his lips, and I noticed that drawn look round his eyes and mouth.

"I must go and return as fast as I can," he said abruptly. "I set myself a task, and I must carry it through to the bitter end. Only unexpected calamity drives me from England just now."

"You are keeping a secret from me," I said.

"I am," he replied.

"Won't you tell me – is it fair to keep me in the dark?"

"It is perfectly fair."

"Does Jane know?"

"Certainly."

"And she won't tell?"

"No, she won't tell."

"Does mother know?"

"Yes, and no. She knows something but not all, by no means all."

"It puzzles me more than I can describe," I continued. "Why do you live in a place like this, why are you so interested in mother and in me? Then, too, you are a special friend of the Duchess of Wilmot's, who is also one of our oldest friends. You do not belong to the set of people who live in boarding-houses. I wish, I do wish, you would be open. It is unfair on me to keep me in the dark."

"I will tell you when I return," he said, and his face was very white. "Trust me until I return."