A Plucky Girl

by L. T. Meade

  CHAPTER XIX

  YOU USED TO LOVE US

  Mother was very ill for the next few days, and I was so much occupiedwith 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 forcedmyself to go to meals, I could only think of her dear face. Was shegoing to be taken away from me before the year was up? Oh, surely Godwould at least leave me my one treasure for that short time. In thosedays I used to go away by myself and struggle to pray to God, but myheart was heavy, and I wondered if He heard my restless and brokenwords. I used to creep out sometimes and go into a church alone, andtry to picture what my future would be when mother was gone; but Icould not picture it. It always rose before me as a great blank, and Icould not see anything distinctly. It seemed to me that I could seeeverything when mother was present, and nothing without her. And thenI would go back again to her room and rouse myself to be cheerful, andto talk in a pleasant tone. I was doing the utmost that duty requiredof me just then. I determined that nothing would induce me to lookfurther afield. Life without mother I did not dare to contemplate. Butthere were moments when the thought of one person came to my heartwith a thrill of strength and comfort. I missed Jim Randolph, andlonged for him to come back.

  As the winter passed away and the spring approached, I began to hopefor his return. I began to feel that when once he was back thingswould be right, anxiety would be removed from Jane's face, the strainwould be removed. Mother would have her friend near her, and I alsoshould not be friendless when my time of terrible trouble came, for ofcourse mother was dying. The doctor was right. It was a questionperhaps of days, of months at most, but if Mr. Randolph came back Ithought 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, andto ask her questions, for it seemed to me that she knew him a greatdeal better than I did.

  "There always seems to be a mystery surrounding him," I said on oneoccasion. "You know much more than I do. I like him, of course, and Iam sure you like him, mother."

  "Except your dear father, West," replied mother, "he is the bestfellow I ever met, and he will come back again, dearest. I shall bevery 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 springthat year happened to be a mild and gracious one, without much eastwind, and with many soft westerly breezes, and the trees in the Squaregarden put on their delicate fragile green clothing, and hope cameback 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 twoother little things. I went off to fulfil my messages with my heartcomparatively light.

  I went to Dickins & Jones', and was turning over some delicate lacesat the lace counter when a hand was laid on my shoulder. I turned witha start to encounter the kind old face of the Duchess of Wilmot.

  "My dear Westenra," she said, "this is lucky. How are you? I haveheard nothing of you for a long time."

  Now, I had always loved the Duchess, not at all because she was aduchess, but because she was a woman with a very womanly heart and avery sweet way, and my whole heart went out to her now--to hergracious appearance, to her gentle, refined tone of voice, to the lookin her eyes. I felt that I belonged to her set, and her set weredelightful to me just then.

  "Where are you going," inquired the Duchess, "after you have made yourpurchases?"

  "Home again," I answered.

  "My carriage is at the door; you shall come with me. You shall comeand have tea with me."

  "I have not time," I said. "Mother is not well, and I must hurry backto her."

  "Your mother not well! Mary Wickham not well! I have heard nothing formonths. I have written two or three times, but my letters have notbeen replied to. It is impossible to keep up a friendship of thissort, all on one side, Westenra. And you don't look as well as youdid, and oh! my dear child, is that your spring hat?"

  "It is; it will do very well," I answered. I spoke almost brusquely; Ifelt hurt at her remarking it.

  "But it is not fresh. It is not the sort of hat I should like mygod-daughter to wear. They have some pretty things here. I must getyou a suitable hat."

  "No, no," I said with passion. "It cannot be."

  "You are so ridiculously proud and so ridiculously socialistic in allyour ideas. But if you were a true Socialist you would take a presentfrom 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 youlooking as you do. You want a new hat and jacket; may I get them foryou?"

  At first I felt that I must refuse, but then I reflected that it wouldplease mother to see me in the hat and jacket which the Duchess wouldpurchase. I knew that the buying of such things were a mere bagatelleto her, and the little pleasure which the new smart things would givemother were not a bagatelle. My own feelings must be crushed out ofsight. I said humbly, "Just as you like." So the Duchess hurried meinto 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 onboth hat and jacket immediately, and gave the address of 17 GrahamSquare 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 oldhat to the housemaid. Don't put it on again. I mean to drive you homenow, 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 muchnow, 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. Whendid 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 arehaving. 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 youheard?"

  "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 wasashamed of myself for blushing.

  The Duchess looked at me attentively, and I saw a pleased expressionin her eyes. That look made me still more uncomfortable. She benttowards 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, butwhat little I have seen of him I like. He is courteous, and he thinksof others; he is very unselfish; he has much sympathy and tact, too. Ithink 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 uswe will all rejoice."

  "I do not understand you," I answered coldly. "It is impossible for meever 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 youhad come to see mother sometimes--mother, who is just as much a ladyas she ever was, who is sweeter and more beautiful than she everwas--you might have done us a great service, and I could have lovedyou, oh! so dearly; but you have forsaken us, because we
are no longerin your set. Duchess, I must speak the truth. I hate sets; I hatedistinctions of rank. You used to love us; I did think your love wasgenuine. We lived in a nice house in Mayfair, and you were our greatand kind friend. Now you do not love us, because--because we arepoor."

  "You are mistaken, Westenra. I love you still, and I have neverforgotten you. I will not come in now, but I will come and see yourmother to-morrow."

  "That will please her," I answered, drying away the tears which hadrisen to my eyes. "But please do not disappoint her. I will tell herof your visit. Do not keep her waiting. She is weak; she has been veryill. At what hour will you come?"

  "About twelve o'clock. But she must be very bad indeed from the wayyou 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. Whenyou see mother to-morrow perhaps you will know without my speaking. Donot say anything to agitate her."

  "My poor, poor child. Westenra, you ought never to have left us. Youdo not look well; but never mind, spring is coming, and Jim Randolphwill be home before May."