A Plucky Girl

by L. T. Meade

  CHAPTER XXIV

  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 tooacutely. When I got in, it was lunch time. I went into the dining-roomwithout taking off my hat. Jane Mullins was there, as usual she was atthe foot of the table, she was busy carving, and she was chatting toMrs. Armstrong, and Mrs. Armstrong was looking somewhat mysterious,and when she saw me she gave me a kindly nod, but I perceived thecuriosity in her eyes and turned my face away.

  Marion Armstrong was seldom in to lunch, she was at her School of Artdoing those drawings by which she hoped to win the hand of AlbertFanning. 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 mineand 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 inkeeping my composure than I had during that awful meal, but I did eata cutlet when it was put on my plate, and I did manage to talk to myneighbour, a new boarder who had come up from the country, and did notknow her way about anywhere. She was an excitable middle-aged lady ofbetween forty and fifty, and she asked questions which I was able toanswer, and helped me more than she knew to get through that terriblemeal.

  At last it was over and I went up to mother's room. To my greatastonishment it was empty. Where was mother? Was she better? Whatcould have happened? With a mingling of alarm and anticipation I raninto the drawing-room. She was there in her old accustomed seat by thewindow. She looked very much as usual. When she saw me she called meover to her.

  "Are you surprised, West?" she said.

  "I am greatly surprised," I answered; "are you better, Mummy?" I bentover her, calling her by the old childish, very childish name. Shelaid 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, morebeautiful than I had ever seen it. I sat down near her.

  "You don't know how nice Nurse Marion has been," she said. "When shefound I really wished to get up, she did not oppose me, and shedressed me so carefully, and I am not the least bit tired. I longed tocome 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 youhere 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 alwayslike 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 softeyes were fixed on my face. She raised her hand now and then as if tobeat time to the rhythm of the poetry. At last I reached the finalverses.

  "Say them slowly, West," whispered mother; "I know them so well, andthey have comforted me so often. Say them very slowly, in particularthat 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 nearlyfailed me towards the end, "that is just how I am. I sit by the openwindow, I look out and beyond, I see no trouble anywhere. The peaceis wonderful, wonderful. It is all my Father's doing, my heavenlyFather's doing. I am so strangely happy that I cannot quite understandmyself. 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, Icannot explain what happened. He came to my room. He looked at me withyour eyes, my darling, only older and more grave; eyes with the weightof the knowledge of life in them, and the understanding of the Lifebeyond in them. He looked at me, and there was both joy and sorrow inhis eyes, and the joy seemed greater than the sorrow. He even took myhand in his, and I fancied I heard him say something about our goingaway together, but I am not quite sure on that point. I only know thathe was with me, and that now I feel no pain. Nothing can trouble meagain. Even dying cannot trouble me. West, my child, what are youcrying for?"

  "Oh, I am not crying at all, mother, only, somehow, there is a pathosin 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. "Iam the happiest woman in the world, I have had a happy life, such ahusband, 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. Theyhad put on their spring green, and most lovely was the mantle theywore. The dust of London had not yet had time to spoil them. Thefreshness of their appearance on that May morning was as vivid, asperfect, as though those trees lived themselves in the heart of thecountry; they seemed to be a little bit of God in the middle of thattown Square. I kept watching them, and glancing from time to time atmother, but all through there was in my mind another thought, thethought of Mr. Fanning and what he wanted me to do. After all, if theend of life was so full of bliss, what mattered any cross on thejourney. I felt ready for sacrifice. I rose very slowly, and softlyleft the drawing-room.

  By a sort of common consent, the boarders had all gone out on thisexquisite early summer's afternoon, and mother and I had the room toourselves. Even Mrs. Fanning had gone out. I crossed the landing, andwent into mother's bedroom. Nurse Marion was there. I shut the doorbehind me.

  "How long will mother live?" I said abruptly. I was in the humour notto walk round anything that day; I wanted to hear the truth, thewhole 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 nothingharms 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 fromany thing of that sort, even a very little agitation would be bad forher; but I never saw a calmer, sweeter lady. She does not know she isdying, 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, butI 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 notthink she feels real fear now. You will forgive me for speaking sofrankly, but I can tell, miss, for I have seen much sorrow myself,that you are perplexed and puzzled and miserable just now, but Iassure you you need not be sorry on your mother's account. She livesin 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 abeautiful country, but I am too young to understand about it."

  "We are none of us too young to understand about that," replied thenurse. "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 mostprecious thing in all the world; we must keep her as long as we evercan. 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 colouredsilks into my embroidery.

  "How lovely the day is!" said mother. She made little remarks of thissort from time to time, but she did not do what was her invariablehabit, and the fact of her omitting to do this caused me somesurprise. As a rule, whenever she looked at any one, she generallyended by glancing at father's picture, but to-day she did not oncelook 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 notcare to look at it to-day. I see his own face wherever I turn, that ismuch more lifelike, and more interesting, and has more variedexpressions 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 areill?"

  "Oh no, darling, just a little weak, but that soon passes. There isnothing to be alarmed about, Westenra. The fact of a person beingthoroughly 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 alsoof your dear father. If I have a wish in the world," continued motherthen slowly, and she looked at me as she spoke, "it is to see JamesRandolph. I cannot imagine why he does not write. He has been verygood to me, and I like him much. He is a dear fellow, full of courtesyand chivalry; he has a gentle, tender, brave heart; he would make thegirl he loves happy, very happy. I should like to see him again, andto thank him."

  I did not dare to tell mother what we all now firmly believed withregard to Mr. Randolph. I tried to thread my needle, but there was amist 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--thesteps of one were heavy, there was an altercation in the landing, avoice pleaded with another voice, and the strange voice got loud andangry.

  I half rose from my seat, and then sat down again.

  "What is the matter?" asked mother; "you look very white, Westenra. Isthere 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 ourboarders out--it is impossible, my darling."

  She had scarcely said the words before the door burst open, and a manwith red hair and red whiskers, in a loud check suit, entered.

  "Ah," he said, "I thought as much; I thought I'd get to headquartersif I came here. Now, is this lady Mrs. Wickham, and is this younglady 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. Ithad turned white, the blue look came round her lips, there was astartled 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. Goto 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 intothe next room."

  He followed me, muttering and grumbling.

  "Why shouldn't I see Mrs. Wickham--she is at the head of thisestablishment? 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 amnot 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 meoff with. Miss Mullins seems to be a sort of frost, but I wasdetermined 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. Howmuch is owed to you?"

  "Eighty-nine pounds, and I tell you what it is, Miss Wickham. It's ashame when a man works hard from early morning to late at night, ablack shame that he should not be paid what is due to him. I'd like toknow what right you have to take my tea and my coffee, and to eat mypreserved fruits, and to make your table comfortable with mygroceries, when you never pay me one farthing."

  "It is not right," I answered; "it is wrong, and you shall be paid infull." 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 thattime 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 ofPattens, and it shall answer well in my case. So now you have had mylast word."

  He left the room noisily and went downstairs. I waited until I heardthe hall-door slam behind him, and then I went back to mother. She wasleaning back in her chair; her eyes were closed. I bent over her andkissed 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 assoon as he wished," I said; "but that is nothing. He shall have acheque immediately."

  "But I do hope, dear Miss Mullins," said mother, turning to her andlooking at her fixedly, "that you pay the tradespeople weekly. It isso much the best plan."

  "Quite so," she answered.

  "This house is doing splendidly, is it not?" said mother. "We shallmake 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 althoughher cheeks were a little too bright in colour, I hoped no gravemischief was done.

  I ran downstairs. It was nearly four o'clock. I determined to wait inthe hall or in the dining-room, in case any more of those awfulmen--wolves, Albert Fanning had called them--should arrive. Mothermust not be troubled: mother must not run such an awful risk again.Just then I heard steps approaching, and there was the sound of alatch-key in the hall door. Most of our guests had latch-keys. I donot know what I noticed in that sound, but I knew who was there. Ientered the hall. Mr. Fanning had come in. He did not expect to seeme, 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 onethere, and I ran up to him.

  "Come into the dining-room," I said. "I must speak to you," and Icaught his h
and. His great hand closed round mine, and we went intothe dining-room, and I shut the door.

  "One of them came," I said, "and--and nearly killed mother, and Ipromised that he--that he should be paid. His name is Allthorp. He hasnearly killed mother, and he nearly killed me, and--and will you payhim, and will you pay the others?"

  "Do you mean it?" said Albert Fanning. "Do you mean it? Are you askingme 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 myforehead.