by L. T. Meade
CHAPTER XXIX
HAVE I LOST YOU?
I told her everything, not then, but on the evening of the same day.She came into my room where I was lying on a sofa, for I wasthoroughly prostrated with grief for my mother and--and other greattroubles, and she held my hand and I told her. I described Jane'sanxiety in the boarding-house, the debts creeping up and up, theaspect of affairs getting more and more serious; I told her about Mrs.Fanning and Albert, and the chocolate-coloured brougham, and the driveto Highgate, and the rooms all furnished according to Albert's taste,and the garden, and the proposal he made to me there, and my horror.And then I told her about mother's gradual fading and the certaintythat she would not live long, and the doctor's verdict, and the onecaution impressed and impressed upon me--that she was to have no shockof any sort, that everything was to be made smooth and right for her.
I described, further, Jane Mullins' agitation, her despair, herdifficulty in going on at all, the dreadful news which had reached uswith regard to Jim, the almost certainty that he was drowned.
Then I told her of the awful day when I went to try and borrow athousand pounds from the Duchess, and how I could not see the Duchess,for she was too ill to see any one, all on account of Jim's supposeddeath; and then I told her what I found when I came back--the awfulgreasy little man in the dining-room--the man in possession. Idescribed his attitude that day at dinner, and the surprise andastonishment of the boarders; and then I explained how he had gone andwhy he had gone, and I told her of my visit to Albert Fanning inPaternoster Row, and what Albert Fanning had said, and how kind he wasto me; and, notwithstanding his want of polish, how really chivalroushe was in his own way, and how really he loved me and wanted to helpme. I made the very best of him, and I went on still further, and toldher of the man who had burst into mother's presence in thedrawing-room, and rudely demanded payment for his debt, and then how Ihad yielded, and told Albert Fanning that I would marry him, and how,after that, everything was smooth, and all the worries about money haddisappeared as if by magic.
"I gave him my bond," I said at the conclusion. "I said that I wouldmarry him at the end of a year, and he was satisfied, quite satisfied,and he paid up everything, and mother went to her grave happy. She wassure that all was well with me, and indeed I gave her to understandthat all was very well, and she died; and never guessed that 17 GrahamSquare was an absolute, absolute failure--a castle in the clouds,which was tumbling about our heads."
I paused at the end of my story. Jasmine had tears in her eyes; theywere rolling down her cheeks.
"Why didn't you come to me, Westenra?" she said; "my husband is veryrich, and we would have lent you the money. Oh! to think that athousand pounds could have saved you!"
"I did not think of you," I replied. "You must acknowledge, Jasmine,that you were cold and indifferent, and did not help me with a cheeryword, nor with much of your presence, during my time in theboarding-house; and when the Duchess failed me, troubles came on toothick and fast to wait for any chance help from outside. I just tookthe help that was near, and in my way was grateful."
"I see," said Jasmine; "it is a most piteous--most terrible story."
"Do not say that," I answered. "Help me to bear it; don't pity me toomuch. Help me to see the best, all the best in those two good peoplewith whom I am in future to live. Albert Fanning is not polished, heis not a gentleman outwardly, but he has--O Jasmine! he has in his ownway a gentleman's heart, and his mother is a dear old soul, and evenfor Jim I would not break my bond, no, not for fifty Jim Randolphs;but I love Jim--oh, I love him with all my heart and soul."
I did not cry as I said the words; I was quite past tears thatevening, and Jasmine continued to sit near me and to talk in softtones, and after a time she relapsed into silence, a sort ofdespairing silence, and I lay with my eyes closed, for I could notlook at her, and presently I dropped asleep.
At an early hour the next day I wrote to the Fannings to tell themthat I would go with them to Switzerland. I went and saw Jasmine afterI had written the note.
"I am going with the Fannings to Switzerland on the 4th of August," Isaid; "will this interfere with your plans? I mean, may I stay on hereuntil they start?"
"Oh yes, you can stay on here, Westenra," she replied. She looked atme fixedly. I thought she would say something to dissuade me, but shedid not. She opened her lips once, but no words came. She simplysaid--
"Is that the letter?"
"Yes."
"I am going out," she said then; "I will post it for you."
"Thank you," I answered. I went back to the drawing-room. I heardJasmine go downstairs and out, and then I sat quiet. Everythingseemed to have come to a sort of end; I could not see my way anyfurther. In a fortnight's time I should have truly stepped down out ofsight of those who were my friends. I should have left them for everand ever. It would be a final stepping down for me. Nevertheless, thefaintest thought of being unfaithful to the promise I had made, I amglad to think now, never for a single moment occurred to me.
Jasmine returned to lunch, and after lunch we went to thedrawing-room, and she asked me if I would like to drive with her. Isaid--
"Yes, but not in the Park." Perhaps she guessed what I meant.
"Jim has come back," she remarked; "I had a line from him, and hewants to see you this evening."
"Oh, I cannot see him," I answered.
"I think you must. You ought to tell him yourself; it is only fair tohim. Tell him just what you told me; he ought to know, and it willpain him less to hear it from your lips."
I thought for a moment.
"What hour is he coming?" I asked then.
"He will look in after dinner about nine o'clock. I am going to areception with Henry; you will have the drawing-room to yourselves."
I did not reply. She looked at me, then she said--
"I have written already to tell him that he can come. It isabsolutely necessary, Westenra, that you should go through this; itwill be, I know, most painful to you both, but it is only just tohim."
Still I did not answer. After a time she said--
"I do not wish to dissuade you; indeed, I cannot myself see how youcan get out of this most mistaken engagement, for the man has behavedwell, and I am the first to acknowledge that; but has it ever occurredto you that you do a man an absolute and terrible injustice when youmarry him, loving with all your heart and soul another man? Do youthink it is fair to him? Don't you think he ought at least to knowthis?"
"I am sure Albert Fanning ought not to know it," I replied, "and Iearnestly hope no one will ever tell him. By the time I marry him Ishall have"--my lips trembled, I said the words with an effort--"Ishall have got over this, at least to a great extent; and oh! he mustnot know. Yes, I will see Jim to-night, for I agree with you that itis necessary that I should tell him myself, but not again," Icontinued; "you won't ask me to see him again after to-night?"
"You had much better not," she replied; she looked at me very gravely,and then she went away. Poor Jasmine, she was too restless to staymuch with me. She was, I could see, terribly hurt, but she had notbeen gone an hour before the Duchess came bustling in. She was verymotherly and very good, and she reminded me of my own dear mother.She sat near me, and began to talk. She had heard the whole story. Shewas terribly shocked, she could not make it out. She could not bringherself to realise that her god-daughter was going to marry a man likeAlbert Fanning.
"You ought never to have done it, West, never, never," she keptrepeating.
At last I interrupted her.
"There is another side to this question," I said; "you think I didsomething mean and shabby when I promised to marry a man like AlbertFanning. You think I have done something unworthy of yourgod-daughter, but don't you really, really believe that you would havea much poorer, more contemptible, more worthless sort of god-daughterif she were now to break her bond to the man who saved her mother atconsiderable expense--the man who was so good, so kind, so faithful?Would you really counsel me to break my bo
nd?"
"No, I would not," said the Duchess, "but I would do one thing, Iwould up and tell that man the truth. I would put the thing before himand let him decide. Upon my word, that's a very good idea. That's whatI would do, Westenra."
"I will not tell him," I replied. "I have promised to marry him on the1st of June next year. He knows well that I do not love him, but Iwill keep my bond."
"That is all very fine," said the Duchess. "You may have told him thatyou do not love him, but you have not told him that you love anotherman."
"I have certainly not told him that."
"Then you are unfair to him, and also unfair to James Randolph. Youthink nothing at all of breaking his heart."
"He was away when he might have helped me," I replied. "That was, Iknow, through no fault of his, but I cannot say any more except that Iwill not break my bond."
The Duchess went away, and in the evening Jim arrived. He came in withthat very quiet manner which he always wore, that absoluteself-possession which I do not think under any circumstances woulddesert him, but I read the anxiety in his grey eyes, the quizzical,half-laughing glance was gone altogether, the eyes were very grave andalmost stern.
"Now," he said, "I have come to say very plain words. I want to knowwhy you will not marry me."
"Have you not heard?" I asked.
"I have heard nothing," he answered. "I have been given no reason; youjust told me you could not marry me the other night, and you were soupset and shaken that I did not press the matter any further. Youknow, of course, that I can give you everything now that the heart ofgirl could desire."
"Do not talk of those things," I said. "I would marry you if you hadonly a hundred a year; I would marry you if you had nothing a year,provided we could earn our living together. O Jim! I love you so much,I love you so much, so much."
I covered my face with my hands, a deep, dry sob came from my throat.
"Then if that is so," he answered, half bending towards me and yetrestraining himself, "why will you not marry me?"
"I cannot, because--because----"
"Take your own time," he said then; "don't speak in a hurry. If youlove me as you say you love me, and if you know that I love you, andif you know also, which I think you do, that your mother wished it,and all your friends wish it, why should not we two spend our livestogether, shoulder to shoulder, dear, in the thick of the fight, allour lives close together until death does us part? And even death doesnot really part those who love, Westenra, so we shall in reality neverbe parted if we do so sincerely love. Why should not these things be?"
"Because I am bound to another man," I said then.
He started away, a stern look came into his face.
"Say that again," was his answer, after a full minute of dead silence.
"I am engaged to another," I said faintly.
"And yet you have dared to say that you love me?"
"It is true."
"In that case you do not love the man to whom you have given yourpromise?"
"I do not."
"But what does this mean? This puzzles me."
He put up his hand to his forehead as if to push away a weight. He wasstanding up, and the pallor of his face frightened me.
"I do not understand," he said. "I had put you on a pedestal--are yougoing to prove yourself common clay after all? but it is impossible.Who is the other man?"
Then I told him.
He uttered a sharp exclamation, then turned on his heel and walkedaway to the window. He stood there looking out, and I looked at him ashis figure was silhouetted against the sky.
After a time he turned sharply round and came back to me and sat down.He did not sit close to me as he had done before, but he spokequietly, as if he were trying to keep himself in control.
"This is very sudden and terrible," he said; "very inexplicable too. Isuppose you will explain?"
"I will," I said. "I knew you were coming to-night; I was cowardlyenough to wish that you would not come, but I will explain."
"You are engaged to the man I used to see you talking to at 17 GrahamSquare?"
"Yes," I said; "do not speak against him."
"I would not be so cruel," he answered. "If you have promisedyourself to him, he must merit some respect; tell me the story."
So I told Jim just the same story I had told Jasmine that morning. Idid not use quite the same words, for he did not take it so calmly. Ihad never seen his self-possession shaken before. As my story drew toan end he had quite a bowed look, almost like an old man; then he saidslowly--
"It was my fault; I should not have gone away. To think that you weresubjected to this, and that there was no escape."
"There was no escape," I said. "Could I have done otherwise?"
"God knows, child, I cannot say."
"I could not," I replied slowly. "If you had been me you would haveacted as I have done; there are times when one must forget one'sself."
"There are, truly," he said.
"Then you are not dreadfully angry with me, Jim?"
"Angry?" he said slowly; "angry? You have not given me the worst painof all, you have not stepped down from your pedestal, you are stillthe one woman for me. But oh! Westenra, have I lost you? Have I lostyou?"
He bowed his head in his hands.