CHAPTER XXV
YOU ARE A GOOD MAN
Within a week every debt was paid absolutely and in full. Even thelandlord was abundantly satisfied. Jane Mullins lost her look of care,and became cheerful and fat and good-tempered once more. The boarders,who had been merry enough and careless enough all through, suspectingnothing, of course, seemed now to be beside themselves with merriment.The weather was so fine and the house was so pleasant. Jane Mullinsquite came out of her shell. She told stories of her early life, andmade those boarders who sat near her at dinner quite roar withlaughter, and Captain and Mrs. Furlong also came out of their shells,and were most agreeable and kind and chatty; and mother came down todinner as usual, and sat in the drawing-room as usual, and in theevenings there was music, and I sang my songs and played my pieces andwore my very prettiest dresses, and Albert Fanning looked at me, andlooked at me, and Mrs. Fanning nodded approval at me.
Mrs. Armstrong, too, became strangely mysterious, wreathing her facein smiles now and then, and now and then looking strangely sour anddisappointed, and Marion Armstrong began to flirt with a young Germanwho had arrived. We never did want to have foreigners in theestablishment, but he offered to pay a big sum for a certain room, andJane said it would be the worst policy to leave him out. He satisfiedMarion Armstrong too, which was another thing to be considered, forMarion and her mother were the sort of boarders who are always more orless the backbone of a house like ours. They stay on and on; they paytheir money weekly. They speak of their aristocratic neighbours, andare mostly advertisements themselves.
Now that the German, Herr Tiegel, had come, there was certainly verylittle chance of Mrs. and Miss Armstrong taking their departure untilthe end of the season.
Jane used to go and have long talks with mother, and spoke about thefuture, and the extensions we should make, and Albert and his mothertoo talked about possible extensions. Mrs. Fanning whispered darkly tome that Albert had large ideas now with regard to the boarding-house.
"It's wonderful, my love, the interest he takes in it," she said; "Inever saw anything like it in the whole course of my life, and for apublisher too! But his idea is no less than this: When the lease ofthe next house falls in, we take it too, and break open doors, andhave the two houses instead of one. He says the two houses will pay,whereas the one don't, and never could. The boarders, poor things!think that they are doing us a splendid good turn, but this houseain't paying, and it never will, my love."
To these sort of remarks I never made any answer. I was quitecheerful; I had to be cheerful for mother's sake, and it was only atnight I let myself go. Even then I tried hard to sleep well and toshut away the future.
Albert Fanning and I, by tacit consent, hardly ever met alone, andthat future life which we were to lead together, when a year hadexpired, was not spoken of between us. A fortnight, however, after allthe debts had been paid, and the house had been put upon a very sureand very firm foundation once more, Mrs. Fanning came softly to mewhere I was sitting in the drawing-room.
"Do you mind going into the little room for a moment," she said.
The little room was on the same floor, it was the room where I hadseen Althorp on that dreadful day when I had bound myself in a bondagein many ways worse than death.
"Why?" I asked, looking at her with frightened eyes. She took my handand patted it softly.
"You are a very good girl and a very brave one," she said, "andthere's nothing Albert and I wouldn't do for you. Albert wants to havea chat with you, he's waiting in the other room; you go along, dear.Oh, after the first blush you won't mind a bit; go, dear, go."
I looked at mother, who was talking with Mrs. Furlong. The whole roomwas peaceful and quiet, a good many of the boarders were out, for itwas now the height of the season and almost midsummer. The windowswere wide open. I caught mother's eye for an instant; mother smiled atme. Of late she used to wear a very far away look. There was often anexpression in her eyes which seemed to say that she and father wereholding converse. I caught that glance now, and it steadied my ownnerves, and stilled the rebellion at my heart. I got up steadily. Hadmy stepping down--oh, had my stepping down led to this? It was abitter thought, and yet when I looked at mother, and felt that I hadsaved her from intolerable anguish and perhaps sudden death, I feltthat it was worth while. I went into the next room.
Albert Fanning, before our engagement--(oh yes, of course, we wereengaged, I must use the hated word)--Albert before our engagement hadthought little or nothing of his dress, but now he was extremelyparticular. An evening suit had been made to fit his tall ungainlyperson by one of the best tailors in the West End. He was wearing itnow, and his light flaxen hair was standing up straighter than ever,and he had a kind of nervous smile round his lips. When he saw meenter he came forward and held out his hand.
"Well," he said, "and how is Westenra? Sit down, won't you?"
I did sit down; I sat where some of the summer breeze coming in fromacross the Square garden could fan my hot cheeks. I sat downtrembling. He stood perfectly still an inch or two away from me. Hedid not attempt to take my hand again. After a pause, being surprisedat his stillness, I looked up at him; I saw his blue eyes fixed on myface, with a very hungry expression. I sighed heavily.
"Oh," I said, "you have been so very good, and I have never eventhanked you."
"You never have after, just the first day," he said; "but I did notexpect thanks. Thanks were not in the bond, _you_ were in the bond,you know. That is all I want."
He sat down then near me, and we both must have felt the same summerbreeze blowing on our faces.
"I am picturing the time when the year is out," he said slowly, "whenyou and I are away together in the country. I never cared much for thecountry, nor for nature, nor for anything of that sort, but I think Ishould like those things if you were with me. You embody a great dealto me, you make poetry for me. I never knew what poetry was before. Inever cared for anything but nonsense rhymes and matters of that sort,until I met you, but you make poetry and beauty for me and all thebest things of life. There is nothing I won't promise to do for youwhen you come to me, and in the meantime----"
"Yes," I said, "in the meantime."
"If you are certain sure, Westenra, that you are going to keep yourbond, why, I--I won't worry you more than I can help just at present."
"Certain sure that I am going to keep my bond? Yes, I am sure," Isaid. "Would I take your money and, and deceive you? Would I haveasked you to save us and deceive you? No, no; you think I am good. Iam not specially good, but I am not so low as that."
"Dear child," he said, and now he took my hand and stroked it softly.He did not squeeze it, or draw it near to him, but he laid it on oneof his own huge palms and kept on stroking it.
"The very prettiest little paw I ever saw in my life," he said then;"it's wonderful how slim it is, and how long, and how white, and whatlittle taper fingers; it's wonderful. I never saw anything like it.You are a poem to me, that's just what you are, Westenra, you are apoem to me, and you will make a new man of me, and you will keep thebond, won't you, dear?"
"I will," I said.
"I have put down the date," he said; "I put it down in my note-book; Iam going to keep it _always_ by me; it is writ in my heart too. Ideclare I am getting poetical myself when I look at you. It's writ inmy heart in gold letters. It was the 18th of May when you promisedyourself to me, dear. May is not a lucky month to marry in, so we willmarry on the first of June of next year. You'll promise me that, won'tyou?"
"Yes," I said.
"And in the meantime very likely you would rather not have it known."
"It has been most kind and generous of you and Mrs. Fanning not tospeak of it," I answered.
"Just as you like about that; but I can see that, with the care ofyour mother and one thing or another you find me rather in the way, soI thought I would tell you that I am going off, I am going to Germanyto begin with for a fortnight, and then I shall take lodgings in town.Oh, the house at Highgate won't hold
me until it holds my little wifeas well, but I won't live in this house to be a worry to you morning,noon, and night. And when I am not always there perhaps you'll thinkof me, and how faithful I am to you, and how truly, truly I love you;and you will think, too, of what you are to me, a poem, yes, that'sthe right word, a beautiful poem, something holy, something that makesa new man of me, the most lovely bit of a thing I ever saw. Sevreschina is nothing to you. I have seen dainty bits of art sold atChristy's before now, but there never was anything daintier than youbefore in the world, and I love you, there! I have said it. It means agood deal when a man gives all his love to a woman, and I give it allto you; and when everything is said and done, Westenra, bonny as youare, and lovely, and dainty as you are, you are only a woman and I amonly a man."
"I think," I said suddenly, and I found the tears coming into my eyesand stealing down my cheeks, "that you are one of the best men I evermet. I did not think it. I will tell you frankly that I used to regardyou as commonplace, and--as vulgar. I saw nothing but the commonplaceand the vulgar in you, but now I do see something else, somethingwhich is high, and generous, and even beautiful. I know that you are agood man, a very good man. I don't love you yet, but I will try; Iwill try at least to like you, and on the first of June next year Iwill be your wife."
"Thank you, dear," he replied, "you could not have spoken clearer andplainer and more straight if you were to study the matter for ever andever. Now I know where I am, and I am contented. With your sweetlittle self to take pattern by, I have not the slightest doubt thatI'll win that golden heart of yours yet. I mean to have a right goodtry for it anyhow. The mater will be so pleased when I tell her hownicely you spoke to me to-night. I am off to Germany first thing inthe morning; you won't see me for a fortnight, and I won't write toyou, Westenra; you'd be worried by my letters, and I cannot expresswhat I feel except when you are there. I won't even kiss you now, forI know you would rather not, but perhaps I may kiss your hand."
He raised my hand to his lips; I did not look at him, I slowly leftthe room. He was very good, and I was very fortunate. Oh yes, althoughmy heart kept bleeding.