CHAPTER XXVII
TOO LATE
On the evening of mother's funeral, I was sitting in the little room.I had the little room quite to myself, Jane had arranged that. I hadgone through, I thought, every phase of emotion, and I was not feelinganything just then; I was sitting quiet, in a sort of stupor. The dayswhich had intervened between mother's death and her funeral had beenpacked full of events. People had come and gone. Many kind words hadbeen said to me. Mr. Fanning had arrived, and had taken my hand onceagain and kissed it, and looked with unutterable sorrow into my eyes;and then, seeing that I could not bear his presence, had gone away,and Mrs. Fanning had opened her arms, and taken me to her heart, andsobbed on my neck, but I could not shed a tear in return; and Captainand Mrs. Furlong had been more than kind, and more than good; and theDuchess had arrived one morning and gone into the room where motherlay (that is, what was left of mother), and had sobbed, oh, sobitterly, holding mother's cold hand, and kissing her cheek; and thenshe had turned to me, and said--
"You must come home with me, Westenra, you must come away from here,you are my charge now."
But I refused to leave mother, and I even said--
"You neglected her while she was alive, and now you want to take meaway from her, from the last I shall ever see of her beloved face."
"I could not come; I did not dare to," said the Duchess, "it was onaccount of Jim. I have been grieving for Jim, and I thought I shouldhave let his death out to her; so I had to stay away, but my heart wasaching, and when I heard that she--that she had gone--I"--and then theDuchess buried her face in her hands, and sobbed, oh, so bitterly. ButI could not shed a tear.
The Duchess and the Duke both went to the funeral, which made a greatimpression on all the guests in the boarding-house; and Lady Thesigerwent; I saw her at a little distance, as I stood close to mother'sgrave; but all these things were over, and father and mother weretogether again. That was my only comfort, and I sat in the littleroom, and was glad that I could not suffer much more.
Into the midst of my meditations there came a brisk voice, the doorwas opened suddenly, there was a waft of fresh air, and Lady Thesigerstood near me.
"You are to come with me at once, Westenra," she said, "the carriageis at the door, and Miss Mullins, and that good soul, Mrs. Fanning,are packing your things. You are to come right away from hereto-night."
I did not want to go.
I said, "Please leave me, Jasmine, I cannot talk to you now."
"You need not talk," said Jasmine Thesiger, "but come you must."
I opposed her as best I could; but I was weak and tired, and halfstunned, and she was all life and energy; and so it came to pass, thatin less than an hour, I found myself driving away in her luxuriouslittle brougham to her house in Mayfair. She gave me a pretty room,and was very kind to me.
"I'll leave you alone, you know," she said; "I don't want to worry youin any way, but you must not stay at the boarding-house any longer.Your mother is dead, and you must come back to your own set."
"I can never come back to my own set," I answered; "or rather, my setis no longer yours, Jasmine; I have stepped down for ever."
"That is folly, and worse than folly," she replied.
She came and sat with me constantly and talked. She talked very well.She did her utmost, all that woman could possibly do, to soothe mytrouble, and to draw me out, and be good to me; but I was in a queerstate, and I did not respond to any of her caresses. I was quite dazedand stupid. After a fortnight I came downstairs to meals just asusual, and I tried to speak when I was spoken to, but the cloud on myspirit never lifted for a single moment.
It was now the middle of July, and Jasmine and her husband weretalking of their summer trip. They would go away to Scotland, and theywanted me to go with them. I said I would rather not, but that factdid not seem to matter in the very least. They wanted me to go; theyhad it all arranged. I declared that I must go back to Jane to theboarding-house, but they said that for the present I belonged to them.I thought to myself with a dull ache, which never rose to absolutepain, how soon they would give me up, when they knew that I wasengaged to Albert Fanning. I had not mentioned this fact yet, thoughit was on the tip of my tongue often and often. Still I kept it tomyself. No one knew of our engagement but Jane Mullins, who, ofcourse, guessed it, and Mrs. Fanning and Albert himself. I respectedthe Fannings very much for keeping my secret so faithfully, and Irespected them still more for not coming to see me.
On a certain evening, I think it was the 15th of July--I remember allthe dates of that important and most terrible time; oh, so well--I wasalone in Jasmine's drawing-room. Jasmine and her husband had gone tothe theatre; they had expressed regret at leaving me, but I was glad,very glad, to be alone. I sat behind one of the silk curtains, andlooked with a dull gaze out into the street. It was between eight andnine o'clock, and the first twilight was over everything. I sat quitestill, my hand lying on my black dress, and my thoughts with motherand father, and in a sort of way also with Mr. Fanning and my future.I wished that I could shut away my future, but I could not. I had donewhat I had done almost for nothing. Mother's life had only beenprolonged a few weeks. My one comfort was, that she had gone to herrest in peace, quite sure with regard to my future, and quite happyabout me and my prospects. She was certain, which indeed was the case,that I loved James Randolph, and that whenever he returned, we wouldmarry; and if by any chance his return was delayed the boarding-housewas doing well, and my temporal needs were provided for. Yes, she hadall this comfort in her dying moments, so I could scarcely regret whatI had done.
I sat on by the window, and thought vaguely of mother, and not at allvaguely of Albert Fanning; he was a good man, but to be his wife! myheart failed me at the terrible thought.
Just then I heard the door of the room softly open, and close assoftly; there came a quick step across the floor, a hand pushed asidemy curtain, and raising my eyes I saw James Randolph. He looked justas I had seen him before he went away; his eyes were full of thatindescribable tenderness, and yet suppressed fun, which they so oftenwore; his cheeks were bronzed, he had the alert look of a man who hadgone through life, and seen many adventures. And yet with all that, hewas just as he always was. It seemed the most natural thing in theworld to have him close to me, and I scarcely changed colour; and,after a moment's pause, said quietly--
"Then you did not die, after all?"
"No," he replied. He spoke in a cheerful, matter-of-fact, everydayvoice.
"I was delayed," he said, "but I have come back at last." Then hedropped into a chair near me. "I went to 17 Graham Square," he said,"and they said you were here. I did not ask a single question. I camestraight on here. Am I too late? Don't tell me I am too late."
"Oh, you know it," I answered, "you must know it, you are quite, quitetoo late--too late for everything, for everything!"
There was a sob in my voice, but I would not let it rise. I saw hisbrow darkening to a frown of perplexity and alarm, and I turned myeyes away. Had he interpreted a double meaning in my words? Did hereally even now guess that he was too late for everything?
"Tell me about your mother," he said, in a choking voice; "isshe----?"
He looked at me, and I pointed to my black dress. He uttered a sharpexclamation of pain, and then said slowly--
"I understand, Westenra, I am too late; but, thank God, not too latefor everything."
As he said this I think the bitterness of death passed over me; forwas he not now quite too late for everything--for the love which Icould have given him, for the joy which we might both have shared, hadhe only come back a little sooner. I almost wished at that bittermoment that he had never returned, that he had really died. The nextinstant, however, a revulsion came over me, and I found that I wasglad, very glad, that he was alive, that he was in the land of theliving, that I had a chance of seeing him from time to time.
"To-night," I said to myself, "I will not allow anything to temper myjoy. He has come back, he is alive. No matter though I
must never behis wife, I am glad, glad to see him again."
"I will tell you all about what kept me," he continued, for he halfread my thoughts. "We were wrecked, as of course you saw in thepapers, off Port Adelaide, and nearly every soul on board perished."
"But your name was not in the lists," I answered.
"That can be accounted for," he said, "by the fact that I had onlycome on board a couple of hours before at Adelaide, and doubtless thepurser had not time to enter my name. I had no intention of takingpassage in that special liner until the morning of the day when thewreck occurred. Well, the captain went down with the ship, and onlyone woman, two children, myself, and some of the sailors wore rescued.As the ship went down I was struck by a spar on my head and badlyinjured. When I was finally picked up I was quite unconscious, and forsix weeks and more I was in hospital at Adelaide. As soon as ever Iwas well enough I took the first boat home; and here I am, Westenra,in time--oh, I hope in time--for the best of all. But tell me, howhave things been going? I have been more anxious than I can say. Theremust have been money difficulties. You can little imagine what I wentthrough. Can you bear just to speak of your mother? And can you bearto tell me how 17 Graham Square has been going?"
"We had hard times, but we pulled through," I answered briefly.
"Did you?" he cried, with a sigh of relief; "what a wonderful creatureJane Mullins is! What an extraordinary head for business shepossesses! I must go and see her to-morrow, or--or to-night."
"Don't go to-night," I said, and I stretched out my hand a very littleand then drew it in again; but he saw the gesture, and suddenly hisstrong brown hand took mine and closed over it and held it firmly.
"Then I am in time, in time for the best of all," he said, and he gavea sigh straight from the bottom of his heart. "Now, I must tell yousomething. Will you listen?"
I drew my hand away, he dropped it, looked at me with a hurtexpression, and then went on hurriedly, "I have got something toconfess to you."
"I am listening," I said.
"Perhaps you have guessed the truth. I have a great deal to answerfor. I cannot tell you how I have reproached myself. I have alwaystaken an interest in you and in your mother. Even as a schoolboy atEton this has been the case."
"But why?" I asked.
"Did you never know--I hoped not, but your mother knew, only I beggedof her not to tell you--I am the son of the man whose life your fathersaved? His name was Chaloner then, but with some property he changedit to the one which I now bear, and I have been called Randolph almostthe whole of my life. When my father died he gave me a charge. He saidif ever the time came when you or your mother were in difficulties orperil or danger, I was to remember what your gallant father had donefor him. He need not have told me, for the deed had always excited mykeenest admiration; but I never came across you until that day when,by the merest chance, I was at the house-agents when you came in. Iheard your name and I guessed who you were, but I did not dare to lookat you then. I felt strangely overpowered.
"I went away, but I came back again shortly afterwards, and, forgiveme, child, I overheard a great deal of your scheme, and I rememberedmy father's words and determined to help you. It was I who sought JaneMullins. Her people had been old retainers of ours, and she had alwaysworshipped the ground on which I walked. I told her exactly what Imeant to do, and she helped me straight through at once. The moneywhich smoothed matters with the landlord and enabled you to take thehouse, was really my money, money which I had inherited from mymother, but which was invested in Australian stocks. At that timethese stocks were paying a high dividend, and everything seemed to begoing well; but you had not been three months in the boarding-housebefore the bank in Melbourne which held such a large amount of mymoney went smash, and I was obliged to go over to secure what wasleft. The blow was most sudden, and I had no one to help me. I gaveJane Mullins what little money I had left, and went to Australia. Iquite hoped I should be back before--before any great trouble came toyou. I rescued a large portion of my money, and hoped that everythingwas all right. Then came the shipwreck, the danger, the awful fightwith death in the hospital, the final home-coming, and now--now I findthat I shall never see your mother again. What did she think of mylong absence, my enforced silence, Westenra? What did she feel aboutme?"
"She always hoped you would come back, and she always loved you," Isaid slowly.
"Did she tell you nothing more?"
No colour could come to my face; my heart was too cold, too bitterlycold, too despairing.
"She told me something more," I said in a whisper. He bent close tome.
"That I love you, darling--that I have loved you from the first momentI saw your face--that I love your courage, and your dear, dear self? Iam a wealthy man now, Westenra. Money has come to me while I have beenaway, and I am a wealthy man and in your set, and--and will you cometo me, darling? Will you make me happy--will you? Oh! I know you loveme--I feel you do. You will come to me?"
But I started up.
"I cannot," I said.
"You cannot! Then you do not love me?"
I made a great struggle. Never in the whole course of my life did Imake a struggle like that. My struggle was to keep my lips closed; butI looked wildly up at Jim, and Jim looked at me, and the next moment,against my will, perhaps against his will, I was in his arms, and myhead was on his breast.
"You love me; there is your answer," he said. "You need not say anymore. You have gone through much. Oh! I am happy, and I will takesuch care of you, little West. I have loved you for so long, and sodeeply."
But I managed to wrest myself away.
"I cannot go to you," I said, "and I have never said----"
"You must say it now," he answered. "You do love me?"
"Yes, but I cannot marry you; it is too late. Oh! you have been good,but there is nothing to be said; it is too late. It is as much toolate as if I were dead--dead, as mother is dead. Oh! I can say nomore."