HAND IN HAND
Mr. Fanning went away and Mrs. Fanning took care of me. She openly did
this; she made a tremendous fuss about me, but she never by word or
deed alluded to my engagement to her son Albert. She did not talk
nearly so much as in former times of her son; perhaps he had told her
that I was not to be worried, but she was very good and very nice, and
I got sincerely attached to her: and I never saw the Duchess nor Lady
Thesiger nor my old friends, although I heard that the Duchess was
fairly well again, and was out and going into society; and every one
now seemed certain that Jim Randolph had gone to the bottom in the
_Star of Hope_, but by universal consent the boarders decided that the
news should be kept from mother, and mother grew much better. The
weather was so fine she was able to go out. We got a bath chair for
her and took her out every day; and the boarding-house was thronged,
absolutely thronged with guests; and by Mrs. Fanning's suggestion Miss
Mullins put up the prices, and very considerably too, for the London
season, but the boarders paid what they were asked willingly, for the
house was so sweet and so bright and so comfortable; and Jane had her
moment of triumph when she saw that No. 14 in the next street was
beginning to imitate us, to put up sun blinds, and even to fix
balconies on to the windows, and to have the same hours for meals; and
the ladies who kept No. 14 called one day and asked to see Jane
Mullins. Jane did give them a spice of her mind, and sent them away
without any information whatever with regard to her plans.
"I could not tell them to their faces," said Jane to me that day,
"that it wasn't I. I am just a homely body, and can only do the rough
homely work; I didn't tell them that it was because I had a lady who
had the face of an angel and the ways of a queen in the drawing-room,
and a young lady, the princess, her daughter, that the boarding-house
prospered. I never let out to them that because you two are real
ladies, and know how to be courteous and sympathetic and sweet, and
yet to uphold your own dignity through everything, that the place was
always full. No, I never told them that. What cheek those Miss
Simpsons had to try to pick my brains!"
Yes, undoubtedly, whether we were the cause or not, things seemed to
be flourishing, and mother enjoyed her life; but one evening towards
the end of June she began to talk of old times, of the Duchess, and
the friends she knew in Mayfair, and then quite quietly her
conversation turned to a subject ever I believe near her heart, James
Randolph and his friendship for her.
"He ought to be back now," she said. "I have counted the months, and
he ought to be in England many weeks ago. I cannot understand his
silence and his absence."
I did not answer. Mother looked at me.
"He was fond of you, West," she said.
My heart gave a great throb and then stood still. I bent my head, but
did not reply.
"He never wished me to tell you," said mother. "He felt, and I agreed
with him, that it would be best for him to speak to you himself. He
said that he would be back in England early in April at the latest,
and then he would speak to you. But he gave me to understand that if
for any reason his return was delayed I might act on my own
discretion, and tell you what comforts me beyond all possible words,
and what may also cheer you, for I can scarcely think, my darling,
that the love of a man like that would be unreturned by a girl like
you, when once you knew, Westenra, when once you surely knew. Yes, he
loves you with all his great heart, and when he comes back you will
tell him----"
"Oh don't, mother," I interrupted, "oh don't say any more."
My face, which had been flushed, felt white and cold now, my heart
after its one wild bound was beating low and feebly in my breast.
"What is it, West?" said mother.
"I would rather----" I began.
"That he told you himself? Yes, yes, that I understand. Whenever he
comes, West, take your mother's blessing with the gift of a good man's
heart. He has relieved my anxieties about you, and his friendship has
sweetened the end of a pilgrimage full--oh, full to overflowing--of
many blessings."
Mother lay quite quiet after these last words, and I did not dare to
interrupt her, nor did I dare to speak. After a time she said gently--
"Your father came to me again last night. He sat down by me and held
my hand. He looked very happy, almost eager. He did not say much about
the life he now leads, but his eyes spoke volumes. I think he will
come back to-night. It is quite as though we had resumed our old happy
life together."
Mother looked rather sleepy as she spoke, and I bent down and kissed
her, and sat with her for some little time. I saw that she was in a
sound sleep, and her lips were breaking into smiles every now and
then. She had been so well lately that we had sent Nurse Marion away,
for her services seemed to be no longer required.
After sitting with mother until nearly midnight I went up to my own
room. I sat down then and faced the news that mother had given me.
"I always knew it," I said to myself, "but I would not put it into
words before; I always guessed it, and I was happy, although I
scarcely knew why. Yes, I have put it into words at last, but I must
never do so again, for on the 1st of June next year I am to marry
Albert Fanning, and he is a good man, and he loves me."
I stayed awake all night, and early in the morning went downstairs. I
entered mother's room. I felt anxious about her, and yet not anxious.
The room was very still, and very cool and fresh. The windows were
open and the blinds were up; mother always liked to sleep so, and the
lovely summer air was filling the room, and there was a scent of
heliotrope and roses from the flowering plants on the verandah. Mother
herself was lying still as still could be on her bed. Her eyes were
shut, and one of her dear white hands was lying outside the coverlet.
It was partly open, as though some one had recently clasped it and
then let it go.
I went up to the bedside and looked down at mother. One glance at her
face told me all. Some one _had_ clasped her hand, but he had not let
it go. Hand in hand my father and mother had gone away, out through
that open window, away and away, upward where the stars are and the
Golden Gates stand open, and they had gone in together to the Land
where there is no Death.