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 had
gone through, I thought, every phase of emotion, and I was not feeling
anything just then; I was sitting quiet, in a sort of stupor. The days
which had intervened between mother's death and her funeral had been
packed full of events. People had come and gone. Many kind words had
been said to me. Mr. Fanning had arrived, and had taken my hand once
again 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, and
sobbed on my neck, but I could not shed a tear in return; and Captain
and Mrs. Furlong had been more than kind, and more than good; and the
Duchess had arrived one morning and gone into the room where mother
lay (that is, what was left of mother), and had sobbed, oh, so
bitterly, holding mother's cold hand, and kissing her cheek; and then
she 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 me
away 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 on
account of Jim. I have been grieving for Jim, and I thought I should
have let his death out to her; so I had to stay away, but my heart was
aching, and when I heard that she--that she had gone--I"--and then the
Duchess buried her face in her hands, and sobbed, oh, so bitterly. But
I could not shed a tear.
The Duchess and the Duke both went to the funeral, which made a great
impression on all the guests in the boarding-house; and Lady Thesiger
went; I saw her at a little distance, as I stood close to mother's
grave; but all these things were over, and father and mother were
together again. That was my only comfort, and I sat in the little
room, and was glad that I could not suffer much more.
Into the midst of my meditations there came a brisk voice, the door
was opened suddenly, there was a waft of fresh air, and Lady Thesiger
stood near me.
"You are to come with me at once, Westenra," she said, "the carriage
is at the door, and Miss Mullins, and that good soul, Mrs. Fanning,
are packing your things. You are to come right away from here
to-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 half
stunned, and she was all life and energy; and so it came to pass, that
in less than an hour, I found myself driving away in her luxurious
little 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 you
in 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 set
is 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 my
trouble, and to draw me out, and be good to me; but I was in a queer
state, and I did not respond to any of her caresses. I was quite dazed
and stupid. After a fortnight I came downstairs to meals just as
usual, and I tried to speak when I was spoken to, but the cloud on my
spirit never lifted for a single moment.
It was now the middle of July, and Jasmine and her husband were
talking of their summer trip. They would go away to Scotland, and they
wanted me to go with them. I said I would rather not, but that fact
did not seem to matter in the very least. They wanted me to go; they
had it all arranged. I declared that I must go back to Jane to the
boarding-house, but they said that for the present I belonged to them.
I thought to myself with a dull ache, which never rose to absolute
pain, how soon they would give me up, when they knew that I was
engaged to Albert Fanning. I had not mentioned this fact yet, though
it was on the tip of my tongue often and often. Still I kept it to
myself. No one knew of our engagement but Jane Mullins, who, of
course, guessed it, and Mrs. Fanning and Albert himself. I respected
the Fannings very much for keeping my secret so faithfully, and I
respected them still more for not coming to see me.
On a certain evening, I think it was the 15th of July--I remember all
the dates of that important and most terrible time; oh, so well--I was
alone in Jasmine's drawing-room. Jasmine and her husband had gone to
the 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, and
looked with a dull gaze out into the street. It was between eight and
nine o'clock, and the first twilight was over everything. I sat quite
still, my hand lying on my black dress, and my thoughts with mother
and 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 done
what I had done almost for nothing. Mother's life had only been
prolonged a few weeks. My one comfort was, that she had gone to her
rest in peace, quite sure with regard to my future, and quite happy
about me and my prospects. She was certain, which indeed was the case,
that I loved James Randolph, and that whenever he returned, we would
marry; and if by any chance his return was delayed the boarding-house
was doing well, and my temporal needs were provided for. Yes, she had
all this comfort in her dying moments, so I could scarcely regret what
I had done.
I sat on by the window, and thought vaguely of mother, and not at all
vaguely of Albert Fanning; he was a good man, but to be his wife! my
heart failed me at the terrible thought.
Just then I heard the door of the room softly open, and close as
softly; there came a quick step across the floor, a hand pushed aside
my curtain, and raising my eyes I saw James Randolph. He looked just
as I had seen him before he went away; his eyes were full of that
indescribable tenderness, and yet suppressed fun, which they so often
wore; his cheeks were bronzed, he had the alert look of a man who had
gone through life, and seen many adventures. And yet with all that, he
was just as he always was. It seemed the most natural thing in the
world 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, everyday
voice.
"I was delayed," he said, "but I have come back at last." Then he
dropped 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 came
straight 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, quite
too late--too late for everything, for everything!"
There was a sob in my voice, but I would not let it rise. I saw his
brow darkening to a frown of perplexity and alarm, and I turned my
eyes away. Had he interpreted a double meaning in my words? Did he
really even now guess that he was too late for everything?
"Tell me about your mother," he said, in a choking voice; "is
she----?"
He looked at me, and I pointed to my black dress. He uttered a sharp
exclamation of pain, and then said slowly--
"I understand, Westenra, I am too late; but, thank God, not too late
for everything."
As he said this I think the bitterness of death passed over me; for
was he not now quite too late for everything--for the love which I
could have given him, for the joy which we might both have shared, had
he only come back a little sooner. I almost wished at that bitter
moment that he had never returned, that he had really died. The next
instant, however, a revulsion came over me, and I found that I was
glad, very glad, that he was alive, that he was in the land of the
living, 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 my
joy. He has come back, he is alive. No matter though I must never be
his wife, I am glad, glad to see him again."
"I will tell you all about what kept me," he continued, for he half
read my thoughts. "We were wrecked, as of course you saw in the
papers, 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 only
come on board a couple of hours before at Adelaide, and doubtless the
purser had not time to enter my name. I had no intention of taking
passage in that special liner until the morning of the day when the
wreck occurred. Well, the captain went down with the ship, and only
one 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 badly
injured. When I was finally picked up I was quite unconscious, and for
six weeks and more I was in hospital at Adelaide. As soon as ever I
was 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, how
have things been going? I have been more anxious than I can say. There
must have been money difficulties. You can little imagine what I went
through. Can you bear just to speak of your mother? And can you bear
to 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 creature
Jane Mullins is! What an extraordinary head for business she
possesses! 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 little
and then drew it in again; but he saw the gesture, and suddenly his
strong 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 gave
a sigh straight from the bottom of his heart. "Now, I must tell you
something. Will you listen?"
I drew my hand away, he dropped it, looked at me with a hurt
expression, and then went on hurriedly, "I have got something to
confess to you."
"I am listening," I said.
"Perhaps you have guessed the truth. I have a great deal to answer
for. I cannot tell you how I have reproached myself. I have always
taken an interest in you and in your mother. Even as a schoolboy at
Eton this has been the case."
"But why?" I asked.
"Did you never know--I hoped not, but your mother knew, only I begged
of her not to tell you--I am the son of the man whose life your father
saved? His name was Chaloner then, but with some property he changed
it to the one which I now bear, and I have been called Randolph almost
the whole of my life. When my father died he gave me a charge. He said
if ever the time came when you or your mother were in difficulties or
peril or danger, I was to remember what your gallant father had done
for him. He need not have told me, for the deed had always excited my
keenest 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. I
heard your name and I guessed who you were, but I did not dare to look
at you then. I felt strangely overpowered.
"I went away, but I came back again shortly afterwards, and, forgive
me, child, I overheard a great deal of your scheme, and I remembered
my father's words and determined to help you. It was I who sought Jane
Mullins. Her people had been old retainers of ours, and she had always
worshipped the ground on which I walked. I told her exactly what I
meant to do, and she helped me straight through at once. The money
which smoothed matters with the landlord and enabled you to take the
house, was really my money, money which I had inherited from my
mother, but which was invested in Australian stocks. At that time
these stocks were paying a high dividend, and everything seemed to be
going well; but you had not been three months in the boarding-house
before the bank in Melbourne which held such a large amount of my
money went smash, and I was obliged to go over to secure what was
left. The blow was most sudden, and I had no one to help me. I gave
Jane Mullins what little money I had left, and went to Australia. I
quite hoped I should be back before--before any great trouble came to
you. I rescued a large portion of my money, and hoped that everything
was all right. Then came the shipwreck, the danger, the awful fight
with death in the hospital, the final home-coming, and now--now I find
that I shall never see your mother again. What did she think of my
long absence, my enforced silence, Westenra? What did she feel about
me?"
"She always hoped you would come back, and she always loved you," I
said slowly.
"Did she tell you nothing more?"
No colour could come to my face; my heart was too cold, too bitterly
cold, too despairing.
"She told me something more," I said in a whisper. He bent close to
me.
"That I love you, darling--that I have loved you from the first moment
I saw your face--that I love your courage, and your dear, dear self? I
am a wealthy man now, Westenra. Money has come to me while I have been
away, and I am a wealthy man and in your set, and--and will you come
to me, darling? Will you make me happy--will you? Oh! I know you love
me--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 I
make a struggle like that. My struggle was to keep my lips closed; but
I 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 my
head was on his breast.
"You love me; there is your answer," he said. "You need not say any
more. You have gone through much. Oh! I am happy, and I will take
such care of you, little West. I have loved you for so long, and so
deeply."
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 too
late as if I were dead--dead, as mother is dead. Oh! I can say no
more."