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 was
thoroughly prostrated with grief for my mother and--and other great
troubles, and she held my hand and I told her. I described Jane's
anxiety in the boarding-house, the debts creeping up and up, the
aspect of affairs getting more and more serious; I told her about Mrs.
Fanning and Albert, and the chocolate-coloured brougham, and the drive
to 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 certainty
that she would not live long, and the doctor's verdict, and the one
caution impressed and impressed upon me--that she was to have no shock
of any sort, that everything was to be made smooth and right for her.
I described, further, Jane Mullins' agitation, her despair, her
difficulty in going on at all, the dreadful news which had reached us
with 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 a
thousand 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 supposed
death; and then I told her what I found when I came back--the awful
greasy little man in the dining-room--the man in possession. I
described his attitude that day at dinner, and the surprise and
astonishment of the boarders; and then I explained how he had gone and
why he had gone, and I told her of my visit to Albert Fanning in
Paternoster Row, and what Albert Fanning had said, and how kind he was
to me; and, notwithstanding his want of polish, how really chivalrous
he was in his own way, and how really he loved me and wanted to help
me. I made the very best of him, and I went on still further, and told
her of the man who had burst into mother's presence in the
drawing-room, and rudely demanded payment for his debt, and then how I
had yielded, and told Albert Fanning that I would marry him, and how,
after that, everything was smooth, and all the worries about money had
disappeared as if by magic.
"I gave him my bond," I said at the conclusion. "I said that I would
marry 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 was
sure that all was well with me, and indeed I gave her to understand
that all was very well, and she died; and never guessed that 17 Graham
Square 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; they
were rolling down her cheeks.
"Why didn't you come to me, Westenra?" she said; "my husband is very
rich, and we would have lent you the money. Oh! to think that a
thousand 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 cheery
word, nor with much of your presence, during my time in the
boarding-house; and when the Duchess failed me, troubles came on too
thick and fast to wait for any chance help from outside. I just took
the 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 too
much. Help me to see the best, all the best in those two good people
with whom I am in future to live. Albert Fanning is not polished, he
is not a gentleman outwardly, but he has--O Jasmine! he has in his own
way a gentleman's heart, and his mother is a dear old soul, and even
for 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 that
evening, and Jasmine continued to sit near me and to talk in soft
tones, and after a time she relapsed into silence, a sort of
despairing silence, and I lay with my eyes closed, for I could not
look at her, and presently I dropped asleep.
At an early hour the next day I wrote to the Fannings to tell them
that I would go with them to Switzerland. I went and saw Jasmine after
I had written the note.
"I am going with the Fannings to Switzerland on the 4th of August," I
said; "will this interfere with your plans? I mean, may I stay on here
until they start?"
"Oh yes, you can stay on here, Westenra," she replied. She looked at
me fixedly. I thought she would say something to dissuade me, but she
did not. She opened her lips once, but no words came. She simply
said--
"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 heard
Jasmine go downstairs and out, and then I sat quiet. Everything
seemed to have come to a sort of end; I could not see my way any
further. In a fortnight's time I should have truly stepped down out of
sight of those who were my friends. I should have left them for ever
and ever. It would be a final stepping down for me. Nevertheless, the
faintest thought of being unfaithful to the promise I had made, I am
glad to think now, never for a single moment occurred to me.
Jasmine returned to lunch, and after lunch we went to the
drawing-room, and she asked me if I would like to drive with her. I
said--
"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 he
wants 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 to
him. Tell him just what you told me; he ought to know, and it will
pain 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 a
reception 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 is
absolutely necessary, Westenra, that you should go through this; it
will be, I know, most painful to you both, but it is only just to
him."
Still I did not answer. After a time she said--
"I do not wish to dissuade you; indeed, I cannot myself see how you
can get out of this most mistaken engagement, for the man has behaved
well, and I am the first to acknowledge that; but has it ever occurred
to you that you do a man an absolute and terrible injustice when you
marry him, loving with all your heart and soul another man? Do you
think it is fair to him? Don't you think he ought at least to know
this?"
"I am sure Albert Fanning ought not to know it," I replied, "and I
earnestly hope no one will ever tell him. By the time I marry him I
shall have"--my lips trembled, I said the words with an effort--"I
shall have got over this, at least to a great extent; and oh! he must
not know. Yes, I will see Jim to-night, for I agree with you that it
is necessary that I should tell him myself, but not again," I
continued; "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 stay
much with me. She was, I could see, terribly hurt, but she had not
been gone an hour before the Duchess came bustling in. She was very
motherly 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. She
was terribly shocked, she could not make it out. She could not bring
herself to realise that her god-daughter was going to marry a man like
Albert Fanning.
"You ought never to have done it, West, never, never," she kept
repeating.
At last I interrupted her.
"There is another side to this question," I said; "you think I did
something mean and shabby when I promised to marry a man like Albert
Fanning. You think I have done something unworthy of your
god-daughter, but don't you really, really believe that you would have
a much poorer, more contemptible, more worthless sort of god-daughter
if she were now to break her bond to the man who saved her mother at
considerable expense--the man who was so good, so kind, so faithful?
Would you really counsel me to break my bond?"
"No, I would not," said the Duchess, "but I would do one thing, I
would up and tell that man the truth. I would put the thing before him
and let him decide. Upon my word, that's a very good idea. That's what
I would do, Westenra."
"I will not tell him," I replied. "I have promised to marry him on the
1st of June next year. He knows well that I do not love him, but I
will keep my bond."
"That is all very fine," said the Duchess. "You may have told him that
you do not love him, but you have not told him that you love another
man."
"I have certainly not told him that."
"Then you are unfair to him, and also unfair to James Randolph. You
think nothing at all of breaking his heart."
"He was away when he might have helped me," I replied. "That was, I
know, through no fault of his, but I cannot say any more except that I
will not break my bond."
The Duchess went away, and in the evening Jim arrived. He came in with
that very quiet manner which he always wore, that absolute
self-possession which I do not think under any circumstances would
desert him, but I read the anxiety in his grey eyes, the quizzical,
half-laughing glance was gone altogether, the eyes were very grave and
almost stern.
"Now," he said, "I have come to say very plain words. I want to know
why you will not marry me."
"Have you not heard?" I asked.
"I have heard nothing," he answered. "I have been given no reason; you
just told me you could not marry me the other night, and you were so
upset and shaken that I did not press the matter any further. You
know, of course, that I can give you everything now that the heart of
girl could desire."
"Do not talk of those things," I said. "I would marry you if you had
only 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 yet
restraining 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 you
love me as you say you love me, and if you know that I love you, and
if 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 lives
together, shoulder to shoulder, dear, in the thick of the fight, all
our lives close together until death does us part? And even death does
not really part those who love, Westenra, so we shall in reality never
be 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 your
promise?"
"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 was
standing up, and the pallor of his face frightened me.
"I do not understand," he said. "I had put you on a pedestal--are you
going 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 walked
away to the window. He stood there looking out, and I looked at him as
his 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 spoke
quietly, as if he were trying to keep himself in control.
"This is very sudden and terrible," he said; "very inexplicable too. I
suppose you will explain?"
"I will," I said. "I knew you were coming to-night; I was cowardly
enough 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 Graham
Square?"
"Yes," I said; "do not speak against him."
"I would not be so cruel," he answered. "If you have promised
yourself 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. I
did not use quite the same words, for he did not take it so calmly. I
had never seen his self-possession shaken before. As my story drew to
an end he had quite a bowed look, almost like an old man; then he said
slowly--
"It was my fault; I should not have gone away. To think that you were
subjected 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 have
acted as I have done; there are times when one must forget one's
self."
"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 pain
of all, you have not stepped down from your pedestal, you are still
the one woman for me. But oh! Westenra, have I lost you? Have I lost
you?"
He bowed his head in his hands.