FRANK JONES COMES BACK AGAIN.
These last words had been spoken after the coming of Frank Jones, but
something has to be said of the manner of his coming, and of the
reasons which brought him, and something also which occurred before
he came. It could not be that Mr. Moss should be wounded after so
desperate a fashion and that not a word should be said about it.
Of what happened at the time of the wounding Rachel knew nothing.
She had been very brave and high in courage till the thing was done,
but as soon as it was done she sent for the servant and fainted away.
She knew nothing of what had occurred till she had been removed
out of the room on one side, and he on the other. She did not hear,
therefore, of the suggestion made by Mr. Moss that some vital part of
him had been reached.
He did bleed profusely, but under the aid of the doctor and Mr.
O'Mahony, who was soon on the scene, he recovered himself more
quickly than poor Rachel, who was indeed somewhat neglected till the
hero of the tragedy had been sent away. He behaved with sufficient
courage at last, though he had begun by declaring that his days were
numbered. At any rate he had said when he found the power of ordinary
speech, "Don't let a word be whispered about it to Miss O'Mahony;
she isn't like other people." Then he was taken back to his private
lodging, and confided to the care of Madame Socani, where we will
for the present leave him. Soon after the occurrence,--a day or two
after it,--Frank Jones appeared suddenly on the scene. Of course it
appeared that he had come to mourn the probable death of Mr. Moss.
But he had in truth heard nothing of the fatal encounter till he had
arrived in Cecil Street, and then could hardly make out what had
occurred amidst the confused utterances.
"Frank Jones!" she exclaimed. "Father, what has brought him here?"
and she blushed up over her face and head to the very roots of her
hair. "Come up, of course he must come up. When a man has come all
the way from Castle Morony he must be allowed to come up. Why should
you wish to keep him down in the area?" Then Frank Jones soon made
his appearance within the chamber.
It was midsummer, and Rachel occupied a room in the lowest house in
the street, looking right away upon the river, and her easy-chair had
been brought up to the window at which she sat, and looked out on the
tide of river life as it flowed by. She was covered at present with
a dressing gown, as sweet and fresh as the morning air. On her head
she wore a small net of the finest golden filigree, and her tiny
feet were thrust into a pair of bright blue slippers bordered with
swans-down. "Am I to come back?" her obedient father had asked. But
he had been told not to come back, not quite at present. "It is not
that I want your absence," she had said, "but he may. He can tell
me with less hesitation that he is going to set up a pig-killing
establishment in South Australia than he could probably you and me
together." So the father simply slapped him on the back, and bade him
walk upstairs till he would find No. 15 on the second landing. "Of
course you have heard," he said, as Frank was going, "of what she has
been and done to Mahomet M. Moss?"
"Not a word," said Frank. "What has she done?"
"Plunged a dagger into him," said Mr. O'Mahony,--in a manner which
showed to Frank that he was not much afraid of the consequences of
the accident. "You go up and no doubt she will tell you all about
it." Then Frank went up, and was soon admitted into Rachel's room.
"Oh, Frank!" she said, "how are you? What on earth has brought you
here?" Then he at once began to ask questions about poor Moss, and
Rachel of course to answer them. "Well, yes; how was I to help it? I
told him from the time that I was a little girl, long before I knew
you, that something of this kind would occur if he would not behave
himself."
"And he didn't?" asked Frank, with some little pardonable curiosity.
"No, he did not. Whether he wanted me or my voice, thinking that
it would come back again, I cannot tell, but he did want something.
There was a woman who brought messages from him, and even she wanted
something. Then his ideas ran higher."
"He meant to marry you," said Frank.
"I suppose he did,--at last. I am very much obliged to him, but it
did not suit. Then,--to make a short story of it, Frank, I will tell
you the whole truth. He took hold of me. I cannot bear to be taken
hold of; you know that yourself."
He could only remember how often he had sat with her down among the
willows at the lake side with his arm round her waist, and she had
never seemed to be impatient under the operation.
"And though he has such a beautiful shiny hat he is horribly awkward.
He nearly knocked me down and fell on me, by way of embracing me."
Frank thought that he had never been driven to such straits as that.
"To be knocked down and trampled on by a beast like that! There
are circumstances in which a girl must protect herself, when other
circumstances have brought her into danger. In those days--yesterday,
that is, or a week ago--I was a poor singing girl. I was at every
man's disposal, and had to look after myself. There are so many white
bears about, ready to eat you, if you do not look after yourself. He
tried to eat me, and he was wounded. You do not blame me, Frank."
"No, indeed; not for that."
"What do you blame me for?"
"I cannot think you right," he answered with almost majestic
sternness, "to have accepted the offer of Lord Castlewell."
"You blame me for that."
He nodded his head at her.
"What would you have had me do?"
"Marry a man when you love him, but not when you don't."
"Oh, Frank! I couldn't. How was I to marry a man when I loved him,--I
who had been so treated? But, sir," she said, remembering herself,
"you have no right to say I did not love Lord Castlewell. You have no
business to inquire into that matter. Nobody blames you, or can, or
shall, in that affair,--not in my hearing. You behaved as gentlemen
do behave; gentlemen who cannot act otherwise, because it is born
in their bones and their flesh. I--I have not behaved quite so well.
Open confession is good for the soul. Frank, I have not behaved quite
so well. You may inquire about it. I did not love Lord Castlewell,
and I told him so. He came to me when my singing was all gone, and
generously renewed his offer. Had I not known that in his heart of
hearts he did not wish it,--that the two things were gone for which
he had wooed me,--my voice, which was grand, and my prettiness, which
was but a little thing, I should have taken his second offer, because
it would be well to let him have what he wanted. It was not so; and
therefore I sent him away, well pleased."
"But why did you accept him?"
"Oh, Frank! do not be too hard. How am I to tell you--you, of all
men, what my reasons were? I was alone in the world; alone with such
dangers before me as that which Mr. Moss brought with him. And then
my profession had become a reality, and this lord would assist me. Do
all the girls refuse the lords who come and ask them?"
Then he stood close over her, and shook his head.
"But I should have done so," she continued after a pause. "I
recognise it now; and let there be an end of it. There is a something
which does make a woman unfit for matrimony." And the tears coursed
themselves down her wan cheeks. "Now it has all been said that need
be said, and let there be an end of it. I have talked too much about
myself. What has brought you to London?"
"Just a young woman," he whispered slowly.
A pang shot through her heart; and yet not quite a pang, for with it
there was a rush of joy, which was not, however, perfect joy, because
she felt that it must be disappointed.
"Bother your young woman," she said; "who cares for your young woman!
How are you going on in Galway?"
"Sadly enough, to tell the truth."
"No rents?"
He shook his head.
"Nothing but murders and floods?"
"The same damnable old story running on from day to day."
"And have the girls no servants yet?"
"Not a servant; except old Peter, who is not quite as faithful as he
should be."
"And,--and what about that valiant gay young gentleman, Captain
Clayton?"
"Everything goes amiss in love as well as war," said Frank. "Between
the three of them, I hardly know what they want."
"I think I know."
"Very likely. Everything goes so astray with all of us, so that the
wanting it is sufficient reason for not getting it."
"Is that all you have come to tell me?"
"I suppose it is."
"Then you might have stayed away."
"I may as well go, perhaps."
"Go? no! I am not so full of new friends that I can afford to throw
away my old like that. Of course you may not go, as you call it!
Do you suppose I do not care to hear about those girls whom I
love,--pretty nearly with all my heart? Why don't you tell me about
them, and your father? You come here, but you talk of nothing but
going. You ain't half nice."
"Can I come in yet?" This belonged to a voice behind the door, which
was the property of Mr. O'Mahony.
"Not quite yet, father. Mr. Jones is telling me about them all at
Morony Castle."
"I should have thought I might have heard that," said Mr. O'Mahony.
"The girls have special messages to send," said Rachel.
"I'll come back in another ten minutes," said Mr. O'Mahony. "I shall
not wait longer than that."
"Only their love," said Frank; upon which Rachel looked as though she
thought that Frank Jones was certainly an ass.
"Of course I want to hear their love," said Rachel. "Dear Ada, and
dear Edith! Why don't you tell me their love?"
"My poor sick girl," he said, laying his hand upon her shoulder, and
looking into her eyes.
"Never mind my sickness. I know I am as thin and as wan as an ogre.
Nevertheless, I care for their love."
"Rachel, do you care for mine?"
"I haven't got it! Oh, Frank, why don't you speak to me? You have
spoken a word, just a word, and all the blood is coming back to my
veins already."
"Dearest, dearest, dearest Rachel."
"Now you have spoken; now you have told me of your sisters and your
father. Now I know it all! Now my father may come in."
"Do you love me, then?"
"Love you! That question you know to be unnecessary. Love you! Why
I spend every day and every night in loving you! But, Frank, you
wouldn't have me when I was going to be rich. I ought not to have
you now that I am to be poor." But by this time she was in his arms
and he was kissing her, till, as she had said, the blood was once
again running in her veins. "Oh, Frank, what a tyrant you are! Did
I not tell you to let poor father come into the room? You have said
everything now. There cannot be another word to say. Frank, Frank,
Frank! I have found it out at last. I cannot live without you."
"But how are you to live with me? There is no money."
"Bother money. Wealth is sordid. Washing stockings over a tub is the
only life for me,--so long as I have you to come back to me."
"And your health?"
"I tell you it is done. I was merely sick of the Jones complaint. Oh,
heavens! how I can hate people, and how I can love them!" Then she
threw herself on the sofa, absolutely worn out by the violence of her
emotions.
Mr. O'Mahony was commissioned, and sat down by his girl's side to
comfort her. But she wanted no comforting. "So you and Frank have
made it up, have you?" said Mr. O'Mahony.
"We have never quarrelled so far as I am concerned," said Frank. "The
moment I heard Lord Castlewell was dismissed, I came back."
"Yes," said she, raising herself half up on the sofa. "Do you know
his story, father? It is rather a nice story for a girl to hear of
her own lover, and to feel that it is true. When I was about to make
I don't know how many thousand dollars a year by my singing, he would
not come and take his share of it. Then I have to think of my own
disgrace. But it enhances his glory. Because he was gone, I brought
myself to accept this lord."
"Now, Rachel, you shall not exert yourself," said Frank.
"I will, sir," she replied, holding him by the hand. "I will tell my
story. He had retreated from the stain, and the lord had come in his
place. But he was here always," and she pressed his hand to her side.
"He could not be got rid of. Then I lost my voice, and was 'utterly
dished,' as the theatrical people say. Then the lord went,--behaving
better than I did however,--and I was alone. Oh, what bitter moments
there came then,--long enough for the post to go to Ireland and to
return! And now he is here. Once more at my feet again, old man, once
more! And then he talks to me of money! What is money to me? I have
got such a comforting portion that I care not at all for money." Then
she all but fainted once again, and Frank and her father both knelt
over her caressing her.
It was a long time before Frank left her, her father going in and out
of the room as it pleased him the while. Then he declared that he
must go down to the House, assuring Frank that one blackguard there
was worse than another, but saying that he would see them to the end
as long as his time lasted. Rachel insisted that Frank should go with
him.
"I am just getting up from my death-bed," she said, laughing, "and
you want me to go on like any other man's young woman. I can think
about you without talking to you." And so saying she dismissed him.
On the next morning, when he came again, she discussed with him the
future arrangement of his life and hers.
"Of course you must stay with your father," she said. "You do not
want to marry me at once, I suppose. And of course it is impossible
if you do. I shall go to the States with father as soon as this
Parliament affair is over. He is turned out of the House so often
that he will be off before long for good and all. But there is the
mail still running, and remember that what I say is true. I shall be
ready and willing to be made Mrs. Frank Jones as soon as you will
come and fetch me, and will tell me that you are able to provide me
just with a crust and a blanket in County Galway. Whatever little you
will do with, I will do with less."
Then she sat upon his knee, and embraced him and kissed him, and
swore to him that no other Lord Castlewell who came should interfere
with his rights.
"And as for Mr. Moss," she added, "I do not think that he will ever
appear again to trouble your little game."