Part 31 (1/2)

”I will come again to-morrow or next day,” said the d.u.c.h.ess; ”I don't like her appearance at all.”

The d.u.c.h.ess went away, and I returned to mother.

”It was nice to see Victoria,” said my mother. ”She is just the same as ever, not the least changed. She told me about all our old friends.”

”You are over-excited,” I said, ”you ought to stay quiet now.”

”On the contrary, I am well and hungry; only I wonder when I shall see her again.”

”She said she would come to-morrow or next day,” I answered.

In the evening mother certainly seemed by no means worse for the d.u.c.h.ess's visit, and the next day she said to me, ”Victoria will certainly call to-morrow.” But to-morrow came and the d.u.c.h.ess did not arrive, nor the next day, nor the next, and mother looked rather f.a.gged, and rather sad and disappointed, and at the end of a week or fortnight she ceased to watch anxiously for the sound of wheels in the Square, and said less and less about her dear friend Victoria.

But just then, the thoughts of every one in the house except mother (and the news was carefully kept from her), were full of a great and terrible catastrophe, and even I forgot all about the d.u.c.h.ess, for one of our largest Orient liners had foundered on some sunken rocks not far from Port Adelaide, off the coast of South Australia, and there had been a terrific s.h.i.+pwreck, and almost every one on board was drowned. The vessel was called the _Star of Hope_. The papers were all full of it, and the news was on every one's lips; but just at first I did not realise how all important, how paralysing this same news was for us. I read the trouble first in Jane's face.

”You must not let your mother know about the s.h.i.+pwreck,” she said.

”But I cannot keep the newspapers from mother, and every newspaper is full of it,” I replied; ”surely, Jane, surely--oh, you cannot mean it--no person that we know was on board?”

”I have a great fear over me,” she answered.

I clutched her arm, and looked into her face with wild eyes. My own brain seemed to reel, my heart beat almost to suffocation, then I became quiet. With a mighty effort I controlled myself.

”Surely,” I said, ”surely.”

”His name is not mentioned amongst the list of pa.s.sengers, that is my one comfort; but it is quite possible, on the other hand, that he may have gone on board at Adelaide,” she continued, ”for I know he had business close to Adelaide, he told me so. If that was the case they might not have entered his name in the s.h.i.+p's list of pa.s.sengers, and--oh, I have a great, a terrible fear over me, his silence, and now this. Yes, child, it is true, he was, if all had gone well, to be on his way home about now; but he has never written, and now this s.h.i.+pwreck. I am more anxious, far more anxious than I can say.”

That night I did not sleep at all. Thoughts of Jim Randolph filled my mind to the exclusion of all hope of repose. Was he really drowned?

Had he left the world? Was I never to see his face again? There was a cry at my heart, and an ache there which ought to have told me the truth, and yet I would not face the truth. I said over and over to myself, ”If he dies, it is terrible; if he dies, it means ruin for us;” but nevertheless I knew well, although I would not face the truth, that I was not thinking of the ruin to the house in Graham Square, nor the blow to mother, nor the loss of James Randolph simply as a friend. There was a deeper cause for my grief. It was useless for me to say to my own heart Jim Randolph was nothing to me. I knew well that he was. I knew well that he was more to me than any one else in the wide world; that I--yes, although he had never spoken of his love for me, I loved him, yes, I loved him with my full heart.

In the morning I made up my mind that I would go and see the d.u.c.h.ess.

Perhaps, too, she might know something about Jim Randolph, as he was a friend of hers, a friend about whom she was always hinting, but about whom she said very little.

As I was leaving the house Jane called me into her sitting-room.

”Where are you going,” she said.

I told her.

”Did you ever think over that idea of mine that you might ask the d.u.c.h.ess to lend us that thousand pounds?” she said. ”You remember I mentioned it, and you said you would not do it; but things are very grave, very grave indeed; and if--if my fear about Mr. Randolph is true, why things are graver than ever, in fact everything is up. But I would like for _her_ sake, poor dear, for her sake to ward off the catastrophe as long as possible. She was very ill last night, and I was up with her for a couple of hours. I wouldn't disturb you; but didn't you think yourself that she looked bad this morning?”

”Oh yes,” I said, the tears starting to my eyes; ”I thought mother looked terribly ill, and I am going to see the d.u.c.h.ess. She ought to call in order to make mother happy.”

”Shut the door, Westenra,” said Jane, ”I have something I must say.”

I shut the door, I was trembling. Jane was no longer a rock of defence, she made me more frightened than any one else in the house.

”Oh, what is it?” I said; ”don't be mysterious, do speak out.”

”Well, it is this,” said Jane, ”we want that thousand pounds just dreadfully. If we had it we could go on, we could go on at least till the end of the season, and there would be an excuse to take your mother to the country, and she might never know, never; but it wants two months to the end of the season, and the house is full, and every one is in the height of good humour, and yet they are all walking on the brink of a precipice; the earth is eaten away beneath us, and any moment the whole thing may topple through. Why, it was only yesterday----”