Part 41 (1/2)

”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 wors.h.i.+pped 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 s.h.i.+pwreck, 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.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

THIS DEAR GIRL BELONGS TO US

I forget all about the night that followed. I also forget the next day. I think I stayed in my room most of the time, but the day following I went down to the drawing-room. London was already emptying fast. Jim had not come back. I sat in the drawing-room wondering what was going to happen, feeling that something must happen soon--a great catastrophe--a great shattering of that castle in the air which I had built so proudly a few months ago. While I was sitting there Jasmine bustled in.

”Now that is good, West,” she said. ”You are better. I want to have a little chat with you.”

I raised my eyes. I knew very well what she was going to talk about, but I was not prepared to tell the whole truth yet. There was one matter I kept in reserve--my engagement to Albert Fanning. Whether I did right or wrong, the announcement of that extreme news could not pa.s.s my lips. I often struggled to tell it, but never yet had I been able. I knew, of course, that if Jim came to see me again I must tell him everything, but I hoped in my mad misery that he would not come again. Then the next hour I hoped the other way. I longed most pa.s.sionately to see him, and so I was torn from hour to hour and from minute to minute with longings and doubts and despairs; but all through everything, I kept my secret untold within my breast.

”It is so nice about Jim Randolph,” said Jasmine, sitting down near me. ”Do you know that when Sir Henry Severn dies, Jim will be the successor to the baronetcy. While Jim was away in Australia, Sir Henry's son Theodore died quite suddenly. It was awfully sad, and now James is the next in succession. Sir Henry wishes him to live either with him at Severn Towers, in Somersets.h.i.+re, or to have a house close by. James went down yesterday to see the old man, and will probably be coming back to-morrow. He was very sorry to leave you, but he had to go. He will be a rich man in the future, for Sir Henry Severn is very wealthy. It is a grand chance for Jim. He never for a moment supposed that the t.i.tle would come to him.”

I sat silent. I had a little ring on my finger--a very plain ring, with one tiny diamond in it. It had been given to me by Albert Fanning. I would not allow him to give me a flashy or showy ring, as he wanted to do, and I think he would gladly have spent a couple of hundred pounds on my engagement-ring, but I would not have it, not until the whole thing was known, then he might lavish jewellery on me as much as he pleased for all I cared. I twisted the little ring round and thought of my bond, and said after a pause--

”I do grieve about one thing, and that is that mother did not see Mr.