"Then will you trust me because your mother does? will you believe that when I come back I shall be in a position to set all her fears and yours also absolutely at rest? I am certain of this, I go away with a hope which I dare not express more fully; I shall come back trusting that that hope may be fulfilled in all its magnificence for myself. I cannot say more at present. I long to, but I dare not. Will you trust me? will you try to understand? Why, what is the matter?"

He turned and looked at me abruptly. Quick sobs were coming from my lips. I suddenly and unexpectedly lost my self-control.

"I shall be all right in a minute," I said. "I have gone through much to-day; it is--it is on account of mother. Don't--don't speak for a moment."

He did not, he stood near me. When I had recovered he said gently--

"Give me your promise. I wish I could say more, much, much more, but will you trust me in the dark?"

"I will," I replied. "I am sorry you are going. Thank you for being kind to mother; come back when you can."

"You may be certain on that point," he replied. "I leave England with extreme unwillingness. Thank you for what you have promised."

He held out his hand and I gave him mine. I felt my heart beat as my hand lay for a moment in his, his fingers closed firmly over it, then he slowly dropped it. We went back to the house.

A few days afterwards Mr. Randolph went away. He went quite quietly, without making the slightest commotion. He just entered the drawing-room quickly one morning after breakfast, and shook hands with mother and shook hands with me, and said that he would be back again before either of us had missed him, and then went downstairs, and I watched behind the curtain as his luggage was put on the roof of the cab. I watched him get in. Jane Mullins was standing near. He shook hands with her. He did not once glance up at our windows, the cab rolled out of the Square and was lost to view. Then I turned round.

There were tears in mother's eyes.

"He is the nicest fellow I have ever met," she said, "I am so very sorry that he has gone."

"Well, Mummy darling," I answered, "you are more my care than ever now."

"Oh, I am not thinking of myself," said mother. She looked up at me rather uneasily. It seemed to me as if her eyes wanted to read me through, and I felt that I did not want her to read me through; I did not want any one to read what my feelings were that day.

Jane Mullins came bustling up.

"It is a lovely morning, and your mother must have a drive," she said.

"I have ordered a carriage. It will be round in half-an-hour. You and she are to drive in the Park and be back in time for lunch, and see here, Mrs. Wickham, I want you to taste this. I have made it from a receipt in the new invalid cookery book. I think you will say that you never tasted such soup before."

"Oh, you quite spoil me, Jane," said mother, but she took the soup which Jane had prepared so delicately for her, and I ran off, glad to be by myself for a few moments.

At dinner that day Mrs. Fanning and Mrs. Armstrong sat side by side.

Mrs. Fanning had taken a great fancy to Mrs. Armstrong, and they usually during the meal sat with their heads bent towards one another, talking eagerly, and often glancing in the direction of Albert Fanning and Miss Armstrong and me. Mrs. Fanning had an emphatic way of bobbing her head whenever she looked at me, and after giving me a steady glance, her eyes involuntarily rolled round in the direction of Mr.

Fanning.

I was so well aware of these glances that I now never pretended to see them, but not one of them really escaped my notice. After dinner that evening the good lady came up to my side.

"Well, my dear, well," she said, "and how are you bearing up?"

"Bearing up?" I answered, "I don't quite understand."

Now of course no one in the boarding-house was supposed to know anything whatever with regard to mother's health. The consultation of the doctors had been so contrived that the princ.i.p.al boarders had been out when it took place, therefore I knew that Mrs. Fanning was not alluding to the doctors. She sat down near me.

"Ah," she said, "I thought, and I told my dear son Albert, that a man of that sort would not stay very long. You are bearing up, for you are a plucky sort of girl, but you must be feeling it a good bit. I am sorry for you, you have been a silly girl, casting your eyes at places too high for you, and never seeing those good things which are laid so to speak at your very feet. You are like all the rest of the world, but if you think that my Albert will put up with other people's leavings, you are finely mistaken."

"Really, Mrs. Fanning," I answered, "I am completely at a loss to know what you are talking about."

Here I heard Mrs. Armstrong's hearty and coa.r.s.e laugh in my ear.

"Ha! ha!" said Mrs. Armstrong, "so she says she doesn't know. Well now then, we won't allude any further to the subject. Of course it ain't likely that she would give herself away. Few young ladies of the Miss Westenra Wickham type do. Whatever else they don't hold with, they hold on to their sinful pride, they quite forget that they are worms of the dust, that their fall will come, and when it comes it's bitter, that's what I say; that's what I have said to Marion, when Marion has been a little put out, poor dear, with the marked and silly attentions of one who never meant anything at all. It was only before dinner I said to Marion, 'You wouldn't like to be in Miss Wickham's shoes to-night, would you, Marion? You wouldn't like to be wearing the willow, would you, my girl?' And she said no, she wouldn't, but then she added, 'With my soul full of Art, mother, I always can have my resources,' and that is where Marion believes, that if she were so unlucky as to be crossed in love, she would have the advantage of you, Miss Wickham, for you have plainly said that you have no soul for h'Art."

"All that talk of Art makes me downright sick," here interrupted Mrs.

Fanning. "That's where I admire you, Miss Wickham. You are very nice to look at, and you have no nonsense about you, and it's my belief that you never cared twopence about that high-falutin' young man, and that now he has gone, you'll just know where your bread is b.u.t.tered.

Sit along side of me, dear, and we will have a little discourse about Albert, it's some time since we had a good round talk about my dear and G.o.dly son."

CHAPTER XVII

A DASH OF ONIONS

It was about a fortnight later that one afternoon, soon after lunch, Mrs. Fanning came into the drawing-room. She was somewhat short-sighted, and she stood in the middle of the room, looking round her. After a time, to my great horror, she caught sight of me. If I had a moment to spare, I should have got behind the curtain, in order to avoid her, but I had not that moment; she discovered her prey, and made for me as fast as an arrow from a bow.

"Ah," she said, "here you are; I am going out driving in Albert's brougham this afternoon. You didn't know, perhaps, that Albert had a brougham of his own?"

"I did not," I answered.

"It is a recent acquisition of his; he is becoming a wealthy man is Albert, and he started the brougham a short time ago. He had the body painted red and the wheels dark brown--I was for having the wheels yellow, because I like something distinct, but Albert said, 'No, _she_ would rather have dark brown.' Who do you think he meant by _she_, now? That's the puzzle I am putting to you. Who do you think _she_ is?"

"You, of course," I answered boldly.

Mrs. Fanning favoured me with a broad wink.

"Ah now, that's very nice of you," she said, "but the old mother doesn't come in anywhere when the young girl appears on the horizon.

It is about time for Albert to be meeting the young girl, and meet her he will. Indeed, it is my opinion that he has met her, and that the brougham which she likes is standing at the door. It is for the sake of that young girl he has had those wheels painted brown, it is not the wish of his old mother. But come for a drive with me, will you, dear?"

"I am sorry," I began.

"Oh no, I am not going to take any refusal. Ah, there is your precious dear mother coming into the room."

Before I could interrupt her, Mrs. Fanning had gone to meet my mother.

She never walked in the ordinary sense of the word, she waddled. She waddled now in her stiff brown satin across the drawing-room, and stood before mother.

"And how are you feeling this morning, Mrs. Wickham?" she said; "ah!

but poorly, I can tell by the look of your face, you are dreadfully blue round the lips, it's the effect of indigestion, isn't it, now?"

"I have suffered a good deal lately from indigestion," replied mother in her gentle tones.

"And a bad thing it is, a very bad thing," said Mrs. Fanning. "I cured myself with Williams' Pink Pills for Pale People. Did you ever try 'em, Mrs. Wickham?"

"No," replied mother gravely.

"Well, well, they pulled me round. Albert was terribly concerned about me a year ago. I couldn't fancy the greatest dainties you could give me, I turned against my food, and as to going upstairs, why, if you'll believe me, I could have no more taken possession of that attic next to your young daughter than I could have fled. Now there ain't a stair in Britain would daunt me; I'd be good for climbing the Monument any fine morning, and it's all owing to Williams' Pink Pills. They're a grand medicine. But what I wanted to say to you now was this: May Miss Wickham come for a drive with me in my son's own brougham? I am anxious to have an outing with her, and I see by her face she is desirous to come; may she? Say yes, madam; if you are wise, you will."

I saw that mother was becoming a little excited and a little agitated, and I knew that that would never do, so I said hastily--