A Plucky Girl

"He left England on the 30th of November," I said.

"Ah, and this is the 15th of March. What a nice genial spring we are having. He will be home soon; I am sure of that."

"Have you heard from him?" I asked abruptly.

"Just a line en route. I think it was dated from Colombo. Have you heard?"

"I believe mother had a letter, and I think Jane had."

"He has not written to you?"

"No." I felt the colour leap into my cheeks like an angry flame. I was ashamed of myself for blushing.

The Duchess looked at me attentively, and I saw a pleased expression in her eyes. That look made me still more uncomfortable. She bent towards me, took my hand, and pressed it.

"You like Jim, do you not?" she said.

"Yes," I answered very slowly. "I do not know Mr. Randolph well, but what little I have seen of him I like. He is courteous, and he thinks of others; he is very unselfish; he has much sympathy and tact, too. I think he is very fond of mother."

The Duchess gave the queerest, most inexplicable of smiles.

"He is a dear fellow," she said. "Westenra, when you come back to us we will all rejoice."

"I do not understand you," I answered coldly. "It is impossible for me ever to come back to you. I have stepped down."

"When you come back we will rejoice," she repeated.

"But I am not coming back. I do not even know that I want to. If you had come to see mother sometimes – mother, who is just as much a lady as she ever was, who is sweeter and more beautiful than she ever was – you might have done us a great service, and I could have loved you, oh! so dearly; but you have forsaken us, because we are no longer in your set. Duchess, I must speak the truth. I hate sets; I hate distinctions of rank. You used to love us; I did think your love was genuine. We lived in a nice house in Mayfair, and you were our great and kind friend. Now you do not love us, because – because we are poor."

"You are mistaken, Westenra. I love you still, and I have never forgotten you. I will not come in now, but I will come and see your mother to-morrow."

"That will please her," I answered, drying away the tears which had risen to my eyes. "But please do not disappoint her. I will tell her of your visit. Do not keep her waiting. She is weak; she has been very ill. At what hour will you come?"

"About twelve o'clock. But she must be very bad indeed from the way you speak."

"She is far from well."

"Are you hiding anything from me, Westenra?"

"I am," I replied stoutly. "And you cannot get my secret from me. When you see mother to-morrow perhaps you will know without my speaking. Do not say anything to agitate her."

"My poor, poor child. Westenra, you ought never to have left us. You do not look well; but never mind, spring is coming, and Jim Randolph will be home before May."

CHAPTER XX

RUINED

It was on the afternoon of that same day that Jane Mullins sent for me to go into her private sitting-room.

"Shut the door," she said, "I must talk to you."

Really Jane looked most queer. During the last month or two, ever since Mr. Randolph went away, she had been taking less and less pains with her dress; her hair was rough and thinner than ever; her little round figure had fallen away; she seemed to have aged by many years. She was never a pretty woman, never in any sense of the word, but now there was something grotesque about her, grotesque and at the same time intensely pathetic.

"I have done all I could," she said. "Lock the door, please, Westenra."

I locked the door.

"Now come and sit here, or stand by the window, or do anything you like; but listen with all your might, keep your attention alert."

"Yes," I said, "yes."

"We are ruined, Westenra," said Jane Mullins, "we are ruined."

"What!" I cried.

Jane said the words almost ponderously, and then she threw her hands to her sides and gazed at me with an expression which I cannot by any possibility describe.

"We are ruined," she repeated, "and it is time you should know it."

"But how?" I asked.

"How?" she cried with passion, "because we have debts which we cannot meet – we have debts, debts, debts on every side; debts as high as the house itself. Because we deceived our landlord, unintentionally it is true, but nevertheless we deceived him, with promises which we cannot fulfil, he can take back the lease of this house if he pleases, and take it back he will, because our paying guests don't pay, because the whole thing from first to last is a miserable failure. There, Westenra, that's about the truth. It was your thought in the first instance, child, and though I don't want to blame you, for you did it with good meaning, and in utter ignorance, yet nevertheless you must take some of the brunt of this terrible time. I cannot bear the whole weight any longer. I have kept it to myself, and it has driven me nearly mad. Yes, we are ruined."

"You must explain more fully," was my answer.

Her agitation was so great that by its very force it kept me quiet. I had never seen her absolutely without composure before; her usually brisk, confident manner had deserted her.

"You have kept me in the dark," I continued, "and you have done wrong, very wrong. Now please explain how and why we are ruined."

"Here are some of the accounts; understand them if you can," she said. She opened a drawer and pulled out a great account book. "Now look here," she said, "the house is absolutely full, there is not a single room to be let; I declined four fresh parties only this morning; Emma is perfectly tired opening the door to people who want to come here to board, the house has got a name and a good one. It is said of it that it is in Bloomsbury and yet smacks of the West End. You and your mother and Jim Randolph, bless him! have to answer for that. It's all your doing, and the people have talked. Everything has been done that could be done to make the place popular, and the place is popular, but now, you look here. Here are the takings" – she pointed to one side of the ledger – "here are the expenses" – she pointed to the other – "expenses so much, takings so much, look at the balance, Westenra. Of course you don't know much about accounts, but you can see for yourself."

I did look, and I did see, and my heart seemed to stand still, for the balance on the wrong side of the ledger represented many pounds a week.

"Then this means," I said, for I was sharp enough in my way, "that the longer we go on the heavier we get into debt. Every week we lose so much."

"We do, dear, that's just it."

"But cannot we retrench?"

"Retrench! how? Do you suppose the boarders will do without their comfortable hot coffee, and the other luxuries on the board at breakfast? Do you suppose they will do without their lunch, their afternoon tea with plenty of cakes and plenty of cream, their late dinner, at which appears all the luxuries of the season? – why, the house would be empty in a week. And we cannot have fewer servants, we have only four, very much less than most people would have for an establishment of this kind, and Emma already complains of pains in her legs, and says she is worn out going up and down stairs."

"But the place looks so thriving," I said.

"Looks! what have looks to do with it?" said Jane. "I feel nearly mad, for I always thought I could pull the thing through; but it's going on at a loss, and nothing can go on at a loss; and then, dear, there are bad debts – one or two people have shuffled off without paying, and there are the furniture bills, they are not all met yet."

"But I thought," I said, "that the seven thousand pounds – "

"Ay," cried Jane, "and that is where the bitterness comes in. That money was supposed to be all right, to be as sure and safe as the Bank of England, and it is not all right, it is all wrong. But that is James Randolph's story. When he comes back he will explain the rights of it to you, my dear. If I could only hear from him that the money was safe, we could wind up honourably in the autumn and stop the concern; but I have not heard, I have not heard; there has been nothing but silence, and the silence drives me mad. Westenra, what is to be done?"