"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 shipwreck, 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 shipwreck," 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 ship'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 shipwreck. 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----"

"What happened yesterday?" I asked.

"A man came, a Mr. Pattens."

"What has Mr. Pattens to do with us?" I said.

"You listen to me, my dear; things are so grave that I can scarcely smile, and you are so ignorant, Westenra."

"Well," I said, "do tell me about Mr. Pattens."

"He is the butcher, dear, and we owe him over a hundred pounds, and he is positively desperate. He asked to see me, and of course I saw him, and then he said he _must_ see your mother."

"See mother? But mother never sees the tradespeople."

"I know, love; but it was with the utmost difficulty I could keep him from not seeing her. He said that she was responsible for his account, and that if I would not let him see her he would do the other thing."

"What?" I asked, "what?"

"Well, my dear, it is coming, and you may as well bear it. There will be a bailiff in this house in no time. Yes, there'll be a man in possession, and how is your mother to stand that? You think whether you would rather just tell your grand friend the d.u.c.h.ess, and save your mother from the depths of humiliation, or whether you will let things take their course. Pattens is desperate, and he is the sort of man who will have no mercy. I have had to get the meat from another butcher--we can't hold out much longer. I have paid away the last shilling of the reserve fund I had in the bank. Oh dear, oh dear! why did Mr. Randolph go away? If he has gone down in the _Star of Hope_, why truly it is black night for us."

"I will do my best, Jane, and do keep up heart; and oh, Jane, keep mother in her room, she must not know, she must not meet this terrible danger. O Jane! do your best."

"I will, love. Even at the very worst day dawns but it is black night at present, that it is," said the faithful creature.

As I was going out who did I see standing on the threshold but Mrs.

Fanning. Mrs. Fanning had been away for over a fortnight, and I must say we greatly enjoyed her absence, and I in particular enjoyed it; but when I saw her comely, good-humoured, beaming face now, it seemed to me that my heart went out to her. She looked at me, and then she opened her arms wide.

"Come to me, you dear little soul," she said; "come and have a hearty hug." She clasped me tightly, and kissed me over and over again.

"I am only back an hour," she said. "And how is Albert?"

"I have not seen Mr. Fanning this morning," I answered, and I tried to disengage myself from those cheery arms.

"Dear, dear, you don't look at all the thing," she said; "there's the brougham outside, would not you like a drive, honey? You and I might go out by ourselves. Come, dearie."

"No, thank you," I answered, "I am going on some special business for mother."

"Then whatever it is, can't you make use of the brougham? It was all built and painted to suit your style, love, and why should not you make use of it? Albert would be that proud."

"Oh, indeed he would not, Mrs. Fanning; but please do not speak of it, I cannot, I really cannot."

"Well, if you won't, you won't," said the good woman. "I have come back, though, and I hope to see a good deal of you; I have got lots to tell you. I have been collecting early reminiscences."

"Of what?" I could not help asking.

"Of Albert's babyhood and childhood, they are that touching. I found a little diary he used to keep. I declare I laughed and I cried over it.

We'll read it together this evening. Now then, off you go, and do get some colour back into your pale cheeks; you are quite the prettiest, most graceful, most h'aristocratic young lady I ever saw; but you are too pale now, you really are."