CHAPTER XXX
THE DUCHESS HAS HER SAY
I shall never forget as long as I live that sultry 1st of August; there seemed to be scarcely a breath of air anywhere, all the air of London had that used-up feeling which those who live in it all the year round know so well. It was hot weather, hot in the house, hot in the outside streets, hot in the burnt-up parks, hot everywhere. The sky seemed to radiate heat, and the earth seemed to embrace it; and we poor human beings who were subjected to it scarcely knew what to do with ourselves.
Even in Jasmine's luxurious house, where all the appliances of comfort were abundantly in evidence, even there we gasped and thought of the country with a longing equal to that of thirsty people for water.
Jasmine and her husband were going away the next day, and the Duchess was going away too, and I was to join the Fannings on the 4th. I was to have three more days in Jasmine's house, and then I was to go, I knew well never to return. I had not seen Jim after that night, nearly a fortnight ago, when I had told him everything, and from that hour to now nothing at all had occurred to deliver me from my bondage and misery. Mrs. Fanning had come twice to see me; she was very bustling and self-important, and told me honestly that she had a downright hatred for that airified madam her ladyship. She said that we'd have an excellent time in Switzerland, going to the very best hotels, enjoying ourselves everywhere.
"And you two young engaged creatures will have no end of opportunities for flirtation," she said; "I won't be much in the way. You may be quite sure that the old mother will efface herself in order to give her son and her dear new daughter every possible opportunity for enjoying life. Ah! my dear, there is no time like the engaged period—the man makes such a fuss about you then. He don't afterwards, dear; I may as well be frank, but he don't—the best of 'em even take you as if you were common clay; but beforehand you're something of an angel, and they treat you according. It's the way of all men, dear, it is the way of every single one of 'em. Now Albert, for instance, I declare at times I scarcely know him. He used to be a matter-of-fact sort of body, but he is changed in all sorts of ways; and as to the way he speaks of you, you'd think you weren't common clay at all, that your feet had never yet touched the earth. He drives me past patience almost at times; but I say to myself, 'Thank goodness, it won't last.' That's my one consolation, for I cannot bear those high-falutin' ideas, although there's nothing Albert does that seems really wrong to me. He said to me only yesterday, 'Mother, I have a kind of awe over me when I am with her; she is not like any one else, she is so dainty, and so——' I declare I almost laughed in his face; but there, I didn't, and doubtless he has told you those sort of things himself. I don't want to see you blush. Not that you do blush, Westenra; I must say you take things pretty cool. I suppose it is breeding. They say it takes a power of good breeding to get that calm which it strikes me you have to perfection. I never saw any one else with it except that Mr. Randolph, who, I hear, wasn't drowned at all, but came back as safe as ever a few days ago. Well, well, I'm off now. You wouldn't like to come back to the Métropole to me and Albert the day her ladyship goes, would you, child? Say out frankly if you have a wish that way."
"No," I answered, "I have not a wish that way. I will meet you at Victoria Station. I would rather stay here until then."
"Well, well, good-bye, my dearie," said the stout old woman, and she embraced me with her voluminous arms, and patted me on my cheek.
But although she came, as I said, twice, Albert did not come at all, and I thought it extremely nice of him. New proofs of his kindness were meeting me at every turn. He wrote to me several times, and in each letter said that he knew perfectly well that I meant to be free until the year was up, and that he was not going to worry me with overmuch love-making, or any nonsense of that sort; but he thought I would like Switzerland, and the change would do me good, and although he would not say much, and would not even ask me to go out walking with him unless I wished it, yet I was to be certain of one thing, that he was ready to lay down his life for me, and that I was the one thought of his heart, the one treasure of his soul.
"Poor Albert!" I had almost said, "Poor dear Albert!" when I read that last letter. How much he had developed since the days when we first met. It is wonderful what a power love has, how it ennobles and purifies and sanctifies, and raises, and Albert's love was very unselfish—how utterly unselfish, I was to know before long.
But the days went on, and each day seemed a little harder than the last, until I became quite anxious for the complete break to take place when I should have parted with my old friends and my old life for ever. But I knew quite well that even if I did go away, the image of the man I really loved would remain in my heart. As this was likely to be a sin by-and-by—for surely I ought not to marry one man and love another—I must try to fight against all thoughts of Jim, and to banish the one who would not be banished from my thoughts.