CHAPTER XXXI.

MY MOTHER EXPRESSES HER FEARS CONCERNING JESSIE.

One evening, as I was smartening myself up in my room, preparatory to going to the Wests', my mother entered, and said, almost humbly,

'My dear, can you spare me a few minutes?'

'Certainly,'I replied. 'Jessie is at the Wests', isn't she?'

'Yes, my dear. I'll not keep you long. I want to speak to you about her.'

'Go on, mother,' I said, in a tone of satisfaction, for that was the subject I loved best to converse upon.

'How you have grown, my darling! You are the image of your father, who was a fine handsome man. How proud I am of my son!'

I looked in the glass, without any feeling of vanity. I always took pains with my appearance when I was about to present myself to Jessie, but I had no high opinion of myself, and I was never quite satisfied with the result.

'You do your best to spoil me, mother,' I said, submitting myself to my mother, whose fond fingers were about my neck. 'Go on, about Jessie.'

'You are in her confidence, my dear?'

The words were used in the form of a question; and I was immediately conscious that they were the prelude to something of importance, for there was trouble in my mother's face. I also was troubled; a new sorrow had entered into my life, a sorrow with which of course Jessie was connected. All that there was for me of joy and pain in the world was associated with her.

I hesitated in my answer. Jessie had pledged me to secrecy with reference to the peculiar nature of her intimacy with the Wests and to her passion for acting, and I would not betray her, not even to my mother. There were confidences between Jessie and me which even she could not share. My mother and I had but few opportunities for conversation during this time, for very little of my time was spent at home. Wherever Jessie went I was bound to follow. It did not matter--except in the sorrow that it caused me--that she gave me less encouragement than formerly; it did not matter that certain undefinable signs from her, which I had hitherto treasured in my heart of hearts as proofs of her love, came rarely and more rarely; the rarer they were the more precious they were. I found excuses for her: in my own inferiority, which hourly and daily impressed itself more painfully upon me; in my being poor; in her being so beautiful and so far above me. I could not see, I dared not think, how it was to end; but I followed her blindly, clung to her blindly.

My mother observed my hesitation, and divined the cause.

'Nay, my dear,' she said, in a sad and gentle tone, 'I do not ask you to tell me anything you think you ought to keep to yourself. I have not forfeited _your_ confidence, have I, my darling?'

Before I could reply, she placed her hand to her heart, and uttered an exclamation of pain.

'Mother!' I cried.

'It is nothing, dear child,' she said; 'it is only a pain in my side that has come once or twice lately. Put your arms round my neck, my darling; it will pass away directly.'

She rested her head upon my shoulder and closed her eyes, holding me tightly to her.

'I am better now, dear child,' she said presently, with a sweet smile.

Could I see nothing in her face but physical pain? No, nothing. The old patient look was there, the old tender love was there. What more _could_ I have seen, had I not been blind?

'You ought to get advice, mother. Promise me.'

'I will, my dear; but it is nothing. I am not growing younger, Chris.'

'You were speaking of Jessie, mother.'

'Yes, my dear. I was about to say that Jessie has no one to look after her but me.'

'And me,' I added proudly.

'And you, my dear. I know what your feelings are towards her, but you are away at your work all the day, and then the duty devolves upon me alone.'

'Well, mother?'

'Jessie is a little different to me from what she was; I am beginning to think--sorely against my will, dear child--that she mistrusts me. I know that she is not happy, but I could comfort her if she would let me. It might be better for all of us if she would confide in me.'

'I am sure it would be, mother.'

'She does not repulse me, Chris; she avoids me. When I have it in my mind to speak to her seriously, she seems to know what I am about to say--she is very bright and clever, my dear--and she obstinately refuses to listen; runs away, or turns me from my purpose by some means. I am very anxious about her.'

'Jessie can take care of herself,' I said, assuming an easiness I did not feel; she is not happy at home, as we know; but we know, also, who is to blame for that. I suppose she refuses to listen to you because she feels that the subject you wish to speak to her upon is a painful one. I should do the same in her place.'

'I don't blame her, my dear; don't think that I blame her. But I must not forget my duty. She has no mother; do not I stand in that relation to her?'

I kissed my mother for these words.

'Then, knowing that I wish her nothing but good, why does she avoid me so steadily? O Chris, my child! greater unhappiness than all may come from her distrust of me.'

A tremor ran through my frame. Not love alone, but pity, was expressed in my mother's face and tone.

'I don't quite understand you, mother,' I said.

'Where does Jessie go to in the day, my dear?'

'Where does Jessie go to in the day!' I repeated. 'Does she go anywhere?'

'Then you do not know, my dear; she hides it from you as well. For the last fortnight she has gone out every morning at eleven 'o'clock, and has not returned until four. I have put her dinner by for her every day, but she will not eat it, and she refuses to say where she has been.'

I considered for a few moments, and soon arrived at a satisfactory conclusion.

'It is very simple. She goes to Miss West's, and she does not eat her dinner because she knows she is not welcome to it. It is uncle Bryan's dinner, and this is uncle Bryan's house. Jessie is very proud.'

My mother shook her head. 'She does not go to Miss West's. I have not watched her, because I know that she would discover me, and that it would turn her more against me. But three mornings ago I saw her get into an omnibus which goes to the West-end. What friends can she have there, Chris? And if she has friends, should we not know who they are?'

'If she has friends!' I exclaimed, putting a brave face on the disclosure, although I was inexpressibly hurt at the knowledge that Jessie was keeping a secret from me. 'Do you suspect she has?'

'She must have, Chris.'

I looked at my mother; there was more in her tone than her words implied.

'Go on, mother. You have something more to tell me.'

'It is best you should know, my darling,' said my mother in a tone of inexpressible tenderness, encircling my waist with her arm; it is best you should know, for you are in Jessie's confidence, and she will listen to you when she would not heed me. Yesterday afternoon, as I was walking home--I had been out on an errand for your uncle--a cab passed me, with two persons in it. One was a gentleman, the other was Jessie. Nay, my dear, don't shrink. There is no harm in that; the harm is in keeping it from us, her dearest friends, and in making a secret of it.'

I controlled my agitation, foolishly believing that I could deceive this fondest of mothers.

'Did the cab come to our door?' I asked.

'No, my dear; it did not come down the street. It stopped a few yards in front of me, and the gentleman assisted Jessie out----'

'Don't hide anything from me, mother; of course I shall speak to Jessie about it. Tell me exactly what you saw and heard.'

'I heard nothing; I shrank away, so that Jessie should, not see me. The gentleman said something to her, but she shook her head, and then he bade her good-bye and drove away. That is all.'

It was enough to make me most unhappy, but still I strove to conceal my feelings. I endeavoured to make light of the circumstance, and I asked my mother in a careless tone whether she was sure it _was_ a gentleman who accompanied Jessie. She said she was sure of it.

'What was he like?'

'Tall and dark, and very well dressed.'

'Young?' I asked.

'No,' she answered, and I could not help feeling relieved at the information; nearer fifty than forty, I should say.'

I could not at the moment call to mind any person whom the description fitted, and I promised my mother that I would speak to Jessie about it.

'Ask her to confide in me, my dear,' my mother said.

'I will, mother.'

As I walked towards the Wests', my mind was filled with what my mother had told me. I held the clue which would have led me to the truth, but I juggled with myself, and rejected it because the result was displeasing to me. I had never yet mustered sufficient courage to speak to Jessie plainly concerning her passion for acting, and what it was likely to lead to. Many and many a time had I thought of Josey West's words, 'when Jessie becomes a famous actress,' and of old Mac's remark that Jessie was destined to occupy a distinguished position on the boards. These utterances, coupled with the conversation that took place between Mr. Rackstraw and Jessie on the night of the performance, were surely sufficient to convince me that Jessie's visits to the West-end had something to do with her desire to become an actress; but I would not be convinced, simply because I did not wish to believe it. Say that Jessie did appear upon the public stage, and became famous--as I was sure she would become--she would be farther than ever from me. I caught at one little straw that lay in the way of the result I dreaded. Mr. Rackstraw had said that there was a great deal to be learnt, and that it would cost money. Well, Jessie did not have any money. I magnified this straw into an insurmountable obstacle which it was impossible for Jessie to get over, and so I played the fool with my reason.

I found the Wests busy as usual. Jessie was there, learning some dancing steps from one of the young misses; she blushed as I entered, and the lesson was discontinued. I had intended to speak privately to Josey West about Jessie, but within a few minutes of my arrival, Gus West came in, and I had not the tact to make the opportunity. Josey informing Gus that Jessie had been taking a dancing lesson, he proposed that they should go through a minuet; and he and Jessie and two of the girls performed the old-fashioned dance most gracefully, Josey West humming the minuet de la cour, while I sat in the corner, the only serious person in the room. When the minuet was finished, Josey West called me to her, and addressing me quietly as Mr. Glum, said she was afraid I was of a sulky disposition. I said I did not think I was sulky, but that I was very unhappy.

'About her?' questioned Josey, with a sharp look in the direction of Jessie; but before I could answer, Jessie came towards us, and said she was ready to go home.

'I did not wish to go,' she said to me, on our way, 'but I saw that you had something to say to me.'

I answered, yes; that I did wish to speak to her.

'And about something unpleasant, I can see,' she said; 'make it as short as you can, Chris.'

She was toying with a flower which Gus West had worn in his coat when he came in. I did not see him give it to her, but that she had it, and seemed to value it, was like a dagger in my heart.

'Jessie,' I said disconsolately, 'you know how I love you!'

'If any person on the stage,' she answered lightly, 'spoke of love in that tone, the whole house would laugh at him.'

'That is the only thing that runs in your thoughts now,' I said gloomily.

'What?' she exclaimed. 'Love? I meant the stage. You think of nothing but acting.'

'Well--perhaps! What else have I to think of that brings any happiness to me?'

'I thought you loved me, Jessie.'

'So I do, Chris,' she said in careless fashion, still toying with the flower.

'And others, too,' I added.

'Well, yes--if you please. There are always more than two persons in the world.'

'Jessie!' I implored. 'It hurts me to hear you speak in that careless way. I cannot believe that it is in your nature to think and speak so lightly of what is most precious.'

'Why cannot you believe so?' she asked, somewhat more seriously. 'Am I the only one who lightly regards a precious gift--am I the only one who does not know the value of love?'

'I at least know the value of it, Jessie. Ah, you would believe me if you knew what I would do for you.'

'I think you love me, Chris.'

'With all my heart, Jessie; with all my soul!'

She trembled a little at the passion of my words.

'Tell me,' she said, averting her head, 'what would you do for me?'

I answered that there was no sacrifice that I would not willingly, cheerfully make for her sake; that I thought of none but her, that I loved none but her; that if all the world were on one side, and she alone on the other, I would fly to her, and deem myself blessed to live only for her. This, and much more that has been said a myriad times before, and will be said a myriad times again, I said passionately and fervently. She listened in silence, and then, after a pause, told me she believed I had spoken the true feelings of my heart, and that she was sure I had meant every word I had uttered. And then she pinned Gus West's flower to the bosom of her dress, and asked me if it did not look well there. Miserably, I answered Yes, and felt as though all the brightness were dying out of the world.

'But you have something else to say to me,' Jessie presently remarked; 'what you have already said is very pleasant to me. Now for the unpleasant thing.'

The conversation with my mother, which in the heat of my declaration had slipped out of my mind, now recurred to me, and I told Jessie that my mother was very anxious about her.

'In what way?' she asked.

'Where do you go to every day, Jessie? Mother tells me that you go out regularly at eleven o'clock every morning, and that you do not return until four in the afternoon, and that you don't spend that time at the Wests'.'

'Has she been watching me?'

'No, Jessie.'

'Have you?'

'No,' I replied, very hurt at the question; 'you don't think I would play the spy upon you!'

'Oh, I don't know,' she said, with a toss of her head; 'persons do strange things when they are in love.'

'You seem to know a great deal, Jessie.'

She appeared to be both pleased and discontented at this remark.

'When girls get together, Chris, they _will_ talk; and Josey West and I don't sit in the corner, mumchance, with our mouths shut, as you sat to-night. Have you anything else to tell me?'

'Yes,' I said, 'and I wouldn't speak of it if I hadn't promised mother that I would do so. Yesterday she saw you riding in a cab with a gentleman.'

'That is quite true,' said Jessie simply, before I could proceed farther; 'but why didn't she speak to me about it?'

'Rather say, Jessie, why did you not speak to her. But mother is afraid that you mistrust her; she says that you avoid her when she has it in her mind to speak seriously to you.'

'She told you that?'

'Yes, Jessie.'

'She is not wrong, Chris,' said Jessie, with a sigh; 'but we all seem to be playing at cross purposes, and not one of us seems to understand the other.'

'I think I understand you, Jessie.'

'Do you, Chris?' she asked, in a tenderer tone.

'If others mistrust you, I don't. I know that everything you do is right.' She shook her head gently. 'No, you shall not make me think otherwise, Jessie. You and I will stand together, come what will.'

'Against all the rest of the world,' she said, quoting my words.

'Yes, against all the rest of the world, Jessie,' I replied eagerly.

'It will never be, Chris; I would not accept such a service from you if the whole happiness of my life depended upon it. Ah me! Often and often I think what an unhappy day that was for all of us when I came among you.'

'You said so on the Sunday morning that you asked uncle Bryan to come to church with us; but you repented immediately afterwards, if you remember, and said you were not sorry, for if it had happened so, you would not have known mother.'

'I have learnt something from her, Chris--something good, I hope.'

'You could learn nothing from her that was not sweet and good,' I said.

These last words were spoken on the threshold of our home.