Kitabı oku: «A Plucky Girl», sayfa 13

CHAPTER XXII
THE MAN IN POSSESSION

I cannot exactly say how the next two days went by. Even in a crisis, people get more or less accustomed to the thundercloud overhead, and the feeling of insecurity below. I still found that I could eat, I could walk, I could even sleep. I still found that I could be calm in my mother's presence, and could say little funny nothings to amuse her; and I sat in such a position, that she did not see the shadow growing and growing on my face, and the guests did not suspect anything. Why should they? They were enjoying all the good things of my most miserable failure.

Jane, however, never appeared in the drawing-room now; she left the entertaining of the visitors to me. She told me boldly that I must take it on me; that it was the least I could do, and I did take it on me, and dressed my best, and talked my best, and sang songs for our visitors in the evenings when my own heart was breaking.

Captain and Mrs. Furlong were very kind. They noticed how, more and more often, mother was absent from meals, and how the colour was paling from my cheeks with anxiety for her. It was truly anxiety for her, but they did not guess what principally caused it.

On the evening of the third day I hurried into the dining-room just before dinner. I quite forgot what I had gone for. It had been a brilliant May day, but in the evening a fog had come on – a heavy sort of cloud overhead, and there was a feeling of thunder in the air, and the atmosphere was close. I remember that the windows of the dining-room were wide open, and the long table was laid in its usual dainty, and even sumptuous, manner for dinner. There were some vases of flowers, and the plate, and china, the polished glass, the snowy napery, all looked as tasteful, as fresh, as pretty, as heart could desire. The guests were accustomed to this sort of table, and would have been very angry if they had been asked to sit down at any other.

Emma was hurrying in and out, putting final touches to the preparations for the great meal. I thought she looked pale, and very anxious, and just as I was entering the room she came up to me, and said in a hurried whisper —

"If I were you, Miss Westenra, I wouldn't go in."

"Why not?" I asked, "why should not I go into the dining-room?"

She did not say any more; but as I insisted on going in, pushed past me almost rudely, at least, I thought so at the moment, and went away, shutting the door after her. Then I discovered the reason why she had wished me not to go into the room. A little short man, stout and podgy, in a greasy coat, and a greasy waistcoat, and a dirty tie, rose as I entered.

"Beg pardon, miss," he said. He was seated in a chair not far from the window. He had a dirty newspaper on his lap, and by his side was a glass which must have contained beer at one time, but was now empty.

"I'm Scofield," he said, "Josiah Scofield at your service, miss. May I ask, miss, if you're Miss Wickham?"

"I am," I answered; "what are you doing here? Does Miss Mullins know you are here?"

"Yes, miss," answered the man in quite a humble, apologetic tone, "she knows quite well I am here, and so do Emma, the servant; and so do the other servants, and the reason why too, miss. It's on account of Pattens, I'm here, miss; and I've come to stay, if you please."

"To stay!" I echoed feebly, "to stay, why?"

"You see, miss," continued the man; "this is how things is. You're the daughter of the lady who owns this house, and I have heard that you own it partly yourself; and it's this paper that justifies me, miss, and I can't go out."

As he spoke, he pulled a long, ugly, foolscap envelope out of his pocket, and taking a paper from it, opened it, and showed it to me. I saw something about Victoria, and by the grace of God, and some other words in large, staring print, and then my own name, and my mother's, and Jane Mullins'; and I thrust it back again. I could not understand it, and I did not care to read any further.

"I have heard of men like you," I said slowly; "but I have never seen one of them before."

The man was gazing at me with his queer, bloodshot eyes, full of the strangest pity.

"It must be a horrid profession for you," I said suddenly. I could not help myself; at that moment I seemed to forget my own trouble in sorrow for the man who had to do such dirty work. Was my brain going?

Scofield did not answer my last remark. He put it aside as too foolish to require a reply.

"A very pretty young lady," I heard him mutter, "and I'm that sorry for her." He looked me all over.

"Now, miss," he said, "there are two ways of taking a man of my sort."

I nodded my head.

"There's the way of succumbing like, and going into hysterics, and making no end of a scene, and the man stays on all the same, and the neighbours get wind of it, and the ruin's complete in no time, so to speak. 'Taint nothing much of a bill that's owed to Pattens, and even if half of it was to be paid, I have not the slightest doubt that Pattens would take me out and give you a bit more time; but there's no use in quarrelling with me, nor telling me to go, for go I won't, and can't. I had my orders, and I'm the man in possession. You have got to face that fact, miss."

"But you spoke of two ways," I said. "What is the way which is not – not quite so hopeless?"

"Ah!" said the man, rubbing his hands, "now, we are coming to our senses, we are. Now I can manage matters fine."

I glanced at the clock. It was already seven o'clock, and we dined at half-past. The air outside seemed to grow heavier and heavier, and the sky to grow darker, and I expected the thunder to roll, and the lightning to flash at any moment: but what did external things matter. There was a storm in my heart which kept out the sound, and the meaning of external storms.

"Mother! mother!" I kept murmuring under my breath, "this will kill you, mother. O Mother! and it has been my fault. My wild, wild scheme has come to this!"

I felt so ill, that I could scarcely keep upright, and yet I could not sit in the presence of that man. The next moment everything in the room seemed to go round, and I was obliged to totter towards a chair. I think I lost consciousness, for when I came to myself, I found the little dirty greasy man had brought me a glass of water, and was standing near.

"You pluck up heart, child," he said, "there now, you're better. This is not the first nor the second time I have been in a house as big as this, and just as grand and full of visitors, and everything seemingly as right as possible, and the house undermined. I've seen scores of times like this, and pretty misses, like you, cut to the heart. It's a nasty trade is mine, but we all must live, my dear, and I'm truly sorry for you, and now, if you'll just let me advise you?"

"What?" I asked, "what?"

"You don't want the guests to know as I'm here?"

"Of course not."

"I must stay, and the servants had better know as little about me as possible. Of course, they have seen me already, but anyhow it is a sort of disguise that is commonly managed, and I had better do it."

"What do you mean?" I cried.

"My son, Robert, will be round directly. He often comes to me when I am in possession; I expect by the same token that's his ring I hear now. If you'll give me five shillings, miss, I'll do just what you want, and nobody need guess."

"But what? what?" I asked.

"Bob is bringing me my servant's livery, miss, and I'll attend at table to-night as your new man-servant. I look extremely well in livery, and I have often attended in the houses of gentry just as grand as yourself. Have you got five shillings in your pocket, miss? I have to earn my bread, and I can't do it for less. Nobody will guess who I am, and why I am here, if you'll give me that five shillings."

"Take it, take it," I cried. I thrust two half-crowns into his palm, and fled from the room. In the hall I found that I had run almost into the arms of Mr. Fanning.

"Why, Miss Wickham," he cried. He caught my hand to keep me from falling; "why, my dear, what is the matter?" he said then; there was a world of affection and sympathy in his voice, but I hated him for speaking to me thus.

"I have been feeling ill," I said, "I cannot go down to dinner."

"But what is wrong?" he said. He backed towards the dining-room door, and I did not want him to go in. He was so sharp; he would know at once what that little greasy man meant. I knew by his manner, and by hints that his mother had dropped, that they were both of them by no means in the dark with regard to our affairs. He must not go into the dining-room.

"Don't go in; come upstairs with me," I said.

"Oh, that I will, with pleasure," he answered, delighted at my tone, "and if you are really ill we must get the doctor. We cannot allow you to be really ill, you know, that would never do. I am very fond of nice girls like you; but they must keep their health, oh yes, they must. Now you are better, that is right. It's this horrid air, and the storm coming on. You want the country. It's wonderfully fresh at Highgate; splendid air; so bracing. I have been out at my place this afternoon, and I cannot tell you what a difference there is. It is like another climate."

"Then why don't you stay in your place?" I could not help answering. "What is it for, if you do not live there?"

"I won't live in it, Miss Wickham, until I bring my wife there to bear me company. But now if you are ill, do go to your room and rest; only come down to dinner, pray. I never could do with hysterical girls; but run upstairs and rest, there's a good child."

I left him, went to my attic, shut and locked the door, and threw myself on the ground. O God! the misery of that hour, the bitter blackness of it. But I must not give way; I must appear at dinner. Whatever happened I must not give way.

I got up, arranged my hair, washed my face and hands, dressed myself in the first evening dress I came across, and went downstairs. The beautiful little silver gong sounded, and we all trooped down to the dining-room. There were pleased smiles among the guests. The room was crowded. Every seat at the long table had its occupant. Several fresh paying guests had arrived, and there was the little man in livery helping Emma to wait. How pleased the old paying guests were to see him. The new paying guests took him as a matter of course. Mrs. Armstrong, in particular, nodded to Miss Armstrong, and bent across to Mr. Fanning and said —

"I am so pleased to see that poor Emma is getting a little help at last." And Mr. Fanning looked at me and gave me a broad, perceptible wink. I almost felt as if I must go under the table, but I kept up my courage as people do sometimes when they are at the stake, for truly it was like that to me. But mother was there, looking so sweet and fragile, and a little puzzled by the new waiter's appearance.

"What is your name?" I heard her say to him as he brought her some vegetables, and he replied in a smug, comfortable voice, "Robert, ma'am." And then she asked him to do one or two things, just as she would have asked our dear little page in the old days which had receded, oh! so far, into the background of my life.

That evening, in the drawing-room, Mrs. Fanning came up to me.

"They are all talking about Robert," she said.

She sat down, shading me by her own portly figure from the gaze of any more curious people.

"You shan't sing to-night," she said; "you're not fit for it, and I for one won't allow it. I told Albert I'd look after you. We'll have to make excuses to-morrow when he's not here."

"When who is not here?" I asked.

"The man they call Robert, who waited at dinner to-night."

"But he'll be here to-morrow," I said; "you know he will; you know it, don't you?"

She bent a little closer, and took my hand.

"Ah, dearie, my dearie," she said. "I have been low down once. It was before Albert the first made his fortune. I have been through tight times, and I know all about it. There, my dearie, take heart, don't you be fretting; but he won't be here to-morrow, my love."

"But he will," I said.

"He won't, darling. I know what I'm talking about. We must make excuses when he goes. We must say that he wasn't exactly the sort of servant Jane Mullins wanted, and that she is looking out for a smarter sort of man. Don't you fret yourself over it, my darling."

"Oh! I feel very sick and very tired," I cried. "Mrs. Fanning, will you make some excuse for me to mother? I must go upstairs and lie down."

"I'll have a talk with your mother, and I'll not let out a thing to her," said Mrs. Fanning, "and I'll take you up and put you right into bed myself. I declare you do want a little bit of mothering from a woman who has got abundant strength. Your own poor, dear mother would do it if she could, but she hasn't got the strength of a fly. I am very strong, dear, owing to Dr. Williams' Pink Pills, bless the man!"

Just at that moment Mr. Fanning came up.

He bent his tall, awkward figure towards his mother, and I distinctly heard the odious word "Robert," and then Mrs. Fanning took my hand and led me out of the drawing-room. She was very kind, and she helped me to get into bed, and when I was in bed she took my hand and said she was not going to stir until I fell asleep.

"For I have been through these times, my dear, but the first time is the worst of all," said the good woman, and she held my hand tightly, and in spite of myself her presence comforted me and I did drop asleep.

The next morning when I went down to breakfast I could not see any sign of Robert. Immediately afterwards I went into Jane's room.

"Where is the man in possession?" I said bitterly.

Jane's face looked a little relieved.

"Haven't you heard?" she said; "he has gone. It was Mr. Fanning who did it. He paid the bill in full, and the man has gone. He went last night. Mr. Fanning is arranging the whole thing, and the man in possession won't come back, that is, for the present. I begin to see daylight. I am glad you have made up your mind to be sensible, Westenra."

CHAPTER XXIII
ALBERT

I was so stunned I could not speak at all for a minute, then I said, after a brief pause —

"Do you know if Mr. Fanning is in?"

"No, why should he be in?" replied Miss Mullins in an almost irritable voice, "he has got his work to do if you have not. Men who are generous on the large scale on which he is generous, cannot afford to be idle – that is, if they are going on adding to their fortunes. He is out and probably in the city, he is a great publisher, you know, and extremely successful. For my part, I respect him; he may be a rough diamond, but he is a diamond all the same."

Still I did not speak, and I am sure my silence, and the stunned subdued heavy expression on my face, vexed Jane more than any amount of words I might have uttered.

"I will go and see if he has really gone," I said. "It is sometimes quite late before he starts for the city, I want to speak to him at once."

"Now, Westenra, if you in this crisis make mischief," began Miss Mullins.

"Oh, I won't make mischief," I said, "but I must speak to Mr. Fanning."

I had almost reached the door when she called me back.

"One moment," she said.

I turned, impatiently.

"Please don't keep me, Jane, I must see Mr. Fanning before he goes to the city – I will come back afterwards."

"If I wasn't almost sure what you are going to say to Mr. Fanning, I would let you go," said Jane, "but you ought to know – your mother was very ill, worse than I have ever seen her before, last night."

"Mother ill in the night, and you never told me!" The greater trouble seemed to swallow up the lesser, and for the time I forgot Mr. Fanning, the man in possession, and everything in the world except mother herself.

"She had a sharp attack," continued Jane, "rigors and extreme weakness. I happened most fortunately to go into her room about midnight, and found her in an alarming state. Dr. Anderson was summoned. She is better, much better, but not up yet."

"But, Jane, why, why did you not wake me?"

"I should, dear, if there had been real danger, but she quickly recovered. You looked so ill yourself last night, that I had not the heart to disturb your sleep. And there is no danger at present, no fresh danger, that is. Unless something happens to cause her a sudden shock, she is comparatively well, but it behoves you, Westenra, to be careful."

"And suppose I am not careful," I said, a sudden defiance coming into my voice.

"In that case – " said Miss Mullins. She did not finish her sentence. She looked full at me, raised her hands expressively, and let them fall to her sides.

Nothing could be more full of meaning than her broken sentence, her action, and the expression of her face.

"But you could not deliberately do it," she said slowly, "you could not expose a mother like yours to – "

"Of course I could do nothing to injure mother," I said, "I will try and be patient; but Jane, Jane, do you know really what this means? Can you not guess that there are things that even for a mother, a dying mother, a girl ought not to do?"

"I do not see that," answered Jane deliberately; "no, I do not, not from your point of view. You can do what is required, and you can bear it."

I knew quite well what she meant. She did not call me back this time when I left the room. I heard her mutter to herself – her words startled me – putting a new sort of sudden light on all our miserable affairs.

"My little home gone too," I heard her mutter, "ruin for me too, for me too."

I stood for a moment in the dark passage outside Jane's room. There was no one there, and I could think. I did not want to go into the big hall, nor to run up the staircase. I might meet some of those smiling, well satisfied, delighted and delightful paying guests, those paying guests who were ruining us all the time. Yes, I knew at last what Jane meant, what Mrs. Fanning meant, what Albert Fanning meant. We would be relieved from our embarrassments, mother would receive no shock if I promised to marry Albert Fanning. Albert Fanning would save the position, he would pay the necessary debts; he was rich, and for love of me he would not mind what he did. Yes, I supposed it was love for me. I did not know, of course. I could not fancy for a moment that a girl like myself could excite any feeling of worship in a man like Albert Fanning, but anyhow, for whatever reason, he wanted me (and he did want me), he was willing to pay this big price for me. My heart trembled, my spirit quaked. I stood in the luxury of the dark passage, clasped my hands to my brow, and then determined not to give way, to be brave to the very end.

I ran upstairs and entered the drawing-room. It was tidy, in perfect order. I was glad to find no one there. I went and stood under father's picture. I gazed full up at the resolute, brave, handsome face.

"You died to win your V.C.," I said to myself, and then I turned to leave the room. I met Mrs. Furlong coming in.

"Ah, dear child," she said, "I am so glad to see you. But what is the matter? You don't look well."

"I am anxious," I answered; "mother had a very serious attack last night."

"We are all full of concern about her," replied Mrs. Furlong. "Won't you sit down for a moment? I wish to talk to you. Ah, here comes my husband. Philip, we have bad news about dear Mrs. Wickham, she was very ill last night."

"Your mother, Miss Wickham, is very far from strong," said Captain Furlong. He came and stood near me; he looked full of sympathy. He was very nice and kind and gentlemanly. He had been kind and courteous, and unselfish, ever since he came to the house.

"You are very good, both of you," I said. "I am going to mother now; please, don't keep me."

"But is there anything we can do? Would change be of service to her?" said Mrs. Furlong. "I know it is a little early in the year, but the spring is coming on nicely, and she must weary so of London, particularly this part of London; she has been accustomed to such a different life."

"I do not think our present life has injured her," I said. "She has not had any of the roughing. Things have been made smooth and pleasant and bright for her."

"All the same, it has been a very, very great change for her," said Mrs. Furlong. "It has been good neither for her nor for you. Yes, Philip," she continued, noticing a warning expression on her husband's face, "I have got my opportunity, and I will speak out. I am quite certain the sooner Westenra Wickham, and her dear mother, leave this boarding-house the better it will be for both of them. What has a young, innocent girl, like Westenra, to do with paying guests? Oh, if they were all like you and me, dear, it would be different; but they are not all like us, and there's that" – she dropped her voice. Captain Furlong shook his head.

"Miss Wickham has accepted the position, and I do not see how she can desert her post," he said.

"Never fear, be sure I will not," I answered; "but please – please, kind friends, don't keep me now."

"There is just one thing I should like to say before you go, Miss Wickham," said Captain Furlong; "if you find yourself in trouble of any sort whatever, pray command both my wife and myself. I have seen a good deal of life in my day. My wife and I are much interested, both in you and your mother. Now, for instance," he added, dropping his voice, "I know about tight times; we all of us get more or less into a tight corner, now and then – if a fifty pound note would – "

"Oh no, it would not do anything," I cried. My face was crimson; my heart seemed cut in two.

"Oh! how can I thank you enough?" I added; and I ran up to the kind man and seized his hands. I could almost have kissed them in my pain and gratitude. "It would be useless, quite useless, but I shall never forget your kindness."

I saw the good-natured pair look at one another, and Mrs. Furlong shook her head wisely; and I am sure a dewy moisture came to her eyes, but I did not wait to say anything more, but ran off in the direction of mother's room. A softened light filled that chamber, where all that refinement and love could give surrounded the most treasured possession of my life. Mother was lying in bed propped up by pillows. She looked quite as well as usual, and almost sweeter than I had ever seen her look, and she smiled when I came in.

"Well, little girl," she said, "you are late in paying me your visit this morning?"

"It was very wrong of you, mother, not to send for me when you were so ill last night," I answered.

"Oh, that time," said mother, "it seems ages off already, and I am quite as well as usual. I have got a kind nurse to look after me now. Nurse Marion, come here."

I could not help giving a visible start. Were things so bad with mother that she required the services of a trained nurse? A comely, sweet-faced, young woman of about thirty years of age, now approached from her seat behind the curtain.

"The doctor sent me in, Miss Wickham; he thought your mother would be the better for constant care for two or three days."

"I am very glad you have come," I answered.

"Oh, it is so nice," said mother; "Nurse Marion has made me delightfully comfortable; and is not the room sweet with that delicious old-fashioned lavender she uses, and with all those spring flowers?"

"I have opened the window, too," said the nurse, "the more air the dear lady gets the better for her; but now, Miss Wickham, I cannot allow your mother to talk. Will you come back again; or, if you stay, will you be very quiet?"

"As you are here to look after mother I will come back again," I said. I bent down, kissed the lily white hand which lay on the counterpane, and rushed from the room. Stabs of agony were going through my heart, and yet I must not give way!

I ran upstairs, and knocked at Mrs. Fanning's door. As Albert Fanning was out, I was determined to see her. There was no reply to my summons, and after a moment I opened the door and looked in. The room was empty. I went to my own room, sat down for a moment, and tried to consider how things were tending with me, and what the end would be. Rather than mother should suffer another pang, I would marry Albert Fanning. But must it come to this!

I put on my outdoor things, and ran downstairs. The closeness and oppression of the day before had changed into a most balmy and delicious spring morning; a sort of foretaste day of early summer. I was reckless, my purse was very light, but what did that matter. I stopped a hansom, got into it, and gave the man Albert Fanning's address in Paternoster Row. Was I mad to go to him – to beard the lion in his den? I did not know; I only knew that sane or mad, I must do what I had made up my mind to do.

The hansom bowled smoothly along, and I sat back in the farthest corner, and tried to hope that no one saw me. A pale, very slender, very miserable girl was all that they would have seen; the grace gone from her, the beauty all departed; a sort of wreck of a girl, who had made a great failure of her life, and of the happiness of those belonging to her. Oh, if only the past six or eight months could be lived over again, how differently would I have spent them! The cottage in the country seemed now to be a sort of paradise. If only I could take mother to it, I would be content to be buried away from the eyes of the world for evermore. But mother was dying; there would be no need soon for any of us to trouble about her future, for God Himself was taking it into His own hands, and had prepared for her a mansion, and an unfading habitation.

I scarcely dared think of this. Be the end long, or be the end short, during the remaining days or weeks of her existence, she must not be worried, she must go happily, securely, confidently, down to the Valley. That was the thought, the only thought which stayed with me, as I drove as fast as I could in the direction of Mr. Fanning's place of business.

The cab was not allowed to go up the Row, so I paid my fare at the entrance, and then walked to my destination. I knew the number well, for Albert had mentioned it two or three times in my hearing, having indeed often urged me to go and see him. I stopped therefore at the right place, looked up, saw the name of Albert Fanning in huge letters across the window, opened the door and entered. I found myself in a big, book saloon, and going up to a man asked if Mr. Fanning were in. The man was one of those smart sort of clerks, who generally know everybody's business but their own. He looked me all over in a somewhat quizzical way, and then said —

"Have you an appointment, miss?"

"I have not," I replied.

"Our chief, Mr. Fanning, never sees ladies without appointments."

"I think he will see me," I answered, "he happens to know me. Please say that Miss Westenra Wickham has called to see him."

The clerk stared at me for a moment.

"Miss West! what Wickham Miss? Perhaps you wouldn't mind writing it down."

I did not want to write down my name, but I did so; I gave it to the clerk, who withdrew, smiling to a brother clerk as he did so. He came back in a minute or two, looking rather red about the face, and went back to his seat without approaching me, and at the same time I heard heavy, ungainly steps rushing downstairs, and Mr. Fanning, in his office coat, which was decidedly shabby, and almost as greasy as the one which belonged to the "Man in Possession" on the previous evening, entered the saloon. His hair stood wildly up on his head, and his blue eyes were full of excitement. He came straight up to me.

"I say, this is a pleasure," he exclaimed, "and quite unlooked for. Pray, come upstairs at once, Miss Wickham. I am delighted to see you – delighted. Understand, Parkins," he said, addressing the clerk who had brought my message, "that I am engaged for the present, absolutely engaged, and can see no one. Now, Miss Wickham, now."

He ushered me as if I were a queen through the saloon, past the wondering and almost tittering clerks, and up some winding stairs to his own sanctum on the first floor.

"Cosy, eh?" he said, as he opened the door, and showed me a big apartment crowded with books of every shape and size, and heavily, and at the same time, handsomely furnished. "Not bad for a city man's office, eh?" he continued, "all the books are amusing; you might like to dip into 'em by-and-by, nothing deep or dull, or stodgy here, all light, frothy, and merry. Nothing improving, all entertaining. That is how my father made his fortune; and that is how I, Albert the second, as the mater calls me, intend to go on adding to my fortune. It is on light, frothy, palatable morsels that I and my wife will live in the future, eh, eh? You're pleased with the look of the place, ain't you. Now then, sit right down here facing the light, so that I can have a good view of you. You're so young; you have not a wrinkle on you. It's the first sign of age coming on when a girl wishes to sit with her back to the light, but you are young, and you can stand the full glare. Here, you take the office chair. Isn't it comfortable? That's where I have sat for hours and hours, and days and days; and where my father sat before me. How well you'd look interviewing authors and artists when they come here with their manuscripts. But there! I expect you'd be a great deal too kind to them. A lot of rubbish you would buy for the firm of Fanning & Co., wouldn't you now, eh? Ah, it's you that has got a tender little heart, and Albert Fanning has been one of the first to find it out."

I could not interrupt this rapid flow of words, and sat in the chair indicated, feeling almost stunned. At last he stopped, and gazing at me, said —

"Well, and how is Miss Westenra Wickham, and what has brought her to visit her humble servant? Out with it now, the truth, please."

Still I could find no words. At last, however, I said almost shyly —

"You have been kind, more than kind, but I came here to tell you, you must not do it."

"Now that's a pretty sort of thing to bring you here," said Mr. Fanning. "Upon my soul, that's a queer errand. I have been kind, forsooth! and I am not to be kind in the future. And pray why should I turn into an evil, cruel sort of man at your suggestion, Miss Wickham? Why should I, eh? Am I to spoil my fine character because you, a little slip of a girl, wish it so?"