Chapter 22 A Plucky Girl by L. T. Meade
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."