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."