Part 32 (2/2)

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 princ.i.p.ally 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 gla.s.s, 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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.d_, 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.”

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