I did not say any more; I grasped Mrs. Fanning's hand.

"How is your dear mother?" she said.

"Mother is not at all well."

"Ah, poor dear, poor dear," said Mrs. Fanning; "then no wonder your cheeks are pale. I said to Albert the very last night I left, 'Albert, if you win her, she's worth her weight in gold, it is a gold heart she has; you watch her with her mother, Albert, and think what she'll be to you.'"

"Mrs. Fanning, you really must not talk in that way," I said. "Please let me go."

She did let me go. My contact with her had slightly braced me. I felt angry once more with the terrible Albert; but Mrs. Fanning was kindness itself. Oh, if only Albert had been a different man, and I had really cared for him, and I--but why think of the impossible.

I got into an omnibus, and gave the man directions to put me down at the nearest point to the d.u.c.h.ess's house. I found myself echoing Jane Mullins's words, "Why had Jim Randolph gone away?"

I arrived at the d.u.c.h.ess's in good time. I had made up my mind to tell her all. She must lend us a thousand pounds. Mother must be saved; mother must be kept in the dark as to the utter ruin of my mad plan. I whispered the story as I would tell it to my old friend over and over to myself, and when I mounted the steps of the house and rang the bell I was trembling, and felt very faint and tired. The footman opened the door, and I inquired for her Grace.

"Can I see her?" I said. "I am Miss Wickham; I want to see her on very special business."

"I will mention that you have called, madam," replied the man; "but her Grace is not visible, she is very ill. She has been in bed for several days, and the doctor is with her. It is influenza."

Then, indeed, I felt my last hopes tottering.

"I am sorry her Grace is ill," I said. I paused for a moment to consider. "Can I see Miss Mitford?" I inquired then. Miss Mitford was a lady who did some correspondence for the d.u.c.h.ess, and who was generally to be found in the house.

Miss Mitford came downstairs immediately, and I saw her in a small room to the left of the great hall.

"It is the shock about Mr. Randolph," she said at once.

"Then is it really supposed that he was drowned in the _Star of Hope_?" I cried.

"He mentioned that he was coming to England by that boat," replied Miss Mitford. "The d.u.c.h.ess is certain that he is amongst the pa.s.sengers, although his name has not been mentioned as yet in any list. Her Grace is terribly upset, more particularly as Mr. Severn, Sir Henry Severn's only son, died a fortnight ago. There is great confusion, and Mr. Randolph ought to be back."

I did not ask any questions with regard to this latter news, nor did it interest me in the very least. Of course Mr. Randolph ought to be back, but for very very different reasons. I went sorrowfully, oh so sorrowfully, away.

When I returned home Jane was waiting for me in the hall. She was hovering about, looking very untidy and very anxious.

"Well," she said; "come in here, I must speak to you."

"But it is luncheon time," I said, "and people will wonder."

"Let them wonder. Did you see her? Did she promise to lend it? That man has been here again. He is desperate, and says that if he is not paid in two days he will put in the bailiff."

"And what will that mean?" I asked.

"Ruin--utter and complete. But tell me, did you see the d.u.c.h.ess?"

"I did not," I answered; "she is ill in bed; and oh, Jane, it is the shock about Mr. Randolph which has caused her illness. The d.u.c.h.ess is quite sure that he did sail in the _Star of Hope_. O Jane! what is to be done?"

"G.o.d only knows," answered Jane Mullins; "we are up a tree, and that's the truth."

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."