"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.