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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dcc47d7 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #64777 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64777) diff --git a/old/64777-0.txt b/old/64777-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f8d8476..0000000 --- a/old/64777-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5936 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of He that will not when he may; vol. I, by -Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: He that will not when he may; vol. I - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: March 10, 2021 [eBook #64777] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - available at The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY; VOL. -I *** - - - - - HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY - - - - - HE THAT WILL NOT - WHEN HE MAY - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT - - - _IN THREE VOLUMES_ - - VOLUME I. - - - London - MACMILLAN AND CO. - 1880 - - _The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved_ - - - - - LONDON: - R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, - BREAD STREET HILL. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - -CHAPTER I. 1 - -CHAPTER II. 19 - -CHAPTER III. 38 - -CHAPTER IV. 55 - -CHAPTER V. 76 - -CHAPTER VI. 90 - -CHAPTER VII. 109 - -CHAPTER VIII. 123 - -CHAPTER IX. 144 - -CHAPTER X. 165 - -CHAPTER XI. 187 - -CHAPTER XII. 204 - -CHAPTER XIII. 219 - -CHAPTER XIV. 235 - -CHAPTER XV. 257 - - - - -HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -The Easter holidays were drawing near an end, and the family at Markham -Chase had fallen into a state of existence somewhat different from its -usual dignified completeness of life. When I say that the head of the -house was Sir William Markham, once Under-Secretary for the Colonies, -once President of the Board of Trade, and still, though in opposition, a -distinguished member of his party and an important public personage, it -is scarcely necessary to add that his house was one of the chief houses -in the county, and that “the best people” were to be found there, -especially at those times when fashionable gatherings take place in the -country. At Easter the party was of the best kind, sprinkled with great -personages, a party such as we should all have liked to be asked to -meet. But these fine people had melted away; they had gone on to other -great houses, they had got on the wing for town, where, indeed, the -Markhams themselves were going early, like most Parliamentary people. -Sir William too was away. He was visiting the head of his party in one -of the midland counties, helping to settle the programme of enlightened -and patriotic opposition for the rest of the session, some untoward -events having deranged the system previously decided upon. To say that -Sir William’s absence was a relief would be untrue; for though he was -somewhat punctilious and overwhelming in his orderliness he was greatly -admired by his family, and loved--as much as was respectful and proper. -But when he went away, and when all the fine people went away, the house -without any demonstration slid smoothly, as it were down an easy slope -of transition, into a kind of nursery life, delightful to those who were -left behind. The family consisted, to begin at the wrong end, of two -schoolboys, and two little girls who were in the hands of a governess. -But mademoiselle was away too. There was nobody left at home but mamma -and Alice--imagine the rapture of the children thus permitted to be -paramount! There was a general dinner for everybody at two o’clock; and -in the afternoon, as often as not, Lady Markham herself would be -persuaded to go out to their picnic teas in the woods, and all kinds of -juvenile dissipations. The nursery meals were superseded altogether. Old -Nurse might groan, but she dared not say a word, for was not mamma the -ringleader in everything? There was no authority but hers in the house, -and all the servants looked on benignant. In the evening when it was -impossible to stay out any longer, they would dance, Alice “pretending” -to be the dancing mistress, which was far better fun than _real_ -dancing. There was no need to run away, or to keep quiet for fear of -disturbing papa. In short, a mild Carnival was going on in the house, -only dashed by the terrible thought that in a week the holidays would be -over. In a week the boys would go back to school, the girls to their -governess. The budding woods would become to the one and the other only -a recollection, or a sight coldly seen during the course of an orderly -walk. Then the boys would have the best of it. They would go away among -all their friends, with the delights of boating and cricket, whereas the -little girls would relapse into blue sashes and a correct appearance at -dessert, followed, alas, in no small time, by complete loneliness when -mamma went to London, and everybody was away. - -“Don’t let us think about it,” said little Bell; “it will be bad enough -when it comes. Oh, mamma, come and play the _Tempête_. Alice is going to -teach us. Harry, you be my partner, you dance a great deal the best.” - -This produced a cry of indignant protestation from Mary, whom they all -called Marie with a very decided emphasis on the last syllable. “I -pulled Roland about all last night,” she said, “when he was thinking of -something else all the time; it is my turn to have Harry now.” - -“Don’t you see,” said Alice, “that Roland is much more your size? It -doesn’t do to have a little one and a big one in the _Tempête_. He -mustn’t think of anything else. Don’t you know Rol, if you don’t take a -little trouble you will never learn to dance, and then no one will ask -you out when you grow up. I should not like, for my part, when all the -others went out to be always left moping at home.” - -“Much I’d mind,” said Roland with a precocious scorn of society. But -just then the music struck up, and the lesson began. Roland was -generally thinking of something else, but Harry threw himself into the -dance with all the simple devotion of a predestined guardsman. That was -to be a great part of his duty in life, and he gave himself up to it -dutifully. The drawing-room was very large, partially divided by two -pillars, which supported a roof painted with clouds and goddesses in the -taste of the seventeenth century. The outer half was but partially -lighted, while in the inner part all was bright. In the right-hand -corner, behind Lady Markham, was a third room at right angles to this, -like the transept crossing a long nave, divided from the drawing-room by -curtains half-drawn, and faintly lighted too by a silver lamp. Thus the -brilliant interior where the children were dancing was thrown up by two -dimnesses; the girls in their light frocks, the bright faces and curls, -the abundant light which showed the pictures on the walls, and all the -details of the furniture, were thus doubly gay and bright in -consequence. The children moving back and forward, Alice now here, now -there, with one side and another as necessity demanded, flitting among -them in all her softer grace of young womanhood; and the beautiful -mother, the most beautiful of all, smiling on them from the piano, -turning round to criticise and encourage, while her hands flashed over -the keys, made the prettiest picture. There was an _abandon_ of innocent -gaiety in the scene, an absence of every harsh tone and suggestion which -made it perfect. Was there really no evil and trouble in the place -lighted up by the soft pleasure of the women, the mirth of the children? -You would have said so--but that just then, though she did not stop -smiling, Lady Markham sighed. Her children were in pairs, Harry and -Bell, Roland and Marie--but where was Alice’s brother? “Ah, my Paul!” -she said within herself, but played on. Thus there was one note out of -harmony--one, if no more. - -Almost exactly coincident with this sigh the door of the drawing-room -opened far down in the dim outer part, and two men came in. The house -was so entirely given up to this innocent sway of youth, that there was -no reason why they should particularly note the opening of the door. It -could not be papa coming in, who was liable to be disturbed by such a -trifle as a dance, or any serious visitor, or even the elder brother, -who would, when he was at home, occasionally frown down the revels. -Accordingly, their ears being quickened by no alarm, no one heard the -opening of the door, and the two strangers came in unobserved. One was -quite young, not much more than a youth, slim, and, though not very -tall, looking taller than he was; the other was of a short, thick-set -figure, neither graceful nor handsome, who followed his companion with a -mixture of reluctance and defiance, strange enough in such a scene. As -they came towards the light this became still more noticeable. The -second stranger did not seem to have any affinity with the place in -which he found himself, and he had the air of being angry to find -himself here. They had the full advantage of the pretty scene as they -approached, for their steps were inaudible on the thick carpet, and the -merry little company was absorbed in its own proceedings. All at once, -however, the music ceased with a kind of shriek on a high note, the -dancers, alarmed, stopped short, and Lady Markham left the piano and -flew forward, holding out her hands. “Paul!” she cried, “Paul!” - -“Paul!” cried Alice, following her mother, and “Paul!” in various tones -echoed the little girls and boys. The strange man who had come in with -Paul had time to remark them while the other was receiving the greeting -of his mother and sister. - -“I thought some one would be sure to come and spoil the fun,” Roland -said, taking the opportunity to get far from the little ring of -performers. - -“Now we shall get no more good of mamma,” said his little partner with a -disconsolate face; but what was this to the joy of the mother and elder -sister, whose faces where lighted up with a sudden happiness, infinitely -warmer than the innocent pleasure which the new-comers had disturbed! - -“We thought you were not coming,” said Lady Markham. “Oh, Paul, you have -been hard upon us not to write! but no, my dear, I am not going to scold -you. I am too happy to have you at last. Have you had any dinner? Alice, -ring the bell, and order something for your brother.” - -“You do not see that I am not alone, mother,” said Paul, with a tone so -solemn that both the ladies were startled, not knowing what it could -mean. “I have brought with me a very particular friend, who I hope will -stay for a little.” It was then for the first time that Lady Markham -perceived her son’s companion. - -“You know,” she said, “how glad I always am to see your friends; but you -must tell me his name,” she added with a smile, holding out her hand, -“this is a very imperfect introduction.” The sweetness of her look as -she turned to the stranger dazzled him. There was a moment’s confusion -on the part of both the men, as this beautiful, smiling lady put her -delicate fingers into a rough hand brought forth with a certain -reluctance and shamefacedness. She too changed colour a little, and a -look of surprise came into her face on a closer view of her son’s -friend. - -“I thank you for your kind reception of me, my lady,” said the man; “but -Markham, you had better explain to your mother who I am. I go nowhere -under false pretences.” - -Now that the light was full upon him the difference showed all the more. -His rough looks, his dress, not shabby, still less dirty, but uncared -for, his coarse boots, the general aspect of his figure, which was -neither disorderly nor disreputable, but unquestionably not that of a -gentleman, seemed to communicate a sort of electric shock to the little -company. The boys pressed forward with a simultaneous idea that Paul was -in custody for something or other, and heroic intentions of pouncing -upon the intruder and rescuing their brother. Alice gazed at him -appalled, with some fancy of the same kind passing through her mind. -Only Lady Markham, though she had grown pale, preserved her composure. - -“I cannot be anything but glad to see a friend of my boy’s,” she said, -faltering slightly; but there passed through her mind a silent -thanksgiving: Thank Heaven, his father was away! - -“This is Spears,” said Paul, curtly. “You needn’t be so fastidious; my -mother is not that sort. Mamma, this is a man to whom I owe more than -all the dons put together. You ought to be proud to see him in your -house. No, we haven’t dined, and we’ve had a long journey. Let them get -us something as soon as possible. Hallo, Brown, put this gentleman’s -things into the greenroom--I suppose we may have the greenroom?--and -tell Mrs. Fry, as soon as she can manage it, to send us something to -eat.” - -“I took the liberty to order something directly, as soon as I saw Mr. -Markham, my lady,” said Brown. There was a look of mingled benevolence -and anxiety in this functionary’s face. He was glad to see his young -master come back, but he did not conceal his concern at the company in -which he was. “The greenroom, my lady?” - -“The greenroom is quite a small room,” said Lady Markham, faltering. She -looked at the stranger with a doubtful air. He was not a boy to be put -into such a small place; but then, on the other hand---- - -“A small room is no matter to me,” said Spears. “I’m not used to -anything different. In such a career as mine we’re glad to get shelter -anywhere.” He laughed as he spoke of his career. What was his career? He -looked as if he expected her to know. Lady Markham concealed her -perplexity by a little bow, and turned to Brown, who was waiting her -orders with a half-ludicrous sentimental air of sympathy with his -mistress. - -“Put Mr. Spears into the chintz-room in the east wing; it is a better -room,” she said. Then she led the way into the brightness, on the verge -of which they had been standing. “It is almost too warm for fires,” she -said, “but you may like to come nearer to it after your journey. Where -have you come from, Paul? Children, now that you have seen Paul, you had -better go up stairs to bed.” - -“I knew how it would be,” said Marie; “no one cares for us now Paul has -come.” - -“No one will so much as see mamma as long as he is here,” said Bell; -while the boys, withdrawing reluctantly, stopping to whisper, and throw -black looks back upon the stranger as they strolled away, wondered -almost audibly what sort of fellow Paul had got with him. “A bailiff, -_I_ think,” said Roland; “just the sort of fellow that comes after the -men in _Harry Lorrequer_.” “Or he’s done something, and it’s a turnkey,” -said Harry. Elder brothers were in the way of getting into trouble in -the works with which these young heroes were familiar. Thus at Paul’s -appearance the pretty picture broke up and faded away like a -phantasmagoria. Childhood and innocence disappeared, and care came back. -The aspect of the very room changed where now there was the young man, -peremptory and authoritative, and the two ladies tremulous with the -happiness of his return, yet watching him with breathless anxiety, -reading, or trying to read, every change in his face. - -“Your last letter was from Yorkshire, Paul; what have you been doing? We -tried to make out, but we could not. You are so unsatisfactory, you -boys; you never will give details of anything. Did you go to see the -Normantons? or were you----” - -“I was nowhere--that you know of, at least,” said Paul. “I was with -Spears, holding meetings. We went from one end of the county to another. -I can’t tell you where we went; it would be harder to say where we -didn’t go.” - -Lady Markham looked at her son’s companion with a bewildered smile. “Mr. -Spears, then, Paul--I suppose--knows a great many people in Yorkshire?” -She had not a notion what was meant by holding meetings. He did not -indeed look much like a man who would know many “people” in Yorkshire. -“People” meant not the country folks, you may be sure, but the great -county people, the Yorkshire gentry, the only class which to Lady -Markham told in a county. This was no fault of hers, but only because -the others were beyond her range of vision. No, he did not look like a -man who would know many people in Yorkshire; but, short of that, what -could Paul mean? Lady Markham did not know what significance there -really was in what Paul said. - -“We saw a great many Yorkshire people; but I go where I am called,” said -the stranger, “not only where there are people I know.” - -Seen in the full light, there was nothing repulsive or disagreeable -about the man. He looked like one of the men who came now and then to -the Chase to put something in order; some clock that had gone wrong, or -something about the decorations. He sat a little uneasily upon the sofa -where he had placed himself. His speech was unembarrassed, but nothing -else about him. He was out of place. To see him there in the midst of -this family it was as if he had dropped from another planet; he did not -seem to belong to the same species. But his speech was easy enough, -though nothing else; he had a fine melodious voice, and he seemed to -like to use it. - -“I hope we did good work there,” he said; “not perhaps of a kind that -you would admire, my lady: but from my point of view, excellent work; -and Markham, though he is a young aristocrat, was of great use. An -enthusiast is always a valuable auxiliary. I do not know when I have -made a more successful round. It has taken us just a week.” - -Lady Markham bowed in bewildered assent, not knowing what to say. She -smiled out of sheer politeness, attending to every word, though she -could not form an idea of what he meant. She did not care, indeed, to -know what Mr. Spears had been doing. It was her son she wanted to know -about; but the laws of politeness were imperative. Meanwhile Paul walked -about uneasily, placing himself for one moment in front of the expiring -fire, then moving from spot to spot, looking intently at some picture or -knick-knack he had seen a thousand times before. “You have been getting -some new china,” he burst forth, after various suppressed signs of -impatience. Now that he had brought his friend here, he did not seem -desirous that his mother should attend so closely to all he said. - -“New china! my dear boy, you have known it all your life,” said Lady -Markham. “We have only shifted it from one cabinet to another. It is the -same old _Sèvres_. Perhaps Mr. Spears takes an interest in china. Show -it to him, Paul. It is a valuable cup; it is supposed to have been made -for Madame du Barry.” - -“No,” said the strange visitor, “I know nothing about it. What makes it -valuable, I wonder? I don’t understand putting such a price on things -that if you were to let them drop would be smashed into a thousand -pieces.” - -“But you must not let it drop,” said Lady Markham, with a little alarm. -“I daresay it is quite a fictitious kind of value. Still, I like my -_Sèvres_. It is a very pretty ornament.” - -“Just so,” said Spears, with a certain patronage in his tone. “In a -luxurious house like this decoration is necessary--and I don’t say that -it has not a very good effect. But in the places I am used to, a common -teacup would be far more useful. Still, I do not deny the grace of -ornament,” he added, with a smile. “Life can go on very well without it, -but it would be stupid to go against it here.” - -Lady Markham once more made him a little bow. He spoke as if he -intended a compliment; but what did the man mean? And Paul set down the -cup roughly as if he would have liked to bring the whole _étagère_ to -the ground. Altogether it was a confusion, almost a pain, to have him -here and yet not to have him. There were so many things she wanted to -ask and to know. She gave her son a wistful look. But just then Brown -came in to say that the hasty meal which had been prepared was ready. -Lady Markham rose. She put out her hand to take her son’s arm. - -“Were you coming, mother? Don’t take so much trouble; it would only be a -bore to you,” said Paul. “Spears and I will get on very well by -ourselves without bothering you.” - -The tears started into Lady Markham’s eyes. She turned a wondering look -upon Alice as Paul and his companion went away down the dim length of -the room, disappearing from them. Alice had been hovering about her -brother, trying to say a word to him now and then, but Paul was too much -intent upon what was going on between his friend and his mother to pay -any attention. The look of dismay and wonder and blank disappointment -that passed between them could not be described. Had Paul been alone -they would both have gone with him to the dining-room: they would have -sent away Brown and waited on him--his mother carving for him, Alice -flitting about to get anything he wanted. They would have asked a -hundred questions, and given him a hundred details of home events, and -made the whole atmosphere bright with tender happiness and soft laughter -and love. Now they stood and looked at each other listening to the -footsteps as they crossed the hall. - -“It is all this man whom he has brought with him,” Lady Markham said. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -The children were all open-eyed and open-mouthed next morning to see -Paul’s friend. As for the boys, they did not feel at all sure what might -have been going on during the night, or whether Paul’s friend would be -visible in the morning. “It is money those sort of fellows want,” Roland -said; and then the question arose whether papa being away mamma would -have money enough to satisfy such a claimant. The little girls besieged -Alice with questions. Who was that strange man? He looked exactly like -the man that came to wind the clocks. - -“He is a friend of Paul’s; hush--hush!” said Alice; “you must all be -very polite and not stare at him.” - -“But how can he be a friend?” demanded Bell. - -“He is a bailiff,” said Roland. “In _Harry Lorrequer_ there is somebody -exactly like that.” - -“Oh, hush, children, for mamma’s sake! he will come in directly. He is -Paul’s friend. Grown-up people do not go by appearances like children. -Paul says he has done him more good than all the dons. Most likely he is -a very learned man--or an author or something,” Alice said. - -“Oh, an author! they’re a queer lot,” said Harry, with relief. At all -events, an author was less objectionable than a bailiff. - -Lady Markham came in before these questions were over. She was not all -so bright as usual. Though she smiled upon them as they all came round -her, it was not her own natural smile; and she had a cap on, a thing -which she only wore when she was out of sorts, a kind of signal of -distress. The family were divided as to this cap. Some of them were in -favour of it, some against it. The little girls thought it made their -mother look old, whereas Alice was of opinion that it imparted dignity -to her appearance. - -“I don’t want to have a mother just as young and a great deal prettier -than I am,” she said. But Bell and Marie called out, “Oh, that odious -cap!” - -“Why should mamma, only because she is mamma, cover up all her pretty -hair? It is such pretty hair! mine is just the same colour,” said Bell, -who was inclined to vanity. - -Lady Markham smiled upon this charming nonsense, but it was not her own -smile. “Has any one seen Paul this morning?” she said, with a sigh. - -What a change there was in everything! Paul had not come into his -mother’s dressing-room last night to talk over all he had been doing and -meant to do, as had always been his habit when he came home. And when -Lady Markham went to her boy’s room on her way down stairs, thinking of -nothing but the little laughing lecture she was wont to administer on -finding him not yet out of bed--which was the usual state of -affairs--what was her surprise to find Paul out of his room, already -dressed, and “gone for a walk.” Brown meeting her in the hall told her -this with a subdued voice and mingled wonder and sympathy in his face. - -“Mr. Markham is turning over a new leaf, my lady,” he said, with the -license of an old servant, who had seen Paul born, so to speak. - -“I am very glad to hear it--it is so much better for him,” Lady Markham -said. So it was, no doubt; but this change, even of the bad habit which -was familiar to her, gave her a little shock. Therefore it was with a -failure of her usual bright cheerfulness that she took her place at the -breakfast-table. - -“Has any one seen Paul?” she said. - -“Oh, fancy seeing Paul already!” cried the little girls. “He will come -in when we have all done breakfast, and Brown will bring him everything -quite hot, after we have waited and waited. Brown makes dreadful -favourites, don’t you think so? He does not mind what he does for Paul.” - -“Paul has gone out for a walk,” said Lady Markham, not without -solemnity. - -There was a cry of astonishment all round the table. Roland gave Harry a -little nod of intelligence. (“He will have found it was no use, and he -will have taken him away.”) Alice had looked up into her mother’s face -with consternation; but as she was Paul’s unhesitating partisan through -everything, she recovered herself at once. - -“He must be showing Mr. Spears the Park,” she said. “What a good thing -if he will take to getting up early.” - -And nobody could say anything against that. Getting up early was a -virtue in which Paul had been sadly deficient, as everybody was aware. - -However, this was long enough to have been occupied about Paul, and the -children, tired of the subject, had already plunged into their own -affairs, when their elder brother suddenly appeared, ushering in Mr. -Spears--who in the morning light looked more out of place than -ever--through the great bow window which opened on the lawn. The -stranger had his hat in his hand, and made an awkward sort of bow. - -“I am afraid it is a liberty, my lady,” he said, stepping in with shoes -all wet from the dewy grass. He did not know what to do with his hat, -and ended by putting it under his chair when he got to the table. But by -that time his embarrassment had disappeared, and his face grew benignant -as he looked round, before sitting down, upon the girls and boys. “The -sight of children is a benediction,” he said with that softening which -mothers know by instinct. He was very like the man who wound up the -clocks, who was a most respectable country tradesman; but this look -reconciled Lady Markham to him more than anything else which had -happened yet. - -“You are fond of children?” she said. - -“I ought to be. I have had six of my own; but they had hard times after -my wife died, and there are but three left.” - -“Ah!” Lady Markham cried out of the depths of her heart. She looked -round upon her own children, and the tears came to her eyes. “I am very, -very sorry. There can be nothing in the world so dreadful.” - -“It is a pull,” said her visitor. “Yes, it is a pull. A man does not -know what it is till he has gone through it. Often you think, poor -things, it is better for them; you would never have been able to rear -them as you ought; but when it comes it is a pull; though you may have -no bread to give them, it is hard to part with them.” - -He had begun to eat his breakfast very composedly, notwithstanding this. -The way he held his fork was a wonder to Marie who had but recently -acquired full mastery of her own, and Harry had watched with great -gravity and interest the passage of the stranger’s knife to his mouth. -But Lady Markham no longer noticed these things. She forgot that he was -like the man that wound up the clocks. - -“I always feel,” she said, “when I hear of losses like yours as if I -ought to go down on my knees and beg your pardon for being so much -better off--thank God!” - -Spears looked up at her suddenly, putting down his knife and fork. Here -was a strange thing; while all the rest were so conscious of the -difference between them, the two chief persons had forgotten it. But he -did not make any immediate reply. He looked at her wondering, grateful, -understanding; and that piece of silent conversation was more effective -than anything that could be said. - -“There are not many people that feel like you,” he said at length; -“those that are better off than their neighbours are apt to look as if -it sprang from some virtue of theirs. They are more likely to crow over -us than to beg our pardon. And just as well too, Markham,” he said with -a laugh. “If they were all like your mother, they’d cut the ground from -under our feet.” - -“I do not see that,” said Paul. “The principle is unaltered, however -well-intentioned those may be who are in the position of unjust -superiority; that makes no difference so far as I can see.” - -All the Markham family were roused to attention when Paul spoke. The -children looked at him, stopping their private chatter, and Lady Markham -cast a wondering, reproachful look at her boy. Was she in a position of -unjust superiority because all her children were living, and another -parent had lost the half of his? She felt wounded by this strange -speech. - -“Ah,” said Spears, with a twinkle in his eyes, “there is nothing like a -recruit from the other side for going the whole----. You have a -beautiful family, and you have a beautiful park, my lady. You have got a -great deal more than the most of your fellow-creatures have. I can do -nothing but stand and wonder at it for my part. Everything you see, -everything you touch, is beautiful. You ought to be very sorry for all -the others, so many of them, who are not so well off as you.” - -“Indeed I am, Mr. Spears,” said Lady Markham, simply; but then she -added, after a pause, “for those who have not the things that give -happiness; but there are a great many things that are of no importance -to happiness. Everybody, of course, cannot have a beautiful park, as you -say, and a nice house; but----” - -“Why not?” - -“Why not?” She looked up surprised. “Ah, I see! You are all for -equality, like Paul.” - -“Like _Paul_! I taught him everything he knows. He had not an idea on -the subject before I opened his eyes to the horrible injustice of the -present state of affairs. He is my disciple, and I am his master. Now -you know who I am. I cannot be in any house under false pretences,” said -Spears, pushing his chair a little away from the table. - -The children all looked at him aghast; and he had himself the air of -having made a great and dangerous revelation, probably to be followed by -his dismissal from the house as a dangerous person. “Now you know who I -am.” The climax was melodramatic in its form; but there was nothing -theatrical in it so far as the revolutionary was concerned. He was -perfectly sincere. He felt the importance of his own position; and -feeling it, could entertain no doubt as to the knowledge of him as their -fellest enemy, and the horror of him which must be felt in every house -like this throughout the country. He had not wished to come; he had been -disappointed to find that Sir William was not there, who (he felt sure) -would have refused him admittance. And he would not take advantage of my -lady, who was certainly a woman to whom any man might submit himself. -Had she rung the bell instantly for her menials to turn him out; had she -expressed her horror at the contamination which her family had sustained -by sitting down at the same table with him--he would not have been -surprised. He pushed his chair gently from the table, and waited to see -what she would order; though he was a revolutionary, he had unbounded -respect for the mistress of this house. - -Lady Markham looked at her strange visitor with bewildered eyes. She -made a rapid telegraphic appeal to her son for explanation. “Now you -know who I am,” but she did not in the least know who he was. He was -famous enough in his way, and he thought himself more famous than he -was; but Lady Markham had never heard of him. When she saw that no -assistance could be afforded her by her children in this dilemma, she -collected her thoughts with a desperate effort. She was one of the women -who would rather die than be rude to any one. To speak to a man at her -own table, under her own roof, with less than the most perfect courtesy -was impossible to her. Besides, she did not really understand what he -meant. She was annoyed and affronted that he should speak of her boy as -Paul, but in the confusion of the moment that was all her mind took up, -and as for openly resenting _that_, how was it possible? One time or -another no doubt she would give the stranger a little return blow, a -reminder of his over-familiarity, when it could be done with perfect -politeness, but not now. She was startled by his solemnity; and it was -very clear that he was not a man of what she called “our own class,” but -Lady Markham’s high breeding was above all pettiness. - -“Was it really you,” she said, “who taught my son (she would not call -him Paul again) all the nonsense he has been talking to us? Yes, indeed -it is great nonsense, Mr. Spears--you must let me say so. We are doing -no one injustice. My husband says all young men are Radicals one time or -other; but I should have expected you, a man with children of your own, -to know better. Oh no, I don’t want to argue. I am not clever enough for -that. Let me give you another cup of tea.” - -The demagogue stared at the beautiful lady as if he could not believe -his ears. Partly he was humiliated, seeing that she was not in the least -afraid of him, and even did not realise at all what was the terrible -disclosure he had made. This gave him that sense of having made himself -ridiculous which is so intolerable to those who are unaccustomed to the -world. He cast a jealous look round the table to see if he could detect -any laughter. - -Paul caught him by the arm at this critical moment. - -“Eat your breakfast,” he said, in a wrathful undertone. “Do you hear, -Spears? Do you think _she_ knows? Have some of this fish, for Heaven’s -sake, and shut up. What on earth do they care if you taught me or not? -Do you think she goes into all that?” - -Nobody heard this but Harry, who was listening both with ears and eyes. -And Mr. Spears returned to his breakfast as commanded. He was abashed, -and he was astonished, but still he made a very hearty meal when all was -said. And by and by his spirit rose again; in the eyes of this lady, who -had so completely got the better of him, far more than if she had turned -him out, there was no way of redeeming himself, but by “bringing her -over.” That would be a triumph. He immediately addressed himself to it -with every art at his command. He had an extremely prepossessing and -melodious voice, and he spoke with what the ladies thought a kind of -old-fashioned grace. The somewhat stiff, stilted phraseology of the -self-educated has always more or less a whiff of the formality of an -older age. And he made observations which interested them, in spite of -themselves. Lady Markham was very polite to her son’s friend. - -When the children reminded her of her promise to go with them on a -long-planned expedition into the woods, she put them off. “You know I -cannot leave when I have visitors,” she said. - -“Perhaps Mr. Spears would come too?” said Alice. And before he knew what -was going to happen, he found himself pushed into the front seat of the -carriage, which was like a Noah’s ark, with hampers and children. Never -had this man of the people, this popular orator, occupied so strange a -position. He had never known before what it was to roll luxuriously -along the roads, to share in the ease and dignity of wealth. He took -notes of it, like a man in a foreign country, and observed keenly all -that took place--the manners of the people for whom the world was made: -that was how they seemed to take it. The world was made for them. It was -not a subject of arrogant satisfaction on their part, or pride in their -universal dominion; they took it quite easily, gently, as a matter of -course. My lady gave her orders with a gentle confidence in the -obedience of everybody she addressed. It was all wonderful to the man -who knew only the other side of the question. He asked about -everything--the game (with an eye to the poachers); the great extent of -the park (as bearing upon one of his favourite points--the abstraction -from the public of so many acres which might have cultivation); and was -answered with a perfect absence of all sense of guilt, which was very -strange to him. They did not know they were doing wrong, these rich -people. They told him all about it, simply, smilingly, as if it was the -most natural thing in the world. All this went against his preconceived -notions, just as the manners of a foreign country so often go against -the idea you have formed of them. He had all his senses keenly about -him, and yet everything was so novel and surprising that he felt -scarcely able to trust to his own impressions. It was the strangest -position surely in which a popular agitator, a preacher of democracy and -revolution, a special pleader against the rich, ever was. - -“We have not many neighbours,” Lady Markham said. “That is Lord -Westland’s property beyond the church. You can see Westland Towers from -the turn of the road. And there are the Trevors on the other side of the -parish.” - -“A whole parish,” said Spears, “divided amongst three families.” - -“The Trevors have very little,” said Lady Markham. “Sir William is the -chief proprietor. But they are a very good family. Admiral Trevor--you -must have heard of him--was once a popular hero. He did a great many -daring things I have heard, but fame gets forgotten like other things. -He lives very quietly now, an old man----” - -“The oldest man that ever was,” said Alice. “Fancy, it was in Napoleon’s -time he was so famous--the great Napoleon--before even _old_ people were -born.” - -“Before I was born,” said Lady Markham, with her soft laugh; “that is -something like saying before the Flood. Then there is the vicar, of -course, and a few people of less importance. It is easy to go over a -country neighbourhood.” - -“And what do you call the people in all these cottages, my lady? The -world was not made for them as it is for you. These would be the -neighbours I should think of. When I hear of your three families in the -parish, I wonder what all these roofs mean. Are they not flesh and blood -too? Don’t they live and have things happen to them as well as you fine -folks? If they were cleared away out of the place, what would become of -your parish, my lady? Could you get on all the same without them that -you make no account of them? These are the houses where I should feel -at home, among the poor cottagers whom you don’t even know about----” - -“Mamma--not know about them!” cried Alice. “Why, it is our own village! -Do you think because it is a mile away that makes any difference? Why, -it is our own village, Mr. Spears.” - -“I dare say,” said the revolutionary--“your own village. Perhaps they -pay you rent for suffering them to live there, and allowing them to do -all the work of the world and keep everything going----” - -“Hush, Alice,” said Lady Markham. “Perhaps Mr. Spears does not -understand a little country village. They are often not at all fond of -doing the work, and they do not much like to pay their rent; but we know -them very well for that matter. I could tell you all about them, every -house. To be sure we have not the same kind of intercourse with them as -with our equals.” - -“Ah, that is the whole question, Lady Markham. Pardon me; I am not your -equal, and yet you let me sit in your fine carriage and talk to you. No, -I am not a bit humble; I feel myself the equal of any man. There is -nobody in the world whom I will acknowledge my superior--in my dignity -as a man.” - -Lady Markham made him a little bow; it was her way when she did not know -what to say. “One does not need to be told,” she said, “that you are a -very superior man, Mr. Spears; quite equal to talk with anybody, were it -the greatest philosopher.” Here she stopped short in a little -embarrassment. “But we are all very simple, ignorant country people,” -she added with a smile, “about here.” - -“Ah, you are very clever, my lady. You beg the question.” - -“Do I?” said Lady Markham. “I wonder what that means. But now we are -just arriving at the place for the pic-nic. When my boy comes up, I will -make him take you to the most beautiful point of view. There is a -waterfall which we are very proud of, and now when everything is in the -first green of spring---- Paul!” she cried, “come and get your -directions. I want Mr. Spears to see the view.” - -“Your mother is something I don’t understand Markham,” said the -demagogue. “I never came across that kind of woman before.” - -“Didn’t you?” said Paul. He was ready to be taught on other points, but -not on this. “You see the bondage we live in,” said the young man. -“Luxury, people call it; to me it seems slavery. Oh, to be free of all -this folly and finery--to feel one’s self a man among men, earning one’s -bread, shaping one’s own life----” - -“Ah!----” said Spears, drawing a long breath. He could not be unaffected -by what was an echo of his own eloquence. “But there’s a deal to say, -too, for the other side.” - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -The Markhams of the Chase were one of the most important families in the -county, as has been already intimated. They owned three parts at least -of the parish (for my Lord Westland was a new man, who had bought, not -inherited, that property, and all that the Trevors had was their house -and park and a few fields that did not count), and a great deal more -besides. It was generally said that they had risen into importance as a -family only at the time of the Commonwealth, but their pedigree extended -far beyond that. In the former generation the family had not been -fortunate. Sir William Markham himself had been born the third son, and -in his youth he had been absent from England, and had “knocked about the -world,” as people say, in a way which had no doubt enlarged his -experiences and made him perhaps more fit for the responsibilities of -public life in which he had been so fortunate. He had succeeded, on the -death of his second brother, when he was over thirty, and it was not -till ten years later that he married. - -It had occasioned some surprise in the neighbourhood when Isabel -Fleetwood, who was a great beauty, and had made quite a sensation, it -was said, in her first season, accepted the middle-aged and extremely -sedate and serious little baronet. He was not handsome;--he had no -sympathy with the gay life into which she had been plunged by her -brother and aunt, who were her only guardians; and the world, always -pleased to believe that interested motives are involved, and fond of -prophesying badly of a marriage, concluded almost with one voice that it -was the ambitious aunt and the extravagant brother who had made it up, -and that the poor girl was sacrificed. But this was as great a mistake -as the world ever made. Perhaps it would be wrong to assert that the -marriage was a romantic one, and that the beautiful girl under twenty -was passionately in love with her little statesman. Perhaps her modest, -tranquil disposition, her dislike to the monotonous whirl of fashion, -and her sense of the precarious tenure by which she held her position in -her brother’s house, her only home (he married immediately after she -did, as everybody knows, and did not conceal the fact that it was -necessary to get rid of his sister before venturing upon a wife), had -something to do with her decision. But she had never shown any signs of -regretting it through all these years. Sir William was neither young nor -handsome, but he was a man whose opinion was listened to wherever it was -given, whose voice commanded the attention of the country, whose name -was known over Europe. And this in some cases affects a young -imagination as much as the finest moustache in the world, or the most -distinguished stature. She was not clever, but she was a woman of that -gracious nature, courteous, tolerant, and sympathetic, which is more -perfect without the sharpness of intellect. Nothing that was unkind was -possible to her. She had no particular imagination in the common sense -of the word, but she had a higher gift, the moral imagination (so to -speak) which gave her an exquisite understanding of other people’s -feelings, and made her incapable of any injury to them. This made Lady -Markham the very ideal of a great lady. As for Sir William, he held his -place more firmly than ever with such a partner by his side. They were -the happiest couple in the county, as well as the most important. Not -only did you meet the best of company at their house, but the sight of a -husband and wife so devoted to each other was good for you, everybody -said. They were proud of each other, as they had good reason to be: she -listened to him as to an oracle, and his tender consideration for her -was an example to all. Everything had gone well with the Markhams. They -were rich, and naturally inheritances and legacies and successions of -all kinds fell to them, which made them richer. Their children were the -healthiest and most thriving children that had ever been seen. Alice -promised to be almost as pretty as her mother, and Paul was _not_ short -like Sir William. Thus fortune had favoured them on every side. - -About a year before the date of this history, a cloud--like that famous -cloud no bigger than a man’s hand--had floated up upon the clear sky, -almost too clear in unshadowed well-being, over this prosperous house. -It was nothing--a thing which most people would have laughed at, a mere -reminder that even the Markhams were not to have everything their own -way. It was that Paul, a model boy at school, had suddenly become--wild? -Oh no! not wild, that was not the word: indeed it was difficult to know -what word to use. He had begun as soon as he went to Oxford by having -opinions. He had not been six months there before he was known at the -Union and had plunged into all the politico-philosophical questions -afloat in that atmosphere of the absolute. This was nothing but what -ought to have been in the son of a statesman; but unfortunately to -everything his father believed and trusted, Paul took the opposite side. -He took up the highest republican principles, the most absolute views as -to the equality of the human race. That, though it somewhat horrified -his mother and sister, produced at first very little effect upon Sir -William, who laughed and informed his family that Johnny Shotover had -held precisely the same views when he was an undergraduate, though now -he was Lord Rightabout’s secretary and as sound a politician as it was -possible to desire. “It is the same as the measles,” Sir William said. -Paul, however, had a theoretical mind and an obstinate temper: he was -too logical for life. As soon as he had come to the conviction that all -men are equal, he took the further step which costs a great deal more, -and decided that there ought to be equality of property as well as of -right. This made Sir William half angry, though it amused him. He bade -his son not to be a fool. - -“What would become of you,” he cried, “you young idiot!” using language -not at all parliamentary, “if there was a re-distribution of property? -How much do you think would fall to your share?” - -“As much as I have any right to, sir,” the young revolutionary said. - -And then Lady Markham interposed, and assured Paul that he was talking -nonsense. - -“Why should you take such foolish notions into your head? No one of your -family ever did so before. And can you really imagine,” she asked with -gentle severity, “that you are a better judge of such matters than your -papa?” but neither did this powerful argument convince the unreasonable -boy. - -There was one member of the family, however, who was affected by Paul’s -arguments, and this was his sister. Alice was dazzled at once by the -magnanimity of his sentiments and by his eloquence. Altogether -independent of this, she was, as a matter of course, his natural -partisan and defender, always standing up for Paul, with a noble -disregard for the right or the wrong in question, which is a -characteristic of girls and sisters. (For, Alice justly argued, if he -was wrong, he had all the more need for some one to stand up for him.) -But in this case her mind was, if not convinced, at least dazzled and -imposed upon by the grandeur of this new way of thinking. She would not -admit it to Paul, and indeed maintained with him a pretence of serious -opposition, arguing very feebly for the most part, though sometimes -dealing now and then, all unaware of its weight, a sudden blow under -which the adversary staggered, and in the success of which Alice -rejoiced without seeing very clearly how it was that one argument should -tell so much more than another. But at heart she was profoundly touched -by the generosity and nobleness of her brother’s views. Such a sweeping -revolution would not be pleasant. To be brought down from her own -delightful place, to be no longer Miss Markham of the Chase, but only a -little girl on the same level with her maid, was a thing she could not -endure to think of, and which brought the indignant blood to her cheek. -“_That_ you could never do,” she cried; “you might take away our money, -but you could never make gentlefolk into common people.” This was one of -the hits which found out a joint in Paul’s armour, but unaware of that -Alice went on still more confidently. “You _know_ good blood makes all -the difference--you cannot take that from us. People who have ancestors -as we have can never be made into nobodies.” At which her brother -scoffed and laughed, and bade her remember that old Brown had quite as -many grandfathers as they, and was descended from Adam as certainly as -the Queen was. “And Harry Fleetwood,” said this defiler of his own nest, -“do you call him an example of the excellence of blood?” Poor Alice was -inclined to cry when her disreputable cousin was thus thrown in her -teeth. She clung to her flag and fought for her caste like a little -heroine. But when Paul was gone, she owned to her mother that there was -a great deal in what he said. It was very noble as Paul stated it. When -he asked with lofty indignation, “What have I done to deserve all I have -got? I have taken the trouble to be born,”--Alice felt in her heart that -there was no answer to this plea. - -“My dear,” Lady Markham said, “think how foolish it all is; does he know -better than your papa and all the men that have considered the subject -before him?” - -“It may be silly,” said Alice, changing her argument, “but it is very -different from other young men. They all seem to think the world was -made for them; and if Paul is wrong, it is finer than being right like -_that_.” - -This was a fanciful plea which moved Lady Markham, and to which she -could make no reply. She shook her head and repeated her remark about -Paul’s presumption in thinking himself wiser than papa; but she too was -affected by the generosity and magnanimity which seemed the leading -influences of the creed so warmly adopted by her boy. - -This was the state of semi-warfare, not serious enough to have caused -real pain, but yet a little disquieting in respect to Paul’s future, -when the event occurred which has been recorded in the two last -chapters. The ladies saw more of the strange companion whom Paul had -brought with him than they generally saw of ordinary visitors. He had no -letters to write, nor calls to make, nor private occupations of any -kind; neither had he sufficient understanding of the rules of society -to know that guests are expected to amuse themselves, and not to oppress -with their perpetual presence the ladies of the house. What he wanted, -being as it were a traveller in an undiscovered country, was to study -the ways of the house, and the women of it, and the manner of their -life. And as he was so original as not to know anybody they knew, Lady -Markham in her politeness was led to invent all kinds of subjects of -conversation, upon which, without exception, Mr. Spears found something -to say. He assailed them on all points with the utmost frankness. He sat -(on the edge of his chair) and watched Lady Markham at her worsted work, -and found fault even with that. - -“You spend a great deal of time over it,” he said; “and what do you mean -to do with it?” - -This was the second evening, and they had become quite accustomed to -Spears. - -“I am not quite sure, to tell the truth. It is for a cushion--probably I -shall put it on that sofa, or it will do for a window-seat somewhere, -or----” - -“There are three cushions on the sofa already, and all the window-seats -are as soft as down-beds. You are doing something that will not be of -any use when it is done, and that, excuse me, is not very pretty, and -takes up a great deal of your time.” - -“Show Mr. Spears your work, Alice; he will like that better. Everybody -is severe now upon these poor abandoned Berlin wools. Now, Mr. Spears, -that pattern came from the School of Art Needlework. It was drawn by -somebody very distinguished indeed. It is intended to elevate the mind -as well as to occupy the fingers. You cannot but be pleased with that.” - -“What is it for?” said the critic. - -“I--scarcely know; for a screen I think--part of a screen you know, Mr. -Spears, to keep off the fire----” - -“Ah!--no, I don’t know. Among the people I belong to, Miss Alice, there -is no need of expedients to keep off the fire. Sometimes there is no -fire to have even a look at. I’ve known poor creatures wandering into -the streets when the gas was lighted, because it was warm there. The gas -in the shop-windows was all the fire they had a chance of. Did you ever -see a little wretched room all black of a winter’s night? Black--there’s -no blackness like that; it is blacker than the crape you all put on when -your people die.” - -“No; she has never seen it,” cried Lady Markham. “I did once in our -village at home before I was married. Oh, Mr. Spears, I know! it made me -cold for years after. No, thank God, Alice has never seen it. We take -care there is nothing like that here----. But,” she added after a -pause--“I don’t like to say anything unkind; but, Mr. Spears, after all, -it was their own fault.” - -“Ah, my lady! you that make screens to keep off the fire, do you never -do what is wrong? you that are cushioned at every angle, and never know -what a hard seat is, or a hard-bed, or a harsh look, or a nip of frost, -or a pinch of hunger--do you always do what is right? You ought to. You -are like angels, with everything beautiful round you; and you look like -angels, and you ought to be what they are said to be; but, if instead of -all this pretty nonsense you had misery and toil around you, and -ugliness, and discord, and quarrelling, would it be wonderful if you -went astray sometimes, and gave the other people, the warm, wealthy, -well-clothed people, reason to say it was your own fault? Great God!” -cried the orator, jumping up. “Why should we be sitting here in this -luxury, with everything that caprice can want, and waste our lives -working impossible flowers upon linen rags, while they are starving, and -perishing, and sinning for want, trying for the hardest work, and not -getting it? Why should there be such differences in life?” - -“This is not a place to ask such a question, Spears,” said Paul. “You -forget that we are the very people who are taking the bread out of the -mouths of our brothers. We, and such as we----” - -“Hold your tongue, Markham,” said the orator. “Do you think it is as -easy as that? Don’t take any notice of him, my lady. He’s young, and he -knows no better. He thinks that if he were able to give up all your -estates to the people, justice would be done. That is all he knows. -Stuff! we could do it all by a rising if it were as easy as that. You -young ass,” the man continued, filling the ladies with resentment more -warm than when he had denounced them all, “don’t you see it’s a deal -better in the hands of your father and mother, that take some thought of -the people, than with a beast of a shoddy millionaire, who cares for -nothing on this earth but money? I beg your pardon,” he added, with a -smile, “for introducing such a subject at all; but sometimes it gets -too much for me. I remember the things I’ve seen. I would not treat -lilies in that way, Miss Alice, if I were putting them on wood.” - -“Oh!” cried Alice with tears in her eyes; “how can you care about a -pattern after what you have been saying?” His eloquence had moved her so -much that she felt disposed to fling her pattern away. “What can one do? -How can one help it?” she said, below her breath, appealing to him with -her heart in her eyes. - -“I don’t like the pattern,” said Spears. “If I were going to put it on -wood, I’d treat it so--and so.” To illustrate his meaning, he made lines -with his thumb nail upon her satin. “I’d turn the leaves this way, and -the bud _so_. They should not be so stiff--or else they should be -stiffer.” - -“They are conventionally treated, Mr. Spears,” said Lady Markham, “and -you don’t treat anything conventionally, neither our patterns nor your -friends.” - -She had not forgotten that he had called her son Paul, and “you young -ass” was still tingling in her ears. Paul took it, however, with the -greatest composure as a matter of course. - -Spears burst into a great good-humoured laugh. - -“I beg your pardon, my lady. We don’t mind how we talk to young fellows. -I’d have it as conventional, or more, Miss Alice. This falls between two -stools. The lily’s a glorious thing when you enter into it. Look at the -ribs of it, as strong as steel, though they are all sheathed in -something smoother than satin. And every curl of the petal is full of -vigour and life. I used to think till you drew it or carved it, you -never could understand what that means--‘Consider the lilies of the -field.’ There they stand, nobody taking any trouble about them, and come -out of the earth built like a tower, or a ship, anything that’s strong -and full of grand curves and sweeping lines. Now the fault I find with -_that_ is, that you never would come to understand it a bit better if -you worked a hundred of them. If I had a knife and a bit of wood----” - -“Do you carve wood, Mr. Spears?” - -“Do I carve wood?” he laughed as Lord Lytton might have laughed had he -been asked whether he wrote novels. Did not all the world know it? The -ignorance of this pretty little lady was not insulting but amusing, -showing how far she was out of the world, and how little in this silent -country house they knew what was going on. “Yes--a little,” he said, -with again a laugh. It tickled him. Her mother had not known who Spears -was--Spears the orator--the reformer--the enemy of her order--and now -here was this girl who asked with that inimitable innocence, “Do you -carve wood?” He was amused beyond measure. “But I could not bring a lily -like that out of the softest deal,” he said; “it would break its back -and lie flat--it has no anatomy. If I had a pencil----” - -Alice, who was full of curiosity and interest, here put the desired -pencil into his hand, and he sat down at the nearest table, and with -many contortions of his limbs and contractions of his lips, as if all -his body was drawing, produced in bold black lines a tall lily with a -twist of bindweed hanging about its lovely powerful stalk, like strength -and weakness combined. “That is as near nature as you can do it without -seeing it,” he said, pleased with the admiration his drawing called -forth. “But if I were to treat it conventionally, I’d split the lily, -and lay it flat, without light and shadow at all. I should not make a -thing which is neither one nor the other, like your pattern there.” - -This was the way in which the man talked, assailing them on every side, -interesting them, making them angry, keeping them in commotion and -amusement. Lady Markham said that it had never cost her so much to be -civil to any one; but she was very civil to him, polite, and sometimes -even gracious. He stayed three days, and though she uttered a heartfelt -thanksgiving when the dog-cart in which Paul drove him to the railway -disappeared down the avenue, “Thank heaven he is gone, and your papa -only comes back to-morrow!” Lady Markham herself did not deny their -strange visitor justice. “But,” she said, “now he is gone, let as little -as possible be said about him. I do not want to conceal anything from -your papa, but I am sure he will not be pleased when he hears of it. For -Paul’s sake, let as little as possible be said. I will mention it, of -course, but I will not dwell upon it. It is much better that little -should be said.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Sir William did not come home for two days, but when he did return there -was a line between his eyebrows which everybody knew did not come there -for nothing. The first glimpse of him made the whole family certain -_that he knew_: and that he was angry; but he did not say anything until -dinner was over and the children gone to bed. By that time the ladies -began to hope with trembling, either that they had been mistaken, or -that nothing was going to be said. “I will tell him this evening, but I -will choose my time,” Lady Markham whispered to Alice as Sir William -stood up in front of the fireplace and took his coffee after dinner. He -was not a man who sat long after dinner, and he liked to have his coffee -in the drawing-room, when all the boys and girls had said good-night. -He was a little man of very neat and precise appearance, always -carefully dressed, always dignified and stately. Perhaps this had been -put on at first as a necessary balance to his insignificant stature; but -it was part of himself now. His family could not but look up to a man -who so thoroughly respected himself. He had a fine head, with abundant -hair, though it was growing white, and very penetrating, keen blue eyes; -but to see him standing thus against the carved marble of the -mantelpiece with the faint glimmer of an unnecessary fire throwing up -now and then a feeble flash behind him, it was not difficult to -understand that his family were afraid of his displeasure. The -conversation they maintained was of the most feeble, disjointed -description, while he stood there not saying a word. Paul stood about -too, helplessly, as men do in a drawing-room, unoccupied, and prepared -to resent anything that might be said to him. If only he could be got -away Lady Markham felt that she would have courage to dare everything, -and tell her husband, as was her wont, all that had occurred since he -went away. - -“The Westlands called on Tuesday. They were not more amusing than usual. -He wanted to tell you of some great discovery he has made about the -state of the law. Paul, will you go and fetch me that law-book I told -you of, out of the library? I want to show something in it to papa.” - -“I don’t know what you mean by a law-book,” said Paul. He saw that it -was intended as a pretext to send him away, and he would not budge. - -“And I had a long talk with the vicar about the new cottages. He thinks -only those should be allowed to get them who have been very well behaved -in the old ones. Paul, by the way, that reminds me I promised to send -down the Mudie books to the vicarage. Will you go and see after them, -and tell Brown to send them away?” - -“Presently,” said Paul. He drank his coffee with the most elaborate -tediousness. The more his mother tried to get rid of him, the more -determined he was not to go. - -“Except the vicar and the Westlands we have seen--scarcely anybody. But -I want those books to go to-night, Paul.” - -“You are very anxious to get Paul out of the way,” said Sir William. -“What does ‘scarcely anybody’ mean? Is it true that a man called -Spears, a trades-unionist, a paid agitator----?” - -“He is nothing of the sort,” said Paul, with a sudden burst of passion. -“If he is an agitator, it is for the right against the wrong, not for -payment; anybody who knows him will tell you so.” - -“I have heard it from people who know him,” said Sir William. “Is it -possible that you took advantage of my absence, Paul, to bring such a -man here--to lodge such a person in my house?” - -“Such a person!” Paul, who had felt it coming ever since his father’s -arrival, stood to his arms at once. “He is the best man I know,” he -said, indignantly. “There is no house in the country that might not be -proud to receive him; and as for taking advantage of your absence, -sir----” - -“Indeed,” said Lady Markham, holding up her head, though she had grown -pale, “you must not say so, William; he did not know you were away; and -as for Mr. Spears, I was just about to tell you. He is not a man to be -afraid of. It is true he is not--in society, perhaps--he has not quite -the air of a person in society--has he, Alice?” This was said with -scarcely a tremble. “But his manners were perfectly good, and his -appearance, though it was quite simple--I think you must be making some -mistake. I saw no harm in him.” - -Will it be believed that Paul, instead of showing gratitude, was -indignant at this mild approval? “Saw no harm in him,” he cried; “his -manners, his appearance. Are you mad, mother? He is a man who is worthy -to be a king, if merit made kings; or if any man worth the name would -accept an office which has been soiled by such ignoble use!” - -“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Sir William. “It is you who are mad. A -stump-orator, a fellow who does much mischief in England! My house is -not to be made a shelter for such _canaille_. Your mother should have -turned him to the door; and so she would have done, I don’t doubt--her -instincts are too fine not to have seen the kind of creature he was--but -for her foolish devotion to you.” - -“Paul, Paul! Oh, don’t speak--don’t say anything,” cried Alice in an -agony, in her brother’s ear. - -“Let him say what he pleases,” said Sir William. “This must be put a -stop to. When the house is his, he can dishonour it if he likes, but in -the meantime the house is mine.” - -“Certainly the house is yours, sir,” cried his son; “I make no claim on -it. I feel no right to it. Let me alone, Alice! Do I want the house, or -the land, or the money which we steal from the poor to make ourselves -splendid, while our fellow-creatures are starving? I am ready to give it -up at a moment’s notice. It wounds my conscience, it restrains my -action. I want nothing with your house, sir. If I may not bring one -honest man into it, you may hand it over to any one you please; it is no -home for me.” - -“Paul, Paul!” cried his mother in tones of alarm. Sir William only -laughed that laugh of anger which frightens a household. - -“Let him rave--let him rave,” he cried, throwing himself into a chair. -“A boy who speaks so of his home does not deserve one. He does not -deserve the position Providence has given him--a good name, a good -fortune, honourable ancestors, all thrown away.” - -“I acknowledge no honour in the ancestors that robbed the poor to make -me rich,” cried the hot-headed youth. And the end of all was that his -mother and sister had much ado to keep him from leaving the house at -once, late as it was, in the heat of passion. Never before had such a -storm--or indeed any storm at all--arisen in the peaceful house. It -marked the ending of that idyllic age in which the rulers of a family -are supreme, and where no new-developed will confronts them within their -sacred walls. Raised voices and faces aglow with anger are terrible -things in such an inclosure. It seemed to Lady Markham that she would -die with shame when she met the look of subdued wonder, curiosity, and -sympathy in old Brown’s eyes; when, after the storm was over, after a -decent interval, he came in, taking great precautions to make himself -audible as he approached. It was the first time since she entered the -house that her servants had occasion to be sorry for Lady Markham, and -this consciousness went to her heart. By the time Brown came in, -however, all was very quiet. Sir William had gone away to his library, -and Paul, breathing indignation at every pore, was walking about the -room with his hands in his pockets, now and then launching an arrow at -his mother or sister. A truce had been patched up. He had consented, as -a great matter, not to plunge out of the house into the darkness, but -to wait till to-morrow. This was a concession for which they were as -grateful as if it had been the noblest gift; it was for their sake he -did it; nothing else, he declared, would have made him remain an hour -under the same roof. - -“Oh hush, Paul--hush! I forbid you to say another word,” cried his -mother; and then all was silent, as they heard Brown cough before he -opened the door. - -“Tell Lewis to have the dog-cart ready for Mr. Markham for the first -train,” she said, not raising her eyes. But all the same she saw the -pity in the face of old Brown. He asked no question; he did not express -his sorrow to hear of Mr. Markham’s sudden departure, as on previous -occasions he would have done, exercising the right of his old service; -he said, “Certainly, my lady,” in a tone which went to Lady Markham’s -heart. Even Brown perceived that there was no more to be said. - -That was in other ways a notable year for the Markhams. For one thing -Alice “came out.” She was eighteen: she had not been prematurely -introduced as an eldest daughter very often is. And in consequence Lady -Markham stayed in London longer and went more into society. This moment, -so exciting to the _débutante_, was clouded over to Alice and to her -mother by the fact that Paul was in disgrace. They were still in London -when the Oxford term ended, and it had been their hope that he would -join them there. It is true that this prospect was not altogether an -unmingled delight, for a certain alarm was involved in their joy. How -would his father and he “get on” after this first quarrel? Would Paul be -as submissive, would Sir William be as forgiving, as they ought? All the -little triumphs of Alice, her _succès_, the admiration she had excited -were made of no account by this doubt and fear about her brother. But -when, just before the long vacation began, a letter arrived from Paul, -announcing that he did not mean to join them at all, but was going to -“stay up and read,” with a party of other “men” who entertained that -virtuous intention, the revulsion of feeling in the minds of the mother -and sister was very painful. They forgot that they had ever entertained -any fear about his coming, and cried over his letter with the bitterest -pangs of disappointment. - -“It is all papa’s fault,” Alice cried in mournful wrath; and though -Lady Markham checked her daughter, saying, “Hush! surely your papa knows -better than you do,” yet there was a little rebellion in her heart too -against the head of the house. Had he been less hard, Paul would have -been more docile. - -Sir William, however, as it happened, was rather mollified than offended -by this intimation. The authorities of Paul’s college had been finding -fault. High hopes had been entertained of the young man at first. It had -been believed that he would bring distinction to his college, which, who -can doubt? is the first thing to be considered. But that hope had proved -delusive; he had not “gone in for” half so much as he ought, and of all -those things he had “gone in for” he had not been successful in one. -This made him to be looked upon coldly by eyes which at first winked -with benevolence at the blunders and idleness of a statesman’s son. Now -that they were aware that he was not likely to bring them any honour, -the dons grew querulous with Paul. He was not a duke or a duke’s son -that he should ride roughshod over the habitudes of the university and -its inviolable order. They had not of late shown that delight in him -which parents love to see. He had not excited parental feelings in -their academical bosoms. He was visionary, he was Radical; and it was -whispered that he received visitors in his rooms who were not of a -character to be received there. Fortunately this last accusation had not -reached Lady Markham’s ears. Had she known, how could she ever have -borne that “staying up to read,” which at present seemed a proof of -Paul’s innate virtue? But Sir William was of tougher fibre. He was not -displeased to be free of personal contact with his son at this crisis. -It is not expedient that there should be quarrels in a family. All that -nonsense would blow over. Paul’s intellectual measles might be severe, -but they were only measles after all, a malady of youth which a young -man of marked character took more seriously than a frivolous boy, but -which would pass away. “It will be all the better for his degree,” his -father said with that simplicity of confidence in the noble purpose of -“staying up to read” which it is so touching to see. And what could the -women say? If it was good for him, was it their part to complain? They -were cruelly disappointed, and yet perhaps they were relieved as well. -They wrote letters full of the former feeling, but they did not say -anything about the latter--not even to each other. How could they allow -even to themselves that it was better for Paul to stay away? - -However this disappointment seriously interfered with the glories of her -first season to Alice. She did not wish to stay longer in town than Lady -Markham’s usual time. She longed for the country, when the summer -reached its very crown of brightness, and the park looked baked and the -streets scorching. They went home as they were in the habit of doing, in -the end of June, leaving Sir William to toil through the end of the -session by himself; and though it was still more melancholy to be -without Paul in the quietness of home, yet there were compensations. -They had their usual work to occupy them, and that routine of ordinary -living which is the best prop and support of the anxious mind; and Alice -was young enough, and her mother scarcely too old to forget, by times -altogether, that there were troubles in the world. Nothing very dreadful -had happened after all. If Paul did not write very often, were not all -boys the same? Thus they kept their anxieties subdued, and were not -unhappy--except perhaps for half an hour now and then. - -Thus the summer went on. The holidays came once more. The boys came -home, the girls were delivered from their governess, and the reign of -innocence recommenced. Not to last long this time, for everybody knew -that in the second week in August papa was coming home. The children, -however, took the good of the fortnight they had all to themselves. The -sunshine, the harvest, the woods, how delightful they are in August, -with no lessons, no governess, and mamma all to themselves! From morning -till night the house was full of laughter and commotion, except when it -lay all open and silent with the whole family out of it, gone -pic-nicking, gone upon excursions, making simple holiday. - -“My lady is the biggest baby of them all,” Mrs. Fry said with indulgent -disapproval, shaking her head, “if she wasn’t thinking all the time of -Mr. Paul.” - -“Bless you there ain’t a minute as that boy is out of her head,” said -Brown. Brown was too respectful to say anything but Mr. Markham in -public, but he said Mr. Paul, or even Paul _tout court_, when he was in -the housekeeper’s room. While these pranks were going on, the house lay -like an enchanted palace, all its doors and windows open to the sweet -summer air, the rooms full of flowers and sweetness, but nobody there. -There were too many servants about for any fear of robbers, but it is -doubtful whether Sir William would have thought it decorous had he seen -the openness and vacancy of this summer palace, waiting all garnished -and bright for the return of the revellers, for the rush of light feet, -the smiles, the voices, the chattering and laughter, the gaiety and glee -that in a moment would flood it through and through. But to the -spectator whose dignity was not involved, these changes were pretty and -pleasant to see, and it was not to be wondered at perhaps if Brown and -the army under his charge took holiday too. - -One day very shortly before that on which Sir William was expected, a -stranger walked slowly up the avenue and came to the great open door. -Everything was open as usual. He saw into the great hall as he came -gradually up, and saw that it was empty and still. It was a warm day, -and he was weighted with a little valise, which he carried, shifting it -from one hand to the other with some appearance of fatigue. He was a -tall man, very thin and very brown, with the unmistakable look of an -old soldier in his well-squared shoulders, even though his figure -drooped a little with fatigue and heat, and slightly with age. When he -reached the door, he looked round him, and seeing nobody there went in -and placed himself in a great chair which was near the open door. “He’s -come into my house without knocking many’s the day,” he said to himself. -It was hot, and he was tired, and the coolness and shade inside -completed what the glare without had done. He put his valise down by his -side and leaned back, and felt himself very comfortable; then quite -tranquilly and pleasantly closed his eyes and rested; had there been -anything to drink all would have been perfect. But even without this it -was very comfortable. The house was perfectly still, but outside a -little breeze was getting up, making a murmuring cadence among the -trees. There was a sound of bees in the air close at hand, and of birds -further off among the branches--everything was sweet and summery and -reposeful. The new-comer lay back in his chair in the mood which makes -fatigue an accessory of enjoyment. Something of the vagabond was in his -appearance which yet scarcely marred his air of gentleman. Poor he was -without doubt, growing old, very tired, dusty, and travel-worn. He was -not fastidious about his accommodation, and could have slept as well on -a grassy bank, had it been needful, but the chair was very comfortable -and pleasant. He fell asleep, or rather went to sleep, quite -voluntarily. It was afternoon, near the time when the party might be -expected to return, but up to this moment nobody had made any -preparation for them, and the new-comer took possession without -challenge of all the comfort of the vacant place. - -Roland had been allowed that day to drive the dog-cart, the carriage -being full, and he and Marie had so urged the stout cob Primrose, which -was the steed specially given up to the uses of the schoolroom, that he -flew like the wind and got home before the carriage. The little pair -burst into the stable-yard like a flash of lightning, and tossed the -reins to the first astonished groom they encountered. - -“Let’s rush in the back way and pretend we have been here for an hour,” -cried Marie. - -They flew rather than walked round by the flower-garden, and through the -open window of the drawing-room. There was the carriage turning in at -the gate, a quarter of a mile off; there was plenty of time. But the -fact that there was plenty of time did not make them move quietly. They -proceeded into the hall, making themselves audible by the chatter of -their childish voices and laughter. - -“Won’t mamma be surprised!” cried Marie. - -But, on the contrary, it was herself that was surprised. She gave a -lengthened “Oh!” of wonder, alarm, and consternation, as they came in -sight of the stranger in the hall. She turned round and clutched at -Roland, and like a little coward put him first. He was twelve, not an -age to be frightened, and Marie was but eleven. Roland said “Oh!” too, -but with a different tone, and, dropping back a little upon her, -confronted and gazed at the sleeper in the easy chair. His looks were -not of the kind that children fly. The heavy moustache drooping over his -mouth seemed to add to the appearance of complete, yet pleasant -weariness, in which the shabby figure was wrapped. Here was a thing to -encounter when one got home: a man, a gentleman, whom one had never seen -before, fast asleep in the great chair in the hall! - -“Will he not wake?” whispered Marie. “Oh, Roland! are you frightened? -Shall I run and tell Brown?” - -“Frightened!--likely,” said Roland; but he kept hold of her frock, not -that she could have been of any real assistance to him, but “for -company.” - -The two children stood transfixed before this strange apparition, -watching if he would move. At the first stir, Marie most likely would -have run away with a shriek; but after all what was there to fear? Mamma -had certainly turned into the avenue, and might arrive any moment, and -Brown with his army of men and maids was somewhere in the background -within call, so there was no real reason to fear. Nevertheless, when the -arms that rested on the arms of the chair began to stretch themselves, -and the intent gaze of the children drew the tired eyes open, Marie’s -best efforts to command herself could not restrain a tremulous cry, -which quite completed the stranger’s awakening. - -“Bless me, I’ve been asleep!” he said, opening his eyes. Then when he -saw the two little figures before him, his eyelids opened wider, and a -smile came out from underneath them. “Little folks, who are you?” - -“It’s you to tell us,” cried Roland with spirit. “This is our house, but -it isn’t yours.” - -“That’s true, my little man. I’ve been asleep, more shame to me. It was -hot, and I’ve had a long walk.” - -“If you are very tired, poor gentleman,” said Marie, coming in now that -there seemed nothing to be afraid of, “I--don’t think mamma will mind. -Oh, Rol, here she is! come and tell her,” the little girl cried. They -forgot their triumph of being first, in the excitement of this strange -piece of news, and flew bursting with it to the door of the carriage -which swept up at the moment, filling the stillness with echoes, and -waking up the whole silent house. Brown and the footman on duty appeared -as by magic, and the whole enchanted palace came to life. The stranger -sat still and watched it all with a smile on his face. He saw pretty -Alice and her beautiful mother descend from the carriage, and a curious -light broke over his countenance. - -“Lucky little beggar,” he said. - -He repeated this phrase two or three times to himself before he was -altogether roused from the half-dream, half-languor, he was still in, by -the sight of Lady Markham’s eyes fixed upon him, and the alarmed, -guilty, nervous inspection of old Brown. - -“You must get out of here, sir--you must get out of here, sir--heaven -knows how you got into it; this must have been your fault, Charles. I -can’t let you stay here, though I don’t want to be uncivil. My lady’s -coming this way.” - -“It’s your lady I want, my friend,” said the intruder, rising languidly. -He made Lady Markham a fine bow as she approached, with surprise in her -face. “I must be my own godfather, and present myself to my old friend’s -family,” he said. “I am Colonel Lenny, of the 50th West India Regiment. -St. John Lenny at your service, my dear madam, once Will Markham’s -closest friend.” - -Lady Markham made him a curtsey in return for his bow. - -“Sir William is not at home,” she said. If she had not already suffered -for her hospitality, his reception would have been less cold; but she -had never heard of Colonel Lenny, and what could she say? - -“He must have talked to you about me and mine. I married a -Gaveston--Katey. You must have heard him speak of her. No? That is very -strange. Then perhaps you will think me an intruder, my Lady Markham. I -beg your pardon. I thought I was sure of a welcome; and I was so done -with the heat, though I used not to mind the heat, that I fell asleep in -your nice, pleasant hall, in this big chair.” - -Lady Markham inclined her head in assent. What was she to do? who was -Colonel Lenny? She cast a glance at Alice, seeking counsel; but how -could Alice advise? - -“Will you come in now and take a cup of tea with us?” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Colonel Lenny left his valise in the hall, where, when he rose, it was -very visible, a dusty object upon the soft carpet. Lady Markham looked -at it with alarm. Did it mean that he intended to stay? Was she to be -punished for having received one unsuitable visitor by being forced to -be rude to another? She led the way into the drawing-room in great -perplexity and trouble. As for Brown and Charles, they both went and -looked at the valise with curiosity as a natural phenomenon. - -“Is all the beggars coming on visits?” said the footman; “I ain’t agoing -to wait on another, not if my wages was doubled.” - -“Hold your tongue,” said Brown; “you’ll do what I tell you if you want -to go from here with a character. So mind your business, and keep your -silly remarks to yourself.” - -But when Charles disappeared muttering, Brown turned over the dusty, -humble portmanteau with his foot, with serious disgust. “My lady hasn’t -the heart to say no to nobody,” he said to himself. He felt perfectly -convinced that this miserable representation of a gentleman’s luggage -would sooner or later have to be carried up stairs. - -The stranger followed Lady Markham into the drawing-room, at which he -gazed with wonder and admiration. “This is something like a house,” he -said. “Little we thought when I used to know Will Markham that he would -ever come to this honour and glory. It was in the year--bless me, not -any year you can recollect--forty years ago if it is a day. His brothers -were living, and he was nearly as poor as the rest of us. I married -Katey. He must have spoken of the Gavestons, though he might not mention -his old friend Lenny. Ah, well, maybe no--to be sure I am not taking -everything into consideration. Did your father ever tell you, my boys, -of the West Indies, and the insurrection, and all the stirring times we -had there?” - -Harry and Roland looked at each other with eyes brightening, yet -confused. Papa was not a man who told stories of anything,--and Lady -Markham interposed. “I think you must be making a mistake,” she said. “I -am sure Sir William has never been in the West Indies. You must be -thinking of some one else of the same name.” - -The old soldier looked at her with bewildered surprise. “A mistake!” he -said. “_I_ make a mistake about Will Markham? I have known all about -him, and the name of his place, his family, and all his belongings for -the last forty years! Why, I--I am his----” Then he paused and looked at -Lady Markham, and added slowly, “One of his very oldest friends, be the -other who he may.” - -“I beg your pardon,” she said, concealing her embarrassment over the -tea-table. - -Colonel Lenny was not particularly fond of tea: he would have liked, he -thought, something else instead of it, something that foamed and -sparkled; yet the tea was better than nothing. He gave her his pardon -very easily, not dwelling upon the offence. - -“Ah,” he said, “I can tell you stories that will make your hair stand -on end. When those niggers broke out, it was not preaching that would do -much. That was in the old time, you know, when land meant something in -the islands, before emancipation. Did you ever hear about the -emancipation? I’ll tell you a story about the times before that. We had -to get the women and children stowed away--the devils would have thought -no more of cutting them to pieces--we were after them in the woods night -and day sometimes. Once your father was with us--he was not in the -service, as we were, but he was very plucky though he was always -small--he joined as a volunteer.” - -“Where was that? and when was that?” cried the boys; and the girls too -drew near, much attracted by the promise of a story. Colonel Lenny waved -his long brown hand to them, and went on-- - -“I’ll tell you all about that presently; but I must ask you to let me -know, my dear lady, when Markham is expected home. I’ve got business to -talk over--business that is more his than mine. He’ll know all about it -as soon as he hears my name. It is a long time since we met--and perhaps -the notion would never have struck me to seek him out but for--things -that have happened. It is more his business than mine.” - -“I am not sure whether he will return to-morrow or next day--next day at -the latest,” said Lady Markham, faltering. - -She could not make up her mind what to do. On the occasion of her former -mistake, Paul in person had been present to answer for his friend, but -there was no one to guarantee this second stranger--this new claimant on -her hospitality. If he should be an impostor! but he did not look like -an impostor; or, if it should be a mistake after all, and his Will -Markham quite a different man? Will Markham! it seemed incredible to -Lady Markham that any one should ever have addressed her husband with so -much familiarity. These, and a hundred other thoughts, ran through her -mind as she poured out the tea. - -Meantime, Colonel Lenny made great friends with the children. He began -to tell them the most exciting stories. He was not ill at ease as Spears -had been, but sat luxuriously thrown back into a luxurious chair, his -long limbs stretched out, his long brown hands giving animation to his -narrative. Lady Markham managed to escape while this was going on, and -got _Burke_ down from the bookshelves in the hall, and anxiously looked -up its various lists. There was no Sir William Markham except her -husband, no William Markham at all among the county gentry. When Brown, -become suspicious by his past experiences, came into the hall at the -sound of her foot, she put back the book again guiltily. - -The old butler came forward with an expression of concern and trouble on -his countenance. “What does your ladyship intend,” he asked, solemnly, -“that I should do with this?” touching with his foot as he spoke the -dusty valise--the old soldier’s luggage, which lay very humbly as if -ashamed of itself half under the big chair. - -Lady Markham could have laughed and she could have cried. “I don’t know -what to do, Brown,” she said. - -Brown was very much tempted to give his mistress the benefit of his -advice. He forbore, however, exercising a wise discretion, for Lady -Markham, though very gracious, was proud; but he was not self-denying -enough to divest himself of a general air of anxiety--the air of one who -could say a great deal if he would--shaking his head slightly, and -looking at the offending article which seemed to try to withdraw itself -out of notice under the shadow of the chair. He could have said a great -deal if he had dared. He would have bidden his mistress beware who she -took into her house, Sir William wasn’t best pleased before, and if it -happens again---- Perhaps Lady Markham read something of this in Brown’s -eyes; and she did not like the butler’s advice, which was more or less -disapproval, as all effective advice is. The result was however that -before dinner the poor little valise was carried up, to the great scorn -of the domestics, to a bedroom, and that Colonel Lenny, after keeping -the children suspended on his lips all the evening, withdrew early, -leaving the mother and daughter to an anxious consultation over him. -Alice, too, had consulted a book, but it was an _Army List_ that was the -subject of her studies. She came to her mother triumphantly with this -volume open in her hand. - -“Here he is, mamma. John St. John Lenny, 50th West India Regiment. I am -so glad I have found it. He is delightful. There never could be any -doubt about such a thorough old soldier.” - -“You thought Mr. Spears interesting, Alice,” said Lady Markham, feebly. - -“Mamma! and so did you. He was very interesting. I have his lily that he -drew for me, and it is beautiful. But he was not a gentleman. He did not -know how to sit on his chair, nor how to stand, nor what to say to you -or even me. He called me Miss Alice, and you my lady. But Colonel Lenny -is entirely different. He is just the same as everybody else, only more -amusing than most people. Did you hear the story he was telling -about----?” - -“Oh, my dear, I was a great deal too anxious to be able to attend to any -story. What if he should turn out some agitator too? what if he were a -spy to see what kind of life we lead, or an impostor, or some one who -has made a mistake, and takes your papa for some other Markham? If I -have taken in some one else whom I ought not to have taken in, I think I -shall die of shame.” - -“How can he be an impostor, when he is here in the _Army List_?” - -“Let me see it,” Lady Markham said. She read out the name word by word, -and her mind was a little relieved. “I suppose there cannot be any -mistake since he is here,” she said, with a sigh of relief. But, as a -matter of fact, Lady Markham sat up in her dressing-gown half the night, -afraid of she knew not what, and listening anxiously to all the vague -mystical noises that arise in a sleeping house in the middle of the -night. She did not know what it was of which she was afraid. How could -he be an impostor when his name was in the _Army List_, and when he had -that kind brown face? But then, on the other hand, a man from the West -Indies, who called her husband Will Markham, was an incredible person. -She sat up till the blue summer daylight came silently in at all the -windows, putting her suspicious candles to shame, when she, too, became -ashamed of herself for her suspicions, and crept very quietly to bed. - -Sir William did not come next day, but Colonel Lenny stayed on, and as -it is always the _premier pas que coûte_, Lady Markham’s doubts were -lulled to rest, and she neither frowned nor watched the second night. -And on the third Sir William came. It was Alice who went to meet him at -the station, in a pretty little pony carriage which he had given her. -Everything was done instinctively by the ladies to disarm any -displeasure papa might feel, and to prepare him to receive this second -visitor with a friendly countenance. If there was anything that moved -Sir William’s heart with a momentary impulse of unreasoning pride and -foolish fondness, it was supposed by his wife to be the sight of his -pretty daughter, with her pretty ponies. These ponies had been named -To-to and Ta-ta before Alice had them--after, it was understood, two -naughty personages in a play--and as the ponies were very naughty the -names were retained. There were no such mischievous and troublesome -individuals about the house, and Alice was very proud of the fact that -it was she with her light hand who managed them best. Sir William was -not fond of wild animals, and yet all the household knew that he liked -to be brought home by his daughter in her little carriage, with the -ponies skimming over the roads as if they were flying. It was the one -piece of dash and daring in which he delighted. - -Lady Markham, who was not fond of risking her daughter, came out to the -door to entreat her to take care. - -“And you will explain everything?” she said; “how it happened, and how -very uneasy we have been; but my darling, above all, take care of -yourself. Do not let those wicked little things run away with you. Give -George the reins if you feel them too strong for your wrist. And make -him understand, Alice, how nice, how really nice, and kind, and -agreeable he is. George, you must never take your eye off the ponies, -and see that Miss Markham takes care.” - -“I hope they know my hand better than George’s,” said Alice, scornfully, -“better than any one else’s. Nobody can interfere between them and me.” - -“Pretty creatures! I don’t know which is the prettiest,” said Colonel -Lenny, coming up. He had all the children in a cluster round him. “They -are three beauties; that is all there is to be said. If you were not so -little I could tell you now about a great number of pretty girls in a -family, that were called the pride of Barbadoes. I married one of them, -and my friend Markham--why, my friend Markham knew them very well, my -dear madam,” the Colonel said. It did not seem to be the conclusion -which he intended to give to his description. However, he added, with a -smile, “But as you’re so little I won’t tell you about young ladies. -I’ll tell you about the Oboe men, and the harm they do among the poor -niggers.” - -“Oh,” cried Bell and Marie, in one breath, “we should like to hear about -the young ladies best.” - -“Bosh!” cried the boys; “what is the good of stories about a pack of -girls? I hate stories that are full of love and all that stupid stuff.” - -“Then here goes for the Oboe men,” said the old soldier. He seated -himself under the great portico, in a large Indian bamboo chair that -stood there in summer, and the children perched about him like a flight -of birds. - -Lady Markham looked at this group for a moment, with a softening of all -the anxious lines that had got into her face. She was not afraid of her -husband, who had always been so good to her, but she was afraid of -disapproval, and the Spears’ affair was fresh in her mind. But then, in -all the circumstances, that was so different! - -She left the pretty group round the door, and went slowly down the -avenue, that she might be the first to meet her husband. Now that the -critical moment arrived, she began for the first time to think what the -business could be which Colonel Lenny was waiting to discuss. “More his -business than mine.” What was it? This question rose in her mind, giving -a little, a very little additional anxiety to her former disquietude. -And then, being anxious anyhow, what wonder that her mind should glide -on to the subject of Paul and what he was doing. That was a subject that -was never long out of her thoughts. Would he come home when the shooting -began? He could not stay up to read for ever. Would his father and he -meet as father and son ought to meet? Would it be possible to reason or -laugh the boy out of his foolish notions, and bring him back to right -views, to the disposition which ought to belong to his father’s son? -This was a wide sea of troubles to be launched upon, all starting from -the tiny rivulet of alarm lest Sir William should dislike the new -visitor. She went slowly down the avenue, under the nickers of sunshine -and shade, under the murmuring of the leaves, catching now and then the -sound of the colonel’s voice in the distance, and the exclamations of -the children. Ah, at their age how simple it all was--no complication of -opposed wills, no unknown friends or influences to contend with! She -sighed, poor lady, with happiness, and with pain. It is easy even for a -mother to dismiss from her thoughts those who are happy; but how can she -forget the one who perhaps is not happy, who is absent, who is among -unknown elements, not good or innocent? Thus Lady Markham’s thoughts, -however occupied with other subjects, came back like the doves to their -windows, always to Paul. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -“Has anything happened, papa? You are so late--nearly an hour. To-to has -been almost mad with waiting--has there been an accident? We were all -beginning to get frightened here.” - -“No accident that I know of,” said Sir William. He cast a look of -pleasure at the pretty equipage and the pretty charioteer--a look of -proud proprietorship and paternal pride. Alice was his favourite, they -all said. But notwithstanding, he would not join her till he had seen -that all his portmanteaus had been got out and carefully packed on the -dog-cart which had come for them. Sir William’s own gentleman, Mr. -Roberts, a most careful and responsible person, whose special charge -these portmanteaus were, superintended the operation; but this did not -satisfy his master. He stood by the pony-carriage, talking to his -daughter, but he kept his eyes upon his luggage. There were -despatch-boxes, no doubt freighted with the interests of the kingdom, -and too important to be left to the care of a valet, however -conscientious, and a railway porter. It was only when they were all -collected and safe that he took his place by the side of Alice. - -“You may be sure, my dear,” he said, “that unless you take similar -precautions you will always be losing something.” The ponies had gone -off with such a start of delight the moment they were set free, that Sir -William’s remark was jerked out of his mouth. - -“It would be quite a novelty if that happened to you--it would be rather -nice, showing that you were human, like the rest of us. Did you really -never, never, lose anything, papa?” - -“Never,” he said; and you had only to look at him to see that this was -no exaggeration. Such a perfectly precise and orderly person was never -seen; from the top of his hat to the tip of his well-brushed boots there -was nothing out of order about him, notwithstanding his journey. His -clothes fitted him perfectly; they were just of the cut and the colour -that suited his age, his importance and position. That he would ever -have neglected any duty, or forgotten any necessary precaution, seemed -impossible. “However,” he added, “I must not say too much; when I was -young I have no doubt accidents happened. What I object to is that the -present generation seems to think it a privilege to be forgetful. I was -taught to be ashamed of it in my day.” - -“Oh yes, papa, we are very silly,” said Alice; “though mamma says I am a -little old maid and never forget. I take after you, that is what they -all say.” - -Sir William looked at her with a benevolent smile. There is no more -subtle flattery that a child can address to a parent than this of -“taking after” him, though why it should please us so it would be hard -to say. He leaned back in his seat with a sense of well-deserved repose, -while the impatient ponies flew along, tossing their pretty heads, their -bells jingling, their hasty little hoofs beating time over the dry -summer road. “This is very pleasant,” he said. It was a perfect summer -evening, cool after a hot day, and the road lay through a tranquil, -wealthy country, so fresh after the burnt-up parks, yet full of harvest -wealth; the sheaves standing in the fields, some golden breadths of corn -still uncut, and the heavy richness of the full foliage throwing deep -shadows eastward. The ponies flew like the wind, and Alice, holding them -with firm little vigorous hands, turned her soft face to him, all lit up -with pleasure at his return. A conscientious statesman, a man who has -been broiling in the service of his country, sitting on committees, -listening to endless wearisome discussions and all the bothers of the -end of the session, it may be supposed what a pleasant relief it was to -step into this little fairy carriage and be carried swiftly and softly -through the happy autumn fields to his home. “All well?” he said. But a -man who has a daily bulletin from his wife asks such a question -tranquilly, without any anxiety for the reply. - -“I wonder who that lady was in the pink bonnet,” said Alice. “Strangers -so seldom come out at our station. I wonder who she is going to. Perhaps -it is somebody for the vicarage. Oh, yes, they are all quite well. The -boys came home on Friday week, and they have never been out of mischief -ever since. They are in the woods all day; and the girls have begun -their holidays too. Mademoiselle has gone. We wanted only you, papa, -you--and Paul. But who could that lady with the pink bonnet be?” - -This second expression of curiosity was added artificially to cover the -allusion to Paul. Sir William did not take any notice of either one or -the other. “So Mademoiselle has gone?” he said. “I hope you keep order, -and that mamma does not let them be too irregular. They will be far -happier for a little wholesome restraint.” - -“I suppose so,” said Alice, dubiously. “Anyhow,” she added, “they have -had nearly a fortnight all to themselves. We have all been idle; but we -will settle down into right laws and proper habits now we have got you, -papa.” - -“That will be quite necessary,” he said; then, with a slightly impatient -tone, “You spoke of Paul--what is your last news of Paul?” - -To-to had a very sensitive mouth. At this moment he so resented some -imperceptible pull of the reins, that he got into the air altogether, -capering with all his four feet, and called for Alice’s complete -attention. In the midst of this little excitement she said, “Paul is -still at Oxford, papa. He does not write very often. Oh, you bad To-to, -what do you mean by this?” - -“He has got very fond of Oxford all at once.” - -“He has all his friends there--at least some of his friends. Papa,” -cried Alice, with an impulse of alarm, “I wonder who that lady can be. -She is coming after us in the village fly. I saw her bonnet just now -through the window, when To-to made that bolt.” - -“My dear, it is quite unimportant who she is--unless you think she is -one of your brother’s friends. Considering who his associates are, one -could never be astonished at any arrival. It may be a lady lecturer, -perhaps, on Female Suffrage and Universal Equality.” - -“Oh, papa! because he knows one man like that! But I have something to -tell you--something that makes mamma and me a little uneasy. A gentleman -came on Monday--oh, not a common person at all, a _gentleman_, and very -nice. We could not tell what to do, but at last, after many -consultations, we made up our minds to invite him to stay.” - -“My dear Alice!” cried Sir William, “what do you and your mother mean? -Is my house to be made into an hotel? What is the meaning of it? Am I -to understand that you have taken in another nameless person, another -disreputable acquaintance of Paul’s? Good heavens! is your mother mad? -But I will not put up with it. My house shall not be made a refuge for -adventurers, a den of----” - -“For that matter,” said Alice growing pale, “I suppose it is mamma’s -house too.” - -There are opinions that get into the air and spread in sentiment when -most opposed to principle. Nobody could have been more horrified than -Lady Markham at any claim for her of woman’s rights; but when her little -daughter, generously bred, found herself suddenly confronted by this -undoubted claim of proprietorship, a chord was struck within her which -had perhaps only learned to vibrate of recent days. She looked her -father in the face with sudden defiance. She had not intended it--on the -contrary, the object of her mission, the chief thing in her thoughts, -had been to conciliate him in respect to this visitor, and soften his -probable displeasure. But a girl’s mind is a delicate machine, and there -is nothing that so easily changes its balance by a sudden touch. A whole -claim of rights, a whole code of natural justice, blazed up in her blue -eyes. She forgot To-to in her sudden indignation, looking with all the -severity of logical youth in her father’s face. - -Sir William was altogether taken aback. He returned her look with a kind -of consternation. - -“You little----” But then he stopped. A man sometimes remembers (though -not always) that when he is speaking to his children of their mother it -is necessary to do so with respect. Unquestionably it was expedient that -a girl should have full faith in her mother. Besides (it gleamed upon -Sir William) Alice was not a child. She was a reasonable little -creature, able, after all, more or less, to form an opinion for herself. -Perhaps he was more disposed to grant this privilege to the girl who was -not likely to make any extravagant use of it, than to the boy; or -perhaps his ill success in respect to the boy had taught him a lesson. -Anyhow he paused. “Of course,” he said, “it is also, as you say, your -mamma’s house. A friend of hers, I need not tell you, would be as -welcome to me as a friend of my own. Do I ever attempt to settle without -her who is to be asked? but with your sense, Alice, you must be aware -there is a difference. I must interfere to prevent your excellent -mother, who is only too good and kind, from being imposed upon by those -disreputable acquaintances of Paul.” - -“I beg your pardon, papa,” said Alice, who had been waiting breathless -for the end of his address to make her eager apologies. “But,” she -added, not unwilling to bring him down summarily from his elevation, -“the gentleman I have been speaking of declares that he is your friend, -and not Paul’s.” - -“_My_ friend! Then I daresay it is quite simple,” said Sir William, -relapsing into his previous state of perfect repose and calm. “My -friends are your mother’s friends too.” - -“Ah, but this is different. (Papa, I am certain that woman is following -us.) This is quite different. It is an _old_ friend, whom none of us -ever heard of. If we had known even his name we should not have been -afraid. But do not be frightened, he is very nice. We all like him. He -says he knew you in the West Indies, and the thing that alarmed us was -that none of us, not even mamma, ever knew you had been there at all.” - -“The West Indies!” Was it possible that Sir William started so much as -to shake the pony carriage in which he sat? A cloud came suddenly over -his serene countenance. He did not say, as Alice fancied he would, “I -know nothing about the West Indies.” On the contrary, he paused, cleared -his throat, and asked in a curiously restrained, yet agitated voice, -“What does he--call himself?--what is his name?” - -Alice was half alarmed by the effect she had produced. She did not -understand it. She wanted to soften and do away with any disagreeable -impression. - -“Oh, he is very nice,” she said. “It is not any one you will mind, papa. -And he is all right; he is in the _Army List_; we looked him up at once; -we took every precaution; and there he was, just as he said, J. St. John -Lenny, 50th West India Regiment, Lieutenant-Colonel. After that, of -course, and when he said he had known you so well, we could not hesitate -any more.” - -“Lenny!” Sir William said. It was with a tone of relief. He drew a long -breath “as if he had expected something much worse,” Alice said -afterwards. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. To be -sure it was a warm evening. But there was something very strange to the -girl in her father’s agitation. She did not understand it--he who was -always so calm, who never allowed anything to put him out. - -“Then were you really in the West Indies, papa?” - -“I was in a great many places in my youth,” he said. “I was not taken -care of as my boys have been. I was the youngest, and I did pretty much -as I liked--a bad thing,” he added, after a pause; “a very bad thing, -though you children never understand it. It led me into places and among -people whose very names I seem to have forgotten now.” - -There was a pause. Alice was very curious, but she did not venture to -say more. She did not like even to look at her father who was so -unusually disturbed. What could make him so unlike himself? The idea -that there might be a mystery in Sir William’s life was more than -impossible, it was ludicrous. She tried to fix her attention upon the -ponies, who were going so beautifully. Then her ear was caught by the -steady roll of wheels coming after them. Certainly it was the fly from -the village; and certainly it was following on to the gates of the Chase -which were now in sight. This was not the way to the vicarage or to any -other house to which a stranger who had stopped at the station of -Markham Royal could be going. She had not really believed it possible -that the lady in the pink bonnet could be coming to the Chase; but now -it seemed almost certain. What could be the meaning of it? Her heart -jumped up into sudden excitement. She nourished her whip and touched the -ponies till they flew. She could not bear the heavy rolling of that fly, -a long way behind, yet always following with the steadiness of fate. -This distracted her thoughts at once from her father, and a thousand -conjectures rushed into the girl’s head. Could it be somebody from Paul? -The fly came pounding heavily along, nothing stopping it. What could she -do to stop it or conjure its passenger away? If it was bad news that was -coming in it, what doubt that it would arrive quite safely? Paul! what -could a woman in a pink bonnet have to do with Paul? Could he be ill? -Could he be going to marry somebody, to do something foolish? Alice -became herself so excited that she could not think of her father. And -her father for his part took little notice of Alice. His mind was full -of thoughts that would have been very incomprehensible, very startling -to her. The stranger’s name had fallen upon him in his tranquillity as a -stone falls into still waters. The calm surface of his mind was all -broken, filled with widening and ever-widening circles of recollection. -He felt dizzy like a man in a dream. The past was so long past, that, -thus suddenly recalled to him, after such an interval of years, Sir -William had a moment of giddy uncertainty as to whether it had actually -existed at all, whether it was not a mere fable, something he had read -in a book. Forty years ago--is a man responsible for things he did forty -years ago? Can he be blamed if he forgets them? Can he be expected to -remember? He who was so systematic, so careful, who never lost anything, -who had for years been in a position to set every one else right: was it -possible that he had once been foolish as other men? He himself did not -understand it. He could not believe it. Lenny? Yes, he remembered there -had been a man--the West Indies--ah, yes! things had passed there which -he would not care now to talk about, which had been forgotten, which -were to him as if they had never been. Had they ever been? he could -scarcely tell. The ponies skimmed along the road, the bells jingled, the -gates of the house were in sight, another minute and they would have -reached the avenue. And then--instead of his gentle wife, and his -innocent children, and universal respect, service, comfort, and worship -of every kind, would it be the past in bodily presence that would have -to be encountered, painful explanations, revelations, which might make a -sudden rending asunder of the beauty and the happiness of life? Sir -William wiped his forehead again as they turned in at the gate to the -shelter of the familiar trees. - -And still there was the dull rumbling of the fly behind. He did not so -much as hear it, having been swept away on this torrent of thought. But -Alice cast a troubled glance behind as she turned round to go in at the -open gate, and made sure that it was coming after her. The girl’s head -was buzzing and her heart throbbing with mingled fear and excitement. -“Would you mind driving up the avenue yourself, papa? I have something -to say to Mrs. Lowry at the gate,” she said, faltering. Her father -scarcely seemed to hear her; he said, “Go on, go on,” with an impatient -wave of his hand. She knew nothing about his alarms, nor he about hers. -Perhaps, after all, the anxious desire of Alice to intercept what her -hasty imagination had concluded to be a messenger of evil had something -in it of that eager youthful curiosity which burns to forestall every -new event. But if so disappointment was her fate. The little carriage -flashed on under the trees and through the slanting lines of sunshine in -a breathless silence, both its occupants being far too much absorbed to -speak. Half way up the avenue two figures were visible advancing towards -them. Lady Markham had been joined by Colonel Lenny a few minutes -before. They stood aside, one on each side of the road as the -pony-carriage came up. And here on every other occasion Sir William had -got down and walked back with his wife to the house. It was part of the -formula of his return, which was never omitted. This time, however, when -Alice drew up her impatient ponies, he greeted his wife without moving -from the carriage. - -“We have had a very tedious, dusty journey,” he said. “I will go home at -once, my love, pardon me, and shake my dust off.” - -Lady Markham, in the midst of her anxiety, grew pale with surprise at -this unusual proceeding. She pressed close to the side of the little -carriage--“William,” she said, “do you know who it is that is with me?” - -The baronet turned round to the long brown figure on the other side. -“Alice has told me,” he said. “Lenny, is it possible? I did not think I -could have recognised you after all these years.” - -“Nor I you, my fine fellow,” said the Colonel. “I’d have passed you if I -had met you in Bond Street, Markham; but meeting you here, and knowing -it’s you, makes a great deal of difference. We’ve both of us altered in -forty years.” - -“Is it as long as that?” Sir William said. There was no pleasure in his -face such as, these innocent ladies thought, should always attend a -meeting with an old friend. But on the other hand he cast no doubt upon -Colonel Lenny (as indeed how could he, seeing the Colonel’s name was in -the _Army List_?), but addressed him unhesitatingly, and acknowledged -him, which set the worst of Lady Markham’s fears at rest. “Go on,” he -said, in an undertone to his daughter, then waved his hand to the -pedestrians. “In ten minutes I shall be with, you,” he cried. - -The rumbling of the fly had stopped; had it gone further contrary to all -Alice’s anticipations? This idea gave her a little relief, but she was -in so nervous a mood that the sudden jerk with which she urged the -ponies forward once more upset To-to’s temper, who was his mistress’s -favourite. He darted on through the lines of trees like a mad thing, -wild with the jar to his delicate mouth and the vicinity of his stables. - -“Do you want to break your own neck and mine?” Sir William said; “that -pony will not bear the whip.” - -“Why shouldn’t he bear it as well as Ta-ta?” said Alice; “is he to be -humoured because he is the naughty one? It should be the other way.” - -“It seldom is the other way,” said Sir William, moralising with a -self-reference, though Alice did not understand it. “You spoke a greater -truth than you are aware of. It is not the best people who are humoured -in life. It is the naughty ones who get their way. If you make the worst -of everything circumstances will yield to you: but act anxiously for the -best and all the burden falls on your shoulders.” - -“Papa! that is like Thackeray; it is cynical. I never heard you speak so -before.” - -“Nevertheless it is true,” said Sir William. His straight and placid -brow was ruffled with care. “One does everything one can to be secure -from evil, and evil comes.” - -Could he be thinking about Paul? She turned her ponies (to their great -disappointment) as soon as Sir William had stept out of the carriage. -Charles indeed had to come to To-to’s head and lead him round, so -unwilling was that little Turk to turn away from his comfortable stable -again. “I will go back and bring mamma home, she was looking tired,” the -girl said. She was impatient to make sure about the fly that had -followed from the station, and the lady in the pink bonnet, and to be in -the midst of it, at least, if anything were going to happen. Her mother -was still a long way down the avenue. But Alice had scarcely turned when -she perceived that there were three figures instead of two in the group -she had so lately left. Three figures--and a brilliant speck of colour -making itself apparent like a flag at the head of the little procession. -Alice felt her heart rush to the scene of action more quickly than the -ponies, which still resisted, tossing their little wicked heads. The -lady with the pink bonnet had fallen into the advancing rank. She was -tall, and that oriflamme towered over Lady Markham’s hat with its soft -gray feathers. But their pace was quite moderate, unexcited, showing no -sign of trouble. Lady Markham moved along with no appearance of -agitation. Perhaps, after all, this new-comer, whoever she might be, had -nothing to do with the absent brother, and was no messenger of evil -tidings after all. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -“My dear, this is Mrs. Lenny,” said Lady Markham. “She has kindly taken -us on her way to the north.” - -“How do you do, my dear young lady? The Colonel wrote me word about you -all, praising you up, one more than another, and I thought I’d like to -come and see. But, Lenny, you never told me how like she was to her -father at her age. I think I see him before me, as handsome a boy----” - -“Mrs. Lenny!” cried Alice, in consternation, yet relief. She turned to -her mother a pair of questioning, wondering eyes. But Lady Markham could -make no answer. She slightly shrugged, so to speak, not her shoulders, -but her eyebrows. She was very polite and very hospitable, but this -second arrival was almost too much for her. “I thought you looked -tired, mamma,” Alice continued. “I came back to drive you home.” - -Lady Markham shook her head. She was almost cross--as near that -unpleasant state as it was possible for her to be. “Perhaps Mrs. Lenny -would like to drive, Alice? She has had a long journey. I am not at all -tired. I will wait and meet your papa.” - -“How cool it is under these delicious trees,” said the lady of the pink -bonnet. “Yes, indeed, if the young lady will have me, it will be a treat -to be behind those beautiful ponies. Pretty creatures! like their -mistress. I have not seen anything so pretty, Lenny, since we left the -regiment. Ah, that was a foolish step. But one never knows when one is -well off. ‘_Lay mew_,’ as the French say, is the enemy of ‘_lay bieng_.’ -Thank you, my dear. Now this _is_ delightful! I wish, instead of being -within sight, we were three or four miles from the house.” - -“Take Mrs. Lenny round by the fishpond,” said Lady Markham. She sighed -with relief at getting rid of this new claimant upon her attention, -though she was so polite. Mrs. Lenny was tall like her husband, and like -him, brown and soldierly. She made the light little carriage bend on -one side as she got in. Her brown face within the pink shade of the -bonnet was wreathed with smiles. She was delighted like a child with the -pretty equipage, and the promised drive--much more delighted than Alice -was, who, though relieved of her terrors about Paul, drove off in no -very happy state of mind. Yet she could not help taking a little -pleasure in her own discrimination. - -“I knew you were coming here the first moment I saw you,” she said. “I -kept asking papa who you were. But he had not seen you--he did not know -you; he never knows any one--not even, if he were to see us at a -distance, mamma or me.” - -“Nor I,” said Mrs. Lenny. “I should no more have known him! for you may -be sure I took a good stare at the station, seeing it was somebody of -consequence. He is so changed--oh, not for the worse, my dear; but when -you see a nice little old gentleman instead of a pretty young one, it’s -a shock, that can’t be denied. You have to count up and think back how -many years it is. Somehow one never feels old one’s self. You think the -world has stood still with you, though it goes so fast with all the -rest.” - -“I don’t feel at all like that,” said Alice. “Sometimes I feel so -old--older a great deal, I am sure, than mamma.” - -This statement was received by her companion with laughter, which -disconcerted Alice. She drew herself up. She was not so polite as her -mother. - -“I don’t see what there is to laugh at,” she said. “Age does not go only -by years--when you have a great deal to think of----” - -“You darling!” cried Mrs. Lenny. “Did the old woman laugh? But I’d laugh -just the same if your dear mamma herself was to talk of feeling old. -There’s what I call a lovely woman! Lenny never told me half what a dear -she was. Old! but don’t you gloom at me, my pretty pet; I was once -seventeen myself, though you wouldn’t think it. The birds now on the -trees, I daresay they feel old between one Valentine’s day and another. -It is not years that does it, as you say. When we come to my time of -life the days go on one after another as fast as they can pelt: they’re -all flyin’, flyin’, like the echoes in the song. But at your age they’re -longer--they pass more slow--and when there’s much to think about did -you say? Ah, but that’s true! When I was your age I had a great deal to -think about. We were a large family, six girls of us, and not a penny -among the lot. We were just ruined with the emancipation in the West -Indies, and all that our parents said to us was, ‘Get married! There’s -the officers,’ they said, ‘a set of simpletons! What’s the good of them -but to marry the poor girls that know how to play their cards.’ Ah! I -thought when I was after Lenny that to be married meant to be well off, -and have everything that heart could desire. And so we all thought. We -weren’t bad girls, don’t you think it; but that was how were brought up. -Get married! and you’ll be well off directly. You never had anything -like that said to you to make you old with thinking--” - -“Oh, no, no,” said Alice, horrified. She scarcely knew whether to be -offended by the familiarity of the stranger or interested in her talk. -It was an experience altogether different from anything Alice knew of -life. - -“No, I should think not,” said the lady of the pink bonnet, nodding that -article vigorously. “Just figure to yourself, my dear, what you would -feel if you had to leave this beautiful place, and live down in a house -in the town, and have _that_ said to you. You would be shocked, wouldn’t -you? But it did not shock us. That was how we were brought up. We had to -marry by hook or by crook; and we all did marry. Well, there’s Lenny, he -has made me a very good husband; but marrying him wasn’t like coming -into a fortune, was it now?--though we’ve always been the best of -friends. It was lucky in one way that we never had any children; it left -us free to look after ourselves. Nowadays we live a great deal among our -friends. We don’t interfere with each other, but we’re always glad to -come together again. When I’m comfortable anywhere I send him word, and -when he’s comfortable he sends me word. You mustn’t think my coming -means more than that, and you must tell your dear mamma so. We’ve not -come to do her any harm or her pretty family. Your papa is startled to -see us, but he won’t mind in the end. I daresay you have often heard him -talk of Barbadoes and the Gavestons? We were six handsome girls, though -I say it that shouldn’t. You must have heard of us by name.” - -Alice, whom this speech had filled with wonder, shook her head. “I -never heard the name in my life,” she said. - -“Well, that is odd,” said Mrs. Lenny. “I couldn’t believe it even though -Lenny said so. That’s thorough,” she added, with a little laugh. A flush -came over her brown cheek. “Never mind, my dear, it is not your fault,” -she said. - -Alice was more and more mystified. She could not imagine what this -strange woman could mean. If she had been at first disposed to resent -her familiarity, that offence had altogether evaporated. Mrs. Lenny -looked and spoke as if she had something to do with the family; her eyes -and her tone were full of kindness even when she evidently resented the -fact that Alice had never heard of her. She spoke of herself without any -kind of effort, as if it were natural that the girl should be -interested; and Alice could not but wish to hear more. It was like a new -story, original and out of the common. The momentary pause that ensued -alarmed her lest it should be coming to an end. - -“Did you all marry officers?” she asked at last. - -“Did we all marry officers? We did that, every one--except the one that -one that married---- Ah! I mean Gussy, that was the youngest. She -married--a civilian--and died, poor girl. The rest of us all took the -shilling. Ah! some of the girls are dead, and the rest are -scattered--one in Australia, two out in India, me, wandering about the -world as you see me, Lenny and I; most likely I’ll never see one of them -again. We had but one brother; all the little the family had, he got it. -It was he that took Gussy’s boy--did I tell you she left a boy? Poor -Gussy! she died at twenty. It is like as if she never had married or -been more than a child. When I think of the past it’s always she that -comes uppermost--the little one, you know, the pet--and she never lived -to get parted from us like the rest.” - -Alice looked vaguely interested. It seemed to her that she was hearing -the prologue of a novel. She did not draw any moral from it, or ask -herself whether her own brothers and sisters might ever be dispersed -like this about the world; but she wanted to hear more. - -“Have the others no children?” she asked. - -“Dozens, my dear,” said Mrs. Lenny, “here, and there, and everywhere. -I’ve nephews in the service in every country under the sun, and nieces, -all married in the army; it runs in our blood. But Gussy’s boy is the -one I think of most. He’s not a boy now. He’s five-and-thirty if he’s a -day, and my brother is dead that adopted him, and the property has gone -from bad to worse, and I don’t know what is to be done. Lenny’s head is -full of him. Perhaps if I were to speak a good word to your papa----” - -“Could papa help him?” cried Alice, eagerly; “then you may be sure, -quite sure, that he will do it. I will speak to him myself. They all say -he always listens to me.” - -“Will you?” said Mrs. Lenny. She grasped suddenly at the firm little -hand in which Alice held the reins, and put down her head as if to kiss -it, then looked up with a nervous laugh, winking her eyes rapidly to -cast off some tears. “You are a dear little angel!” she cried. “But -Lenny will do that, and I’ll do it. I won’t ask it of you, my pretty -darling. It would be more than was right.” - -Alice was somewhat affronted at this rejection of her proposal. She was -bewildered by her companion’s demeanour altogether. Why should she cry? -and then refuse her assistance when she could have been of real use? -But that was, of course, as Mrs. Lenny pleased. - -“This is the fishpond,” she said, more coldly. “It is very old, and -there are some carp in it that are supposed to be very old too.” - -The fishpond was a piece of clear and beautiful water embosomed in the -richest wood. It was the very centre of all the beauties of the Chase to -the Markhams. A little brook trickled into it over a little fall which -made music in the silence, itself unseen, mingling a more liquid silvery -tone with all the songs of the birds and the murmur of the trees. A -little path wandered along by one side, the others were sloping banks of -greensward. The trees on all sides stooped as if leaning over each -other’s shoulders to see themselves in that fairy mirror, where they all -fluttered and trembled in reflection between the glimmer of the water -and the blue circle of sky, which filled up all the middle with blueness -and light. Some light and graceful birches upon the bank seemed to have -pressed further forward like advanced posts to get nearest the pool; a -great cluster of waterlilies filled up one corner. Even the impatient -ponies stood still in this soft coolness and shadow; perhaps they had -caught a glimpse of their pretty tossing heads and arched necks. Mrs. -Lenny’s bonnet shone in that mirror like an exotic bird, poised over it, -and her exclamation of delight broke the quiet with something of the -same effect. - -“What a lovely place!” she said; “and it’s I that would live long if I -were a fish in such a sweet spot. Dear, dear, if one lived here it would -be a tug to die at all. And you have been here, my darling, all your -life?” - -“Oh, yes,” said Alice, with a little laugh at the ignorance of the -question. “This is home, where else could I be? This is only the second -season I have ever been to town. I went for a little while last year -though I was not out. This summer I have been introduced,” she said, -with a little innocent ostentation. “I am out now. I go wherever mamma -goes.” - -“Introduced?” said Mrs. Lenny, with a little awe, “to her Majesty--her -very self? Tell me how she looked, and all about her. Dear lady! what -I’d give to hear a word out of her mouth!” - -“I did not mean that,” said Alice, feeling important and splendid; -“introduced means going out into society. I was presented too--of -course I had to be presented. Oh, there are the children down that -opening--do you see them? It is holiday time, and they are all -together.” - -Mrs. Lenny looked round with eager interest, again swaying the little -carriage to one side. - -“Are you the eldest?” she said; “and you have two little brothers?--only -these two?” - -She looked quite anxiously in Alice’s face. - -“Only these two--except Paul--and we are three girls--just the same -number of each.” - -“Who is Paul?” - -“Who is Paul?” said Alice, laughing; “that is the strangest question -here. Paul is the eldest of all--he is my brother. We all come in pairs. -There is Harry and Bell, Roland and Marie--and Paul is mine. He is not -very much at home now,” she said, her face clouding with the -recollection. “He is grown up--he is at Oxford. In the holidays he does -not always come home like the little ones. No one could expect him to be -like the little ones. He is a man.” - -To a cooler observer Alice’s eager explanations would have betrayed the -family anxiety, of which Paul was the object. But Mrs. Lenny had other -thoughts in her mind. She clasped her hands together in her lap, and -said, “Dear me, dear, dear me!” with suppressed dismay. This suddenly -reawakened all the girl’s fears. Had it been a mistake, a pretence after -all? Was it no old connection, nothing to do with papa’s business? (what -could papa’s business matter, it would not go to any one’s heart like -the other) but after all some new evil that was threatening Paul? - -“Mrs. Lenny,” she cried, “oh tell me first, for I can bear it; is it -about Paul? Has he got into any trouble? Is it something about _him_ you -have really come to tell us! Oh, tell me, tell me! and keep it from -mamma.” - -“My dear,” cried Mrs. Lenny, confused, “what do I know about your -brother? I never heard of him before, and oh, I wish I had not heard of -him now. Do you think I would harm him if I had the power to help it? -Not I--not I! if there was anything in my power!” - -And with this the good woman let fall upon her gloves, which were green, -a few tears. Why should she cry because of Paul if she did not know him? -Fortunately for Alice the ponies at that moment gave her no small -trouble. She had been thinking of other things and they took the -advantage. They wanted to take her home the back way into the stables. -Greedy little brutes! as if they had not everything that heart of pony -could desire--plenty of corn, plenty of ease, and the prettiest stable -with enamelled mangers and everything handsome about them. She stopped -them as they began to twist round in the wrong direction, tossing their -heads aloft. If they thought to take Alice unawares they were mistaken. -Thus she was obliged to withdraw her attention altogether from Mrs. -Lenny and fix it upon this rebellious pair, getting them past the -dangerous byway and bringing them up with a sweep and dash to the steps -of the great door. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -Meanwhile Sir William Markham had been strangely employed. He came home -to get himself brushed free of the dust of his journey; but when he got -to the house he thought of that errand no more. He asked for his letters -as if these were all that he was thinking of. And you may suppose that -in a house which knew the importance of letters, and was aware of all -the momentous issues of neglect in that particular, Sir William’s -letters were carefully arranged on the table in the library. He asked -for them, which was unnecessary, and looked so full of business and -importance, that Brown found “a screw loose” in his master too. This was -not his usual aspect when he came home. Then the busy statesman allowed -himself a holiday. Even when he was in office (much more being in -opposition), he had put off his burden of official cares, and had -strolled up the avenue with his wife without caring for his letters. -When Brown answered respectfully, “They are in the library, Sir -William;” within himself that functionary shook his head and said, -“There is something wrong.” Sir William went into the library, which was -large and dim and cool, the very home of quiet leisure and comfort--and -closed the door after him with a sense of relief. His letters were all -laid out on the table, but he did not so much as look at them. He sat -down in his usual chair, and leaned his head in his hands, and gazed -into the blank air before him. Was this all he had come for? Certainly -he did nothing more: gazed out straight before him and saw nothing; sat -motionless doing nothing; paused altogether body and soul. He was not -aware yet of the second visitor who had arrived; but he was in no doubt -about the first. He did not require to ask himself what his old -friend,--whose name had tingled through and through him, though he had -professed that he scarcely remembered it--wanted of him. That early -chapter of his life which he had put away entirely, which he had -honestly forgotten as if it had not been, came back to him in a moment, -no longer capable of being forgotten as he sat by his daughter’s side in -the little pony carriage. He had not meant any harm in putting it so -entirely from him. But nothing is ever lost in this tenacious world. -Bury a secret in the deepest earth, and some chance digger, thinking of -other things, will bring it up without intending it. Exercise even the -most innocent reticence about your own affairs, matters in which you -have a perfect right to judge for yourself, and some time or other even -this will come up against you like a crime. What harm had he done by -burying in his own heart a little inconsequent chapter of his life, an -episode that had come to an end so soon, that had left so few results -behind? What results had it left? The only one had been promptly and -conclusively taken off his hands. He had never felt it; he had never -been conscious of any responsibility in respect to it. But that which -had seemed to him nothing but a broken thread at twenty-five, was it to -reappear against him at sixty like a web of fate perplexing and -entangling his feet? A cold dew came out upon his forehead when he -thought of his wife. Were she to hear it, were she to know, how could he -ever again look her in the face? And yet he had done her no wrong. -There had been no harm, no evil intention in his mind. Half -inadvertence, and half a dislike to return to a matter which was an -irritation to his orderly mind, as well as a recollection of pain--an -incident that had come to nothing, a false beginning in life--were the -causes of his original silence about his own youth and all that was in -it. A man who marries at forty, is it necessary that he should unfold -everything that happened to him at twenty-five? and he had been done -with it all; had closed the chapter altogether so very long ago. That it -should be re-opened now was intolerable. But yet Sir William knew that -he must bear it; he must subdue all signs of annoyance, he must receive -his unwelcome visitor as if he were pleased to see him, and ascertain -what he wanted, and steal, if possible, his weapons out of his hands. - -These were the thoughts in his mind as he sat alone and pondered, -arranging his ideas. He had known what it was to be much troubled by -public business in his day, but he had experienced little trouble with -his own. All was orderly and well regulated in his private affairs: no -skeletons in the cupboards, nothing anywhere that could not meet the -eye of day. This was the very sting of the present occurrence to him. A -secret! That _he_ should be convicted of a hidden chapter of early -indiscretion, of having taken a foolish step which might have coloured -all his life! Though it was no wrong to her, his wife could scarcely -fail to think it a wrong, and he could not but suffer in the estimation -of everybody who heard of it. Already, was he not humiliated in his own -eyes? But for this pause which enabled him to rearrange his thoughts, to -settle his plan of operations, he felt that he must have been -overwhelmed altogether. At last, with a sigh, he got up and prepared -himself to issue forth out of his sanctuary, and meet the dangers that -threatened him; he to be threatened with dangers of such a sort!--It was -intolerable--yet it had to be borne. He went out to meet the party which -he could hear coming up the avenue. Brown looked at him with suspicious -eyes as he came into the hall. Could Brown know anything? did everybody -know? Even Lady Markham, he thought, looked at him strangely, almost -with alarm. But it is unnecessary to say that this was all in Sir -William’s imagination. No one had as yet associated any idea of mystery -with him. His wife only thought he was weary with the work of the -session, and looking pale. She was standing talking to Colonel Lenny, -waiting till Alice should draw up at the door. Sir William, with a faint -gleam of returning pleasure, stood on the top of the steps and waited -too; but then he was confronted by the vision of the pink bonnet by his -daughter’s side. A pink bonnet! who had been talking of a pink bonnet? -He came down slowly, half afraid of this and everything else that was -new. - -“In good time, Markham,” said Colonel Lenny, waving his hand; “here is -another old friend come to see you. She is changed more than you are. -From a girl, and a pretty one, she has grown an old woman, and that’s -not a thing to be permitted; but an old friend, my dear fellow, and more -than an old friend. Can’t you see it’s Katey? Katey, my wife?” - -“Katey!” Even Sir William’s steady nerves gave way a little. His eyes -seemed to give a startled leap of alarm in their sockets. For a moment -the impulse in his mind was to turn and fly. Lenny was bad, but his wife -was a hundred times worse; and she looked at him, leaning out of the -pony carriage and holding out her hands as if she meant to kiss him; -but that was more than flesh and blood could bear. “Katey!” he said; “I -cannot believe my eyes. Is it Katey Gaveston after all these years? I -know I’ve grown an old man, and everything has changed, but----” - -“You never thought to see the like of me such an old woman? Ah, Will, -but it’s true. I am Katey Gaveston, as sure as you stand there. I came -after him, to stop him from making mischief. He don’t mean it--we know -that; but he’s just as simple as ever. He blurts everything out.” - -This speech went through and through Sir William. The light seemed to -fail from his eyes for a moment; but when he looked round all was as -before--Lady Markham talking to Brown, and Alice to the groom, who had -come for the pony carriage. - -“Hush!” he said, instinctively, with a shudder, giving her his hand to -help her to step out. “Hush!” Then, making a little effort over himself, -he added, “We are to have time, I hope, to talk over old stories -quietly--at our leisure--no need to go back in a moment from the present -to the past.” - -“Nearly forty years--it’s a long way to go back,” she said. “We’ve -grown old folks; but it’s better to take our time and talk it all over -quietly, as you say. Yes, yes, quietly; that is by far the best way.” - -Mrs. Lenny nodded till her bonnet seemed to fill all the atmosphere with -pink mists of reflection, and laughed, filling the air with -reverberations of sound, just as her bonnet did with flickering of -coloured light; but she did not throw her arms round him in sisterly -salutation; this was something saved at least. - -Then he led her in ceremoniously to the great drawing-room, which was -carefully shaded and cool and luxurious after the blaze outside. It was -sweet with great bowls of late roses, full of flowers of every kind--a -stately room such as Mrs. Lenny was not accustomed to see. She stopped -short with a cry of admiration. - -“What a lovely place! What a beautiful--beautiful house!” Then she put -her handkerchief to her eyes. “To think, poor dear, who might have been -the mistress of it all!” she said. - -Sir William cast an alarmed glance behind him, but his wife was too far -off to hear. - -“You must recollect,” he said, “that _then_ I had no house at all--no -place to make--any one the mistress of. I never expected then to be -master here.” - -Mrs. Lenny sat down and wiped her eyes. - -“It is a beautiful house,” she said. “I’ve been into the park, and seen -a great deal; and when I think of all that’s come and gone, when I -remember that you were nothing but a poor man, Will Markham, just as -poor as all the rest of us--and to see you now, like a prince, with your -lovely wife, and her sweet family--oh! I know you’ll forgive me, my dear -lady; if your heart is as sweet as your face, you’ll forgive me; but I -can’t help thinking that what is given to one is taken from another; and -of them that never had a chance of happiness--them that are dead and -gone--and the place where they might have been--remembers them no more.” - -Lady Markham, who could not shut her heart to any distress, came and sat -down by her and took her hand. - -“I know what you mean,” she said. “When I have any sorrow it always -comes upon me afresh in a new place.” - -How far she was from knowing what her visitor meant! - -Mrs. Lenny looked up surprised. Then two big honest tears burst out of -her eyes, and her whole face lighted up with a smile. - -“You are a darling,” she said, seizing Lady Markham’s soft hand in both -of hers, “with a heart as feeling! But I am not crying for anything in -particular, my dear--only out of excitement, and the strangeness of -everything. You must not be so sorry for me.” - -Here Colonel Lenny interposed, and pointed out to Lady Markham the -tea-table which was awaiting her. - -“Give her a big cup, my dear lady; that is what makes Katey happy,” he -said. “What would she be without her tea? We men take something -stronger, I don’t deny it; but we’re not so dependent upon anything. I -could live without my smoke, and I could live without my drink--times -have been when I’ve lived without eating too; but I can’t fancy my wife -without a tea-pot.” - -“Not altogether without eating, I hope. Take some cake now,” said Lady -Markham, smiling, “to make amends.” - -“I will have the cake,--but yes, altogether without eating--for as long -as it lasted--that was two days; the time is apt to feel long when -you’ve nothing to eat. I’ve always thought the more of breakfast and -dinner and all the little bits of ornamental eating and drinking that we -make no account of, since then. Oh I’ve told all about it to the boys. -I’m getting to an end of my stories,” said the colonel. “Roland begins -to know them better than I; he says, ‘That’s not how you told it -before.’ That boy is as sharp as a needle; he’s the one you should make -a lawyer of, my dear lady. Now Harry’s a born soldier; he’s up to -everything that wants doing with the hands. Put him before a lion, and -he’ll face it, that little fellow; and he takes in every word you say to -him. But Roland by Jove, cross-examines you as if you were in a -witness-box: ‘You said so-and-so before,’ or ‘How could you do that when -you had just done so-and-so?’ He’s as keen as an east wind.” - -“That is a very biting metaphor,” said Lady Markham; but it did not -occur to her that the colonel was talking against time to beguile her -attention and keep the conversation which was going on at the other side -of the room undisturbed. There it was Sir William who was serving Mrs. -Lenny with the tea his wife had poured out. - -“She knows nothing,” he said, in a low tone. “I did not think it was -worth while telling her. For God’s sake do not let her surmise it now.” - -“I wouldn’t if I could help it, Will; but the boy--there’s the boy.” - -“What boy? You mean Philip’s boy?” - -Mrs. Lenny put out her hand and grasped his. - -“Haven’t you heard? Philip’s dead, and the property all sold up, and -nothing left for one belonging to him. He never learnt, like the rest of -us, to scrape and save. It’s all gone--every penny. There was not so -much to begin with, when you think upon it; and there he is, without a -son.” - -“My God!” said Sir William under his breath. He was not a man given to -oaths, but he was suddenly overwhelmed by the danger that over-shadowed -him which he had not thought of before. The evil he had feared was as -nothing in comparison. He grew pale to his very finger-nails. “This is -why you have come to me?” he said. - -“Nothing but that--do I want to bother you? but _he_ must be thought of, -too. Will, the boy must not lose his rights.” - -“He must be provided for,” said the baronet, gloomily; “but he has no -rights.” - -“Will! do you mean to bring his mother out of her grave? No rights! We -came in friendship, but we’ll go in anger if there is any meaning in you -to disown the boy.” - -“I cannot say any more now,” said Sir William, hastily. “I will talk to -Lenny to-night.” - -“I don’t put my faith in Lenny for that matter. Will, you must satisfy -_me_.” - -“I will, I will, Katey! For God’s sake no more.” - -Alice had come up to them in her easy grace of youth. She heard, if not -the words, yet the tone in which they were said; and her father got up -hastily and got behind the stranger to whom he was speaking so -seriously, but who smiled upon the girl from her great chair. - -“Come and talk to me, my pretty,” Mrs. Lenny said. “Your father and I -have been reminding each other of things we had both forgotten, and -they’re not such pleasant things as you. Come and cheer us up, my bonnie -dear.” - -Lady Markham was very well content to see the close conversation that -was going on between her husband and this new guest. It took a great -burden off her mind. This time she had made no mistake--the claim of the -old friendship was real. No suspicion of any kind entered her thoughts. -She leaned back in her chair with a grateful sense of relief, and felt -glad that she had sent orders by Brown that Mrs. Lenny was to be put -into one of the best rooms, thus promoting the colonel too. There -remained only one little difficulty: Mrs. Lenny’s pink bonnet was a very -fine article indeed, but she could not come to dinner in it. Where was -she to find a toilette for the evening, since all her luggage, Lady -Markham knew, consisted of a bag which she had left with the -lodge-keeper? Lady Markham herself was somewhat particular about dress. -She wondered privately what it would be best to do, as she leant back in -her chair and listened to the colonel talking of Roland and Harry. She -must put on, she concluded, the plainest article in her wardrobe, that -Mrs. Lenny might not feel uncomfortable, and she must give Alice a hint -to do the same. Thus the alarming sensations aroused by this meeting -subsided, to all appearance. - -“Yes, you did quite right; they are old friends, very old friends,” Sir -William said from his dressing-room, in answer to his wife’s question. -“Did I never tell you I spent two years in Barbadoes? Indeed I suppose I -had almost forgotten myself. My uncle had left some property there, and -not being of much consequence then I was sent out to look after it. It -came to nothing, like most West Indian property. The Gavestons were a -family of handsome girls. I--saw a good deal of them; most of the young -Englishmen who were there frequented their house. Lenny among the rest. -I scarcely recollected his name; but Katey Gaveston of course I was -bound to know.” - -“She implied, I think, that there once had been some--flirtation between -you,” said Lady Markham, with a smile. - -“Ah!” said Sir William--his voice sounded harsher than usual, though he -was painfully civil and ready to explain--“perhaps there might have -been--something. It is nearly forty years ago--it is not of much -consequence to any one now.” - -“No--you don’t think I mind,” she said, this time with a soft laugh. But -he did not respond. He had not finished dressing, and _he_ was very -particular in his attire. His wife had taken a slight liberty, she felt, -in disturbing him. Did she not know that he liked perfect tranquillity -in that moment of preparation for dinner? It would not have occurred to -him to put on a black neck-tie, or change the usual solemn dignity of -his appearance on account of any visitor. Lady Markham was glad that her -own very simple dress escaped notice, at least. - -The other pair meanwhile were comparing notes in their rooms, where Mrs. -Lenny’s preparations for dinner were by no means so simple as Lady -Markham had supposed. The bag, on being opened, had proved to contain -what she called “an evening body,” much trimmed with lace and ribbons. -She regarded this article with great complacency as she pinned the -ribbons across her bosom. - -“I hope you don’t feel that you’ve any call to be ashamed of your wife, -Lenny,” she said. “I hope I’m fit to sit down with my lady, or the Queen -herself if she were to think of asking us. There’s the good of a real, -excellent black silk, it does for anything; in the morning it’s one -dress, in the evening it’s another. My Lady Markham will think I have -trunks full when she sees me. She’s a sweet woman; I thought so before, -but I think so more than ever now, to see the handsome room she’s put us -in. That proves her sense. She can see I’m not one of the common sort. -She doesn’t know anything about the connection, and she sha’n’t know it -through me, to vex her, the pretty dear. She doesn’t even know he was -ever in the island. After all, it’s a long time ago. She shall never -hear a word of it through me.” - -“That would be all very well,” said the colonel, “if there was only you -and I; but you forget there’s another to think of.” - -“I don’t forget; but there’s a deal more to think of than I supposed. -Why shouldn’t he stay where he is? It’s the life he’s used to. And what -would he do here? Money will never be wanting; and a little money would -make him a great man where he is. Don’t interrupt me with your reasons, -Lenny. He’s my flesh and blood, not yours; and I won’t do it, I haven’t -the heart to do it. A lovely woman, and a pretty family as you could -see. Don’t you know there’s the heir grown up--Paul they call him? If it -had been but a small boy I shouldn’t have minded. And the other, what -does he know about it? It can’t hurt him, what he doesn’t know. And he -isn’t at an age to change his habits. He’s no lad--he’s a man as old as -you or I.” - -“Twenty years younger, and more.” - -“What’s twenty years?” said Mrs. Lenny, indignantly. “He’s not an old -man, if you please, but neither is he young. He’s a man at his best--or -his worst, perhaps. We haven’t seen him since he was a boy. All’s fixed -and settled about him. And to change his country, and his condition, and -his way of living all in a moment!--who could do that? scarcely the best -man that ever was. He wouldn’t know how to behave; he wouldn’t -understand what was expected of him. He’d be miserable--and so would the -others too.” - -“I can’t argue with you, Katey,” said her husband; “you’re so used to -having your own way. I won’t attempt to argue with you; but I know -what’s justice--and justice must surely be the best.” - -“Oh, justice!” cried the colonel’s wife, “where do you find it in this -world? Is it justice that you’re only lieutenant-colonel of a West India -regiment, when you ought to have been a general in the army? Don’t speak -to me. I know you better than any one else does, and when I say that’s -what you’re fit for you may be sure I’m not flattering. Does a man get -flattery from his wife? We may get justice in another world, and I for -one hope for it; but not here. And here’s just a case where justice -would do more harm than good. It would do harm to both sides, and punish -everybody. It would be real injustice and cruelty, and all that’s bad; -and would you be the one to force it--and I to recommend it? No, no; I -tell you no!” - -“I can’t argue with you, Katey,” her husband repeated. “Have it your own -way. It’s not my flesh and blood, as you say, but yours. But if it turns -out badly, and you repent after----” - -“Bless us all,” cried Mrs. Lenny, starting to her feet, “there’s the -dinner bell!” - -“I would advise you to put your cap on straight,” was all the colonel -said. - -When this couple entered the dining-room, Mrs. Lenny felt proudly that -she had achieved one of the successes of her life. Lady Markham looking -up at her as she marched in on her husband’s arm, with flowers rustling -on her cap and lace on her shoulders, gave one look of bewildered -admiration, Mrs. Lenny thought, then glanced at Alice to communicate her -wonder. (“I knew she’d think I’d brought my whole wardrobe,” she said to -the colonel after, “and for that matter, that is fit to be seen, so I -have.”) The “evening body,” the lace, and the ribbons took Lady Markham -altogether by surprise; and it cannot be said that her own simple toilet -was appreciated by her visitor. But Mrs. Lenny was very kind after -dinner, and explained the simple artifice to her hostess, by way of -giving a lesson to one of the best dressed of women. - -“You look very nice in your muslin, my dear,” she said, “and so does -that pretty darling, that would look well in anything; but when you come -to my time of life it makes a difference; and roaming about from place -to place how could I have room for muslins? not to say that washing is -a ruination. I have one evening body made with good black silk. It costs -a little more at the time, but what does that matter? And there you are, -both for morning and evening, quite set up.” - -“It is a very admirable plan, I am sure,” Lady Markham said, with great -seriousness, checking with a look the laugh that was in Alice’s eyes. -The children were in the drawing-room, all four of them, very ready to -make friends with their beloved colonel’s wife. - -“I feel as if I had something to do with them. I feel as if I were their -grandmother, though I never had a child of my own,” she said. Thus -everything went harmoniously in the drawing-room, though the ladies were -all a little curious to know what kept the gentlemen so long over their -wine. Sir William’s coffee grew cold; he had never been known to be so -late before. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -“They’re talking over old days,” Mrs. Lenny had said three or four times -before the gentlemen appeared. What could be more natural? No doubt they -had gone from recollection to recollection: “Do you remember” this and -that, and “what happened to” so-and-so? It was very easy to imagine what -they were talking about, and how they got led on from one subject to -another. They were heard talking, when they at last appeared, all the -way up the long drawing-room, pausing at the door. - -“All died out, I believe,” Colonel Lenny was saying. “The last son lost -his children one after another, and died himself at the last -broken-hearted, poor man! The daughters were all scattered--but Katey -knows more about them than I do.” - -“I am really afraid to ask any more questions,” Sir William said. What -more natural? - -“Yes, my dear lady,” Colonel Lenny resumed, taking his old place beside -Lady Markham; “we have been making the most of our time; for it is very -likely we may have letters to-morrow, my wife and I, summoning us away. -I don’t like it, and neither will she, and perhaps we may have another -day, but I scarcely think it likely. I don’t know how we’re to drag -ourselves away. You have been kinder than any one ever was; and the -children have got a hold of my old heart, bless them!” - -The colonel had genuine tears in his eyes. - -“Lenny will tell you what I propose,” said Sir William on the other -side. “It is not an easy position. I have always thought myself quite -safe--quite free of responsibility; and now to be pulled up all at once; -and when I think of my own boys----” - -“Your own boys?” said Mrs. Lenny, raising herself very erect in her -chair. “Oh, I feel for you--I feel for you, Will! but if you put the -least bit of a slur on my sister or her child---- - -“Don’t make it worse,” he said, throwing up his hands. “_I_ throw a -slur! You know I never thought of anything so impossible--it _is_ -impossible; but how could I think of him as mine? Adoption has its -rights--but Lenny will tell you what I propose.” - -A short time after there were affectionate good-nights between the -ladies. Lady Markham accompanied Mrs. Lenny to her room to see that she -had everything she could desire. - -“I am so sorry you must go to-morrow,” she said, half out of politeness, -but with a little mixture of truth, for there was something in the -genial warmth of the strange couple which touched her heart. - -“My dear, it’s just possible we may have another day,” said the old -campaigner. - -The mother and daughter had a harmless little laugh together over Mrs. -Lenny’s “evening body,” but they agreed that “papa’s old friends” were -real friends, and adopted them with cordiality though amusement. - -“She asked me a great deal about the family and about Paul,” Alice said -as they separated. - -“No letter again to-day,” said Lady Markham, with a sigh. - -That name subdued their smiles. To think he should be the best beloved, -yet so careless of their happiness! - -“He is so forgetful,” they both said. - -And with this so common family sigh, not any present or pressing -trouble, only a fear, an anticipation, a doubt what to-morrow might -bring forth, the doors of the peaceful chambers closed, and night and -quiet settled down on the silent house. - -No one knew, however, that the night was not so silent as it appeared. -Sir William, of course, was left in his library when all the rest of the -world went to bed. It was his habit. He wrote his letters, or he “got -up” those questions which were always arising, and which every statesman -has to know; or perhaps he only dozed in his great chair; but anyhow, it -was his habit to sit up later than all the rest of the household, -putting out his lamp himself when he went to bed. This night, however, -after midnight when all was still, there was a mysterious conference -held in the library. Mrs. Lenny came down the great staircase in her -stockings not to make a noise. “I wouldn’t disturb that pretty creature, -not for the world,” she said. “I wouldn’t let her know there was a -mystery, not for anything you could give me.” And she spoke in a whisper -during the course of the prolonged discussion, though Lady Markham was -on the upper floor on the other side of the house, and safe in bed. It -was Colonel Lenny who was the most stubborn of the conspirators. He -spoke of right and justice with such eloquence that his wife was proud -of him, even though it was she eventually who put him down, and stopped -his argument. It was almost morning--a faint blueness of the new day -striking in through all the windows and betraying them, when the Lennys -with their shoes in their hands stole up stairs to bed. It would have -been strange indeed if some conscientious domestic had not seen this -very strange proceeding in the middle of the night; but if they did so, -they kept the fact to themselves. Sir William took no such precautions. -He shut the heavy door of the library almost ostentatiously, awaking all -the silent echoes, and went up the great staircase with his candle in -his hand. The rising dawn, however, cast a strange, almost ghastly look -upon his face, doing away with the candle. He had told his wife that he -had brought some papers from town that had to be attended to, and which -had to be sent back to London by next morning’s post. - -Next morning the Lennys appeared at the breakfast-table in -travelling-garb, ready to go away. Mrs. Lenny had put on her pink bonnet -not to lose time. - -“Have you had your letters?” Lady Markham said, astonished. - -“No, my dear, we have had no letters; that was to be the sign if we were -wanted,” Mrs. Lenny explained. Sir William did not say a word. He did -not join in the regret expressed by all the rest, or in the invitations -proffered. “You must come back--promise us that you will come back,” the -children cried; but their father maintained a steady silence which -discouraged his wife. - -The whole family accompanied the travellers to the door to see them -drive away. - -“I hope we shall see you again,” Lady Markham said; then added, -oppressed by her husband’s silence, “when you come this way.” - -“My dear lady,” said the colonel, kissing her hand like a Frenchman, “I -shall never forget your kindness, nor my wife either; but most likely we -shall never pass this way again. There is nothing in the world I should -like better; but I don’t know if it is to be desired.” - -“God bless you!” said Mrs. Lenny, taking both Lady Markham’s hands, -“it’s not at all to be desired. Once for old friendship’s sake is very -well. But if I ever come here again it will not be as an old friend, but -for love of you.” - -“That is the best reason of all,” Lady Markham said, with her beautiful -smile. And she stood there waving her pretty hand to the strange couple -as they drove down the avenue. Mrs. Lenny’s pink bonnet made a dotted -line of colour all the way as she bobbed it out of the carriage window -in perpetual farewells. This made the young ones laugh, though they had -been near crying. Sir William alone said nothing. He had gone in again -at once when the carriage left the door. - -It was that very evening, however, that the letters arrived which cast -the family into so great a commotion and obliterated all recollection of -the Lennys. It had pleased Lady Markham that her husband, of himself, -had begun to speak of Paul the next time they met after the departure of -their guests. There was a certain tenderness in his tone, a something -which was quite unusual. “Have you heard from him lately?” he asked -with some anxiety, “poor boy!” This was so unusual that Lady Markham -would not spoil so excellent a disposition by any complaint of Paul’s -irregularity in correspondence. She replied that she had heard--not very -long ago; that he was still in Oxford; that she hoped he would return -for Alice’s birthday, which was approaching. Sir William did not say any -more then, but he spoke of Paul again at luncheon, saying--“Poor -fellow!” this time. “He has very good abilities if he would only make -the right use of them,” he said. - -“Oh, William!” cried Lady Markham, “he is still so young; why should not -he make very good use of them yet? We were not so very wise at his age.” - -“That is true. I was not at all wise at his age: poor Paul!” his father -said. - -The ladies were quite cheered by this exhibition of interest in Paul, -who had not been, they felt, so good or submissive to his father as it -was right for a young man to be. “He is letting his heart speak at -last,” Lady Markham said when she was alone with her daughter; “he is -longing to see his boy; and oh, Alice! so am I.” - -“May I write to him,” cried Alice, eagerly, “and tell him he is to come -home?” - -They talked this over all the afternoon. Paul had not listened to any of -their previous entreaties, but perhaps now, if he were told how his -father had melted, if he knew how everybody was longing for him! There -were two letters written that afternoon, full of tenderness, full of -entreaties. “If your reading is so important I will not say a word, you -shall go back, you shall be left quite free; but oh, my dearest boy! -surely you can spare us a week or two,” Lady Markham wrote. Their -spirits rose after these letters had been despatched. It did not seem -possible that Paul could turn a deaf ear to such entreaties; and by this -time surely he, too, must be longing for home. The future had not seemed -so bright to them since first these discords began. Now, surely, if Paul -would but respond as became an affectionate son, everything would be -right. - -Markham Chase was situated in one of those districts where the post -comes in at night--a very bad thing, as is well known for the digestion, -and a great enemy to sleep and comfort. No one, however, had the -philosophy to do without his or her letters on that account. The ladies -naturally never took it in consideration at all, and Sir William’s -official correspondence did not affect his nerves. Lady Markham and her -daughter came early into the drawing-room that evening, while it was -still daylight, though evening was advancing rapidly. The children, who -felt severely the loss of Colonel Lenny and his stories, and were low -spirited and out of temper in consequence, went soon to bed. Lady -Markham retired into her favourite room--the large recess which made a -sort of transept to the great drawing-room. It was filled at the further -end by a large Elizabethan window, the upper part of which was composed -of quarries of old painted glass in soft tints of greenish white and -yellow; and which caught the very last rays of daylight--the lingering -glories of the west. Soft mossy velvet curtains framed in, but did not -shade the window, for Lady Markham was fond of light--and shrouded the -entrance dividing this from the great drawing-room beyond. The fireplace -all glimmering with tiles below and bits of mirror above, with shelves -of delicate china and pet ornaments, filled the great part of one side, -while the other was clothed with bookcases below and pictures above, -closely set. One of Raphael’s early Madonnas (or a copy--there was no -certainty on the subject, Lady Markham holding to its authenticity with -more fervour than any other article of faith, but disinterested critics -holding the latter opinion) presided over the whole; and there were some -pretty landscapes, and a great many portraits--the true household gods -of its mistress. There she had seated herself in the soft waning light -of the evening. Alice just outside the velvet curtains was playing -softly, now an old stately minuet, now an old-fashioned, quaint gavotte, -now a snatch of a languid, dreamy valse--music which did not mean much, -but which breathed echoes of soft pleasures past into the quiet. The -soft summer twilight fading slowly out of the great window, the cool -breathing of the dews and night air from the garden, the dreamy -music--all lulled the mind to rest. Lady Markham made not even a -pretence at occupation. What was she thinking of? When a woman has her -boys out in the world--those strange, unknown, yet so familiar creatures -whom she knows by heart yet knows nothing of, who have dipped into a -thousand things incomprehensible to her, filling her with vague fears -and aches of anxiety--of what but of them is she likely to be thinking? -She was groping vaguely after her Paul in strange places which her -imagination scarcely took in. When the other boys were away they too had -their share in her thoughts; but they were still in the age of innocence -at school, not young men abroad in the world. Where was he now? She -tried to figure to herself a scene of youthful gaiety--one of the -college parties she had read of in novels. She was the more bold to -think of this, as she felt that her appeal to Paul just despatched would -surely detach him, for a time at least, from all such noisy scenes. Lady -Markham’s imagination was not her strong point. She was floating vaguely -in a maze of fancies rather than forming for herself any definite -picture, when Brown came into the room with the letters. The music -stopped instantly, and Alice, rushing at them, uttered a tremulous cry -which made the mother at once aware what had happened. Only Paul could -have called forth that cry of trembling satisfaction, delight, and -alarm. Lady Markham got up at once and held out her hands for the -letters, while Alice ran to light the candles. “I can see, I can see,” -Lady Markham said. The mere fact that the letter was Paul’s made it more -or less luminous in itself and helped the fading light. - -Sir William, seated in his library by himself, had been thinking, with a -difference, much the same thoughts. With a compunction and compassion -indescribable, he had been thinking of his son. Paul, with all his -foolish democratical notions, was yet the most aristocratic, the most -imperious of young men, knowing nothing of the evils he was so ready to -take upon him, generous in giving, but to whom it would be bitterness -itself to receive. Would Paul ever turn upon him, upbraid him, curse -him? A shiver came over his father at the thought--and along with this a -horrible sense of the position in which this haughty young heir would -find himself, if---- How was it that such a possibility had altogether -escaped his mind? He could not tell: he did not know how to answer -himself. Forty years is a large slice out of a man’s life. Even had it -been some one fully known and loved, it would be unlikely that you -should think of him with any persistency of reference after a separation -of forty years--and a child, an infant, a thing with no personality at -all! But still, he asked himself, had he never thought when Paul was -born of the former time, far away in the morning haze of youth, when a -young mother and a child had called forth his interest? Yes, he had -thought of it; he had thought with alarm of what had happened then; he -had been more anxious about his young wife than young husbands usually -are--but no more. It had never occurred to him that his child had -anything to do with the other. Strange blindness in a man so accurate! -He said to himself, “It will come to nothing; it will be arranged; all -will be well:” but in the same breath he said, “Poor Paul! God help him! -What would happen to Paul, if----” - -He had not been able to do anything all day for thinking of this: he had -kept his blue-book before him, but he had made nothing of it. Sir -William, whose understood creed it was that public affairs went before -everything, could pay no attention to these public affairs. When the -letters came in, in the evening, he received them languidly, not feeling -that there was anything there which could interest him so much as his -own thoughts. When he saw Paul’s handwriting an unusual stir arose in -his elderly bosom. But he put it down, and took up a letter from his -chief, which would be no doubt of far more importance to the country, -with a last attempt to conquer himself. But the words of his chiefs -letter had no sense to him; he could not understand what there was to be -so anxious about. Smith’s candidature for Bannockshire--what did it -matter? He made a rapid and novel reflection to himself about the -trifling character of the incidents which people made so much of; then -laid down the solemn sheet with its coronet, and took up the letter of -his boy. - -A few minutes after he walked into his wife’s sitting-room, the letter -open in his hand. Lady Markham was seated close to the great window -against the dying light, with a candle flaring melancholy on a table -beside her, reading her letter. Alice, behind her, read it too, over her -mother’s shoulder: surprise and trouble were on their faces. Alice had -begun to cry. Lady Markham in her wonder and distress, was repeating a -few words here and there aloud. “I can no longer hope for anything in -this country of prejudice.” “Going away to a new world.” They were both -so absorbed that they did not hear Sir William’s entrance till he -suddenly appeared, holding out his letter. “What is the meaning,” he -asked, “of this, Isabel? What is the meaning of it?” The indignation of -the head of the house, which seemed to be directed against themselves, -brought the two ladies with a sudden shock out of their own private -dismay, and gave them a new part to play. Their hearts still quivering -with the sudden blow which Paul’s disclosure had given them, they still -turned in a moment into apologists and defenders of Paul. - -“What is it?--from Paul, William? he has written to you _too_,” said -Lady Markham, with trembling lips. - -“What does it mean?” cried Sir William. “He is going off, he -says--away--to Australia or New Zealand, or somewhere. What does it -mean? No doubt he takes you into his confidence. If you have known of -this intention long you ought to have let me know.” - -“I am as much overwhelmed as you can be, William. I have just got a -letter.” Lady Markham stopped, her lips trembling. “Oh, Paul, my boy! He -cannot mean it,” she said. “It must be some fancy of the moment. At his -age everything is exaggerated. William, William, something must be done. -We must go to him and save him.” - -“Save him! from what are we to save him?” Sir William began to pace up -and down with impatience and perplexity. He was not so angry (they -thought) as they had feared. He was anxious, unhappy, as they were, -though querulous too. “What is the meaning of it? Follies like this do -not spring up all at once. You must have seen it coming on. You must -know what it means. What has he been writing to you about lately? Is -there--any woman----?” - -“William!” cried his wife. - -“Well!--Alice, run away; we can discuss this better without you.--Well! -it need not be anything criminal or vicious, though of course that is -what at once you imagine it to be. Has he spoken of any one? Has he -ever---- No, he would not do that. He is a fool,” cried the anxious -father; “he is capable of any nonsense. But it need not necessarily be -anything that is vicious--from your point of view.” - -Alice had not gone away. She shrank behind her mother into the dim -corner, yet to her own consciousness stood confronting her brother’s -accuser with a resolute countenance, from which the colour had all gone -out. Her blue eyes were open wide with horror yet denial. Whatever Paul -might have done she was ready to defend him; although the possibility of -any such wrongdoing went through her like a sword of fire. The light of -the candle flickered upon her faintly, showing scarcely anything but her -attitude, partially relieved against the lightness of the window--a -slim, straight, indignant figure drawn up and set in defence. - -“He has not written often lately,” said Lady Markham, faltering; “but -oh, William, it is not possible; he is not capable----” - -“What do you know about it” cried Sir William, almost roughly. “How can -you tell what he is capable of? A young man will go from a house like -this, from his mother’s side, and will find pleasure--actual -pleasure--in the society of creatures bred upon the streets; in their -noisy talk, in their bad manners, in all that is most unlike you. God -knows how it is; but so it is. Paul may be no better than the rest. -Alice, I tell you, run away.” - -Lady Markham grew red and then deadly pale. She rose trembling to her -feet. “Can we go to-night? Can we go at once?” she cried. “Oh, William, -let us not lose an hour!” - -“You know as well as I do there is no train after eight o’clock. Compose -yourself,” said Sir William. “Nothing more than what has already -happened can happen to him to-night.” - -“We might get the express at Bluntwood--the train papa generally goes -by--if we were to start at once” cried Alice, with her hand on the bell, -her eyes turning from her father to her mother. The eager women on each -side of him made the greatest contrast to the head of the house. Had -Paul been dying instead of simply in a problematical danger, Sir William -Markham would not have consented to leave his home in this headlong way, -or take any step upon which he had not reflected. He waved his hand -impatiently. - -“You had much better go to bed,” he said, “and don’t worry yourself -about a matter in which for the present none of us can do anything. I -will go to-morrow. Sit down, Alice! Do you think Paul would thank you if -you arrived breathless in the middle of the night? Try to look at the -matter coolly. Excitement never does any good. I will go and see if he -will listen to reason--to-morrow.” - -To-morrow! It seemed to both mother and sister as if a thousand -calamities, too terrible to think of, might be happening, might have -happened, before to-morrow; and on the other hand, how, they asked each -other with a pitiful interchange of looks, were they themselves to live -through the night? No feeling of this description moved Sir William. He -was very much disturbed and annoyed, but certainly it would do no good -to any one were he to render himself unfit for action by foolish -anxiety. Nor did he feel any of that vague horror of apprehension which -filled their minds. He was a great deal more angry and much less alarmed -about his son’s well-being. On the other hand, he was less sanguine; for -he did not hope that Paul would listen to reason, as they hoped that by -their entreaties, by their tears, by the sight of the misery his -resolution would bring them, Paul might relent and give way. After a -while Sir William returned to his library and to his blue-books, and the -official letter which he had only half-read, which he had suffered -himself to be so much influenced by parental feeling as to leave in the -middle; and though he paused now and then to frown and sigh, and give a -thought aside to the troubles of paternity, yet he went on with his -work, and gave all the attention that was necessary to the public -business, until his usual hour for going to bed. - -Lady Markham and Alice spent their evening in a very different way; they -read their letter over twenty times at least; they found new meanings in -every sentence of it. Hidden things seemed to be brought out, emotions, -penitences, relentings, by every new perusal. Sometimes these -discoveries plunged them into deeper trouble--sometimes raised them to -sudden hope. How little Paul was conscious of the subtle shades of -meaning they attributed to him! They were like commentators in all ages; -they found a thousand ideas he had never dreamed of lurking in every -line of their author; and with all these different readings in their -heads spent a sleepless night. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Paul Markham was not in his rooms. The porter at the college gate looked -curiously upon the party of people who asked after him. It was not the -time of year when college authorities interfere with undergraduates; -neither was a virtuous young man “staying up to read” likely to call -forth their censures. The porter could not give them any information as -to where to find Paul; the party (he thought) looked anxious, just as he -had seen people look whose son had got into trouble: the father with -wrinkles in his forehead, but an air of business and anxious -determination to look as if there was nothing particular in it--nothing -but an ordinary visit; the mother with a redness about her eyes, but a -smile, very courteous, even conciliatory, to the porter himself, and so -sorry to give him trouble; and an eager young sister clinging to the -mother, looking anxiously about, staring at every figure she saw -approaching. - -“Here’s a gentleman, sir, as can tell you, if any one can,” the porter -said. All three turned round simultaneously to look at the person thus -indicated. He was a young man of not very distinguished appearance, who -came carelessly across the quadrangle in a rough coloured suit, with a -pipe in his mouth. He came along swinging his cane, smoking his pipe, -not thinking of what awaited him. However, those three pairs of eyes -affected him unawares. He looked up and saw the little group, and -instinctively withdrew his pipe from his mouth. He had just slipped it -quickly into the pocket of his loose jacket, and was trying to steal -through the party under cover of a messenger who was passing, when Sir -William stepped forward and addressed him-- - -“This man tells me,” he said, “that you are a friend of my son, Paul -Markham, and can perhaps give us some information where to find him.” - -While the father spoke, the two ladies looked at the young man with eyes -half-investigating, half-imploring. He felt that they were making notes -of his rough clothes, his pipe, which alas! they had seen going into -his pocket, and of a general aspect which was not very decorous, and -forming opinions unfavourable, not only to himself, but to Paul; while, -at the same time, they were entreating him with soft looks to tell them -where Paul was, and somehow--they could not tell how--to reassure them -on his account. - -Young Fairfax, who was not perhaps a very elevated member of society in -general, was of a sympathetic nature at least. He was greatly -embarrassed by their looks, and confused between the two sides, giving -the attention of his eyes to the ladies on the one hand, and that of his -ears to Sir William on the other. He felt himself blush at the thought -of his own unsatisfactory appearance--his worst clothes (for who -expected to meet ladies _in August_?) and the pipe, which both literally -and metaphorically burnt his pocket. Lady Markham and Alice took the -redness which overspread the stranger’s face, not as referring to the -state of his own appearance (though they were keenly sensible of that), -but as a sign that he had nothing that was comforting or satisfactory to -say of Paul--and their hearts sank. - -Young Fairfax coughed and cleared his throat. - -“Markham?” he said. “I will go and see if he is in his rooms.” - -“He is not in his rooms,” they said all together, a fact which the other -knew very well. - -When Fairfax found this little expedient of his to gain time did not -answer, he ventured on a bolder step. “If you will go to Markham’s -rooms,” he said, “I think I can find him for you. I know where he will -be; that is to say I know two or three men’s rooms--where he is very -likely to be.” - -“Could not we go with this gentleman?” said Lady Markham, looking at -him, though it was to her husband she spoke--and Alice looked at him too -with a supplicating look which went to the young good-for-nothing’s -heart. He gave the ladies a look in return which he felt was apologetic, -and yet full of a protest and appeal to their sense of justice. What can -I do? I cannot make him all that you wish him to be; was what he felt -his look said; and this was really the sentiment in his mind, though he -would have laughed at himself for it. They understood him well enough, -and their hearts sank a little too. - -“Impossible!” said Sir William, “how could you go to--a man’s rooms? -perhaps into the midst of a---- party” he was going to have said riotous -party, but forbore for the sake of the girl. “No, you had better take -this--young gentleman’s advice--” - -“My name is Fairfax” said the youth, taking off his hat. He blushed -again, having kept that engaging weakness, though it is not by any means -sure that he had kept the modest grace of which it is the sign: and a -smile crept about his lips. The hearts of the two women rose a little. -If things had been very bad with Paul he would not, they reasoned, have -had the heart to smile. - -“Mr. Fairfax’s advice,” said Sir William; “go to Paul’s room and wait -there, and I will go with Mr. Fairfax to find him. That is much the best -thing to do.” - -“I may have to run about to one place and another,” said the young man -alarmed; “it is a pity to give you so much trouble. Would not you, sir, -wait with the ladies? I promise you to find him with as little delay--” - -“I will go with you,” said Sir William, in his cold way, which admitted -of no appeal; “you know the way, Isabel, to Paul’s rooms.” And thus they -parted, the young man looking at the ladies again with a kind of -dismayed protest: can I help it? He was very much dismayed to have Sir -William with him. Fairfax had not much doubt as to where Paul was, and -he did not think it was a place which would please his father. He felt -already that he had established an understanding with the others which -justified his glance of dismay. Lady Markham and her daughter turned -very reluctantly away. They went across the quadrangle with drooping -heads. Everything lay vacant in the sunshine, no cheerful bustle about, -the windows all black, no voices, no footsteps, no lounging figures -under the trees. Slowly they went across the light with their heads -close together. “He knows where Paul is,” said Lady Markham, with a -sigh. “But he did not want papa to go,” said Alice with another. They -crept up the silent staircase and went into the vacant room, and sat -down timidly, not venturing to look at anything. They were afraid of -seeing something, even a book, which in Paul’s absence would betray -Paul. His mother glanced furtively, pitifully about her. She was more -bound by honour here in her son’s room, more determined to make no -discoveries, than if her boy had been her enemy; and who can tell how -the consciousness of this sank like a stone into her heart! A few years -ago everything would have been so lightly reviewed, so gaily -discussed--but now! The fringes of her cloak swept some papers off a -side-table, and she let them lie, not venturing to touch them. Paul -should not suppose that his mother had come to pry into his secrets. God -forbid! He should be allowed to explain himself, to say the best he -could for himself. - -“Mr. Fairfax looked as if he knew everything. Did not you think so, -mamma?” - -“Oh, my darling, what can I say? He looked, I think, as if he were fond -of Paul.” - -“That I am sure he did. He was not very nice looking, nor well dressed; -but these young men are very careless, are they not, when they are -living alone?” - -“I should not think anything of that, dear,” said Lady Markham, -decidedly; “I think, too, though he was careless of his appearance, that -he had an innocent look. He met your eye; there was nothing -down-looking about him; and he blushed; that is always a good sign, and -smiled at me, like a boy who has got a mother.” - -“And he did not look at all frightened to see us; as he would have done -had there been anything very wrong. I think he was rather pleased--it -was papa he was afraid of. Now it is clear that if Paul had -been--wicked, as papa said--(oh, Paul, Paul, I beg your pardon dear, I -never thought it!)--it would have been you and me, mamma, don’t you -think, that they would have been afraid of? They could not have borne to -look us in the face if _that_ had been true; whereas,” said Alice, in a -tingle of logic, the tears starting into her eyes, “it was papa Mr. -Fairfax was afraid of, not you or me.” - -“That is true,” said Lady Markham, brightening slowly, but she did not -take all the comfort from this potent argument that Alice expected. -“Unless they are very intimate, he is not likely to know all that Paul -is doing” she said, shaking her head. Paul’s room was far from orderly. -Once upon a time he had been very fond of knick-knacks, and had -cultivated china and hung plates about the walls. All that was gone -now. Lady Markham looked at the bareness of the room with a pang. Would -he have neglected it so if everything had been going well with him? -Perhaps had it been much decorated she would have asked herself whether -these meritricious ornaments did not indicate a mind given up to -frivolity; but at this moment it seemed a curious and significant fact -that the ornaments had all disappeared from his walls. - -In the meantime young Fairfax was hurrying Sir William at a pace which -scarcely befitted his dignity, or his years, along the streets. Probably -the young man forgot that his companion was likely to suffer from this -rapid progress; and when he remembered, he was not without hope of -tiring the angry (as he supposed) father. But Sir William was a -statesman and trained to exertion. He puffed a little and got very hot, -but he did not flinch. Fairfax it was evident knew very well where he -was going. He made a cunning attempt to deceive his companion by -pretending to pause and wonder at the first corner; then he smote his -thigh, and declared that of course he knew where Paul would be at this -hour--not in any man’s lodgings--with the man who was teaching -him--what was it? He could not recollect what it was--wood-carving, or -something of that sort. “It is a good way off; would it not be better to -let me fetch him?” he said, making a last attempt. “Let us get a cab,” -said Sir William. “Oh, it is not so far as that,” said his guide, with a -blush. Sir William had a half-suspicion that he was being led round and -round about to make him think the way longer than it really was; but -that part of Oxford had changed since his time, and he was not quite -sure of the way. At last, however, when no further delay was possible, -he found himself at the door of a little grimy house, the ground floor -of which seemed to be occupied as some kind of workshop, where a man sat -working. The place smelt of varnish and the window was full of small -picture-frames, gilt and ungilt, and other very simple articles, carved -workboxes and book-shelves. “Oh, Spears! has Markham been here?” the -young man cried with a certain relief in his tone, evidently pleased not -to see the person of whom he was in search. The workman looked up from -his work. He was busy with a glue-pot, and the varnish which smelt so -badly. He did not rise from his bench in honour of the gentleman, or -remove his cap from his head. He said shortly, but in a voice of unusual -sweetness and refinement-- - -“He is here still. He has gone up stairs, to wash his hands I suppose.” - -“Ah!” said Fairfax. It was not a syllable, it was a sigh. He had hoped -to have escaped easily; but it was not to be so. He went to the foot of -the stairs, which led directly out of the workshop. “Markham!” he cried, -“are you there? Come down at once; you are wanted.” How could he throw -special significance into his voice? It sounded to himself just as -careless as usual, though he had meant to make it very serious. -“Markham, I say, there’s some one wants you--important! Come at once!” -he added, going up a few steps. - -Sir William stood stiffly down below, watching with the utmost -attention, while the workman upon his bench eyed him with suspicious -eyes. - -Then Paul’s voice came still more lightly from above, striking strangely -upon the ear of his father, who had never heard that tone in it before. - -“Confound you, what’s the hurry?” Paul said. “If it’s a dun you ought -to know better than to bring him here. I’ll come when I’m ready.” - -“Markham! I tell you it’s of the first importance,” said the young man, -going a step or two higher, but still quite audible to Sir William. - -Then there came a burst of laughter from above, seconded by what sounded -to Sir William’s suspicious ears like feminine voices. - -“Is it the Vice-chancellor?” said Paul; “or the Provost? Say the word, -and I’ll get out over the leads or through the window--” - -The next moment he appeared, rubbing his hands in a towel, and without -his coat, with a face more full of laughter than, Sir William thought, -he had ever seen it before; and this time he felt certain that he heard -women laughing up stairs. He was standing with his back to the light, -and his son did not see him for the moment. - -Paul came down stairs, gradually emerging, always rubbing his hands. He -called out-- - -“Who is it, Spears? What is this fellow making a fuss about?” - -“I cannot tell who it is,” said the workman; “it is some one who has -come into my house without taking the trouble to notice me. I presume -therefore that it must be what is called a gentleman.” - -The sound of the man’s voice was so pleasant that Sir William did not at -first realise the offence in it; and at that moment he was too much -absorbed in watching the changes of his son’s countenance to think of -anything else. - -Paul emerged from the shadow of the staircase, which was like a ladder, -his face full of amusement and brightness, entirely at his ease, and -familiar with all about him. His hat was on and his coat was off, but -that evidently made no difference; neither did he cease to dry his hands -with the towel as he came leisurely down stairs. It was clear that he -expected no one whose appearance could require any more regard to the -decorum of formal life. - -When he first caught sight of his father a cloud came over him. Sir -William’s face was not visible, but Sir William’s figure and voice were -scarcely to be mistaken. The father looked on while the first shadow of -fear came over his son’s face; then saw it lighten with a desperate -effort not to believe what was too apparent; then darken suddenly and -completely with the sense of discovery and of the fate which had -overtaken him. To see your child’s bright countenance cloud over at the -sight of you, to see the struggle of hope that this may not be you, and -despair to find that it is you, what mortal parent can bear this -unmoved? It would have half killed Lady Markham. - -Sir William was of tougher stuff, and less entirely moved by the -affections; but yet he felt it. He saw the same line come into his son’s -forehead which all the family knew so well in his own, and that -expression of angry displeasure, impatience and gloom, came over his -face. This made him too angry, in spite of himself. He said, harshly-- - -“Yes, Paul, it is I. I am the last person you expected, or evidently -wished to see here.” - -Paul came down the remaining steps, the very sound of his foot changing; -he threw away his towel and took off his hat, and assumed an air of -punctilious politeness. - -“I do not deny that I am much surprised to see you, sir,” he said, -darting a glance aside of annoyed reproach at Fairfax. He had flushed a -gloomy red, of shame and annoyance, feeling his very shirt-sleeves to -be evidence against him--and looked round for his coat with an -inclination to be angry with everybody. - -“I had just gone to wash my hands after my work,” he said, with a -confused apology. Confronted thus suddenly with his father in all the -solemnity of authority and parental displeasure, how could he help -feeling himself at a disadvantage? He forgot everything but that his -father had found him in circumstances which to him would seem equivocal, -perhaps disgraceful; but he was not allowed to forget. - -“If you require to apologise, Markham, for being found in my shop or my -house, you had better not return here,” said the master of the place, -eyeing him over his shoulder from his bench, “any more.” - -“I beg your pardon, Spears. My father--does not think with me. It is by -no will of mine that he has come here----” - -“If you can’t be civil, and introduce him civilly--and if he can’t be -civil, and doesn’t know how to treat a man in his own house,” said -Spears, busy with his glue-pot, “you had better take him away.” - -“This is the man you brought to my house--in my absence,” said Sir -William, “imposing upon your mother. I suppose the well-known”--(he was -going to say demagogue, but paused, after looking at the person in -question)--“orator and leader of Trades Unions----” - -“Yes, that is I,” said the master of the shop. “I am quite ready to -answer any question on my own account. But I beg your pardon, whoever -you may be. Markham did not impose upon his mother, nor did I. He -introduced me as his friend, and I lost no time in telling the lady that -I was a working man. Lady Markham has the manners of a queen. She was -perfectly polite to me, as I hope I am capable of being to any one who -comes in the same way into my house.” - -Sir William gave his son’s friend another look. He had no desire to make -a personal enemy of this demagogue. A public man must think of -expediency in public matters, even where his own affections are -concerned. - -“You will excuse me,” he said, coldly. “My business is with my son. I -should not have intruded myself into your house had I known it. Paul, -your mother is at your rooms, waiting for you. I must ask you to come -there with me at once.” - -Paul’s countenance fell still more. - -“My mother!--here!” - -“Good morning,” said Sir William, taking off his hat with much -solemnity. “I am sorry to have invaded Mr. Spears’s privacy even for a -moment. I will wait for you, Paul, outside.” - -The workman got up and took off his cap, bowing ceremoniously in answer -to Sir William’s salutation. He had not moved till his name was -mentioned. - -“There!” he cried, with comical discomfiture, “dash the little -aristocrat! He has the last word--that’s the worst, or the best of them. -They have their senses always about them. No flurry--no feeling. Well, -Paul, aren’t you going? Be off with you and explain, like a good boy, to -your mamma and your papa.” - -“What is it all about?” said a girl’s voice from the top of the stairs; -and first one, then another, fair, curly, somewhat unkempt head appeared -peeping down upon the group below. “And who is the little old gentleman? -Father, may we come down stairs?” - -“Go back to your work, on the instant,” said Spears; “I want no girls -here. Well, Markham, why don’t you go? Is your father to wait for you -all day--and I too?” - -“I shall go when I am ready,” said Paul, gloomily. - -He took a long time to put on that coat. He was not of a temper to be -cowed or frightened, and for a moment he was undecided whether to defy -his father directly and deny all jurisdiction or control on his part, or -to take the more difficult part of extending to Sir William that -courtesy which his teacher had instructed him was due from all men to -each other--from rebellious sons to fathers as well as in every other -relation of life--hearing what he had to say with politeness as he would -have heard any other opponent in argument. But the fact is that an -argument between father and son on their reciprocal duties is a thing -more difficult to maintain with perfect temper and politeness than any -argument that ever took place in the Union or perhaps in Parliament -itself. And Paul was bitterly angry that his father should have invaded -this place, and dismayed to hear that his mother had come, and that he -should have her entreaties to meet. He had not anticipated anything of -the kind, strangely enough. He had expected letters of all kinds--angry, -reproachful, entreating--but it had not occurred to him that his father -would come in person, much less any other of the family. He was dismayed -and he was angry; his heart failed him in spite of all his courage. -Pride and temper forbade him to run away, yet he would have escaped if -he could. He took a long time to put on his coat; he said nothing to -either of the two men that stood by, and pushed Fairfax aside when he -tried to help him. Spears had given up his work altogether, and stood -watching his pupil with a smile upon his face. - -“When does that fellow mean to go?” he said. “What is he waiting for? I -like the looks of the little old gentleman, as the girls call him. -There’s stuff in that man. But for him and such as him the people would -have had their rights long ago; but I respect the man for all that. -Markham, what do you mean by keeping him kicking his heels outside my -shop in the sun? That is not the respect due from one man to another. -He’s an older man than you are, and merits more consideration. What are -you frightened for, man alive? Can’t you go?” - -“Frightened!” cried Paul, with an indignant curl of his lip. - -“Yes, frightened, nothing else; or you wouldn’t take so long a time -about going. Ah, that’s driven him out at last! Do you know those -people, Fairfax, or how did you come to bring the father here?” - -“I know them? I am not half grand enough. How should I know a man who is -a Right Honourable? I met them by chance. Spears, you may say what you -like, but even a little rank, however it may go against reason, has an -effect--” - -“Do you think I need you to tell me that? If it hadn’t an effect what -would be the use of all we’re doing? ‘Why stand I in peril every day?’ -as that fine democrat Paul says somewhere. To be sure there’s something -in it. I once lived three days in that man’s house. I didn’t know he was -absent, as he says he was. I should have liked to have stood up to him -and stated my way of thinking, and seen what he had to say for himself. -It was the first sneaking thing I ever knew in Markham to take me there -while his father was away. Life goes on wheels in those houses,” said -Spears, taking his seat again upon his bench. “It was all one could do -after a day or two to keep one’s moral consciousness awake. A footman -waited upon me hand and foot, and I never spoke to him--not as I ought -to have done--about the unnatural folly of his position, till the last -day. I couldn’t do it; a fortnight in that place would have demoralised -even me. The mother--ah, there it is! We can’t build up women like that. -I don’t know how you’re to do it without their conditions. We have good -women, and brave women, and pure women, but nothing like that. You have -to see it,” said Spears, shaking his head, “even to know what it is.” - -“So long as it’s only a fine lady--” said the young man. - -“Don’t talk of what you don’t understand,” said the other. “I’d have the -best of everything in my Republic. I’d have that little old man’s pluck -and self-command; and the lady--I don’t see my way to anything like the -lady.” - -“I have always told you, Spears, that the old society which you condemn -has everything that is good in it, if you would have patience and--” - -“_You_ have always told me!” said Spears in his melodious voice. - -He returned to his work without further argument, as if this were enough -reply. He was finishing a number of little carved frames, of which his -window was full. There was a bill in the window on which “Selling off” -was printed in large letters. The shop was full of wood and bits of -carving all done up in bundles, and everything about showed marks of an -approaching departure or breaking-up. The master of the house put on his -cap again and gave himself up to his work. It was not of a kind which -impressed the spectator. But the man who worked was not commonplace in -appearance. He was not much taller than Sir William, but had a large -massive head, covered with a crop of dusky hair. The softness of his -eyes corresponded with that of his voice, but the lines of the face were -not soft. He took no further notice of Fairfax, who, for his part, took -his neglect quite calmly. The young man took his pipe out of his pocket, -where he had put it stealthily when he first caught sight of the ladies, -for one moment paused, and looked at it with a look of half-comic -half-serious uncertainty. Should he keep it as a memento of that -interview? He looked at it again and laughed, then pulled out of another -pocket a little box of matches and lighted his pipe. He, like Paul, was -quite familiar and at his ease in the workman’s shop. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -“You have kept me a long time waiting,” said Sir William. “I should have -thought elaborate leave-takings unnecessary in a place where you seem so -much at home.” - -“I took no leave,” said Paul; “it was quite unnecessary. I shall see -Spears again to-night.” - -Sir William turned round upon his son with quick impatience; then -paused. This was not a case to be treated hastily, and patience was the -best. “You and I differ in a great many points,” he said; “therefore it -is not wonderful perhaps that I should think you have made a curious -choice of a trade to learn: for I suppose you are by way of learning a -trade. Don’t you think a certain amount of civilisation is necessary -before picture-frames will become remunerative? I don’t think you could -live by them in the bush.” - -Paul coloured high with that acute sense of being open to ridicule which -is so terrible to youth. “Spears is selling off his stock,” he said. “I -do not know if it is a sign of high civilisation, but he sells his -picture-frames and lives by them. Most men of genius have been reduced -to make their livelihood by some inferior branch of their work.” - -“And what then do you call his highest work?” Sir William asked -carelessly. Paul, astonished, but willing to believe that his father had -taken an interest in Spears and that all was about to go as he wished, -fell into the trap, as any other unsuspicious nature would have done. - -“His carvings are wonderful,” he said, with all the fervour of -enthusiasm. “When he has a congenial subject he is equal to Gibbons or -any one. He ought to have been a great sculptor. If you saw some of the -things he has done you would see what bitter satire it is that _he_ -should live by those wretched little picture-frames.” - -“Is it so, indeed?” said Sir William. “Then it is the higher branch of -wood-carving and not picture-frames that you are learning, I suppose? -Do you mean then to carry high art, Paul, into the bush?” - -“I cannot see what this has to do with the bush, sir,” said Paul, -impatiently. “One must live there by one’s hands, and to know how to use -them in any special way cannot be a disadvantage in any other way. That -is Spears’s view of the subject, and mine too.” - -“I doubt if wood-carving will help you much in felling trees or making -them into huts,” said Sir William, with a great air of candour. “What do -you suppose the advantage is likely to be of changing from a state of -society where everything that is beautiful has its value, to one where -you will live by your hands, as you say, and where the highest skill -will only not do you any harm? I should like to know the reasoning by -which you have arrived at your present convictions--the ideas expressed -in the letter I got last night.” - -“You have received my letter then?” Paul said, with dignity. “You know -what my settled determination is. I hope you do not mean, and that my -mother does not mean, to attempt to turn me from a plan which I have not -decided on without great thought.” - -“I don’t know what your mother may mean to do, my boy,” said Sir -William, quietly. “She will act according to her own standards of duty, -not mine; but I know what I intend myself, and the first thing is to -understand your reasons for the extraordinary step you propose. You, the -heir of a fine property----” Sir William made a stumble before the word -_heir_, which, notwithstanding that Paul was about to abjure everything, -led him to make a rapid calculation of his father’s power in this -matter. The Markham property was not all entailed. Did the father mean -to disinherit his lawful successor? Paul felt a flush of indignation go -over him, though he was about to declare his intention of giving up all. - -“The heir of a fine property,” said Sir William, “and an influential -position. At this moment, young as you are, you might make a start in -public life, and have a hand in the government of your country, which is -as high an ambition as a man can entertain. How have you managed to -persuade yourself that to go out into a half savage country and -encounter the first difficulties of savage life is better or more -honourable than this? To live by your hands instead of your head,” he -continued, growing warm, “to surround yourself with beggarly elements -of living instead of the highest developments of civilisation--to make -yourself of no more account than any ploughboy----” - -Here Paul felt himself touch the ground. There had stolen over him a -chill of alarm as to how he was to answer such a question, but this last -clause brought him back to the superficial polemics with which he was -familiar enough. “Why should I be of more account than any ploughboy?” -he said; “that is the whole question. Why is there this immense gulf -between the ploughboy and me? Is he less a man than I am? Are not my -advantages a shame to me in the face of manhood? What right have I to -humiliate him for my advancement?” - -“What right have you to be a fool?” said Sir William, bitterly. “I don’t -know: your mother is not a fool, though she is not clever. If your -ploughboy had been educated as you have been, your argument might have -had some show of reason. Do you mean to tell me that education is -nothing--that a lad from the fields ought to be of as much use in the -world as you are? This is to despise not only rank, which I know is your -favourite type of injustice, but breeding, culture, everything you have -acquired by your work. How do you justify yourself in throwing away -_that_? There is no question of humiliating the ploughboy; the ploughboy -will be of ten times as much use as you are in the bush.” - -This view of the question was not pleasant to Paul. He held himself up -with great stateliness, and did not deign to look at his father. “That -remains to be seen, sir,” he said. - -“What remains to be seen?--that a man brought up to farming will make a -better farmer than you--or your friend the wood-carver? Suppose we -consider the question from his point of view,” said Sir William. “He is -a skilled workman, you tell me.” - -“I said a man of genius.” - -“All the better for my argument. Your man of genius,” Sir William went -on with a barely perceptible smile, “may be--appreciated, let us say, in -a country like this, where art is known: but who will care for his art -where he is going?” - -“More than here,” cried Paul hotly, interrupting his father. “Here, -because he has no money, nor position to make him known, and no -impudence to push him into favour, his beautiful work is taken no -notice of, and he lives by making picture-frames. Ploughing and digging -is better than that. The earth at least is grateful for what is done for -her.” - -“Not always,” said Sir William. “I thought you had heard enough about -farming to know better. However, the advantage of emigrating to -your--friend, will be, not the gain of anything, but the giving up of -his work, and the sacrifice of what you call his genius. No, I do not -scoff at his genius. I know nothing about it. I take it on your word. -Your man of genius will throw away his chief distinction on your own -showing; and _you_ will throw away what as yet are your only -distinctions, the position you derive from your ancestors, the education -which you have got (partially) by your own exertions--for what? to -attempt to do clumsily what two ploughmen could do much better than -you.---- Ah! who is that?” - -Paul’s eye had been caught some moments before by a lady coming towards -them, at sight of whom a sudden flush came over his face. A lady! was -she a lady? She was dressed very simply in a black alpaca gown, the -long plain lines of which harmonised and gave elegance to a tall, -well-developed figure. The dress was well made and graceful, such as any -lady might have worn; but the little hat upon the young woman’s head was -doubtful. Even Sir William, who looked somewhat anxiously at her, seeing -the flush on his son’s face, felt that it was doubtful. The faded brown -velvet and scrubby little feather did not suit the rest of the dress. -She walked well, as she came towards them, but when she perceived Paul -and his companion, an air of embarrassment which was half fright came -over her face. When Paul, all red and glowing with a mixture of feelings -which Sir William could not fathom, took off his hat, she gave him an -alarmed, inquiring look, blushed fiercely, and replied to his salutation -with a hurried nod of her head, which made the question of her position -more uncertain than ever. Still she was a handsome young woman: before -she had seen Paul, Sir William himself had remarked her stately carriage -and figure. “Who is that?” he repeated, suspicious, as a parent -naturally is of a young man’s unknown female friends, yet not unprepared -to hear that it was somebody not unworthy to be known by Sir William -Markham’s son; for it might well be that ladies in a learned community, -fearless of misconception, were not always so particular as could be -desired about their hats. He turned half round and gave a glance after -her as she continued her way, which, as she had just done the same, was -somewhat awkward. But Paul marched straight forward and took no notice. -“Who is that?” Sir William repeated, sharply, determined this time to -have a reply. - -Paul’s blush and discomfiture, and his marked and ceremonious -recognition of the stranger, meant several things. They meant that he -felt himself certain to be misconstrued, yet was too proud and too -sincere to take any means of avoiding misconstruction; that he was -annoyed by the encounter, alarmed by the new idea which his father would -certainly take up in consequence; yet forced by this alarm and annoyance -to show a more marked and excessive courtesy to the person (oh, had she -but gone down another street and kept out of the way!) whose appearance -plunged him into so much confusion, and would, he felt sure, complicate -everything. Whether this sudden liveliness of consciousness did not mean -that there was cause for alarm is another matter. In the meantime all -that Paul felt was that the girl’s name once mentioned must add tenfold -to the difficulty of his position. - -“Who is it? It is Spears’s eldest daughter,” he said curtly, with a new -and brilliant suffusion of colour over all his face. - -“Oh!” was all Sir William said. What more was necessary? The young man -felt, with a sensation of intolerable impatience that he was judged and -condemned on the spot; but he could not protest against a conclusion -which was not put into words. If he said anything, would not his guilt -be considered doubly proved? Silence seemed his only policy; and no more -was said. The discussion, which had been so serious, came to a dead -stop. They walked on together without saying another word. Sir William, -who had been so bent upon convincing his son, dropped his argument all -at once. Paul did not look at him, but yet he was aware that the line on -his forehead, the pucker that meant trouble, had deepened. The young man -felt himself suddenly in the grip of despair. He felt himself judged, -the question settled, everything changed. His whole conduct had assumed -a new light in his father’s eyes, and it was a false light. Instead of -respecting him as the logical if rash devotee of certain fixed -principles, his father evidently concluded him to be the victim of a -commonplace love affair. How was Paul to overcome this hasty and false -judgment? Pride and prudence alike made it necessary that he should take -no notice of it. He held his head higher in the air than ever, and -walked on with a certain protestation and appeal against the injustice -done him in every step he took. Sir William, on his side, dropped the -argument with a mixture of despair and contempt. This was how it -was--far more easy to understand than democratic ideas or communistic -principles in the heir to a great property, here was an inducement which -was plain to the meanest capacity: a fine, handsome, young woman! This -was how it was! Sir William felt angry with himself for being duped, and -for having really for a moment believed in the revolutionary sentiments -which had been assumed (he had no doubt) in order to carry on this other -pursuit. How foolish he had been to allow himself to be thus deceived! -He gave up his argument with an abruptness which had impatience in it, -and for the moment he could not say anything to the boy who had thus -succeeded in deceiving him, and added the feeling of shame for his own -gullibility to that of anger. He had taken the trouble to attempt to -convince him, to believe in an intellectual error, which, however -exasperating, was not discreditable--and this was how it was! - -What was to be done? It was all a mistake, but Paul could not say so, -for his father did not condescend to make any accusation. Thus they -walked on, fuming both with indignation and impatience. Now and then the -young man eyed his father as if he could have taken him by the shoulders -and shaken him, an undutiful form of the mutual exasperation. But Sir -William was beyond this. What was the good? He would save his breath, he -thought, for better purposes. Why should he talk himself hoarse while -Paul laughed in his sleeve, not caring a straw for his arguments, -meaning perhaps to laugh with the girl the next time they met over the -ease with which his father had fallen into the snare. No, the fellow was -not worthy of argument; he who was capable of masking an unworthy -entanglement in this way. Let his mother try her hand upon him, the -father thought, indignantly. She might do something. A woman’s tears -and suffering are sometimes more effectual than reason. Sir William felt -in his indignant disgust that to let his own beautiful and perfect wife -enter the lists against this--hussy--yes, he was coarse in his vexation -and distress--to let Lady Markham, the pride of the county, a woman whom -it was a glory for a man to have won--to let her come down from her -pedestal and humble herself to the pleadings and the tears of an anxious -mother for a boy so little worthy of her as to be capable of such a -connection--was a disgrace. But then he knew that was not how she would -feel it. She would not think of her own dignity. And she would get it -all out of him--women can; they do not disdain to return and return to -the inquiry, to ask question after question; he would not be able to -elude her examination. She would get it all out of him--how far it had -gone, all about it. And then some strong step must be taken--something -must be done--though, for the moment, he could not think what that -something should be. - -“I see them at last,” said Alice from the window. “Oh, Paul! Papa is -coming along quite quietly, not scolding him. He is looking--not so -angry. It is so natural to see them walking along--quite friendly. He is -not scolding----” - -“Oh, my dear! do not use such a word. Scold! we might scold Harry for -climbing trees: but this is too serious, far too serious. How is my poor -boy looking? Oh, I hope--I hope your papa has not been hard upon him. -Men forget that they were once young and foolish too.’ - -“That was what I meant,” said Alice. “I wonder---- they are not saying -anything to each other, mamma.” - -Lady Markham had come to the window and was looking out too, over her -child’s shoulder, while the father and the son came along the street -together, silent, separated by so much that was real, and something that -was mistaken. The mother and daughter looked out together with but one -heart. Not a breath had ever come between these two: they knew each -other absolutely as no one else knew either. How could it be possible -for them to misunderstand each other, to fall apart, to experience ever -whatever might happen, the chill distance and severance which was -between Sir William and his son? Lady Markham leant upon her child’s -shoulder. - -“Not a word,” she said; “not a word. Oh, my boy--my boy! Your father -must have given it up; he must think there is nothing more to be said.” - -“But we will never give him up!” cried the girl. “How could we give him -up? That is impossible. You could as soon give up _me_!” - -“Not Paul, dear--never Paul: but the attempt to turn him from his own -way. If he will not listen to your papa, Alice, what attention will he -pay to me and you?” - -Alice had no answer to make to this question, so intent was she, -watching the expression of Paul’s face as he crossed the street and -disappeared under the gateway. She read in it, or thought she read in -it, the conclusion of a stormy argument, the opposition to all that -could be said to him, the determination to have his own way which was -natural to Paul. And she too, with a sigh, recognised the futility of -argument. - -“He never would listen to papa,” she said. “Papa proves you so in the -wrong that you can’t help going on with it. But he will not be cruel to -you and me. Oh, when he knows it will break our hearts!” said Alice. - -And then they were silent, hearing the steps come up the staircase, -turning two pairs of anxious eyes towards the door. Sir William came in -first with a kind of stern introduction of the culprit. - -“Here is Paul,” he said. And then without any words, with a certain -half-protest against their presence there at all, Paul submitted to be -kissed by his mother and sister. They stood all together in a confused -group for a moment, not knowing what to do or say, for it is difficult -to rush into such a subject as this which was in all their thoughts in a -company of four. Lady Markham held her boy by the hand, and looked at -him pathetically with an unspoken appeal which made his heart ache, but -felt that she must have him to herself, must be free of all spectators, -before she could say all she had to say to him. “We had better go back -to the inn and get some luncheon,” said Sir William, breaking the spell -with practical simplicity. He took his wife by the arm as they went down -stairs. “The democracy is a pretence, and so is the fancy for a new -world,” he half-whispered, hissing into her ear. “It is a woman, as I -thought.” - -Lady Markham started so that she almost lost her footing, and her -parasol fell out of her hand. - -“A woman?” she said, with a scarlet blush of trouble and shame. The -first intrusion of this possibility daunts and terrifies a mother. A -woman! what does that mean?--not the pure and delicate love with which -all her thoughts would be in sympathy; something very different. The -shock of separation between the boy, the heir of all her hopes, and a -man half-known, who is no longer the child of her bosom, was almost more -than she could bear. The cry she gave echoed low but bitter through the -empty passages, where many such have echoed, audible or inaudible, -before. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -“I cannot move him one step from his resolution,” said Lady Markham, -pressing her hands over her eyes. They were aching with tears, with the -sleeplessness of the past night, and that burning of anxiety which is -worse than either. “He does not seem to care for what I say to him. His -mind is made up, he declares. God help us! William, our eldest boy! And -he used to be so good, so affectionate; but now he will not listen to a -word I say.” - -They were in a room in the hotel, one of those bare and loveless rooms, -denuded of everything that is warm or homelike, in which so often the -bitterest scenes of the tragedy of our life take place. Lady Markham sat -by the bare table; Sir William paced up and down between that and the -door. Outside was all the commotion of one of those big caravanserai -which have become so common in England, echoes of noisy parties below, -and a constant passage up and down of many feet. Trouble itself is made -harder vulgarised by such contact. They were far too much absorbed to -think of this, yet it made them a little more miserable unawares. - -“Does he mean to marry her?” Sir William said. - -“Oh!” cried Lady Markham, with a start as if she had received a blow; “I -cannot think it is that. He will not allow it is that. It is, what he -has always said, those new principles, those revolutionary ideas, I do -not know what those men are worthy of who fill a boy’s head with -ridiculous theories, who teach him to despise his home.” - -“There are few who are much harmed by that. Isabel you must not be -squeamish. You must forget you are a delicate lady, and speak plainly. I -know what a young man is at Paul’s age; they can hold the wildest -theories without feeling any necessity to act upon them. It is a -privilege of youth; but against that other kind of influence, they are -helpless. And a woman like you does not understand the arts and the -wiles of these others. And he does not know how important it is,” said -Sir William, with a piteous tone in his voice; “he does not know----” - -“He knows very well what he is to me and to you,” Lady Markham said. In -this particular she spoke with perfect calm, not fearing anything. “How -should he not know? I have not hidden it from him that a great part of -the happiness of my life hangs upon his. It seems ungrateful when one -has so many blessings; but, oh! if _one_ is in trouble, how can you be -comforted though all the others are well? All your heart goes to the -one. It is not that you love the others less, but _him_ more--_him_ -more.” - -Sir William listened to this outburst without a word. They were bearing -one burden between them, and yet each had a separate burden to bear. His -heart would not be racked like hers by the desertion of the boy. He -would not concentrate his whole soul on Paul because Paul was in -trouble. But on the other hand, she was altogether unaware of what was -in his thoughts, the doubtful position in which perhaps Paul might one -day find himself; the need there was that his future should be within -his own power to shape and form. Also Sir William was aware of the -disappointment and misery awaiting those who compromise their whole -lives in one fit of foolish passion, and secure their own misery by a -hasty marriage. These were the things he was thinking of. He saw his son -waking up to the realities of a life very different from anything he had -dreamed--and encumbered, he, so fastidious, so fantastical, with an -uneducated woman and all the miseries of premature fatherhood. He -groaned as this picture arose in his mind. - -“Trouble,” he said. “Yes, I suppose if a young man allows himself to get -entangled, there is trouble involved in the breaking of the tie; but not -half so much trouble as will come after, when his life is dragged down -by association with a woman like that,--when he has a wretched home, a -sordid life, a hundred miserable necessities to provide for,--you don’t -know what it is, you can’t know what it is----” - -He broke off abruptly. Would she perhaps suspect him--_him_, her -husband--of having learned by experience what these horrors were? - -But no such notion entered Lady Markham’s mind. “No,” she said; “I think -you are wrong, William. I think it is not _that_ that is in my boy’s -mind. Oh, if one could know--if one could feel sure, that his heart was -open as it used to be!” - -Here she paused; and there was silence between the two, Sir William -walking slowly up and down, with his head forward, and she sitting -wistful gazing into the dark air; her eyes enlarged with anxiety and -pain. They were such prosperous, happy people--so well off, so full of -everything that can make life smooth and sweet, that the silence of -their trouble was all the more impressive--so many things that harm -poorer people would have passed innocently over them. They had such a -stock (people might have said) of comfort and happiness to fall back -upon. Nevertheless, this blow was so skilfully dealt, that it found out -the weak places in their armour at once. To Sir William, indeed, it came -as a sort of retribution! but what had his wife done to have her -gladness thus stolen away from her? Fortunately those who suffer thus -innocently are not those who ask such questions. She shed her tears -silently, with many prayers for him who was the cause; but she did not -complain of the pain which was laid upon her for no fault of hers. They -had talked it all over in every possible aspect, and now they were -silent, saying nothing. What was there to say? They could do nothing, -however they might toil or struggle. It was not in their power to change -the circumstances. Even Sir William, though he was a man of much -influence, a great personage, of importance in Europe--capable perhaps -of stopping revolutions, of transforming the face of a country, and -modifying the fortunes of a race by the advice he might give--was -powerless before his boy. He could not turn Paul from the way he had -chosen, nor persuade him to think differently. He might be able to -destroy old corporations, to raise up new cities, to disestablish a -church, or disturb an empire; but he could not make a change in the -fancies of his son--whether it was in his opinions, or in his -inclinations; that was altogether beyond his power. He sighed heavily as -he went and came from the dull green-painted wall, to the dull table -covered with a green cloth. The Queen might listen to him, and the -country; but Paul would not listen. What wonder that his wife covering -her hot eyes with her hand, and knowing that Paul’s contumacy would -steal all the pleasure out of her life, should feel herself powerless -too? - -There was one thing however that threw a little light on Lady Markham’s -thoughts--one person to whom she could still appeal. She did not speak -of this to her husband, who might, she felt, oppose her purpose. But she -told Alice, with whom her consultations were still more confidential and -detailed. - -“He was made welcome in our house,” she said; “he was received as well -as if he had been--any one else; and he is not a man without sense or -feeling. If it is put before him as it ought, he will understand. I will -go and speak to Mr. Spears----” - -“About--his daughter?” Alice faltered. - -Lady Markham did not make any reply. She would not say anything about -the chief object of her mission. What she wanted above all things was to -test the truthfulness of her son’s assertion that this daughter was -nothing to him. Sir William put no faith in these assertions; but Paul’s -mother believed in him with trembling, even while she feared, and longed -for some indirect testimony which would convince her husband. She -thought over it all night, while she lay awake listening to the clocks -answering each other with hour after hour. - -Paul had not responded to his mother’s inquiries, as they had all hoped. -He had resisted her questions proudly, and he had not attempted to -explain. - -“You have made up your mind, you and my father, that I have not spoken -the truth,” he said. “Why should I repeat what you will not believe? I -have nothing to say but what I have said.” - -“Oh, Paul, look in my face, and tell me--tell me!” she said. “I will not -doubt you.” But he was obdurate. - -“I have told you,” he said, “and you have doubted.” - -There was something even in this pride and indignant resistance of her -entreaties which moved his mother to believe in him; but Sir William was -of a different opinion. Her heart was torn asunder with doubt and fear; -and here was the one way in which she could know. Her husband might -think of Spears as a dangerous demagogue, but to her he was a man whose -face had brightened at the sight of her children, a man to whom she had -given her own ready sympathy--a human creature, whom she knew. Had she -not a right to go to him, to appeal to him to relinquish his hold on her -boy? Whether it was by his arguments, or by something less abstract, he -had, it seemed, power which was almost absolute over her boy. Lady -Markham did not mean to say anything to him about his daughter, to ask -of him whether it was love for her which was leading Paul away; but -could any one doubt that she would discover the truth if she could see -him, and speak to him without any one to interfere between them? She -could not endure the doubts of Paul which rose in her own mind, nor to -be obliged to listen to his father’s doubts of him, and say no word in -his defence. - -Notwithstanding her sleepless night, she got up very early in the -morning, full of this idea, and stole out of the inn unperceived. It was -not till the morning air blowing in her face, and the looks of the -passers-by, which, like any one unaccustomed to go about alone, she -thought specially directed to her, had fully roused her out of the mist -of thought in which she was enveloped, that she remembered that she did -not know where Spears was to be found. What was she to do? She went -along vaguely, unwilling to return, past Paul’s college, with all its -vacant windows twinkling in the sun, by the way which her husband had -taken when he went to seek Paul the day before. Her heart gave a little -leap as she passed the gate to see some one come out whose face seemed -familiar to her. Was it Paul so early? Had he changed his habits like -everything else? But she saw very well it was not Paul; it was his -friend who had guided Sir William in search of him on the previous day. - -Young Fairfax took off his hat respectfully, and would have passed, but -she stopped and beckoned to him to come to her. Here, too, Providence -had thrown in her way a witness who might corroborate Paul. She was out -of breath with agitation when he came across the street. - -“Can I--be of any use, Lady Markham?” the young man said. - -“If it will not detain you--if it is not out of your way,” she said, -with anxious politeness, “would you show me where Mr. Spears lives--Mr. -Spears--I think my husband said you knew him--the--the public -speaker--the--very great Radical--he whom my son knows?” - -Fairfax was puzzled for the moment by this respectful description. - -“Oh, Spears!” he cried at last, suddenly waking to intelligence; he had -not heard him called Mr. Spears before. A laugh woke about the corners -of his mouth. He was apt to laugh at most things, and it amused him to -hear the softening politeness with which the great lady spoke of the -demagogue. But the next moment the wistful anxiety in Lady Markham’s -eyes made him ashamed of his smile. - -“I will show you the place if you will let me go with you,” he said. - -It seemed some strange negligence on the part of the race generally that -such a woman should be unattended wherever she might choose to go. He -was a democrat too, mildly, with less devotion to Spears than Paul, yet -with some interest in his teaching; but Paul’s mother roused within him -a natural loyalty and respect which was not in accordance with these -principles--loyalty in which a subtle unexpressed regard for her rank -mingled with reverence for herself. It was not as a mere woman and his -friend’s mother, but also as a lady--the kind that queens are made -of--that she affected his mind. The idea of her required an attendant, a -servant, a retainer. He put himself into the vacant place hastily, to -repair the neglect of the world. - -Lady Markham took an unfair advantage of this devotion. She plied him -with questions--subtle and skilful--not always about Paul, but coming -back to Paul with many a wily twist and turn. She threw herself with the -warmest pretence of interest into his own career--what he was doing, how -his studies were being directed, what his future was to be? Was it a -pretence? No, it was not altogether a pretence. She could not but be -polite, and true politeness cannot but be interested. She was pleased -that he should tell her about himself, and a kind of shadow of an -anxiety that he too should do well came into her mind--a shadow faint -and vague of her great anxiety and longing that Paul should do well, -better than any one had ever done before. And like a lark descending in -circles of cautious approach to her home, she came back to Paul when her -young companion was off his guard, when she had beguiled him to babble -of himself. - -“Ah!” she said, “I fear you are both idle, both Paul and you,” when -Fairfax had been making confession of sundry shortcomings. - -“No, Markham is not like me,” he said. “Markham puts more of himself -into everything; he does not take things lightly as I do. He is a more -serious fellow altogether. That makes me rather fear Spears’s influence -over him, if you will let me say so.” - -“Indeed I will let you say so,” Paul’s mother replied. “That is just -what makes me unhappy. He is a great deal with Mr. Spears?” - -“One time and another--yes, they have seen a great deal of each other,” -Fairfax said. “Perhaps you don’t know, Spears is the most entertaining -fellow. He has his own opinion about everything. I think myself he is -wrong just as often as he is right; but he has his own way of looking at -things. I don’t go with him in half he says, but I like to hear him -talk----” - -“And his house is a pleasant place to go to?” said the anxious mother. -“Excuse me if I don’t quite know. He is not in any kind of society, but -he has a family? It is a pleasant house?” - -Fairfax stared and then he laughed. - -“It is not a house at all, in the way you think of,” he said. “I don’t -suppose you can form any idea--we go and talk to him in his workshop. -There is no sort of ceremony. He will hold forth for the hour when he is -in the vein, and he is very entertaining--but as for what you understand -by a pleasant house----” - -Lady Markham’s heart grew lighter every moment. - -“But he has a family?” she said. - -“Oh, yes--there are girls, I believe,” said Fairfax. Was he on his -guard? She almost feared the directness of this question had put him on -his guard. “One sees them sometimes running out and in, but that has -nothing to do with it,” he added, carelessly. “In his class it is not at -all the same as in other ranks of life.” - -Here there was a pause. Not an inference was there in all this of any -other influence than that of the political visionary--the influence -which Paul acknowledged. Lady Markham’s heart had given a leap of -pleasure. Oh, if Sir William had but heard this careless, impartial -witness, every word of whose evidence supported that of Paul! But then a -chill breath of suspicion came over her. What if he were less -unconscious than she thought, skilfully arranging his replies so as to -back up Paul’s assertions? This discouraged and silenced her, in spite -of herself. How easy it is to learn the miserable alphabet of suspicion! -She went along with him doubtfully, sick at heart, asking no more -questions, not knowing whether there was anything in the whole matter -to which she could trust. - -“There is Spears’s shop. You will find him at work already; he is always -early. May I come back again for you, Lady Markham, in case you should -miss the way to the hotel?” - -“You are very kind,” she said; but the sight of the place where Paul had -spent so much of his time raised again a sick flutter in her bosom. She -waved her hand to him without any further reply, with a smile which went -to his heart; and then crossed over, dismissing him thus, and went -direct to the fountain-head of information--to Spears’s open door. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -Spears was seated on his bench, with his tools and his glue-pot, as Sir -William had seen him on the previous day, when Lady Markham entered the -shop. He had never ceased to be industrious at his work, though he had -so many other things to do. Indeed, the many other things he had to do -made it incumbent upon him to work early and late, in order to keep, as -he called it, “the pot boiling.” For he was not a paid agitator. The man -was proud, as men will be in all stations; and, moreover, he was -uncertain--not to be calculated upon as a supporter of all kinds of -measures which might be proved good for “the trade,” and therefore not -half so serviceable an implement as many who were much less powerful. -Like the independent member who cannot be trusted always to vote with -one party, he was looked upon with doubt even by those who took the -greatest advantage of his gifts. His influence had never done himself -any good. He had acquired it by exhausting labour, which had taken him -away from the work by which he made his bread, without supplying any -bread in the interval to nourish those who were dependent upon him; and -the consequence was that he had to work at other times early and late, -and was saved from all possibility of the idle life which a stump orator -may be so easily led into. His shop itself was swept and clean, the -boards freshly watered in large damp circles still marked upon the wood, -and a great bundle of large flowers--sunflowers and dahlias--stuck into -a large jug, stood in the window among the picture-frames. Some -brilliant gladiolas, in the brightest tints of colour, lay neglected on -the floor, and a great magnificent stalk of foxglove nodded on the table -at which he was working. These floral decorations, unexpected in such a -place, made the shop cheerful; and so did a stray ray of morning sun, -which got in through a break in the houses opposite, and fell across it, -dividing it as with a line of gold. The door stood open; the air, even -though laden with varnish, retained some freshness. Lady Markham came -in softly, and stood, her heart beating, not knowing well how to open -this important interview, in the middle of the sunshine. Her breath came -quick. Now that she had arrived at the point for which she had been -aiming, a sudden alarm seized her. Might it not have been better, she -asked herself, hurriedly, to remain in ignorance--not to seek to be -convinced? There are things which it is better not to know. - -Spears, who was whistling over his work, did not hear the light footstep -coming in; but he noted, with the quick sense of a man to whom daylight -is indispensable, the shadow that had come across the sunshine. He -paused and looked up. A doubt--a question came over his face. Was it -possible he did not know her? Then he rose and came forward, holding out -to Lady Markham a hand not free from stains of the varnish which -perfumed the shop. - -“Is it you, my lady?” he cried. His face beamed over with a smile of -welcome, but showed no surprise or alarm at the appearance of such an -inquisitor. He drew forth a rough wooden seat without any back, and -placed it in the centre of the vacant space. - -“I am very glad to see you in my poor place,” he said. - -“Thank you,” said Lady Markham. She glanced round her with a little -perturbation. She did not know how to begin. “Mr. Spears!” she said, -faltering a little, “I was very glad to see you in _my_ house.” - -“Were you, my lady?” He stood before her with a good-humoured smile upon -his face, but slightly shook his head. “Never mind, you were as kind as -if you had been glad to see me, and that says more. But your husband -upbraided me for coming to his house in his absence, which you know was -your son’s fault, and not mine.” - -“It is of my son I want to speak to you,” said Lady Markham, seizing -this easy means of introducing her subject. “Mr. Spears, you know -something of what he is to me--my eldest boy, the one who should be the -prop of the family: to whom his brothers and sisters will look hereafter -as the head of the family.” - -“Ay, that’s just it,” said the revolutionary. “Why should they look to -him? What is there so creditable in being the eldest son? It was no -thanks to him. He was not born first for any merit of his. Far better -to teach them to depend on themselves--to give them their just share--to -make no eldest sons.” - -“As if that were possible,” Lady Markham said, with a soft smile at this -theoretical folly. “One must be the eldest, whatever you say; and if any -harm were to happen to us,” she added, after a pause, raising her -beautiful head, “I have no fear that Paul would give up his position -then. If we were to become poor, to lose all we have--such things have -happened, Mr. Spears--my boy would not find it hard to remember to take -up his duties as the eldest son!” - -“Ah!” said Spears in involuntary sympathy. Then he added with again the -same good-humoured smile, “There now, that is how you get the better of -us, you aristocrats. You are terribly cunning in argument, my lady. You -get over us by a suggestion of generosity when we are talking of -justice. The thing will never happen, of course--not in our day, more’s -the pity--your money and your land will never be taken from you.” - -“Do you think that is a pity, Mr. Spears?” - -“Well, yes,” he said, laughing, “from our point of view; but it will -never happen, not in our time. And even if it did happen, don’t you -think it would be far better to live each man for himself, and not a -whole family casting themselves on the shoulders of your son Paul?” - -“My son Paul,” said Lady Markham, in a low voice, looking at him through -the tears in her eyes, “will be far away from us--will not be at hand to -be of use or consolation in case anything should happen to us, if you -and he have your will, Mr. Spears. He will be far away where he will be -of no use to his family. Such a thing might happen, though God forbid -it! as that I might be left to struggle alone for my children; and Paul, -my eldest, my natural help, far away, lost to me, as if he had never -been.” - -Spears turned away while she was speaking, and returned to his bench. He -cleared his throat; his face flushed; he was as much embarrassed as she -had been at the beginning, and did not know how to reply. - -“My lady,” he said, “this is too bad; I think it is too bad. After all a -man has more things to think of in this world than whether his family -has need of him, or if he can be of use to his mamma.” - -He said the last word with a semitone of ridicule, then blushed for -himself as he caught her eye. Lady Markham saw her advantage. She would -not let him escape. - -“Are there then many things in this world that are better than being of -use to your family, and helping in a hard task your mother? Do you think -so, Mr. Spears? Ah, no! I am certain you don’t. You are talking _au bout -des lèvres_, not from your heart. If we should ever need him, Paul will -be--who can tell?--thousands and thousands of miles away; and for what? -Why do you want him to go with you? Why are you going? I do not know the -reason. Because you are impatient, and do not like the manner in which -things are arranged at home?” - -“We will not enter into that, my lady,” said Spears; “we will not enter -into that.” - -He said this, half in contempt of her intelligence, which did not rise -to his lofty view, half because (and this really meant the same thing) -it was very difficult to explain why he thought it expedient to go away. -Many motives were mingled in his resolution which he did not dwell upon -even to himself. He was tired of poor work and poor pay, and the -struggle of living; tired of having to manufacture pictures-frames for -bread when he could have done something so much better: and disgusted -that his higher work got no real appreciation from any one. And he was -tired too even of his agitation, the speeches and popular applause which -were all very well for the moment, but neither seemed to convince any -one, nor to affect the world at all. All this was going on day after -day, week after week, but never came to anything. Often speakers whom he -knew to be much inferior to himself were more warmly applauded; and some -whom he considered (as other people considered him) to be stump orators -and noisy demagogues, got elevated and salaried, and swaggered about in -all the importance of delegates and representatives of the people, while -he received no such distinction. Though this was partly his own fault -through the pride and love of independence which characterised him, yet -Spears felt it. It soured him, in spite of himself. All this, however, -lay in his heart undivulged, except by a bitter word now and then; and -what he said to himself was that the old country was thoroughly corrupt -and hopeless, but that in a new country, under better conditions, life -would be more worth having. Did this fine lady, who knew nothing about -it, divine what was secretly shut up in his mind? He grew half afraid of -her, simple and ignorant as she had seemed to him a little while before. - -“Ah, Mr. Spears, let us speak of it! You forget how important it is to -me. But for you, I should not run any risk of losing my boy.” - -“I did not propose that he should come with me. You will do me the -justice to believe, Lady Markham, that I never attempted to bias him.” - -“To bias him,” she said--“what is it then? Is it not all your doing? -Why, should Paul go away, but for you? He has got these notions which -you have taught him into his head--” - -“On the contrary,” said the workman, “I have told him that were I in his -place I should certainly stay in England. This is no place for a poor -man who thinks--but for a man who is not poor, who has a position like -his, why, it is the ideal place. There is no aristocracy so solid as in -England. I have told him so a hundred times.” - -Lady Markham’s face grew whiter and whiter. It did not occur to her -that this very advice might be conveyed in a tone which would make Paul -wildly indignant at the supposed immunity and privileged condition with -which his friend credited him. Such an explanation did not occur to her. -Dismay stole over her heart; it was then as Sir William thought--Paul -was not telling them the truth. The cause of his wild project was not -philosophy and foolish opinions, since even his leader disowned it. It -was something else. Her heart sank within her, she lost the control of -her better sense. “If it is not you,” she said, “who is it then--who is -it, Mr. Spears? You have--a daughter?” This seemed to come from her in -spite of herself. - -“A daughter--I have three,” he said, “but what have they--” here he -stopped, and getting up from his bench gave vent to a low whistle of -astonishment and perplexity. He was as much surprised as she could be, -and not much more pleased. He gazed at her a moment speechless. “Can -that be so?” he said. - -Impossible to sink lower than Lady Markham’s heart sank--it seemed to -melt away altogether in humiliation and disappointment. She looked at -him piteously, the tears so gathering into her eyes that she could -scarcely see his face. - -“Oh, Mr. Spears,” she cried, “you know what such a connection always -comes to; disappointment on both sides--the woman’s as well as the -man’s. Whatever his feelings may be now, he would soon find out that she -was not--like the women he had been used to; and she would find herself -among--habits that were not congenial to her. Oh, Mr. Spears, for both -their sakes--you that Paul thinks so much of, you whose opinion he -follows so meekly--oh, will you not exert your authority, and forbid -it--forbid it altogether?” - -Lady Markham lost control of the words she was saying. She did not think -whether this was likely to be a mode of entreaty that would be grateful -to him. She lost her own fine sense of what was fit and seemly, in the -eagerness of the appeal which might save her boy. - -He stood over her, looking at her, changed she could not tell how. His -face clouded over before her eyes. At first this seemed only the effect -of the tears that blinded her, but when these latter fell she became -aware that the countenance which had been so good-humoured and friendly -was full now of a very different sentiment. The man seemed to have -expanded even in outline as he stood between her and the light. - -“Forbid it, forbid it altogether!” he repeated, with a smile that seemed -to freeze her. “Why?” She felt herself tremble before him as he fixed -his eyes upon her. “My lady,” he said, “you forget where you are, and -you forget your politeness for once. How do you know my girl is not like -the women he has been used to? By God! she’s better than most he’ll meet -with among your depraved and worn-out race. _My_ girl! if it is true, -and she likes him, do you think I would forbid it, to save your fine -blood from pollution, and keep your Paul for some fine lady of the kind -he’s been used to? No, not for a million of mothers--not for all the -soft-spoken insults in the world.” - -Lady Markharn made no reply; she could not, her agitation was so great; -but indignation began to steady her nerves, and give back her forces. -What had she said to call for this? How dared he speak of insult, the -man whom she felt she had honoured by coming to him, by appealing to -him? She was not an angel, though she was a good woman, and -instinctively she began to call together her faculties, to range -herself, as it were, on her own side. - -Apparently, however, after this outburst, Spears felt ashamed of -himself. A fine sense of courtesy was in the man, almost finer than her -own. He began to be ashamed of having thus violated hospitality, of -having so addressed her in his own house. He turned away from her to -recover himself, turning his back upon her, then came back with again a -changed aspect. “I beg your pardon,” he said; “I ought to have more -control of myself in my own place. I don’t believe it’s true what you -think. No, my lady, I don’t mean you’re saying what you don’t believe--I -think you’re deceived. I won’t ask who’s told you, or how it’s come into -your head; I’ll put it to a better test. I’ll ask the girl herself.” - -“Mr. Spears,” said Lady Markham, “you have been very rude to me; I have -not insulted you, nor did I mean to do so. It never occurred to me,” she -added, with a fine sting in her words which penetrated through all his -armour, “that I need fear anything from _you_ which I should not have -encountered in--another rank of life. But I do not wish to make -reprisals,” she said, with a faint smile, rising from her seat. “If you -question your daughter on such a subject it ought not to be before me.” - -“My lady,” cried Spears, his face full of passion, “unless it is to be -open war between us it shall be before you. If there’s love between them -there should be no shame in it. My girl is one that can hold up her head -before any on the face of the earth. It is not my beginning, but it -shall be settled and cleared up on the spot. Janet! come down here, I -want you,” he called at the foot of the stairs. - -Even in the midst of her agitation, Lady Markham had been conscious of -sounds above, footsteps and young voices, one of which indeed had been -persistently singing all the time, some trivial song of the moment in a -clear little sweet voice, like the trill of a bird. The insignificant -tune had run through all this exciting interview, and worked itself into -Lady Markham’s head, and in spite of herself she stood still, not -resisting any longer, turning towards the stairs involuntarily, watching -for the appearance of the girl who (perhaps) was dearer to her boy than -anything else, who, perhaps, was his motive for relinquishing -everything else, including his mother’s happiness and the comfort of his -family. What woman could remain unmoved under such circumstances? Once -more her heart began to beat as she turned her face towards the dingy -stairs. Was it some beautiful apparition which was to appear from it, -some creature such as exists in poetry, some woman for whom it would be -comprehensible that a man should give up all? Lady Markham had romance -enough in her to feel that this was possible, almost to wish it, while -she feared it. If it were so, it would be more easy to forgive Paul. Ah, -forgive him!--that was never hard; that was not the question. Our -forgiveness, like a weeping angel, is it not always hovering, -forestalling even the evil to be forgiven, over our children’s wayward -ways? But to get it out of her mind, out of her memory, that he had -deceived her, that was not so easy. She, who had come in search of -evidence to exonerate Paul, can any one wonder that she stood trembling, -scarcely seeing, scarcely hearing, yet all eyes and ears, to receive the -testimony of this indisputable witness, against whom there could be no -appeal? But when the girl’s foot sounded on the stair it seemed to Lady -Markham that she had already given up all hope that Paul was -true--provided only that this woman for whom he had compromised the -honour of his word, might at least afford some justification for the -sacrifice. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -“What is it, father? do you want me?” - -The girl spoke to her father, but her eyes were caught instantly by the -unusual apparition of the lady in the shop. Who was she? not an ordinary -customer, not anybody with an order for picture frames. A flutter awoke -in Janet’s breast. Was it perhaps somebody sent from the shop to offer -that situation which was the dream of her fancy? a situation, she did -not quite know what, varying as her hopes and sense of self-importance -varied from that of a companion (which, the forewoman of the shop had -told her, her manners and look were equal to--not to speak of her -education) to that of a lady’s maid. Emigration was not an idea which -pleased Janet. She was afraid of the sea, afraid of the unknown, and not -at all desirous of being always at home, shut up within the circle of -family duties and companionship. She wanted to see the world, as all -young people had, she thought, a right to do. To go into the wilds had -no charm for her. She had grown up in the close presence of all her -father’s theories without being affected by one of them. She had heard -him speak by the hour and had paid no attention. All his moral -independence, the haughtiness of his determination to be his own master, -and stand under subjection to no man, affected his child no more than to -make her wish the more fervently for that “situation,” which would -deliver her from the monotony of these “holdings forth.” Janet’s ideal -of a happy existence was that of a large “establishment” where there -would be a crowd of servants, elegant valets and splendid butlers at the -feet of the pretty maid whom nobody would be able to tell from a -lady--or perhaps a chance of catching the eye of the master of one of -these fine gentlemen, who would make her a lady in earnest, with -servants of her own. Nobody knew of these secret dreams which occupied -her fancy, and grew and flourished in the atmosphere of the shop; but -when her father called her suddenly, and she came down to see Lady -Markham standing so exactly like (she thought) a lady whom the forewoman -might have sent with the offer of a situation, her heart began to beat, -and her head to turn round with excitement--excitement only not so great -as that of the woman who stood gazing at her with wistful eyes, asking -herself if this was the woman whom Paul preferred to all the world. - -Janet was tall, and possessed what the people at the shop called “a -lovely figure;” the mantles and jackets never looked so well as upon -her. The habit of putting these garments on, and making a little parade -in front of the glass to show them, which was her daily duty, had given -a certain ease of carriage not usual in her class. When you are -accustomed to be gazed at, whether for yourself, or what you carry on -your shoulders, it takes away the native embarrassment of the -self-conscious creature. She was dressed in that gown of black alpaca -which is the uniform of the shops, and which did full justice to the -fine lines of her form. These were not the mere slim outlines of a -girlish figure which might turn to anything, but really beautiful, -finely proportioned, and imposing. She came down into her father’s -shop, into the line of sunshine that crossed it, with the air of a young -queen. Her face, however, was not so fine. She was pale, her nose not -quite so delicate, her mouth not so small as beauty demanded. Her hair -was fair, with little colour in it, and affording but little relief to -the forehead upon which it clustered in a wild but careful disorder, -according to the fashion of the time. Lady Markham took in every line -and every feature as the girl advanced: far more critically than if she -had been, as Janet thought, an intending employer did she examine this -new unknown being who (was it possible?) had Paul’s future in her hands. -They gazed at each other, forgetting the man who stood by watching their -mutual interest with what would have been amusement had he been less -indignant and curious. Men and women are always so strange to each -other. He looked at these two with a half-despairing, half-comic -(notwithstanding his seriousness) consciousness that the ideas that were -going through their minds were to him a sealed book. He did not know, -poor man, that the lady, who was a stranger, was the one of the two that -was comprehensible to him, and that stranger than all Greek or Latin, -more mysterious than philosophy, would have been to him, had he been -able to see them, the thoughts in the mind of his own child. - -“I want to ask you a question, Janet. Don’t be alarmed, it is not -anything to frighten you,” he said. “In the first place this is Lady -Markham, the mother of Mr. Markham whom you have so often seen here.” - -Janet made a curtsey to the lady, uttering a little confused “Oh!” of -wonder, and opening her eyes, and even her mouth, in surprise. Could Mr. -Markham have recommended her? _Mr. Markham!_ She did not know what to -think. Why should he wish her to be under his mother’s care? Thought -goes quick at all times, quickest of all in such a crisis, when the next -word may change all your prospects in life. Her mind plunged forward in -a moment into a world of possibilities, while her eyelids quivered with -that expression, and her mouth kept the form of the “Oh!” tremulous and -astonished. The quiver communicated itself to her whole frame--what -might come next? - -“You must understand,” said Lady Markham quickly, “that I have nothing -to do with the question your father is going to ask you. It is not put -in consequence of anything I have told him--nor is it put at my -desire.” - -Spears gave a little laugh, elevating his eyebrows. Yes, this was the -sort of thing to be expected. She had led him on to it, and now she -protested that she had nothing to do with it--was not this the kind of -tactics pursued by her class in all ages? To push the frank and honest -man of the people into a corner and then to disown him. He laughed, -though he had not much inclination to laugh. - -“Quite right, quite true,” he said; “it is for my own satisfaction -entirely. Janet, nobody has ever come between you and me,” the man added -with a certain pathos. He looked at his daughter with a mist of honest -affection and trust in his eyes, and without an idea, without a -suspicion, that between him and her lay a whole world of difference, -indescribable by ordinary words. “I have been father and mother both to -you. Answer me, my girl, without any fear. Mr. Markham has told his -family that he is going with us to Queensland. Janet, answer me plainly, -is it out of love for you?” - -“Father!” Janet, whose face was turned towards him, gave a sudden cry. -In a moment a flame of colour went over her. She opened her eyes still -wider, and her mouth, with dismay. “Oh, father! father!” she cried, in a -tone of warning and alarm. - -It seemed to Lady Markham that nothing more was necessary. Her limbs -refused to support her any longer. She sank upon the seat which she had -abandoned. The girl was afraid to speak the truth before her; but yet -what doubt could there be of the meaning in her voice. - -“I ask you to tell me plainly--to speak out as between you and me,” said -Spears. He was not slow to perceive what her tone implied, and the -warning in it made him angry. “There is no reason why you should -hesitate to say it. If so it is, there is nothing wrong in it as far as -I can see. Blush you must, I suppose--girls cannot help it; but tell me, -like an innocent creature as you are, tell me the truth. I tell you -there is nothing to be ashamed of. Is it out of love for you?” - -Her thoughts rushed, tumbling over each other in a wild dance, a -feverish Bacchic procession, through Janet’s head. She did not mean to -say, or even to imply what was not true. But such questioning could -only mean one thing, that Mr. Markham had confessed to his mother that -he was “in love” for her--that unthought-of, bewildering promotion was -within her reach. She did not mean to tell a lie. She blushed more hotly -than ever. - -“Oh, father, how can you ask me such a thing--before a lady?” she said. - -“Then it is true?” - -Janet did not make any reply; she dropped her head with a modest grace, -twisting her fingers together nervously, her whole frame quivering. It -was not she that had told them anything: they had told her. Ah! she -remembered now a score of little nothings. Had not he picked up her -thimble for her when she let it fall? Had not he opened the door for her -when she came and went? How often she had wondered how he could come -night after night and day after day--for what?--to talk to father, to -listen to father! Many and many a time she had wondered at, and in her -heart despised, her father’s disciples. It was “bosh” that he was -saying, and yet these others would sit round him and take it all in. -But here was something altogether different. That a young man should -only have pretended to listen to father, should have come for herself -all the time, was quite comprehensible to Janet. There was nothing -strange even--nothing out of the way in it. It was what lovers had done -from the beginning of time. - -“Is that all you have got to say?” said her father. “Can’t you give us -any more satisfaction? Speak out when I tell you, Janet. All this time -that he has been coming here, not saying a word to you, pretending to be -my disciple--” A little sting of wounded vanity was in Spears too. He -did not quite like to feel that he had been deceived, that his most -fervent follower was nothing but the lover of his daughter. “All this -time,” he repeated, “has it been for you he has been coming? That is -what we want to know.” - -Still Janet said nothing. She stood with her eyes cast down, interlacing -her fingers in and out, out and in--her mind in such a sudden heat of -active operation that she had not leisure to speak. It was not the first -time that the idea had presented itself to her. She had thought of it as -a very desirable thing that Mr. Markham (or one of the others) should -fall in love with her. But up to this moment she had not been able to -see any likelihood of her desire realising itself. However, her mind -leaped into instant action, supporting with a whole array of proof the -suggestion so suddenly placed before her, of the truth of which she did -not entertain a moment’s doubt. How could she doubt it? If he had told -his mother, certainly it must be true; and the other facts adapted -themselves as by magic to this great central fact. As soon as she had -got possession of that as a foundation, the details seemed to come at a -wish, and a whole superstructure of blessedness sprang upwards towards -the skies. - -“I don’t know what you wish me to say, father,” she answered, at last, -after another peremptory call. She spoke with all the modesty of -conviction, for she felt now that every word was true. “There are things -as a girl cannot speak about. There are a deal of things as are nothing -in themselves; but still a girl knows what they mean.” - -These modest words gave an indescribable pang to both her hearers. As -for Spears, it was all he could do not to cry out with anger and pain. -To think that at this great crisis, at a moment when so much depended -upon it, she should speak with such disregard of grammar, -notwithstanding all the care he had taken of her education. - -“There are things as a girl cannot speak about.” - -He knew that this would catch Lady Markham’s ears, and he felt himself -humbled before her--not because of the fact, which there was no harm in, -which was indeed natural enough; but that his girl should tell it in -such grammar occupied Spears to the exclusion of deeper sentiment. He -turned to his visitor with a conciliatory tone, and a look of -deprecation as if asking her pardon. - -“Well!” he said, “my lady! there does not seem to be much doubt on that -point. We will have to make up our minds to it, though it is not what I -could have wished, any more than you.” - -The very light seemed darkened in Lady Markham’s eyes, the room went -round with her, and she saw nothing clearly. Oh, why had she come here -to make sure! Why had she not let it alone, all vague as it was! An hour -ago she had thought anything better than uncertainty--but now -uncertainty itself would have been a boon. She looked at Spears, -catching the tone of deprecation in his voice, which seemed so natural, -and made a sudden appeal to him. - -“Make up, our minds to it,” she cried. “How is that possible? Oh, Mr. -Spears, I have always thought you so superior to anything of the kind. -You would not take advantage of the confidence placed in you; you would -not allow my boy, because of his admiration for your talents, to ruin -himself, to compromise his position, to disappoint all our hopes!” - -She rose up and put out her hands, appealing--in the forgetfulness of -personal despair--to his generosity, though it was against himself and -his own child. The most courteous, the most considerate person will -forget when it is their own dearest interests which are concerned. - -His fantastic distress about the grammar went out of the man’s mind. His -forehead contracted, a gleam of anger came from his eyes. But he had no -doubt as to having right on his side, and he answered with dignity. -“Madam,” he said, “we had better understand each other. I don’t want -your son any more than you want my daughter; but they have their rights, -and if they like each other I will not interfere.” - -She was driven almost wild by this reply. “Sir William will never -consent--he will never consent to it,” she cried. - -“That’s none of my business--nor my child’s,” said Spears. He forgot the -respect with which she had inspired him. “Here’s the difference between -your class and mine, my lady,” he said with some scorn. “I consider the -one thing needful in a marriage is love--on both sides. In our rank of -life we don’t consider much more. We don’t ask questions about a girl’s -ancestors or her fortune. Most likely there’s none of either sort, as in -this case--but where there is love, what more is wanting? You will never -persuade me to interfere.” - -“Marriage!” she repeated, in a voice of dismay. Of course that was what -it must come to. She cast a look of dismay and almost horror at the girl -who would, if this were so, take her own place, and hold her position in -the world. She rose up suddenly from her rude seat, feeling that her -limbs still failed her, but that in any case she could stay no longer -here. “Oh, there is a great deal more wanting--a great deal more,” she -cried. “Life is not so simple for us. A woman should know what she -undertakes--what weight she will have on her shoulders. There are other -things to be taken into consideration in such a life as ours.” - -“You think so,” said Spears. What he intended to be a superior smile -dwindled into something like a sneer. He did not like this assertion, -which he could not contradict. After all, it was true enough that his -own existence was far more elementary and primitive than the other, and -he did not like the thought. - -“You do not know,” said Lady Markham, “you cannot understand the -difficulties of people who are looked up to by a whole district, who -have the comfort of others, the very life of many in their hands. But -why should I speak of this?” she said. “I thought you understood, but -you do not understand. Now it is war between us, as you said. I want to -harm no one, but I must do what I can for my boy.” - -She made them a curtsey which (for she could not be uncivil) included -both father and daughter, then drew down her veil with a trembling hand -and hurried away. - -Spears went after her to the door. He was furious at this calm assertion -of something higher, larger, and more elevated in her different rank; -yet he could not help a certain reverence, an unwilling worship of the -lady, of whom he had once said regretfully that nothing like her was -ever produced in his own. He went to the door, and gazed after her as -she went along, her steps still hurried and agitated, but her natural -grace coming back to her. “Looked up to by a whole district--the comfort -of others, their very life in her hands.” Ah! there might be something -in that after all. He felt in his own veins a fulness, a swell of rising -blood as of a man able to bear others upon his shoulders, and fearing no -responsibility. That should come in the new world to which he was bound. -There he too would cease to be a single unit among other isolated -individuals, and would become a head also, a leader, the first of a -community. He felt as if she had dared him to it, and he would achieve -it. But as he stood there half-angry, half-stimulated, he was aware of -his daughter behind him, straining on tiptoe to look over his -shoulder--and turned round, looking at her with a new principle of -judgment and discrimination in his eyes. - -“Was it really Lady Markham? Is she Mr. Markham’s mother?” said Janet, -breathless with excitement. “Oh, how pretty she must have been, father! -She’s not a bit nicely dressed, not what I would call equal to her -situation. But she looks a real lady. Don’t you think you would know she -was a real lady, whatever she had on?” - -“I don’t know what you mean by a real lady. You are quite as silly as -the rest, you little fool.” - -“Oh, but you do know,” cried Janet. “Miss Stichel puts on lovely things, -but she never has that look. Was that the lady that was so kind to you -in the country?--in that beautiful grand house?” - -“Did I say she was kind to me?” said Spears, melting a little. “Well, -yes, I suppose she was.” - -“And was it really,” said Janet, drooping her head, after she had cast -one keen glance at her father’s face, “really--about nothing but Mr. -Markham’s nonsense that she came here?” - -“Janet,” said her father, taking her by the hand--his mind had wandered -from the great question of the moment, but her words brought it suddenly -back. He looked tenderly and anxiously into the girl’s face, which sank -before his gaze, but only with an easy blush and pleasant embarrassment. -“I don’t want to be inquisitorial. I don’t want to pry into what is -perhaps too delicate for a man’s ear. But tell me if you can what you -mean by Mr. Markham’s nonsense? He has always seemed very serious to me. -Try and tell me if you can--try and speak to me as you would have spoken -if your mother had been here.” - -This touched her heart, for she was not a bad girl. She began to cry a -little. “She would not have asked me--she would have understood,” she -said. “Oh, father, what can I tell you beyond what I have told you? -Besides, what does it matter what I say? He must have spoke himself, or -what brought the lady here?” - -This seemed conclusive to Spears too. It did not occur to him that “Mr. -Markham’s nonsense” must mean something more than what Paul had said to -his mother. He put his arm round his child, and drew her close to him. -“You should not say ‘he must have spoke,’ Janet--though it would seem -indeed as if he had said something. She wanted me to order him off. Tell -me, my girl, are you really--fond of this young fellow?” he said, with -persuasive tenderness. “Don’t turn your face away, there is nothing to -be ashamed of. I thought you were but a child, and lo! you are a woman -with lovers after you,” he went on, with a smile that was pathetic. “I -can’t say I like it, but it’s nature, and I won’t complain.” - -“Oh don’t, father,” said Janet, drawing herself away. “Don’t! How can I -tell you--or any one?” There was just enough of feeling to give a -natural air of pretty reserve and delicacy to the girlish shrinking, the -quick movement she made to conceal her face from his eyes. Her voice was -tremulous, her cheeks suffused with the blush of excitement and pleasant -confusion. After a pause she turned half round and asked, as if avoiding -a more difficult question, “Is it a very grand house? Will it come to -him after? Will he be a _Sir_ too?” - -“If it lasts till his time,” said the revolutionary, “which let us hope -it will not. The chances are, that all these detestable distinctions -will be swept away long before, and the wrongs of the poor be made an -end of. The country will not bear it much longer.” - -“Oh!” cried Janet, forgetting her bashfulness, and turning upon him a -face full of eager vehemence and indignation. “I am sick of hearing of -the country! What harm does it do the country? Will they have a penny -the more for taking away his money? Why shouldn’t I be a lady as well -as any one else? To have a grand house, and a man in livery to walk -behind me is what I should like above everything! I hope it will last -till our time. I don’t believe there will be any difference. Oh, father, -won’t you just give up making speeches and holding meetings, and let -things be?” - -“Janet!” he cried, with a flash of anger; but it seemed ludicrous, after -all, to attach any importance to what such a child said. He laughed a -confused and disconcerted laugh. “That doesn’t come well from my -daughter! And what do you know about such things? You are a little -goose, and that is all about it. Besides, what does it matter? We are -all going to Queensland--he, too. There will not be many grand houses, -or men in livery, you baby! to be found there.” - -“Oh!” cried Janet, growing pale with disappointment and dismay; “but you -don’t think he will have to go there _now_?” - -“Why not _now_? There is more reason than ever now, it appears to me.” - -“Oh!” cried Janet again--that stock English monosyllable expressing a -whole gamut of dissatisfaction and surprise. “I thought that would only -be because he thought his people would object, and didn’t know what -we--I--would say. He would rather go than be separated--rather than -lose--us; it is easy to understand. But when he’s been and told, and -when his mother has come here, and when it’s all in the way of being -settled--Oh!” cried Janet again, with natural vehemence, “what in all -the world should he go for now? Would any one go that could help it? and -him that has everything he can set his face to, and sure to come into a -fortune, and all made easy for him. What in all the world should he go -for _now_?” - -Spears stood and looked at her with a confusion that was almost -stupidity. He was indeed stupefied by this extraordinary speech. Was it -really what it seemed to be, a revelation of an unknown character, a new -creation altogether--or was it merely the silly babble of a child? - -“My girl,” he said, with a tone of severity, yet still keeping the half -of his smile, so confused and uncertain was he, not knowing what to -think; “what is this you are saying? It is not like a child of mine. -What if I were to say--as I have a good right--he _shall_ come to -Queensland or he shall not have you?” - -“You would not have any right to say such a thing,” said Janet, with -decision. “Don’t you tell us we’ve all got the right, both men and -girls, to do what is best for ourselves and to judge for ourselves? and -would you be the tyrant to take that from us? Oh, no, father, no! I -never would have said a word but for this. Many a one has said to me, -‘What are you going for? I wouldn’t go a step in your place. I’d take a -situation, and stay where all my friends are.’ That’s been said to -me--times and times; and I’ve always said ‘No. Where father goes I must -go.’ But, all the same, I always hated going. For one thing, I know I -should be ill all the way. I hate a ship; and I hate living in the -country, where you would never see so much as a street-lamp, nor hear -anything but cows mooing, and sheep baaing; but I would have gone and -never said a word. Only now,” cried Janet, with rising vehemence, “what -_would_ be the good of me going, or of _him_ going? If I was married I -shouldn’t be of no use to you; and what in all the world should take -_him_ there, if it wasn’t following after me?” - -Her father stood and gazed at her stupefied. His very jaw dropped with -wonder. She had never made so long a speech in her life; but now that -she had spoken, it was all as clear, as definitely settled and arranged, -as pitiless in its reasonableness, as if, instead of a girl of twenty, -she had been a philosopher laying down the law. All her timidity was -gone. She looked him full in the face while she ended her lengthened -argument. As for Spears, the very power of speech seemed to be taken -from him. A sound like a laugh, harsh and jarring, came from him when -she ended. - -“So that’s how it is?” he said, and turned and went back to his bench -like a man who did not know what he was doing. Janet was glad enough to -be thus released. She who had known her own sentiments all along was not -startled by them as he was; but she felt that it was best now she had -uttered them to let them have time and quiet to work their necessary -effect. She turned to the eight-day clock, which had been ticking -solemnly all this time in the corner, with a half shriek. - -“Good gracious!” she cried, “it’s past nine, and me still here. Whatever -will Miss Stichel say?” - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -Lady Markham walked away quickly, tingling in every nerve. She felt -herself insulted and betrayed. She had gone to this poor man as if he -had been a gentleman, with full confidence in him, and he had not -justified her faith. A poor gentleman would have felt the impossibility, -would have seen that a girl of no importance, without money, or rank, or -connections, could not expect to marry Paul Markham, the heir of all the -family honours. A person of any cultivation would have felt this, had -there been the best blood in England in his veins. But this clown did -not feel it; this common workman, wood-carver, tradesman, he did not see -it. He ventured to look her in the face and tell her that they must make -up their minds to it. - -Lady Markham was angry; she could not help it. And there was an -additional sting in the situation from the fact that she felt she had -brought it upon herself. She had taken an injudicious step. In her -desire to relieve her own mind, she had compromised Paul. Her own -alarms, her suspicion and doubt, had realised themselves. She blamed -Spears all the more bitterly that in her heart she wanted not to be -obliged to blame herself. But by and by the needle veered round to that -point of the moral compass which in a candid mind it is so ready to stop -at, self-accusation. Why did she give this man the occasion of insulting -her, and the girl the occasion of defying her? It was her own fault. She -ought not, above all, to have compromised her son. This became the most -terrible thought of all as she dwelt upon it. Instead of doing good she -had done harm; instead of relieving Paul from the influence of the -demagogue, she had riveted and strengthened his connection with the -demagogue’s family who were worse, much worse than himself. Was it -possible that Paul, _her_ son, the brother of Alice, could have chosen -from all the world such a girl as Janet Spears? Her heart thrilled with -the wonder of it, the disappointment of it. Was that all he could find -in woman? and she herself had helped to cement the tie between them. -How could she ever forgive herself? She walked along quickly, recovering -her outward composure, but more and more troubled in mind as she thought -upon what she had done. Why did she go? how, she asked herself, being, -like most women, ready to distrust herself and give in to the common -opinion on the subject whenever anything went wrong with her--how could -she forget that it was always dangerous for a woman to interfere? She -was in the very deepest of these painful thoughts, angry with herself, -and deeply distressed by the apparent consequences of her ill-advised -mission, when, turning the corner of the little street which brought her -into one of the larger thoroughfares, she suddenly, without any warning, -found herself face to face with Paul. The surprise was so great that she -had no time to put on any defences, to prepare for questions and -astonishment on his side. They met without a moment’s warning, the two -people who might have been supposed least likely to encounter each other -at such a time and place. - -“Paul!” she cried, with a sensation of fright. And he stopped, looked at -her sternly, and cast a jealous inquiring look along the street by which -she had so evidently come. - -“Mother! what are you doing here?” he said. - -“I came out--to take a walk, as it was so fine a morning,” she said, -forcing a smile. Then Lady Markham came to herself and perceived the -folly of false pretences. “No--I will not try to deceive you, Paul. I -have been visiting Mr. Spears,” she said. - -“Visiting Spears!” - -“Yes; what is there wonderful in that?--you brought him to visit me. -Other people may blame me for it, but I don’t see how you can. I had a -kind of faith in him.” - -“You _had_; has it been disappointed then, mother, your faith?” - -“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “No doubt it was foolish. A man of his -class--must feel like his class no doubt. It was foolish on my part.” - -“What was there,” said Paul, with a sort of contempt which he hid under -exaggerated politeness, “that Lady Markham could want with a man of his -class--with a demagogue and Radical?” - -“Paul,” she said, her voice faltering a little, “it does not become you, -however wise and superior you may feel yourself, to assume this tone to -your mother. This is to change our positions altogether. I have done a -thing which has proved ill-advised and may turn out badly, but I did it -for the best. I will not hide it from you who are the chief person -concerned. I went to ask him to use his influence with you, my own -having failed, to induce you to think a little of your actual duties to -your family. He did not take the same view of it as I do, which perhaps -was natural; and I saw, though without wishing it,” she added, in a -still more tremulous tone, “the--young woman----” - -“What young woman?” His voice was angry, almost threatening. He came a -step nearer, and stood over her with a cloud upon his face. “What young -woman is it? whom do you mean?” - -“It is a poor thing to make a mystery of it when it has gone so far. I -confess my mistake, and why should you conceal your intentions on your -side? This can only have the effect of making everything worse. I was -made to see her against my will, and to hear from her own lips----” - -“Mother!” cried Paul, violently, stopping her. Then he said, -endeavouring again to calm himself, “I have heard often that it is only -women who can be thoroughly cruel to other women.” - -“Then you have heard what is false, Paul, what is entirely and cruelly -false; though you boys toss about such accusations at your pleasure, -insulting the women who bear with you, and suffer for you. I tell you -because I feel it would have been wiser had I taken no part in the -matter; had I kept away; said nothing, and done nothing.” - -“And I tell you--” cried Paul, in vehement indignation; then he stopped -short and cried out with an anxious voice, “Mother, what is it you have -done?” - -“Everything that is unwise,” she said. “I have been rebuffed by your -friend. I will tell you the truth, Paul. When he said that he had no -wish to have you as a fellow emigrant, I, in my folly, asked, Was it his -daughter? And she was not so reticent as you are. She owned that it was -so. She was more frank than you are; and to do him justice I will allow -that her father looked as much surprised as I.” - -“She owned it was so!” Paul’s face became ghastly in the morning light. -Then after a minute’s blank silence, he said, with a harsh laugh, -“Surprised? Yes, her father might be surprised; but why you? You seem to -have been the only person who knew all about it, who had got it all cut -and dry to be produced at a moment’s notice. Oh, mother!” he cried, -bitterly, “your morning’s work will cost me dear--it will cost me dear!” - -Lady Markham stood with bowed head to receive her son’s reproaches. “I -was wrong,” she said; “I was wrong. Oh, Paul, my dearest boy, come home -with me; let us talk it all over; let us think of everything! If you -knew how hard it is for me to oppose you! and all the more when your -heart is engaged. Am I one to set myself against love?” She blushed as -she looked at him with a woman’s reverence for the centre of all -affections, and a mother’s shamefacedness in opening such a subject with -her son. “But, Paul, there are so many things--oh, so many things to -think of! and you are so young--and----” - -“Mother, stop!” he said, “your arguments have nothing to do with me; -they are wrong altogether. If my life is spoiled, it will be your doing; -not mine, but yours--not mine, but yours.” - -Lady Markham lifted her head with the surprise and something of the -indignation of a person unjustly accused. “This is going too far,” she -said. “I have been wrong, but to throw the total blame upon me is -unreasonable. In this, as in other things, nobody could harm you; nobody -could make your position worse, if you had not risked and lost it -yourself.” - -There were few passengers in the streets, silent and semi-deserted as -always in summer, and yet more because it was still so early. The two -figures which stood there together breaking the sunshine were almost the -only people visible, and the closeness of the discussion between them -had hitherto been witnessed by nobody; just at this point, however, some -one issued suddenly from the gate of one of the colleges near, and came -down the steps into the street. They were scared by the appearance of -any one in this dreary city, and it was not expedient that the warmth of -their conversation should be apparent to others. - -“Walk along with me,” she said. “Do not let us stand here.” - -Paul looked round him for a moment on either hand. On one side was the -narrow street in which Spears lived, the line of colleges and better -houses on the other. Lady Markham’s face was turned towards the better -side. This was enough to decide him, foolish as he was. He turned the -other way. - -“What is the good of discussing--of talking over? All the harm is done -that can be done,” he said, with a wave of his hand. Then he crossed the -road quite suddenly, leaving his mother standing looking after him. Very -miserable was the young man as he went away. He went down Spears’ -street, but he had no intention of going to see Spears. Everything -seemed, against him. The best thing for him to do, he thought, would be -to get out of sight of everybody--to fly from the evils of fate that -were gathering round his feet. What had he done to be caught like this -in a tangle which he had not himself sought, from which indeed he had -always done his best to keep free? It was no doing of his: chance and -his parents had done it, and the detestable conventionalities of -society, which made it impossible for a man to be civil to a girl out of -his own class without laying himself open to remark. If he had not met -her here, yesterday, so innocently, without premeditation! Already, by -the folly of everybody concerned, this girl had got to be _her_ to the -young man; no name needed to distinguish the creature in whose hands -some blind hazard seemed to have placed his life. Blind hazard--aided by -his father and mother. How bitter were his thoughts as he went on. What -was he to do? She had owned to it. Half he hated her for being so -foolishly deceived, half his heart melted to her for the deception which -only some latent tenderness could have produced. Must he wring the -girl’s heart by making it all plain to her, and humble her in her own -eyes? or must he accept a position he had not sought, which he no more -desired than they desired it, and of which he saw all the -inappropriateness, all the disadvantages? As he went on with that cruel -question in his mind, there rose out of the morning air, appearing not -much less suddenly than his mother had done, running towards him, the -figure of the girl of whom he was thinking. To Paul it was as if his -thoughts had taken shape. She came towards him, not seeing him, with all -the ease of motion which unconsciousness gives--tall and graceful in her -plain black gown. The girl’s head was full of a subdued triumph, but for -the moment all she was consciously thinking of was how to get to her -shop as quickly as possible. She ran like another Atalanta, skimming -along the unlovely street, her feet scarcely seeming to touch the -ground. This sudden apparition filled Paul with excitement. She had -changed to him altogether since yesterday, when she was nothing but -Spears’ daughter. Now she was suddenly identified, separated from all -the world, and become herself. How could he help but be interested in -her? She had owned to it. To what had she owned? It seemed for the -moment almost a relief, bitterly as he resented her introduction into -his life, to turn to her, who knew none of the complications involved, -who was unaware of his fury and indignation against everybody round -him--to turn to her, whose mind must be entirely single and simple, torn -by no conflict. He did not know why he wanted to speak to her, what he -wanted to say to her; but he stepped into her way with a certain -imperiousness, making her stop short in her rapid career. Janet, thus -arrested, gave a sudden cry. She stopped, the breath coming quick on her -lips, and put her hand to her breast; her heart gave a sudden leap, the -colour flew over her face in a sudden wave of crimson. - -“Oh, Mr. Markham!” she said. - -“Where are you going so fast?” Somehow it seemed to him, with a -half-consolatory sense of proprietorship, that here was a creature who -belonged to him, who would find no fault with him as the others did, -who was his. He put himself in her way, stopping her--not as if by -accident, but of set purpose--assuming the right which she for her part -never resisted. There were troubles and difficulties with every one -else; but with her no difficulties, no troubles. She acknowledged his -sway at once, stopped herself, blushed, and drooped her head. There was -no question of approving or disapproving here. She answered his voice -instantly, like a slave. There are many people who only see a thing in -its best aspect when it becomes their own. For the moment Paul Markham -became one of those. He had never thought her so handsome before; -perhaps indeed in all her life she had never been so handsome as when -she stopped all blushing and glowing at his call, acknowledging in her -every look the proprietorship which it gave him a sort of pleasure to -claim. “Where are you going so fast?” he said. - -“Oh, Mr. Markham, I am in a great hurry! I don’t know what Miss Stichel -will say: I never was so late before in my life!” - -“What has kept you so late?” - -He was far more imperious in his tone than he had ever been when she -was nothing to him. Then he had been courtly and polite, frightening the -girl with a courtesy which she did not understand. She liked this -roughness much better. It meant--it would be impossible to tell all it -meant. - -“I was kept by--visitors. Oh, Mr. Markham! don’t keep me any longer now. -I don’t know what Miss Stichel will say to me. She will be so angry.” - -“She must not be angry. How does she dare to show her anger to you? You -had visitors. I know: my mother.” - -“Oh, Mr. Markham!” Janet said again, faintly, drooping her head; and -then there was a momentary pause. - -“I know,” he said. - -He did not know, and could not tell afterwards by what impulse he did -it. Some infatuation took possession of him. He took her hand in the -middle of the street, in sight of any one that might be looking. There -was nobody looking, which vexed Janet, but he did it without thought of -that. It would have made no difference if all the world had been there. - -“That is how it is, I suppose,” he said, holding her hand. And then he -added, somewhat drearily, “If there is anything wrong in it, it is -their own doing, there is always that to be said.” - -This somewhat chilled Janet, who expected a warmer address; but she -reflected that the street was scarcely a place for love-making; and Miss -Stichel, though not so important as usual, had still to be considered. - -“Let me go, please, Mr. Markham,” she said; “I mustn’t be late: for -whatever may happen afterwards I am still their servant at the shop.” - -He dropped her hand as if it burnt him, and grew red with anger and -uneasy shame. - -“This must not be,” he said. “I will go and speak to Spears.” - -Though he was so firm in his democratic principles, the idea that any -one connected with himself should be under the orders of a mistress -galled him beyond bearing. It was a thing that could not be. - -“It will not be for long,” Janet said, cheerfully. - -She, for her part, rather liked the shop. It was more cheerful than the -other shop which was home. - -“I cannot suffer it,” he said, “for another day. I will speak to -Spears.” - -This was all he said, but he kept standing there looking at her with -eyes which were more investigating than admiring. If he had nothing more -to say than this, why should he keep her standing there and expose her -to Miss Stichel’s scolding? But she did not like to burst away as she -would have done from a less stately wooer. She was much intimidated by a -lover like Paul, though very proud of him. She stood with her eyes cast -down, waiting till he should let her go free. The thing that would have -made Janet most happy would have been that he should walk to the shop -with her, showing that he was not ashamed of her, and give her the pride -and glory of being seen by the other young ladies in company with the -gentleman she was going to marry, the gentleman who had vowed that she -should not remain there--not another day. This would have been the -natural thing to do, Janet thought. But it did not seem to occur to Paul -in the same light. He looked at her, examining her appearance with -anxious and critical, yet with very sober and calm inspection. They were -neither of them so happily fluttered, so excited as they might have -been. She was not exacting, did not ask too much; and he was critical -with the discrimination of a superior, a judge whose powers of judgment -were biassed by no glamour of partiality. - -“We shall see each other later in the evening. I will not detain you -longer,” he said, in a tone of gentle politeness. - -He even gave a little sigh of relief as he turned away. Janet, not -knowing whether she was more sorry or glad to be liberated, cast more -than one furtive glance behind her at his departing figure. But it did -not seem to have occurred to Paul to look after her. He walked on -stately and straight, turning neither to one side nor the other, towards -Spears’s shop. He had not meant to go, but neither had he intended any -of the other things that had come to pass. Fate seemed to have got -possession of him. He walked into the shop with the same straightforward -steady tread, not as usual, that was impossible. Most likely there would -have to be something said--but for that, too, he felt himself ready, if -need were. - -Spears was no longer working at the simple work of his picture-frames. -He had thrown them into a heap--all the little bits of carved work which -he had been glueing and fitting into each other--and with a large sheet -of paper on the table before him was drawing with much intentness and -preoccupation. He had set the plume of the foxglove upright before him, -and was bending his brows and contorting both limbs and features over -his drawing as he had done over the lily he had designed for Alice. The -handful of coloured gladiolus which had been lying on the table he had -pushed impatiently aside, and they lay at his feet, here and there, -scattered under the table and about the floor like things rejected, -while he drew in the foxglove boldly with a blue pencil. All his soul -seemed to be in his drawing. He scarcely took any notice of Paul--a half -glance up, a hurried nod, and that was all. Presently, however, he took -up one of the gladiolus stalks and laid it tentatively across the -foxglove; then with a pshaw! of angry impatience tossed it away again. - -“That won’t do,” he said, half to himself, “none o’ that. Nature will -not stand it. The free-growing, wild thing is grand, but that poor -stiff, conventional rubbish, manufactured out of some gardener’s brains, -out of his bad dreams, is good for nothing; and it’s everywhere the -same, so far as I can see. Things must be wedded after their kind.” - -“Do you mean that for me, Spears?” - -“Do I mean that for you? Which are you? the grand tower of the foxglove -that’s good for everything--strength and continuance and beauty--or that -poor spiky trash? I don’t know. I mean nothing that I don’t understand.” - -Then there was silence once more. Paul took up some of the bits of -uncompleted work and fixed them together. He would not open the subject, -but he knew Spears well enough to know that it must have been some great -agitation which had driven him away from his pot-boiling to the work of -designing. That was not a work that would ever “pay.” The frames -answered the purpose of daily bread; but the designs into which all the -rude artist’s soul was thrown were not profitable. A few of the young -men who were his friends had bought some plaques and panels of his finer -original work; but such purchasers were few and far between; and to -spend a whole morning making a design for one of these delicate -unprofitable carvings showed that the workman had certainly for the -moment lost command of himself. - -After a few minutes, during which he measured the little lathes together -and fitted them carelessly, Paul went quietly to the back of the room, -and taking an old coat which hung there put it on and sat down to do -the work which the other had left undone. This was not a kind of work he -had ever attempted before. He had been a student of carving, not because -of any natural impulse towards the art, but partly for Spears’s company, -partly in order to be able to aid in some small way his struggle for a -living. This eventful morning brought him a new impulse. While his -master laboured impetuously at his drawing, Paul took the humbler work -in hand. After all the distraction that had been in his mind, there was -something in this homely effort that soothed him. Cast upon it on all -hands, in all ways, it was a sort of relief to him to identify himself -altogether with this other sphere, which he had chosen and sought out, -yet into which he had never cast himself so completely, so fully, as his -own family had cast him. He smiled at this within himself, as he began -to work at Spears’s everyday vulgar work. Well! if they would have it -so, so be it! He had played with the notion of equality, of democratic -simplicity, with the doctrine that it was every man’s duty to earn his -own living, and give up to humanity the full enjoyment of the land and -accumulations of money, which no individual had a right to retain. All -this he had held hotly in theory; but in the meantime had lived in his -college rooms, and according to his natural position--an anomaly which -only now appeared to him in its full vividness. Yes, now he saw it. He -smiled to himself, no longer with bitterness, with a lofty disdain of -his own past, of all his traditions, of his family, which by way of -opposition and resistance to his purpose and principles had pushed him -over the verge on which he had been hesitating. Perhaps but for them he -might still have hesitated before he took the final step. It was they -who had decided it, who had given him the last impulse. He smiled with a -sense of the weakness of efforts which thus naturally balked themselves, -feeling superior in his calm certainty of decision to all these -agitations. Yes, it was over; there was no longer any question of what -might or might not be. His fate was settled; he was a member of Spears’s -family, not of Sir William Markham’s. That sense of calm which follows a -great decision, and at the same time of proud resignation which succeeds -a sacrifice exacted, calmed his mind. Somehow, Paul could not have told -how, he felt himself a sort of sacrificial offering to justice and -nature, making the most eloquent of protests against wrong, tyranny, -injustice, and everything that was evil in society. With the dignity of -a noble victim, and with a consciousness of innate, inborn, but most -illogical superiority to fate, he drew the glue-pot and the tools -towards him, and began to do the workman’s work. Nothing could have been -more illogical; for the superiority of labour was one of the first -principles of his creed, and to make pictures-frames was a respectable -occupation by which a man might live. Yet it was with a smile of -unspeakable superiority that he began his first day’s real work, -enjoying the sensation of voluntary humility, of doing what it was -beneath him to do. - -Thus they went on in silence for some time: Paul working clumsily -enough, with a sense of the humour implied in his adoption of the trade, -which made it amusing in its novelty and inappropriateness, but which -was most unlike the steady devotion of a man who felt this work to be -his duty; while Spears pursued his with a fury of invention which -denoted the perturbation of his mind. He flung the drooping bells of the -foxglove upon his paper and erected its splendid stalk with an energy -and force which was like a defiance, holding the somewhat coarse blue -pencil in his hand like a sword, screwing his mouth and putting his -limbs into every contortion possible, as he sat, with his stool pushed -as far as might be from the table, and all the upper part of his person -overhanging it. If it had been an eagle or a lion he was drawing the -force and expression of his whole figure would have been more -appropriate. As it was, the foxglove bristled with a kind of scornful -defiance, yet drooped with something of melancholy, as an eagle might -have done in all its pride of strength, yet with the pathos of all -speechless creatures in its eyes. In this particular, though he was an -actor, he was speechless as the eagle or the wildly noble flower. He had -seen a sight which had taken all speech out of him, as it might have -done from Shakespeare. He had seen a something unknown, a small, vulgar, -incomprehensible spirit, to him unrecognisable, a thing out of his -cognisance, looking at him through the eyes of his child. What could he -say to such a revelation? Nothing. It took his voice from him and almost -his breath. He had not been able to endure the placid work which left -him free for thought. Say that his designing did not reach a very -ethereal point of art; but it was the highest exercise of skill to him. -He flung himself upon the paper, thrusting away all the painful -enlightenments and contradictions of his life as he thrust away the -gay-coloured spike of the gladiolus. He would have crushed them under -foot if he had been able, but this he could not do. They would not -disappear from his memory as the others did from his table. Thus he -worked on, with a fervour which was almost savage, while Paul, with a -proud smile on his face, handled the glue-pot. After a while the mere -sense of companionship mollified the elder man. He was wounded, and -wanted just such soothing as the sight of his disciple sitting quietly -by gave him. His work grew less firm, his hand less rigid; the great -pencil ceased to dig into the paper with its violent lines. Insensibly -the softening went on. First, he threw a hasty glance from beneath his -bushy eyebrows at the young man tranquilly seated near him. Then his -fiery inspiration slackened; he paused to look at his model, to devise -the next line, and doing so let his eyes rest upon Paul with a growing -softness. At last he got up, threw down his pencil, and coming up to his -companion struck him on the shoulder. - -“Well!” he said. “Boy! So that was how it was. You listened to the -father--old fool! but your thoughts were with the girl. That was how it -was.” This was not the thing that gnawed at Spears’s heart, but he put -it forward by way perhaps of persuading himself, as we all do -sometimes, that it was the lesser matter that hurt him most. - -Paul paused in his work, and looked up. His face was very serious, with -none of that glow of happiness in it which belongs to an accepted -lover--as the man beside him, who had been a true lover himself, was -quick to see. - -“Who said that? Not I, Spears--not I.” - -“Who said it? Well, I cannot tell you. The women among them; they have -their own way of looking at things.” - -And then the two men paused, looking at each other. This was the moment -in which it was natural that Janet’s lover should make his own -explanation to the father of the girl whom he loved. The whole life of -two people at least, and of many more in a secondary point of view, hung -upon Paul’s lips, to be decided by the next impulse that might move him, -by the next fantastic words which, out of the mist of unreal fact in -which he had got himself enveloped, he might be moved to say. - - END OF VOL. I. - - LONDON: R. 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Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/64777-0.zip b/old/64777-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 7137263..0000000 --- a/old/64777-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/64777-h.zip b/old/64777-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 7c15e62..0000000 --- a/old/64777-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/64777-h/64777-h.htm b/old/64777-h/64777-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index e536f72..0000000 --- a/old/64777-h/64777-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6021 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" -"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en" xml:lang="en"> - <head> <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> -<title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of He That Will Not When He May; Vol. I, by Mrs. Oliphant. -</title> -<style type="text/css"> - -a:link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - - link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - -a:visited {background-color:#ffffff;color:purple;text-decoration:none;} - -a:hover {background-color:#ffffff;color:#FF0000;text-decoration:underline;} - -body{margin-left:4%;margin-right:6%;background:#ffffff;color:black;font-family:"Times New Roman", serif;font-size:medium;} - -.c {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - -.eng {font-family: "Old English Text MT",fantasy,sans-serif;} - -.fint {text-align:center;text-indent:0%; -margin-top:2em;} - - h1 {margin-top:5%;text-align:center;clear:both; -font-weight:normal;} - - h2 {margin-top:4%;margin-bottom:2%;text-align:center;clear:both; - font-size:120%;font-weight:normal;} - - hr.full {width: 60%;margin:2% auto 2% auto;border-top:1px solid black; -padding:.1em;border-bottom:1px solid black;border-left:none;border-right:none;} - - img {border:none;} - - p {margin-top:.2em;text-align:justify;margin-bottom:.2em;text-indent:4%;} - -.pagenum {font-style:normal;position:absolute; -left:95%;font-size:55%;text-align:right;color:gray; -background-color:#ffffff;font-variant:normal;font-style:normal;font-weight:normal;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0em;} -.x-bookmaker .pagenum {display: none;} - -.rt {text-align:right;} - -small {font-size: 70%;} - -.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;font-size:110%;} - -table {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;border:none;} -</style> - </head> -<body> - -<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of He that will not when he may; vol. I, by Mrs. Margaret Oliphant</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: He that will not when he may; vol. I</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March 10, 2021 [eBook #64777]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY; VOL. I ***</div> -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="c"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" height="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_i" id="page_i">{i}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_ii" id="page_ii">{ii}</a></span> </p> - -<p class="c">HE THAT WILL NOT<br /> WHEN HE MAY</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iii" id="page_iii">{iii}</a></span> </p> - -<h1> -HE THAT WILL NOT<br /> -WHEN HE MAY</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<i>IN THREE VOLUMES</i><br /> -<br /> -VOLUME I.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<span class="eng">London</span><br /> -MACMILLAN AND CO.<br /> -1880<br /> -<br /><small> -<i>The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved</i></small><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iv" id="page_iv">{iv}</a></span><br /><br /><br /> -<small>LONDON:<br /> -<span class="smcap">R. Clay, Sons, and Taylor</span>,<br /> -BREAD STREET HILL.<br /></small> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_v" id="page_v">{v}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">Chapter I.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_1">1</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">Chapter II.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_19">19</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">Chapter III.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_38">38</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">Chapter IV.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_55">55</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">Chapter V.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_76">76</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">Chapter VI.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_90">90</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vi" id="page_vi">{vi}</a></span> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">Chapter VII.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_109">109</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">Chapter VIII.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_123">123</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">Chapter IX.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_144">144</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">Chapter X.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_165">165</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">Chapter XI.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_187">187</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">Chapter XII.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_204">204</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">Chapter XIII.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_219">219</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">Chapter XIV.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_235">235</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">Chapter XV.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_257">257</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_vii" id="page_vii">{vii}</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_viii" id="page_viii">{viii}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span> </p> - -<h1>HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Easter holidays were drawing near an end, and the family at Markham -Chase had fallen into a state of existence somewhat different from its -usual dignified completeness of life. When I say that the head of the -house was Sir William Markham, once Under-Secretary for the Colonies, -once President of the Board of Trade, and still, though in opposition, a -distinguished member of his party and an important public personage, it -is scarcely necessary to add that his house was one of the chief houses -in the county, and that “the best people” were to be found there, -especially at those times when fashionable gatherings take place in the -country. At<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> Easter the party was of the best kind, sprinkled with great -personages, a party such as we should all have liked to be asked to -meet. But these fine people had melted away; they had gone on to other -great houses, they had got on the wing for town, where, indeed, the -Markhams themselves were going early, like most Parliamentary people. -Sir William too was away. He was visiting the head of his party in one -of the midland counties, helping to settle the programme of enlightened -and patriotic opposition for the rest of the session, some untoward -events having deranged the system previously decided upon. To say that -Sir William’s absence was a relief would be untrue; for though he was -somewhat punctilious and overwhelming in his orderliness he was greatly -admired by his family, and loved—as much as was respectful and proper. -But when he went away, and when all the fine people went away, the house -without any demonstration slid smoothly, as it were down an easy slope -of transition, into a kind of nursery life, delightful to those who were -left behind. The family consisted, to begin at the wrong end, of two -schoolboys, and two little girls who were in the hands of a governess. -But mademoiselle was away too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> There was nobody left at home but mamma -and Alice—imagine the rapture of the children thus permitted to be -paramount! There was a general dinner for everybody at two o’clock; and -in the afternoon, as often as not, Lady Markham herself would be -persuaded to go out to their picnic teas in the woods, and all kinds of -juvenile dissipations. The nursery meals were superseded altogether. Old -Nurse might groan, but she dared not say a word, for was not mamma the -ringleader in everything? There was no authority but hers in the house, -and all the servants looked on benignant. In the evening when it was -impossible to stay out any longer, they would dance, Alice “pretending” -to be the dancing mistress, which was far better fun than <i>real</i> -dancing. There was no need to run away, or to keep quiet for fear of -disturbing papa. In short, a mild Carnival was going on in the house, -only dashed by the terrible thought that in a week the holidays would be -over. In a week the boys would go back to school, the girls to their -governess. The budding woods would become to the one and the other only -a recollection, or a sight coldly seen during the course of an orderly -walk. Then the boys would have the best of it. They would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> go away among -all their friends, with the delights of boating and cricket, whereas the -little girls would relapse into blue sashes and a correct appearance at -dessert, followed, alas, in no small time, by complete loneliness when -mamma went to London, and everybody was away.</p> - -<p>“Don’t let us think about it,” said little Bell; “it will be bad enough -when it comes. Oh, mamma, come and play the <i>Tempête</i>. Alice is going to -teach us. Harry, you be my partner, you dance a great deal the best.”</p> - -<p>This produced a cry of indignant protestation from Mary, whom they all -called Marie with a very decided emphasis on the last syllable. “I -pulled Roland about all last night,” she said, “when he was thinking of -something else all the time; it is my turn to have Harry now.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you see,” said Alice, “that Roland is much more your size? It -doesn’t do to have a little one and a big one in the <i>Tempête</i>. He -mustn’t think of anything else. Don’t you know Rol, if you don’t take a -little trouble you will never learn to dance, and then no one will ask -you out when you grow up. I should not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> like, for my part, when all the -others went out to be always left moping at home.”</p> - -<p>“Much I’d mind,” said Roland with a precocious scorn of society. But -just then the music struck up, and the lesson began. Roland was -generally thinking of something else, but Harry threw himself into the -dance with all the simple devotion of a predestined guardsman. That was -to be a great part of his duty in life, and he gave himself up to it -dutifully. The drawing-room was very large, partially divided by two -pillars, which supported a roof painted with clouds and goddesses in the -taste of the seventeenth century. The outer half was but partially -lighted, while in the inner part all was bright. In the right-hand -corner, behind Lady Markham, was a third room at right angles to this, -like the transept crossing a long nave, divided from the drawing-room by -curtains half-drawn, and faintly lighted too by a silver lamp. Thus the -brilliant interior where the children were dancing was thrown up by two -dimnesses; the girls in their light frocks, the bright faces and curls, -the abundant light which showed the pictures on the walls, and all the -details of the furniture, were thus doubly gay and bright in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> -consequence. The children moving back and forward, Alice now here, now -there, with one side and another as necessity demanded, flitting among -them in all her softer grace of young womanhood; and the beautiful -mother, the most beautiful of all, smiling on them from the piano, -turning round to criticise and encourage, while her hands flashed over -the keys, made the prettiest picture. There was an <i>abandon</i> of innocent -gaiety in the scene, an absence of every harsh tone and suggestion which -made it perfect. Was there really no evil and trouble in the place -lighted up by the soft pleasure of the women, the mirth of the children? -You would have said so—but that just then, though she did not stop -smiling, Lady Markham sighed. Her children were in pairs, Harry and -Bell, Roland and Marie—but where was Alice’s brother? “Ah, my Paul!” -she said within herself, but played on. Thus there was one note out of -harmony—one, if no more.</p> - -<p>Almost exactly coincident with this sigh the door of the drawing-room -opened far down in the dim outer part, and two men came in. The house -was so entirely given up to this innocent sway of youth, that there was -no reason why they should particularly note the opening<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> of the door. It -could not be papa coming in, who was liable to be disturbed by such a -trifle as a dance, or any serious visitor, or even the elder brother, -who would, when he was at home, occasionally frown down the revels. -Accordingly, their ears being quickened by no alarm, no one heard the -opening of the door, and the two strangers came in unobserved. One was -quite young, not much more than a youth, slim, and, though not very -tall, looking taller than he was; the other was of a short, thick-set -figure, neither graceful nor handsome, who followed his companion with a -mixture of reluctance and defiance, strange enough in such a scene. As -they came towards the light this became still more noticeable. The -second stranger did not seem to have any affinity with the place in -which he found himself, and he had the air of being angry to find -himself here. They had the full advantage of the pretty scene as they -approached, for their steps were inaudible on the thick carpet, and the -merry little company was absorbed in its own proceedings. All at once, -however, the music ceased with a kind of shriek on a high note, the -dancers, alarmed, stopped short, and Lady Markham left the piano and -flew<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> forward, holding out her hands. “Paul!” she cried, “Paul!”</p> - -<p>“Paul!” cried Alice, following her mother, and “Paul!” in various tones -echoed the little girls and boys. The strange man who had come in with -Paul had time to remark them while the other was receiving the greeting -of his mother and sister.</p> - -<p>“I thought some one would be sure to come and spoil the fun,” Roland -said, taking the opportunity to get far from the little ring of -performers.</p> - -<p>“Now we shall get no more good of mamma,” said his little partner with a -disconsolate face; but what was this to the joy of the mother and elder -sister, whose faces where lighted up with a sudden happiness, infinitely -warmer than the innocent pleasure which the new-comers had disturbed!</p> - -<p>“We thought you were not coming,” said Lady Markham. “Oh, Paul, you have -been hard upon us not to write! but no, my dear, I am not going to scold -you. I am too happy to have you at last. Have you had any dinner? Alice, -ring the bell, and order something for your brother.”</p> - -<p>“You do not see that I am not alone, mother,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> Paul, with a tone so -solemn that both the ladies were startled, not knowing what it could -mean. “I have brought with me a very particular friend, who I hope will -stay for a little.” It was then for the first time that Lady Markham -perceived her son’s companion.</p> - -<p>“You know,” she said, “how glad I always am to see your friends; but you -must tell me his name,” she added with a smile, holding out her hand, -“this is a very imperfect introduction.” The sweetness of her look as -she turned to the stranger dazzled him. There was a moment’s confusion -on the part of both the men, as this beautiful, smiling lady put her -delicate fingers into a rough hand brought forth with a certain -reluctance and shamefacedness. She too changed colour a little, and a -look of surprise came into her face on a closer view of her son’s -friend.</p> - -<p>“I thank you for your kind reception of me, my lady,” said the man; “but -Markham, you had better explain to your mother who I am. I go nowhere -under false pretences.”</p> - -<p>Now that the light was full upon him the difference showed all the more. -His rough looks, his dress, not shabby, still less dirty, but uncared -for, his coarse boots,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> the general aspect of his figure, which was -neither disorderly nor disreputable, but unquestionably not that of a -gentleman, seemed to communicate a sort of electric shock to the little -company. The boys pressed forward with a simultaneous idea that Paul was -in custody for something or other, and heroic intentions of pouncing -upon the intruder and rescuing their brother. Alice gazed at him -appalled, with some fancy of the same kind passing through her mind. -Only Lady Markham, though she had grown pale, preserved her composure.</p> - -<p>“I cannot be anything but glad to see a friend of my boy’s,” she said, -faltering slightly; but there passed through her mind a silent -thanksgiving: Thank Heaven, his father was away!</p> - -<p>“This is Spears,” said Paul, curtly. “You needn’t be so fastidious; my -mother is not that sort. Mamma, this is a man to whom I owe more than -all the dons put together. You ought to be proud to see him in your -house. No, we haven’t dined, and we’ve had a long journey. Let them get -us something as soon as possible. Hallo, Brown, put this gentleman’s -things into the greenroom—I suppose we may have the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> greenroom?—and -tell Mrs. Fry, as soon as she can manage it, to send us something to -eat.”</p> - -<p>“I took the liberty to order something directly, as soon as I saw Mr. -Markham, my lady,” said Brown. There was a look of mingled benevolence -and anxiety in this functionary’s face. He was glad to see his young -master come back, but he did not conceal his concern at the company in -which he was. “The greenroom, my lady?”</p> - -<p>“The greenroom is quite a small room,” said Lady Markham, faltering. She -looked at the stranger with a doubtful air. He was not a boy to be put -into such a small place; but then, on the other hand——</p> - -<p>“A small room is no matter to me,” said Spears. “I’m not used to -anything different. In such a career as mine we’re glad to get shelter -anywhere.” He laughed as he spoke of his career. What was his career? He -looked as if he expected her to know. Lady Markham concealed her -perplexity by a little bow, and turned to Brown, who was waiting her -orders with a half-ludicrous sentimental air of sympathy with his -mistress.</p> - -<p>“Put Mr. Spears into the chintz-room in the east<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> wing; it is a better -room,” she said. Then she led the way into the brightness, on the verge -of which they had been standing. “It is almost too warm for fires,” she -said, “but you may like to come nearer to it after your journey. Where -have you come from, Paul? Children, now that you have seen Paul, you had -better go up stairs to bed.”</p> - -<p>“I knew how it would be,” said Marie; “no one cares for us now Paul has -come.”</p> - -<p>“No one will so much as see mamma as long as he is here,” said Bell; -while the boys, withdrawing reluctantly, stopping to whisper, and throw -black looks back upon the stranger as they strolled away, wondered -almost audibly what sort of fellow Paul had got with him. “A bailiff, -<i>I</i> think,” said Roland; “just the sort of fellow that comes after the -men in <i>Harry Lorrequer</i>.” “Or he’s done something, and it’s a turnkey,” -said Harry. Elder brothers were in the way of getting into trouble in -the works with which these young heroes were familiar. Thus at Paul’s -appearance the pretty picture broke up and faded away like a -phantasmagoria. Childhood and innocence disappeared, and care came back. -The aspect of the very room<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> changed where now there was the young man, -peremptory and authoritative, and the two ladies tremulous with the -happiness of his return, yet watching him with breathless anxiety, -reading, or trying to read, every change in his face.</p> - -<p>“Your last letter was from Yorkshire, Paul; what have you been doing? We -tried to make out, but we could not. You are so unsatisfactory, you -boys; you never will give details of anything. Did you go to see the -Normantons? or were you——”</p> - -<p>“I was nowhere—that you know of, at least,” said Paul. “I was with -Spears, holding meetings. We went from one end of the county to another. -I can’t tell you where we went; it would be harder to say where we -didn’t go.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham looked at her son’s companion with a bewildered smile. “Mr. -Spears, then, Paul—I suppose—knows a great many people in Yorkshire?” -She had not a notion what was meant by holding meetings. He did not -indeed look much like a man who would know many “people” in Yorkshire. -“People” meant not the country folks, you may be sure, but the great -county people, the Yorkshire gentry, the only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> class which to Lady -Markham told in a county. This was no fault of hers, but only because -the others were beyond her range of vision. No, he did not look like a -man who would know many people in Yorkshire; but, short of that, what -could Paul mean? Lady Markham did not know what significance there -really was in what Paul said.</p> - -<p>“We saw a great many Yorkshire people; but I go where I am called,” said -the stranger, “not only where there are people I know.”</p> - -<p>Seen in the full light, there was nothing repulsive or disagreeable -about the man. He looked like one of the men who came now and then to -the Chase to put something in order; some clock that had gone wrong, or -something about the decorations. He sat a little uneasily upon the sofa -where he had placed himself. His speech was unembarrassed, but nothing -else about him. He was out of place. To see him there in the midst of -this family it was as if he had dropped from another planet; he did not -seem to belong to the same species. But his speech was easy enough, -though nothing else; he had a fine melodious voice, and he seemed to -like to use it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I hope we did good work there,” he said; “not perhaps of a kind that -you would admire, my lady: but from my point of view, excellent work; -and Markham, though he is a young aristocrat, was of great use. An -enthusiast is always a valuable auxiliary. I do not know when I have -made a more successful round. It has taken us just a week.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham bowed in bewildered assent, not knowing what to say. She -smiled out of sheer politeness, attending to every word, though she -could not form an idea of what he meant. She did not care, indeed, to -know what Mr. Spears had been doing. It was her son she wanted to know -about; but the laws of politeness were imperative. Meanwhile Paul walked -about uneasily, placing himself for one moment in front of the expiring -fire, then moving from spot to spot, looking intently at some picture or -knick-knack he had seen a thousand times before. “You have been getting -some new china,” he burst forth, after various suppressed signs of -impatience. Now that he had brought his friend here, he did not seem -desirous that his mother should attend so closely to all he said.</p> - -<p>“New china! my dear boy, you have known it all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> your life,” said Lady -Markham. “We have only shifted it from one cabinet to another. It is the -same old <i>Sèvres</i>. Perhaps Mr. Spears takes an interest in china. Show -it to him, Paul. It is a valuable cup; it is supposed to have been made -for Madame du Barry.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said the strange visitor, “I know nothing about it. What makes it -valuable, I wonder? I don’t understand putting such a price on things -that if you were to let them drop would be smashed into a thousand -pieces.”</p> - -<p>“But you must not let it drop,” said Lady Markham, with a little alarm. -“I daresay it is quite a fictitious kind of value. Still, I like my -<i>Sèvres</i>. It is a very pretty ornament.”</p> - -<p>“Just so,” said Spears, with a certain patronage in his tone. “In a -luxurious house like this decoration is necessary—and I don’t say that -it has not a very good effect. But in the places I am used to, a common -teacup would be far more useful. Still, I do not deny the grace of -ornament,” he added, with a smile. “Life can go on very well without it, -but it would be stupid to go against it here.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham once more made him a little bow.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> He spoke as if he -intended a compliment; but what did the man mean? And Paul set down the -cup roughly as if he would have liked to bring the whole <i>étagère</i> to -the ground. Altogether it was a confusion, almost a pain, to have him -here and yet not to have him. There were so many things she wanted to -ask and to know. She gave her son a wistful look. But just then Brown -came in to say that the hasty meal which had been prepared was ready. -Lady Markham rose. She put out her hand to take her son’s arm.</p> - -<p>“Were you coming, mother? Don’t take so much trouble; it would only be a -bore to you,” said Paul. “Spears and I will get on very well by -ourselves without bothering you.”</p> - -<p>The tears started into Lady Markham’s eyes. She turned a wondering look -upon Alice as Paul and his companion went away down the dim length of -the room, disappearing from them. Alice had been hovering about her -brother, trying to say a word to him now and then, but Paul was too much -intent upon what was going on between his friend and his mother to pay -any attention. The look of dismay and wonder and blank<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> disappointment -that passed between them could not be described. Had Paul been alone -they would both have gone with him to the dining-room: they would have -sent away Brown and waited on him—his mother carving for him, Alice -flitting about to get anything he wanted. They would have asked a -hundred questions, and given him a hundred details of home events, and -made the whole atmosphere bright with tender happiness and soft laughter -and love. Now they stood and looked at each other listening to the -footsteps as they crossed the hall.</p> - -<p>“It is all this man whom he has brought with him,” Lady Markham said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> children were all open-eyed and open-mouthed next morning to see -Paul’s friend. As for the boys, they did not feel at all sure what might -have been going on during the night, or whether Paul’s friend would be -visible in the morning. “It is money those sort of fellows want,” Roland -said; and then the question arose whether papa being away mamma would -have money enough to satisfy such a claimant. The little girls besieged -Alice with questions. Who was that strange man? He looked exactly like -the man that came to wind the clocks.</p> - -<p>“He is a friend of Paul’s; hush—hush!” said Alice; “you must all be -very polite and not stare at him.”</p> - -<p>“But how can he be a friend?” demanded Bell.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span></p> - -<p>“He is a bailiff,” said Roland. “In <i>Harry Lorrequer</i> there is somebody -exactly like that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush, children, for mamma’s sake! he will come in directly. He is -Paul’s friend. Grown-up people do not go by appearances like children. -Paul says he has done him more good than all the dons. Most likely he is -a very learned man—or an author or something,” Alice said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, an author! they’re a queer lot,” said Harry, with relief. At all -events, an author was less objectionable than a bailiff.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham came in before these questions were over. She was not all -so bright as usual. Though she smiled upon them as they all came round -her, it was not her own natural smile; and she had a cap on, a thing -which she only wore when she was out of sorts, a kind of signal of -distress. The family were divided as to this cap. Some of them were in -favour of it, some against it. The little girls thought it made their -mother look old, whereas Alice was of opinion that it imparted dignity -to her appearance.</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to have a mother just as young and a great deal prettier -than I am,” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span> But Bell and Marie called out, “Oh, that odious -cap!”</p> - -<p>“Why should mamma, only because she is mamma, cover up all her pretty -hair? It is such pretty hair! mine is just the same colour,” said Bell, -who was inclined to vanity.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham smiled upon this charming nonsense, but it was not her own -smile. “Has any one seen Paul this morning?” she said, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>What a change there was in everything! Paul had not come into his -mother’s dressing-room last night to talk over all he had been doing and -meant to do, as had always been his habit when he came home. And when -Lady Markham went to her boy’s room on her way down stairs, thinking of -nothing but the little laughing lecture she was wont to administer on -finding him not yet out of bed—which was the usual state of -affairs—what was her surprise to find Paul out of his room, already -dressed, and “gone for a walk.” Brown meeting her in the hall told her -this with a subdued voice and mingled wonder and sympathy in his face.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Markham is turning over a new leaf, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> lady,” he said, with the -license of an old servant, who had seen Paul born, so to speak.</p> - -<p>“I am very glad to hear it—it is so much better for him,” Lady Markham -said. So it was, no doubt; but this change, even of the bad habit which -was familiar to her, gave her a little shock. Therefore it was with a -failure of her usual bright cheerfulness that she took her place at the -breakfast-table.</p> - -<p>“Has any one seen Paul?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, fancy seeing Paul already!” cried the little girls. “He will come -in when we have all done breakfast, and Brown will bring him everything -quite hot, after we have waited and waited. Brown makes dreadful -favourites, don’t you think so? He does not mind what he does for Paul.”</p> - -<p>“Paul has gone out for a walk,” said Lady Markham, not without -solemnity.</p> - -<p>There was a cry of astonishment all round the table. Roland gave Harry a -little nod of intelligence. (“He will have found it was no use, and he -will have taken him away.”) Alice had looked up into her mother’s face -with consternation; but as she was Pau<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span>l’s unhesitating partisan through -everything, she recovered herself at once.</p> - -<p>“He must be showing Mr. Spears the Park,” she said. “What a good thing -if he will take to getting up early.”</p> - -<p>And nobody could say anything against that. Getting up early was a -virtue in which Paul had been sadly deficient, as everybody was aware.</p> - -<p>However, this was long enough to have been occupied about Paul, and the -children, tired of the subject, had already plunged into their own -affairs, when their elder brother suddenly appeared, ushering in Mr. -Spears—who in the morning light looked more out of place than -ever—through the great bow window which opened on the lawn. The -stranger had his hat in his hand, and made an awkward sort of bow.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid it is a liberty, my lady,” he said, stepping in with shoes -all wet from the dewy grass. He did not know what to do with his hat, -and ended by putting it under his chair when he got to the table. But by -that time his embarrassment had disappeared, and his face grew benignant -as he looked round, before sitting down, upon the girls and boys. “The -sight of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> children is a benediction,” he said with that softening which -mothers know by instinct. He was very like the man who wound up the -clocks, who was a most respectable country tradesman; but this look -reconciled Lady Markham to him more than anything else which had -happened yet.</p> - -<p>“You are fond of children?” she said.</p> - -<p>“I ought to be. I have had six of my own; but they had hard times after -my wife died, and there are but three left.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” Lady Markham cried out of the depths of her heart. She looked -round upon her own children, and the tears came to her eyes. “I am very, -very sorry. There can be nothing in the world so dreadful.”</p> - -<p>“It is a pull,” said her visitor. “Yes, it is a pull. A man does not -know what it is till he has gone through it. Often you think, poor -things, it is better for them; you would never have been able to rear -them as you ought; but when it comes it is a pull; though you may have -no bread to give them, it is hard to part with them.”</p> - -<p>He had begun to eat his breakfast very composedly, notwithstanding this. -The way he held his fork was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> wonder to Marie who had but recently -acquired full mastery of her own, and Harry had watched with great -gravity and interest the passage of the stranger’s knife to his mouth. -But Lady Markham no longer noticed these things. She forgot that he was -like the man that wound up the clocks.</p> - -<p>“I always feel,” she said, “when I hear of losses like yours as if I -ought to go down on my knees and beg your pardon for being so much -better off—thank God!”</p> - -<p>Spears looked up at her suddenly, putting down his knife and fork. Here -was a strange thing; while all the rest were so conscious of the -difference between them, the two chief persons had forgotten it. But he -did not make any immediate reply. He looked at her wondering, grateful, -understanding; and that piece of silent conversation was more effective -than anything that could be said.</p> - -<p>“There are not many people that feel like you,” he said at length; -“those that are better off than their neighbours are apt to look as if -it sprang from some virtue of theirs. They are more likely to crow over -us than to beg our pardon. And just as well too,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> Markham,” he said with -a laugh. “If they were all like your mother, they’d cut the ground from -under our feet.”</p> - -<p>“I do not see that,” said Paul. “The principle is unaltered, however -well-intentioned those may be who are in the position of unjust -superiority; that makes no difference so far as I can see.”</p> - -<p>All the Markham family were roused to attention when Paul spoke. The -children looked at him, stopping their private chatter, and Lady Markham -cast a wondering, reproachful look at her boy. Was she in a position of -unjust superiority because all her children were living, and another -parent had lost the half of his? She felt wounded by this strange -speech.</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said Spears, with a twinkle in his eyes, “there is nothing like a -recruit from the other side for going the whole——. You have a -beautiful family, and you have a beautiful park, my lady. You have got a -great deal more than the most of your fellow-creatures have. I can do -nothing but stand and wonder at it for my part. Everything you see, -everything you touch, is beautiful. You ought to be very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> sorry for all -the others, so many of them, who are not so well off as you.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I am, Mr. Spears,” said Lady Markham, simply; but then she -added, after a pause, “for those who have not the things that give -happiness; but there are a great many things that are of no importance -to happiness. Everybody, of course, cannot have a beautiful park, as you -say, and a nice house; but——”</p> - -<p>“Why not?”</p> - -<p>“Why not?” She looked up surprised. “Ah, I see! You are all for -equality, like Paul.”</p> - -<p>“Like <i>Paul</i>! I taught him everything he knows. He had not an idea on -the subject before I opened his eyes to the horrible injustice of the -present state of affairs. He is my disciple, and I am his master. Now -you know who I am. I cannot be in any house under false pretences,” said -Spears, pushing his chair a little away from the table.</p> - -<p>The children all looked at him aghast; and he had himself the air of -having made a great and dangerous revelation, probably to be followed by -his dismissal from the house as a dangerous person. “Now you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> know who I -am.” The climax was melodramatic in its form; but there was nothing -theatrical in it so far as the revolutionary was concerned. He was -perfectly sincere. He felt the importance of his own position; and -feeling it, could entertain no doubt as to the knowledge of him as their -fellest enemy, and the horror of him which must be felt in every house -like this throughout the country. He had not wished to come; he had been -disappointed to find that Sir William was not there, who (he felt sure) -would have refused him admittance. And he would not take advantage of my -lady, who was certainly a woman to whom any man might submit himself. -Had she rung the bell instantly for her menials to turn him out; had she -expressed her horror at the contamination which her family had sustained -by sitting down at the same table with him—he would not have been -surprised. He pushed his chair gently from the table, and waited to see -what she would order; though he was a revolutionary, he had unbounded -respect for the mistress of this house.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham looked at her strange visitor with bewildered eyes. She -made a rapid telegraphic appeal to her son for explanation. “Now you -know who I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> am,” but she did not in the least know who he was. He was -famous enough in his way, and he thought himself more famous than he -was; but Lady Markham had never heard of him. When she saw that no -assistance could be afforded her by her children in this dilemma, she -collected her thoughts with a desperate effort. She was one of the women -who would rather die than be rude to any one. To speak to a man at her -own table, under her own roof, with less than the most perfect courtesy -was impossible to her. Besides, she did not really understand what he -meant. She was annoyed and affronted that he should speak of her boy as -Paul, but in the confusion of the moment that was all her mind took up, -and as for openly resenting <i>that</i>, how was it possible? One time or -another no doubt she would give the stranger a little return blow, a -reminder of his over-familiarity, when it could be done with perfect -politeness, but not now. She was startled by his solemnity; and it was -very clear that he was not a man of what she called “our own class,” but -Lady Markham’s high breeding was above all pettiness.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span></p> -<p>“Was it really you,” she said, “who taught my son (she would not call -him Paul again) all the nonsense he has been talking to us? Yes, indeed -it is great nonsense, Mr. Spears—you must let me say so. We are doing -no one injustice. My husband says all young men are Radicals one time or -other; but I should have expected you, a man with children of your own, -to know better. Oh no, I don’t want to argue. I am not clever enough for -that. Let me give you another cup of tea.”</p> - -<p>The demagogue stared at the beautiful lady as if he could not believe -his ears. Partly he was humiliated, seeing that she was not in the least -afraid of him, and even did not realise at all what was the terrible -disclosure he had made. This gave him that sense of having made himself -ridiculous which is so intolerable to those who are unaccustomed to the -world. He cast a jealous look round the table to see if he could detect -any laughter.</p> - -<p>Paul caught him by the arm at this critical moment.</p> - -<p>“Eat your breakfast,” he said, in a wrathful undertone. “Do you hear, -Spears? Do you think <i>she</i> knows? Have some of this fish, for Heaven’s -sake,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span> and shut up. What on earth do they care if you taught me or not? -Do you think she goes into all that?”</p> - -<p>Nobody heard this but Harry, who was listening both with ears and eyes. -And Mr. Spears returned to his breakfast as commanded. He was abashed, -and he was astonished, but still he made a very hearty meal when all was -said. And by and by his spirit rose again; in the eyes of this lady, who -had so completely got the better of him, far more than if she had turned -him out, there was no way of redeeming himself, but by “bringing her -over.” That would be a triumph. He immediately addressed himself to it -with every art at his command. He had an extremely prepossessing and -melodious voice, and he spoke with what the ladies thought a kind of -old-fashioned grace. The somewhat stiff, stilted phraseology of the -self-educated has always more or less a whiff of the formality of an -older age. And he made observations which interested them, in spite of -themselves. Lady Markham was very polite to her son’s friend.</p> - -<p>When the children reminded her of her promise to go with them on a -long-planned expedition into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> woods, she put them off. “You know I -cannot leave when I have visitors,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps Mr. Spears would come too?” said Alice. And before he knew what -was going to happen, he found himself pushed into the front seat of the -carriage, which was like a Noah’s ark, with hampers and children. Never -had this man of the people, this popular orator, occupied so strange a -position. He had never known before what it was to roll luxuriously -along the roads, to share in the ease and dignity of wealth. He took -notes of it, like a man in a foreign country, and observed keenly all -that took place—the manners of the people for whom the world was made: -that was how they seemed to take it. The world was made for them. It was -not a subject of arrogant satisfaction on their part, or pride in their -universal dominion; they took it quite easily, gently, as a matter of -course. My lady gave her orders with a gentle confidence in the -obedience of everybody she addressed. It was all wonderful to the man -who knew only the other side of the question. He asked about -everything—the game (with an eye to the poachers); the great extent of -the park (as bearing upon one of his favourite points—the abstraction -from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span> the public of so many acres which might have cultivation); and was -answered with a perfect absence of all sense of guilt, which was very -strange to him. They did not know they were doing wrong, these rich -people. They told him all about it, simply, smilingly, as if it was the -most natural thing in the world. All this went against his preconceived -notions, just as the manners of a foreign country so often go against -the idea you have formed of them. He had all his senses keenly about -him, and yet everything was so novel and surprising that he felt -scarcely able to trust to his own impressions. It was the strangest -position surely in which a popular agitator, a preacher of democracy and -revolution, a special pleader against the rich, ever was.</p> - -<p>“We have not many neighbours,” Lady Markham said. “That is Lord -Westland’s property beyond the church. You can see Westland Towers from -the turn of the road. And there are the Trevors on the other side of the -parish.”</p> - -<p>“A whole parish,” said Spears, “divided amongst three families.”</p> - -<p>“The Trevors have very little,” said Lady Markham. “Sir William is the -chief proprietor. But they are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> a very good family. Admiral Trevor—you -must have heard of him—was once a popular hero. He did a great many -daring things I have heard, but fame gets forgotten like other things. -He lives very quietly now, an old man——”</p> - -<p>“The oldest man that ever was,” said Alice. “Fancy, it was in Napoleon’s -time he was so famous—the great Napoleon—before even <i>old</i> people were -born.”</p> - -<p>“Before I was born,” said Lady Markham, with her soft laugh; “that is -something like saying before the Flood. Then there is the vicar, of -course, and a few people of less importance. It is easy to go over a -country neighbourhood.”</p> - -<p>“And what do you call the people in all these cottages, my lady? The -world was not made for them as it is for you. These would be the -neighbours I should think of. When I hear of your three families in the -parish, I wonder what all these roofs mean. Are they not flesh and blood -too? Don’t they live and have things happen to them as well as you fine -folks? If they were cleared away out of the place, what would become of -your parish, my lady? Could you get on all the same without them that -you make no account of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> them? These are the houses where I should feel -at home, among the poor cottagers whom you don’t even know about——”</p> - -<p>“Mamma—not know about them!” cried Alice. “Why, it is our own village! -Do you think because it is a mile away that makes any difference? Why, -it is our own village, Mr. Spears.”</p> - -<p>“I dare say,” said the revolutionary—“your own village. Perhaps they -pay you rent for suffering them to live there, and allowing them to do -all the work of the world and keep everything going——”</p> - -<p>“Hush, Alice,” said Lady Markham. “Perhaps Mr. Spears does not -understand a little country village. They are often not at all fond of -doing the work, and they do not much like to pay their rent; but we know -them very well for that matter. I could tell you all about them, every -house. To be sure we have not the same kind of intercourse with them as -with our equals.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that is the whole question, Lady Markham. Pardon me; I am not your -equal, and yet you let me sit in your fine carriage and talk to you. No, -I am not a bit humble; I feel myself the equal of any man.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> There is -nobody in the world whom I will acknowledge my superior—in my dignity -as a man.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham made him a little bow; it was her way when she did not know -what to say. “One does not need to be told,” she said, “that you are a -very superior man, Mr. Spears; quite equal to talk with anybody, were it -the greatest philosopher.” Here she stopped short in a little -embarrassment. “But we are all very simple, ignorant country people,” -she added with a smile, “about here.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you are very clever, my lady. You beg the question.”</p> - -<p>“Do I?” said Lady Markham. “I wonder what that means. But now we are -just arriving at the place for the pic-nic. When my boy comes up, I will -make him take you to the most beautiful point of view. There is a -waterfall which we are very proud of, and now when everything is in the -first green of spring—— Paul!” she cried, “come and get your -directions. I want Mr. Spears to see the view.”</p> - -<p>“Your mother is something I don’t understand Markham,” said the -demagogue. “I never came across that kind of woman before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Didn’t you?” said Paul. He was ready to be taught on other points, but -not on this. “You see the bondage we live in,” said the young man. -“Luxury, people call it; to me it seems slavery. Oh, to be free of all -this folly and finery—to feel one’s self a man among men, earning one’s -bread, shaping one’s own life——”</p> - -<p>“Ah!——” said Spears, drawing a long breath. He could not be unaffected -by what was an echo of his own eloquence. “But there’s a deal to say, -too, for the other side.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Markhams of the Chase were one of the most important families in the -county, as has been already intimated. They owned three parts at least -of the parish (for my Lord Westland was a new man, who had bought, not -inherited, that property, and all that the Trevors had was their house -and park and a few fields that did not count), and a great deal more -besides. It was generally said that they had risen into importance as a -family only at the time of the Commonwealth, but their pedigree extended -far beyond that. In the former generation the family had not been -fortunate. Sir William Markham himself had been born the third son, and -in his youth he had been absent from England, and had “knocked about the -world,” as people say, in a way which had no doubt enlarged his -experiences and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> made him perhaps more fit for the responsibilities of -public life in which he had been so fortunate. He had succeeded, on the -death of his second brother, when he was over thirty, and it was not -till ten years later that he married.</p> - -<p>It had occasioned some surprise in the neighbourhood when Isabel -Fleetwood, who was a great beauty, and had made quite a sensation, it -was said, in her first season, accepted the middle-aged and extremely -sedate and serious little baronet. He was not handsome;—he had no -sympathy with the gay life into which she had been plunged by her -brother and aunt, who were her only guardians; and the world, always -pleased to believe that interested motives are involved, and fond of -prophesying badly of a marriage, concluded almost with one voice that it -was the ambitious aunt and the extravagant brother who had made it up, -and that the poor girl was sacrificed. But this was as great a mistake -as the world ever made. Perhaps it would be wrong to assert that the -marriage was a romantic one, and that the beautiful girl under twenty -was passionately in love with her little statesman. Perhaps her modest, -tranquil disposition, her dislike to the monotonous<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> whirl of fashion, -and her sense of the precarious tenure by which she held her position in -her brother’s house, her only home (he married immediately after she -did, as everybody knows, and did not conceal the fact that it was -necessary to get rid of his sister before venturing upon a wife), had -something to do with her decision. But she had never shown any signs of -regretting it through all these years. Sir William was neither young nor -handsome, but he was a man whose opinion was listened to wherever it was -given, whose voice commanded the attention of the country, whose name -was known over Europe. And this in some cases affects a young -imagination as much as the finest moustache in the world, or the most -distinguished stature. She was not clever, but she was a woman of that -gracious nature, courteous, tolerant, and sympathetic, which is more -perfect without the sharpness of intellect. Nothing that was unkind was -possible to her. She had no particular imagination in the common sense -of the word, but she had a higher gift, the moral imagination (so to -speak) which gave her an exquisite understanding of other people’s -feelings, and made her incapable of any injury to them. This made Lady -Markham the very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> ideal of a great lady. As for Sir William, he held his -place more firmly than ever with such a partner by his side. They were -the happiest couple in the county, as well as the most important. Not -only did you meet the best of company at their house, but the sight of a -husband and wife so devoted to each other was good for you, everybody -said. They were proud of each other, as they had good reason to be: she -listened to him as to an oracle, and his tender consideration for her -was an example to all. Everything had gone well with the Markhams. They -were rich, and naturally inheritances and legacies and successions of -all kinds fell to them, which made them richer. Their children were the -healthiest and most thriving children that had ever been seen. Alice -promised to be almost as pretty as her mother, and Paul was <i>not</i> short -like Sir William. Thus fortune had favoured them on every side.</p> - -<p>About a year before the date of this history, a cloud—like that famous -cloud no bigger than a man’s hand—had floated up upon the clear sky, -almost too clear in unshadowed well-being, over this prosperous house. -It was nothing—a thing which most people would have laughed at, a mere -reminder that even the Markhams<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> were not to have everything their own -way. It was that Paul, a model boy at school, had suddenly become—wild? -Oh no! not wild, that was not the word: indeed it was difficult to know -what word to use. He had begun as soon as he went to Oxford by having -opinions. He had not been six months there before he was known at the -Union and had plunged into all the politico-philosophical questions -afloat in that atmosphere of the absolute. This was nothing but what -ought to have been in the son of a statesman; but unfortunately to -everything his father believed and trusted, Paul took the opposite side. -He took up the highest republican principles, the most absolute views as -to the equality of the human race. That, though it somewhat horrified -his mother and sister, produced at first very little effect upon Sir -William, who laughed and informed his family that Johnny Shotover had -held precisely the same views when he was an undergraduate, though now -he was Lord Rightabout’s secretary and as sound a politician as it was -possible to desire. “It is the same as the measles,” Sir William said. -Paul, however, had a theoretical mind and an obstinate temper: he was -too logical for life. As soon as he had come to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span> conviction that all -men are equal, he took the further step which costs a great deal more, -and decided that there ought to be equality of property as well as of -right. This made Sir William half angry, though it amused him. He bade -his son not to be a fool.</p> - -<p>“What would become of you,” he cried, “you young idiot!” using language -not at all parliamentary, “if there was a re-distribution of property? -How much do you think would fall to your share?”</p> - -<p>“As much as I have any right to, sir,” the young revolutionary said.</p> - -<p>And then Lady Markham interposed, and assured Paul that he was talking -nonsense.</p> - -<p>“Why should you take such foolish notions into your head? No one of your -family ever did so before. And can you really imagine,” she asked with -gentle severity, “that you are a better judge of such matters than your -papa?” but neither did this powerful argument convince the unreasonable -boy.</p> - -<p>There was one member of the family, however, who was affected by Paul’s -arguments, and this was his sister. Alice was dazzled at once by the -magnanimity of his sentiments and by his eloquence. Altogether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> -independent of this, she was, as a matter of course, his natural -partisan and defender, always standing up for Paul, with a noble -disregard for the right or the wrong in question, which is a -characteristic of girls and sisters. (For, Alice justly argued, if he -was wrong, he had all the more need for some one to stand up for him.) -But in this case her mind was, if not convinced, at least dazzled and -imposed upon by the grandeur of this new way of thinking. She would not -admit it to Paul, and indeed maintained with him a pretence of serious -opposition, arguing very feebly for the most part, though sometimes -dealing now and then, all unaware of its weight, a sudden blow under -which the adversary staggered, and in the success of which Alice -rejoiced without seeing very clearly how it was that one argument should -tell so much more than another. But at heart she was profoundly touched -by the generosity and nobleness of her brother’s views. Such a sweeping -revolution would not be pleasant. To be brought down from her own -delightful place, to be no longer Miss Markham of the Chase, but only a -little girl on the same level with her maid, was a thing she could not -endure to think of, and which brought the indignant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span> blood to her cheek. -“<i>That</i> you could never do,” she cried; “you might take away our money, -but you could never make gentlefolk into common people.” This was one of -the hits which found out a joint in Paul’s armour, but unaware of that -Alice went on still more confidently. “You <i>know</i> good blood makes all -the difference—you cannot take that from us. People who have ancestors -as we have can never be made into nobodies.” At which her brother -scoffed and laughed, and bade her remember that old Brown had quite as -many grandfathers as they, and was descended from Adam as certainly as -the Queen was. “And Harry Fleetwood,” said this defiler of his own nest, -“do you call him an example of the excellence of blood?” Poor Alice was -inclined to cry when her disreputable cousin was thus thrown in her -teeth. She clung to her flag and fought for her caste like a little -heroine. But when Paul was gone, she owned to her mother that there was -a great deal in what he said. It was very noble as Paul stated it. When -he asked with lofty indignation, “What have I done to deserve all I have -got? I have taken the trouble to be born,”—Alice felt in her heart that -there was no answer to this plea.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span></p> - -<p>“My dear,” Lady Markham said, “think how foolish it all is; does he know -better than your papa and all the men that have considered the subject -before him?”</p> - -<p>“It may be silly,” said Alice, changing her argument, “but it is very -different from other young men. They all seem to think the world was -made for them; and if Paul is wrong, it is finer than being right like -<i>that</i>.”</p> - -<p>This was a fanciful plea which moved Lady Markham, and to which she -could make no reply. She shook her head and repeated her remark about -Paul’s presumption in thinking himself wiser than papa; but she too was -affected by the generosity and magnanimity which seemed the leading -influences of the creed so warmly adopted by her boy.</p> - -<p>This was the state of semi-warfare, not serious enough to have caused -real pain, but yet a little disquieting in respect to Paul’s future, -when the event occurred which has been recorded in the two last -chapters. The ladies saw more of the strange companion whom Paul had -brought with him than they generally saw of ordinary visitors. He had no -letters to write, nor calls to make, nor private occupations of any -kind; neither had he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> sufficient understanding of the rules of society -to know that guests are expected to amuse themselves, and not to oppress -with their perpetual presence the ladies of the house. What he wanted, -being as it were a traveller in an undiscovered country, was to study -the ways of the house, and the women of it, and the manner of their -life. And as he was so original as not to know anybody they knew, Lady -Markham in her politeness was led to invent all kinds of subjects of -conversation, upon which, without exception, Mr. Spears found something -to say. He assailed them on all points with the utmost frankness. He sat -(on the edge of his chair) and watched Lady Markham at her worsted work, -and found fault even with that.</p> - -<p>“You spend a great deal of time over it,” he said; “and what do you mean -to do with it?”</p> - -<p>This was the second evening, and they had become quite accustomed to -Spears.</p> - -<p>“I am not quite sure, to tell the truth. It is for a cushion—probably I -shall put it on that sofa, or it will do for a window-seat somewhere, -or——”</p> - -<p>“There are three cushions on the sofa already, and all the window-seats -are as soft as down-beds. You are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> doing something that will not be of -any use when it is done, and that, excuse me, is not very pretty, and -takes up a great deal of your time.”</p> - -<p>“Show Mr. Spears your work, Alice; he will like that better. Everybody -is severe now upon these poor abandoned Berlin wools. Now, Mr. Spears, -that pattern came from the School of Art Needlework. It was drawn by -somebody very distinguished indeed. It is intended to elevate the mind -as well as to occupy the fingers. You cannot but be pleased with that.”</p> - -<p>“What is it for?” said the critic.</p> - -<p>“I—scarcely know; for a screen I think—part of a screen you know, Mr. -Spears, to keep off the fire——”</p> - -<p>“Ah!—no, I don’t know. Among the people I belong to, Miss Alice, there -is no need of expedients to keep off the fire. Sometimes there is no -fire to have even a look at. I’ve known poor creatures wandering into -the streets when the gas was lighted, because it was warm there. The gas -in the shop-windows was all the fire they had a chance of. Did you ever -see a little wretched room all black of a winter’s night? Black—there’s -no blackness like that; it is blacker than the crape you all put on when -your people die.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“No; she has never seen it,” cried Lady Markham. “I did once in our -village at home before I was married. Oh, Mr. Spears, I know! it made me -cold for years after. No, thank God, Alice has never seen it. We take -care there is nothing like that here——. But,” she added after a -pause—“I don’t like to say anything unkind; but, Mr. Spears, after all, -it was their own fault.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, my lady! you that make screens to keep off the fire, do you never -do what is wrong? you that are cushioned at every angle, and never know -what a hard seat is, or a hard-bed, or a harsh look, or a nip of frost, -or a pinch of hunger—do you always do what is right? You ought to. You -are like angels, with everything beautiful round you; and you look like -angels, and you ought to be what they are said to be; but, if instead of -all this pretty nonsense you had misery and toil around you, and -ugliness, and discord, and quarrelling, would it be wonderful if you -went astray sometimes, and gave the other people, the warm, wealthy, -well-clothed people, reason to say it was your own fault? Great God!” -cried the orator, jumping up. “Why should we be sitting here in this -luxury, with everything that caprice<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> can want, and waste our lives -working impossible flowers upon linen rags, while they are starving, and -perishing, and sinning for want, trying for the hardest work, and not -getting it? Why should there be such differences in life?”</p> - -<p>“This is not a place to ask such a question, Spears,” said Paul. “You -forget that we are the very people who are taking the bread out of the -mouths of our brothers. We, and such as we——”</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue, Markham,” said the orator. “Do you think it is as -easy as that? Don’t take any notice of him, my lady. He’s young, and he -knows no better. He thinks that if he were able to give up all your -estates to the people, justice would be done. That is all he knows. -Stuff! we could do it all by a rising if it were as easy as that. You -young ass,” the man continued, filling the ladies with resentment more -warm than when he had denounced them all, “don’t you see it’s a deal -better in the hands of your father and mother, that take some thought of -the people, than with a beast of a shoddy millionaire, who cares for -nothing on this earth but money? I beg your pardon,” he added, with a -smile, “for introducing such a subject at all; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> sometimes it gets -too much for me. I remember the things I’ve seen. I would not treat -lilies in that way, Miss Alice, if I were putting them on wood.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Alice with tears in her eyes; “how can you care about a -pattern after what you have been saying?” His eloquence had moved her so -much that she felt disposed to fling her pattern away. “What can one do? -How can one help it?” she said, below her breath, appealing to him with -her heart in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I don’t like the pattern,” said Spears. “If I were going to put it on -wood, I’d treat it so—and so.” To illustrate his meaning, he made lines -with his thumb nail upon her satin. “I’d turn the leaves this way, and -the bud <i>so</i>. They should not be so stiff—or else they should be -stiffer.”</p> - -<p>“They are conventionally treated, Mr. Spears,” said Lady Markham, “and -you don’t treat anything conventionally, neither our patterns nor your -friends.”</p> - -<p>She had not forgotten that he had called her son Paul, and “you young -ass” was still tingling in her ears. Paul took it, however, with the -greatest composure as a matter of course.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span></p> - -<p>Spears burst into a great good-humoured laugh.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, my lady. We don’t mind how we talk to young fellows. -I’d have it as conventional, or more, Miss Alice. This falls between two -stools. The lily’s a glorious thing when you enter into it. Look at the -ribs of it, as strong as steel, though they are all sheathed in -something smoother than satin. And every curl of the petal is full of -vigour and life. I used to think till you drew it or carved it, you -never could understand what that means—‘Consider the lilies of the -field.’ There they stand, nobody taking any trouble about them, and come -out of the earth built like a tower, or a ship, anything that’s strong -and full of grand curves and sweeping lines. Now the fault I find with -<i>that</i> is, that you never would come to understand it a bit better if -you worked a hundred of them. If I had a knife and a bit of wood——”</p> - -<p>“Do you carve wood, Mr. Spears?”</p> - -<p>“Do I carve wood?” he laughed as Lord Lytton might have laughed had he -been asked whether he wrote novels. Did not all the world know it? The -ignorance of this pretty little lady was not insulting but amusing, -showing how far she was out of the world, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> how little in this silent -country house they knew what was going on. “Yes—a little,” he said, -with again a laugh. It tickled him. Her mother had not known who Spears -was—Spears the orator—the reformer—the enemy of her order—and now -here was this girl who asked with that inimitable innocence, “Do you -carve wood?” He was amused beyond measure. “But I could not bring a lily -like that out of the softest deal,” he said; “it would break its back -and lie flat—it has no anatomy. If I had a pencil——”</p> - -<p>Alice, who was full of curiosity and interest, here put the desired -pencil into his hand, and he sat down at the nearest table, and with -many contortions of his limbs and contractions of his lips, as if all -his body was drawing, produced in bold black lines a tall lily with a -twist of bindweed hanging about its lovely powerful stalk, like strength -and weakness combined. “That is as near nature as you can do it without -seeing it,” he said, pleased with the admiration his drawing called -forth. “But if I were to treat it conventionally, I’d split the lily, -and lay it flat, without light and shadow at all. I should not make a -thing which is neither one nor the other, like your pattern there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>This was the way in which the man talked, assailing them on every side, -interesting them, making them angry, keeping them in commotion and -amusement. Lady Markham said that it had never cost her so much to be -civil to any one; but she was very civil to him, polite, and sometimes -even gracious. He stayed three days, and though she uttered a heartfelt -thanksgiving when the dog-cart in which Paul drove him to the railway -disappeared down the avenue, “Thank heaven he is gone, and your papa -only comes back to-morrow!” Lady Markham herself did not deny their -strange visitor justice. “But,” she said, “now he is gone, let as little -as possible be said about him. I do not want to conceal anything from -your papa, but I am sure he will not be pleased when he hears of it. For -Paul’s sake, let as little as possible be said. I will mention it, of -course, but I will not dwell upon it. It is much better that little -should be said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Sir William</span> did not come home for two days, but when he did return there -was a line between his eyebrows which everybody knew did not come there -for nothing. The first glimpse of him made the whole family certain -<i>that he knew</i>: and that he was angry; but he did not say anything until -dinner was over and the children gone to bed. By that time the ladies -began to hope with trembling, either that they had been mistaken, or -that nothing was going to be said. “I will tell him this evening, but I -will choose my time,” Lady Markham whispered to Alice as Sir William -stood up in front of the fireplace and took his coffee after dinner. He -was not a man who sat long after dinner, and he liked to have his coffee -in the drawing-room, when all the boys and girls had said good-night. -He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> was a little man of very neat and precise appearance, always -carefully dressed, always dignified and stately. Perhaps this had been -put on at first as a necessary balance to his insignificant stature; but -it was part of himself now. His family could not but look up to a man -who so thoroughly respected himself. He had a fine head, with abundant -hair, though it was growing white, and very penetrating, keen blue eyes; -but to see him standing thus against the carved marble of the -mantelpiece with the faint glimmer of an unnecessary fire throwing up -now and then a feeble flash behind him, it was not difficult to -understand that his family were afraid of his displeasure. The -conversation they maintained was of the most feeble, disjointed -description, while he stood there not saying a word. Paul stood about -too, helplessly, as men do in a drawing-room, unoccupied, and prepared -to resent anything that might be said to him. If only he could be got -away Lady Markham felt that she would have courage to dare everything, -and tell her husband, as was her wont, all that had occurred since he -went away.</p> - -<p>“The Westlands called on Tuesday. They were not more amusing than usual. -He wanted to tell you of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> some great discovery he has made about the -state of the law. Paul, will you go and fetch me that law-book I told -you of, out of the library? I want to show something in it to papa.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you mean by a law-book,” said Paul. He saw that it -was intended as a pretext to send him away, and he would not budge.</p> - -<p>“And I had a long talk with the vicar about the new cottages. He thinks -only those should be allowed to get them who have been very well behaved -in the old ones. Paul, by the way, that reminds me I promised to send -down the Mudie books to the vicarage. Will you go and see after them, -and tell Brown to send them away?”</p> - -<p>“Presently,” said Paul. He drank his coffee with the most elaborate -tediousness. The more his mother tried to get rid of him, the more -determined he was not to go.</p> - -<p>“Except the vicar and the Westlands we have seen—scarcely anybody. But -I want those books to go to-night, Paul.”</p> - -<p>“You are very anxious to get Paul out of the way,” said Sir William. -“What does ‘scarcely anybody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span>’ mean? Is it true that a man called -Spears, a trades-unionist, a paid agitator——?”</p> - -<p>“He is nothing of the sort,” said Paul, with a sudden burst of passion. -“If he is an agitator, it is for the right against the wrong, not for -payment; anybody who knows him will tell you so.”</p> - -<p>“I have heard it from people who know him,” said Sir William. “Is it -possible that you took advantage of my absence, Paul, to bring such a -man here—to lodge such a person in my house?”</p> - -<p>“Such a person!” Paul, who had felt it coming ever since his father’s -arrival, stood to his arms at once. “He is the best man I know,” he -said, indignantly. “There is no house in the country that might not be -proud to receive him; and as for taking advantage of your absence, -sir——”</p> - -<p>“Indeed,” said Lady Markham, holding up her head, though she had grown -pale, “you must not say so, William; he did not know you were away; and -as for Mr. Spears, I was just about to tell you. He is not a man to be -afraid of. It is true he is not—in society, perhaps—he has not quite -the air of a person in society—has he, Alice?” This was said with -scarcely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> a tremble. “But his manners were perfectly good, and his -appearance, though it was quite simple—I think you must be making some -mistake. I saw no harm in him.”</p> - -<p>Will it be believed that Paul, instead of showing gratitude, was -indignant at this mild approval? “Saw no harm in him,” he cried; “his -manners, his appearance. Are you mad, mother? He is a man who is worthy -to be a king, if merit made kings; or if any man worth the name would -accept an office which has been soiled by such ignoble use!”</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Sir William. “It is you who are mad. A -stump-orator, a fellow who does much mischief in England! My house is -not to be made a shelter for such <i>canaille</i>. Your mother should have -turned him to the door; and so she would have done, I don’t doubt—her -instincts are too fine not to have seen the kind of creature he was—but -for her foolish devotion to you.”</p> - -<p>“Paul, Paul! Oh, don’t speak—don’t say anything,” cried Alice in an -agony, in her brother’s ear.</p> - -<p>“Let him say what he pleases,” said Sir William. “This must be put a -stop to. When the house is his,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> he can dishonour it if he likes, but in -the meantime the house is mine.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly the house is yours, sir,” cried his son; “I make no claim on -it. I feel no right to it. Let me alone, Alice! Do I want the house, or -the land, or the money which we steal from the poor to make ourselves -splendid, while our fellow-creatures are starving? I am ready to give it -up at a moment’s notice. It wounds my conscience, it restrains my -action. I want nothing with your house, sir. If I may not bring one -honest man into it, you may hand it over to any one you please; it is no -home for me.”</p> - -<p>“Paul, Paul!” cried his mother in tones of alarm. Sir William only -laughed that laugh of anger which frightens a household.</p> - -<p>“Let him rave—let him rave,” he cried, throwing himself into a chair. -“A boy who speaks so of his home does not deserve one. He does not -deserve the position Providence has given him—a good name, a good -fortune, honourable ancestors, all thrown away.”</p> - -<p>“I acknowledge no honour in the ancestors that robbed the poor to make -me rich,” cried the hot-headed youth. And the end of all was that his -mother and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> sister had much ado to keep him from leaving the house at -once, late as it was, in the heat of passion. Never before had such a -storm—or indeed any storm at all—arisen in the peaceful house. It -marked the ending of that idyllic age in which the rulers of a family -are supreme, and where no new-developed will confronts them within their -sacred walls. Raised voices and faces aglow with anger are terrible -things in such an inclosure. It seemed to Lady Markham that she would -die with shame when she met the look of subdued wonder, curiosity, and -sympathy in old Brown’s eyes; when, after the storm was over, after a -decent interval, he came in, taking great precautions to make himself -audible as he approached. It was the first time since she entered the -house that her servants had occasion to be sorry for Lady Markham, and -this consciousness went to her heart. By the time Brown came in, -however, all was very quiet. Sir William had gone away to his library, -and Paul, breathing indignation at every pore, was walking about the -room with his hands in his pockets, now and then launching an arrow at -his mother or sister. A truce had been patched up. He had consented, as -a great matter, not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> to plunge out of the house into the darkness, but -to wait till to-morrow. This was a concession for which they were as -grateful as if it had been the noblest gift; it was for their sake he -did it; nothing else, he declared, would have made him remain an hour -under the same roof.</p> - -<p>“Oh hush, Paul—hush! I forbid you to say another word,” cried his -mother; and then all was silent, as they heard Brown cough before he -opened the door.</p> - -<p>“Tell Lewis to have the dog-cart ready for Mr. Markham for the first -train,” she said, not raising her eyes. But all the same she saw the -pity in the face of old Brown. He asked no question; he did not express -his sorrow to hear of Mr. Markham’s sudden departure, as on previous -occasions he would have done, exercising the right of his old service; -he said, “Certainly, my lady,” in a tone which went to Lady Markham’s -heart. Even Brown perceived that there was no more to be said.</p> - -<p>That was in other ways a notable year for the Markhams. For one thing -Alice “came out.” She was eighteen: she had not been prematurely -introduced as an eldest daughter very often is. And in consequence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> Lady -Markham stayed in London longer and went more into society. This moment, -so exciting to the <i>débutante</i>, was clouded over to Alice and to her -mother by the fact that Paul was in disgrace. They were still in London -when the Oxford term ended, and it had been their hope that he would -join them there. It is true that this prospect was not altogether an -unmingled delight, for a certain alarm was involved in their joy. How -would his father and he “get on” after this first quarrel? Would Paul be -as submissive, would Sir William be as forgiving, as they ought? All the -little triumphs of Alice, her <i>succès</i>, the admiration she had excited -were made of no account by this doubt and fear about her brother. But -when, just before the long vacation began, a letter arrived from Paul, -announcing that he did not mean to join them at all, but was going to -“stay up and read,” with a party of other “men” who entertained that -virtuous intention, the revulsion of feeling in the minds of the mother -and sister was very painful. They forgot that they had ever entertained -any fear about his coming, and cried over his letter with the bitterest -pangs of disappointment.</p> - -<p>“It is all papa’s fault,” Alice cried in mournful wrath;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> and though -Lady Markham checked her daughter, saying, “Hush! surely your papa knows -better than you do,” yet there was a little rebellion in her heart too -against the head of the house. Had he been less hard, Paul would have -been more docile.</p> - -<p>Sir William, however, as it happened, was rather mollified than offended -by this intimation. The authorities of Paul’s college had been finding -fault. High hopes had been entertained of the young man at first. It had -been believed that he would bring distinction to his college, which, who -can doubt? is the first thing to be considered. But that hope had proved -delusive; he had not “gone in for” half so much as he ought, and of all -those things he had “gone in for” he had not been successful in one. -This made him to be looked upon coldly by eyes which at first winked -with benevolence at the blunders and idleness of a statesman’s son. Now -that they were aware that he was not likely to bring them any honour, -the dons grew querulous with Paul. He was not a duke or a duke’s son -that he should ride roughshod over the habitudes of the university and -its inviolable order. They had not of late shown that delight in him -which parents love to see. He had not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> excited parental feelings in -their academical bosoms. He was visionary, he was Radical; and it was -whispered that he received visitors in his rooms who were not of a -character to be received there. Fortunately this last accusation had not -reached Lady Markham’s ears. Had she known, how could she ever have -borne that “staying up to read,” which at present seemed a proof of -Paul’s innate virtue? But Sir William was of tougher fibre. He was not -displeased to be free of personal contact with his son at this crisis. -It is not expedient that there should be quarrels in a family. All that -nonsense would blow over. Paul’s intellectual measles might be severe, -but they were only measles after all, a malady of youth which a young -man of marked character took more seriously than a frivolous boy, but -which would pass away. “It will be all the better for his degree,” his -father said with that simplicity of confidence in the noble purpose of -“staying up to read” which it is so touching to see. And what could the -women say? If it was good for him, was it their part to complain? They -were cruelly disappointed, and yet perhaps they were relieved as well. -They wrote letters full of the former feeling, but they did not say -anything about the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span> latter—not even to each other. How could they allow -even to themselves that it was better for Paul to stay away?</p> - -<p>However this disappointment seriously interfered with the glories of her -first season to Alice. She did not wish to stay longer in town than Lady -Markham’s usual time. She longed for the country, when the summer -reached its very crown of brightness, and the park looked baked and the -streets scorching. They went home as they were in the habit of doing, in -the end of June, leaving Sir William to toil through the end of the -session by himself; and though it was still more melancholy to be -without Paul in the quietness of home, yet there were compensations. -They had their usual work to occupy them, and that routine of ordinary -living which is the best prop and support of the anxious mind; and Alice -was young enough, and her mother scarcely too old to forget, by times -altogether, that there were troubles in the world. Nothing very dreadful -had happened after all. If Paul did not write very often, were not all -boys the same? Thus they kept their anxieties subdued, and were not -unhappy—except perhaps for half an hour now and then.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span></p> - -<p>Thus the summer went on. The holidays came once more. The boys came -home, the girls were delivered from their governess, and the reign of -innocence recommenced. Not to last long this time, for everybody knew -that in the second week in August papa was coming home. The children, -however, took the good of the fortnight they had all to themselves. The -sunshine, the harvest, the woods, how delightful they are in August, -with no lessons, no governess, and mamma all to themselves! From morning -till night the house was full of laughter and commotion, except when it -lay all open and silent with the whole family out of it, gone -pic-nicking, gone upon excursions, making simple holiday.</p> - -<p>“My lady is the biggest baby of them all,” Mrs. Fry said with indulgent -disapproval, shaking her head, “if she wasn’t thinking all the time of -Mr. Paul.”</p> - -<p>“Bless you there ain’t a minute as that boy is out of her head,” said -Brown. Brown was too respectful to say anything but Mr. Markham in -public, but he said Mr. Paul, or even Paul <i>tout court</i>, when he was in -the housekeeper’s room. While these pranks were going on, the house lay -like an enchanted palace, all its doors<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> and windows open to the sweet -summer air, the rooms full of flowers and sweetness, but nobody there. -There were too many servants about for any fear of robbers, but it is -doubtful whether Sir William would have thought it decorous had he seen -the openness and vacancy of this summer palace, waiting all garnished -and bright for the return of the revellers, for the rush of light feet, -the smiles, the voices, the chattering and laughter, the gaiety and glee -that in a moment would flood it through and through. But to the -spectator whose dignity was not involved, these changes were pretty and -pleasant to see, and it was not to be wondered at perhaps if Brown and -the army under his charge took holiday too.</p> - -<p>One day very shortly before that on which Sir William was expected, a -stranger walked slowly up the avenue and came to the great open door. -Everything was open as usual. He saw into the great hall as he came -gradually up, and saw that it was empty and still. It was a warm day, -and he was weighted with a little valise, which he carried, shifting it -from one hand to the other with some appearance of fatigue. He was a -tall man, very thin and very brown, with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> unmistakable look of an -old soldier in his well-squared shoulders, even though his figure -drooped a little with fatigue and heat, and slightly with age. When he -reached the door, he looked round him, and seeing nobody there went in -and placed himself in a great chair which was near the open door. “He’s -come into my house without knocking many’s the day,” he said to himself. -It was hot, and he was tired, and the coolness and shade inside -completed what the glare without had done. He put his valise down by his -side and leaned back, and felt himself very comfortable; then quite -tranquilly and pleasantly closed his eyes and rested; had there been -anything to drink all would have been perfect. But even without this it -was very comfortable. The house was perfectly still, but outside a -little breeze was getting up, making a murmuring cadence among the -trees. There was a sound of bees in the air close at hand, and of birds -further off among the branches—everything was sweet and summery and -reposeful. The new-comer lay back in his chair in the mood which makes -fatigue an accessory of enjoyment. Something of the vagabond was in his -appearance which yet scarcely marred his air of gentleman. Poor he was -without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> doubt, growing old, very tired, dusty, and travel-worn. He was -not fastidious about his accommodation, and could have slept as well on -a grassy bank, had it been needful, but the chair was very comfortable -and pleasant. He fell asleep, or rather went to sleep, quite -voluntarily. It was afternoon, near the time when the party might be -expected to return, but up to this moment nobody had made any -preparation for them, and the new-comer took possession without -challenge of all the comfort of the vacant place.</p> - -<p>Roland had been allowed that day to drive the dog-cart, the carriage -being full, and he and Marie had so urged the stout cob Primrose, which -was the steed specially given up to the uses of the schoolroom, that he -flew like the wind and got home before the carriage. The little pair -burst into the stable-yard like a flash of lightning, and tossed the -reins to the first astonished groom they encountered.</p> - -<p>“Let’s rush in the back way and pretend we have been here for an hour,” -cried Marie.</p> - -<p>They flew rather than walked round by the flower-garden, and through the -open window of the drawing-room. There was the carriage turning in at -the gate,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span> a quarter of a mile off; there was plenty of time. But the -fact that there was plenty of time did not make them move quietly. They -proceeded into the hall, making themselves audible by the chatter of -their childish voices and laughter.</p> - -<p>“Won’t mamma be surprised!” cried Marie.</p> - -<p>But, on the contrary, it was herself that was surprised. She gave a -lengthened “Oh!” of wonder, alarm, and consternation, as they came in -sight of the stranger in the hall. She turned round and clutched at -Roland, and like a little coward put him first. He was twelve, not an -age to be frightened, and Marie was but eleven. Roland said “Oh!” too, -but with a different tone, and, dropping back a little upon her, -confronted and gazed at the sleeper in the easy chair. His looks were -not of the kind that children fly. The heavy moustache drooping over his -mouth seemed to add to the appearance of complete, yet pleasant -weariness, in which the shabby figure was wrapped. Here was a thing to -encounter when one got home: a man, a gentleman, whom one had never seen -before, fast asleep in the great chair in the hall!</p> - -<p>“Will he not wake?” whispered Marie. “Oh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> Roland! are you frightened? -Shall I run and tell Brown?”</p> - -<p>“Frightened!—likely,” said Roland; but he kept hold of her frock, not -that she could have been of any real assistance to him, but “for -company.”</p> - -<p>The two children stood transfixed before this strange apparition, -watching if he would move. At the first stir, Marie most likely would -have run away with a shriek; but after all what was there to fear? Mamma -had certainly turned into the avenue, and might arrive any moment, and -Brown with his army of men and maids was somewhere in the background -within call, so there was no real reason to fear. Nevertheless, when the -arms that rested on the arms of the chair began to stretch themselves, -and the intent gaze of the children drew the tired eyes open, Marie’s -best efforts to command herself could not restrain a tremulous cry, -which quite completed the stranger’s awakening.</p> - -<p>“Bless me, I’ve been asleep!” he said, opening his eyes. Then when he -saw the two little figures before him, his eyelids opened wider, and a -smile came out from underneath them. “Little folks, who are you?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“It’s you to tell us,” cried Roland with spirit. “This is our house, but -it isn’t yours.”</p> - -<p>“That’s true, my little man. I’ve been asleep, more shame to me. It was -hot, and I’ve had a long walk.”</p> - -<p>“If you are very tired, poor gentleman,” said Marie, coming in now that -there seemed nothing to be afraid of, “I—don’t think mamma will mind. -Oh, Rol, here she is! come and tell her,” the little girl cried. They -forgot their triumph of being first, in the excitement of this strange -piece of news, and flew bursting with it to the door of the carriage -which swept up at the moment, filling the stillness with echoes, and -waking up the whole silent house. Brown and the footman on duty appeared -as by magic, and the whole enchanted palace came to life. The stranger -sat still and watched it all with a smile on his face. He saw pretty -Alice and her beautiful mother descend from the carriage, and a curious -light broke over his countenance.</p> - -<p>“Lucky little beggar,” he said.</p> - -<p>He repeated this phrase two or three times to himself before he was -altogether roused from the half-dream, half-languor, he was still in, by -the sight of Lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> Markham’s eyes fixed upon him, and the alarmed, -guilty, nervous inspection of old Brown.</p> - -<p>“You must get out of here, sir—you must get out of here, sir—heaven -knows how you got into it; this must have been your fault, Charles. I -can’t let you stay here, though I don’t want to be uncivil. My lady’s -coming this way.”</p> - -<p>“It’s your lady I want, my friend,” said the intruder, rising languidly. -He made Lady Markham a fine bow as she approached, with surprise in her -face. “I must be my own godfather, and present myself to my old friend’s -family,” he said. “I am Colonel Lenny, of the 50th West India Regiment. -St. John Lenny at your service, my dear madam, once Will Markham’s -closest friend.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham made him a curtsey in return for his bow.</p> - -<p>“Sir William is not at home,” she said. If she had not already suffered -for her hospitality, his reception would have been less cold; but she -had never heard of Colonel Lenny, and what could she say?</p> - -<p>“He must have talked to you about me and mine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> I married a -Gaveston—Katey. You must have heard him speak of her. No? That is very -strange. Then perhaps you will think me an intruder, my Lady Markham. I -beg your pardon. I thought I was sure of a welcome; and I was so done -with the heat, though I used not to mind the heat, that I fell asleep in -your nice, pleasant hall, in this big chair.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham inclined her head in assent. What was she to do? who was -Colonel Lenny? She cast a glance at Alice, seeking counsel; but how -could Alice advise?</p> - -<p>“Will you come in now and take a cup of tea with us?” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Colonel Lenny</span> left his valise in the hall, where, when he rose, it was -very visible, a dusty object upon the soft carpet. Lady Markham looked -at it with alarm. Did it mean that he intended to stay? Was she to be -punished for having received one unsuitable visitor by being forced to -be rude to another? She led the way into the drawing-room in great -perplexity and trouble. As for Brown and Charles, they both went and -looked at the valise with curiosity as a natural phenomenon.</p> - -<p>“Is all the beggars coming on visits?” said the footman; “I ain’t agoing -to wait on another, not if my wages was doubled.”</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue,” said Brown; “you’ll do what I tell you if you want -to go from here with a character.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> So mind your business, and keep your -silly remarks to yourself.”</p> - -<p>But when Charles disappeared muttering, Brown turned over the dusty, -humble portmanteau with his foot, with serious disgust. “My lady hasn’t -the heart to say no to nobody,” he said to himself. He felt perfectly -convinced that this miserable representation of a gentleman’s luggage -would sooner or later have to be carried up stairs.</p> - -<p>The stranger followed Lady Markham into the drawing-room, at which he -gazed with wonder and admiration. “This is something like a house,” he -said. “Little we thought when I used to know Will Markham that he would -ever come to this honour and glory. It was in the year—bless me, not -any year you can recollect—forty years ago if it is a day. His brothers -were living, and he was nearly as poor as the rest of us. I married -Katey. He must have spoken of the Gavestons, though he might not mention -his old friend Lenny. Ah, well, maybe no—to be sure I am not taking -everything into consideration. Did your father ever tell you, my boys, -of the West Indies, and the insurrection, and all the stirring times we -had there?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Harry and Roland looked at each other with eyes brightening, yet -confused. Papa was not a man who told stories of anything,—and Lady -Markham interposed. “I think you must be making a mistake,” she said. “I -am sure Sir William has never been in the West Indies. You must be -thinking of some one else of the same name.”</p> - -<p>The old soldier looked at her with bewildered surprise. “A mistake!” he -said. “<i>I</i> make a mistake about Will Markham? I have known all about -him, and the name of his place, his family, and all his belongings for -the last forty years! Why, I—I am his——” Then he paused and looked at -Lady Markham, and added slowly, “One of his very oldest friends, be the -other who he may.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” she said, concealing her embarrassment over the -tea-table.</p> - -<p>Colonel Lenny was not particularly fond of tea: he would have liked, he -thought, something else instead of it, something that foamed and -sparkled; yet the tea was better than nothing. He gave her his pardon -very easily, not dwelling upon the offence.</p> - -<p>“Ah,” he said, “I can tell you stories that will make<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> your hair stand -on end. When those niggers broke out, it was not preaching that would do -much. That was in the old time, you know, when land meant something in -the islands, before emancipation. Did you ever hear about the -emancipation? I’ll tell you a story about the times before that. We had -to get the women and children stowed away—the devils would have thought -no more of cutting them to pieces—we were after them in the woods night -and day sometimes. Once your father was with us—he was not in the -service, as we were, but he was very plucky though he was always -small—he joined as a volunteer.”</p> - -<p>“Where was that? and when was that?” cried the boys; and the girls too -drew near, much attracted by the promise of a story. Colonel Lenny waved -his long brown hand to them, and went on—</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you all about that presently; but I must ask you to let me -know, my dear lady, when Markham is expected home. I’ve got business to -talk over—business that is more his than mine. He’ll know all about it -as soon as he hears my name. It is a long time since we met—and perhaps -the notion would never have struck me to seek him out but for—things<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> -that have happened. It is more his business than mine.”</p> - -<p>“I am not sure whether he will return to-morrow or next day—next day at -the latest,” said Lady Markham, faltering.</p> - -<p>She could not make up her mind what to do. On the occasion of her former -mistake, Paul in person had been present to answer for his friend, but -there was no one to guarantee this second stranger—this new claimant on -her hospitality. If he should be an impostor! but he did not look like -an impostor; or, if it should be a mistake after all, and his Will -Markham quite a different man? Will Markham! it seemed incredible to -Lady Markham that any one should ever have addressed her husband with so -much familiarity. These, and a hundred other thoughts, ran through her -mind as she poured out the tea.</p> - -<p>Meantime, Colonel Lenny made great friends with the children. He began -to tell them the most exciting stories. He was not ill at ease as Spears -had been, but sat luxuriously thrown back into a luxurious chair, his -long limbs stretched out, his long brown hands giving animation to his -narrative. Lady Markham managed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> to escape while this was going on, and -got <i>Burke</i> down from the bookshelves in the hall, and anxiously looked -up its various lists. There was no Sir William Markham except her -husband, no William Markham at all among the county gentry. When Brown, -become suspicious by his past experiences, came into the hall at the -sound of her foot, she put back the book again guiltily.</p> - -<p>The old butler came forward with an expression of concern and trouble on -his countenance. “What does your ladyship intend,” he asked, solemnly, -“that I should do with this?” touching with his foot as he spoke the -dusty valise—the old soldier’s luggage, which lay very humbly as if -ashamed of itself half under the big chair.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham could have laughed and she could have cried. “I don’t know -what to do, Brown,” she said.</p> - -<p>Brown was very much tempted to give his mistress the benefit of his -advice. He forbore, however, exercising a wise discretion, for Lady -Markham, though very gracious, was proud; but he was not self-denying -enough to divest himself of a general air of anxiety—the air of one who -could say a great deal if he would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span>—shaking his head slightly, and -looking at the offending article which seemed to try to withdraw itself -out of notice under the shadow of the chair. He could have said a great -deal if he had dared. He would have bidden his mistress beware who she -took into her house, Sir William wasn’t best pleased before, and if it -happens again—— Perhaps Lady Markham read something of this in Brown’s -eyes; and she did not like the butler’s advice, which was more or less -disapproval, as all effective advice is. The result was however that -before dinner the poor little valise was carried up, to the great scorn -of the domestics, to a bedroom, and that Colonel Lenny, after keeping -the children suspended on his lips all the evening, withdrew early, -leaving the mother and daughter to an anxious consultation over him. -Alice, too, had consulted a book, but it was an <i>Army List</i> that was the -subject of her studies. She came to her mother triumphantly with this -volume open in her hand.</p> - -<p>“Here he is, mamma. John St. John Lenny, 50th West India Regiment. I am -so glad I have found it. He is delightful. There never could be any -doubt about such a thorough old soldier.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“You thought Mr. Spears interesting, Alice,” said Lady Markham, feebly.</p> - -<p>“Mamma! and so did you. He was very interesting. I have his lily that he -drew for me, and it is beautiful. But he was not a gentleman. He did not -know how to sit on his chair, nor how to stand, nor what to say to you -or even me. He called me Miss Alice, and you my lady. But Colonel Lenny -is entirely different. He is just the same as everybody else, only more -amusing than most people. Did you hear the story he was telling -about——?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear, I was a great deal too anxious to be able to attend to any -story. What if he should turn out some agitator too? what if he were a -spy to see what kind of life we lead, or an impostor, or some one who -has made a mistake, and takes your papa for some other Markham? If I -have taken in some one else whom I ought not to have taken in, I think I -shall die of shame.”</p> - -<p>“How can he be an impostor, when he is here in the <i>Army List</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Let me see it,” Lady Markham said. She read out the name word by word, -and her mind was a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> relieved. “I suppose there cannot be any -mistake since he is here,” she said, with a sigh of relief. But, as a -matter of fact, Lady Markham sat up in her dressing-gown half the night, -afraid of she knew not what, and listening anxiously to all the vague -mystical noises that arise in a sleeping house in the middle of the -night. She did not know what it was of which she was afraid. How could -he be an impostor when his name was in the <i>Army List</i>, and when he had -that kind brown face? But then, on the other hand, a man from the West -Indies, who called her husband Will Markham, was an incredible person. -She sat up till the blue summer daylight came silently in at all the -windows, putting her suspicious candles to shame, when she, too, became -ashamed of herself for her suspicions, and crept very quietly to bed.</p> - -<p>Sir William did not come next day, but Colonel Lenny stayed on, and as -it is always the <i>premier pas que coûte</i>, Lady Markham’s doubts were -lulled to rest, and she neither frowned nor watched the second night. -And on the third Sir William came. It was Alice who went to meet him at -the station, in a pretty little pony carriage which he had given her. -Everything was done<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> instinctively by the ladies to disarm any -displeasure papa might feel, and to prepare him to receive this second -visitor with a friendly countenance. If there was anything that moved -Sir William’s heart with a momentary impulse of unreasoning pride and -foolish fondness, it was supposed by his wife to be the sight of his -pretty daughter, with her pretty ponies. These ponies had been named -To-to and Ta-ta before Alice had them—after, it was understood, two -naughty personages in a play—and as the ponies were very naughty the -names were retained. There were no such mischievous and troublesome -individuals about the house, and Alice was very proud of the fact that -it was she with her light hand who managed them best. Sir William was -not fond of wild animals, and yet all the household knew that he liked -to be brought home by his daughter in her little carriage, with the -ponies skimming over the roads as if they were flying. It was the one -piece of dash and daring in which he delighted.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham, who was not fond of risking her daughter, came out to the -door to entreat her to take care.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span></p> - -<p>“And you will explain everything?” she said; “how it happened, and how -very uneasy we have been; but my darling, above all, take care of -yourself. Do not let those wicked little things run away with you. Give -George the reins if you feel them too strong for your wrist. And make -him understand, Alice, how nice, how really nice, and kind, and -agreeable he is. George, you must never take your eye off the ponies, -and see that Miss Markham takes care.”</p> - -<p>“I hope they know my hand better than George’s,” said Alice, scornfully, -“better than any one else’s. Nobody can interfere between them and me.”</p> - -<p>“Pretty creatures! I don’t know which is the prettiest,” said Colonel -Lenny, coming up. He had all the children in a cluster round him. “They -are three beauties; that is all there is to be said. If you were not so -little I could tell you now about a great number of pretty girls in a -family, that were called the pride of Barbadoes. I married one of them, -and my friend Markham—why, my friend Markham knew them very well, my -dear madam,” the Colonel said. It did not seem to be the conclusion -which he intended to give to his description. However, he added, with a -smile,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> “But as you’re so little I won’t tell you about young ladies. -I’ll tell you about the Oboe men, and the harm they do among the poor -niggers.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried Bell and Marie, in one breath, “we should like to hear about -the young ladies best.”</p> - -<p>“Bosh!” cried the boys; “what is the good of stories about a pack of -girls? I hate stories that are full of love and all that stupid stuff.”</p> - -<p>“Then here goes for the Oboe men,” said the old soldier. He seated -himself under the great portico, in a large Indian bamboo chair that -stood there in summer, and the children perched about him like a flight -of birds.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham looked at this group for a moment, with a softening of all -the anxious lines that had got into her face. She was not afraid of her -husband, who had always been so good to her, but she was afraid of -disapproval, and the Spears’ affair was fresh in her mind. But then, in -all the circumstances, that was so different!</p> - -<p>She left the pretty group round the door, and went slowly down the -avenue, that she might be the first to meet her husband. Now that the -critical moment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> arrived, she began for the first time to think what the -business could be which Colonel Lenny was waiting to discuss. “More his -business than mine.” What was it? This question rose in her mind, giving -a little, a very little additional anxiety to her former disquietude. -And then, being anxious anyhow, what wonder that her mind should glide -on to the subject of Paul and what he was doing. That was a subject that -was never long out of her thoughts. Would he come home when the shooting -began? He could not stay up to read for ever. Would his father and he -meet as father and son ought to meet? Would it be possible to reason or -laugh the boy out of his foolish notions, and bring him back to right -views, to the disposition which ought to belong to his father’s son? -This was a wide sea of troubles to be launched upon, all starting from -the tiny rivulet of alarm lest Sir William should dislike the new -visitor. She went slowly down the avenue, under the nickers of sunshine -and shade, under the murmuring of the leaves, catching now and then the -sound of the colonel’s voice in the distance, and the exclamations of -the children. Ah, at their age how simple it all was—no complication of -opposed wills, no unknown friends or influences to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> contend with! She -sighed, poor lady, with happiness, and with pain. It is easy even for a -mother to dismiss from her thoughts those who are happy; but how can she -forget the one who perhaps is not happy, who is absent, who is among -unknown elements, not good or innocent? Thus Lady Markham’s thoughts, -however occupied with other subjects, came back like the doves to their -windows, always to Paul.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Has</span> anything happened, papa? You are so late—nearly an hour. To-to has -been almost mad with waiting—has there been an accident? We were all -beginning to get frightened here.”</p> - -<p>“No accident that I know of,” said Sir William. He cast a look of -pleasure at the pretty equipage and the pretty charioteer—a look of -proud proprietorship and paternal pride. Alice was his favourite, they -all said. But notwithstanding, he would not join her till he had seen -that all his portmanteaus had been got out and carefully packed on the -dog-cart which had come for them. Sir William’s own gentleman, Mr. -Roberts, a most careful and responsible person, whose special charge -these portmanteaus were, superintended the operation; but this did not -satisfy his master. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> stood by the pony-carriage, talking to his -daughter, but he kept his eyes upon his luggage. There were -despatch-boxes, no doubt freighted with the interests of the kingdom, -and too important to be left to the care of a valet, however -conscientious, and a railway porter. It was only when they were all -collected and safe that he took his place by the side of Alice.</p> - -<p>“You may be sure, my dear,” he said, “that unless you take similar -precautions you will always be losing something.” The ponies had gone -off with such a start of delight the moment they were set free, that Sir -William’s remark was jerked out of his mouth.</p> - -<p>“It would be quite a novelty if that happened to you—it would be rather -nice, showing that you were human, like the rest of us. Did you really -never, never, lose anything, papa?”</p> - -<p>“Never,” he said; and you had only to look at him to see that this was -no exaggeration. Such a perfectly precise and orderly person was never -seen; from the top of his hat to the tip of his well-brushed boots there -was nothing out of order about him, notwithstanding his journey. His -clothes fitted him perfectly; they were just of the cut and the colour -that suited his age,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> his importance and position. That he would ever -have neglected any duty, or forgotten any necessary precaution, seemed -impossible. “However,” he added, “I must not say too much; when I was -young I have no doubt accidents happened. What I object to is that the -present generation seems to think it a privilege to be forgetful. I was -taught to be ashamed of it in my day.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, papa, we are very silly,” said Alice; “though mamma says I am a -little old maid and never forget. I take after you, that is what they -all say.”</p> - -<p>Sir William looked at her with a benevolent smile. There is no more -subtle flattery that a child can address to a parent than this of -“taking after” him, though why it should please us so it would be hard -to say. He leaned back in his seat with a sense of well-deserved repose, -while the impatient ponies flew along, tossing their pretty heads, their -bells jingling, their hasty little hoofs beating time over the dry -summer road. “This is very pleasant,” he said. It was a perfect summer -evening, cool after a hot day, and the road lay through a tranquil, -wealthy country, so fresh after the burnt-up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> parks, yet full of harvest -wealth; the sheaves standing in the fields, some golden breadths of corn -still uncut, and the heavy richness of the full foliage throwing deep -shadows eastward. The ponies flew like the wind, and Alice, holding them -with firm little vigorous hands, turned her soft face to him, all lit up -with pleasure at his return. A conscientious statesman, a man who has -been broiling in the service of his country, sitting on committees, -listening to endless wearisome discussions and all the bothers of the -end of the session, it may be supposed what a pleasant relief it was to -step into this little fairy carriage and be carried swiftly and softly -through the happy autumn fields to his home. “All well?” he said. But a -man who has a daily bulletin from his wife asks such a question -tranquilly, without any anxiety for the reply.</p> - -<p>“I wonder who that lady was in the pink bonnet,” said Alice. “Strangers -so seldom come out at our station. I wonder who she is going to. Perhaps -it is somebody for the vicarage. Oh, yes, they are all quite well. The -boys came home on Friday week, and they have never been out of mischief -ever since. They are in the woods all day; and the girls have begun -their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> holidays too. Mademoiselle has gone. We wanted only you, papa, -you—and Paul. But who could that lady with the pink bonnet be?”</p> - -<p>This second expression of curiosity was added artificially to cover the -allusion to Paul. Sir William did not take any notice of either one or -the other. “So Mademoiselle has gone?” he said. “I hope you keep order, -and that mamma does not let them be too irregular. They will be far -happier for a little wholesome restraint.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” said Alice, dubiously. “Anyhow,” she added, “they have -had nearly a fortnight all to themselves. We have all been idle; but we -will settle down into right laws and proper habits now we have got you, -papa.”</p> - -<p>“That will be quite necessary,” he said; then, with a slightly impatient -tone, “You spoke of Paul—what is your last news of Paul?”</p> - -<p>To-to had a very sensitive mouth. At this moment he so resented some -imperceptible pull of the reins, that he got into the air altogether, -capering with all his four feet, and called for Alice’s complete -attention. In the midst of this little excitement she said, “Paul is -still at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> Oxford, papa. He does not write very often. Oh, you bad To-to, -what do you mean by this?”</p> - -<p>“He has got very fond of Oxford all at once.”</p> - -<p>“He has all his friends there—at least some of his friends. Papa,” -cried Alice, with an impulse of alarm, “I wonder who that lady can be. -She is coming after us in the village fly. I saw her bonnet just now -through the window, when To-to made that bolt.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, it is quite unimportant who she is—unless you think she is -one of your brother’s friends. Considering who his associates are, one -could never be astonished at any arrival. It may be a lady lecturer, -perhaps, on Female Suffrage and Universal Equality.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa! because he knows one man like that! But I have something to -tell you—something that makes mamma and me a little uneasy. A gentleman -came on Monday—oh, not a common person at all, a <i>gentleman</i>, and very -nice. We could not tell what to do, but at last, after many -consultations, we made up our minds to invite him to stay.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Alice!” cried Sir William, “what do you and your mother mean? -Is my house to be made into an hotel? What is the meaning of it? Am I -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> understand that you have taken in another nameless person, another -disreputable acquaintance of Paul’s? Good heavens! is your mother mad? -But I will not put up with it. My house shall not be made a refuge for -adventurers, a den of——”</p> - -<p>“For that matter,” said Alice growing pale, “I suppose it is mamma’s -house too.”</p> - -<p>There are opinions that get into the air and spread in sentiment when -most opposed to principle. Nobody could have been more horrified than -Lady Markham at any claim for her of woman’s rights; but when her little -daughter, generously bred, found herself suddenly confronted by this -undoubted claim of proprietorship, a chord was struck within her which -had perhaps only learned to vibrate of recent days. She looked her -father in the face with sudden defiance. She had not intended it—on the -contrary, the object of her mission, the chief thing in her thoughts, -had been to conciliate him in respect to this visitor, and soften his -probable displeasure. But a girl’s mind is a delicate machine, and there -is nothing that so easily changes its balance by a sudden touch. A whole -claim of rights, a whole code of natural justice, blazed up in her blue -eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> She forgot To-to in her sudden indignation, looking with all the -severity of logical youth in her father’s face.</p> - -<p>Sir William was altogether taken aback. He returned her look with a kind -of consternation.</p> - -<p>“You little——” But then he stopped. A man sometimes remembers (though -not always) that when he is speaking to his children of their mother it -is necessary to do so with respect. Unquestionably it was expedient that -a girl should have full faith in her mother. Besides (it gleamed upon -Sir William) Alice was not a child. She was a reasonable little -creature, able, after all, more or less, to form an opinion for herself. -Perhaps he was more disposed to grant this privilege to the girl who was -not likely to make any extravagant use of it, than to the boy; or -perhaps his ill success in respect to the boy had taught him a lesson. -Anyhow he paused. “Of course,” he said, “it is also, as you say, your -mamma’s house. A friend of hers, I need not tell you, would be as -welcome to me as a friend of my own. Do I ever attempt to settle without -her who is to be asked? but with your sense, Alice, you must be aware -there is a difference. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span> must interfere to prevent your excellent -mother, who is only too good and kind, from being imposed upon by those -disreputable acquaintances of Paul.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, papa,” said Alice, who had been waiting breathless -for the end of his address to make her eager apologies. “But,” she -added, not unwilling to bring him down summarily from his elevation, -“the gentleman I have been speaking of declares that he is your friend, -and not Paul’s.”</p> - -<p>“<i>My</i> friend! Then I daresay it is quite simple,” said Sir William, -relapsing into his previous state of perfect repose and calm. “My -friends are your mother’s friends too.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but this is different. (Papa, I am certain that woman is following -us.) This is quite different. It is an <i>old</i> friend, whom none of us -ever heard of. If we had known even his name we should not have been -afraid. But do not be frightened, he is very nice. We all like him. He -says he knew you in the West Indies, and the thing that alarmed us was -that none of us, not even mamma, ever knew you had been there at all.”</p> - -<p>“The West Indies!” Was it possible that Sir<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> William started so much as -to shake the pony carriage in which he sat? A cloud came suddenly over -his serene countenance. He did not say, as Alice fancied he would, “I -know nothing about the West Indies.” On the contrary, he paused, cleared -his throat, and asked in a curiously restrained, yet agitated voice, -“What does he—call himself?—what is his name?”</p> - -<p>Alice was half alarmed by the effect she had produced. She did not -understand it. She wanted to soften and do away with any disagreeable -impression.</p> - -<p>“Oh, he is very nice,” she said. “It is not any one you will mind, papa. -And he is all right; he is in the <i>Army List</i>; we looked him up at once; -we took every precaution; and there he was, just as he said, J. St. John -Lenny, 50th West India Regiment, Lieutenant-Colonel. After that, of -course, and when he said he had known you so well, we could not hesitate -any more.”</p> - -<p>“Lenny!” Sir William said. It was with a tone of relief. He drew a long -breath “as if he had expected something much worse,” Alice said -afterwards. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. To be -sure it was a warm evening. But there was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> something very strange to the -girl in her father’s agitation. She did not understand it—he who was -always so calm, who never allowed anything to put him out.</p> - -<p>“Then were you really in the West Indies, papa?”</p> - -<p>“I was in a great many places in my youth,” he said. “I was not taken -care of as my boys have been. I was the youngest, and I did pretty much -as I liked—a bad thing,” he added, after a pause; “a very bad thing, -though you children never understand it. It led me into places and among -people whose very names I seem to have forgotten now.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause. Alice was very curious, but she did not venture to -say more. She did not like even to look at her father who was so -unusually disturbed. What could make him so unlike himself? The idea -that there might be a mystery in Sir William’s life was more than -impossible, it was ludicrous. She tried to fix her attention upon the -ponies, who were going so beautifully. Then her ear was caught by the -steady roll of wheels coming after them. Certainly it was the fly from -the village; and certainly it was following on to the gates of the Chase -which were now in sight.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span> This was not the way to the vicarage or to any -other house to which a stranger who had stopped at the station of -Markham Royal could be going. She had not really believed it possible -that the lady in the pink bonnet could be coming to the Chase; but now -it seemed almost certain. What could be the meaning of it? Her heart -jumped up into sudden excitement. She nourished her whip and touched the -ponies till they flew. She could not bear the heavy rolling of that fly, -a long way behind, yet always following with the steadiness of fate. -This distracted her thoughts at once from her father, and a thousand -conjectures rushed into the girl’s head. Could it be somebody from Paul? -The fly came pounding heavily along, nothing stopping it. What could she -do to stop it or conjure its passenger away? If it was bad news that was -coming in it, what doubt that it would arrive quite safely? Paul! what -could a woman in a pink bonnet have to do with Paul? Could he be ill? -Could he be going to marry somebody, to do something foolish? Alice -became herself so excited that she could not think of her father. And -her father for his part took little notice of Alice. His mind was full -of thoughts<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> that would have been very incomprehensible, very startling -to her. The stranger’s name had fallen upon him in his tranquillity as a -stone falls into still waters. The calm surface of his mind was all -broken, filled with widening and ever-widening circles of recollection. -He felt dizzy like a man in a dream. The past was so long past, that, -thus suddenly recalled to him, after such an interval of years, Sir -William had a moment of giddy uncertainty as to whether it had actually -existed at all, whether it was not a mere fable, something he had read -in a book. Forty years ago—is a man responsible for things he did forty -years ago? Can he be blamed if he forgets them? Can he be expected to -remember? He who was so systematic, so careful, who never lost anything, -who had for years been in a position to set every one else right: was it -possible that he had once been foolish as other men? He himself did not -understand it. He could not believe it. Lenny? Yes, he remembered there -had been a man—the West Indies—ah, yes! things had passed there which -he would not care now to talk about, which had been forgotten, which -were to him as if they had never been. Had they ever been? he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> could -scarcely tell. The ponies skimmed along the road, the bells jingled, the -gates of the house were in sight, another minute and they would have -reached the avenue. And then—instead of his gentle wife, and his -innocent children, and universal respect, service, comfort, and worship -of every kind, would it be the past in bodily presence that would have -to be encountered, painful explanations, revelations, which might make a -sudden rending asunder of the beauty and the happiness of life? Sir -William wiped his forehead again as they turned in at the gate to the -shelter of the familiar trees.</p> - -<p>And still there was the dull rumbling of the fly behind. He did not so -much as hear it, having been swept away on this torrent of thought. But -Alice cast a troubled glance behind as she turned round to go in at the -open gate, and made sure that it was coming after her. The girl’s head -was buzzing and her heart throbbing with mingled fear and excitement. -“Would you mind driving up the avenue yourself, papa? I have something -to say to Mrs. Lowry at the gate,” she said, faltering. Her father -scarcely seemed to hear her; he said, “Go on, go on,” with an impatient -wave of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> hand. She knew nothing about his alarms, nor he about hers. -Perhaps, after all, the anxious desire of Alice to intercept what her -hasty imagination had concluded to be a messenger of evil had something -in it of that eager youthful curiosity which burns to forestall every -new event. But if so disappointment was her fate. The little carriage -flashed on under the trees and through the slanting lines of sunshine in -a breathless silence, both its occupants being far too much absorbed to -speak. Half way up the avenue two figures were visible advancing towards -them. Lady Markham had been joined by Colonel Lenny a few minutes -before. They stood aside, one on each side of the road as the -pony-carriage came up. And here on every other occasion Sir William had -got down and walked back with his wife to the house. It was part of the -formula of his return, which was never omitted. This time, however, when -Alice drew up her impatient ponies, he greeted his wife without moving -from the carriage.</p> - -<p>“We have had a very tedious, dusty journey,” he said. “I will go home at -once, my love, pardon me, and shake my dust off.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham, in the midst of her anxiety, grew pale with surprise at -this unusual proceeding. She pressed close to the side of the little -carriage—“William,” she said, “do you know who it is that is with me?”</p> - -<p>The baronet turned round to the long brown figure on the other side. -“Alice has told me,” he said. “Lenny, is it possible? I did not think I -could have recognised you after all these years.”</p> - -<p>“Nor I you, my fine fellow,” said the Colonel. “I’d have passed you if I -had met you in Bond Street, Markham; but meeting you here, and knowing -it’s you, makes a great deal of difference. We’ve both of us altered in -forty years.”</p> - -<p>“Is it as long as that?” Sir William said. There was no pleasure in his -face such as, these innocent ladies thought, should always attend a -meeting with an old friend. But on the other hand he cast no doubt upon -Colonel Lenny (as indeed how could he, seeing the Colonel’s name was in -the <i>Army List</i>?), but addressed him unhesitatingly, and acknowledged -him, which set the worst of Lady Markham’s fears at rest. “Go on,” he -said, in an undertone to his daughter, then waved<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> his hand to the -pedestrians. “In ten minutes I shall be with, you,” he cried.</p> - -<p>The rumbling of the fly had stopped; had it gone further contrary to all -Alice’s anticipations? This idea gave her a little relief, but she was -in so nervous a mood that the sudden jerk with which she urged the -ponies forward once more upset To-to’s temper, who was his mistress’s -favourite. He darted on through the lines of trees like a mad thing, -wild with the jar to his delicate mouth and the vicinity of his stables.</p> - -<p>“Do you want to break your own neck and mine?” Sir William said; “that -pony will not bear the whip.”</p> - -<p>“Why shouldn’t he bear it as well as Ta-ta?” said Alice; “is he to be -humoured because he is the naughty one? It should be the other way.”</p> - -<p>“It seldom is the other way,” said Sir William, moralising with a -self-reference, though Alice did not understand it. “You spoke a greater -truth than you are aware of. It is not the best people who are humoured -in life. It is the naughty ones who get their way. If you make the worst -of everything circumstances will yield to you: but act anxiously for the -best and all the burden falls on your shoulders.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Papa! that is like Thackeray; it is cynical. I never heard you speak so -before.”</p> - -<p>“Nevertheless it is true,” said Sir William. His straight and placid -brow was ruffled with care. “One does everything one can to be secure -from evil, and evil comes.”</p> - -<p>Could he be thinking about Paul? She turned her ponies (to their great -disappointment) as soon as Sir William had stept out of the carriage. -Charles indeed had to come to To-to’s head and lead him round, so -unwilling was that little Turk to turn away from his comfortable stable -again. “I will go back and bring mamma home, she was looking tired,” the -girl said. She was impatient to make sure about the fly that had -followed from the station, and the lady in the pink bonnet, and to be in -the midst of it, at least, if anything were going to happen. Her mother -was still a long way down the avenue. But Alice had scarcely turned when -she perceived that there were three figures instead of two in the group -she had so lately left. Three figures—and a brilliant speck of colour -making itself apparent like a flag at the head of the little procession. -Alice felt her heart rush to the scene of action<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> more quickly than the -ponies, which still resisted, tossing their little wicked heads. The -lady with the pink bonnet had fallen into the advancing rank. She was -tall, and that oriflamme towered over Lady Markham’s hat with its soft -gray feathers. But their pace was quite moderate, unexcited, showing no -sign of trouble. Lady Markham moved along with no appearance of -agitation. Perhaps, after all, this new-comer, whoever she might be, had -nothing to do with the absent brother, and was no messenger of evil -tidings after all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">My</span> dear, this is Mrs. Lenny,” said Lady Markham. “She has kindly taken -us on her way to the north.”</p> - -<p>“How do you do, my dear young lady? The Colonel wrote me word about you -all, praising you up, one more than another, and I thought I’d like to -come and see. But, Lenny, you never told me how like she was to her -father at her age. I think I see him before me, as handsome a boy——”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Lenny!” cried Alice, in consternation, yet relief. She turned to -her mother a pair of questioning, wondering eyes. But Lady Markham could -make no answer. She slightly shrugged, so to speak, not her shoulders, -but her eyebrows. She was very polite and very hospitable, but this -second arrival was almost too<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> much for her. “I thought you looked -tired, mamma,” Alice continued. “I came back to drive you home.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham shook her head. She was almost cross—as near that -unpleasant state as it was possible for her to be. “Perhaps Mrs. Lenny -would like to drive, Alice? She has had a long journey. I am not at all -tired. I will wait and meet your papa.”</p> - -<p>“How cool it is under these delicious trees,” said the lady of the pink -bonnet. “Yes, indeed, if the young lady will have me, it will be a treat -to be behind those beautiful ponies. Pretty creatures! like their -mistress. I have not seen anything so pretty, Lenny, since we left the -regiment. Ah, that was a foolish step. But one never knows when one is -well off. ‘<i>Lay mew</i>,’ as the French say, is the enemy of ‘<i>lay bieng</i>.’ -Thank you, my dear. Now this <i>is</i> delightful! I wish, instead of being -within sight, we were three or four miles from the house.”</p> - -<p>“Take Mrs. Lenny round by the fishpond,” said Lady Markham. She sighed -with relief at getting rid of this new claimant upon her attention, -though she was so polite. Mrs. Lenny was tall like her husband, and like -him, brown and soldierly. She made the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> light little carriage bend on -one side as she got in. Her brown face within the pink shade of the -bonnet was wreathed with smiles. She was delighted like a child with the -pretty equipage, and the promised drive—much more delighted than Alice -was, who, though relieved of her terrors about Paul, drove off in no -very happy state of mind. Yet she could not help taking a little -pleasure in her own discrimination.</p> - -<p>“I knew you were coming here the first moment I saw you,” she said. “I -kept asking papa who you were. But he had not seen you—he did not know -you; he never knows any one—not even, if he were to see us at a -distance, mamma or me.”</p> - -<p>“Nor I,” said Mrs. Lenny. “I should no more have known him! for you may -be sure I took a good stare at the station, seeing it was somebody of -consequence. He is so changed—oh, not for the worse, my dear; but when -you see a nice little old gentleman instead of a pretty young one, it’s -a shock, that can’t be denied. You have to count up and think back how -many years it is. Somehow one never feels old one’s self. You think the -world has stood still with you, though it goes so fast with all the -rest.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I don’t feel at all like that,” said Alice. “Sometimes I feel so -old—older a great deal, I am sure, than mamma.”</p> - -<p>This statement was received by her companion with laughter, which -disconcerted Alice. She drew herself up. She was not so polite as her -mother.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see what there is to laugh at,” she said. “Age does not go only -by years—when you have a great deal to think of——”</p> - -<p>“You darling!” cried Mrs. Lenny. “Did the old woman laugh? But I’d laugh -just the same if your dear mamma herself was to talk of feeling old. -There’s what I call a lovely woman! Lenny never told me half what a dear -she was. Old! but don’t you gloom at me, my pretty pet; I was once -seventeen myself, though you wouldn’t think it. The birds now on the -trees, I daresay they feel old between one Valentine’s day and another. -It is not years that does it, as you say. When we come to my time of -life the days go on one after another as fast as they can pelt: they’re -all flyin’, flyin’, like the echoes in the song. But at your age they’re -longer—they pass more slow—and when there’s much to think about did -you say? Ah, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span> that’s true! When I was your age I had a great deal to -think about. We were a large family, six girls of us, and not a penny -among the lot. We were just ruined with the emancipation in the West -Indies, and all that our parents said to us was, ‘Get married! There’s -the officers,’ they said, ‘a set of simpletons! What’s the good of them -but to marry the poor girls that know how to play their cards.’ Ah! I -thought when I was after Lenny that to be married meant to be well off, -and have everything that heart could desire. And so we all thought. We -weren’t bad girls, don’t you think it; but that was how were brought up. -Get married! and you’ll be well off directly. You never had anything -like that said to you to make you old with thinking—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no,” said Alice, horrified. She scarcely knew whether to be -offended by the familiarity of the stranger or interested in her talk. -It was an experience altogether different from anything Alice knew of -life.</p> - -<p>“No, I should think not,” said the lady of the pink bonnet, nodding that -article vigorously. “Just figure to yourself, my dear, what you would -feel if you had to leave this beautiful place, and live down in a house<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> -in the town, and have <i>that</i> said to you. You would be shocked, wouldn’t -you? But it did not shock us. That was how we were brought up. We had to -marry by hook or by crook; and we all did marry. Well, there’s Lenny, he -has made me a very good husband; but marrying him wasn’t like coming -into a fortune, was it now?—though we’ve always been the best of -friends. It was lucky in one way that we never had any children; it left -us free to look after ourselves. Nowadays we live a great deal among our -friends. We don’t interfere with each other, but we’re always glad to -come together again. When I’m comfortable anywhere I send him word, and -when he’s comfortable he sends me word. You mustn’t think my coming -means more than that, and you must tell your dear mamma so. We’ve not -come to do her any harm or her pretty family. Your papa is startled to -see us, but he won’t mind in the end. I daresay you have often heard him -talk of Barbadoes and the Gavestons? We were six handsome girls, though -I say it that shouldn’t. You must have heard of us by name.”</p> - -<p>Alice, whom this speech had filled with wonder,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> shook her head. “I -never heard the name in my life,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Well, that is odd,” said Mrs. Lenny. “I couldn’t believe it even though -Lenny said so. That’s thorough,” she added, with a little laugh. A flush -came over her brown cheek. “Never mind, my dear, it is not your fault,” -she said.</p> - -<p>Alice was more and more mystified. She could not imagine what this -strange woman could mean. If she had been at first disposed to resent -her familiarity, that offence had altogether evaporated. Mrs. Lenny -looked and spoke as if she had something to do with the family; her eyes -and her tone were full of kindness even when she evidently resented the -fact that Alice had never heard of her. She spoke of herself without any -kind of effort, as if it were natural that the girl should be -interested; and Alice could not but wish to hear more. It was like a new -story, original and out of the common. The momentary pause that ensued -alarmed her lest it should be coming to an end.</p> - -<p>“Did you all marry officers?” she asked at last.</p> - -<p>“Did we all marry officers? We did that, every <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span>one—except the one that -one that married—— Ah! I mean Gussy, that was the youngest. She -married—a civilian—and died, poor girl. The rest of us all took the -shilling. Ah! some of the girls are dead, and the rest are -scattered—one in Australia, two out in India, me, wandering about the -world as you see me, Lenny and I; most likely I’ll never see one of them -again. We had but one brother; all the little the family had, he got it. -It was he that took Gussy’s boy—did I tell you she left a boy? Poor -Gussy! she died at twenty. It is like as if she never had married or -been more than a child. When I think of the past it’s always she that -comes uppermost—the little one, you know, the pet—and she never lived -to get parted from us like the rest.”</p> - -<p>Alice looked vaguely interested. It seemed to her that she was hearing -the prologue of a novel. She did not draw any moral from it, or ask -herself whether her own brothers and sisters might ever be dispersed -like this about the world; but she wanted to hear more.</p> - -<p>“Have the others no children?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Dozens, my dear,” said Mrs. Lenny, “here, and there, and everywhere. -I’ve nephews in the service in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span> every country under the sun, and nieces, -all married in the army; it runs in our blood. But Gussy’s boy is the -one I think of most. He’s not a boy now. He’s five-and-thirty if he’s a -day, and my brother is dead that adopted him, and the property has gone -from bad to worse, and I don’t know what is to be done. Lenny’s head is -full of him. Perhaps if I were to speak a good word to your papa——”</p> - -<p>“Could papa help him?” cried Alice, eagerly; “then you may be sure, -quite sure, that he will do it. I will speak to him myself. They all say -he always listens to me.”</p> - -<p>“Will you?” said Mrs. Lenny. She grasped suddenly at the firm little -hand in which Alice held the reins, and put down her head as if to kiss -it, then looked up with a nervous laugh, winking her eyes rapidly to -cast off some tears. “You are a dear little angel!” she cried. “But -Lenny will do that, and I’ll do it. I won’t ask it of you, my pretty -darling. It would be more than was right.”</p> - -<p>Alice was somewhat affronted at this rejection of her proposal. She was -bewildered by her companion’s demeanour altogether. Why should she cry? -and then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span> refuse her assistance when she could have been of real use? -But that was, of course, as Mrs. Lenny pleased.</p> - -<p>“This is the fishpond,” she said, more coldly. “It is very old, and -there are some carp in it that are supposed to be very old too.”</p> - -<p>The fishpond was a piece of clear and beautiful water embosomed in the -richest wood. It was the very centre of all the beauties of the Chase to -the Markhams. A little brook trickled into it over a little fall which -made music in the silence, itself unseen, mingling a more liquid silvery -tone with all the songs of the birds and the murmur of the trees. A -little path wandered along by one side, the others were sloping banks of -greensward. The trees on all sides stooped as if leaning over each -other’s shoulders to see themselves in that fairy mirror, where they all -fluttered and trembled in reflection between the glimmer of the water -and the blue circle of sky, which filled up all the middle with blueness -and light. Some light and graceful birches upon the bank seemed to have -pressed further forward like advanced posts to get nearest the pool; a -great cluster of waterlilies filled up one corner. Even the impatient -ponies stood still in this soft coolness and shadow;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> perhaps they had -caught a glimpse of their pretty tossing heads and arched necks. Mrs. -Lenny’s bonnet shone in that mirror like an exotic bird, poised over it, -and her exclamation of delight broke the quiet with something of the -same effect.</p> - -<p>“What a lovely place!” she said; “and it’s I that would live long if I -were a fish in such a sweet spot. Dear, dear, if one lived here it would -be a tug to die at all. And you have been here, my darling, all your -life?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” said Alice, with a little laugh at the ignorance of the -question. “This is home, where else could I be? This is only the second -season I have ever been to town. I went for a little while last year -though I was not out. This summer I have been introduced,” she said, -with a little innocent ostentation. “I am out now. I go wherever mamma -goes.”</p> - -<p>“Introduced?” said Mrs. Lenny, with a little awe, “to her Majesty—her -very self? Tell me how she looked, and all about her. Dear lady! what -I’d give to hear a word out of her mouth!”</p> - -<p>“I did not mean that,” said Alice, feeling important and splendid; -“introduced means going out into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> society. I was presented too—of -course I had to be presented. Oh, there are the children down that -opening—do you see them? It is holiday time, and they are all -together.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lenny looked round with eager interest, again swaying the little -carriage to one side.</p> - -<p>“Are you the eldest?” she said; “and you have two little brothers?—only -these two?”</p> - -<p>She looked quite anxiously in Alice’s face.</p> - -<p>“Only these two—except Paul—and we are three girls—just the same -number of each.”</p> - -<p>“Who is Paul?”</p> - -<p>“Who is Paul?” said Alice, laughing; “that is the strangest question -here. Paul is the eldest of all—he is my brother. We all come in pairs. -There is Harry and Bell, Roland and Marie—and Paul is mine. He is not -very much at home now,” she said, her face clouding with the -recollection. “He is grown up—he is at Oxford. In the holidays he does -not always come home like the little ones. No one could expect him to be -like the little ones. He is a man.”</p> - -<p>To a cooler observer Alice’s eager explanations would have betrayed the -family anxiety, of which Paul was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> the object. But Mrs. Lenny had other -thoughts in her mind. She clasped her hands together in her lap, and -said, “Dear me, dear, dear me!” with suppressed dismay. This suddenly -reawakened all the girl’s fears. Had it been a mistake, a pretence after -all? Was it no old connection, nothing to do with papa’s business? (what -could papa’s business matter, it would not go to any one’s heart like -the other) but after all some new evil that was threatening Paul?</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Lenny,” she cried, “oh tell me first, for I can bear it; is it -about Paul? Has he got into any trouble? Is it something about <i>him</i> you -have really come to tell us! Oh, tell me, tell me! and keep it from -mamma.”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” cried Mrs. Lenny, confused, “what do I know about your -brother? I never heard of him before, and oh, I wish I had not heard of -him now. Do you think I would harm him if I had the power to help it? -Not I—not I! if there was anything in my power!”</p> - -<p>And with this the good woman let fall upon her gloves, which were green, -a few tears. Why should she cry because of Paul if she did not know him? -Fortunately for Alice the ponies at that moment gave her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span> no small -trouble. She had been thinking of other things and they took the -advantage. They wanted to take her home the back way into the stables. -Greedy little brutes! as if they had not everything that heart of pony -could desire—plenty of corn, plenty of ease, and the prettiest stable -with enamelled mangers and everything handsome about them. She stopped -them as they began to twist round in the wrong direction, tossing their -heads aloft. If they thought to take Alice unawares they were mistaken. -Thus she was obliged to withdraw her attention altogether from Mrs. -Lenny and fix it upon this rebellious pair, getting them past the -dangerous byway and bringing them up with a sweep and dash to the steps -of the great door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Meanwhile</span> Sir William Markham had been strangely employed. He came home -to get himself brushed free of the dust of his journey; but when he got -to the house he thought of that errand no more. He asked for his letters -as if these were all that he was thinking of. And you may suppose that -in a house which knew the importance of letters, and was aware of all -the momentous issues of neglect in that particular, Sir William’s -letters were carefully arranged on the table in the library. He asked -for them, which was unnecessary, and looked so full of business and -importance, that Brown found “a screw loose” in his master too. This was -not his usual aspect when he came home. Then the busy statesman allowed -himself a holiday. Even when he was in office (much more being in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> -opposition), he had put off his burden of official cares, and had -strolled up the avenue with his wife without caring for his letters. -When Brown answered respectfully, “They are in the library, Sir -William;” within himself that functionary shook his head and said, -“There is something wrong.” Sir William went into the library, which was -large and dim and cool, the very home of quiet leisure and comfort—and -closed the door after him with a sense of relief. His letters were all -laid out on the table, but he did not so much as look at them. He sat -down in his usual chair, and leaned his head in his hands, and gazed -into the blank air before him. Was this all he had come for? Certainly -he did nothing more: gazed out straight before him and saw nothing; sat -motionless doing nothing; paused altogether body and soul. He was not -aware yet of the second visitor who had arrived; but he was in no doubt -about the first. He did not require to ask himself what his old -friend,—whose name had tingled through and through him, though he had -professed that he scarcely remembered it—wanted of him. That early -chapter of his life which he had put away entirely, which he had -honestly forgotten as if it had not been, came back to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> him in a moment, -no longer capable of being forgotten as he sat by his daughter’s side in -the little pony carriage. He had not meant any harm in putting it so -entirely from him. But nothing is ever lost in this tenacious world. -Bury a secret in the deepest earth, and some chance digger, thinking of -other things, will bring it up without intending it. Exercise even the -most innocent reticence about your own affairs, matters in which you -have a perfect right to judge for yourself, and some time or other even -this will come up against you like a crime. What harm had he done by -burying in his own heart a little inconsequent chapter of his life, an -episode that had come to an end so soon, that had left so few results -behind? What results had it left? The only one had been promptly and -conclusively taken off his hands. He had never felt it; he had never -been conscious of any responsibility in respect to it. But that which -had seemed to him nothing but a broken thread at twenty-five, was it to -reappear against him at sixty like a web of fate perplexing and -entangling his feet? A cold dew came out upon his forehead when he -thought of his wife. Were she to hear it, were she to know, how could he -ever again look her in the face?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> And yet he had done her no wrong. -There had been no harm, no evil intention in his mind. Half -inadvertence, and half a dislike to return to a matter which was an -irritation to his orderly mind, as well as a recollection of pain—an -incident that had come to nothing, a false beginning in life—were the -causes of his original silence about his own youth and all that was in -it. A man who marries at forty, is it necessary that he should unfold -everything that happened to him at twenty-five? and he had been done -with it all; had closed the chapter altogether so very long ago. That it -should be re-opened now was intolerable. But yet Sir William knew that -he must bear it; he must subdue all signs of annoyance, he must receive -his unwelcome visitor as if he were pleased to see him, and ascertain -what he wanted, and steal, if possible, his weapons out of his hands.</p> - -<p>These were the thoughts in his mind as he sat alone and pondered, -arranging his ideas. He had known what it was to be much troubled by -public business in his day, but he had experienced little trouble with -his own. All was orderly and well regulated in his private affairs: no -skeletons in the cupboards, nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> anywhere that could not meet the -eye of day. This was the very sting of the present occurrence to him. A -secret! That <i>he</i> should be convicted of a hidden chapter of early -indiscretion, of having taken a foolish step which might have coloured -all his life! Though it was no wrong to her, his wife could scarcely -fail to think it a wrong, and he could not but suffer in the estimation -of everybody who heard of it. Already, was he not humiliated in his own -eyes? But for this pause which enabled him to rearrange his thoughts, to -settle his plan of operations, he felt that he must have been -overwhelmed altogether. At last, with a sigh, he got up and prepared -himself to issue forth out of his sanctuary, and meet the dangers that -threatened him; he to be threatened with dangers of such a sort!—It was -intolerable—yet it had to be borne. He went out to meet the party which -he could hear coming up the avenue. Brown looked at him with suspicious -eyes as he came into the hall. Could Brown know anything? did everybody -know? Even Lady Markham, he thought, looked at him strangely, almost -with alarm. But it is unnecessary to say that this was all in Sir -William’s imagination. No one had as yet associated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> any idea of mystery -with him. His wife only thought he was weary with the work of the -session, and looking pale. She was standing talking to Colonel Lenny, -waiting till Alice should draw up at the door. Sir William, with a faint -gleam of returning pleasure, stood on the top of the steps and waited -too; but then he was confronted by the vision of the pink bonnet by his -daughter’s side. A pink bonnet! who had been talking of a pink bonnet? -He came down slowly, half afraid of this and everything else that was -new.</p> - -<p>“In good time, Markham,” said Colonel Lenny, waving his hand; “here is -another old friend come to see you. She is changed more than you are. -From a girl, and a pretty one, she has grown an old woman, and that’s -not a thing to be permitted; but an old friend, my dear fellow, and more -than an old friend. Can’t you see it’s Katey? Katey, my wife?”</p> - -<p>“Katey!” Even Sir William’s steady nerves gave way a little. His eyes -seemed to give a startled leap of alarm in their sockets. For a moment -the impulse in his mind was to turn and fly. Lenny was bad, but his wife -was a hundred times worse; and she looked at him, leaning out of the -pony carriage and holding out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span> her hands as if she meant to kiss him; -but that was more than flesh and blood could bear. “Katey!” he said; “I -cannot believe my eyes. Is it Katey Gaveston after all these years? I -know I’ve grown an old man, and everything has changed, but——”</p> - -<p>“You never thought to see the like of me such an old woman? Ah, Will, -but it’s true. I am Katey Gaveston, as sure as you stand there. I came -after him, to stop him from making mischief. He don’t mean it—we know -that; but he’s just as simple as ever. He blurts everything out.”</p> - -<p>This speech went through and through Sir William. The light seemed to -fail from his eyes for a moment; but when he looked round all was as -before—Lady Markham talking to Brown, and Alice to the groom, who had -come for the pony carriage.</p> - -<p>“Hush!” he said, instinctively, with a shudder, giving her his hand to -help her to step out. “Hush!” Then, making a little effort over himself, -he added, “We are to have time, I hope, to talk over old stories -quietly—at our leisure—no need to go back in a moment from the present -to the past.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Nearly forty years—it’s a long way to go back,” she said. “We’ve -grown old folks; but it’s better to take our time and talk it all over -quietly, as you say. Yes, yes, quietly; that is by far the best way.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lenny nodded till her bonnet seemed to fill all the atmosphere with -pink mists of reflection, and laughed, filling the air with -reverberations of sound, just as her bonnet did with flickering of -coloured light; but she did not throw her arms round him in sisterly -salutation; this was something saved at least.</p> - -<p>Then he led her in ceremoniously to the great drawing-room, which was -carefully shaded and cool and luxurious after the blaze outside. It was -sweet with great bowls of late roses, full of flowers of every kind—a -stately room such as Mrs. Lenny was not accustomed to see. She stopped -short with a cry of admiration.</p> - -<p>“What a lovely place! What a beautiful—beautiful house!” Then she put -her handkerchief to her eyes. “To think, poor dear, who might have been -the mistress of it all!” she said.</p> - -<p>Sir William cast an alarmed glance behind him, but his wife was too far -off to hear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You must recollect,” he said, “that <i>then</i> I had no house at all—no -place to make—any one the mistress of. I never expected then to be -master here.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lenny sat down and wiped her eyes.</p> - -<p>“It is a beautiful house,” she said. “I’ve been into the park, and seen -a great deal; and when I think of all that’s come and gone, when I -remember that you were nothing but a poor man, Will Markham, just as -poor as all the rest of us—and to see you now, like a prince, with your -lovely wife, and her sweet family—oh! I know you’ll forgive me, my dear -lady; if your heart is as sweet as your face, you’ll forgive me; but I -can’t help thinking that what is given to one is taken from another; and -of them that never had a chance of happiness—them that are dead and -gone—and the place where they might have been—remembers them no more.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham, who could not shut her heart to any distress, came and sat -down by her and took her hand.</p> - -<p>“I know what you mean,” she said. “When I have any sorrow it always -comes upon me afresh in a new place.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>How far she was from knowing what her visitor meant!</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lenny looked up surprised. Then two big honest tears burst out of -her eyes, and her whole face lighted up with a smile.</p> - -<p>“You are a darling,” she said, seizing Lady Markham’s soft hand in both -of hers, “with a heart as feeling! But I am not crying for anything in -particular, my dear—only out of excitement, and the strangeness of -everything. You must not be so sorry for me.”</p> - -<p>Here Colonel Lenny interposed, and pointed out to Lady Markham the -tea-table which was awaiting her.</p> - -<p>“Give her a big cup, my dear lady; that is what makes Katey happy,” he -said. “What would she be without her tea? We men take something -stronger, I don’t deny it; but we’re not so dependent upon anything. I -could live without my smoke, and I could live without my drink—times -have been when I’ve lived without eating too; but I can’t fancy my wife -without a tea-pot.”</p> - -<p>“Not altogether without eating, I hope. Take<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span> some cake now,” said Lady -Markham, smiling, “to make amends.”</p> - -<p>“I will have the cake,—but yes, altogether without eating—for as long -as it lasted—that was two days; the time is apt to feel long when -you’ve nothing to eat. I’ve always thought the more of breakfast and -dinner and all the little bits of ornamental eating and drinking that we -make no account of, since then. Oh I’ve told all about it to the boys. -I’m getting to an end of my stories,” said the colonel. “Roland begins -to know them better than I; he says, ‘That’s not how you told it -before.’ That boy is as sharp as a needle; he’s the one you should make -a lawyer of, my dear lady. Now Harry’s a born soldier; he’s up to -everything that wants doing with the hands. Put him before a lion, and -he’ll face it, that little fellow; and he takes in every word you say to -him. But Roland by Jove, cross-examines you as if you were in a -witness-box: ‘You said so-and-so before,’ or ‘How could you do that when -you had just done so-and-so?’ He’s as keen as an east wind.”</p> - -<p>“That is a very biting metaphor,” said Lady Markham; but it did not -occur to her that the colonel was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> talking against time to beguile her -attention and keep the conversation which was going on at the other side -of the room undisturbed. There it was Sir William who was serving Mrs. -Lenny with the tea his wife had poured out.</p> - -<p>“She knows nothing,” he said, in a low tone. “I did not think it was -worth while telling her. For God’s sake do not let her surmise it now.”</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t if I could help it, Will; but the boy—there’s the boy.”</p> - -<p>“What boy? You mean Philip’s boy?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Lenny put out her hand and grasped his.</p> - -<p>“Haven’t you heard? Philip’s dead, and the property all sold up, and -nothing left for one belonging to him. He never learnt, like the rest of -us, to scrape and save. It’s all gone—every penny. There was not so -much to begin with, when you think upon it; and there he is, without a -son.”</p> - -<p>“My God!” said Sir William under his breath. He was not a man given to -oaths, but he was suddenly overwhelmed by the danger that over-shadowed -him which he had not thought of before. The evil he had feared was as -nothing in comparison. He grew pale<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> to his very finger-nails. “This is -why you have come to me?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Nothing but that—do I want to bother you? but <i>he</i> must be thought of, -too. Will, the boy must not lose his rights.”</p> - -<p>“He must be provided for,” said the baronet, gloomily; “but he has no -rights.”</p> - -<p>“Will! do you mean to bring his mother out of her grave? No rights! We -came in friendship, but we’ll go in anger if there is any meaning in you -to disown the boy.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot say any more now,” said Sir William, hastily. “I will talk to -Lenny to-night.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t put my faith in Lenny for that matter. Will, you must satisfy -<i>me</i>.”</p> - -<p>“I will, I will, Katey! For God’s sake no more.”</p> - -<p>Alice had come up to them in her easy grace of youth. She heard, if not -the words, yet the tone in which they were said; and her father got up -hastily and got behind the stranger to whom he was speaking so -seriously, but who smiled upon the girl from her great chair.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span></p> -<p>“Come and talk to me, my pretty,” Mrs. Lenny said. “Your father and I -have been reminding each other of things we had both forgotten, and -they’re not such pleasant things as you. Come and cheer us up, my bonnie -dear.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham was very well content to see the close conversation that -was going on between her husband and this new guest. It took a great -burden off her mind. This time she had made no mistake—the claim of the -old friendship was real. No suspicion of any kind entered her thoughts. -She leaned back in her chair with a grateful sense of relief, and felt -glad that she had sent orders by Brown that Mrs. Lenny was to be put -into one of the best rooms, thus promoting the colonel too. There -remained only one little difficulty: Mrs. Lenny’s pink bonnet was a very -fine article indeed, but she could not come to dinner in it. Where was -she to find a toilette for the evening, since all her luggage, Lady -Markham knew, consisted of a bag which she had left with the -lodge-keeper? Lady Markham herself was somewhat particular about dress. -She wondered privately what it would be best to do, as she leant back in -her chair and listened to the colonel talking of Roland and Harry. She -must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> put on, she concluded, the plainest article in her wardrobe, that -Mrs. Lenny might not feel uncomfortable, and she must give Alice a hint -to do the same. Thus the alarming sensations aroused by this meeting -subsided, to all appearance.</p> - -<p>“Yes, you did quite right; they are old friends, very old friends,” Sir -William said from his dressing-room, in answer to his wife’s question. -“Did I never tell you I spent two years in Barbadoes? Indeed I suppose I -had almost forgotten myself. My uncle had left some property there, and -not being of much consequence then I was sent out to look after it. It -came to nothing, like most West Indian property. The Gavestons were a -family of handsome girls. I—saw a good deal of them; most of the young -Englishmen who were there frequented their house. Lenny among the rest. -I scarcely recollected his name; but Katey Gaveston of course I was -bound to know.”</p> - -<p>“She implied, I think, that there once had been some—flirtation between -you,” said Lady Markham, with a smile.</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Sir William—his voice sounded harsher than usual, though he -was painfully civil and ready<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span> to explain—“perhaps there might have -been—something. It is nearly forty years ago—it is not of much -consequence to any one now.”</p> - -<p>“No—you don’t think I mind,” she said, this time with a soft laugh. But -he did not respond. He had not finished dressing, and <i>he</i> was very -particular in his attire. His wife had taken a slight liberty, she felt, -in disturbing him. Did she not know that he liked perfect tranquillity -in that moment of preparation for dinner? It would not have occurred to -him to put on a black neck-tie, or change the usual solemn dignity of -his appearance on account of any visitor. Lady Markham was glad that her -own very simple dress escaped notice, at least.</p> - -<p>The other pair meanwhile were comparing notes in their rooms, where Mrs. -Lenny’s preparations for dinner were by no means so simple as Lady -Markham had supposed. The bag, on being opened, had proved to contain -what she called “an evening body,” much trimmed with lace and ribbons. -She regarded this article with great complacency as she pinned the -ribbons across her bosom.</p> - -<p>“I hope you don’t feel that you’ve any call to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> ashamed of your wife, -Lenny,” she said. “I hope I’m fit to sit down with my lady, or the Queen -herself if she were to think of asking us. There’s the good of a real, -excellent black silk, it does for anything; in the morning it’s one -dress, in the evening it’s another. My Lady Markham will think I have -trunks full when she sees me. She’s a sweet woman; I thought so before, -but I think so more than ever now, to see the handsome room she’s put us -in. That proves her sense. She can see I’m not one of the common sort. -She doesn’t know anything about the connection, and she sha’n’t know it -through me, to vex her, the pretty dear. She doesn’t even know he was -ever in the island. After all, it’s a long time ago. She shall never -hear a word of it through me.”</p> - -<p>“That would be all very well,” said the colonel, “if there was only you -and I; but you forget there’s another to think of.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t forget; but there’s a deal more to think of than I supposed. -Why shouldn’t he stay where he is? It’s the life he’s used to. And what -would he do here? Money will never be wanting; and a little money would -make him a great man where he is. Don’t interrupt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> me with your reasons, -Lenny. He’s my flesh and blood, not yours; and I won’t do it, I haven’t -the heart to do it. A lovely woman, and a pretty family as you could -see. Don’t you know there’s the heir grown up—Paul they call him? If it -had been but a small boy I shouldn’t have minded. And the other, what -does he know about it? It can’t hurt him, what he doesn’t know. And he -isn’t at an age to change his habits. He’s no lad—he’s a man as old as -you or I.”</p> - -<p>“Twenty years younger, and more.”</p> - -<p>“What’s twenty years?” said Mrs. Lenny, indignantly. “He’s not an old -man, if you please, but neither is he young. He’s a man at his best—or -his worst, perhaps. We haven’t seen him since he was a boy. All’s fixed -and settled about him. And to change his country, and his condition, and -his way of living all in a moment!—who could do that? scarcely the best -man that ever was. He wouldn’t know how to behave; he wouldn’t -understand what was expected of him. He’d be miserable—and so would the -others too.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t argue with you, Katey,” said her husband; “you’re so used to -having your own way. I wo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span>n’t attempt to argue with you; but I know -what’s justice—and justice must surely be the best.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, justice!” cried the colonel’s wife, “where do you find it in this -world? Is it justice that you’re only lieutenant-colonel of a West India -regiment, when you ought to have been a general in the army? Don’t speak -to me. I know you better than any one else does, and when I say that’s -what you’re fit for you may be sure I’m not flattering. Does a man get -flattery from his wife? We may get justice in another world, and I for -one hope for it; but not here. And here’s just a case where justice -would do more harm than good. It would do harm to both sides, and punish -everybody. It would be real injustice and cruelty, and all that’s bad; -and would you be the one to force it—and I to recommend it? No, no; I -tell you no!”</p> - -<p>“I can’t argue with you, Katey,” her husband repeated. “Have it your own -way. It’s not my flesh and blood, as you say, but yours. But if it turns -out badly, and you repent after——”</p> - -<p>“Bless us all,” cried Mrs. Lenny, starting to her feet, “there’s the -dinner bell!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I would advise you to put your cap on straight,” was all the colonel -said.</p> - -<p>When this couple entered the dining-room, Mrs. Lenny felt proudly that -she had achieved one of the successes of her life. Lady Markham looking -up at her as she marched in on her husband’s arm, with flowers rustling -on her cap and lace on her shoulders, gave one look of bewildered -admiration, Mrs. Lenny thought, then glanced at Alice to communicate her -wonder. (“I knew she’d think I’d brought my whole wardrobe,” she said to -the colonel after, “and for that matter, that is fit to be seen, so I -have.”) The “evening body,” the lace, and the ribbons took Lady Markham -altogether by surprise; and it cannot be said that her own simple toilet -was appreciated by her visitor. But Mrs. Lenny was very kind after -dinner, and explained the simple artifice to her hostess, by way of -giving a lesson to one of the best dressed of women.</p> - -<p>“You look very nice in your muslin, my dear,” she said, “and so does -that pretty darling, that would look well in anything; but when you come -to my time of life it makes a difference; and roaming about from place -to place how could I have room for muslins? not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> to say that washing is -a ruination. I have one evening body made with good black silk. It costs -a little more at the time, but what does that matter? And there you are, -both for morning and evening, quite set up.”</p> - -<p>“It is a very admirable plan, I am sure,” Lady Markham said, with great -seriousness, checking with a look the laugh that was in Alice’s eyes. -The children were in the drawing-room, all four of them, very ready to -make friends with their beloved colonel’s wife.</p> - -<p>“I feel as if I had something to do with them. I feel as if I were their -grandmother, though I never had a child of my own,” she said. Thus -everything went harmoniously in the drawing-room, though the ladies were -all a little curious to know what kept the gentlemen so long over their -wine. Sir William’s coffee grew cold; he had never been known to be so -late before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">They’re</span> talking over old days,” Mrs. Lenny had said three or four times -before the gentlemen appeared. What could be more natural? No doubt they -had gone from recollection to recollection: “Do you remember” this and -that, and “what happened to” so-and-so? It was very easy to imagine what -they were talking about, and how they got led on from one subject to -another. They were heard talking, when they at last appeared, all the -way up the long drawing-room, pausing at the door.</p> - -<p>“All died out, I believe,” Colonel Lenny was saying. “The last son lost -his children one after another, and died himself at the last -broken-hearted, poor man! The daughters were all scattered—but Katey -knows more about them than I do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I am really afraid to ask any more questions,” Sir William said. What -more natural?</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear lady,” Colonel Lenny resumed, taking his old place beside -Lady Markham; “we have been making the most of our time; for it is very -likely we may have letters to-morrow, my wife and I, summoning us away. -I don’t like it, and neither will she, and perhaps we may have another -day, but I scarcely think it likely. I don’t know how we’re to drag -ourselves away. You have been kinder than any one ever was; and the -children have got a hold of my old heart, bless them!”</p> - -<p>The colonel had genuine tears in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Lenny will tell you what I propose,” said Sir William on the other -side. “It is not an easy position. I have always thought myself quite -safe—quite free of responsibility; and now to be pulled up all at once; -and when I think of my own boys——”</p> - -<p>“Your own boys?” said Mrs. Lenny, raising herself very erect in her -chair. “Oh, I feel for you—I feel for you, Will! but if you put the -least bit of a slur on my sister or her child——</p> - -<p>“Don’t make it worse,” he said, throwing up his hands. “<i>I</i> throw a -slur! You know I never thought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> of anything so impossible—it <i>is</i> -impossible; but how could I think of him as mine? Adoption has its -rights—but Lenny will tell you what I propose.”</p> - -<p>A short time after there were affectionate good-nights between the -ladies. Lady Markham accompanied Mrs. Lenny to her room to see that she -had everything she could desire.</p> - -<p>“I am so sorry you must go to-morrow,” she said, half out of politeness, -but with a little mixture of truth, for there was something in the -genial warmth of the strange couple which touched her heart.</p> - -<p>“My dear, it’s just possible we may have another day,” said the old -campaigner.</p> - -<p>The mother and daughter had a harmless little laugh together over Mrs. -Lenny’s “evening body,” but they agreed that “papa’s old friends” were -real friends, and adopted them with cordiality though amusement.</p> - -<p>“She asked me a great deal about the family and about Paul,” Alice said -as they separated.</p> - -<p>“No letter again to-day,” said Lady Markham, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>That name subdued their smiles. To think he should be the best beloved, -yet so careless of their happiness!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span></p> - -<p>“He is so forgetful,” they both said.</p> - -<p>And with this so common family sigh, not any present or pressing -trouble, only a fear, an anticipation, a doubt what to-morrow might -bring forth, the doors of the peaceful chambers closed, and night and -quiet settled down on the silent house.</p> - -<p>No one knew, however, that the night was not so silent as it appeared. -Sir William, of course, was left in his library when all the rest of the -world went to bed. It was his habit. He wrote his letters, or he “got -up” those questions which were always arising, and which every statesman -has to know; or perhaps he only dozed in his great chair; but anyhow, it -was his habit to sit up later than all the rest of the household, -putting out his lamp himself when he went to bed. This night, however, -after midnight when all was still, there was a mysterious conference -held in the library. Mrs. Lenny came down the great staircase in her -stockings not to make a noise. “I wouldn’t disturb that pretty creature, -not for the world,” she said. “I wouldn’t let her know there was a -mystery, not for anything you could give me.” And she spoke in a whisper -during the course of the prolonged discussion,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span> though Lady Markham was -on the upper floor on the other side of the house, and safe in bed. It -was Colonel Lenny who was the most stubborn of the conspirators. He -spoke of right and justice with such eloquence that his wife was proud -of him, even though it was she eventually who put him down, and stopped -his argument. It was almost morning—a faint blueness of the new day -striking in through all the windows and betraying them, when the Lennys -with their shoes in their hands stole up stairs to bed. It would have -been strange indeed if some conscientious domestic had not seen this -very strange proceeding in the middle of the night; but if they did so, -they kept the fact to themselves. Sir William took no such precautions. -He shut the heavy door of the library almost ostentatiously, awaking all -the silent echoes, and went up the great staircase with his candle in -his hand. The rising dawn, however, cast a strange, almost ghastly look -upon his face, doing away with the candle. He had told his wife that he -had brought some papers from town that had to be attended to, and which -had to be sent back to London by next morning’s post.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span></p> - -<p>Next morning the Lennys appeared at the breakfast-table in -travelling-garb, ready to go away. Mrs. Lenny had put on her pink bonnet -not to lose time.</p> - -<p>“Have you had your letters?” Lady Markham said, astonished.</p> - -<p>“No, my dear, we have had no letters; that was to be the sign if we were -wanted,” Mrs. Lenny explained. Sir William did not say a word. He did -not join in the regret expressed by all the rest, or in the invitations -proffered. “You must come back—promise us that you will come back,” the -children cried; but their father maintained a steady silence which -discouraged his wife.</p> - -<p>The whole family accompanied the travellers to the door to see them -drive away.</p> - -<p>“I hope we shall see you again,” Lady Markham said; then added, -oppressed by her husband’s silence, “when you come this way.”</p> - -<p>“My dear lady,” said the colonel, kissing her hand like a Frenchman, “I -shall never forget your kindness, nor my wife either; but most likely we -shall never pass this way again. There is nothing in the world I should -like better; but I don’t know if it is to be desired.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“God bless you!” said Mrs. Lenny, taking both Lady Markham’s hands, -“it’s not at all to be desired. Once for old friendship’s sake is very -well. But if I ever come here again it will not be as an old friend, but -for love of you.”</p> - -<p>“That is the best reason of all,” Lady Markham said, with her beautiful -smile. And she stood there waving her pretty hand to the strange couple -as they drove down the avenue. Mrs. Lenny’s pink bonnet made a dotted -line of colour all the way as she bobbed it out of the carriage window -in perpetual farewells. This made the young ones laugh, though they had -been near crying. Sir William alone said nothing. He had gone in again -at once when the carriage left the door.</p> - -<p>It was that very evening, however, that the letters arrived which cast -the family into so great a commotion and obliterated all recollection of -the Lennys. It had pleased Lady Markham that her husband, of himself, -had begun to speak of Paul the next time they met after the departure of -their guests. There was a certain tenderness in his tone, a something -which was quite unusual. “Have you heard from him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> lately?” he asked -with some anxiety, “poor boy!” This was so unusual that Lady Markham -would not spoil so excellent a disposition by any complaint of Paul’s -irregularity in correspondence. She replied that she had heard—not very -long ago; that he was still in Oxford; that she hoped he would return -for Alice’s birthday, which was approaching. Sir William did not say any -more then, but he spoke of Paul again at luncheon, saying—“Poor -fellow!” this time. “He has very good abilities if he would only make -the right use of them,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, William!” cried Lady Markham, “he is still so young; why should not -he make very good use of them yet? We were not so very wise at his age.”</p> - -<p>“That is true. I was not at all wise at his age: poor Paul!” his father -said.</p> - -<p>The ladies were quite cheered by this exhibition of interest in Paul, -who had not been, they felt, so good or submissive to his father as it -was right for a young man to be. “He is letting his heart speak at -last,” Lady Markham said when she was alone with her daughter; “he is -longing to see his boy; and oh, Alice! so am I.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“May I write to him,” cried Alice, eagerly, “and tell him he is to come -home?”</p> - -<p>They talked this over all the afternoon. Paul had not listened to any of -their previous entreaties, but perhaps now, if he were told how his -father had melted, if he knew how everybody was longing for him! There -were two letters written that afternoon, full of tenderness, full of -entreaties. “If your reading is so important I will not say a word, you -shall go back, you shall be left quite free; but oh, my dearest boy! -surely you can spare us a week or two,” Lady Markham wrote. Their -spirits rose after these letters had been despatched. It did not seem -possible that Paul could turn a deaf ear to such entreaties; and by this -time surely he, too, must be longing for home. The future had not seemed -so bright to them since first these discords began. Now, surely, if Paul -would but respond as became an affectionate son, everything would be -right.</p> - -<p>Markham Chase was situated in one of those districts where the post -comes in at night—a very bad thing, as is well known for the digestion, -and a great enemy to sleep and comfort. No one, however, had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> the -philosophy to do without his or her letters on that account. The ladies -naturally never took it in consideration at all, and Sir William’s -official correspondence did not affect his nerves. Lady Markham and her -daughter came early into the drawing-room that evening, while it was -still daylight, though evening was advancing rapidly. The children, who -felt severely the loss of Colonel Lenny and his stories, and were low -spirited and out of temper in consequence, went soon to bed. Lady -Markham retired into her favourite room—the large recess which made a -sort of transept to the great drawing-room. It was filled at the further -end by a large Elizabethan window, the upper part of which was composed -of quarries of old painted glass in soft tints of greenish white and -yellow; and which caught the very last rays of daylight—the lingering -glories of the west. Soft mossy velvet curtains framed in, but did not -shade the window, for Lady Markham was fond of light—and shrouded the -entrance dividing this from the great drawing-room beyond. The fireplace -all glimmering with tiles below and bits of mirror above, with shelves -of delicate china and pet ornaments, filled the great part of one side, -while the other was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> clothed with bookcases below and pictures above, -closely set. One of Raphael’s early Madonnas (or a copy—there was no -certainty on the subject, Lady Markham holding to its authenticity with -more fervour than any other article of faith, but disinterested critics -holding the latter opinion) presided over the whole; and there were some -pretty landscapes, and a great many portraits—the true household gods -of its mistress. There she had seated herself in the soft waning light -of the evening. Alice just outside the velvet curtains was playing -softly, now an old stately minuet, now an old-fashioned, quaint gavotte, -now a snatch of a languid, dreamy valse—music which did not mean much, -but which breathed echoes of soft pleasures past into the quiet. The -soft summer twilight fading slowly out of the great window, the cool -breathing of the dews and night air from the garden, the dreamy -music—all lulled the mind to rest. Lady Markham made not even a -pretence at occupation. What was she thinking of? When a woman has her -boys out in the world—those strange, unknown, yet so familiar creatures -whom she knows by heart yet knows nothing of, who have dipped into a -thousand things incompre<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span>hensible to her, filling her with vague fears -and aches of anxiety—of what but of them is she likely to be thinking? -She was groping vaguely after her Paul in strange places which her -imagination scarcely took in. When the other boys were away they too had -their share in her thoughts; but they were still in the age of innocence -at school, not young men abroad in the world. Where was he now? She -tried to figure to herself a scene of youthful gaiety—one of the -college parties she had read of in novels. She was the more bold to -think of this, as she felt that her appeal to Paul just despatched would -surely detach him, for a time at least, from all such noisy scenes. Lady -Markham’s imagination was not her strong point. She was floating vaguely -in a maze of fancies rather than forming for herself any definite -picture, when Brown came into the room with the letters. The music -stopped instantly, and Alice, rushing at them, uttered a tremulous cry -which made the mother at once aware what had happened. Only Paul could -have called forth that cry of trembling satisfaction, delight, and -alarm. Lady Markham got up at once and held out her hands for the -letters, while Alice ran to light the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> candles. “I can see, I can see,” -Lady Markham said. The mere fact that the letter was Paul’s made it more -or less luminous in itself and helped the fading light.</p> - -<p>Sir William, seated in his library by himself, had been thinking, with a -difference, much the same thoughts. With a compunction and compassion -indescribable, he had been thinking of his son. Paul, with all his -foolish democratical notions, was yet the most aristocratic, the most -imperious of young men, knowing nothing of the evils he was so ready to -take upon him, generous in giving, but to whom it would be bitterness -itself to receive. Would Paul ever turn upon him, upbraid him, curse -him? A shiver came over his father at the thought—and along with this a -horrible sense of the position in which this haughty young heir would -find himself, if—— How was it that such a possibility had altogether -escaped his mind? He could not tell: he did not know how to answer -himself. Forty years is a large slice out of a man’s life. Even had it -been some one fully known and loved, it would be unlikely that you -should think of him with any persistency of reference after a separation -of forty years—and a child, an infant, a thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span> with no personality at -all! But still, he asked himself, had he never thought when Paul was -born of the former time, far away in the morning haze of youth, when a -young mother and a child had called forth his interest? Yes, he had -thought of it; he had thought with alarm of what had happened then; he -had been more anxious about his young wife than young husbands usually -are—but no more. It had never occurred to him that his child had -anything to do with the other. Strange blindness in a man so accurate! -He said to himself, “It will come to nothing; it will be arranged; all -will be well:” but in the same breath he said, “Poor Paul! God help him! -What would happen to Paul, if——”</p> - -<p>He had not been able to do anything all day for thinking of this: he had -kept his blue-book before him, but he had made nothing of it. Sir -William, whose understood creed it was that public affairs went before -everything, could pay no attention to these public affairs. When the -letters came in, in the evening, he received them languidly, not feeling -that there was anything there which could interest him so much as his -own thoughts. When he saw Paul’s handwriting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> an unusual stir arose in -his elderly bosom. But he put it down, and took up a letter from his -chief, which would be no doubt of far more importance to the country, -with a last attempt to conquer himself. But the words of his chiefs -letter had no sense to him; he could not understand what there was to be -so anxious about. Smith’s candidature for Bannockshire—what did it -matter? He made a rapid and novel reflection to himself about the -trifling character of the incidents which people made so much of; then -laid down the solemn sheet with its coronet, and took up the letter of -his boy.</p> - -<p>A few minutes after he walked into his wife’s sitting-room, the letter -open in his hand. Lady Markham was seated close to the great window -against the dying light, with a candle flaring melancholy on a table -beside her, reading her letter. Alice, behind her, read it too, over her -mother’s shoulder: surprise and trouble were on their faces. Alice had -begun to cry. Lady Markham in her wonder and distress, was repeating a -few words here and there aloud. “I can no longer hope for anything in -this country of prejudice.” “Going away to a new world.” They were both -so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> absorbed that they did not hear Sir William’s entrance till he -suddenly appeared, holding out his letter. “What is the meaning,” he -asked, “of this, Isabel? What is the meaning of it?” The indignation of -the head of the house, which seemed to be directed against themselves, -brought the two ladies with a sudden shock out of their own private -dismay, and gave them a new part to play. Their hearts still quivering -with the sudden blow which Paul’s disclosure had given them, they still -turned in a moment into apologists and defenders of Paul.</p> - -<p>“What is it?—from Paul, William? he has written to you <i>too</i>,” said -Lady Markham, with trembling lips.</p> - -<p>“What does it mean?” cried Sir William. “He is going off, he -says—away—to Australia or New Zealand, or somewhere. What does it -mean? No doubt he takes you into his confidence. If you have known of -this intention long you ought to have let me know.”</p> - -<p>“I am as much overwhelmed as you can be, William. I have just got a -letter.” Lady Markham stopped, her lips trembling. “Oh, Paul, my boy! He -cannot<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span> mean it,” she said. “It must be some fancy of the moment. At his -age everything is exaggerated. William, William, something must be done. -We must go to him and save him.”</p> - -<p>“Save him! from what are we to save him?” Sir William began to pace up -and down with impatience and perplexity. He was not so angry (they -thought) as they had feared. He was anxious, unhappy, as they were, -though querulous too. “What is the meaning of it? Follies like this do -not spring up all at once. You must have seen it coming on. You must -know what it means. What has he been writing to you about lately? Is -there—any woman——?”</p> - -<p>“William!” cried his wife.</p> - -<p>“Well!—Alice, run away; we can discuss this better without you.—Well! -it need not be anything criminal or vicious, though of course that is -what at once you imagine it to be. Has he spoken of any one? Has he -ever—— No, he would not do that. He is a fool,” cried the anxious -father; “he is capable of any nonsense. But it need not necessarily be -anything that is vicious—from your point of view.”</p> - -<p>Alice had not gone away. She shrank behind her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> mother into the dim -corner, yet to her own consciousness stood confronting her brother’s -accuser with a resolute countenance, from which the colour had all gone -out. Her blue eyes were open wide with horror yet denial. Whatever Paul -might have done she was ready to defend him; although the possibility of -any such wrongdoing went through her like a sword of fire. The light of -the candle flickered upon her faintly, showing scarcely anything but her -attitude, partially relieved against the lightness of the window—a -slim, straight, indignant figure drawn up and set in defence.</p> - -<p>“He has not written often lately,” said Lady Markham, faltering; “but -oh, William, it is not possible; he is not capable——”</p> - -<p>“What do you know about it” cried Sir William, almost roughly. “How can -you tell what he is capable of? A young man will go from a house like -this, from his mother’s side, and will find pleasure—actual -pleasure—in the society of creatures bred upon the streets; in their -noisy talk, in their bad manners, in all that is most unlike you. God -knows how it is; but so it is. Paul may be no better than the rest. -Alice, I tell you, run away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham grew red and then deadly pale. She rose trembling to her -feet. “Can we go to-night? Can we go at once?” she cried. “Oh, William, -let us not lose an hour!”</p> - -<p>“You know as well as I do there is no train after eight o’clock. Compose -yourself,” said Sir William. “Nothing more than what has already -happened can happen to him to-night.”</p> - -<p>“We might get the express at Bluntwood—the train papa generally goes -by—if we were to start at once” cried Alice, with her hand on the bell, -her eyes turning from her father to her mother. The eager women on each -side of him made the greatest contrast to the head of the house. Had -Paul been dying instead of simply in a problematical danger, Sir William -Markham would not have consented to leave his home in this headlong way, -or take any step upon which he had not reflected. He waved his hand -impatiently.</p> - -<p>“You had much better go to bed,” he said, “and don’t worry yourself -about a matter in which for the present none of us can do anything. I -will go to-morrow. Sit down, Alice! Do you think Paul would thank you if -you arrived breathless in the middle of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> night? Try to look at the -matter coolly. Excitement never does any good. I will go and see if he -will listen to reason—to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>To-morrow! It seemed to both mother and sister as if a thousand -calamities, too terrible to think of, might be happening, might have -happened, before to-morrow; and on the other hand, how, they asked each -other with a pitiful interchange of looks, were they themselves to live -through the night? No feeling of this description moved Sir William. He -was very much disturbed and annoyed, but certainly it would do no good -to any one were he to render himself unfit for action by foolish -anxiety. Nor did he feel any of that vague horror of apprehension which -filled their minds. He was a great deal more angry and much less alarmed -about his son’s well-being. On the other hand, he was less sanguine; for -he did not hope that Paul would listen to reason, as they hoped that by -their entreaties, by their tears, by the sight of the misery his -resolution would bring them, Paul might relent and give way. After a -while Sir William returned to his library and to his blue-books, and the -official letter which he had only half-read, which he had suffered -himself to be so much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> influenced by parental feeling as to leave in the -middle; and though he paused now and then to frown and sigh, and give a -thought aside to the troubles of paternity, yet he went on with his -work, and gave all the attention that was necessary to the public -business, until his usual hour for going to bed.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham and Alice spent their evening in a very different way; they -read their letter over twenty times at least; they found new meanings in -every sentence of it. Hidden things seemed to be brought out, emotions, -penitences, relentings, by every new perusal. Sometimes these -discoveries plunged them into deeper trouble—sometimes raised them to -sudden hope. How little Paul was conscious of the subtle shades of -meaning they attributed to him! They were like commentators in all ages; -they found a thousand ideas he had never dreamed of lurking in every -line of their author; and with all these different readings in their -heads spent a sleepless night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Paul Markham</span> was not in his rooms. The porter at the college gate looked -curiously upon the party of people who asked after him. It was not the -time of year when college authorities interfere with undergraduates; -neither was a virtuous young man “staying up to read” likely to call -forth their censures. The porter could not give them any information as -to where to find Paul; the party (he thought) looked anxious, just as he -had seen people look whose son had got into trouble: the father with -wrinkles in his forehead, but an air of business and anxious -determination to look as if there was nothing particular in it—nothing -but an ordinary visit; the mother with a redness about her eyes, but a -smile, very courteous, even conciliatory, to the porter himself, and so -sorry to give him trouble; and an eager young sister<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> clinging to the -mother, looking anxiously about, staring at every figure she saw -approaching.</p> - -<p>“Here’s a gentleman, sir, as can tell you, if any one can,” the porter -said. All three turned round simultaneously to look at the person thus -indicated. He was a young man of not very distinguished appearance, who -came carelessly across the quadrangle in a rough coloured suit, with a -pipe in his mouth. He came along swinging his cane, smoking his pipe, -not thinking of what awaited him. However, those three pairs of eyes -affected him unawares. He looked up and saw the little group, and -instinctively withdrew his pipe from his mouth. He had just slipped it -quickly into the pocket of his loose jacket, and was trying to steal -through the party under cover of a messenger who was passing, when Sir -William stepped forward and addressed him—</p> - -<p>“This man tells me,” he said, “that you are a friend of my son, Paul -Markham, and can perhaps give us some information where to find him.”</p> - -<p>While the father spoke, the two ladies looked at the young man with eyes -half-investigating, half-imploring. He felt that they were making notes -of his rough<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> clothes, his pipe, which alas! they had seen going into -his pocket, and of a general aspect which was not very decorous, and -forming opinions unfavourable, not only to himself, but to Paul; while, -at the same time, they were entreating him with soft looks to tell them -where Paul was, and somehow—they could not tell how—to reassure them -on his account.</p> - -<p>Young Fairfax, who was not perhaps a very elevated member of society in -general, was of a sympathetic nature at least. He was greatly -embarrassed by their looks, and confused between the two sides, giving -the attention of his eyes to the ladies on the one hand, and that of his -ears to Sir William on the other. He felt himself blush at the thought -of his own unsatisfactory appearance—his worst clothes (for who -expected to meet ladies <i>in August</i>?) and the pipe, which both literally -and metaphorically burnt his pocket. Lady Markham and Alice took the -redness which overspread the stranger’s face, not as referring to the -state of his own appearance (though they were keenly sensible of that), -but as a sign that he had nothing that was comforting or satisfactory to -say of Paul—and their hearts sank.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span></p> - -<p>Young Fairfax coughed and cleared his throat.</p> - -<p>“Markham?” he said. “I will go and see if he is in his rooms.”</p> - -<p>“He is not in his rooms,” they said all together, a fact which the other -knew very well.</p> - -<p>When Fairfax found this little expedient of his to gain time did not -answer, he ventured on a bolder step. “If you will go to Markham’s -rooms,” he said, “I think I can find him for you. I know where he will -be; that is to say I know two or three men’s rooms—where he is very -likely to be.”</p> - -<p>“Could not we go with this gentleman?” said Lady Markham, looking at -him, though it was to her husband she spoke—and Alice looked at him too -with a supplicating look which went to the young good-for-nothing’s -heart. He gave the ladies a look in return which he felt was apologetic, -and yet full of a protest and appeal to their sense of justice. What can -I do? I cannot make him all that you wish him to be; was what he felt -his look said; and this was really the sentiment in his mind, though he -would have laughed at himself for it. They understood him well enough, -and their hearts sank a little too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Impossible!” said Sir William, “how could you go to—a man’s rooms? -perhaps into the midst of a—— party” he was going to have said riotous -party, but forbore for the sake of the girl. “No, you had better take -this—young gentleman’s advice—”</p> - -<p>“My name is Fairfax” said the youth, taking off his hat. He blushed -again, having kept that engaging weakness, though it is not by any means -sure that he had kept the modest grace of which it is the sign: and a -smile crept about his lips. The hearts of the two women rose a little. -If things had been very bad with Paul he would not, they reasoned, have -had the heart to smile.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fairfax’s advice,” said Sir William; “go to Paul’s room and wait -there, and I will go with Mr. Fairfax to find him. That is much the best -thing to do.”</p> - -<p>“I may have to run about to one place and another,” said the young man -alarmed; “it is a pity to give you so much trouble. Would not you, sir, -wait with the ladies? I promise you to find him with as little delay—”</p> - -<p>“I will go with you,” said Sir William, in his cold<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> way, which admitted -of no appeal; “you know the way, Isabel, to Paul’s rooms.” And thus they -parted, the young man looking at the ladies again with a kind of -dismayed protest: can I help it? He was very much dismayed to have Sir -William with him. Fairfax had not much doubt as to where Paul was, and -he did not think it was a place which would please his father. He felt -already that he had established an understanding with the others which -justified his glance of dismay. Lady Markham and her daughter turned -very reluctantly away. They went across the quadrangle with drooping -heads. Everything lay vacant in the sunshine, no cheerful bustle about, -the windows all black, no voices, no footsteps, no lounging figures -under the trees. Slowly they went across the light with their heads -close together. “He knows where Paul is,” said Lady Markham, with a -sigh. “But he did not want papa to go,” said Alice with another. They -crept up the silent staircase and went into the vacant room, and sat -down timidly, not venturing to look at anything. They were afraid of -seeing something, even a book, which in Paul’s absence would betray -Paul. His mother glanced furtively, pitifully about her. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> was more -bound by honour here in her son’s room, more determined to make no -discoveries, than if her boy had been her enemy; and who can tell how -the consciousness of this sank like a stone into her heart! A few years -ago everything would have been so lightly reviewed, so gaily -discussed—but now! The fringes of her cloak swept some papers off a -side-table, and she let them lie, not venturing to touch them. Paul -should not suppose that his mother had come to pry into his secrets. God -forbid! He should be allowed to explain himself, to say the best he -could for himself.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fairfax looked as if he knew everything. Did not you think so, -mamma?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my darling, what can I say? He looked, I think, as if he were fond -of Paul.”</p> - -<p>“That I am sure he did. He was not very nice looking, nor well dressed; -but these young men are very careless, are they not, when they are -living alone?”</p> - -<p>“I should not think anything of that, dear,” said Lady Markham, -decidedly; “I think, too, though he was careless of his appearance, that -he had an innocent look. He met your eye; there was nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> -down-looking about him; and he blushed; that is always a good sign, and -smiled at me, like a boy who has got a mother.”</p> - -<p>“And he did not look at all frightened to see us; as he would have done -had there been anything very wrong. I think he was rather pleased—it -was papa he was afraid of. Now it is clear that if Paul had -been—wicked, as papa said—(oh, Paul, Paul, I beg your pardon dear, I -never thought it!)—it would have been you and me, mamma, don’t you -think, that they would have been afraid of? They could not have borne to -look us in the face if <i>that</i> had been true; whereas,” said Alice, in a -tingle of logic, the tears starting into her eyes, “it was papa Mr. -Fairfax was afraid of, not you or me.”</p> - -<p>“That is true,” said Lady Markham, brightening slowly, but she did not -take all the comfort from this potent argument that Alice expected. -“Unless they are very intimate, he is not likely to know all that Paul -is doing” she said, shaking her head. Paul’s room was far from orderly. -Once upon a time he had been very fond of knick-knacks, and had -cultivated china and hung plates about the walls. All that was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span> gone -now. Lady Markham looked at the bareness of the room with a pang. Would -he have neglected it so if everything had been going well with him? -Perhaps had it been much decorated she would have asked herself whether -these meritricious ornaments did not indicate a mind given up to -frivolity; but at this moment it seemed a curious and significant fact -that the ornaments had all disappeared from his walls.</p> - -<p>In the meantime young Fairfax was hurrying Sir William at a pace which -scarcely befitted his dignity, or his years, along the streets. Probably -the young man forgot that his companion was likely to suffer from this -rapid progress; and when he remembered, he was not without hope of -tiring the angry (as he supposed) father. But Sir William was a -statesman and trained to exertion. He puffed a little and got very hot, -but he did not flinch. Fairfax it was evident knew very well where he -was going. He made a cunning attempt to deceive his companion by -pretending to pause and wonder at the first corner; then he smote his -thigh, and declared that of course he knew where Paul would be at this -hour—not in any ma<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span>n’s lodgings—with the man who was teaching -him—what was it? He could not recollect what it was—wood-carving, or -something of that sort. “It is a good way off; would it not be better to -let me fetch him?” he said, making a last attempt. “Let us get a cab,” -said Sir William. “Oh, it is not so far as that,” said his guide, with a -blush. Sir William had a half-suspicion that he was being led round and -round about to make him think the way longer than it really was; but -that part of Oxford had changed since his time, and he was not quite -sure of the way. At last, however, when no further delay was possible, -he found himself at the door of a little grimy house, the ground floor -of which seemed to be occupied as some kind of workshop, where a man sat -working. The place smelt of varnish and the window was full of small -picture-frames, gilt and ungilt, and other very simple articles, carved -workboxes and book-shelves. “Oh, Spears! has Markham been here?” the -young man cried with a certain relief in his tone, evidently pleased not -to see the person of whom he was in search. The workman looked up from -his work. He was busy with a glue-pot, and the varnish which smelt so -badly. He did not rise from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> his bench in honour of the gentleman, or -remove his cap from his head. He said shortly, but in a voice of unusual -sweetness and refinement—</p> - -<p>“He is here still. He has gone up stairs, to wash his hands I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Fairfax. It was not a syllable, it was a sigh. He had hoped -to have escaped easily; but it was not to be so. He went to the foot of -the stairs, which led directly out of the workshop. “Markham!” he cried, -“are you there? Come down at once; you are wanted.” How could he throw -special significance into his voice? It sounded to himself just as -careless as usual, though he had meant to make it very serious. -“Markham, I say, there’s some one wants you—important! Come at once!” -he added, going up a few steps.</p> - -<p>Sir William stood stiffly down below, watching with the utmost -attention, while the workman upon his bench eyed him with suspicious -eyes.</p> - -<p>Then Paul’s voice came still more lightly from above, striking strangely -upon the ear of his father, who had never heard that tone in it before.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span></p> -<p>“Confound you, what’s the hurry?” Paul said. “If it’s a dun you ought -to know better than to bring him here. I’ll come when I’m ready.”</p> - -<p>“Markham! I tell you it’s of the first importance,” said the young man, -going a step or two higher, but still quite audible to Sir William.</p> - -<p>Then there came a burst of laughter from above, seconded by what sounded -to Sir William’s suspicious ears like feminine voices.</p> - -<p>“Is it the Vice-chancellor?” said Paul; “or the Provost? Say the word, -and I’ll get out over the leads or through the window—”</p> - -<p>The next moment he appeared, rubbing his hands in a towel, and without -his coat, with a face more full of laughter than, Sir William thought, -he had ever seen it before; and this time he felt certain that he heard -women laughing up stairs. He was standing with his back to the light, -and his son did not see him for the moment.</p> - -<p>Paul came down stairs, gradually emerging, always rubbing his hands. He -called out—</p> - -<p>“Who is it, Spears? What is this fellow making a fuss about?”</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell who it is,” said the workman; “it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span> some one who has -come into my house without taking the trouble to notice me. I presume -therefore that it must be what is called a gentleman.”</p> - -<p>The sound of the man’s voice was so pleasant that Sir William did not at -first realise the offence in it; and at that moment he was too much -absorbed in watching the changes of his son’s countenance to think of -anything else.</p> - -<p>Paul emerged from the shadow of the staircase, which was like a ladder, -his face full of amusement and brightness, entirely at his ease, and -familiar with all about him. His hat was on and his coat was off, but -that evidently made no difference; neither did he cease to dry his hands -with the towel as he came leisurely down stairs. It was clear that he -expected no one whose appearance could require any more regard to the -decorum of formal life.</p> - -<p>When he first caught sight of his father a cloud came over him. Sir -William’s face was not visible, but Sir William’s figure and voice were -scarcely to be mistaken. The father looked on while the first shadow of -fear came over his son’s face; then saw it lighten with a desperate -effort not to believe what was too apparent;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span> then darken suddenly and -completely with the sense of discovery and of the fate which had -overtaken him. To see your child’s bright countenance cloud over at the -sight of you, to see the struggle of hope that this may not be you, and -despair to find that it is you, what mortal parent can bear this -unmoved? It would have half killed Lady Markham.</p> - -<p>Sir William was of tougher stuff, and less entirely moved by the -affections; but yet he felt it. He saw the same line come into his son’s -forehead which all the family knew so well in his own, and that -expression of angry displeasure, impatience and gloom, came over his -face. This made him too angry, in spite of himself. He said, harshly—</p> - -<p>“Yes, Paul, it is I. I am the last person you expected, or evidently -wished to see here.”</p> - -<p>Paul came down the remaining steps, the very sound of his foot changing; -he threw away his towel and took off his hat, and assumed an air of -punctilious politeness.</p> - -<p>“I do not deny that I am much surprised to see you, sir,” he said, -darting a glance aside of annoyed reproach at Fairfax. He had flushed a -gloomy red, of shame and annoyance, feeling his very shirt-sleeves to -be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> evidence against him—and looked round for his coat with an -inclination to be angry with everybody.</p> - -<p>“I had just gone to wash my hands after my work,” he said, with a -confused apology. Confronted thus suddenly with his father in all the -solemnity of authority and parental displeasure, how could he help -feeling himself at a disadvantage? He forgot everything but that his -father had found him in circumstances which to him would seem equivocal, -perhaps disgraceful; but he was not allowed to forget.</p> - -<p>“If you require to apologise, Markham, for being found in my shop or my -house, you had better not return here,” said the master of the place, -eyeing him over his shoulder from his bench, “any more.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, Spears. My father—does not think with me. It is by -no will of mine that he has come here——”</p> - -<p>“If you can’t be civil, and introduce him civilly—and if he can’t be -civil, and doesn’t know how to treat a man in his own house,” said -Spears, busy with his glue-pot, “you had better take him away.”</p> - -<p>“This is the man you brought to my house—in my absence,” said Sir -William, “imposing upon your mother.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> I suppose the well-known”—(he was -going to say demagogue, but paused, after looking at the person in -question)—“orator and leader of Trades Unions——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, that is I,” said the master of the shop. “I am quite ready to -answer any question on my own account. But I beg your pardon, whoever -you may be. Markham did not impose upon his mother, nor did I. He -introduced me as his friend, and I lost no time in telling the lady that -I was a working man. Lady Markham has the manners of a queen. She was -perfectly polite to me, as I hope I am capable of being to any one who -comes in the same way into my house.”</p> - -<p>Sir William gave his son’s friend another look. He had no desire to make -a personal enemy of this demagogue. A public man must think of -expediency in public matters, even where his own affections are -concerned.</p> - -<p>“You will excuse me,” he said, coldly. “My business is with my son. I -should not have intruded myself into your house had I known it. Paul, -your mother is at your rooms, waiting for you. I must ask you to come -there with me at once.”</p> - -<p>Paul’s countenance fell still more.</p> - -<p>“My mother!—here!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Good morning,” said Sir William, taking off his hat with much -solemnity. “I am sorry to have invaded Mr. Spears’s privacy even for a -moment. I will wait for you, Paul, outside.”</p> - -<p>The workman got up and took off his cap, bowing ceremoniously in answer -to Sir William’s salutation. He had not moved till his name was -mentioned.</p> - -<p>“There!” he cried, with comical discomfiture, “dash the little -aristocrat! He has the last word—that’s the worst, or the best of them. -They have their senses always about them. No flurry—no feeling. Well, -Paul, aren’t you going? Be off with you and explain, like a good boy, to -your mamma and your papa.”</p> - -<p>“What is it all about?” said a girl’s voice from the top of the stairs; -and first one, then another, fair, curly, somewhat unkempt head appeared -peeping down upon the group below. “And who is the little old gentleman? -Father, may we come down stairs?”</p> - -<p>“Go back to your work, on the instant,” said Spears; “I want no girls -here. Well, Markham, why don’t you go? Is your father to wait for you -all day—and I too?”</p> - -<p>“I shall go when I am ready,” said Paul, gloomily.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span></p> - -<p>He took a long time to put on that coat. He was not of a temper to be -cowed or frightened, and for a moment he was undecided whether to defy -his father directly and deny all jurisdiction or control on his part, or -to take the more difficult part of extending to Sir William that -courtesy which his teacher had instructed him was due from all men to -each other—from rebellious sons to fathers as well as in every other -relation of life—hearing what he had to say with politeness as he would -have heard any other opponent in argument. But the fact is that an -argument between father and son on their reciprocal duties is a thing -more difficult to maintain with perfect temper and politeness than any -argument that ever took place in the Union or perhaps in Parliament -itself. And Paul was bitterly angry that his father should have invaded -this place, and dismayed to hear that his mother had come, and that he -should have her entreaties to meet. He had not anticipated anything of -the kind, strangely enough. He had expected letters of all kinds—angry, -reproachful, entreating—but it had not occurred to him that his father -would come in person, much less any other of the family. He was dismayed -and he was angry; his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> heart failed him in spite of all his courage. -Pride and temper forbade him to run away, yet he would have escaped if -he could. He took a long time to put on his coat; he said nothing to -either of the two men that stood by, and pushed Fairfax aside when he -tried to help him. Spears had given up his work altogether, and stood -watching his pupil with a smile upon his face.</p> - -<p>“When does that fellow mean to go?” he said. “What is he waiting for? I -like the looks of the little old gentleman, as the girls call him. -There’s stuff in that man. But for him and such as him the people would -have had their rights long ago; but I respect the man for all that. -Markham, what do you mean by keeping him kicking his heels outside my -shop in the sun? That is not the respect due from one man to another. -He’s an older man than you are, and merits more consideration. What are -you frightened for, man alive? Can’t you go?”</p> - -<p>“Frightened!” cried Paul, with an indignant curl of his lip.</p> - -<p>“Yes, frightened, nothing else; or you wouldn’t take so long a time -about going. Ah, that’s driven him out at last! Do you know those -people,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> Fairfax, or how did you come to bring the father here?”</p> - -<p>“I know them? I am not half grand enough. How should I know a man who is -a Right Honourable? I met them by chance. Spears, you may say what you -like, but even a little rank, however it may go against reason, has an -effect—”</p> - -<p>“Do you think I need you to tell me that? If it hadn’t an effect what -would be the use of all we’re doing? ‘Why stand I in peril every day?’ -as that fine democrat Paul says somewhere. To be sure there’s something -in it. I once lived three days in that man’s house. I didn’t know he was -absent, as he says he was. I should have liked to have stood up to him -and stated my way of thinking, and seen what he had to say for himself. -It was the first sneaking thing I ever knew in Markham to take me there -while his father was away. Life goes on wheels in those houses,” said -Spears, taking his seat again upon his bench. “It was all one could do -after a day or two to keep one’s moral consciousness awake. A footman -waited upon me hand and foot, and I never spoke to him—not as I ought -to have done—about the unnatural folly of his position,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> till the last -day. I couldn’t do it; a fortnight in that place would have demoralised -even me. The mother—ah, there it is! We can’t build up women like that. -I don’t know how you’re to do it without their conditions. We have good -women, and brave women, and pure women, but nothing like that. You have -to see it,” said Spears, shaking his head, “even to know what it is.”</p> - -<p>“So long as it’s only a fine lady—” said the young man.</p> - -<p>“Don’t talk of what you don’t understand,” said the other. “I’d have the -best of everything in my Republic. I’d have that little old man’s pluck -and self-command; and the lady—I don’t see my way to anything like the -lady.”</p> - -<p>“I have always told you, Spears, that the old society which you condemn -has everything that is good in it, if you would have patience and—”</p> - -<p>“<i>You</i> have always told me!” said Spears in his melodious voice.</p> - -<p>He returned to his work without further argument, as if this were enough -reply. He was finishing a number of little carved frames, of which his -window<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span> was full. There was a bill in the window on which “Selling off” -was printed in large letters. The shop was full of wood and bits of -carving all done up in bundles, and everything about showed marks of an -approaching departure or breaking-up. The master of the house put on his -cap again and gave himself up to his work. It was not of a kind which -impressed the spectator. But the man who worked was not commonplace in -appearance. He was not much taller than Sir William, but had a large -massive head, covered with a crop of dusky hair. The softness of his -eyes corresponded with that of his voice, but the lines of the face were -not soft. He took no further notice of Fairfax, who, for his part, took -his neglect quite calmly. The young man took his pipe out of his pocket, -where he had put it stealthily when he first caught sight of the ladies, -for one moment paused, and looked at it with a look of half-comic -half-serious uncertainty. Should he keep it as a memento of that -interview? He looked at it again and laughed, then pulled out of another -pocket a little box of matches and lighted his pipe. He, like Paul, was -quite familiar and at his ease in the workman’s shop.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">You</span> have kept me a long time waiting,” said Sir William. “I should have -thought elaborate leave-takings unnecessary in a place where you seem so -much at home.”</p> - -<p>“I took no leave,” said Paul; “it was quite unnecessary. I shall see -Spears again to-night.”</p> - -<p>Sir William turned round upon his son with quick impatience; then -paused. This was not a case to be treated hastily, and patience was the -best. “You and I differ in a great many points,” he said; “therefore it -is not wonderful perhaps that I should think you have made a curious -choice of a trade to learn: for I suppose you are by way of learning a -trade. Don’t you think a certain amount of civilisation is necessary -before picture-frames will become remunerative? I don’t think you could -live by them in the bush.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Paul coloured high with that acute sense of being open to ridicule which -is so terrible to youth. “Spears is selling off his stock,” he said. “I -do not know if it is a sign of high civilisation, but he sells his -picture-frames and lives by them. Most men of genius have been reduced -to make their livelihood by some inferior branch of their work.”</p> - -<p>“And what then do you call his highest work?” Sir William asked -carelessly. Paul, astonished, but willing to believe that his father had -taken an interest in Spears and that all was about to go as he wished, -fell into the trap, as any other unsuspicious nature would have done.</p> - -<p>“His carvings are wonderful,” he said, with all the fervour of -enthusiasm. “When he has a congenial subject he is equal to Gibbons or -any one. He ought to have been a great sculptor. If you saw some of the -things he has done you would see what bitter satire it is that <i>he</i> -should live by those wretched little picture-frames.”</p> - -<p>“Is it so, indeed?” said Sir William. “Then it is the higher branch of -wood-carving and not picture-frames that you are learning, I suppose? -Do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> you mean then to carry high art, Paul, into the bush?”</p> - -<p>“I cannot see what this has to do with the bush, sir,” said Paul, -impatiently. “One must live there by one’s hands, and to know how to use -them in any special way cannot be a disadvantage in any other way. That -is Spears’s view of the subject, and mine too.”</p> - -<p>“I doubt if wood-carving will help you much in felling trees or making -them into huts,” said Sir William, with a great air of candour. “What do -you suppose the advantage is likely to be of changing from a state of -society where everything that is beautiful has its value, to one where -you will live by your hands, as you say, and where the highest skill -will only not do you any harm? I should like to know the reasoning by -which you have arrived at your present convictions—the ideas expressed -in the letter I got last night.”</p> - -<p>“You have received my letter then?” Paul said, with dignity. “You know -what my settled determination is. I hope you do not mean, and that my -mother does not mean, to attempt to turn me from a plan which I have not -decided on without great thought.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what your mother may mean to do,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> my boy,” said Sir -William, quietly. “She will act according to her own standards of duty, -not mine; but I know what I intend myself, and the first thing is to -understand your reasons for the extraordinary step you propose. You, the -heir of a fine property——” Sir William made a stumble before the word -<i>heir</i>, which, notwithstanding that Paul was about to abjure everything, -led him to make a rapid calculation of his father’s power in this -matter. The Markham property was not all entailed. Did the father mean -to disinherit his lawful successor? Paul felt a flush of indignation go -over him, though he was about to declare his intention of giving up all.</p> - -<p>“The heir of a fine property,” said Sir William, “and an influential -position. At this moment, young as you are, you might make a start in -public life, and have a hand in the government of your country, which is -as high an ambition as a man can entertain. How have you managed to -persuade yourself that to go out into a half savage country and -encounter the first difficulties of savage life is better or more -honourable than this? To live by your hands instead of your head,” he -continued, growing warm, “to surround<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span> yourself with beggarly elements -of living instead of the highest developments of civilisation—to make -yourself of no more account than any ploughboy——”</p> - -<p>Here Paul felt himself touch the ground. There had stolen over him a -chill of alarm as to how he was to answer such a question, but this last -clause brought him back to the superficial polemics with which he was -familiar enough. “Why should I be of more account than any ploughboy?” -he said; “that is the whole question. Why is there this immense gulf -between the ploughboy and me? Is he less a man than I am? Are not my -advantages a shame to me in the face of manhood? What right have I to -humiliate him for my advancement?”</p> - -<p>“What right have you to be a fool?” said Sir William, bitterly. “I don’t -know: your mother is not a fool, though she is not clever. If your -ploughboy had been educated as you have been, your argument might have -had some show of reason. Do you mean to tell me that education is -nothing—that a lad from the fields ought to be of as much use in the -world as you are? This is to despise not only rank, which I know is your -favourite type of injustice, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> breeding, culture, everything you have -acquired by your work. How do you justify yourself in throwing away -<i>that</i>? There is no question of humiliating the ploughboy; the ploughboy -will be of ten times as much use as you are in the bush.”</p> - -<p>This view of the question was not pleasant to Paul. He held himself up -with great stateliness, and did not deign to look at his father. “That -remains to be seen, sir,” he said.</p> - -<p>“What remains to be seen?—that a man brought up to farming will make a -better farmer than you—or your friend the wood-carver? Suppose we -consider the question from his point of view,” said Sir William. “He is -a skilled workman, you tell me.”</p> - -<p>“I said a man of genius.”</p> - -<p>“All the better for my argument. Your man of genius,” Sir William went -on with a barely perceptible smile, “may be—appreciated, let us say, in -a country like this, where art is known: but who will care for his art -where he is going?”</p> - -<p>“More than here,” cried Paul hotly, interrupting his father. “Here, -because he has no money, nor position to make him known, and no -impudence to push him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span> into favour, his beautiful work is taken no -notice of, and he lives by making picture-frames. Ploughing and digging -is better than that. The earth at least is grateful for what is done for -her.”</p> - -<p>“Not always,” said Sir William. “I thought you had heard enough about -farming to know better. However, the advantage of emigrating to -your—friend, will be, not the gain of anything, but the giving up of -his work, and the sacrifice of what you call his genius. No, I do not -scoff at his genius. I know nothing about it. I take it on your word. -Your man of genius will throw away his chief distinction on your own -showing; and <i>you</i> will throw away what as yet are your only -distinctions, the position you derive from your ancestors, the education -which you have got (partially) by your own exertions—for what? to -attempt to do clumsily what two ploughmen could do much better than -you.—— Ah! who is that?”</p> - -<p>Paul’s eye had been caught some moments before by a lady coming towards -them, at sight of whom a sudden flush came over his face. A lady! was -she a lady? She was dressed very simply in a black alpaca<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span> gown, the -long plain lines of which harmonised and gave elegance to a tall, -well-developed figure. The dress was well made and graceful, such as any -lady might have worn; but the little hat upon the young woman’s head was -doubtful. Even Sir William, who looked somewhat anxiously at her, seeing -the flush on his son’s face, felt that it was doubtful. The faded brown -velvet and scrubby little feather did not suit the rest of the dress. -She walked well, as she came towards them, but when she perceived Paul -and his companion, an air of embarrassment which was half fright came -over her face. When Paul, all red and glowing with a mixture of feelings -which Sir William could not fathom, took off his hat, she gave him an -alarmed, inquiring look, blushed fiercely, and replied to his salutation -with a hurried nod of her head, which made the question of her position -more uncertain than ever. Still she was a handsome young woman: before -she had seen Paul, Sir William himself had remarked her stately carriage -and figure. “Who is that?” he repeated, suspicious, as a parent -naturally is of a young man’s unknown female friends, yet not unprepared -to hear that it was somebody not unworthy to be known<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> by Sir William -Markham’s son; for it might well be that ladies in a learned community, -fearless of misconception, were not always so particular as could be -desired about their hats. He turned half round and gave a glance after -her as she continued her way, which, as she had just done the same, was -somewhat awkward. But Paul marched straight forward and took no notice. -“Who is that?” Sir William repeated, sharply, determined this time to -have a reply.</p> - -<p>Paul’s blush and discomfiture, and his marked and ceremonious -recognition of the stranger, meant several things. They meant that he -felt himself certain to be misconstrued, yet was too proud and too -sincere to take any means of avoiding misconstruction; that he was -annoyed by the encounter, alarmed by the new idea which his father would -certainly take up in consequence; yet forced by this alarm and annoyance -to show a more marked and excessive courtesy to the person (oh, had she -but gone down another street and kept out of the way!) whose appearance -plunged him into so much confusion, and would, he felt sure, complicate -everything. Whether this sudden liveliness of consciousness did not mean -that there was cause for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span> alarm is another matter. In the meantime all -that Paul felt was that the girl’s name once mentioned must add tenfold -to the difficulty of his position.</p> - -<p>“Who is it? It is Spears’s eldest daughter,” he said curtly, with a new -and brilliant suffusion of colour over all his face.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” was all Sir William said. What more was necessary? The young man -felt, with a sensation of intolerable impatience that he was judged and -condemned on the spot; but he could not protest against a conclusion -which was not put into words. If he said anything, would not his guilt -be considered doubly proved? Silence seemed his only policy; and no more -was said. The discussion, which had been so serious, came to a dead -stop. They walked on together without saying another word. Sir William, -who had been so bent upon convincing his son, dropped his argument all -at once. Paul did not look at him, but yet he was aware that the line on -his forehead, the pucker that meant trouble, had deepened. The young man -felt himself suddenly in the grip of despair. He felt himself judged, -the question settled, everything changed. His whole conduct had assumed -a new light in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> father’s eyes, and it was a false light. Instead of -respecting him as the logical if rash devotee of certain fixed -principles, his father evidently concluded him to be the victim of a -commonplace love affair. How was Paul to overcome this hasty and false -judgment? Pride and prudence alike made it necessary that he should take -no notice of it. He held his head higher in the air than ever, and -walked on with a certain protestation and appeal against the injustice -done him in every step he took. Sir William, on his side, dropped the -argument with a mixture of despair and contempt. This was how it -was—far more easy to understand than democratic ideas or communistic -principles in the heir to a great property, here was an inducement which -was plain to the meanest capacity: a fine, handsome, young woman! This -was how it was! Sir William felt angry with himself for being duped, and -for having really for a moment believed in the revolutionary sentiments -which had been assumed (he had no doubt) in order to carry on this other -pursuit. How foolish he had been to allow himself to be thus deceived! -He gave up his argument with an abruptness which had impatience in it, -and for the moment he could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> not say anything to the boy who had thus -succeeded in deceiving him, and added the feeling of shame for his own -gullibility to that of anger. He had taken the trouble to attempt to -convince him, to believe in an intellectual error, which, however -exasperating, was not discreditable—and this was how it was!</p> - -<p>What was to be done? It was all a mistake, but Paul could not say so, -for his father did not condescend to make any accusation. Thus they -walked on, fuming both with indignation and impatience. Now and then the -young man eyed his father as if he could have taken him by the shoulders -and shaken him, an undutiful form of the mutual exasperation. But Sir -William was beyond this. What was the good? He would save his breath, he -thought, for better purposes. Why should he talk himself hoarse while -Paul laughed in his sleeve, not caring a straw for his arguments, -meaning perhaps to laugh with the girl the next time they met over the -ease with which his father had fallen into the snare. No, the fellow was -not worthy of argument; he who was capable of masking an unworthy -entanglement in this way. Let his mother try her hand upon him, the -father thought, indignantly. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span> might do something. A woman’s tears -and suffering are sometimes more effectual than reason. Sir William felt -in his indignant disgust that to let his own beautiful and perfect wife -enter the lists against this—hussy—yes, he was coarse in his vexation -and distress—to let Lady Markham, the pride of the county, a woman whom -it was a glory for a man to have won—to let her come down from her -pedestal and humble herself to the pleadings and the tears of an anxious -mother for a boy so little worthy of her as to be capable of such a -connection—was a disgrace. But then he knew that was not how she would -feel it. She would not think of her own dignity. And she would get it -all out of him—women can; they do not disdain to return and return to -the inquiry, to ask question after question; he would not be able to -elude her examination. She would get it all out of him—how far it had -gone, all about it. And then some strong step must be taken—something -must be done—though, for the moment, he could not think what that -something should be.</p> - -<p>“I see them at last,” said Alice from the window. “Oh, Paul! Papa is -coming along quite quietly, not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span> scolding him. He is looking—not so -angry. It is so natural to see them walking along—quite friendly. He is -not scolding——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear! do not use such a word. Scold! we might scold Harry for -climbing trees: but this is too serious, far too serious. How is my poor -boy looking? Oh, I hope—I hope your papa has not been hard upon him. -Men forget that they were once young and foolish too.’</p> - -<p>“That was what I meant,” said Alice. “I wonder—— they are not saying -anything to each other, mamma.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham had come to the window and was looking out too, over her -child’s shoulder, while the father and the son came along the street -together, silent, separated by so much that was real, and something that -was mistaken. The mother and daughter looked out together with but one -heart. Not a breath had ever come between these two: they knew each -other absolutely as no one else knew either. How could it be possible -for them to misunderstand each other, to fall apart, to experience ever -whatever might happen, the chill distance and severance which was -between Sir William and his son? Lady Markham leant upon her child’s -shoulder.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Not a word,” she said; “not a word. Oh, my boy—my boy! Your father -must have given it up; he must think there is nothing more to be said.”</p> - -<p>“But we will never give him up!” cried the girl. “How could we give him -up? That is impossible. You could as soon give up <i>me</i>!”</p> - -<p>“Not Paul, dear—never Paul: but the attempt to turn him from his own -way. If he will not listen to your papa, Alice, what attention will he -pay to me and you?”</p> - -<p>Alice had no answer to make to this question, so intent was she, -watching the expression of Paul’s face as he crossed the street and -disappeared under the gateway. She read in it, or thought she read in -it, the conclusion of a stormy argument, the opposition to all that -could be said to him, the determination to have his own way which was -natural to Paul. And she too, with a sigh, recognised the futility of -argument.</p> - -<p>“He never would listen to papa,” she said. “Papa proves you so in the -wrong that you can’t help going on with it. But he will not be cruel to -you and me. Oh, when he knows it will break our hearts!” said Alice.</p> - -<p>And then they were silent, hearing the steps come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> up the staircase, -turning two pairs of anxious eyes towards the door. Sir William came in -first with a kind of stern introduction of the culprit.</p> - -<p>“Here is Paul,” he said. And then without any words, with a certain -half-protest against their presence there at all, Paul submitted to be -kissed by his mother and sister. They stood all together in a confused -group for a moment, not knowing what to do or say, for it is difficult -to rush into such a subject as this which was in all their thoughts in a -company of four. Lady Markham held her boy by the hand, and looked at -him pathetically with an unspoken appeal which made his heart ache, but -felt that she must have him to herself, must be free of all spectators, -before she could say all she had to say to him. “We had better go back -to the inn and get some luncheon,” said Sir William, breaking the spell -with practical simplicity. He took his wife by the arm as they went down -stairs. “The democracy is a pretence, and so is the fancy for a new -world,” he half-whispered, hissing into her ear. “It is a woman, as I -thought.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham started so that she almost lost her footing, and her -parasol fell out of her hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span></p> - -<p>“A woman?” she said, with a scarlet blush of trouble and shame. The -first intrusion of this possibility daunts and terrifies a mother. A -woman! what does that mean?—not the pure and delicate love with which -all her thoughts would be in sympathy; something very different. The -shock of separation between the boy, the heir of all her hopes, and a -man half-known, who is no longer the child of her bosom, was almost more -than she could bear. The cry she gave echoed low but bitter through the -empty passages, where many such have echoed, audible or inaudible, -before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">I cannot</span> move him one step from his resolution,” said Lady Markham, -pressing her hands over her eyes. They were aching with tears, with the -sleeplessness of the past night, and that burning of anxiety which is -worse than either. “He does not seem to care for what I say to him. His -mind is made up, he declares. God help us! William, our eldest boy! And -he used to be so good, so affectionate; but now he will not listen to a -word I say.”</p> - -<p>They were in a room in the hotel, one of those bare and loveless rooms, -denuded of everything that is warm or homelike, in which so often the -bitterest scenes of the tragedy of our life take place. Lady Markham sat -by the bare table; Sir William paced up and down between that and the -door. Outside was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> all the commotion of one of those big caravanserai -which have become so common in England, echoes of noisy parties below, -and a constant passage up and down of many feet. Trouble itself is made -harder vulgarised by such contact. They were far too much absorbed to -think of this, yet it made them a little more miserable unawares.</p> - -<p>“Does he mean to marry her?” Sir William said.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Lady Markham, with a start as if she had received a blow; “I -cannot think it is that. He will not allow it is that. It is, what he -has always said, those new principles, those revolutionary ideas, I do -not know what those men are worthy of who fill a boy’s head with -ridiculous theories, who teach him to despise his home.”</p> - -<p>“There are few who are much harmed by that. Isabel you must not be -squeamish. You must forget you are a delicate lady, and speak plainly. I -know what a young man is at Paul’s age; they can hold the wildest -theories without feeling any necessity to act upon them. It is a -privilege of youth; but against that other kind of influence, they are -helpless. And a woman like you does not understand the arts and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span> -wiles of these others. And he does not know how important it is,” said -Sir William, with a piteous tone in his voice; “he does not know——”</p> - -<p>“He knows very well what he is to me and to you,” Lady Markham said. In -this particular she spoke with perfect calm, not fearing anything. “How -should he not know? I have not hidden it from him that a great part of -the happiness of my life hangs upon his. It seems ungrateful when one -has so many blessings; but, oh! if <i>one</i> is in trouble, how can you be -comforted though all the others are well? All your heart goes to the -one. It is not that you love the others less, but <i>him</i> more—<i>him</i> -more.”</p> - -<p>Sir William listened to this outburst without a word. They were bearing -one burden between them, and yet each had a separate burden to bear. His -heart would not be racked like hers by the desertion of the boy. He -would not concentrate his whole soul on Paul because Paul was in -trouble. But on the other hand, she was altogether unaware of what was -in his thoughts, the doubtful position in which perhaps Paul might one -day find himself; the need there was that his future should be within -his own power to shape and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> form. Also Sir William was aware of the -disappointment and misery awaiting those who compromise their whole -lives in one fit of foolish passion, and secure their own misery by a -hasty marriage. These were the things he was thinking of. He saw his son -waking up to the realities of a life very different from anything he had -dreamed—and encumbered, he, so fastidious, so fantastical, with an -uneducated woman and all the miseries of premature fatherhood. He -groaned as this picture arose in his mind.</p> - -<p>“Trouble,” he said. “Yes, I suppose if a young man allows himself to get -entangled, there is trouble involved in the breaking of the tie; but not -half so much trouble as will come after, when his life is dragged down -by association with a woman like that,—when he has a wretched home, a -sordid life, a hundred miserable necessities to provide for,—you don’t -know what it is, you can’t know what it is——”</p> - -<p>He broke off abruptly. Would she perhaps suspect him—<i>him</i>, her -husband—of having learned by experience what these horrors were?</p> - -<p>But no such notion entered Lady Markham’s mind. “No,” she said; “I think -you are wrong, William. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> think it is not <i>that</i> that is in my boy’s -mind. Oh, if one could know—if one could feel sure, that his heart was -open as it used to be!”</p> - -<p>Here she paused; and there was silence between the two, Sir William -walking slowly up and down, with his head forward, and she sitting -wistful gazing into the dark air; her eyes enlarged with anxiety and -pain. They were such prosperous, happy people—so well off, so full of -everything that can make life smooth and sweet, that the silence of -their trouble was all the more impressive—so many things that harm -poorer people would have passed innocently over them. They had such a -stock (people might have said) of comfort and happiness to fall back -upon. Nevertheless, this blow was so skilfully dealt, that it found out -the weak places in their armour at once. To Sir William, indeed, it came -as a sort of retribution! but what had his wife done to have her -gladness thus stolen away from her? Fortunately those who suffer thus -innocently are not those who ask such questions. She shed her tears -silently, with many prayers for him who was the cause; but she did not -complain of the pain which was laid upon her for no fault of hers. They -had talked it all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> over in every possible aspect, and now they were -silent, saying nothing. What was there to say? They could do nothing, -however they might toil or struggle. It was not in their power to change -the circumstances. Even Sir William, though he was a man of much -influence, a great personage, of importance in Europe—capable perhaps -of stopping revolutions, of transforming the face of a country, and -modifying the fortunes of a race by the advice he might give—was -powerless before his boy. He could not turn Paul from the way he had -chosen, nor persuade him to think differently. He might be able to -destroy old corporations, to raise up new cities, to disestablish a -church, or disturb an empire; but he could not make a change in the -fancies of his son—whether it was in his opinions, or in his -inclinations; that was altogether beyond his power. He sighed heavily as -he went and came from the dull green-painted wall, to the dull table -covered with a green cloth. The Queen might listen to him, and the -country; but Paul would not listen. What wonder that his wife covering -her hot eyes with her hand, and knowing that Paul’s contumacy would -steal all the pleasure out of her life, should feel herself powerless -too?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span></p> - -<p>There was one thing however that threw a little light on Lady Markham’s -thoughts—one person to whom she could still appeal. She did not speak -of this to her husband, who might, she felt, oppose her purpose. But she -told Alice, with whom her consultations were still more confidential and -detailed.</p> - -<p>“He was made welcome in our house,” she said; “he was received as well -as if he had been—any one else; and he is not a man without sense or -feeling. If it is put before him as it ought, he will understand. I will -go and speak to Mr. Spears——”</p> - -<p>“About—his daughter?” Alice faltered.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham did not make any reply. She would not say anything about -the chief object of her mission. What she wanted above all things was to -test the truthfulness of her son’s assertion that this daughter was -nothing to him. Sir William put no faith in these assertions; but Paul’s -mother believed in him with trembling, even while she feared, and longed -for some indirect testimony which would convince her husband. She -thought over it all night, while she lay awake listening to the clocks -answering each other with hour after hour.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span></p> - -<p>Paul had not responded to his mother’s inquiries, as they had all hoped. -He had resisted her questions proudly, and he had not attempted to -explain.</p> - -<p>“You have made up your mind, you and my father, that I have not spoken -the truth,” he said. “Why should I repeat what you will not believe? I -have nothing to say but what I have said.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Paul, look in my face, and tell me—tell me!” she said. “I will not -doubt you.” But he was obdurate.</p> - -<p>“I have told you,” he said, “and you have doubted.”</p> - -<p>There was something even in this pride and indignant resistance of her -entreaties which moved his mother to believe in him; but Sir William was -of a different opinion. Her heart was torn asunder with doubt and fear; -and here was the one way in which she could know. Her husband might -think of Spears as a dangerous demagogue, but to her he was a man whose -face had brightened at the sight of her children, a man to whom she had -given her own ready sympathy—a human creature, whom she knew. Had she -not a right to go to him, to appeal to him to relinquish his hold on her -boy? Whether it was by his arguments,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span> or by something less abstract, he -had, it seemed, power which was almost absolute over her boy. Lady -Markham did not mean to say anything to him about his daughter, to ask -of him whether it was love for her which was leading Paul away; but -could any one doubt that she would discover the truth if she could see -him, and speak to him without any one to interfere between them? She -could not endure the doubts of Paul which rose in her own mind, nor to -be obliged to listen to his father’s doubts of him, and say no word in -his defence.</p> - -<p>Notwithstanding her sleepless night, she got up very early in the -morning, full of this idea, and stole out of the inn unperceived. It was -not till the morning air blowing in her face, and the looks of the -passers-by, which, like any one unaccustomed to go about alone, she -thought specially directed to her, had fully roused her out of the mist -of thought in which she was enveloped, that she remembered that she did -not know where Spears was to be found. What was she to do? She went -along vaguely, unwilling to return, past Paul’s college, with all its -vacant windows twinkling in the sun, by the way which her husband had -taken when he went to seek Paul the day before. Her heart gave a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> little -leap as she passed the gate to see some one come out whose face seemed -familiar to her. Was it Paul so early? Had he changed his habits like -everything else? But she saw very well it was not Paul; it was his -friend who had guided Sir William in search of him on the previous day.</p> - -<p>Young Fairfax took off his hat respectfully, and would have passed, but -she stopped and beckoned to him to come to her. Here, too, Providence -had thrown in her way a witness who might corroborate Paul. She was out -of breath with agitation when he came across the street.</p> - -<p>“Can I—be of any use, Lady Markham?” the young man said.</p> - -<p>“If it will not detain you—if it is not out of your way,” she said, -with anxious politeness, “would you show me where Mr. Spears lives—Mr. -Spears—I think my husband said you knew him—the—the public -speaker—the—very great Radical—he whom my son knows?”</p> - -<p>Fairfax was puzzled for the moment by this respectful description.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Spears!” he cried at last, suddenly waking to intelligence; he had -not heard him called Mr. Spears<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> before. A laugh woke about the corners -of his mouth. He was apt to laugh at most things, and it amused him to -hear the softening politeness with which the great lady spoke of the -demagogue. But the next moment the wistful anxiety in Lady Markham’s -eyes made him ashamed of his smile.</p> - -<p>“I will show you the place if you will let me go with you,” he said.</p> - -<p>It seemed some strange negligence on the part of the race generally that -such a woman should be unattended wherever she might choose to go. He -was a democrat too, mildly, with less devotion to Spears than Paul, yet -with some interest in his teaching; but Paul’s mother roused within him -a natural loyalty and respect which was not in accordance with these -principles—loyalty in which a subtle unexpressed regard for her rank -mingled with reverence for herself. It was not as a mere woman and his -friend’s mother, but also as a lady—the kind that queens are made -of—that she affected his mind. The idea of her required an attendant, a -servant, a retainer. He put himself into the vacant place hastily, to -repair the neglect of the world.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham took an unfair advantage of this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> devotion. She plied him -with questions—subtle and skilful—not always about Paul, but coming -back to Paul with many a wily twist and turn. She threw herself with the -warmest pretence of interest into his own career—what he was doing, how -his studies were being directed, what his future was to be? Was it a -pretence? No, it was not altogether a pretence. She could not but be -polite, and true politeness cannot but be interested. She was pleased -that he should tell her about himself, and a kind of shadow of an -anxiety that he too should do well came into her mind—a shadow faint -and vague of her great anxiety and longing that Paul should do well, -better than any one had ever done before. And like a lark descending in -circles of cautious approach to her home, she came back to Paul when her -young companion was off his guard, when she had beguiled him to babble -of himself.</p> - -<p>“Ah!” she said, “I fear you are both idle, both Paul and you,” when -Fairfax had been making confession of sundry shortcomings.</p> - -<p>“No, Markham is not like me,” he said. “Markham puts more of himself -into everything; he does not <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span>take things lightly as I do. He is a more -serious fellow altogether. That makes me rather fear Spears’s influence -over him, if you will let me say so.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I will let you say so,” Paul’s mother replied. “That is just -what makes me unhappy. He is a great deal with Mr. Spears?”</p> - -<p>“One time and another—yes, they have seen a great deal of each other,” -Fairfax said. “Perhaps you don’t know, Spears is the most entertaining -fellow. He has his own opinion about everything. I think myself he is -wrong just as often as he is right; but he has his own way of looking at -things. I don’t go with him in half he says, but I like to hear him -talk——”</p> - -<p>“And his house is a pleasant place to go to?” said the anxious mother. -“Excuse me if I don’t quite know. He is not in any kind of society, but -he has a family? It is a pleasant house?”</p> - -<p>Fairfax stared and then he laughed.</p> - -<p>“It is not a house at all, in the way you think of,” he said. “I don’t -suppose you can form any idea—we go and talk to him in his workshop. -There is no sort of ceremony. He will hold forth for the hour when he is -in the vein, and he is very entertaining—but as for what you understand -by a pleasant house<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham’s heart grew lighter every moment.</p> - -<p>“But he has a family?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—there are girls, I believe,” said Fairfax. Was he on his -guard? She almost feared the directness of this question had put him on -his guard. “One sees them sometimes running out and in, but that has -nothing to do with it,” he added, carelessly. “In his class it is not at -all the same as in other ranks of life.”</p> - -<p>Here there was a pause. Not an inference was there in all this of any -other influence than that of the political visionary—the influence -which Paul acknowledged. Lady Markham’s heart had given a leap of -pleasure. Oh, if Sir William had but heard this careless, impartial -witness, every word of whose evidence supported that of Paul! But then a -chill breath of suspicion came over her. What if he were less -unconscious than she thought, skilfully arranging his replies so as to -back up Paul’s assertions? This discouraged and silenced her, in spite -of herself. How easy it is to learn the miserable alphabet of suspicion! -She went along with him doubtfully, sick at heart, asking no more -questions, not knowing whether there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span> was anything in the whole matter -to which she could trust.</p> - -<p>“There is Spears’s shop. You will find him at work already; he is always -early. May I come back again for you, Lady Markham, in case you should -miss the way to the hotel?”</p> - -<p>“You are very kind,” she said; but the sight of the place where Paul had -spent so much of his time raised again a sick flutter in her bosom. She -waved her hand to him without any further reply, with a smile which went -to his heart; and then crossed over, dismissing him thus, and went -direct to the fountain-head of information—to Spears’s open door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Spears</span> was seated on his bench, with his tools and his glue-pot, as Sir -William had seen him on the previous day, when Lady Markham entered the -shop. He had never ceased to be industrious at his work, though he had -so many other things to do. Indeed, the many other things he had to do -made it incumbent upon him to work early and late, in order to keep, as -he called it, “the pot boiling.” For he was not a paid agitator. The man -was proud, as men will be in all stations; and, moreover, he was -uncertain—not to be calculated upon as a supporter of all kinds of -measures which might be proved good for “the trade,” and therefore not -half so serviceable an implement as many who were much less powerful. -Like the independent member who cannot be trusted always to vote<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> with -one party, he was looked upon with doubt even by those who took the -greatest advantage of his gifts. His influence had never done himself -any good. He had acquired it by exhausting labour, which had taken him -away from the work by which he made his bread, without supplying any -bread in the interval to nourish those who were dependent upon him; and -the consequence was that he had to work at other times early and late, -and was saved from all possibility of the idle life which a stump orator -may be so easily led into. His shop itself was swept and clean, the -boards freshly watered in large damp circles still marked upon the wood, -and a great bundle of large flowers—sunflowers and dahlias—stuck into -a large jug, stood in the window among the picture-frames. Some -brilliant gladiolas, in the brightest tints of colour, lay neglected on -the floor, and a great magnificent stalk of foxglove nodded on the table -at which he was working. These floral decorations, unexpected in such a -place, made the shop cheerful; and so did a stray ray of morning sun, -which got in through a break in the houses opposite, and fell across it, -dividing it as with a line of gold. The door stood open; the air, even -though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span> laden with varnish, retained some freshness. Lady Markham came -in softly, and stood, her heart beating, not knowing well how to open -this important interview, in the middle of the sunshine. Her breath came -quick. Now that she had arrived at the point for which she had been -aiming, a sudden alarm seized her. Might it not have been better, she -asked herself, hurriedly, to remain in ignorance—not to seek to be -convinced? There are things which it is better not to know.</p> - -<p>Spears, who was whistling over his work, did not hear the light footstep -coming in; but he noted, with the quick sense of a man to whom daylight -is indispensable, the shadow that had come across the sunshine. He -paused and looked up. A doubt—a question came over his face. Was it -possible he did not know her? Then he rose and came forward, holding out -to Lady Markham a hand not free from stains of the varnish which -perfumed the shop.</p> - -<p>“Is it you, my lady?” he cried. His face beamed over with a smile of -welcome, but showed no surprise or alarm at the appearance of such an -inquisitor. He drew forth a rough wooden seat without any back, and -placed it in the centre of the vacant space.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I am very glad to see you in my poor place,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” said Lady Markham. She glanced round her with a little -perturbation. She did not know how to begin. “Mr. Spears!” she said, -faltering a little, “I was very glad to see you in <i>my</i> house.”</p> - -<p>“Were you, my lady?” He stood before her with a good-humoured smile upon -his face, but slightly shook his head. “Never mind, you were as kind as -if you had been glad to see me, and that says more. But your husband -upbraided me for coming to his house in his absence, which you know was -your son’s fault, and not mine.”</p> - -<p>“It is of my son I want to speak to you,” said Lady Markham, seizing -this easy means of introducing her subject. “Mr. Spears, you know -something of what he is to me—my eldest boy, the one who should be the -prop of the family: to whom his brothers and sisters will look hereafter -as the head of the family.”</p> - -<p>“Ay, that’s just it,” said the revolutionary. “Why should they look to -him? What is there so creditable in being the eldest son? It was no -thanks to him. He was not born first for any merit of his. Far<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span> better -to teach them to depend on themselves—to give them their just share—to -make no eldest sons.”</p> - -<p>“As if that were possible,” Lady Markham said, with a soft smile at this -theoretical folly. “One must be the eldest, whatever you say; and if any -harm were to happen to us,” she added, after a pause, raising her -beautiful head, “I have no fear that Paul would give up his position -then. If we were to become poor, to lose all we have—such things have -happened, Mr. Spears—my boy would not find it hard to remember to take -up his duties as the eldest son!”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Spears in involuntary sympathy. Then he added with again the -same good-humoured smile, “There now, that is how you get the better of -us, you aristocrats. You are terribly cunning in argument, my lady. You -get over us by a suggestion of generosity when we are talking of -justice. The thing will never happen, of course—not in our day, more’s -the pity—your money and your land will never be taken from you.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think that is a pity, Mr. Spears?”</p> - -<p>“Well, yes,” he said, laughing, “from our point of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> view; but it will -never happen, not in our time. And even if it did happen, don’t you -think it would be far better to live each man for himself, and not a -whole family casting themselves on the shoulders of your son Paul?”</p> - -<p>“My son Paul,” said Lady Markham, in a low voice, looking at him through -the tears in her eyes, “will be far away from us—will not be at hand to -be of use or consolation in case anything should happen to us, if you -and he have your will, Mr. Spears. He will be far away where he will be -of no use to his family. Such a thing might happen, though God forbid -it! as that I might be left to struggle alone for my children; and Paul, -my eldest, my natural help, far away, lost to me, as if he had never -been.”</p> - -<p>Spears turned away while she was speaking, and returned to his bench. He -cleared his throat; his face flushed; he was as much embarrassed as she -had been at the beginning, and did not know how to reply.</p> - -<p>“My lady,” he said, “this is too bad; I think it is too bad. After all a -man has more things to think of in this world than whether his family -has need of him, or if he can be of use to his mamma.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>He said the last word with a semitone of ridicule, then blushed for -himself as he caught her eye. Lady Markham saw her advantage. She would -not let him escape.</p> - -<p>“Are there then many things in this world that are better than being of -use to your family, and helping in a hard task your mother? Do you think -so, Mr. Spears? Ah, no! I am certain you don’t. You are talking <i>au bout -des lèvres</i>, not from your heart. If we should ever need him, Paul will -be—who can tell?—thousands and thousands of miles away; and for what? -Why do you want him to go with you? Why are you going? I do not know the -reason. Because you are impatient, and do not like the manner in which -things are arranged at home?”</p> - -<p>“We will not enter into that, my lady,” said Spears; “we will not enter -into that.”</p> - -<p>He said this, half in contempt of her intelligence, which did not rise -to his lofty view, half because (and this really meant the same thing) -it was very difficult to explain why he thought it expedient to go away. -Many motives were mingled in his resolution which he did not dwell upon -even to himself. He was tired of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span> poor work and poor pay, and the -struggle of living; tired of having to manufacture pictures-frames for -bread when he could have done something so much better: and disgusted -that his higher work got no real appreciation from any one. And he was -tired too even of his agitation, the speeches and popular applause which -were all very well for the moment, but neither seemed to convince any -one, nor to affect the world at all. All this was going on day after -day, week after week, but never came to anything. Often speakers whom he -knew to be much inferior to himself were more warmly applauded; and some -whom he considered (as other people considered him) to be stump orators -and noisy demagogues, got elevated and salaried, and swaggered about in -all the importance of delegates and representatives of the people, while -he received no such distinction. Though this was partly his own fault -through the pride and love of independence which characterised him, yet -Spears felt it. It soured him, in spite of himself. All this, however, -lay in his heart undivulged, except by a bitter word now and then; and -what he said to himself was that the old country was thoroughly corrupt -and hopeless, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span> that in a new country, under better conditions, life -would be more worth having. Did this fine lady, who knew nothing about -it, divine what was secretly shut up in his mind? He grew half afraid of -her, simple and ignorant as she had seemed to him a little while before.</p> - -<p>“Ah, Mr. Spears, let us speak of it! You forget how important it is to -me. But for you, I should not run any risk of losing my boy.”</p> - -<p>“I did not propose that he should come with me. You will do me the -justice to believe, Lady Markham, that I never attempted to bias him.”</p> - -<p>“To bias him,” she said—“what is it then? Is it not all your doing? -Why, should Paul go away, but for you? He has got these notions which -you have taught him into his head—”</p> - -<p>“On the contrary,” said the workman, “I have told him that were I in his -place I should certainly stay in England. This is no place for a poor -man who thinks—but for a man who is not poor, who has a position like -his, why, it is the ideal place. There is no aristocracy so solid as in -England. I have told him so a hundred times.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham’s face grew whiter and whiter. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> did not occur to her -that this very advice might be conveyed in a tone which would make Paul -wildly indignant at the supposed immunity and privileged condition with -which his friend credited him. Such an explanation did not occur to her. -Dismay stole over her heart; it was then as Sir William thought—Paul -was not telling them the truth. The cause of his wild project was not -philosophy and foolish opinions, since even his leader disowned it. It -was something else. Her heart sank within her, she lost the control of -her better sense. “If it is not you,” she said, “who is it then—who is -it, Mr. Spears? You have—a daughter?” This seemed to come from her in -spite of herself.</p> - -<p>“A daughter—I have three,” he said, “but what have they—” here he -stopped, and getting up from his bench gave vent to a low whistle of -astonishment and perplexity. He was as much surprised as she could be, -and not much more pleased. He gazed at her a moment speechless. “Can -that be so?” he said.</p> - -<p>Impossible to sink lower than Lady Markham’s heart sank—it seemed to -melt away altogether in humiliation and disappointment. She looked at -him piteously, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> tears so gathering into her eyes that she could -scarcely see his face.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Spears,” she cried, “you know what such a connection always -comes to; disappointment on both sides—the woman’s as well as the -man’s. Whatever his feelings may be now, he would soon find out that she -was not—like the women he had been used to; and she would find herself -among—habits that were not congenial to her. Oh, Mr. Spears, for both -their sakes—you that Paul thinks so much of, you whose opinion he -follows so meekly—oh, will you not exert your authority, and forbid -it—forbid it altogether?”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham lost control of the words she was saying. She did not think -whether this was likely to be a mode of entreaty that would be grateful -to him. She lost her own fine sense of what was fit and seemly, in the -eagerness of the appeal which might save her boy.</p> - -<p>He stood over her, looking at her, changed she could not tell how. His -face clouded over before her eyes. At first this seemed only the effect -of the tears that blinded her, but when these latter fell she became -aware that the countenance which had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> so good-humoured and friendly -was full now of a very different sentiment. The man seemed to have -expanded even in outline as he stood between her and the light.</p> - -<p>“Forbid it, forbid it altogether!” he repeated, with a smile that seemed -to freeze her. “Why?” She felt herself tremble before him as he fixed -his eyes upon her. “My lady,” he said, “you forget where you are, and -you forget your politeness for once. How do you know my girl is not like -the women he has been used to? By God! she’s better than most he’ll meet -with among your depraved and worn-out race. <i>My</i> girl! if it is true, -and she likes him, do you think I would forbid it, to save your fine -blood from pollution, and keep your Paul for some fine lady of the kind -he’s been used to? No, not for a million of mothers—not for all the -soft-spoken insults in the world.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markharn made no reply; she could not, her agitation was so great; -but indignation began to steady her nerves, and give back her forces. -What had she said to call for this? How dared he speak of insult, the -man whom she felt she had honoured by coming to him, by appealing to -him? She was not an angel,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> though she was a good woman, and -instinctively she began to call together her faculties, to range -herself, as it were, on her own side.</p> - -<p>Apparently, however, after this outburst, Spears felt ashamed of -himself. A fine sense of courtesy was in the man, almost finer than her -own. He began to be ashamed of having thus violated hospitality, of -having so addressed her in his own house. He turned away from her to -recover himself, turning his back upon her, then came back with again a -changed aspect. “I beg your pardon,” he said; “I ought to have more -control of myself in my own place. I don’t believe it’s true what you -think. No, my lady, I don’t mean you’re saying what you don’t believe—I -think you’re deceived. I won’t ask who’s told you, or how it’s come into -your head; I’ll put it to a better test. I’ll ask the girl herself.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Spears,” said Lady Markham, “you have been very rude to me; I have -not insulted you, nor did I mean to do so. It never occurred to me,” she -added, with a fine sting in her words which penetrated through all his -armour, “that I need fear anything from <i>you</i> which I should not have -encountered in—another rank<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> of life. But I do not wish to make -reprisals,” she said, with a faint smile, rising from her seat. “If you -question your daughter on such a subject it ought not to be before me.”</p> - -<p>“My lady,” cried Spears, his face full of passion, “unless it is to be -open war between us it shall be before you. If there’s love between them -there should be no shame in it. My girl is one that can hold up her head -before any on the face of the earth. It is not my beginning, but it -shall be settled and cleared up on the spot. Janet! come down here, I -want you,” he called at the foot of the stairs.</p> - -<p>Even in the midst of her agitation, Lady Markham had been conscious of -sounds above, footsteps and young voices, one of which indeed had been -persistently singing all the time, some trivial song of the moment in a -clear little sweet voice, like the trill of a bird. The insignificant -tune had run through all this exciting interview, and worked itself into -Lady Markham’s head, and in spite of herself she stood still, not -resisting any longer, turning towards the stairs involuntarily, watching -for the appearance of the girl who (perhaps) was dearer to her boy than -anything else, who, perhaps,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> was his motive for relinquishing -everything else, including his mother’s happiness and the comfort of his -family. What woman could remain unmoved under such circumstances? Once -more her heart began to beat as she turned her face towards the dingy -stairs. Was it some beautiful apparition which was to appear from it, -some creature such as exists in poetry, some woman for whom it would be -comprehensible that a man should give up all? Lady Markham had romance -enough in her to feel that this was possible, almost to wish it, while -she feared it. If it were so, it would be more easy to forgive Paul. Ah, -forgive him!—that was never hard; that was not the question. Our -forgiveness, like a weeping angel, is it not always hovering, -forestalling even the evil to be forgiven, over our children’s wayward -ways? But to get it out of her mind, out of her memory, that he had -deceived her, that was not so easy. She, who had come in search of -evidence to exonerate Paul, can any one wonder that she stood trembling, -scarcely seeing, scarcely hearing, yet all eyes and ears, to receive the -testimony of this indisputable witness, against whom there could be no -appeal? But when the girl’s foot sounded on the stair<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> it seemed to Lady -Markham that she had already given up all hope that Paul was -true—provided only that this woman for whom he had compromised the -honour of his word, might at least afford some justification for the -sacrifice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">What</span> is it, father? do you want me?”</p> - -<p>The girl spoke to her father, but her eyes were caught instantly by the -unusual apparition of the lady in the shop. Who was she? not an ordinary -customer, not anybody with an order for picture frames. A flutter awoke -in Janet’s breast. Was it perhaps somebody sent from the shop to offer -that situation which was the dream of her fancy? a situation, she did -not quite know what, varying as her hopes and sense of self-importance -varied from that of a companion (which, the forewoman of the shop had -told her, her manners and look were equal to—not to speak of her -education) to that of a lady’s maid. Emigration was not an idea which -pleased Janet. She was afraid of the sea, afraid of the unknown, and not -at all desirous of being always<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> at home, shut up within the circle of -family duties and companionship. She wanted to see the world, as all -young people had, she thought, a right to do. To go into the wilds had -no charm for her. She had grown up in the close presence of all her -father’s theories without being affected by one of them. She had heard -him speak by the hour and had paid no attention. All his moral -independence, the haughtiness of his determination to be his own master, -and stand under subjection to no man, affected his child no more than to -make her wish the more fervently for that “situation,” which would -deliver her from the monotony of these “holdings forth.” Janet’s ideal -of a happy existence was that of a large “establishment” where there -would be a crowd of servants, elegant valets and splendid butlers at the -feet of the pretty maid whom nobody would be able to tell from a -lady—or perhaps a chance of catching the eye of the master of one of -these fine gentlemen, who would make her a lady in earnest, with -servants of her own. Nobody knew of these secret dreams which occupied -her fancy, and grew and flourished in the atmosphere of the shop; but -when her father called her suddenly, and she came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> down to see Lady -Markham standing so exactly like (she thought) a lady whom the forewoman -might have sent with the offer of a situation, her heart began to beat, -and her head to turn round with excitement—excitement only not so great -as that of the woman who stood gazing at her with wistful eyes, asking -herself if this was the woman whom Paul preferred to all the world.</p> - -<p>Janet was tall, and possessed what the people at the shop called “a -lovely figure;” the mantles and jackets never looked so well as upon -her. The habit of putting these garments on, and making a little parade -in front of the glass to show them, which was her daily duty, had given -a certain ease of carriage not usual in her class. When you are -accustomed to be gazed at, whether for yourself, or what you carry on -your shoulders, it takes away the native embarrassment of the -self-conscious creature. She was dressed in that gown of black alpaca -which is the uniform of the shops, and which did full justice to the -fine lines of her form. These were not the mere slim outlines of a -girlish figure which might turn to anything, but really beautiful, -finely proportioned, and imposing. She came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> down into her father’s -shop, into the line of sunshine that crossed it, with the air of a young -queen. Her face, however, was not so fine. She was pale, her nose not -quite so delicate, her mouth not so small as beauty demanded. Her hair -was fair, with little colour in it, and affording but little relief to -the forehead upon which it clustered in a wild but careful disorder, -according to the fashion of the time. Lady Markham took in every line -and every feature as the girl advanced: far more critically than if she -had been, as Janet thought, an intending employer did she examine this -new unknown being who (was it possible?) had Paul’s future in her hands. -They gazed at each other, forgetting the man who stood by watching their -mutual interest with what would have been amusement had he been less -indignant and curious. Men and women are always so strange to each -other. He looked at these two with a half-despairing, half-comic -(notwithstanding his seriousness) consciousness that the ideas that were -going through their minds were to him a sealed book. He did not know, -poor man, that the lady, who was a stranger, was the one of the two that -was comprehensible to him, and that stranger than all Greek or Latin,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span> -more mysterious than philosophy, would have been to him, had he been -able to see them, the thoughts in the mind of his own child.</p> - -<p>“I want to ask you a question, Janet. Don’t be alarmed, it is not -anything to frighten you,” he said. “In the first place this is Lady -Markham, the mother of Mr. Markham whom you have so often seen here.”</p> - -<p>Janet made a curtsey to the lady, uttering a little confused “Oh!” of -wonder, and opening her eyes, and even her mouth, in surprise. Could Mr. -Markham have recommended her? <i>Mr. Markham!</i> She did not know what to -think. Why should he wish her to be under his mother’s care? Thought -goes quick at all times, quickest of all in such a crisis, when the next -word may change all your prospects in life. Her mind plunged forward in -a moment into a world of possibilities, while her eyelids quivered with -that expression, and her mouth kept the form of the “Oh!” tremulous and -astonished. The quiver communicated itself to her whole frame—what -might come next?</p> - -<p>“You must understand,” said Lady Markham quickly, “that I have nothing -to do with the question your father is going to ask you. It is not put -in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> consequence of anything I have told him—nor is it put at my -desire.”</p> - -<p>Spears gave a little laugh, elevating his eyebrows. Yes, this was the -sort of thing to be expected. She had led him on to it, and now she -protested that she had nothing to do with it—was not this the kind of -tactics pursued by her class in all ages? To push the frank and honest -man of the people into a corner and then to disown him. He laughed, -though he had not much inclination to laugh.</p> - -<p>“Quite right, quite true,” he said; “it is for my own satisfaction -entirely. Janet, nobody has ever come between you and me,” the man added -with a certain pathos. He looked at his daughter with a mist of honest -affection and trust in his eyes, and without an idea, without a -suspicion, that between him and her lay a whole world of difference, -indescribable by ordinary words. “I have been father and mother both to -you. Answer me, my girl, without any fear. Mr. Markham has told his -family that he is going with us to Queensland. Janet, answer me plainly, -is it out of love for you?”</p> - -<p>“Father!” Janet, whose face was turned towards<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span> him, gave a sudden cry. -In a moment a flame of colour went over her. She opened her eyes still -wider, and her mouth, with dismay. “Oh, father! father!” she cried, in a -tone of warning and alarm.</p> - -<p>It seemed to Lady Markham that nothing more was necessary. Her limbs -refused to support her any longer. She sank upon the seat which she had -abandoned. The girl was afraid to speak the truth before her; but yet -what doubt could there be of the meaning in her voice.</p> - -<p>“I ask you to tell me plainly—to speak out as between you and me,” said -Spears. He was not slow to perceive what her tone implied, and the -warning in it made him angry. “There is no reason why you should -hesitate to say it. If so it is, there is nothing wrong in it as far as -I can see. Blush you must, I suppose—girls cannot help it; but tell me, -like an innocent creature as you are, tell me the truth. I tell you -there is nothing to be ashamed of. Is it out of love for you?”</p> - -<p>Her thoughts rushed, tumbling over each other in a wild dance, a -feverish Bacchic procession, through Janet’s head. She did not mean to -say, or even to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> imply what was not true. But such questioning could -only mean one thing, that Mr. Markham had confessed to his mother that -he was “in love” for her—that unthought-of, bewildering promotion was -within her reach. She did not mean to tell a lie. She blushed more hotly -than ever.</p> - -<p>“Oh, father, how can you ask me such a thing—before a lady?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Then it is true?”</p> - -<p>Janet did not make any reply; she dropped her head with a modest grace, -twisting her fingers together nervously, her whole frame quivering. It -was not she that had told them anything: they had told her. Ah! she -remembered now a score of little nothings. Had not he picked up her -thimble for her when she let it fall? Had not he opened the door for her -when she came and went? How often she had wondered how he could come -night after night and day after day—for what?—to talk to father, to -listen to father! Many and many a time she had wondered at, and in her -heart despised, her father’s disciples. It was “bosh” that he was -saying, and yet these others would sit round him and take it all in.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span> -But here was something altogether different. That a young man should -only have pretended to listen to father, should have come for herself -all the time, was quite comprehensible to Janet. There was nothing -strange even—nothing out of the way in it. It was what lovers had done -from the beginning of time.</p> - -<p>“Is that all you have got to say?” said her father. “Can’t you give us -any more satisfaction? Speak out when I tell you, Janet. All this time -that he has been coming here, not saying a word to you, pretending to be -my disciple—” A little sting of wounded vanity was in Spears too. He -did not quite like to feel that he had been deceived, that his most -fervent follower was nothing but the lover of his daughter. “All this -time,” he repeated, “has it been for you he has been coming? That is -what we want to know.”</p> - -<p>Still Janet said nothing. She stood with her eyes cast down, interlacing -her fingers in and out, out and in—her mind in such a sudden heat of -active operation that she had not leisure to speak. It was not the first -time that the idea had presented itself to her. She had thought of it as -a very desirable thing that Mr. Markham (or one of the others) should -fall in love with her. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span> up to this moment she had not been able to -see any likelihood of her desire realising itself. However, her mind -leaped into instant action, supporting with a whole array of proof the -suggestion so suddenly placed before her, of the truth of which she did -not entertain a moment’s doubt. How could she doubt it? If he had told -his mother, certainly it must be true; and the other facts adapted -themselves as by magic to this great central fact. As soon as she had -got possession of that as a foundation, the details seemed to come at a -wish, and a whole superstructure of blessedness sprang upwards towards -the skies.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you wish me to say, father,” she answered, at last, -after another peremptory call. She spoke with all the modesty of -conviction, for she felt now that every word was true. “There are things -as a girl cannot speak about. There are a deal of things as are nothing -in themselves; but still a girl knows what they mean.”</p> - -<p>These modest words gave an indescribable pang to both her hearers. As -for Spears, it was all he could do not to cry out with anger and pain. -To think that at this great crisis, at a moment when so much depended -upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> it, she should speak with such disregard of grammar, -notwithstanding all the care he had taken of her education.</p> - -<p>“There are things as a girl cannot speak about.”</p> - -<p>He knew that this would catch Lady Markham’s ears, and he felt himself -humbled before her—not because of the fact, which there was no harm in, -which was indeed natural enough; but that his girl should tell it in -such grammar occupied Spears to the exclusion of deeper sentiment. He -turned to his visitor with a conciliatory tone, and a look of -deprecation as if asking her pardon.</p> - -<p>“Well!” he said, “my lady! there does not seem to be much doubt on that -point. We will have to make up our minds to it, though it is not what I -could have wished, any more than you.”</p> - -<p>The very light seemed darkened in Lady Markham’s eyes, the room went -round with her, and she saw nothing clearly. Oh, why had she come here -to make sure! Why had she not let it alone, all vague as it was! An hour -ago she had thought anything better than uncertainty—but now -uncertainty itself would have been a boon. She looked at Spears, -catching the tone of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> deprecation in his voice, which seemed so natural, -and made a sudden appeal to him.</p> - -<p>“Make up, our minds to it,” she cried. “How is that possible? Oh, Mr. -Spears, I have always thought you so superior to anything of the kind. -You would not take advantage of the confidence placed in you; you would -not allow my boy, because of his admiration for your talents, to ruin -himself, to compromise his position, to disappoint all our hopes!”</p> - -<p>She rose up and put out her hands, appealing—in the forgetfulness of -personal despair—to his generosity, though it was against himself and -his own child. The most courteous, the most considerate person will -forget when it is their own dearest interests which are concerned.</p> - -<p>His fantastic distress about the grammar went out of the man’s mind. His -forehead contracted, a gleam of anger came from his eyes. But he had no -doubt as to having right on his side, and he answered with dignity. -“Madam,” he said, “we had better understand each other. I don’t want -your son any more than you want my daughter; but they have their rights, -and if they like each other I will not interfere.”</p> - -<p>She was driven almost wild by this reply. “Sir<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> William will never -consent—he will never consent to it,” she cried.</p> - -<p>“That’s none of my business—nor my child’s,” said Spears. He forgot the -respect with which she had inspired him. “Here’s the difference between -your class and mine, my lady,” he said with some scorn. “I consider the -one thing needful in a marriage is love—on both sides. In our rank of -life we don’t consider much more. We don’t ask questions about a girl’s -ancestors or her fortune. Most likely there’s none of either sort, as in -this case—but where there is love, what more is wanting? You will never -persuade me to interfere.”</p> - -<p>“Marriage!” she repeated, in a voice of dismay. Of course that was what -it must come to. She cast a look of dismay and almost horror at the girl -who would, if this were so, take her own place, and hold her position in -the world. She rose up suddenly from her rude seat, feeling that her -limbs still failed her, but that in any case she could stay no longer -here. “Oh, there is a great deal more wanting—a great deal more,” she -cried. “Life is not so simple for us. A woman should know what she -undertakes—what weight she will have on her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> shoulders. There are other -things to be taken into consideration in such a life as ours.”</p> - -<p>“You think so,” said Spears. What he intended to be a superior smile -dwindled into something like a sneer. He did not like this assertion, -which he could not contradict. After all, it was true enough that his -own existence was far more elementary and primitive than the other, and -he did not like the thought.</p> - -<p>“You do not know,” said Lady Markham, “you cannot understand the -difficulties of people who are looked up to by a whole district, who -have the comfort of others, the very life of many in their hands. But -why should I speak of this?” she said. “I thought you understood, but -you do not understand. Now it is war between us, as you said. I want to -harm no one, but I must do what I can for my boy.”</p> - -<p>She made them a curtsey which (for she could not be uncivil) included -both father and daughter, then drew down her veil with a trembling hand -and hurried away.</p> - -<p>Spears went after her to the door. He was furious at this calm assertion -of something higher, larger, and more elevated in her different rank; -yet he could not help<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span> a certain reverence, an unwilling worship of the -lady, of whom he had once said regretfully that nothing like her was -ever produced in his own. He went to the door, and gazed after her as -she went along, her steps still hurried and agitated, but her natural -grace coming back to her. “Looked up to by a whole district—the comfort -of others, their very life in her hands.” Ah! there might be something -in that after all. He felt in his own veins a fulness, a swell of rising -blood as of a man able to bear others upon his shoulders, and fearing no -responsibility. That should come in the new world to which he was bound. -There he too would cease to be a single unit among other isolated -individuals, and would become a head also, a leader, the first of a -community. He felt as if she had dared him to it, and he would achieve -it. But as he stood there half-angry, half-stimulated, he was aware of -his daughter behind him, straining on tiptoe to look over his -shoulder—and turned round, looking at her with a new principle of -judgment and discrimination in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Was it really Lady Markham? Is she Mr. Markham’s mother?” said Janet, -breathless with excitement. “Oh, how pretty she must have been, father! -Sh<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span>e’s not a bit nicely dressed, not what I would call equal to her -situation. But she looks a real lady. Don’t you think you would know she -was a real lady, whatever she had on?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you mean by a real lady. You are quite as silly as -the rest, you little fool.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but you do know,” cried Janet. “Miss Stichel puts on lovely things, -but she never has that look. Was that the lady that was so kind to you -in the country?—in that beautiful grand house?”</p> - -<p>“Did I say she was kind to me?” said Spears, melting a little. “Well, -yes, I suppose she was.”</p> - -<p>“And was it really,” said Janet, drooping her head, after she had cast -one keen glance at her father’s face, “really—about nothing but Mr. -Markham’s nonsense that she came here?”</p> - -<p>“Janet,” said her father, taking her by the hand—his mind had wandered -from the great question of the moment, but her words brought it suddenly -back. He looked tenderly and anxiously into the girl’s face, which sank -before his gaze, but only with an easy blush and pleasant embarrassment. -“I don’t want to be inquisitorial. I don’t want to pry into what is -perhaps too<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> delicate for a man’s ear. But tell me if you can what you -mean by Mr. Markham’s nonsense? He has always seemed very serious to me. -Try and tell me if you can—try and speak to me as you would have spoken -if your mother had been here.”</p> - -<p>This touched her heart, for she was not a bad girl. She began to cry a -little. “She would not have asked me—she would have understood,” she -said. “Oh, father, what can I tell you beyond what I have told you? -Besides, what does it matter what I say? He must have spoke himself, or -what brought the lady here?”</p> - -<p>This seemed conclusive to Spears too. It did not occur to him that “Mr. -Markham’s nonsense” must mean something more than what Paul had said to -his mother. He put his arm round his child, and drew her close to him. -“You should not say ‘he must have spoke,’ Janet—though it would seem -indeed as if he had said something. She wanted me to order him off. Tell -me, my girl, are you really—fond of this young fellow?” he said, with -persuasive tenderness. “Don’t turn your face away, there is nothing to -be ashamed of. I thought you were but a child, and lo! you are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> a woman -with lovers after you,” he went on, with a smile that was pathetic. “I -can’t say I like it, but it’s nature, and I won’t complain.”</p> - -<p>“Oh don’t, father,” said Janet, drawing herself away. “Don’t! How can I -tell you—or any one?” There was just enough of feeling to give a -natural air of pretty reserve and delicacy to the girlish shrinking, the -quick movement she made to conceal her face from his eyes. Her voice was -tremulous, her cheeks suffused with the blush of excitement and pleasant -confusion. After a pause she turned half round and asked, as if avoiding -a more difficult question, “Is it a very grand house? Will it come to -him after? Will he be a <i>Sir</i> too?”</p> - -<p>“If it lasts till his time,” said the revolutionary, “which let us hope -it will not. The chances are, that all these detestable distinctions -will be swept away long before, and the wrongs of the poor be made an -end of. The country will not bear it much longer.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Janet, forgetting her bashfulness, and turning upon him a -face full of eager vehemence and indignation. “I am sick of hearing of -the country! What harm does it do the country? Will they have a penny -the more for taking away his money? Why<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> shouldn’t I be a lady as well -as any one else? To have a grand house, and a man in livery to walk -behind me is what I should like above everything! I hope it will last -till our time. I don’t believe there will be any difference. Oh, father, -won’t you just give up making speeches and holding meetings, and let -things be?”</p> - -<p>“Janet!” he cried, with a flash of anger; but it seemed ludicrous, after -all, to attach any importance to what such a child said. He laughed a -confused and disconcerted laugh. “That doesn’t come well from my -daughter! And what do you know about such things? You are a little -goose, and that is all about it. Besides, what does it matter? We are -all going to Queensland—he, too. There will not be many grand houses, -or men in livery, you baby! to be found there.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Janet, growing pale with disappointment and dismay; “but you -don’t think he will have to go there <i>now</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Why not <i>now</i>? There is more reason than ever now, it appears to me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Janet again—that stock English monosyllable expressing a -whole gamut of dissatisfaction and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span> surprise. “I thought that would only -be because he thought his people would object, and didn’t know what -we—I—would say. He would rather go than be separated—rather than -lose—us; it is easy to understand. But when he’s been and told, and -when his mother has come here, and when it’s all in the way of being -settled—Oh!” cried Janet again, with natural vehemence, “what in all -the world should he go for now? Would any one go that could help it? and -him that has everything he can set his face to, and sure to come into a -fortune, and all made easy for him. What in all the world should he go -for <i>now</i>?”</p> - -<p>Spears stood and looked at her with a confusion that was almost -stupidity. He was indeed stupefied by this extraordinary speech. Was it -really what it seemed to be, a revelation of an unknown character, a new -creation altogether—or was it merely the silly babble of a child?</p> - -<p>“My girl,” he said, with a tone of severity, yet still keeping the half -of his smile, so confused and uncertain was he, not knowing what to -think; “what is this you are saying? It is not like a child of mine. -What if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> I were to say—as I have a good right—he <i>shall</i> come to -Queensland or he shall not have you?”</p> - -<p>“You would not have any right to say such a thing,” said Janet, with -decision. “Don’t you tell us we’ve all got the right, both men and -girls, to do what is best for ourselves and to judge for ourselves? and -would you be the tyrant to take that from us? Oh, no, father, no! I -never would have said a word but for this. Many a one has said to me, -‘What are you going for? I wouldn’t go a step in your place. I’d take a -situation, and stay where all my friends are.’ That’s been said to -me—times and times; and I’ve always said ‘No. Where father goes I must -go.’ But, all the same, I always hated going. For one thing, I know I -should be ill all the way. I hate a ship; and I hate living in the -country, where you would never see so much as a street-lamp, nor hear -anything but cows mooing, and sheep baaing; but I would have gone and -never said a word. Only now,” cried Janet, with rising vehemence, “what -<i>would</i> be the good of me going, or of <i>him</i> going? If I was married I -shouldn’t be of no use to you; and what in all the world should take -<i>him</i> there, if it wasn’t following after me?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Her father stood and gazed at her stupefied. His very jaw dropped with -wonder. She had never made so long a speech in her life; but now that -she had spoken, it was all as clear, as definitely settled and arranged, -as pitiless in its reasonableness, as if, instead of a girl of twenty, -she had been a philosopher laying down the law. All her timidity was -gone. She looked him full in the face while she ended her lengthened -argument. As for Spears, the very power of speech seemed to be taken -from him. A sound like a laugh, harsh and jarring, came from him when -she ended.</p> - -<p>“So that’s how it is?” he said, and turned and went back to his bench -like a man who did not know what he was doing. Janet was glad enough to -be thus released. She who had known her own sentiments all along was not -startled by them as he was; but she felt that it was best now she had -uttered them to let them have time and quiet to work their necessary -effect. She turned to the eight-day clock, which had been ticking -solemnly all this time in the corner, with a half shriek.</p> - -<p>“Good gracious!” she cried, “it’s past nine, and me still here. Whatever -will Miss Stichel say?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lady Markham</span> walked away quickly, tingling in every nerve. She felt -herself insulted and betrayed. She had gone to this poor man as if he -had been a gentleman, with full confidence in him, and he had not -justified her faith. A poor gentleman would have felt the impossibility, -would have seen that a girl of no importance, without money, or rank, or -connections, could not expect to marry Paul Markham, the heir of all the -family honours. A person of any cultivation would have felt this, had -there been the best blood in England in his veins. But this clown did -not feel it; this common workman, wood-carver, tradesman, he did not see -it. He ventured to look her in the face and tell her that they must make -up their minds to it.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham was angry; she could not help it. And there was an -additional sting in the situation from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span> the fact that she felt she had -brought it upon herself. She had taken an injudicious step. In her -desire to relieve her own mind, she had compromised Paul. Her own -alarms, her suspicion and doubt, had realised themselves. She blamed -Spears all the more bitterly that in her heart she wanted not to be -obliged to blame herself. But by and by the needle veered round to that -point of the moral compass which in a candid mind it is so ready to stop -at, self-accusation. Why did she give this man the occasion of insulting -her, and the girl the occasion of defying her? It was her own fault. She -ought not, above all, to have compromised her son. This became the most -terrible thought of all as she dwelt upon it. Instead of doing good she -had done harm; instead of relieving Paul from the influence of the -demagogue, she had riveted and strengthened his connection with the -demagogue’s family who were worse, much worse than himself. Was it -possible that Paul, <i>her</i> son, the brother of Alice, could have chosen -from all the world such a girl as Janet Spears? Her heart thrilled with -the wonder of it, the disappointment of it. Was that all he could find -in woman? and she herself had helped to cement the tie between them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span> -How could she ever forgive herself? She walked along quickly, recovering -her outward composure, but more and more troubled in mind as she thought -upon what she had done. Why did she go? how, she asked herself, being, -like most women, ready to distrust herself and give in to the common -opinion on the subject whenever anything went wrong with her—how could -she forget that it was always dangerous for a woman to interfere? She -was in the very deepest of these painful thoughts, angry with herself, -and deeply distressed by the apparent consequences of her ill-advised -mission, when, turning the corner of the little street which brought her -into one of the larger thoroughfares, she suddenly, without any warning, -found herself face to face with Paul. The surprise was so great that she -had no time to put on any defences, to prepare for questions and -astonishment on his side. They met without a moment’s warning, the two -people who might have been supposed least likely to encounter each other -at such a time and place.</p> - -<p>“Paul!” she cried, with a sensation of fright. And he stopped, looked at -her sternly, and cast a jealous inquiring look along the street by which -she had so evidently come.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Mother! what are you doing here?” he said.</p> - -<p>“I came out—to take a walk, as it was so fine a morning,” she said, -forcing a smile. Then Lady Markham came to herself and perceived the -folly of false pretences. “No—I will not try to deceive you, Paul. I -have been visiting Mr. Spears,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Visiting Spears!”</p> - -<p>“Yes; what is there wonderful in that?—you brought him to visit me. -Other people may blame me for it, but I don’t see how you can. I had a -kind of faith in him.”</p> - -<p>“You <i>had</i>; has it been disappointed then, mother, your faith?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “No doubt it was foolish. A man of his -class—must feel like his class no doubt. It was foolish on my part.”</p> - -<p>“What was there,” said Paul, with a sort of contempt which he hid under -exaggerated politeness, “that Lady Markham could want with a man of his -class—with a demagogue and Radical?”</p> - -<p>“Paul,” she said, her voice faltering a little, “it does not become you, -however wise and superior you may feel yourself, to assume this tone to -your mother. This is to change our positions altogether. I have done<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> a -thing which has proved ill-advised and may turn out badly, but I did it -for the best. I will not hide it from you who are the chief person -concerned. I went to ask him to use his influence with you, my own -having failed, to induce you to think a little of your actual duties to -your family. He did not take the same view of it as I do, which perhaps -was natural; and I saw, though without wishing it,” she added, in a -still more tremulous tone, “the—young woman——”</p> - -<p>“What young woman?” His voice was angry, almost threatening. He came a -step nearer, and stood over her with a cloud upon his face. “What young -woman is it? whom do you mean?”</p> - -<p>“It is a poor thing to make a mystery of it when it has gone so far. I -confess my mistake, and why should you conceal your intentions on your -side? This can only have the effect of making everything worse. I was -made to see her against my will, and to hear from her own lips——”</p> - -<p>“Mother!” cried Paul, violently, stopping her. Then he said, -endeavouring again to calm himself, “I have heard often that it is only -women who can be thoroughly cruel to other women.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Then you have heard what is false, Paul, what is entirely and cruelly -false; though you boys toss about such accusations at your pleasure, -insulting the women who bear with you, and suffer for you. I tell you -because I feel it would have been wiser had I taken no part in the -matter; had I kept away; said nothing, and done nothing.”</p> - -<p>“And I tell you—” cried Paul, in vehement indignation; then he stopped -short and cried out with an anxious voice, “Mother, what is it you have -done?”</p> - -<p>“Everything that is unwise,” she said. “I have been rebuffed by your -friend. I will tell you the truth, Paul. When he said that he had no -wish to have you as a fellow emigrant, I, in my folly, asked, Was it his -daughter? And she was not so reticent as you are. She owned that it was -so. She was more frank than you are; and to do him justice I will allow -that her father looked as much surprised as I.”</p> - -<p>“She owned it was so!” Paul’s face became ghastly in the morning light. -Then after a minute’s blank silence, he said, with a harsh laugh, -“Surprised? Yes, her father might be surprised; but why you? You seem to -have been the only person who knew all about it, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span> had got it all cut -and dry to be produced at a moment’s notice. Oh, mother!” he cried, -bitterly, “your morning’s work will cost me dear—it will cost me dear!”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham stood with bowed head to receive her son’s reproaches. “I -was wrong,” she said; “I was wrong. Oh, Paul, my dearest boy, come home -with me; let us talk it all over; let us think of everything! If you -knew how hard it is for me to oppose you! and all the more when your -heart is engaged. Am I one to set myself against love?” She blushed as -she looked at him with a woman’s reverence for the centre of all -affections, and a mother’s shamefacedness in opening such a subject with -her son. “But, Paul, there are so many things—oh, so many things to -think of! and you are so young—and——”</p> - -<p>“Mother, stop!” he said, “your arguments have nothing to do with me; -they are wrong altogether. If my life is spoiled, it will be your doing; -not mine, but yours—not mine, but yours.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham lifted her head with the surprise and something of the -indignation of a person unjustly accused. “This is going too far,” she -said. “I have been wrong, but to throw the total blame upon me is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span> -unreasonable. In this, as in other things, nobody could harm you; nobody -could make your position worse, if you had not risked and lost it -yourself.”</p> - -<p>There were few passengers in the streets, silent and semi-deserted as -always in summer, and yet more because it was still so early. The two -figures which stood there together breaking the sunshine were almost the -only people visible, and the closeness of the discussion between them -had hitherto been witnessed by nobody; just at this point, however, some -one issued suddenly from the gate of one of the colleges near, and came -down the steps into the street. They were scared by the appearance of -any one in this dreary city, and it was not expedient that the warmth of -their conversation should be apparent to others.</p> - -<p>“Walk along with me,” she said. “Do not let us stand here.”</p> - -<p>Paul looked round him for a moment on either hand. On one side was the -narrow street in which Spears lived, the line of colleges and better -houses on the other. Lady Markham’s face was turned towards the better -side. This was enough to decide him, foolish as he was. He turned the -other way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span></p> - -<p>“What is the good of discussing—of talking over? All the harm is done -that can be done,” he said, with a wave of his hand. Then he crossed the -road quite suddenly, leaving his mother standing looking after him. Very -miserable was the young man as he went away. He went down Spears’ -street, but he had no intention of going to see Spears. Everything -seemed, against him. The best thing for him to do, he thought, would be -to get out of sight of everybody—to fly from the evils of fate that -were gathering round his feet. What had he done to be caught like this -in a tangle which he had not himself sought, from which indeed he had -always done his best to keep free? It was no doing of his: chance and -his parents had done it, and the detestable conventionalities of -society, which made it impossible for a man to be civil to a girl out of -his own class without laying himself open to remark. If he had not met -her here, yesterday, so innocently, without premeditation! Already, by -the folly of everybody concerned, this girl had got to be <i>her</i> to the -young man; no name needed to distinguish the creature in whose hands -some blind hazard seemed to have placed his life. Blind hazard—aided by -his father and mother. How<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span> bitter were his thoughts as he went on. What -was he to do? She had owned to it. Half he hated her for being so -foolishly deceived, half his heart melted to her for the deception which -only some latent tenderness could have produced. Must he wring the -girl’s heart by making it all plain to her, and humble her in her own -eyes? or must he accept a position he had not sought, which he no more -desired than they desired it, and of which he saw all the -inappropriateness, all the disadvantages? As he went on with that cruel -question in his mind, there rose out of the morning air, appearing not -much less suddenly than his mother had done, running towards him, the -figure of the girl of whom he was thinking. To Paul it was as if his -thoughts had taken shape. She came towards him, not seeing him, with all -the ease of motion which unconsciousness gives—tall and graceful in her -plain black gown. The girl’s head was full of a subdued triumph, but for -the moment all she was consciously thinking of was how to get to her -shop as quickly as possible. She ran like another Atalanta, skimming -along the unlovely street, her feet scarcely seeming to touch the -ground. This sudden apparition filled Paul with excitement. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span> had -changed to him altogether since yesterday, when she was nothing but -Spears’ daughter. Now she was suddenly identified, separated from all -the world, and become herself. How could he help but be interested in -her? She had owned to it. To what had she owned? It seemed for the -moment almost a relief, bitterly as he resented her introduction into -his life, to turn to her, who knew none of the complications involved, -who was unaware of his fury and indignation against everybody round -him—to turn to her, whose mind must be entirely single and simple, torn -by no conflict. He did not know why he wanted to speak to her, what he -wanted to say to her; but he stepped into her way with a certain -imperiousness, making her stop short in her rapid career. Janet, thus -arrested, gave a sudden cry. She stopped, the breath coming quick on her -lips, and put her hand to her breast; her heart gave a sudden leap, the -colour flew over her face in a sudden wave of crimson.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Markham!” she said.</p> - -<p>“Where are you going so fast?” Somehow it seemed to him, with a -half-consolatory sense of proprietorship, that here was a creature who -belonged to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span> him, who would find no fault with him as the others did, -who was his. He put himself in her way, stopping her—not as if by -accident, but of set purpose—assuming the right which she for her part -never resisted. There were troubles and difficulties with every one -else; but with her no difficulties, no troubles. She acknowledged his -sway at once, stopped herself, blushed, and drooped her head. There was -no question of approving or disapproving here. She answered his voice -instantly, like a slave. There are many people who only see a thing in -its best aspect when it becomes their own. For the moment Paul Markham -became one of those. He had never thought her so handsome before; -perhaps indeed in all her life she had never been so handsome as when -she stopped all blushing and glowing at his call, acknowledging in her -every look the proprietorship which it gave him a sort of pleasure to -claim. “Where are you going so fast?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Markham, I am in a great hurry! I don’t know what Miss Stichel -will say: I never was so late before in my life!”</p> - -<p>“What has kept you so late?”</p> - -<p>He was far more imperious in his tone than he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> ever been when she -was nothing to him. Then he had been courtly and polite, frightening the -girl with a courtesy which she did not understand. She liked this -roughness much better. It meant—it would be impossible to tell all it -meant.</p> - -<p>“I was kept by—visitors. Oh, Mr. Markham! don’t keep me any longer now. -I don’t know what Miss Stichel will say to me. She will be so angry.”</p> - -<p>“She must not be angry. How does she dare to show her anger to you? You -had visitors. I know: my mother.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Markham!” Janet said again, faintly, drooping her head; and -then there was a momentary pause.</p> - -<p>“I know,” he said.</p> - -<p>He did not know, and could not tell afterwards by what impulse he did -it. Some infatuation took possession of him. He took her hand in the -middle of the street, in sight of any one that might be looking. There -was nobody looking, which vexed Janet, but he did it without thought of -that. It would have made no difference if all the world had been there.</p> - -<p>“That is how it is, I suppose,” he said, holding her hand. And then he -added, somewhat drearily, “If<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> there is anything wrong in it, it is -their own doing, there is always that to be said.”</p> - -<p>This somewhat chilled Janet, who expected a warmer address; but she -reflected that the street was scarcely a place for love-making; and Miss -Stichel, though not so important as usual, had still to be considered.</p> - -<p>“Let me go, please, Mr. Markham,” she said; “I mustn’t be late: for -whatever may happen afterwards I am still their servant at the shop.”</p> - -<p>He dropped her hand as if it burnt him, and grew red with anger and -uneasy shame.</p> - -<p>“This must not be,” he said. “I will go and speak to Spears.”</p> - -<p>Though he was so firm in his democratic principles, the idea that any -one connected with himself should be under the orders of a mistress -galled him beyond bearing. It was a thing that could not be.</p> - -<p>“It will not be for long,” Janet said, cheerfully.</p> - -<p>She, for her part, rather liked the shop. It was more cheerful than the -other shop which was home.</p> - -<p>“I cannot suffer it,” he said, “for another day. I will speak to -Spears.”</p> - -<p>This was all he said, but he kept standing there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> looking at her with -eyes which were more investigating than admiring. If he had nothing more -to say than this, why should he keep her standing there and expose her -to Miss Stichel’s scolding? But she did not like to burst away as she -would have done from a less stately wooer. She was much intimidated by a -lover like Paul, though very proud of him. She stood with her eyes cast -down, waiting till he should let her go free. The thing that would have -made Janet most happy would have been that he should walk to the shop -with her, showing that he was not ashamed of her, and give her the pride -and glory of being seen by the other young ladies in company with the -gentleman she was going to marry, the gentleman who had vowed that she -should not remain there—not another day. This would have been the -natural thing to do, Janet thought. But it did not seem to occur to Paul -in the same light. He looked at her, examining her appearance with -anxious and critical, yet with very sober and calm inspection. They were -neither of them so happily fluttered, so excited as they might have -been. She was not exacting, did not ask too much; and he was critical -with the discrimination of a superior, a judge<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> whose powers of judgment -were biassed by no glamour of partiality.</p> - -<p>“We shall see each other later in the evening. I will not detain you -longer,” he said, in a tone of gentle politeness.</p> - -<p>He even gave a little sigh of relief as he turned away. Janet, not -knowing whether she was more sorry or glad to be liberated, cast more -than one furtive glance behind her at his departing figure. But it did -not seem to have occurred to Paul to look after her. He walked on -stately and straight, turning neither to one side nor the other, towards -Spears’s shop. He had not meant to go, but neither had he intended any -of the other things that had come to pass. Fate seemed to have got -possession of him. He walked into the shop with the same straightforward -steady tread, not as usual, that was impossible. Most likely there would -have to be something said—but for that, too, he felt himself ready, if -need were.</p> - -<p>Spears was no longer working at the simple work of his picture-frames. -He had thrown them into a heap—all the little bits of carved work which -he had been glueing and fitting into each other—and with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span> large sheet -of paper on the table before him was drawing with much intentness and -preoccupation. He had set the plume of the foxglove upright before him, -and was bending his brows and contorting both limbs and features over -his drawing as he had done over the lily he had designed for Alice. The -handful of coloured gladiolus which had been lying on the table he had -pushed impatiently aside, and they lay at his feet, here and there, -scattered under the table and about the floor like things rejected, -while he drew in the foxglove boldly with a blue pencil. All his soul -seemed to be in his drawing. He scarcely took any notice of Paul—a half -glance up, a hurried nod, and that was all. Presently, however, he took -up one of the gladiolus stalks and laid it tentatively across the -foxglove; then with a pshaw! of angry impatience tossed it away again.</p> - -<p>“That won’t do,” he said, half to himself, “none o’ that. Nature will -not stand it. The free-growing, wild thing is grand, but that poor -stiff, conventional rubbish, manufactured out of some gardener’s brains, -out of his bad dreams, is good for nothing; and it’s everywhere the -same, so far as I can see. Things must be wedded after their kind.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that for me, Spears?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Do I mean that for you? Which are you? the grand tower of the foxglove -that’s good for everything—strength and continuance and beauty—or that -poor spiky trash? I don’t know. I mean nothing that I don’t understand.”</p> - -<p>Then there was silence once more. Paul took up some of the bits of -uncompleted work and fixed them together. He would not open the subject, -but he knew Spears well enough to know that it must have been some great -agitation which had driven him away from his pot-boiling to the work of -designing. That was not a work that would ever “pay.” The frames -answered the purpose of daily bread; but the designs into which all the -rude artist’s soul was thrown were not profitable. A few of the young -men who were his friends had bought some plaques and panels of his finer -original work; but such purchasers were few and far between; and to -spend a whole morning making a design for one of these delicate -unprofitable carvings showed that the workman had certainly for the -moment lost command of himself.</p> - -<p>After a few minutes, during which he measured the little lathes together -and fitted them carelessly, Paul went quietly to the back of the room, -and taking an old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span> coat which hung there put it on and sat down to do -the work which the other had left undone. This was not a kind of work he -had ever attempted before. He had been a student of carving, not because -of any natural impulse towards the art, but partly for Spears’s company, -partly in order to be able to aid in some small way his struggle for a -living. This eventful morning brought him a new impulse. While his -master laboured impetuously at his drawing, Paul took the humbler work -in hand. After all the distraction that had been in his mind, there was -something in this homely effort that soothed him. Cast upon it on all -hands, in all ways, it was a sort of relief to him to identify himself -altogether with this other sphere, which he had chosen and sought out, -yet into which he had never cast himself so completely, so fully, as his -own family had cast him. He smiled at this within himself, as he began -to work at Spears’s everyday vulgar work. Well! if they would have it -so, so be it! He had played with the notion of equality, of democratic -simplicity, with the doctrine that it was every man’s duty to earn his -own living, and give up to humanity the full enjoyment of the land and -accumulations of money, which no individual had a right to retain. All -this he had held<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span> hotly in theory; but in the meantime had lived in his -college rooms, and according to his natural position—an anomaly which -only now appeared to him in its full vividness. Yes, now he saw it. He -smiled to himself, no longer with bitterness, with a lofty disdain of -his own past, of all his traditions, of his family, which by way of -opposition and resistance to his purpose and principles had pushed him -over the verge on which he had been hesitating. Perhaps but for them he -might still have hesitated before he took the final step. It was they -who had decided it, who had given him the last impulse. He smiled with a -sense of the weakness of efforts which thus naturally balked themselves, -feeling superior in his calm certainty of decision to all these -agitations. Yes, it was over; there was no longer any question of what -might or might not be. His fate was settled; he was a member of Spears’s -family, not of Sir William Markham’s. That sense of calm which follows a -great decision, and at the same time of proud resignation which succeeds -a sacrifice exacted, calmed his mind. Somehow, Paul could not have told -how, he felt himself a sort of sacrificial offering to justice and -nature, making the most eloquent of protests against wrong, tyranny, -injustice, and everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span> that was evil in society. With the dignity of -a noble victim, and with a consciousness of innate, inborn, but most -illogical superiority to fate, he drew the glue-pot and the tools -towards him, and began to do the workman’s work. Nothing could have been -more illogical; for the superiority of labour was one of the first -principles of his creed, and to make pictures-frames was a respectable -occupation by which a man might live. Yet it was with a smile of -unspeakable superiority that he began his first day’s real work, -enjoying the sensation of voluntary humility, of doing what it was -beneath him to do.</p> - -<p>Thus they went on in silence for some time: Paul working clumsily -enough, with a sense of the humour implied in his adoption of the trade, -which made it amusing in its novelty and inappropriateness, but which -was most unlike the steady devotion of a man who felt this work to be -his duty; while Spears pursued his with a fury of invention which -denoted the perturbation of his mind. He flung the drooping bells of the -foxglove upon his paper and erected its splendid stalk with an energy -and force which was like a defiance, holding the somewhat coarse blue -pencil in his hand like a sword, screwing his mouth and putting his -limbs into every contortion possible, as he sat, with his stool<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span> pushed -as far as might be from the table, and all the upper part of his person -overhanging it. If it had been an eagle or a lion he was drawing the -force and expression of his whole figure would have been more -appropriate. As it was, the foxglove bristled with a kind of scornful -defiance, yet drooped with something of melancholy, as an eagle might -have done in all its pride of strength, yet with the pathos of all -speechless creatures in its eyes. In this particular, though he was an -actor, he was speechless as the eagle or the wildly noble flower. He had -seen a sight which had taken all speech out of him, as it might have -done from Shakespeare. He had seen a something unknown, a small, vulgar, -incomprehensible spirit, to him unrecognisable, a thing out of his -cognisance, looking at him through the eyes of his child. What could he -say to such a revelation? Nothing. It took his voice from him and almost -his breath. He had not been able to endure the placid work which left -him free for thought. Say that his designing did not reach a very -ethereal point of art; but it was the highest exercise of skill to him. -He flung himself upon the paper, thrusting away all the painful -enlightenments and contradictions of his life as he thrust away the -gay-coloured spike of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span> gladiolus. He would have crushed them under -foot if he had been able, but this he could not do. They would not -disappear from his memory as the others did from his table. Thus he -worked on, with a fervour which was almost savage, while Paul, with a -proud smile on his face, handled the glue-pot. After a while the mere -sense of companionship mollified the elder man. He was wounded, and -wanted just such soothing as the sight of his disciple sitting quietly -by gave him. His work grew less firm, his hand less rigid; the great -pencil ceased to dig into the paper with its violent lines. Insensibly -the softening went on. First, he threw a hasty glance from beneath his -bushy eyebrows at the young man tranquilly seated near him. Then his -fiery inspiration slackened; he paused to look at his model, to devise -the next line, and doing so let his eyes rest upon Paul with a growing -softness. At last he got up, threw down his pencil, and coming up to his -companion struck him on the shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Well!” he said. “Boy! So that was how it was. You listened to the -father—old fool! but your thoughts were with the girl. That was how it -was.” This was not the thing that gnawed at Spears’s heart, but he put -it forward by way perhaps of persuading<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span> himself, as we all do -sometimes, that it was the lesser matter that hurt him most.</p> - -<p>Paul paused in his work, and looked up. His face was very serious, with -none of that glow of happiness in it which belongs to an accepted -lover—as the man beside him, who had been a true lover himself, was -quick to see.</p> - -<p>“Who said that? Not I, Spears—not I.”</p> - -<p>“Who said it? Well, I cannot tell you. The women among them; they have -their own way of looking at things.”</p> - -<p>And then the two men paused, looking at each other. This was the moment -in which it was natural that Janet’s lover should make his own -explanation to the father of the girl whom he loved. The whole life of -two people at least, and of many more in a secondary point of view, hung -upon Paul’s lips, to be decided by the next impulse that might move him, -by the next fantastic words which, out of the mist of unreal fact in -which he had got himself enveloped, he might be moved to say.</p> - -<p class="fint">END OF VOL. I.<br /><br /><br /><small> -LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.</small></p> - -<hr class="full" /> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY; VOL. 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