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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..b61b6f3 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #64778 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64778) diff --git a/old/64778-0.txt b/old/64778-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 137792c..0000000 --- a/old/64778-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5920 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of He that will not when he may; vol. II, 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. II - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: March 10, 2021 [eBook #64778] - -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. -II *** - - - - - HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY - - - - - HE THAT WILL NOT - WHEN HE MAY - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT - - _IN THREE VOLUMES_ - - VOLUME II. - - - 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. 27 - -CHAPTER III. 50 - -CHAPTER IV. 66 - -CHAPTER V. 87 - -CHAPTER VI. 98 - -CHAPTER VII. 117 - -CHAPTER VIII. 129 - -CHAPTER IX. 145 - -CHAPTER X. 165 - -CHAPTER XI. 186 - -CHAPTER XII. 202 - -CHAPTER XIII. 222 - -CHAPTER XIV. 245 - -CHAPTER XV. 262 - - - - -HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -At Markham Chase there had been great wonder and consternation at the -sudden departure of the elders of the family. Bell had been called to -her mother’s room in the morning, and the morals of the house, so to -speak, placed in her hands. She was thirteen, a great age, quite a -woman. “Harry will help you: but he is careless, and he is always out. -You will promise to be very careful and look after everything,” Lady -Markham had said. Bell, growing pale with the solemnity of this strange -commission, gave her promise with paling cheek, and a great light of -excitement in her eyes; and when they heard of it, the others were -almost equally impressed. “There is something the matter with Paul,” -Bell said; and when the carriage drove away the solemnity of the great -house all to themselves made a still greater impression upon them. It is -true that Mrs. Fry showed signs of thinking that she was the virtual -head of the establishment, and Brown did not pay that deference to -Bell’s orders which she expected as mamma’s deputy to receive; but still -they all acknowledged the responsibility that lay upon them to conduct -themselves better than girls and boys had ever conducted themselves -before. The girls naturally felt this the most. They would not go out -with their brothers, but stayed indoors and occupied themselves with -various rather grimy pieces of needlework begun on various occasions of -penitence or bad weather. To complete them felt like a proper exercise -for such an occasion; and Bell caused the door to be shut and all the -windows in front of the house. She and Marie established themselves in -their mother’s special sanctuary--the west room; where after a while the -work languished, and where the elder sister, with a sense of seniority -and protection, pointed out all the pictures to Marie, and gave her -their names. “That is me, when I was a baby,” said Bell, “just below the -Rafil.” - -“The Raffle,” said Marie. “I thought a raffle was a thing where you drew -lots.” - -“So it is,” said the elder with dignity, “but it is a man’s name, too. -It is pronounced a little different, and he was a very fine painter. You -know,” said the little instructress with great seriousness, “what the -subject is--the beautiful lady and the little boy?” - -“I know what they all are quite well,” said Marie, impatient of so much -superiority; “I have seen them just as often as you have. Mamma has told -me hundreds of times. That’s me too as well as you, underneath the big -picture, and there’s Alice, and that’s papa--as if I didn’t know!” - -“How can you help knowing Alice and papa; any one can do that,” said -Bell; “but you don’t know the landscapes. That one is painted by two -people, and it is called Both. At least, I suppose they both did a bit, -as mamma does sometimes with Alice. There is some one ringing the bell -at the hall door! Somebody must be coming to call. Will Brown say ‘My -lady is not at home,’ or will he say ‘The young ladies are at home,’ as -he does when Alice is here? Oh, there it is again! Can anything have -happened? Either it is somebody who is in a great hurry, or it is a -telegram, or, Marie, quick, run to the schoolroom and there we can see.” - -As they neared the hall they ran across Brown, who was advancing in a -leisurely manner to open the door. “Young ladies,” said Brown, “you -should not scuttle about like that, frightening people. And I wonder who -it was that shut the hall door.” - -Bell made no reply, but ran out of the way, and they reached the -schoolroom window in time to see what was going to happen. At the door -stood some one waiting. “A little gentleman” in light-coloured clothes, -with a large white umbrella. There was no carriage, which was one reason -why Brown had taken his time in answering the bell. He would not, a -person of his importance, have condescended to open the door at all but -for a curiosity which had taken possession of him, a certainty in his -mind that something of more than ordinary importance was going on in the -family. The little gentleman who had rung the bell had walked up the -avenue slowly, and had looked about him much. He had the air of being -very much interested in the place. At every opening in the trees he had -paused to look, and when he came to the open space in front of the -house, had stood still for some time with a glass in his eye examining -it. He was very brown of hue, very spare and slim, exceedingly neat and -carefully dressed, though in clothes that were not quite like English -clothes. They fitted him loosely, and they were of lighter material than -gentlemen usually wear in England; but yet he was very well dressed. He -had neat small feet, most carefully _chaussés_; and he had carried his -large white umbrella, lined with green, over his head as he approached -the door. When Brown threw the great door open, he was startled to see -this trim figure so near to him upon the highest step. He had put down -his white umbrella, and he stood with a small cardcase between his -finger and thumb, as ready at once to proclaim himself who he was. - -“Sir William Markham?” he asked. The little cardcase had been opened, -and the white edge of the card was visible in his hand. - -“Not at home, sir,” said Brown. - -“Ah! that’s your English way. I am not a novice, though you may think -so,” said the little gentleman. “Take in this card and you will see that -he will be at home for me.” - -“Beg your pardon, sir,” said Brown. Though he had no objection to saying -“not at home” when occasion demanded, he felt offended by being supposed -to have done so falsely when his statement was true. “Master is not a -gentleman that has himself denied when he is here. When I say not at -home, I mean it. Sir William left Markham to-day.” - -“Left to-day!--that is very unlucky,” said the stranger. He stood quite -disconcerted for the moment, and gnawed the ends of his moustache, still -with the card half extended between his finger and thumb. “You are sure -now,” he added in a conciliatory tone, “that it is not by way of getting -rid of intruders? I am no intruder. I am--a relation.” - -“Very sorry, sir,” said Brown; “if you were one of the family--if you -were Mr. Markham himself, I couldn’t say no different. Sir William, and -my lady, and Miss Alice, they went to Oxford this morning by the early -train.” - -“Mr. Markham himself--who is Mr. Markham?” he said, with a peculiar -smile hovering about his mouth. “I am--a relation; but I have never been -in England before, and I don’t know much about the family. Is Mr. -Markham a son, or brother--perhaps brother to Sir William?” - -“The eldest son and heir, sir,” said Brown, with dignity. “You’ll see it -in the _Baronetage of England_ all about him, ‘Paul Reginald, born May -6, 18--.’ He came of age this year.” - -The brown face of the stranger was full of varying expression while this -was said--surprise, a half amusement, mingled with anger; emotions much -too personal to be consistent with his ignorance of the family history. -Strange, when he did not know anything about it, that he should be so -much interested! Brown eyed him very keenly, with natural suspicion, -though he did not know what it was he suspected. The little gentleman -had closed his card-case, but still held it in his hand. - -“So,” he said, “the heir; then perhaps he is at home?” - -“There is nobody at home but the young ladies and the young gentlemen,” -said Brown, testily. “If any of the grown-up ones had been in the house -or about the place, I’d have said so.” - -Brown felt himself the master when the heads of the family were away, -and this sort of persistency did not please him. - -“I’d like to see the young ladies and gentlemen,” said the stranger. -“I’d like to see the house. You seem unwilling to let me in; but I am -equally unwilling to come such a long distance and then go away----” - -“Well, sir,” said Brown, embarrassed, “Markham Chase, though it’s one of -the finest places in the county, is not a show-place. I don’t say but -what the gardener would take a visitor round the gardens, and by the -fish-pond, and that, when the family are away; but it has never been -made a practice to show the house. And it cannot even be said at present -that the family are away. They’ve gone on some business as far as -Oxford. They might be back, Sir William told me, in two days.” - -“My man!” said the stranger, “I can promise you your master will give -you a good wigging when he hears that you have sent me away.” - -“A good--what, sir?” - -Brown grew red with indignation; but all the same a chill little doubt -stole over him. This personage, who was so very sure of his welcome, -might after all turn out to be a person whom he had no right to send -away. - -“I said a wigging, my good man. Perhaps you don’t understand that in -England. We do in our place. Come,” he said, drawing out the card, and -with it a very palpable sovereign, “here’s my name. You can see I’m no -impostor. You had better let me see the house.” - -The card was a very highly glazed foreign-looking piece of pasteboard, -and upon it was the name of Mr. Augustus Markham Gaveston, at full -length, in old English characters. And now that Brown looked at him -again, he seemed to see a certain likeness to Sir William in this -pertinacious visitor. He was about the same height, his eyes were the -same colour, and there was something in the sound of his voice--Brown -thought on the whole it would be best to pocket the indignity and the -sovereign, and let the stranger have his way. - -“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said; “Sir William didn’t say nothing to me -about expecting a relation, and I’m not one that likes to take -liberties in the absence of the family; but if so be as your mind is set -upon it, I think I may take it upon me to let you see the house.” - -“I thought we should understand each other, sooner or later,” said the -stranger, with a smile. “Sir William could not tell you, for he did not -know I was coming,” he said, a moment afterwards, with a short laugh. -“I’ve come from--a long way off, where people are not--much in the way -of writing letters. Besides, it is so long since he’s seen me, I dare -say he has forgotten me: but the first glance at my card will bring it -all back.” - -“I don’t doubt it, sir,” said Brown. He had taken the sovereign, though -not without doubts and compunctions, and now he felt himself half -unwillingly bound to the service of this unknown personage. He admitted -him into the hall with a momentary pang. “The house was built by the -great-grandfather of the present baronet,” he said. “This hall is -considered a great feature. The pillars were brought from Sicily; -they’re no imitation, like what you see in many places, but real marble. -On the right is the dining-room, and on the left the drawing-room. -There is a fine gallery which is only used for balls and so forth----” - -“Ah--we’ll take them in turn,” said the little gentleman. He put down -his big white umbrella, and shook himself free of several particles of -dust which he perceived on his light coat. “I’ll rest here a moment, -thank you,” he said, seating himself in the same big chair in which -Colonel Lenny had fallen asleep. “This reminds me of where I’ve come -from. I dare say Sir William brought it over. Now fetch me some iced -water or seltzer, or cold punch if you’ve got such a thing. Before I -start sight-seeing, I’d like a little rest.” - -Brown stared with open mouth; his very voice died away in the blank -wonder that filled him. - -“Cold--punch!” he said. - -The stranger laughed. - -“Don’t look so much like a boiled goose. I don’t suppose you have cold -punch. Get me some seltzer, as I say, or iced water. I don’t suppose a -man who has been anywhere where there’s a sun can do without one of -them. Oh, yes, there’s a little sun in England now and then. Something -to drink!” he added, in peremptory tones. - -Brown, though he felt the monstrous folly of this order from a man who -had never set foot in the house before, felt himself moving -instinctively and very promptly to obey. It was the strangest thing in -the world, but he did it, leaving the stranger enthroned in the great -chair of Indian bamboo. - -Mr. Augustus Markham Gaveston, however, had no inclination to sleep. He -sat sunk in the chair, rubbing his hands, looking about him with his -little keen blue eyes. - -“So this is Markham Chase,” he said to himself. His eyes shone with a -mischievous eager light. There was a little triumph in them and some -amusement. Though he was far from being a boy, a sort of boyish gleam of -malicious pleasure was in his face, as if he had done something which it -had not been intended or desired that he should do, and thus had stolen -a march upon some one in authority. He pulled off his gloves in a -leisurely way, finger by finger, and threw them into his hat, which he -had placed at his feet. Then he rubbed his hands again, as if ready for -anything or everything. - -“The dining-room to the right, the drawing-room to the left, and a fine -gallery--for balls and that sort of thing,” he repeated, half under his -breath. - -The little girls had watched anxiously from the schoolroom window as -long as there was anything to see. They had seen the little gentleman -come in, which filled them with excitement. It was not a telegram, so -there was nothing to be afraid of. Their hearts jumped with excitement -and wonder. Who could it be? - -“I ought to go and see what he wants,” said Bell. “Mamma left the charge -of the house to me.” - -“Oh, Bell--a strange gentleman! you would not know what to say to him, -though it is only a little gentleman,” said Marie. - -“Oh yes, I know quite well. I shall ask him if he wants papa, and that I -am so sorry there is no one at home--and could I tell papa any message? -that is what Dolly Stainforth says.” - -“She is seventeen,” said Marie; “and you--you are only so little--he -will laugh at you. Bell, don’t go. Oh, I don’t like to go----” - -“He is little, too,” said Bell. “You can stay away if you please, but I -am going to see what it all means. Mamma left the charge to me.” - -Marie followed, shy, but curious. - -“Oh, I wish the boys were here,” she said. - -“The boys!” cried Bell, with much contempt. “Who would pay any attention -to them? But you need not come unless you like. Mamma left the charge to -me.” - -Whether to be left alone, or to be dragged to the encounter to speak to -a strange gentleman, Marie did not know which was worst. It was the -first, however, which was most contrary to all her traditions. She -scarcely remembered that such a thing had ever happened. So she -followed, though ill at ease, holding a corner of Bell’s frock between -her fingers. As for Bell, she had the courage of a lion. She walked -quite boldly through all the passages, and never felt the slightest -inclination to run away, till she suddenly caught a glimpse of two neat -little feet, protruding from two lines of light trousers, on the other -side of the hall. Then she gave a start and a little cry, and clutched -at Marie behind her, who was more frightened than she. - -They stopped within the door, in a sudden _accès_ of fright. Nothing was -visible but the grey trousers, the little feet in light cloth boots, and -two hands rubbing each other; all the rest of the stranger’s person -being sunk in the big chair. - -When he heard this exclamation, he roused himself, and turned a -wideawake head in their direction. - -“Ah! the young ladies!” he said. “How are you, my little dears? It is -you I most want to see.” And he held out to them the hands which had -been seen rubbing themselves together so complacently a moment before. - -“We are the Misses Markham. We are never spoken to like that,” said -Bell. Then she collected all her courage for the sake of her duty. “I am -the eldest,” she said. “Papa and mamma are gone away, if you wanted to -see them; but if you have any message you wish to leave----” - -“Come here,” he said. “I don’t wish to leave any message. Don’t be -frightened. I want to make friends with you. Come here and talk to me. I -am not a stranger. I am a--sort of a relation of yours.” - -“A relation!” said Bell. And as Brown’s solemn step was heard advancing -at this moment, the little girls advanced too. Brown carried a tray with -a long glass upon it, a fat little bottle of seltzer water, and a large -jug of claret-cup. Colonel Lenny had been very thirsty too when he fell -asleep in that same chair, but he had not been served in this way. The -little girls came forward, gravely interested, and watched with serious -eyes while the little gentleman drank. He nodded at them before he -lifted the glass to his lips with a comical air. - -“My name is Markham as well as yours,” he said. “I’ve come a long way to -make your acquaintance. This respectable person here--what do you call -him, Brown?--wanted to send me away; but I hope now that you have come -you will extend your protection to me, and not allow him to turn me -away.” - -“Are you a cousin?” said Bell. - -“Well--perhaps not exactly a cousin; and yet something of that sort.” - -“Are you one of the Underwood Markhams?” the little girl continued. “The -people that nurse says would get Markham if we were all to die?” - -“They must be very disagreeable people, I think,” said the stranger, -with a smile. - -“Oh, _dreadful_! They never come here. Nurse says they were in such a -way when we were all born. They thought papa was going to let them have -it--as if it were not much more natural that Paul should have it! You -are not one of those people, are you, Mr.--Markham? Is that really your -name?” - -“I am not one of those people, and my name is Gus. What is yours? I want -to know what to call you, and your little sister. And don’t you think -you had better take me to see the house?” - -“Oh,” cried Bell, looking more serious than ever; “but we could not call -a gentleman, quite an old gentleman, like you, Gus.” - -“Do you think I am an old gentleman?” he said. - -“Well, not perhaps such a very old gentleman,” said Bell, hesitating. - -Marie, trusting herself to speak for the first time, said in a -half-whisper-- - -“Oh, no--not very old; just about the same as papa.” - -The stranger burst into a laugh. This seemed to amuse him more than the -humour of the speech justified. - -“There is a difference,” he said; “a slight difference. I am not so old -as--papa.” - -“Do you know papa? Do you know any of them? You must have met them,” -said Bell, “if you are in society. Alice came out this year, and they -went everywhere, and saw everybody, in society. Mamma told me so. Alice -is the eldest,” the little girl went on, pleased to enter into the -fullest explanations as soon as she had got started. “That is, not the -eldest of all, you know, but the eldest of the girls. She was at all the -balls, and even went out to dinner! but then it is no wonder, she is -eighteen, and quite as tall as mamma.” - -“Is she pretty?” said the gentleman. - -He went on drinking glass after glass of the claret-cup, while Brown -stood looking on alarmed, yet respectful. (“Such a little fellow as -that, I thought he’d bust hisself,” Brown said.) - -“She is not so pretty as mamma,” said the little girl. “Everybody says -mamma is beautiful. I am the one that is most like her,” continued Bell, -with naïve satisfaction. “There is a picture of her in the -drawing-room; you can come and see.” - -“Miss Isabel,” cried Brown, taking her aside. There was something -important even in the fact of being taken aside to be expostulated with -by Brown. “We don’t know nothing about the gentleman, miss,” said Brown. -“I don’t doubt that it is all right--still he mightn’t be what he -appears to be; and as it is me that is responsible to Sir William----” - -“You need not trouble yourself about that, Brown,” said Bell, promptly. -“Mamma said I was to have the charge of everything. I shall take him in -and show him the pictures and things. I will tell papa that it was me. -But Brown,” she added in an undertone, certain doubts coming over her, -“don’t go away; come with us all the same. Marie might be frightened; I -should like you to come all the same.” - -Meantime the stranger had turned to Marie. - -“Where do you come in the family?” he said. “Are there any younger than -you?” - -“No,” said Marie, hanging her head. She was the shy one of the family. -She gave little glances at him sidelong, from under her eyelids; but -edged a little further off when he spoke. - -“Are you afraid? Do you think I would do you any harm?” said the little -gentleman. “It is quite the other way. Do you know I have brought some -sweetmeats over the sea, I can’t tell you how far, expressly for you.” - -“For me!” Marie was fairly roused out of her apathy. “But you didn’t -know even our names till you came here.” - -“Ah! there’s no telling how much I knew,” said the stranger with a -smile. - -He had risen up, and he was not very formidable. Though he was not -handsome, the smile on his face made it quite pleasant. And to have -sweetmeats brought, as he said, all that way, expressly for _you_, was a -very ingratiating circumstance. Marie tried to whisper this wonderful -piece of information to Bell when her interview with Brown was over. But -Bell had returned to all her dignity of (temporary) head of the house. - -“If you will follow me,” she said, trying to look, her sister said -afterwards, as if she were in long dresses, and putting on an air of -portentous importance, “we will take you to see the house. Brown, you -can come with us and open the doors.” - -The visitor laughed. He was very little taller than Bell, as she swept -on with dignity at the head of the procession. Brown, not quite -satisfied to have his _rôle_ taken out of his hands, yet unwilling to -leave the children in unknown company, and a little curious himself, and -desirous to see what was going on, followed with some perturbation. And -there never was a housekeeper more grandiose in description than Bell -proved herself, or more eloquently confused in her dates and details. -They went over all the house, even into the bedrooms, for the stranger’s -curiosity was inexhaustible. He learned all sorts of particulars about -the family, lingering over every picture and every chamber. When the -boys came in, calling loudly for their sisters, he put his glass in his -eye and examined them, as they rushed up the great staircase, where a -whispered but quite audible, consultation took place. - -“I say, we want our dinner,” cried Harry. “We’re after a wasps’ nest -down in the Brentwood Hollow, and if you don’t make haste, you’ll lose -all the fun.” - -“Oh, a wasps’ nest!” cried Bell; “but we can’t--we can’t: for here is a -gentleman who says he is a relation, and we’re showing him over the -house.” - -“Such a funny little gentleman,” said Marie, “and he says he’s got some -sweetmeats (what does one mean by sweetmeats?) for me.” - -“I don’t care for your gentleman; I want my dinner,” cried Harry, whose -boots were all over mud from the Brentwood swamp. They both brought in a -whiff of fresh air like a fresh breeze into the stately house. - -“Miss Isabel,” said Brown, coming forward, and speaking in a stage -whisper, while the stranger, with his glass in his eye, calmly -contemplated all these communings from above, “if the gentleman is -really a relation, I don’t think my lady would mind if you asked him to -stay lunch.” - -To stay lunch! This took away the children’s breath. - -“It is a bore to have a man when he doesn’t belong to you,” said Roland. - -“He looks a queer little beggar,” said Harry. “I don’t think I like the -looks of him.” - -“But he is quite nice,” said the little girls in a breath. - -Then Bell suddenly gave a lamentable cry-- - -“Oh, you boys, it is no use even thinking of the wasps’ nest. We have -all got to go to the rectory to the school-feast.” - -This calamity put the little gentlemen out of their heads. The boys -resisted wildly, but the girls began to think better of it, arguing that -it was a party, though only a parish party. The introduction of this -subject delayed the decision of the question about lunch, until at last -a violent appeal from Harry-- - -“I say, Brown! _can’t_ we have our dinner?” brought about a crisis. - -“You go and ask _him_ to come, Harry,” said Bell, seized with an access -of shyness, and pushing her brother forward. “You are the biggest.” - -“Ask him yourself,” cried the boy. This difficult question however was -solved by the little gentleman himself, who came forward, still with his -glass in his eye. - -“My dear children,” he said, “don’t give yourselves any trouble. I am -very hungry, and when Mr. Brown is so kind as to give you your dinner, I -will share it with great pleasure.” (“Cheeky little brute--I don’t like -the looks of him,” said Harry to Roland. “But it was plucky of him all -the same,” said Roland to Harry.) “Allow me to offer Miss Markham my -arm,” the stranger added. - -To see Bell colour up, look round at them all in alarm, then put on a -grand air, and accept the little gentleman’s arm, was, all the children -thought, as good as a play. They followed in convulsions of suppressed -laughter, the boys pretending to escort each other, while Marie did her -best to subdue them. “Oh, boys, boys! when you know mamma says we are -never to laugh at people,” cried this small authority. But the meal thus -prepared for was very successful, and the young Markhams speedily became -quite intimate with their visitor. He told them he was going to stay in -the village, and Harry and Roland immediately made him free of the -woods. And he asked them a thousand questions about everybody and -everything, from their father and mother, to the school-feast where they -were going; but except the fact that he was staying in the village, he -gave them no information about himself. This Brown noted keenly, who, -though not disposed to trouble himself usually with a school-room -dinner, condescended to conduct the service on this occasion, keeping -both ears and eyes in very lively exercise. Brown felt sure, with the -instinct of an old servant, that something was about to happen in the -family, and he would not lose an opportunity of making his observations. -The stranger remained until the children had got ready for their -engagement, and walked with them to the village, still asking questions -about everything. They had fallen quite easily into calling him Mr. Gus. - -“For I am Markham as well as you,” he said; “there would be no -distinction in that;” which was another source of anxiety and alarm to -Brown, who knew that on the visitor’s card there was another name. - -“Good-bye, Mr. Gus, good-bye!’ the children cried at the rectory-gate. -The village inn was further on, and Mr. Gus lingered with perfectly open -and unaffected curiosity to look at the fine people who were getting out -of their carriages at the gate. - -“We will tell papa your message,” said Bell, turning round for a last -word; “and remember you are to come again when they come home.” - -“Never fear; you will see plenty of me before all is done,” he said; and -so went on into the village, waving his hand to them, with his big white -umbrella over his head. All the girls and boys who were going to the -school-feast, stopped to look at him with wondering eyes. He was very -unlike the ordinary Englishman as seen in Markham Royal. But the little -Markhams themselves had now no doubt that he was a relation, for his -walk, they all agreed, was exactly like papa’s. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -The rectory at Markham Royal was a pretty house, situated on a little -elevation, with pretty lawns and gardens, and a paddock at the foot of -the little height, open to the lawn, where there was a tent erected, and -plenty of space for the games. Spectators of the higher class -constituted quite another little party in the pretty slope of the -gardens, where they were walking about in bright-coloured groups, and -paying their various greetings to the rector and his daughter when the -little Markhams arrived. Their appearance was a great disappointment to -the company in general, and especially to Dolly Stainforth, who was the -hostess and the soul of everything that was going on. The rector himself -was old, and not able to take much trouble. He had a large family of -sons and daughters, who were all married and out in the world, with the -exception of the youngest of all, Dolly, who was a little younger than -Alice Markham, and a model of everything that a clergyman’s daughter -ought to be. Frank, the youngest son, a young barrister, who still -called the rectory home, and was generally present on all important -occasions, was the only other member of the family in whom Markham Royal -took any very great interest; and he was absent to-day, to the great -annoyance of his sister, who all the afternoon had been looking out, -shading her eyes, directly in the line of the sun, which made the -highroad one white and blazing line--looking for the carriage from the -Chase, which might, Dolly hoped, bring her the only compensation -possible for her brother’s absence. Alice was an unfailing aid in all -such emergencies, and Lady Markham’s gracious presence made everything -go well among the great people on the lawn. Also, this time at least, -there was another possibility that made Dolly’s heart beat. It had been -whispered among the girls for some time past that the birthday of Alice -being near, and Paul almost certain to come home for that family -festivity, he might, in all likelihood, be calculated upon for the -rectory too; in which case Alice and he would remain for supper -afterwards, and the day would be a white day. Not many entertainments of -a lively description came in Dolly’s way. She had to drive out solemnly -with her father now and then, and attend garden parties which were not -always very amusing, but this day had been marked out as an exception to -all others. After the school-feast, which was the laborious part of it, -and in which she was to be helped by the people she admired and loved -most in the world, there was to be the much more exquisite pleasure of -the domestic party after, talks, and songs, and strolls in the -moonlight, and a whole little romance of happiness. Frank and Alice, -whom it would be almost delight enough to pair together, to see “taking -to each other,” and Paul--Perhaps it was part of Dolly’s training as, in -a way, mother of the parish, that she should make her little plans with -extreme regularity and perfection of all the details. This anticipation -had given her strength for all the preparations of the school-feast. -There was no curate to take any share of the responsibility; everything -came upon her own small shoulders, young and delicate as they were. But -what of that! With such aid and such a recompense, Dolly did not care -what trouble she took. It was her duty in any case, but duty became a -kind of Paradise when pursued in company with Frank and Alice and Paul. -Alas! the morning’s post had brought a letter from Frank announcing -his inability to appear. Was it for a serious cause which his -sister could accept? Alas, no! only for a cricket match, which he -preferred--certainly preferred--to the rectory lawn and Alice Markham. -Frank was false, but the others must prove true. When did any one ever -know the Markhams to fail? When the four children appeared, Dolly -detached herself from Lady Westland, whom with a much disturbed -attention she had been entertaining: - -“Why are they so late?” she cried. - -“Oh, Dolly,” said Bell, half pleased to be of so much importance, half -sorry to convey bad news; “they are not coming at all! They have gone -off to Oxford, papa, mamma, and Alice; there is something the matter -with Paul.” - -Poor little Dolly never could tell how she bore this blow. Suddenly the -whole scene became dim before her, swimming in two big tears which -flooded her eyes. She had indeed said to herself that she would not -“build upon” the coming of Paul; but Alice at least she had a right to -build upon. - -“My dear child, what is the matter?” cried Lady Westland, whose eyes -were as keen as needles. - -Dolly, though she was still blind with the sudden moisture, recovered -her wits more quickly than she recovered her eyesight. - -“I think I shall cry,” she said. “I can’t help it. Alice is not coming; -and Alice was all my hope. There is no one such a help as she is. I -don’t know what I shall do without her.” - -It was a kind of comfort to Dolly to think that Ada Westland would be -wounded by an estimate which showed how little her services were thought -of; and this, perhaps, though not at all a right feeling for a good -little clergywoman, helped her to recover herself, as it was so -necessary she should do. - -The children were assembling in the paddock, all in their best clothes, -with the schoolmistress and the Sunday-school teachers, and a few -favoured villagers. There was the tea to make for them, the games to -organise, to keep everything going; and all the garden walks were -occupied by idle people who were doing nothing to help, and from whom no -help could be expected. Her old maid, who had been her nurse, and who -was Dolly’s chief support in the household, and old George the old -man-servant, who managed the male department at the rectory, were both -required to hand tea, and attend upon these fine people, who did all -they could to detain Dolly herself, stopping her as she hurried down to -the field of action, to tell her that it was a pretty scene. Dolly was -far too good a girl, and too thoroughly trained to the duties of her -position to dwell at that moment upon her disappointment. But whenever -she paused for a moment, whenever the din of the voices and teacups -experienced a lull, it came back to her. Poor little Dolly! She had -everything on her shoulders. - -There was a line of chairs arranged under the lime-trees on the lawn for -the great people of the parish--the Trevors and the Westlands--apart -from the crowd of smaller people who came and went. Among these few -local magnates the rector meandered, and it was to them that old -George’s services were specially dedicated. They had the best of the -tea, which Dolly grudged greatly, and the best position, and the best -attendance; and considered themselves to be doing a duty which they -owed to the parish in thus countenancing the school-feast. They -considered that they were doing their duty; but at the same time, in the -absence of anything better, they liked it as Bell and Marie did, -because, such as it was, it was a party, though only a school-feast. Old -Admiral Trevor was seated in the sunniest spot--for warmth, as his -daughters explained, was everything to him. He sat there, cooking in the -heat of the August afternoon with poor Miss Trevor close by, divided -between the necessity of being close to him and the love of the grateful -shade behind. The old admiral talked a great deal, mumbling between his -toothless gums with the greatest energy, and very indignant when he was -asked a second time what he had said. Miss Trevor, though she was deaf -and used an ear-trumpet, always heard her father, and was very quick and -clever in interpreting him, so as to save what she called -“unpleasantness.” Beside the Trevors were the Westlands--the whole four -of them--father, mother, son, and daughter. They were new people, and -therefore deeply impressed with the necessity of “countenancing” the -parish in which they had bought a house and park, and which they tried -to patronise as if it belonged to them. They were very rising people, -very rich, and fond of finding themselves in good company, even at a -school-feast; for naturally such people get on much better in town, -where there are all sorts of visitors, than in the country where -everybody knows all about their pedigree and belongings. Dolly’s only -real help was Miss Matilda Trevor, the second daughter of the admiral, a -plain, good woman, but so shortsighted that she had to put her nose into -everything before she could see it. Some of the smaller lights of -Markham, Mrs. Booth, and her niece, from Rosebank, and young Mrs. -Rossiter, the doctor’s wife, might have been of a little use; but their -heads were turned by the offer the rector inadvertently made of the -chairs reserved for the Markhams on the lawn. When they had such a -chance of distinction, of making their “position” quite apparent, and -showing their equality with the county people, who could wonder that -these ladies threw over the children, and Dolly, though not without many -compunctions? Poor ladies! they did not make very much of it; they -talked to each other which they could do any day, and now and then got a -word from Miss Trevor, who poked out her trumpet for the answer, -frightening Mrs. Rossiter out of her wits. - -This, however, accomplished Dolly’s discomfiture, leaving her altogether -to herself. It was a pretty scene, as everybody said. The people who -were walking about the garden dropped off as the afternoon went on, but -the great people sat it out; though they paused to say it was a pretty -scene, they were busy with their own talk, and had nothing else to do -that was of any importance. The admiral had got into an argument with -Lord Westland about the new ironclads--if argument that could be called -which consisted of vituperation on the part of the old sailor and -amiable remonstrances from the new lord. - -“Ships,” the bigoted old seaman cried, the foam flying from his lips, “I -doncall’em ships.” He ran his words into each other, which made him very -difficult to understand. “Shtinking old tin-kettles, old potshanpans, -that’s what I call ’em. Set a seaman afloatin’em shlike -puttin’emdownamine. I don’ callit afloat.” - -“My dear sir,” said Lord Westland, blandly, “there may be something in -what you say; but we might as well try to confine the waves of the sea, -as a certain king did, as to keep back science. Science, admiral, must -have her way.” - -“Let’erhav’erway,” cried the old man, “down to the bottom if sheshamind. -One good seamansh worth more ’ana shipload o’ph’losophers. -Let’emman’erownships; let’em man their own ships. Crew o’ph’losophers -’shtead o’seamen. Bust their boilers’s often ’shtheylike and devil a -harm.” - -“He says the new ships should have crews of philosophers,” said Miss -Trevor, tranquilly, putting up her hand to silence the anxious “I did -not catch your last remark,” to which Lord Westland was about to give -utterance. The peer shook his indulgent head. - -“My dear admiral, philosophers, though it may please you and me, who are -old-fashioned, to rail at them, are rapidly becoming the masters of the -world.” - -“Mashters-o-fiddlshticks,” said the old sailor. “Put’emdown the d----d -ratholes, shee how theylikeit’emshelves. Old coalmines under water, call -that a ship! None o’ God’s air, noneoGod’s light--all machines -an’gasburnersh. Smash ’erownconsortsh--run every thin’ down--’chept -enemish!” he sputtered forth triumphantly, with a laugh of angry -triumph in his own argument. - -“He says they run everything down, except the enemy,” said Miss Trevor. -“I should like myself to know why there are so many collisions nowadays. -My father says it is all science and boilers. Why is it, Lord Westland?” -And she put up that ear-trumpet, of which everybody was afraid, for her -noble neighbour’s use. - -“Did you hear that last piece of news about the Markhams?” said Lady -Westland. “All off at a moment’s notice, the very day they were expected -here. They really ought to have waited and showed themselves, and not -given colour to all the stories that are about.” - -“Are there stories about? I have not heard any. Markham only came home -two days ago. Do you mean about the ministry? Is it supposed to be -insecure?” - -“Oh no,” cried Lady Westland, with an ineffable smile. “The -ministry!--oh no, Mr. Stainforth; that is much too well secured with the -best and most influential support. The opposition need not trouble -themselves about that.” - -Lady Westland looked at her husband with honest admiration. He was a -consistent supporter of government--and standing, as he did, with his -legs wide apart and his shoulders squared, anticipating with dread the -necessity of speaking into the trumpet and preparing himself for the -effort, he looked a very substantial prop. - -“Ah, to be sure,” said the rector. “I forgot for the moment we take -different sides.” - -“My dear rector, how you, a dignified clergyman and a man of family, can -take the Liberal side!” said Lady Westland. “It seems more than one can -believe. But, oh no--oh dear no! of course I would not for the world say -a word to weaken old ties or change convictions. An opinion that has -stood the test of years is a sacred thing. But I did not mean anything -political. Don’t you know, dear Mr. Stainforth, the very sad stories -that are told everywhere about Paul?” - -“What has Paul been doing?” said the old rector. He did not himself very -much approve of Paul. Staying up to read was a new sort of idea which -had not been thought of in his day. He did not much believe in young -fellows reading when a set of them got together. “Much more likely they -are staying up for some mischief,” he had said when he heard of it, and -in consequence he was not disinclined or unprepared to hear that there -were stories about Paul. - -“Did not you hear what he did? He brought some frightful Radical -agitator, some public-house politician--so they say--to the Chase, and -made poor Lady Markham take him in, and gave her all sorts of trouble. I -believe Sir William has scarcely spoken to him since for being so silly. -But we all know what a devoted mother Lady Markham is. For my part, I -think one’s husband has the first claim. And now they say he is -inveigled into some engagement, and is going to be sent off to the -Colonies and got rid of in that way.” - -“I think there must be some mistake,” said the rector. “Men don’t send -their heirs to the Colonies, nor get rid of them, except for very -serious causes.” - -“Oh, I am so glad you stand up for Paul! I will never believe it,” said -Ada Westland. “Paul inveigled into any engagement! How could you believe -it, Mr. Stainforth? He is as proud as Lucifer. He thinks none of us fit -to pick up his handkerchief. Oh, I know, we are all supposed to be on -our promotion, waiting till he may be pleased to look at us. I--and -Dolly too---- but he never did condescend to look at us. If he were to -marry, after that, a girl off the streets----” - -“Ada, my love, for Heaven’s sake, take care how you talk!” - -“Oh, there is nobody but the rector, mamma, and he knows we girls are -not such fools as we are made to look. If Paul Markham were to marry -that sort of person, I should laugh. It would be our revenge--Dolly’s -and mine--whom he never would condescend to look at. It would be nuts to -me.” - -“Did you ever hear anything so vulgar?” said Mrs. Booth to Mrs. -Rossiter. “I never could abide that girl. They have all thrown her and -themselves at Paul Markham’s head. New people as they are, and shoddy -people, they would give their eyes to have her married into such an old -county family.” - -“But it is not true about Dolly,” said the doctor’s wife. “Dolly has not -such a notion in her head. Her mind is full of the parish, and her -father, and Frank. I don’t believe such an idea as getting married ever -crossed her mind at all.” - -“Hem!” said Mrs. Booth, with a doubtful little cough, “I should not -like to swear to that. What did you say, Lady Westland--haven’t I heard -it? Well, I have heard something about strange visitors. It appears -there have been several people at Markham lately whom nobody has been -asked to meet.” - -“That is very significant; I call it very significant. When one’s own -friends cease to introduce their friends to us, it is a token that all -is not well. Don’t you think so?” said Lady Westland, softly smiling on -the doctor’s wife. - -Mrs. Rossiter’s sympathies were all with the victims who were being -assailed. But the Westlands were very fine people, much more “difficult -to know” than the Markhams, and the doctor had not yet got a very -distinct footing at the Towers. His young wife thought of her husband’s -position, and acquiesced with a sigh. - -“But it is not like them,” she said. “The Markhams are so hospitable; -they are such nice people; they are always kind.” - -“Yes, they ask all sorts of people. It is extraordinary the people one -meets there,” Lady Westland said; which made Mrs. Rossiter’s cheek -flame, and was a very just recompense to her for her infidelity. And -then there was a pause, and the boom of Admiral Trevor’s bass, and the -titillation of his sh’s came in like the chorus. He was still holding -forth on the subject of the _Devastation_. - -“I don’t wish ’em any harm,” said the old sailor; “I wish-e-may all go -down in port like that one t’other day. Wish-em wher-er shure to be -looked after. No, blesh us all--no harm!” - -Meanwhile the games were going on merrily enough in the paddock. Dolly -flew about for three people. She set the little ones afloat in one game, -and the big ones in another. The Markhams were still her best allies, -Bell throwing herself into the rounds and dances of the infants with -characteristic vigour; but Harry and Roland stood apart and whispered to -each other, with their hands in their pockets. They would have taken the -boys off to play cricket, had that been in the programme. - -“No, I will not have it,” Dolly said. “For once in a way they shall be -together. It’s bad enough when they grow up, when all the boys troop off -for their own pleasure, and never think what the girls are doing. It’s -time enough to break up a party and make sects when they’re grown up,” -Dolly said. The boys stared, and did not understand her. But it was -natural enough that she should be angry. Frank’s cricket match was -rankling in his sister’s mind. And Dolly thought that “for once in a -way” Paul Markham might have thought of old friends. It was sure to be -his fault that even Alice had failed her; Dolly had no idea how it could -be his fault, but she was sure of it. Her heart was full of fury as she -flew about from one group of children to another, struggling against -their tendency to fall into detached parties, and let the amusements -flag. “It is far more their parish than it is mine; they will always -have it,” she said to herself. When it began to be time for the children -to disperse, and the conclusion of her labours approached, she was so -far carried away by her feelings as to forget that the Miss Trevor who -had helped her with the tea, but had been standing helplessly about -since, always in the way, was the shortsighted one, and not the deaf -one. “Oh, I wonder why all these people don’t go away?” she cried. -“Haven’t they got dinners waiting at home? Why do they stay so long? I -am sure I don’t want to have to go and entertain them after the children -go away.” And then poor Dolly recollected with horror that Mrs. Booth -and Mrs. Rossiter were to stay for a high tea, and that the doctor was -to come in to join them. “Oh,” she cried, in her vexation, “I shall not -get rid of them to-night.” - -“Of whom are you speaking, my dear?” said Miss Trevor, astonished--which -brought Dolly to herself; and, fortunately, Miss Trevor could not see -that it was her own party, and the rest of the people on the lawn, whom -Dolly meant. “I am afraid we must be going very soon,” she added, with -regret. “I am sorry not to stay and help you to the end. But dear papa -must not be exposed to the night dews.” - -Dolly had to marshal the children for a march round, leading them in -front of the company on the lawn, and conducting the chorale (as the -schoolmistress called it) which they sang before they broke up. This was -what the fine people had remained for, and all the parish would have -been disappointed had they not stayed. But, notwithstanding, it was hard -upon her, tired as she was, to have to stand and receive their -compliments, and to be told that it had been “such a pretty scene.” - -“I enjoyed it very much,” said Lady Westland, “I assure you; I only -came to do a duty and countenance you, my dear Dolly; but I quite -enjoyed it.” - -“We came to scoff, and we remained to play,” said Ada; while Lord -Westland squared his shoulders, and threw out his chest, and repeated -his wife’s observation about the pretty scene. - -“And I hope you will always calculate on me to give my countenance -whenever it is wanted,” he said. - -Dolly, though so tired, had to stand and smile, and look gratified by -all their compliments. And what was worse, when they had all at last -been got away, there rose up from behind the chairs on which Mrs. Booth -and Mrs. Rossiter, waiting with the ease of _habitués_ till all was -over, had seated themselves again after their leave-takings, a tall and -gawky figure, dark in the fading light. - -“Mr. Westland is going to stay, Dolly, to share our evening meal, though -I have told him it will be a homely one,” the rector said, not without a -tone of apology in his voice. Another voice, high up in the air, -muttered something about the greatest pleasure. But Dolly took no -notice. This was the worst infliction of all. She let herself drop into -the wicker-work chair with the cushions, which Lady Westland had -declared to be so comfortable. - -“I thought they were never going away,” she said with angry candour. “I -am so tired. I so wanted a little peace.” - -The rector and young Westland both knew the meaning of this speech, but -neither ventured to reply. - -Mrs. Booth, however, stretched out her hand and gave the girl a friendly -pinch. “They are the most important people in the county, Dolly.” - -“No, indeed, that they are _not_” the girl cried loud out. She was not -one to desert her friends, even though they might not be so good to her -as she had hoped. But as Mrs. Booth’s remark had been made in a whisper, -no one knew exactly to what this prompt contradiction referred. - -At supper Mr. Westland was of course placed at Dolly’s right hand. If he -was not the most important young man in the neighbourhood, he was -nominally of the highest rank, and would no doubt have taken precedence -anywhere of Paul Markham. He was very tall, and very lean, an overgrown, -lanky boy, with big projecting eyes, which were full of meaning when he -looked at Dolly--or at least of something which he intended for meaning. -He did not talk very much, but he gazed at her constantly, which was -very irritating to Dolly. Mr. Rossiter was a much more lively person. He -came in in a state of high good-humour, which none of the party already -assembled shared. Both the ladies who were Dolly’s guests had -grievances. They had sat on uncomfortable chairs all the afternoon by -way of showing their identity with the best families, but the Westlands -and the Trevors had taken very little notice of them. The doctor’s wife -for one felt that she had not been of that service to Dolly which Dolly -had a right to expect, and yet that she had not asserted her husband’s -position in anything like a satisfactory way by this failure in -friendship. The supper-table was not as lively as a supper-table ought -to be after a bright afternoon out of doors. - -“I hope it all went off well,” the doctor said as he looked round the -languid party, and saw how little response there was in their faces to -his cheery address and simple jokes. - -“Oh, beautifully!” said young Westland, finding his voice with an -effort; “like everything Miss Stainforth has to do with.” - -There was no murmur of response; and Dolly gave her champion a glance -which drove him back trembling upon himself. Then Mrs. Booth said, -stopping her knife and fork, “I think we missed Lady Markham.” She said -this as if it were a conclusion she had arrived at by a long process of -reasoning; and then she returned to her cold chicken with renewed zest. - -“That was it,” cried Mrs. Rossiter, glad to hit upon something which -relieved her own sense of guilt. “It was Lady Markham we wanted. She -makes everything go smooth. She makes you feel that she takes an -interest in you, and wants you to be comfortable.” - -“It is a pity,” said the rector, “that such a pleasant type of character -should so seldom be sincere.” - -“Papa,” said Dolly, “I can bear a great deal--but if any one says any -harm of the Markhams I will not put up with it. If they had been here I -should not have had everything to do myself. If they had been here those -tiresome people would have gone away at the right time, and everything -would have gone right. Sincere! Do you think it is sincere to say nasty -things, and get out of temper when one is tired--like me?” - -And poor Dolly nearly cried; till the doctor threatened her with a -mixture to be taken three times a day; when she made a great effort, and -shook off her evil disposition. Besides she had fired her shots right -and left, wounding two bosoms at least, and there was an ease to the -mind in that which could not be gainsaid. - -“But I hear there are unpleasant stories afloat about the Markhams,” the -rector said at his end of the table. “I hope my old friend, Sir William, -has not been remiss in his duties. A father should never give up his -authority, even to his wife. I fear among them,” he added, shaking his -white head, “they have done everything they could to spoil Paul.” - -“So I hear,” said Mrs. Booth, shaking hers. But nobody knew what was the -real charge against the Markhams, or what it was that Paul had done. And -after Dolly’s profession of faith in them, which was something like an -accusation against the others, these others might shake their wise -heads, and communicate between themselves their adverse opinions. But -before Dolly there was not another word to say. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -The rectory of Markham Royal was a very good living--a living intended -for the second son of the reigning family when there was a second son; -and indeed it was more than probable that Roland Markham, when he grew -up, would have to “go in for” the Church, in order to take advantage of -this family provision. Sir William, being in his own person the third -son of his family, and the youngest, there was nobody who had a claim -upon it when he came into possession of the title and estates; for the -Markhams of Underwood, who were the next heirs, and who had been very -confident in their hopes up to the moment of Sir William’s marriage--a -wrong which they had never forgiven--had but one son, who was too old to -be cut into clerical trim. This was how Mr. Stainforth had got the -living. He had held it for nearly thirty-five years, and had been a -good rector enough, jogging on very easily, harming nobody, and if not -particularly active in his parish, at least quite amiable and -inoffensive, friendly with all the best families, and not uncharitable -to the poor. He had a little money of his own, and had kept a good -table, and returned to a certain degree the civilities of his richer -neighbours. And he had been able to keep a pretty little carriage for -his wife as long as she lived, and for his daughter; and altogether to -maintain the traditionary position which the rector of Markham Royal had -always held in the county. Perhaps an inoffensive man who disturbs -nobody is the one who can hold such a position best; just as it is -better (though this rule has at present a brilliant exception) for a -president of the Royal Academy to be not too distinguished a painter, -and even sometimes for a bishop not to be too great a divine. Society -prefers the suave and mediocre, and when a man acquires a high place in -its ranks by reason of his profession, requires of him that he should be -as little professional as possible. Mr. Stainforth was of the good old -order of the squire-parson, the clerical country gentleman who respects -abuses which are venerable, and deprecates any great eagerness about -the way to heaven. Perhaps he had not very distinct views about heaven -at all. Now and then he would preach a sermon about golden gates, and -harps, and shining raiment, but it was seldom, if ever, of his own -composition. In his own practice he thought it best to think as little -about dying as possible, and he did not try to impose a different rule -on his neighbours. He thought that it would most likely all come right -somehow or other in the end, and that in the meantime there was not much -good to be done by too much dwelling on the subject, which indeed is a -view of the subject which a great many people are disposed to take. He -had lived long enough to see all his sons and daughters established in -life, which was a great matter. He had two girls who were very well -married, and two sons with capital appointments, besides Frank, who was -scrambling for his living somehow, and could manage to “get on”--and -Dolly, who was too young to cost very much. There was enough to provide -for Dolly when the rector should die--and he felt that he had fully done -his duty to his family. And he had done his duty to his parish. There -was no more dissent than was inevitable; and Mr. Stainforth treated it -as inevitable, and did not interfere with it. He was very reasonable on -this subject--so reasonable that the curates he had generally disagreed -with him violently; and he was at the present period taking the duty -alone, though it was somewhat laborious, rather than attempt to regulate -the young assistant priest who set up confessions, or the muscular young -parson who instituted games. - -“Let the people alone,” was Mr. Stainforth’s rule, to which these -hot-headed young neophytes without experience would give no faith. -Sometimes he would be quite eloquent on the subject. “Let the chapel -alone,” he would say. “What can we do in the Church with the emotions, -especially among the poor? A washerwoman who has feelings wants her -chapel. It makes her a great deal happier than you or I could do. All -that does the Church good. And let the others peg away at me if they -please. It keeps Spicer amused, and keeps him out of more mischief.” - -Spicer was the village grocer, against whom all the young men hurled -themselves and their arguments in vain. But the rector dealt with -Spicer, and always had a chat with him when he passed the shop-door. -There was a mutual respect between them. - -“But our rector, I don’t say nothing against him,” Spicer would say at -the end of his speech, when there was any demonstration in the -neighbourhood in the dissenting interest; “he mayn’t be much of a one -for work, but he’s a credit to the place.” There was a great deal to be -said for the head of the parish hierarchy who continued to get his -things from you, blandly indifferent to the fact that you were a -dissenter, and in despite of all those co-operative societies which -drive grocers to a keener frenzy than any Church establishment. Lord -Westland got all his things down from town, and so did the doctor and -the smaller magnates; while even the chapel minister was known to have a -clandestine hamper, given out to be a present from some supporter, but -arriving suspiciously once a month. The rector, however, never swerved. -To him the parish was the parish, and a Markham Royal grocer the proper -grocer for Markham Royal--a principle which could not but have its -reward. - -This was the chief reason, and not economy, as many people said, why Mr. -Stainforth did the duty himself, and had no curate. Dolly was his -curate. She had been born in the order, so to speak, and none could -recollect the time when she had not felt it her duty to set an example, -and carried more or less the burden of the parish upon her shoulders. -She had been dedicated, like young Samuel, from her earliest years to -the service of the Temple. She set out upon her round of visits every -day as regularly as any curate could have done, had her days for the -schools, and her clothing clubs, and her mother’s meetings, at which the -seventeen-year-old creature discoursed the women about their duties to -their families in a way which was beautiful to hear. How she could know -so much about children was a standing wonder to the women; but it was -just as astounding to see her calculate the interest upon elevenpence -ha’penny at four and a half per cent; indeed a great deal more -miraculous to some of us. She played the organ in church; she took -charge of the decorations. She watched all the sick people, careful to -observe just the right moment when it was expedient “to send papa;” and -the parish got on very pleasantly under the joint sway of the father and -daughter. It did not make a very great appearance in the diocesan lists -of subscriptions, and there was no doubt that a great many of the people -who had feelings, as the rector said, went to the little Wesleyan -chapel. But Mr. Stainforth did not mind that. It was a safety valve, and -so was the Bethel chapel, in the nearest town, to which Spicer went -every Sunday, which was much less tolerant than Bethesda, and hurled all -manner of denunciations against the Church. Sometimes the neighbouring -incumbents would warn the rector that his village was a hotbed of -mischief, and be very severe on the subject of his excessive tolerance. -But Mr. Stainforth was seventy-six, and not likely to live long enough -to see any of the great earthquakes with which they threatened him. -“There will be peace in my time,” he said. - -This supineness did not displease Sir William, who, though in -opposition, held fast to the old Whig maxims of freedom of opinion, and -preferred to conciliate the dissenters, with an eye to the general -elections and their political support generally. He went very regularly -to church at the head of his fine family, but there was always a -consciousness in him that, much as he should regret it, it might -possibly be his duty one day or other to assail the establishment; and -he thought it a point of honour not to show any exaggerated attachment -to it now which might be turned into reproaches afterwards. Neither did -the Trevors object at all to Mr. Stainforth’s easy good temper. The -things they were afraid of were the Pope, and the Jesuits, whom they -supposed to be lurking under every hedgerow. So long as the rector kept -ritualism at bay they found no fault with him. The Westlands, however, -were very strong on the opposite side. They were people who endeavoured -always to do as persons of their rank ought to do, and they liked a high -ritual just as they liked high life. Though they “countenanced” the -school-feast, and were always ready to do their duty in this way in the -parish, yet they never let slip an opportunity of expressing their -opinion of the rector’s weakness. - -“But we have no influence,” Lady Westland said. “The living is in the -hands of the Markhams. Though they are commoners they were settled here -before us, and therefore have the advantage of us in a great many ways.” - -It was a bold thing to say this in the very district where it was well -known the Markhams had been established for centuries, and where Lord -Westland had acquired the Towers by purchase only about a dozen years -before. But if there was one quality upon which Lady Westland prided -herself it was courage. She was somewhat bitter about the Markhams -altogether. There were so many things in which they had the advantage of -her. To be sure, she took precedence of Lady Markham whenever they met, -and walked triumphantly out of the room before her; but she could not -but be aware that in most other ways the baronet’s wife had the best of -it. The Chase had been in the Markham family for generations, whereas -Westland Towers was painfully new; and to come to still more intimate -particulars, Paul Markham was a young man of distinction, whereas George -Westland, though an honourable, was nothing but an overgrown school-boy. -Ada, indeed, was quite as handsome, perhaps handsomer, than Alice, and -much cleverer: but she did not receive the same attention. Ada was -withal rather a difficult young woman, who gave her parents a great deal -of trouble. She took a pleasure in running her talk to the very edge of -evil, and made every kind of daring revelation about herself and her -family, putting her mother’s secret intentions into large type and -publishing them abroad. She liked to see the flutter of semi-horror, -semi-incredulity with which her bold sayings were received. She liked to -shock people; but perhaps, at the same time, she made a shrewd -calculation that, when she published what seemed to be to her own -disadvantage, nobody would believe her. This, however, was not so -successful an expedient as appeared. When she said that Paul had been -expected to throw his handkerchief at her, nobody took it for an -impertinent volley of extravagance on her part. It was vain that she -involved Dolly in it. In the very faces of her auditors Ada saw the -truth reflected back to her; and thus, though she would not have -hesitated to marry the heir of the Markhams, she could not excuse the -family for what they brought upon her. Lord Westland was not a man to -feel the stings which hurt his wife and daughter. He was protected by a -much higher opinion of himself; but even he felt a certain annoyance -with “my friend Markham,” who was listened to more respectfully, and -looked up to with much more trust than he. Lord Westland took this as -an instance of the folly and stupidity of country people, but yet he -felt it in his heart. - -Thus the one family was to the other what Mordecai was to Haman. Lady -Westland kept her ears always open to hear anything to the disadvantage -of the Markhams. Paul’s youthful vagaries, and even the little scrapes -which Harry and Roland got into at school she seized upon with -eagerness. She was as much interested in chronicling these misdeeds as -if they had been so many items to her advantage; but, notwithstanding -everything, the Markhams always came off the best. George Westland got -into more scrapes at school than all of them put together; and now that -he had come home, and had finished his education, what must he do, this -heir to a peerage, this only son of so rich and important a house, but -go sighing and gaping after Dolly Stainforth, who was no more than the -parson’s daughter? His mother and sister were driven almost wild by the -mere suspicion of this. And not only was it day by day more evidently -true, but it even became apparent to them that George for once had -reached a point from which he would neither be bullied nor frightened. -He let them say whatever they pleased, but he took his own way. - -What Dolly thought of this has been already seen. Dolly, who was angry -at her brother’s defection and sadly wounded by the failure of the -Markhams, resented George Westland’s presence more than she did the -absence of the others, and turned her back upon him, rejecting his -services. She treated him with absolute contumely, impatient of his very -look. Why is it that the wrong person will always present himself in -such cases? Why, when a girl’s fancy is caught by one youth, will -another attach himself to her side, and devote himself to her service, -to have all the little carelessnesses of the other resented upon him? -Dolly had not a word to say to young Westland. She would have liked to -have pushed him aside out of her way; and Paul perhaps had not given one -thought to Dolly since they danced together at the children’s balls at -the Chase, while he was still a schoolboy. Thus the threads in the -shuttle of life mix themselves up and get all woven the wrong way. - -The Trevors were happily beyond the reach of all tremors of this kind. -The old admiral lived a kind of mummy life, swathed in flannels against -the rheumatism, and in bandages against the gout, with his food weighed -out to him, and his wine measured by the too-scrupulous care of his -daughter, whose life was spent in guarding him against cold and -indigestion and excitement. Miss Trevor, the eldest, though she was -deaf, always heard and understood what he said; but Miss Matilda, the -second, never understood her dear papa, and had constantly to have his -commands repeated to her. Between her parish work, in which she was -assiduous, and her dear papa, this good soul’s existence was full. She -was very humble-minded, and anxious to please everybody, but yet she was -constantly giving offence to Mrs. Booth, whom she sometimes passed in -the road, and sometimes brushed against at the church door, without -seeing. Thus her inoffensive life was diversified by a succession of -little quarrels, wholly unintentional, and which the poor lady could not -understand. But these were the only palpitations in her calm existence; -and her sister was free even from such agitation. She gave herself up to -the housekeeping, and to reading the newspapers, which she did every -morning, from beginning to end, specially dwelling upon all the naval -debates and letters about the construction of ships. To give the admiral -his “nourishment” at the proper time, to see that the carriage came -round exactly at the right moment, to regulate the length of the drive -to a moment, this was “a woman’s work,” and absorbed the admiral’s -daughter in all the rigidity of routine. Thus life went on--as if it -would never end. - -As this history is for once to dwell in the highest circles, and deal -only with people who may be called county people, and were of the -highest importance in the district, it is scarcely necessary to speak of -the smaller gentry. There were one or two small proprietors who farmed -their own land, or who had so little land that it was scarcely worth -farming, who lived about the skirts of the parish, and scarcely counted -among its aristocracy. Some of these were so much nearer other parish -churches that they did not even come to church at Markham Royal. Sir -William Markham owned almost the whole of the parish. He had widened out -his borders year by year during the long time he had held the property, -and swallowed up various decaying houses of old squires. Such a little -villa as Rosebank could not make any claim to be considered among the -very smallest proprietors, and it was more to her devotion to the church -than to anything else that Mrs. Booth owed her social elevation. She was -very good in the parish. She and her niece visited the poor assiduously, -and were familiar every-day visitors at the rectory, and so insensibly -saw themselves received everywhere. They were the agents of almost every -scheme of social improvement, always ready to act for the greater -ladies, who had less time to spare, and content to pick up the crumbs of -society from these great folks’ tables. Though they were quite -insignificant in themselves they were in the midst of everything, and -not unimportant members of the society which admitted them on -sufferance, yet ended by being somewhat dependent upon them. If ever -Miss Trevor enjoyed a holiday from her close attendance on her father, -it was when Mrs. Booth had the carriage sent for her before luncheon and -came to spend the day, with her dinner-dress and her cap in a little -box. She could manage to guess at what the admiral meant, and she would -play at backgammon with him, or read the newspapers, while Jane Trevor -rested her weary soul in her own room, writing a detailed report to her -aurist, or putting a few new verses into a book with a Bramah lock, -which held the confidences of her life. It was Miss Booth who was the -most popular of the two at Westland Towers, where Ada liked to have a -hanger-on. But in the rectory they were both in their element--more -familiar, and constantly interfering with Dolly, whom they both were -very fond of, and whom they worried considerably. Rosebank had a balance -and pendant in Elderbower, where lived an Indian officer and his family, -but the Elders were a large family very much occupied with each other, -with the cares of education, and making both ends meet; and consequently -they took little part in what was going on, and need not be counted at -all. - -This was the circle which encompassed the Markhams like a chorus, like -the ring of spectators which is always found encircling combatants in -all classes. In this arena, round which were ranged all the bystanders, -was about to be enacted the drama of their family life. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Mr. Augustus Markham Gaveston strolled up the village when the children -left him, looking curiously at all the cottages, till he came to the -little whitewashed country inn, which called itself the Markham Arms. -The little gentleman was full of interest in everything. He stopped and -looked in at the windows of the little shop, where everything was sold, -from biscuits to petticoats--gazed in with as much interest as if it had -been a shop in Bond Street. He crossed over the street to see where the -post-office was, and to look at the smithy, where the blacksmith and his -journeyman and apprentice paused to push their caps from their foreheads -and stare at him, as did also the groom from Westland Towers, very trim -and fine, who had brought Mr. Westland’s horse to have his shoes looked -to. They all stared, and the stranger returned their gaze with smiling -complacency, evidently thinking it quite natural that they should stare -at him--a thing to be looked for. And the school children stared at him -whom he met on their way to the rectory. Mr. Augustus did not mind. He -looked at them all paternally, patting the heads of some of the little -ones. The little girls curtsied to him--as you may be sure in schools -superintended by Miss Stainforth they had been taught to do--and this -pleased him greatly. He took off his hat to them, which astonished the -children as much as his white umbrella did, and the strangeness of his -appearance altogether. The village was in a commotion, as was natural, -by reason of the school-feast, and the arrival of so many carriages and -visitors. Half at least of the houses were still pouring forth little -bands in their best clothes, mothers and aunts standing at the door to -watch the effect. So that it was a kind of triumphal progress which he -made through the village street, where everybody was glad to have a new -object to occupy them after the children had disappeared. The Markham -Arms was not a much frequented inn; but it was as clean and neat as it -was quiet and homely, and there was a pretty little parlour with a -bow-window, all clustered with the common sweet clematis, the -travellers’ joy, and honeysuckle, into which Mrs. Boardman ushered the -stranger with secret pride, yet many apologies. - -There is a bigger room up stairs, sir; but if so be as you could do with -this till to-morrow----” - -“It is the very thing I want,” he said; and he bade her send some one to -the station for his portmanteaus. “Only the portmanteaus. I don’t want -the big cases.” This dazzled the landlady, and indeed there were found -to be three large cases besides the portmanteaus, cases so large that it -was all the little station could do to afford them shelter and safety. -John Boardman fetched the other boxes himself, and was duly impressed by -this evidence of wealth. The name on the luggage, as on the little -gentleman’s card, was Markham Gaveston; but whether by some freak of the -uninstructed artist who had written the name in bold characters of print -upon the cases, the Gaveston was small, and the Markham large, so that -there was some doubt in the minds of the people, both at the station and -the inn, which was the name to call the new-comer by; and what was -still more odd, when they asked him, he only laughed and answered, -“Which you please,” which confused them more and more. He informed John -Boardman, however, that he was a relation of the family, but had been in -foreign parts all his life, and had never seen Markham before; and, as -he brought in the boys from the Chase to dine with him that very -evening, there could be no doubt as to the justice of this claim. Also -the landlord had a letter to put in the post for him that night which -was addressed to Sir William Markham at Oxford. He must be a relation, -but who was he? For the next two days the village was very much -disturbed by this question. There were old people in the place who were -proud to think that they knew Sir William’s relations better than he -himself did; but who this little gentleman was, and what might be the -degree of his cousinship, they found it very hard to make out. He -laughed once more when he was asked if he was “a full cousin,” or a more -distant relation. - -“Something of that sort,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye, as if this -was a capital joke. He was so constantly about, and so ready to make -acquaintance with everybody, that in two days the whole village knew -him; and this question weighed upon the mind of the community. At last -one of the old women in the almshouses who had spent half her life in -the nursery at the Chase, by dint of almost superhuman cogitation, found -a clue to the mystery. She remembered that one of the daughters of the -late Mr. Markham of Underwood, who was “full cousin” to Sir William, had -gone abroad after she became a widow, a very long time ago. Most likely -she must have married again and become the mother of this little brown -gentleman, who no doubt looked older than he was, being so spare and so -brown. This was an explanation that satisfied everybody. The lady’s name -had been Willoughby when she left England, but what of that? It took a -weight off the mind of the village to have the stranger thus made out -and set in his right place. - -And during the three days he spent in the village Mr. Markham Gaveston -made acquaintance with everybody. His curiosity was insatiable. All day -long he strolled about and questioned everybody. When he saw old Sophy -coming from the woods with her bundle of sticks, he insisted on knowing -where she got them, and how she got them, and all about her. Nothing -escaped him. He found out that it was Lord Westland’s groom that was at -the smithy when he passed, and that the horse belonged to the Honourable -Mr. Westland, and that the Honourable Mr. Westland was always finding -errands to bring him to the rectory. This information he picked up by -the way, as one to whom all news was pleasant; but the Markhams were the -real objects of his inquiries. And when the landlady proceeded to -intimate that Mr. Westland might save himself the trouble, since Miss -Dolly cared more for Mr. Paul’s little finger than for all his grandeur, -and his title, the little gentleman at once owned the stronger spell. - -“So there’s a love-story going on, is there?” he cried briskly. “Mr. -Paul! that’s my young relation, I suppose? Are they going to marry? -Come, tell me all about it. This interests me.” - -“Oh, _marry_, sir; bless you! No, it ain’t gone so far as that,” Mrs. -Boardman cried. And she had to protest that there was nothing but “idle -tales” in what she had said--her own silly fancies, as she added, with -anxious humility, and bits of gossip among the servants. “You won’t say -as I said it, sir,” she added. “I wouldn’t be the one to make mischief -for all the world, nor vex Miss Dolly, so good as she is; and most -likely my lady wouldn’t like it--and I don’t say nothing for Mr. Paul -neither. He is mostly away; it isn’t what you could call keeping -company. Oh, if us women hadn’t got no tongues, what a deal o’ -mischief’d be spared!’ - -“That’s what I’m always telling you,” said John. - -“And the men’s worse,” said his wife, going on. “Us women, we lets a -thing slip, and never thinks; but the bad stories, them as sets folks by -the ears, they always comes from the men.” - -This amused Mr. Markham Gaveston greatly. He clapped his hands and -encouraged them both to continue. - -“At her, John!” he said, behind the good woman’s back; but John shook -his head and retired. He knew better. - -And Mrs. Boardman wiped her hands on her apron, and went off “to see to -my dinner.” The dinner naturally was not hers, but her guest’s, who was -a small eater--much too small an eater; a single chop was all he had for -lunch, a chicken served him two days for dinner. There was little credit -in cooking for any one who was so easily satisfied. To be sure he had -suggested one or two eccentric dishes to her when he came, which Mrs. -Boardman had never heard of, and which she had declared could not be -half so good for any one’s “innards” as a plain joint; but since that -the stranger had made no remarks, eating what was set before him without -remonstrance, but too little of it to please his hostess. He was much -more greedy of news than he was of his dinner; and this last piece of -information cost him a great deal of thought. - -Next day, the third day of his stay at Markham Royal, Dolly Stainforth -had a little expedition to make by railway. Though she was far from -being an emancipated young lady, and though her father was very careful -that she should have in general all the guardianship that her position -required, yet to be always accompanied by a servant on the little -journeys which she made periodically to see an old aunt only two -stations off was a burden Dolly could not consent to: for which reason -it had become the habit at Markham Royal to appropriate a vacant -carriage to the use of ladies--a carriage over which the guard was -supposed to watch, defending it from all male intruders. In this -compartment old George, the man-servant at the rectory, carefully placed -his young mistress; and all went on as usual till the very moment before -the train started, when old George was gone, and the attention of the -guard distracted; when the door of Dolly’s carriage was suddenly, -swiftly, noiselessly opened, and a little gentleman, in loose, -light-coloured clothes, jumped in. - -Dolly was so much startled that it was a minute before she found her -breath, and in that minute the train had glided from the station. - -“I fear I have frightened you,” the stranger said. - -Dolly was not at all frightened, but she was true to her father’s -precautions. - -“Oh, no; but this is a carriage for ladies,” she said. - -“Dear me, what a pity!” cried the little man; but it was easy to see by -his countenance that he did not think it a pity. “I am a stranger here,” -he said, “a stranger in England. I don’t know all your ways. I will -change at the next station if I am disagreeable to you.” - -“Oh, no,” cried Dolly, horrified to be supposed guilty of rudeness. “It -is not that. It is only that I am supposed always to travel by myself. -Papa insists on a ladies’ carriage. But it does not at all matter,” she -added, with a glance that was not flattering to the special intruder in -question. “Nobody could mind----” - -Dear, dear! Dolly thought to herself, this is ruder still; and blushed -crimson. - -The stranger, however, did not draw from this any conclusions which were -humiliating to himself. People are not so close to mark our looks and -words as we imagine them to be. He smiled serenely, and as the train was -now plunging along in the fussy yet leisurely manner common to a country -train which stops at all the stations, resumed, with an air of great -satisfaction and complacency-- - -“I am very glad you don’t mind; for I came into the carriage on -purpose--because I saw you get in. I wanted to speak to you,” said Mr. -Markham Gaveston, with a genial smile. - -Then Dolly began to quake a little. Was he mad--or what did he mean? “Do -you know me?” she said, faltering. She had heard of the stranger at the -Markham Arms, but had not seen him. - -“I have the pleasure of knowing who you are,” he said, taking off his -hat with the utmost politeness. “My little--relations, the little -Markhams, pointed you out to me.’ - -“Oh,” cried Dolly again, “then you are----?” - -“Yes, exactly,” he said, smiling, “that is what I am. I have come from -the tropics, and I do not know much about England. If I say anything -that is very unusual, I hope you will excuse me. It is disagreeable that -they should be away just when I have come so far to see them.” - -“Yes,” said Dolly, hesitating. She could not refuse to answer him; but -to discuss her friends with a stranger was a thing against which her -heart revolted. “They did not expect to be away; it was quite -unexpected,” she said. - -“And I have no reason to complain, for they did not know I was coming. -All the same, one may say it is disagreeable, don’t you think? I have to -put up in the inn, instead of being in my--instead of being among my own -people.” - -“Do you know the Markhams, sir?” said Dolly. - -She had a way of saying “sir” to men whom she considered old men; but -happily Mr. Markham Gaveston did not know what was his title to so -respectful an address. - -“I know the little boys and the little girls,” he said. “I could wish -there were no more.” - -“Why?” - -Dolly turned upon him with a flash of indignation, with eyes wide open -and lips apart. - -“Ah! what a silly thing to say, wasn’t it?” he said. “You may be sure I -couldn’t have meant it. I want you to tell me about the others--the -eldest girl and the boy.” - -“I! tell you--about the others!” - -Dolly grew pale, and then red again. Either he must be mad, which had -been her first thought, or else---- - -“Yes,” he said, quite calmly, “don’t be frightened. I want to have a -good account of them and that is what has brought me to you.” - -Once more Dolly stared at him in consternation. She wanted to be angry -and think him impertinent, but he was not impertinent. - -“Don’t be frightened,” her strange companion went on. “I want to hear -all that is good of them. They tell me that I won’t hear anything that -is not good from you.” - -“Mr. ---- sir! ---- How can I talk,” cried Dolly, with crimson cheeks, “of -my friends to you? I--don’t know you. Why do you want to question any -one about them? Who told you I would say nothing that was not good? Does -anybody think,” cried Dolly, her eyes flaming, “that I would say either -good or bad, for any one, that was not true?” - -“I cannot answer so many questions at once,” said the little gentleman; -“besides, that is not what I want; I want to ask, not to answer. I want -to know about my--relations. When I see them, perhaps they may not be -very civil to me; they may think me a bore.” - -“Oh!” cried Dolly, “certainly they will be civil. Alice is too kind for -anything else, and Paul--Paul is a gentleman,” she said, raising her -head. A softness came over the girl’s eyes. She had no thought of -betraying herself; perhaps indeed she was not aware that there was -anything to betray; but in spite of herself, a certain subdued and -dreamy glow, a kind of haze of golden light, came into her brown eyes at -Paul’s name. - -“Well, that is something,” said the stranger; “you don’t think then that -they will take to me much? but because the one is kind, and the other a -gentleman----” - -“That was not what I meant. Am I to pay you compliments to your face?” -said Dolly, stopping short and looking suddenly up, half impatient, half -amused. - -“Certainly, if you wish to,” he cried, promptly. “Oh, yes--do not be -shy. I should not at all mind a compliment or two; indeed I think I -should like them. Do not stand upon ceremony. If you can say seriously -that you think me so nice that Alice will like me at once, and your Paul -claim me as a brother----” - -“He is not my Paul,” cried Dolly, with another hot blush. “I do not like -such a way of speaking. And, Mr. ----” - -She paused for his name, but the little man was malicious, and would not -give it. He nodded his head two or three times. - -“Just so,” he said. “That is quite right,” smiling with a mischievous -smile. - -“Mr.--Markham,” Dolly said with a burst. “If that is not your right -name, it is not my fault. How could Paul receive you as a brother? You -must mean as--an uncle perhaps. Do you know that Paul is only just come -of age, and Alice is but six months older than I?” - -“Ah,” said Mr. Markham Gaveston, stroking his moustache. “I did not -think of that,” and he looked at her with an expression half comic, half -sad, slightly discomfited there could be no doubt. From this he shook -himself free, however, and asked suddenly, “How old may Sir William be?” - -“Sir William? Oh, quite old,” said Dolly. She gave a furtive glance at -him this time, anxious to keep on the safe side, and making a -calculation in her own mind how old this little brown gentleman himself -could be. Fifty, sixty? these two ages were much the same to Dolly. -There was not to her any appreciable difference in their extreme oldness -and far-offness. Even forty was very old. Her mind wandered hazily, -confused on these grey and misty heights. “He is not so old as papa,” -she said with hesitation, “for papa, you know, was his tutor at college; -but he is a great deal older than Lady Markham. He did not marry till he -was about--I don’t quite know how much--about forty, I think I have -heard people say,” said Dolly, with a certain awe in her voice. - -“And that seems quite old to you?” - -“It is old to be married, is it not? And Lady Markham was so beautiful, -everybody says. She is beautiful still. I don’t know any one so lovely. -I tell Alice often though I love her dearly, she is not half, oh, not a -quarter so pretty as her mamma.” - -“How does Alice like that? It will not please her much, I should think. -I should not say that if I wanted her to like me.” - -The disdain with which Dolly erected her small head, and looked at him! - -“That only shows,” she said, “how little you know. Any girl would be a -great deal more proud of her beautiful mamma than if she were ever so -pretty herself. And Alice is very pretty. She has the sweetest eyes you -ever saw. Quite blue like the sky--the deep sky. Not this little bit of -no colour at all,” she said, pointing upwards to the hazy grey-blue of -heat: “but the deep, deep sky--the blue-blue behind the clouds. -Everything about her is pretty; but she is not so handsome, so -beautiful, as Lady Markham. Being beautiful, and being pretty, are two -different things.” - -Her companion did not pay much attention to Dolly’s reflections. He -broke the thread of them quite abruptly by asking all at once-- - -“And Paul?” - -“Paul!” Dolly raised her slight figure bolt upright as though she had -been fifty. “You are very much interested in Paul, Mr.--Markham; but -then you don’t know them. I care for Alice most.” - -He answered by a laugh. What did he laugh at, this very strange -disagreeable little gentleman? Dolly had thoughts of turning her back -upon him, of saying no more to him, of requesting him to change into -another carriage at the station which they were approaching. But after -all she did not want to be rid of him. She could not help liking to talk -about the Markhams. What could be more natural? Were they not her oldest -friends? her nearest neighbours? the people to whom she owed most of her -pleasures? It was not doing any harm to them; on the contrary, it might -be doing them good. Dolly tried to remember, though her heart fluttered, -whether she had ever heard of any rich uncle or benevolent relation who -might intend to surprise them, to come home _incognito_, and find out -their characters before he left them all his money. If this was so, -might it not be for their very highest advantage that she should talk of -them? Mr. Markham Gaveston was the ideal of a rich uncle travelling -_incognito_, such as appears now and then in novels. Perhaps he might -intend to represent himself as a poor, not a rich, relation in order to -try them. Dolly smiled within herself as this idea crossed her mind. -Then indeed it was quite certain who his money would come to! He would -be received as if he were a prince. Lady Markham and Alice would not -know how to do enough for him. They would try to make him forget his -imaginary troubles; they would comfort him for all his losses. If this -was what he meant to do, Dolly smiled to think of the certain issue. -Before she came to this smile, she had made a long circuit in her -thoughts, and had half or wholly forgotten the laugh which had for a -moment roused her indignation. And when he saw her smile, her companion -took it as a sign of amnesty, and himself resumed the conversation. - -“Come,” he said, “you have told me about the ladies; it is the turn of -the others now; so if you please, let us return to the most important. I -want to know about Paul.” - -“Is he the most important?” said Dolly, doing her best to move her -pretty upper lip into a semblance of scorn; then she dropped from this -height of proud disdain, and admitted in a cheerful tone, “I suppose he -will be to gentlemen. I do not know Paul so well; that is natural. He -has been away a great deal--not always at home like Alice; he was at -school first, and now he has been nearly three years at Oxford. I have -seen him only in the holidays. That makes a great difference,” said -Dolly, demurely. She looked at her questioner with quiet defiance. If he -thought she was going to betray herself a second time! And Mr. Markham -laughed too. They established a little tacit confidence on this -point--not that Dolly would have owned to it for any inducement--but the -stranger was quick, and understood. - -“Shall you go and stay with them,” she said, beginning to carry the war -into the enemy’s country, “when they come back?” - -“If they will have me,” he said. - -“Oh, I am sure they will have you. If you take my advice, Mr.--Markham, -this is what you must do. Pretend to be quite poor. Say you have lost -everything, and that instead of coming to England rich as you had hoped, -you have come with nothing. Oh, what fun it will be,” cried Dolly. “I -will back you up in everything you say. I will pretend you _told_ me -about it. Do this, Mr. Markham, and you shall see what will happen.” - -“What would happen in many houses would be that I should be turned to -the door. But how do you know that I am not poor? then it would be no -fun at all.” - -Dolly’s laugh was a pleasure to hear; it was so honest, and simple, and -sure. She had no doubt whatever on the question. Her theory explained -everything delightfully. She did not even take the trouble to reply to -this suggestion. She said-- - -“We are coming to the Pemberton station. Do you mean to change here as -you said?” - -“I will go certainly, if you turn me out.” - -Here Dolly’s laughing countenance suddenly clouded over. She cast at him -a quick glance of entreaty. - -“Oh, no, don’t go, don’t go,” she cried. And then she added, in a tone -of annoyance, “I think everybody is travelling to-day. Some people are -always travelling. It is horrid,” cried Dolly, “to see the same faces -and hear the same voices wherever one goes.” - -The cause of this ebullition of temper was easily explained. It was -George Westland, very deprecating and humble, who had opened the -carriage door. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -“Good morning, Miss Stainforth.” - -“Good morning,” Dolly replied, with a forbidding face. - -“Is there any room in your carriage? I am going only as far as -Birtwood.” - -“There is always room in my carriage,” said Dolly, “for it is a ladies’ -carriage. This gentleman got in in a hurry just as we were starting, but -he is to leave if any ladies come and want his place. I could not let -any other gentleman come in, but if Ada is with you----” - -George Westland’s countenance fell. It was a heavy and not a lovely -face, but there was feeling in it, and a flicker of hope and pleasure -had made his eyes bright. Now the light went out of it suddenly. He -uttered a blank “Oh!” of disappointment, and stood looking at her with -a vacant look. Her companion in the carriage was not a likely person to -excite any young lover’s jealousy, but yet---- - -“No, Ada is not with me,” he said, fixing an anxious look upon the -stranger, who had retired to the other window, and was ostentatiously -abstracting himself from the conversation. (She would surely never have -anything to say to a bit of a little old fellow like that, poor George -thought within himself.) He lingered at the window, not knowing what to -say more, for conversation was not his forte. At last he remembered a -subject which could not fail to be successful. “Have you heard,” he -said--“but of course you must have heard--that Sir William is ill? He -has been to Oxford--something about Paul. What Paul has been doing, I -don’t know,” the young man went on with increasing vigour, “but -something to make his people uneasy. And Sir William is ill; some one -said just now they were bringing him home to-day.” - -“Sir William ill! Oh, no, I have not heard anything about it. It must be -a mistake,” said Dolly, “for I am sure the children did not know, and -they would be sure to hear.” - -“I am afraid it is quite true,” said the young man. But with this he had -to make an abrupt disappearance, as the train was about setting off -again. When he had gone, Mr. Markham Gaveston drew near from the other -end of the carriage. - -“I did not want to interfere with your conversation,” he said, with -comical demureness. “He was not so bold as I; I did not ask leave. But -indeed, poor young man, as I am already in possession, it would not have -done him very much good.” - -Dolly did not think it necessary to take any notice, and the distance to -Birtwood was very short and left little time for further talk. Her -companion, on his side, did not take any notice of the news about Sir -William, which Dolly hoped was not true. “The Westlands always know -before any one else if there is anything the matter with the Markhams; -they seem to like to tell one,” she complained, with a contradiction of -her own hope. But though he had been so profuse in his inquiries before, -the stranger said nothing more now. A certain sternness had crept into -his brown face; the habitual smile, half mocking, half complacent, died -away from his mouth, his upper lip set firmly upon the other. But Dolly, -who was not very deeply interested in the Markhams’ relation, did not -notice these changes. - -Birtwood was a railway junction, an important place in those regions. -All the traffic of the district, all the comings and goings, had to -concentrate there. Through all the county it was well known that you -were more apt to see your friends at Birtwood than anywhere else. It did -not matter where they were going, everybody passed by this point of -union. People met as they crossed each other to take the trains up and -down; there were all sorts of little services which one could render to -another; and it was said that many marriages had been made and -friendships cemented during the intervals of waiting which were -inevitable, in the tedium of that new ill which modern flesh is heir -to--the necessity of waiting for your train. The train in which Dolly -and Mr. Markham Gaveston were was a little local train, and therefore -used with indignity. It was pushed about, now to one side, now to the -other, before it was permitted to approach the platform, another more -important line of carriages being brought up and allowed to disgorge -its passengers before the very eyes of the humble travellers who were -kept behind, making little runs up and down, though they had arrived -before the train which was thus preferred to them. Dolly, though she was -used to this, felt it incumbent upon her to put on a show of -indignation, for she did not want a stranger to suppose that this was -how the trains from Markham Royal were always used. “I will make papa -write about it,” she said. She was standing in front of the window when -at last the train drew up, obscuring the scene for the little man -behind, who took it patiently enough. When, however, Dolly uttered a -little cry, and, leaning out head and shoulders, made eager signs to -some one already standing on the platform, exclaiming, “Oh, Alice! -Alice! wait a moment,” his interest was instantly roused. As soon as the -carriage stopped, the girl precipitated herself out of it, and rushed -towards two ladies who were waiting. Mr. Markham Gaveston made no -attempt to follow. He placed himself at the window of the carriage and -looked out, his brown face wholly changed in aspect, his eyebrows -contracted, his lips set firm. Two women, mother and daughter, one in -full maturity, the other in the sweetest bloom of youth, with their -face turned towards a third person, who came slowly along leaning upon -the arm of a young man. Dolly, rushing towards them, was received by the -other girl with a hurried gesture of her hand, half salutation, half -intended to draw the new-comer out of the way; while the elder lady took -no notice, her face, which was full of anxiety, being turned towards the -advancing group. All the people about followed more or less that anxious -look, and the officials of the place were crowding round in respectful -attendance. The spectator at the window, who had grown very pale through -his brownness, saw an old man walking slowly and feebly along, leaning -heavily upon his companion’s arm. He seemed to say something as they -made their way along, for the young man turned round and waved his -disengaged hand to warn the bystanders away. The blood rushed into Gus -Markham’s ears, tingling and throbbing, as he saw this little procession -pass, so close to where he sat at his window that he could have touched -the chief figure. Sir William was ashy pale, his under lip drooped, one -of his hands hung with a look of useless limpness by his side, he -shuffled slightly with one foot. The air of a man stricken and broken -down as by some great blow was upon him. The spectator gazed with the -strangest pang, eagerly, keenly at the face he had never consciously -seen before. Not a doubt of who it was crossed his mind. He had expected -to meet him coldly, perhaps to be received with doubt and antagonism; -but it had never occurred to Gus’s somewhat superficial but not -unamiable spirit that anything tragical would be involved in the -encounter. Gradually indeed, a sense of issues more serious than any -that had ever occurred to him before had been invading the kindly -self-satisfaction of his nature. Now he sat and gazed as under a spell. -They had shown him Sir William’s portrait at the Chase. Was it he that -had made the difference between that self-possessed, dignified, imposing -little statesman and this broken and suffering old man? Gus gazed as one -who cannot detach his eyes. The whole scene passed before him like a -picture. The beautiful, anxious woman, gazing with such circles of -trouble round her eyes, watching every step her husband made; the -beautiful girl, putting her young companion aside, watching her father -creep along through the sunshine; the young man--but here Gus’s -thoughts broke off short. Was that Paul? It did not seem to him like the -idea of Paul which he had got from all that had been said. The young man -was not like any of the others. He had none of that “family look” which -distinguishes even in unlikeness members of the same race. His face was -serious, but not anxious like the others; he had an air of kind -solicitude, not of family trouble. Was it Paul? Was it Sir William’s -heir? They passed slowly before him, all the rest of the faces round -looking after them, turned towards them, making them the centre, as this -far more deeply interested spectator did. - -He felt himself drawn after them, he could not tell how, and stole quite -quietly out of the carriage as soon as they had passed. They were going -further on to another train--a special one--which was going back to -Markham Royal. Gus followed slowly among the other bystanders, walking -as near the principal persons as he could, following as at a funeral. -Was it his doing? Was it his fault? He heard the murmurs of the people -with a strange sense of guiltiness. “He’s aged ten years,” he heard one -say to another, “since the other day.” “Ah, sons has a deal to answer -for,” said another. This speech went buzzing through his mind like a -winged and stinging insect. It hurt him, though nobody could have -thought of him in saying it. He saw the sick man put carefully into the -carriage, watching every movement, and feeling as if he himself were -hurt by the little stumble of his foot as he went in--the jar of -unexpected motion in the train. Lady Markham passed him slowly, as he -stood looking with a woful face, deadly serious and awe-stricken, after -the sufferer, and gave him a grateful glance, seeing what she thought -the sympathy in his eyes. But it was not sympathy; it was a far -stronger, more personal feeling. He stood gazing while everything was -arranged for Sir William’s comfort, and started to hear his voice coming -out of the midst of the anxious group. It was not much he said--nothing, -indeed, but a “That will do--that will do!” half querulous, half -grateful. But the sound gave the looker-on a shock; it sounded to him -reproachful, almost terrible. He kept standing there, staring, seeing -nothing except the man whom he had never seen before--whom, for all he -knew--was it possible?--his letter had killed. - -Then suddenly the sound of other voices came to his ears--a whispering -conversation. The two girls were behind him, not conscious of his -presence. - -“Very ill,” one was saying. “Oh, Dolly, yesterday we thought he would -have died. But he is so much better now. The doctor was quite perplexed; -he said he never saw anything so momentary; he could not call it a -fit--it lasted so short a time. He thinks in a day or two he will be -quite well again.” - -“Alice!” said the other’s whispering voice, “don’t tell me if it vexes -you; but I will never--never say a word. Oh, tell me! I can’t think of -anything else--was it Paul?” - -“Paul!” with a tone of indignation. Then the voice softened. “Dolly, -dear, I know why you ask. Paul has been--very--wilful: he has given us a -great deal of grief. I don’t know how to tell you. But it was not Paul. -Oh, there have been so many things! and he had letters--that worried -him.” - -“Was that all?” - -She was standing close by the man into whose heart these words sank like -a stone. - -“Everybody,” said Dolly, “is worried by letters; and now that he is -safely here, you and your mamma will be able to take care of him, and -keep everything that is bad for him out of his way.” - -“I hope so,” said Alice doubtfully. And then she passed Gus Markham so -closely that her dress touched him. He withdrew from the touch hastily, -and looked at her with anxious eyes. If she had known! but she did not -look at him; far less had she any thought that he was involved in the -catastrophe that had happened. He stood quite still, paying no attention -to Dolly, watching them as Alice joined her mother in the carriage. Then -he hurried on to another compartment and got in. What a home-coming it -would be!--the children that had been so merry subdued and silenced at -once--the big house that had looked so peaceful, filled full of -apprehension and trouble. He got into one of the carriages that -followed, with a sense that nothing could disassociate him henceforward -from this troubled family. - -Dolly, standing wistful on the platform to watch her friend go away, -caught sight of him, too, as the train passed, and a gleam of wonder -shot over her little pale face. Yes, they would all wonder, no doubt. It -would seem strange--very strange to everybody. But it was clear that -wherever this party went he must follow them. His lot was cast in with -theirs, once for all. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -On the morning when Lady Markham went upon that unfortunate visit to -Spears in his shop, which has been already recorded, both her husband -and daughter were early astir--astir in that way which so often occurs -in a family disturbed by domestic anxiety, when all are roused and in -movement before the ordinary time, yet all unwilling to begin the day, -to meet, to breakfast, to return once more to painful discussions of a -trouble which no discussions ever diminish. Lady Markham stole out, -thinking that both were asleep, while, on the other hand, both father -and daughter respected her restlessness, and used what expedients were -in their power to soothe their own. - -Sir William had his writing-case, and the despatchbox which he carried -everywhere with him, taken down stairs, to the big, bare sitting-room, -in which his wife and he had discussed Paul on the previous night--a -high square room, like a box, as blank and featureless; and there sat -down, and made a pretence of writing his letters,--nay, more than a -pretence, for his mind was preternaturally clear, stirred into activity -and wakefulness more strenuous even than its wont, by the care which was -the undercurrent of all his thoughts, and perpetually present with him. -He wrote several letters about business, public and private, in which -his well-known terse and concentrated style was more concentrated and -terse than ever. And by times he laid down his pen, and breathed a sigh -out of the very depths of his chest, from the bottom of his heart. This -was all the sign he gave of the distractions which were in his mind. It -was much from him. He was not so overwhelmed as his wife by the -suggestion of Paul’s possible entanglement, but he was much more angry, -annoyed, and impatient of the folly which all his wisdom could not cure. -What can be more irritating, confusing, bewildering to a man who knows -himself a power and influence in the world: not to be able to influence -the being nearest to him to persuade his own son to hear reason! There -could not be a greater irony of fate. And behind this irritation and -annoyance there was the other mystery, which only he knew of--the danger -which menaced Paul in those prospects which Paul held so lightly, and -was ready to throw away on the lightest inducement. Would he care as -little for them if they were to disappear from him at the will of -another, not his own? To find himself thus, between two -impossibilities--between his young son whom he could no more move than -he could move a mountain, and another unknown being who for aught he -knew might be as little manageable as Paul, he was held fast and his -mind driven to bay. He kept himself out of the whirl of thought and -feeling which these perplexities raised by mere force of will, and sat -perfectly self-controlled at the bare table writing his letters, himself -as neat as usual, every fold of his trim attire in its right place, his -tie tied with all the usual exactitude, his sentences more sharply cut, -more tersely defined than ever. The suppressed excitement in him acted -as a powerful stimulant, quickening his heart’s action, and intensifying -the clearness of his brain; but now and then he put down his pen, forgot -the imperial problems which were easier to solve than these private -ones, and relieved his full heart with the labouring of a profound sigh; -then set to work once more. - -The breakfast was brought in before Lady Markham appeared. Alice had -been up in her own room for, she thought, hours--trying to read, trying -to find any little trivial occupation, wandering to the window to gaze -out blindly, seeing nothing, fulfilling all the tricks of anxiety, as if -she, happy child, had been born to it, or had lived in no other -atmosphere all her days. And yet it was but a short time since the very -_a_, _b_, _c_, of this devouring absorbing passion, had been unknown to -her--so easily are all its habits learnt. She went down stairs when the -hour for breakfast arrived, and found Sir William very busy over his -papers. - -“Where is your mother?” he said. - -Alice did not know; but they easily concluded that being ready early she -had gone--it was not far--to see her boy in his rooms, perhaps to use -some argument with him which had been taught to her in the counsels of -the night. - -“She will have gone to bring Paul to breakfast,” Alice said, feeling it -was her business to smile, and keep what show of liveliness was -possible. Then she made the tea, and going to the window once more stood -looking out, hearing in the silence the scratch of her father’s pen upon -the paper, and the bubbling and boiling of the urn upon the table. - -By and by they sat down to breakfast. Lady Markham possibly was staying -with Paul. Perhaps he was late, as usual, and kept her waiting. It -seemed a cheerful token, a sign of good, to fall back upon Paul’s -lateness--that familiar home grievance which they all had laughed and -scolded about a hundred times. To say that he was “late as usual,” that -mamma no doubt had found him in bed, and was waiting for him, lazy -fellow, seemed to break the new and gloomy spell. - -Just then, however, a step approached, and some one knocked; a servant, -and after him, their friend of yesterday, young Fairfax, very shamefaced -and blushing, who came to say that Lady Markham had sent him, that she -was taking off her hat up stairs, and would be down directly; and that -he was under her orders to wait here for something she wanted him to do. - -Fairfax blushed to the roots of his hair, and was full of apologies. - -“I am so sorry,” he said, “to disturb you; but Lady Markham----” - -“Bring another cup,” said Sir William. - -The waiter, who had ushered in Fairfax, had brought also a letter, which -was almost more surprising than the other visitor. - -Sir William, however, was glad of any one who took him out of himself. -He looked at his letter, but it did not seem important. The postmark was -Markham Royal. There was no one there to give him uneasiness of any -kind. He took it up between his finger and thumb, as he said--“Bring -another cup.” - -And then neither of the young people knew anything more about Sir -William till Lady Markham came in. He retired behind his letter as -behind a shield, and the others talked. Fairfax was somewhat shy. He -described how he had met Lady Markham in the fresh morning. - -“It is the most pleasant time for walking if people only knew.” - -“Did mamma go to see Paul? and oh, where is he? will not he come?” said -Alice. - -The tears got into her voice. Had things gone so far that he would -refuse to come? - -“I don’t think she has seen Markham,” said young Fairfax. - -Lady Markham had brought him in with her that she might not be obliged -all at once to explain where she had been. The same reason made her -spend a longer time than was necessary in taking off her hat and putting -on the matronly cap with which she covered her beautiful hair. She -thought with the simple subtlety of an innocent woman that the -conversation would be in full course when she made her appearance and -any confusion on her own part be concealed. When she came in her manners -were of the conciliatory and effusive kind which is common to all -culprits desirous of avoiding explanations of equivocal conduct. - -“I met Mr. Fairfax when I went out, and I met him again coming back,” -she said, “and he owned he had not breakfasted. I hope you are giving -him something to eat, Alice.” - -Alice looked up anxiously in her mother’s eyes. Where was Paul? that -look inquired, but the glance with which Lady Markham replied conveyed -no information. She shrank from her child’s look, and sitting down -began to talk almost volubly. - -“I went further than I meant to go; the morning was so lovely and -everything so still. Is it usually so still, so vacant, in summer, Mr. -Fairfax? In the country we are used to it--but to see a place usually so -full of young life in this state of quiet is strange. I met--scarcely -any one,” said Lady Markham. “William, you will have some more tea?” - -Sir William did not make any answer. The letter which he had been -holding up dropped, or rather the hand which had held it dropped upon -his knee; and he was leaning back in his chair, Lady Markham could see -with the corner of her eye--but she did not look at him, not wishing to -risk the encounter. - -“I thought I should be back before you were ready,” she said. “We are -all early this morning. I suppose it is because an inn is so unlike -home. William--Oh!” She rose to her feet in sudden alarm. “Are you ill? -What is the matter?” - -He was leaning back in his chair, his head drooping against it, his face -very pale, his mouth open and his breath labouring and painful, but he -had not lost command of himself. When his wife rushed to him he tried -to smile. - -“Feeling--faint,” he said, feebly. - -It was a weakness to which he had been subject before. While they -hurried to get wine, eau-de-Cologne, all the usual restoratives, he, -still keeping up a vestige of a smile, did his best to fold up the -letter he was holding, and groped about for the envelope. - -“I will put it away,” his wife said; but he made a slight negative -movement of his head and succeeded in pushing it into a letter-case, -which he always carried. The envelope had dropped on the floor. Who -thought anything of it? He had things to move him quite sufficient to -account for any disturbance of the heart without seeking for further -causes. After a while the faintness passed off, his breathing improved, -his heart began to beat naturally, and he came, or seemed to come, to -himself. When he went up stairs with Lady Markham’s anxious attendance, -Alice and the young man remained alone. These few minutes had done as -much as weeks generally do towards the growing acquaintance of these two -young persons. Fairfax had run hither and thither to get whatever they -wanted. He had supported Sir William up stairs. He had shared in the -alarm, the confusion, the trouble of the moment. Alice came down with -him after her father had been established in his room, to think of the -civilities which were due to a stranger. The half-eaten meal on the -table, the confusion of chairs, the air of human trouble and agitation -in the place had already made the bare room more like an inhabited -house. Alice faintly begged her companion to take his place again. - -“Mamma will come presently. He will want nothing but quiet and rest: he -has been--worried--you know.” - -“Yes,” said Fairfax; “it throws a light upon some things I never thought -of before. My people are robust, fortunately; they are only uncles and -aunts, who don’t suffer in the same way as one’s parents, I suppose. -But, Miss Markham, if any one had cared as much for me--I have given a -great deal more cause for anxiety than your brother has done. When I see -how you are all upset it makes me blush for myself.” - -“Oh, Mr. Fairfax, it is so kind, so good of you to say so.” - -“Is it?” he said, with genuine surprise; “now I wonder why? There is no -goodness about it, I fear, one way or the other. Only there are lots of -us that don’t realise--that can’t understand.” - -Alice’s heart grew quite light. She considered that this independent -testimony was as good as a vindication of Paul. A young man, a comrade, -must know all about him, that was self-evident; and when he declared so -distinctly Paul’s superiority to himself what doubt could there be that -such an uncalled, generous witness must be trustworthy? She could have -laughed, or cried for pleasure. - -“I should like mamma to hear you,” she said. “I suppose it is because he -is so much to us all that we are so foolish. You don’t think he will -really go away? That is what worries papa. He wants him to go into -parliament, and public life.” - -Fairfax laughed. - -“He is a lucky fellow. It is not possible to imagine that he could -willingly throw away all these chances; but if I can answer for -Markham’s heart I can’t answer for his head, Miss Markham. The one is as -right as a compass, but the other is packed full of crotchets I must -allow; and what he may be able to do in that way, how far he may go, I -would not undertake to say.” - -Alice’s countenance fell, then brightened faintly again with a little -light of opposition. - -“You may call them crotchets, Mr. Fairfax, but I am sure Paul’s ideas -are convictions, and what can he do but follow them out?” - -“Ah, that is giving up the question,” said the other. “I believe they -are convictions; but you may be convinced of a foolish thing as well as -a wise one.” - -“What he says is not foolish. I do not agree with it,” said Alice, “but -it is fine, it is noble; he would do what our Lord says, give up -everything for the poor.” - -Fairfax shook his head. - -“It sounds very fine in that way, Miss Markham; but that is not how Paul -puts it. It is not giving to the poor, but sharing with his equals that -is his thought, and I do not think you would like that. If they all had -their share to-morrow, half would have two shares next day--at least so -everybody says,” he went on with a laugh--“all the philosophers; and I -am sure Paul would have no share at all. He would have given it away to -somebody who persuaded him that he had not drawn a good lot. ‘Take it,’ -he would say, ‘I can starve better than you can,’ for he is a fine -aristocrat, our friend Paul.” - -“Do you call that being an aristocrat?” - -“To be sure; isn’t it? A poor little _roturier_ like myself has not the -knack of it. I should say, ‘Take a cut at mine,’ as if it was an orange, -and hack at it myself among the rest. But Markham does things with a -grand air. He will always have it; indeed, I think that when he had got -his share to which he would allow he had an indisputable right, he would -prefer to give it away in a lordly manner, and keep nothing but his -magnanimity. That is what he is doing now.” - -To have such an audience as Alice, with that glow of tender gratitude -and pleasure in her eyes, looking up to him, fixed upon his face, her -smile following every word of this pretended impartial and philosophical -description, was worth any man’s while. He was tempted to go on -romancing about Paul, giving him not only the praise he felt his due, -but a great deal more, in order to secure a little longer that rapt -attention. But perhaps it was better to stop, and leave her time enough -to say with her hands clasped, and her whole soul in her look-- - -“Mr. Fairfax, you make me very happy. They have whispered things to -mamma which have made her wretched; but it is ‘nothing but his -magnanimity:’ that was what you said?” - -Lady Markham opened the door, and came into the room before Fairfax -could reply. She was preoccupied, and took no notice of the conversation -that was going on. “Your father has fallen asleep,” she said; “he is -very much exhausted. Oh, how I wish we had not left home.” Then she -perceived Fairfax, and added with a change of tone, “You have had no -breakfast. Alice, I thought you would attend to Mr. Fairfax.” - -“Oh!” cried Alice, “do you think he cares about breakfast when we are in -such trouble? He has been telling me about Paul. Mamma, listen to him. -He must know. He says it is all Paul’s magnanimity--that was the word.” - -“Oh, my dear, my dear,” cried Lady Markham, “it is my fault. I have made -everything worse. Oh! why will women interfere? We ought to have stayed -at home, and had patience. What can we do one way or another? I have -behaved like a fool and got my boy into more trouble. And now your -father. What shall we do if he is ill too?” - -“Mamma, it is impossible that you can be to blame.” - -“Quite impossible!” cried Fairfax. What gave him any right to speak? Yet -they took it as a matter of course. “And pardon me, Lady Markham, I do -not think there is any one much to blame. There is no harm in it at all. -If you could but see behind the scenes as I do! Spears is an -enthusiast--say a fanatic; he believes all he says, and Paul believes -him and thinks he thinks with him; but he does not altogether; and they -will differ more and more as time goes on. Patience, and it will come -right.” - -“Ah, if I could have had patience! Do you know what anxiety means?” said -Lady Markham. “It is a determination not to be unhappy. What does it -matter whether I am happy or not--I have been very happy all my life. I -ought to bear it, and wait till God sends a cure; but we would not, -Alice--we would rush into it, knowing nothing, meddling. Oh, why should -women interfere!” - -This strained Alice’s sense of natural justice. - -“Have not women as much to do with it as men?” she said. - -Lady Markham shook her head. - -“I have made things worse--I have made everything worse. Mr. Fairfax, -will you go and tell Paul that his father is ill? Oh no, I have no right -to ask you to take so much trouble; but you are kind, I know. You have a -mother who would go out of her senses too, if anything was amiss. When -you tell her she will explain it all to you; how foolish, how foolish a -woman can be. Go and tell him that his father is ill. His father is not -a man to be ill for nothing. He will see it is no light matter when he -knows that his father is ill. There is something--a little--the matter -with Sir William’s heart--not much, thank God; but we ought to spare -him. Will you tell Paul?--but Alice, Alice, how could you be so -careless, Mr. Fairfax has had no breakfast!” - -Lady Markham rose hastily, and drew a chair to the table, and turned to -him, pointing to it, with a tremulous smile about her mouth, though the -tears were standing in her eyes. - -Was it possible that it was only yesterday he had come to know them? He -hurried out with his message, quite agitated by the sight of this family -trouble. It was no affair of his, and he had no mother as Lady Markham -suggested, to make him understand; but his heart seemed to be suddenly -filled up like an empty vessel with these new people’s affairs. He tried -to laugh at himself, but stopped in the midst of the effort, growing -portentously grave. Why should he laugh? If Sir William was ill, and -Paul on the point of abandoning his natural position and his native -country on a wildgoose chase, with which in all probability he would -soon be utterly disgusted, circumstances were very grave for the Markham -family. Perhaps Fairfax felt it all the more strongly that he in his own -person had no family to abandon. He felt the want so much that he -wondered all the more at one who, with all these pleasant things -belonging to him, should be willing to throw up everything, and go off -into the wilds with Spears--with Spears! he repeated to himself with -indignant, yet half-amused surprise. He did not know anything about -Janet, for the very good reason that till this morning there had been -nothing to know. - -Fairfax walked very rapidly to Paul’s college, but did not find him. As -he however came slowly back again across the deserted quadrangle, he met -young Markham coming gloomily along, his head down, and his countenance -obscured. There was a sort of dull decision in Paul’s aspect, as if all -his affairs had been settled at a stroke, as if the hopes and -uncertainties of ordinary life were over for him. He who held his head -so high, whose step was so light and elastic with all the rapidity of a -visionary, came along now crushing the grass with a heavy foot, all the -lightness and youthfulness gone out of him. Fairfax looked at him with -an impulse of wonder. This favourite of fortune, so much beloved, -important to so many, with the world at his feet, what could have put so -much perverseness into his mind that he, of all men in the world, should -be discontented with his lot! How wonderful it was! Paul did not want to -be accosted, to be disturbed in his gloomy thoughts by any frivolous -interruption. He was about to pass with a sullen nod when Fairfax -stopped him against his will. - -“Markham, I am sent to tell you that your father is ill.” - -Paul stopped, and regarded him with sudden anger. - -“What the devil,” he said, with altogether uncalled-for indignation, -“have you to do with my affairs?” - -“Nothing in the world; but your father has been taken ill at the hotel,” -said Fairfax. His cheek flushed, too, but he subdued himself. “Lady -Markham sent me to tell you. I have nothing to do with it,” he said; -then went on, while the other stood and glared at him. Fairfax felt the -blood boiling in his veins; but to quarrel with the undutiful son was -not in his _consigne_. A man with three such people hanging (it seemed) -their happiness on his wayward conclusions: his father ill, his mother -with those beautiful eyes all strained with anxiety; his -sister--Fairfax’s eyes grew dim, as with a dazzlement of light, as he -seemed to see before him Alice, with her head raised, her hands clasped, -her blue eyes full of emotion--all for Paul. Good heavens! who dared -speak of equality? This fellow, who was ready to share everything with -his neighbours--how insensible he was to all those happinesses which he -could not share. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Paul did not at first obey the call thus sent to him. He lingered, angry -that his friend should interfere as he said. He knew it was not -interference, but the pride which was so strong in him, notwithstanding -all his theories, resented haughtily the intrusion of a stranger into -his family. Paul’s theory was far from being complete. He was ready -himself to abandon all he possessed, and to assert it as a necessity -that every honest man should do the like, receive his share and nothing -more; but he did not contemplate the idea of a general descent of his -family into the wider ranks of common brotherhood. That his father -should share his ideas, and resign his wealth and position, was a thing -incredible he well knew; and curiously enough he had never thought of -it. Whatever happened in the way of levelling, it had never seriously -occurred to him to think that the Markhams would be as the Spears, as -the grocers or the hatters. (Grocers and hatters by the way are always -excluded in visionary schemes of revolution. One must draw a line -somewhere; and both the rich and poor draw it at the shopkeeper.) Such a -thing could not be; it was impossible. Were there a republic proclaimed -in England to-morrow, was there a general confiscation and -redistribution of everything, making all men the same, the Markhams -could not be as the Spears. It was not possible. - -But still more hotly, as in the presence of real danger, Paul’s pride -stood up against the possibility of the Markhams being as the Fairfaxes. - -Richard Fairfax was his friend; he was a gentleman--yes, no doubt, in -himself a gentleman--but not as the Markhams were gentlemen. He was a -nobody; he was the son of a nobody. He did not belong to the Fairfaxes -of the north or of the south. He had a good name, but no more. What had -such a fellow to do in Alice Markham’s company? Spears at the Chase was -an eccentricity of his own, which made Paul feel himself above -prejudice, and nobly superior to the conventional maxims of society; -but Fairfax there affronted his pride. The two things were quite -different. The same rules did not seem to apply to the noble working -man, who was above them, as to the gentleman who was only a gentleman in -his own right. That his mother should have formed a kind of alliance -with this young man (though his own friend) irritated him beyond -measure. Women were so easily taken in. Good manners, and a look of good -breeding--so easily acquired nowadays when everybody is formed in the -same mould, and all kinds of people can achieve the hall-mark of public -schools and universities,--was enough to take in a woman. Had Paul been -consulted, no such person should have entered the sacred precincts. - -Yet Paul was a democrat, on the verge of surrendering everything, and -throwing in his fortunes with a little communistic party! The -inconsistency did not strike him, or if it ever stole across his mind, -he repelled the consciousness with a hot protestation within himself -that it was not at all the same thing. That Spears should be his equal -was a thing to fight for, a thing that could never derange the inborn -sense of aristocracy; but that Fairfax, who was so near his equal, -should be his equal--therein lies the danger, which instinct seizes -upon, which rouses pride in arms. - -This proud distaste and discontent occupied his mind at first to the -exclusion of every other feeling. And when that faded, it may be allowed -that Paul had some cause for a disinclination to see his mother. What -had she done? She had dragged down upon his head the humble roof under -which he had intended to find shelter. She had thrown him into the arms -of those with whom indeed he was eager to consort, but whose embrace was -no way attractive--nay, was repulsive to him. She had changed all his -circumstances, vulgarised his plans, degraded him from the rank of a -political apostle into that of a wretched besotted lover. Young men who -are not in love, and in whom the intellect predominates, are apt to be -very hard upon what they consider the delusion, the incredible folly of -such a passion. To sacrifice freedom, personal independence, the -unencumbered lightness of manhood, for the sake of a woman, seems to -them the most ridiculous of mockeries until the moment comes when they -share it. This was Paul’s way of thinking. It was an outrage to his -nature and mental powers to make him appear to be doing that for Janet -Spears which he was doing from the highest principle. And this was what -his mother, with her womanish interpretation of his high aims and -wishes, had made appear. He could not forgive her; and in this he was -not without reason. He made many efforts before he could think with -patience of the strange morning’s work which had changed everything for -him. No, he could not go to her so soon. He went to his rooms and shut -himself in, sitting down among his books like any Roman among any ruins. -Read! why should he read? These were useless tools of an old world, -which he was about throwing off. “Honours!” what were they to him? The -schools and the struggle had retreated into dim distance. A degree would -be of far less consequence to him than a gun, and all his studies not -worth half so much as the simplest lesson of his country breeding. To -sit there, however, among all those relics of a time which was over, -which had no more hold upon him, was gloomy work. And every refuge -seemed taken from him. He did not want to go to the rooms of any other -“man” where he might meet Fairfax. He could not go back to Spears; his -heart revolted at the thought of going (as habit made him call the -place where his parents were) home. He was walking about in this gloomy -way, now gazing out of one window, now out of another, when a little tap -came to his door, a light foot, a soft voice, and agitated face. - -“Oh, Paul, may I come in?” Alice said. “Have you not seen Mr. Fairfax? -He was to tell you papa was ill. We want you--oh, we want you, Paul.” - -“What has Fairfax got to do with it?” growled Paul. - -“Mr. Fairfax! Oh, nothing, but that he was so kind; he helped papa up -stairs. He came for you when mamma sent him. I do not know what we -should have done without him; for--_you_ were not there, Paul!” - -“Not much wonder if I was not there!” - -“Why? Mamma does nothing but blame herself. She cries and says we should -not have come. Oh, Paul! and papa, I told you, has had one of his -faints. Will you come?” cried Alice, moved to tears, yet flushing high -with a generous impatience; “or are we to be left to shift for -ourselves?” - -“She deserves it,” he said. “What had she to do with it? Surely I am old -enough to manage my own affairs.” - -“Is it _mamma_ you mean by she? Then stay--or go where you like. Oh, how -dare you!” cried Alice, wildly angry. “_Mamma!_” This stung her so that -she went to the door hurriedly, going away; but that little flash of -wrath was soon over. She stopped and turned round upon him, making -another appeal. “You don’t deserve that we should care for you; but we -do care for you,” she said. “Oh, Paul! when I tell you papa has had one -of his faints--for what? because to think of you going away, forsaking -us, giving up home, and your own place, and the people that you ought to -care for, was more than he could bear. Paul! how can you leave us--leave -Markham and everything you were once fond of--leave your duty, and the -place you were born to?” - -“My dear little Alice,” he said, with a smile, glad to conceal a little -melting of his own heart which was beyond his power of resisting, by -this fine superiority, “speak of things you understand.” - -Then Alice flashed upon him with all the visionary vehemence of a girl -in her own defence. - -“How should I not understand?” she cried, “Am I so stupid? It is you who -make yourself little, pretending to despise us girls. What is there to -despise in us? We do not fill our head with pride and fancies like you. -We love those who belong to us, and serve them, and do our duty as we -know how. It is not we who leave our old father to suffer, or tear our -mother’s heart in two. It is not we that turn peace into trouble. There -you stand,” cried Alice, “a man! fit to be in parliament making the laws -better--fit to be doing something for them that belong to you, after -learning, learning all your life, doing nothing but learn, that you -might be good for something. And now, all you think you are good for is -to emigrate, like the poor Irish. Is that all you are good for? Then you -ought to be humble, and not dare to turn round and sneer and tell us to -speak of things we understand. Understand! I understand that if you can -do nothing better than that--if, after all, you can only betray us and -forsake us, and be no use, no help to any one, it is a shame!” - -Who can doubt that Alice’s eloquence was broken with sobs, and her fury -all blind with tears? She would not, however, for pride, let him see -them fall, but turned away from the door with passionate haste, and flew -down the deserted staircase, swallowing her sobs as best she could, and -dashing away the hasty torrent from her eyes. She heard him laugh as -she got out into the air in all her agitation, and this sound stung -Alice to the heart. - -But if she had known it, Paul’s laugh was like the ploughboy’s whistle -to keep his courage up. He had not expected any such onslaught, and he -was not insensible to it, any more than she was to his scorn. For, after -all, he did not in the least despise his sister, though it was so handy -to pretend to do so. When he was left again among his ruins, though he -stimulated himself, as by a sickly trumpet note of pretended victory by -that laugh, Paul did not feel half so grand a personage as he could have -wished, and for the next half hour or so there came and stabbed at him a -little array of by no means pleasant thoughts. - -In the afternoon, after some hours had elapsed, Paul walked into his -father’s room with a little air of defiance, and without any apologies. -Sir William was seated in an easy chair, looking aged and worn. - -“I am very sorry to hear that you have been ill, sir,” his son said. - -“Yes, I have been ill,” said Sir William, “but it will pass off. I think -the best thing for me is to get home.” - -“I should not think you could be very comfortable here,” Paul said. - -His mother was in the room, and his grievance against her rose up -bitterly, and quenched the softer feeling which had moved him at sight -of his father’s pale face. - -“It would perhaps have been better that we had not come. There are many -things--that I must see after--in your interests. Paul, do you mean to -come home with us? Whatever you may do hereafter, it would be best for -you to come home now.” - -There was a momentary pause. - -Sir William put forward no arguments, not even that of his own -condition--and used no reproaches. But behind him appeared Lady -Markham’s face, pale and pathetic with entreaty. Her eyes were fixed -upon her son with a look which he could scarcely withstand. And -therefore Paul set his face like a rock, and would not yield. - -“I don’t see what good it would do, sir,” he said. “You know my -unalterable resolution. You know my principles, which are so much at -variance with yours, and would prevent me from ever taking the position -you wish. Why should we worry each other since we can’t agree? Besides, -other circumstances have arisen,” he said, with a vengeful glance at his -mother. “But before I sail I shall certainly come to say good-bye.” - -His mother’s faint call after him, “Paul! Paul!” which sounded like a -cry of despair, caught at his very heart, but did not bring him back. -His feet felt like lead as he went down the stairs. Almost they would -not carry him from everything that was in reality most dear to him; but -the more nature held him back the more determined was his obstinate will -to go. He would come back to say good-bye before he sailed. Was he -leaving himself a place of repentance? But at present, though he was -wretched, though his heart seemed to have an arrow through it, and his -feet were like lead, he would not stay. - -This was how it came about that Sir William appeared at Birtwood -station, leaning upon the arm of a young man who was not his son. After -Paul’s visit he had another attack of faintness; and Fairfax, who came -back in the evening to put himself at the disposal of the ladies, found -them in great agitation, eager to get home again, yet half afraid to -venture on the journey. He came back in the morning to help them to get -their patient to the railway; and when they got there, Sir William, -feeling the advantage of his arm, so held by him, that without either -invitation or preparation, the young man, so strangely united to these -strangers came with them, not a word being said on the subject. He had -not even a ticket, nor the smallest provision for a visit. What of that? -The young fellow was of that light heart and easy temper to which no -adventure comes wrong. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -Paul Markham went back to his rooms, and sat down again amid the ruins. -His heart was as heavy in his bosom as a lump of lead. It weighed upon -him, hindered his breathing, refused to rise or to beat more lightly, -let him do what he would. He had taken down his pictures, his china, all -that he had thought luxurious, from his walls long before. Nothing -remained of all his decorations which he had once loved but a copy of -Albert Dürer’s _Melancholia_, which he had kept, thinking it symbolical. -Besides, it was only a photograph. Had it been an original print, worth -a great deal more than its weight in gold, he would not have thought -himself at liberty to keep it. He looked round upon his books with -gloomy eyes. Ruins--nothing but ruins--all around him! What was the -good of them? They had done him all the service they were capable of, -and in his life there was no further place for them. No schools now for -him, no honours, no need of endless philosophical hair-splitting, this -one’s theory of being, that one’s of knowing. He was going to put all -that babble away. There were a few that he might take with him. -Theocritus his _Idylls_; grey old Hesiod, that antique husbandman; Plato -in his _Republic_. But even Plato, what was the good of him, with all -his costly paraphernalia of a new society? Spears would do it all with -much less trouble. No long education would be wanted for _his_ -rulers--if, indeed, any rulers should be needed. Less trouble! After -all, when he came to think of it, it was by no means sure that Spears’s -process was less painful, less costly than Plato’s. Himself, for -example. Would every pioneer who joined their ranks, every leader among -them, be obliged to pay his footing as dearly as Paul had done? To turn -his back upon his father and mother, to cast all his antecedents to the -winds, everything, from filial affection to the books upon his -shelves--it could not be said that this was a cheap or easy probation. - -He sat thus for he did not know how long, the sunshine of the August -afternoon getting round the corner and streaming straight in, -inquisitive and troublesome. What were they doing now at the inn? Sir -William had been very gentle; he had not said a word of blame. His tone, -his looks, his very weakness had been conciliatory. Paul, when he -covered his eyes with his hands, seemed to see that scene again, and -twinges came to his heart, sudden impulses to get up and go to them--to -go at least to the place and ask after his father. There are temptations -to do right as well as to do wrong. Impulses came to him like little -good angels pulling at his sleeve, entreating him to come; but alas! it -is always more easy to resist temptations to do well than to do ill. -Once or twice he was so far moved that he got up from his chair; but -always sat down again after a blank look from the window over the -deserted quadrangle and the parched trees. Why should he go? It would -but raise vain hopes in them that he meant to yield: and he did not mean -to yield. This kept him a prisoner in his room; for if he did not go -_there_, where should he go? He paid no attention to the hour of dinner. -He could not, he felt, have gone to Hall where there was the little -dinner for the scanty summer contingent, the “men” who were “staying up -to read.” Even these heroes were dropping away daily, and at the best of -times the little group in a place which held so many was depressing; and -Paul did not want to dine--the common offices of life were disgusting -and distasteful to him. He roused himself to go out at last when the -daylight had begun to wane. There was to be a meeting that night in the -shop of Spears, of the people who were going with them to found the new -colony--for to this their plan of emigration had grown; but it was still -too early for that. The shadows were lengthening, the light almost -level, when Paul came out. He did not know where to go; he wandered -through the streets where the townspeople were all about enjoying the -beautiful evening, and strolled heedlessly, not caring where he went, -towards the inn. He could not get out of his mind the recollection of -the little party who would get no good of the beautiful evening. His -mother and Alice, like most mothers and sisters, had always imagined -themselves to be “very fond of Oxford.” They had liked to hear of all -its habits, and foolish, youthful ways--the nightly flights from the -proctors, the corners where some hairbreadth ’scape had been made, the -“High” and the “Broad,” and all that innocent slang which a happy boy -pours forth on his first introduction to these delights. It had always -been an excitement, a delight to them to come here. Now he could not but -think of them shut up in that bare, gloomy room, with the high, pale -walls, and long green curtains. Oh, how they plucked at his sleeve and -at his heart, those persuading angels! How he was tempted to go back -again to bid bygones be bygones, to forgive everything (this was his way -of putting it)! But, no. Had it been the other kind of angel leading him -to another kind of presence most likely the young man would not have -stood out half so bravely. He strolled down to the river where one or -two melancholy “men” in boats were keeping themselves as retired as -possible from the splashing of the released shopboys, and the still more -uncomfortable vicinity of the town boats, which were rowed almost as -well as the ’Varsity. The sky was all rosy with sunset, glowing over the -long reflections in the water, touching the greenness of the banks and -trees into a fuller tint, and making more blue, with all those -contrasting tints of rose, the blueness of the sky. The soft summer -evening, with a gentle exhaustion in it--sweet langour, yet relief after -the heat and work of the day--the soft plash of the oars, the voices all -harmonised by the warm air, the movement and simple enjoyment about, -were all like so many reproaches to him. How they would have liked to -walk with him, to laugh softly back to every sound of pleasure, to talk -of everything. Paul said to himself that all that was over. It was a -pity for Alice to be shut up in a dingy room, but to-morrow she would be -at home among their own woods, and what would it matter? As for himself, -it must be his henceforward to tread the stern path of a higher -duty--alone. - -Paul met with one or two interruptions on the way. He saw Fairfax at a -distance, and saw that he avoided him, turning quickly away; and he met -one or two others of those who were “staying up to read.” Finally he met -a being of a different order, less easy to separate himself from, a -young Don, who turned and walked with him, anxiously intimating that it -was quite immaterial which way he went,--a young man, not much older -than Paul himself, but cultivated to the very finger-tips, and anxious -to exercise a good influence if that might prove possible. This new -companion gave him a stab unawares by asking if it was true what he had -heard, that Sir William Markham was ill? Even in a deserted college in -the midst of the long vacation, when there happens to be a tragic -chapter of life going on, some echo of it will get abroad. The young Don -was very modest, and anxious not to offend or intrude upon any “man” in -trouble; but yet he would have been glad could he have exercised a good -influence. They walked along the river bank while the sunset faded out -of the west, and Paul at last acknowledged the relief of companionship -by plunging forth into a statement of his own intentions which filled -his auditor with horror and dismay. A man who did not intend to take his -degree was as a lost soul to the young Don. But even in these appalling -circumstances he could not be impolite. He listened with gentle -disapproval and regret, shaking his head now and then, yet saying -softly, “I see what you mean,” when Paul poured forth a passionate -statement of his difficulties, his sense of the injustice of his own -position, his horror at the corruption and falsehood of the world, and -determination never to sanction, never to accept in his own person the -cruel advantages to which he had been born. After all that had come and -gone it was a great ease to the young revolutionary, upon such a verge -of high devotion yet despair as he was, to make one impassioned -assertion of his principles, the higher rule of his conduct. Probably -the college, too, and all the men would hear that it was for the love of -Spears’s daughter that he was throwing his life away. He was glad (when -he came to think of it) of this chance of setting himself right. “I see -what you mean,” said the young Don. He would have said the same thing -with the same regretful air, non-argumentative and sympathetic, yet with -his own opinion in the background, had Paul poured into his ear a -confession of passionate attachment for Janet Spears. He understood what -political enthusiasm was, and he knew that the world might be well lost -for love, though he did not approve either of these passions. In either -case he would have been very glad to have established a good influence -over the man thus carried away, whether by the head or the heart. Paul, -however, if he did not come under any good influence, was solaced by his -own outburst. He got cooler as they turned back towards the towers now -rising dimly into the cooled and softened atmosphere of the night, and -the glimmer of the friendly lights. - -It was a disappointment to the young Don when his companion left him -abruptly, long before they reached their college. He had meant to be -very kind to him at this violent crisis of life, and who could tell, -perhaps to win him back to safer views--at least to put before him so -forcibly the absolute necessity of taking his degree that passion itself -would be forced to pause. But Paul did not give him this chance. He said -a hurried good-night when they reached the spot at which he had met his -mother in the morning, the point at which the picturesque and graceful -old street was crossed by the line of uneven thoroughfares, in which -Spears’s house lay. The young Don looked after him in surprise and -disappointment as he walked away. He shook his head. He would not doubt -the authenticity of Paul’s confession of faith, but the low street -breathed out of it a chill of suspicion. He could understand anything -that was theoretical however wrong-headed, but Spears’s shop and the -street in which it stood was a great deal more difficult to understand. - -Paul sped along, relieved of the immediate pressure on his heart, and -more determined than ever in his resolution. He had said little in the -morning in answer to Spears’s question. He had declared that it was not -love alone which had brought him there; that there had been nothing -feigned in his enthusiasm for that teaching in which the salvation of -the world he believed would be found to lie; but further he had said -nothing. And Spears had been too much relieved on his own account and -was too delicate on his child’s, to pursue the subject. To tell the -truth, the demagogue, though the kindest of fathers, had not been -delighted by the thought that his own favourite disciple, his captive -aristocrat, the young hero whom he had won out of the enemy’s ranks, and -who was his pride, had been all the time only his daughter’s lover. The -thought had hurt and humbled him. That Paul might love Janet in the -second place, might have learned to love her after his introduction to -the shop, was a different matter. The gratification of recovering his -own place and influence drove the other question from his mind; and by -the time it recurred to him, the delicacy of a mind full of natural -refinement had resumed its sway. It was for the lover to open this -subject, not the girl or her friends. And though he wondered a little -that Paul said nothing more to him, he asked no further question. It was -a relief to Paul, on the other hand, not to be called to account. The -evil day was deferred at least, if no more, and he was very glad to put -it off, to wait for what might happen, to hope perhaps that after all -nothing would happen. Paul did not know what had passed or what his -mother had said. Her own broken and tremulous confession of wrong, and -Janet’s consciousness, had been his only guides. He had thought himself -for the moment bound to Janet; but perhaps things had not gone so far as -he thought; and though he was determined to hold firmly to any bond of -honour that might hold him, even though it were not of his own making, -yet the sense that his freedom was still intact was an unspeakable -relief to him. Since then he had managed to forget Janet; but when he -turned his face towards her home it was not so easy to continue to -forget. The twilight was brightened by the twinkle of the lamps all the -way down the vista of the street, and by a dimmer light here and there -from a window. The shutters had been put up in Spears’s shop, but the -door was open, and in the doorway, faintly indicated by the light -behind, stood some one looking out. Paul knew, before he could see, who -it was. She was looking out for him. It is hard to find our arrival -uncared for by those whom we want to see, but it is, if not more hard, -at least far more embarrassing, to find ourselves eagerly looked for by -those whom we have no wish to see. Paul’s heart sank when he saw the -girl, with the long lines of her black gown filling the doorway, leaning -out her graceful shoulders and fair head in an attitude of anxious -expectation looking for him. What could he say to her? The return of her -image thus suddenly thrust before him filled him with impatience and -annoyance. Yet he could not withdraw himself; he went on without a -pause, wondering with a troubled mind how far his mother had committed -him, what she expected; what she wanted, this girl who was no heroine, -no ideal woman, but only Janet Spears. - -Her eyes drooped as he came forward, with a shyness which had in it -something of finer feeling than Janet had yet known. He was very -dazzling to her in the light of his social superiority. A gentleman! -Janet had heard all her life that a gentleman was the work of nature, -not of circumstance, that those who arrogated the title to themselves -had often far less right to bear it than the working men whom they -scorned; but all these theories had passed lightly over her. _She_ knew -the difference. They might talk what stuff they liked, but that would -not make one of them a _Sir_--a man whose wife would be “my Lady,” a -dazzling personage who drove in his carriage, who had horses to ride, -and men in livery to walk behind him. The other was all talk! fudge! -rubbish! but these things were realities. She watched him coming down -the street in the grey twilight, in the faint yellow of the lamps. His -very walk was different, the way in which he held his arms, not to speak -of his clothes, of which even the Sunday clothes of the others bore but -the faintest resemblance. Janet’s nature, such as it was, prostrated -itself before the finest thing, the highest thing she knew. And if this -is noble in other matters, why not in the most important of all? If it -is a sign of an elevated soul to seek the best and loftiest, why not in -a husband? Janet did not stand upon logic, yet her logic here was far -better practically than her father’s. She recognised Paul without a -moment’s hesitation as the best thing within her reach, and why should -not she put forth her entire powers to gain the perfection she sought? - -“They have not come yet, Mr.--Paul,” said Janet, casting down her eyes. - -She had always called him Mr. Markham before; but she could not help -hoping that now he would tenderly reprove her for the previous title, -and bid her call him by his Christian name. Was not this the first step -in lovers’ intimacy? But this was not what happened. It struck Paul -disagreeably to hear his name at all, even with the Mr. before it. His -mind rebelled at this half appropriation of him. He could not help -feeling that it was cowardly of him to be rough with Janet, who had no -power of defending herself; but he could not help it. He brushed past -her with a half-sensation of disgust. - -“Haven’t they?” he said; “never mind. I dare say your father is in.” - -“Father is not in, Mr. Paul. He’s gone to tell Fraser, the Scotchman, to -come. He didn’t know there was a meeting. I am the only one that is in -to keep the house. The girls have gone to the circus--did you know -there was a circus?--but I,” said Janet, “I don’t care for such things. -I’ve stayed at home.” - -Then there was a pause. Paul had gone into the shop, which was swept, -and arranged with benches, and a table in the middle, for the emigrants’ -meeting, and Janet following him so far as to stand in the inner instead -of the outer doorway, stood gazing at him by the imperfect light of the -lamp. How could she help gazing at him? She expected him to say -something. This was not how he had looked at her in the morning. Poor -Janet was disappointed to the bottom of her heart. - -“That’s a pity,” said Paul, brusquely. “If I had known Spears would not -be here I should not have come so soon. I don’t see why he should keep -me waiting for him. I have a thousand things to do; all my time is taken -up. I might have been with my father, who is ill, if I had not come -here.” - -“Oh, is he ill?” said Janet. Her eyes grew bigger in the dim light -gazing at him. “It must be very strange to be a gentleman’s son like -that,” she added softly; “and to think what a difference it might make -all at once if---- And you never can tell what may happen,” she -concluded with a sigh of excitement. “I don’t wonder you’re in a way.” - -“Am I in a way? I don’t think so,” said Paul. “I hope there is nothing -much the matter with my father,” he added, after a little pause. - -“Oh!” said Janet, disappointed; but she added, “There will be some time. -Some time or other you will be a great man, with a title and all that -property. Oh, I wanted to say one thing to you before those men come. -What in the world have you to do with _them_, Mr. Paul? They may think -themselves ill-used, but you can’t think yourself ill-used. Why should -you go away when you have everything, everything you can set your face -to, at home? Plenty of money, and a grand house, and horses and -carriages, and all sorts of things. You can understand folks doing it -that have nothing; but a gentleman like you that only need to wish and -have, whatever can _you_ want to emigrate for?” Janet cried. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -Spears entered the shop suddenly, before Janet had quite ended her -astonishing address. If his dog had offered him advice Paul could -scarcely have been more surprised. He was standing at one end of the -shop gazing at her, his eyes wide opened with surprise, and -consternation in his mind, when her father came in. Spears was not so -much astonished as Paul was. He saw his daughter standing in the -doorway, her colourless face a little flushed by her earnestness, and -gaining much in beauty from that heightened tint, and from the meaning -in it. Spears thought within himself that it was true what all the -romancers said, that there was nothing like love for embellishing a -woman, and that his Janet had never looked so handsome before. But that -was all. He had come in by a back way, bringing with him the Scotchman, -Fraser, who was to be one of the colonists, and therefore could not make -any remark upon the conjunction of these two, or upon the few words he -heard her saying. What so natural as that she should be found lingering -about the place where Paul was expected, or that he should take her -opinion, however foolish it might be? - -“Come, you two,” Spears said, good-humouredly, “no more of this--there -is a time for everything;” and Janet, with a start, with one anxious -look at Paul to see what effect her eloquence was having, went slowly -away. - -Paul had been profoundly astonished by what she said. He could not -understand it. _She_ to bid him remain at home!--she to ask him with -fervour, and almost indignation, what he wanted to emigrate for!--she, -her father’s daughter, to remind him of those advantages which her -father denounced! Paul felt himself utterly bewildered by what she said. -There was nothing in him which helped him to an understanding of Janet’s -real meaning. That her severely practical mind regarded her father’s -creed as simple folly and big words might have been made credible to -him: but that Janet had a distinct determination, rapidly formed, but -of the most absolute force, not to permit himself--him--Paul--to give up -any advantages which she had the hope of sharing--that she was -determined to taste the sweets which he had set his foolish heart on -throwing away--no idea of this entered into his mind. Her warning -look--the little gesture of leave-taking which she made as she went -away, and into which she managed to convey the same warning--overwhelmed -him with amazement. What did she mean? He might have thought there was -some secret plan against him from which she meant to defend him, if he -had not had absolute confidence in Spears. Was it an effort of -generosity on her part to free him from the dilemma in which his -mother’s indiscretion had placed him--to put him away from the place in -which her company might be a danger to him--to restore him to the sphere -to which he belonged? For the first time with this idea a warm impulse -of gratitude and admiration moved him towards the demagogue’s daughter. -He waved his hand to her as she went away, with a smile which made -Janet’s heart jump, and in which indeed no great strain of imagination -was required to see a lover’s lingering of delight and regret as the -object of his affection left him. Spears laughed; he saw no deficiency. - -“Come, come,” he said, “we have more serious work in hand. Leave all -that to a seasonable moment.” And upon the man’s face there came a -smile--soft, luminous, full of tender sympathy. In his day he too had -known what love was. - -Fraser was an uncouth, thick man, short of stature, with that -obscuration of griminess about him which sometimes appears in the -general aspect of a labouring man. He was not dirty, but he was -indistinct, as seen through a certain haze of atmosphere, which, -however, from his side was penetrated by two keen eyes. He gave Paul a -quick look, then, with a word of salutation, took his seat at the table, -on which a paraffin lamp, emitting no delightful odour, was standing. As -he did so two others came in. One a lean man, with spindle limbs and a -long pale face, who looked as if he had grown into exaggerated pale -length, like some imprisoned plant struggling upwards to the distant -light. The other was a clerk, in the decent, carefully arranged dress -which distinguishes his class, very neat and respectable, and “like a -gentleman,” though a world apart from a gentleman’s ease of costume. -The tall man was Weaver; the clerk’s name was Short. They took their -seats also with brief salutations. There was room around the table for -several more, but these seemed all that were coming. Spears took his -place at the head. He was by far the most living and life-like of the -party. - -“Are we all here?” he said. “There are some vacant places. I hope that -doesn’t mean falling away. Where is Rees, Short? What has become of him? -It was you that brought him here.” - -“He has heard of another situation,” said the clerk. “His wife never -liked it. I doubt much whether we’ll see him again. He never was a man -to be calculated upon. Hot at first--very hot--but no stamina. I warned -you, Spears.” - -“And Layton--he was hot too--has he dropped off as well?” - -“Well, you see, Spears,” said the long man, with laboured utterance, -working his hand slowly up and down, “work’s mended in our trade; -there’s a deal in that. When it’s bad a man’s ready for anything; as it -was all the early summer--not a thing doing. There were dozens on us as -would have gone anywhere to make sure of a bit o’ bread. But work’s -mended, and most of us think no more on what we’ve said. Not me,” the -speaker added; “I’m staunch. It’s nothing to me what the women say.” - -“I suppose you have got the maps and all the details?” said the clerk. -“If we’re going out in October, we’d better settle all the details -without delay.” - -Then there arose a discussion about the land that was offered by the -emigration commissioners, which it is needless to reproduce here. It was -debated between Spears, Fraser, and the clerk, all of whom threw -themselves into it with heat and energy, the eyes of the grimy little -Scotchman gleaming on one after another, throwing sudden light like that -of a lantern; while Short talked with great volubility and readiness, -and Spears, at the head of the table, held the balance between them. -Fraser was for closing with the official offer, and securing land before -they made their start, while the clerk held in his hand the plans of a -new township and the proposals of a land company, which seemed to him -the most advantageous. Spears, for his part, was opposed to both. He -was for waiting until they had arrived at their destination, and -choosing for themselves where they would fix their abode. He, for his -part, had no money to buy land, even at the cheapest rate. To take his -family out, to support them during the first probationary interval, was -as much as he could hope for. The debate rose high among them. Weaver -sat with his two elbows resting on the table, and his long pale head -supported in his hands, looking from one to another; his mouth and eyes -were open with perennial wonder and admiration. Land! he had never -possessed anything all his life, and the idea inflamed him. Paul had -never taken any part in these practical discussions; he was too logical. -If it was wrong for him to enjoy the advantages of wealth at home, he -did not see how he could carry any of these advantages away with him, to -purchase other advantages on the other side of the world. What right had -he to do it? He sat silent, but less patient than Weaver, less admiring, -feeling the peculiarities of the men doubly, now that he had associated -himself conclusively with them. The clerk’s precise little tone, cut and -dry--his disquisition upon the rates of interest and the chances of -making a good speculation--Fraser’s dusky hands, which he put forward in -the heat of argument, beating out emphatic sentences with a short, -square forefinger--gave him an impression they had never done before. -Short was a little contemptuous (notwithstanding the democratical views -which he shared) of the working men, and their knowledge of what ought -to be done. - -“With the small means at our command,” he said, “to go out into the bush -would be folly. You can’t grow grain or even potatoes in a few weeks. -You must have civilisation behind you, and a town where you can push -along with your trades till the land begins to pay.” - -“And how are you to make the land pay without the plough, and somebody -to guide it?” said Fraser. “I am not one that holds with civilisation. -Most land will pay that’s well solicited with a good spade and a good -stout arm. We’ll take a pickle meal with us, or let’s say flour, and the -time the corn’s growing we’ll build our houses and live on our porridge. -I do not approve of the Government, but it makes a good offer, and land -cannot run away. Make yourself sure of a slice of the land; that is what -I’ll always say.” - -“Land,” said Spears, with some scorn in his tone, “that may be in the -middle of a marsh, or on the cold side of a hill. I put no faith in the -Government offer for my part, and a little less than none in your new -township, Short. Did you ever read about Eden in Mr. Dickens’s book? I -object to be slaughtered with fever for the sake of a new land company. -Here is my opinion: Take your money with you as you please--in your old -stocking, or in bits of paper--I,” said the demagogue, “feel the -superiority of a man that has no money to take. I’ve got my head and my -hands, and I mean to get _my_ farm out of them. But let’s see the place -first and choose. Let’s try the forest primeval, as they call it; but -let us take our choice for ourselves.” - -Fraser, who had projected himself half across the table leaning upon his -elbows, and with his emphatic, blunt forefinger extended in act to -speak, here interposed, pointing that member at Paul, who said nothing. -“What’s he going to do? Hasn’t _he_ got an opinion on the subject! I’m -keen to know what a lad will say that has the most money to spend, and -the most to lose--and a young fellow forbye;” said the Scot, flashing -the light of his eager eyes upon Paul, who sat half-interested, -half-disgusted, holding his refined head, and white hands, and fine -linen, a little apart from the group round the table. He started -slightly when he heard himself appealed to. - -“If it is a false position to possess more than one’s neighbours here,” -he said, “I hold it a still more false position to take what ought to be -valuable to the country out of the country. I have very little money -either to spend or to lose, and I think with Spears.” - -“Ah,” said the Scotsman, “my lad, it’s a frolic for you. You’ll go and -you’ll play at what is life or death to us--and by the time you’re tired -of the novelty you’ll mind upon your folk at home, and your duty to -them. I’ve seen the like before. None like you for giving rash counsels: -not that you mean harm: but you know well you’ve them behind you that -will be too glad to have you back. That’s not our case--with us it’s -life or death.” - -“Hold your tongue, Fraser,” said Spears. “This young fellow,”--he laid -his hand upon Paul as he spoke, with a kind, paternal air, which perhaps -the young man might have liked at another time, but which made him wince -now--“is in earnest--no sort of doubt that he’s in earnest. He is giving -up a great deal more than any of us are doing. We--that’s the worst of -it--are making no sacrifice--we’re going because it suits us; but, to -show his principles, he is giving up--a great deal more than was ever -within our reach.” - -“A man cannot give up more than he has got,” said the clerk. “What we -are sacrificing is every bit as much to us.” - -Spears kept his hand on Paul’s arm. He meant it very kindly, but it was -warm and heavy, and Paul had all the desire in the world to pitch it -off. He did not care for the paternal character of his instructor’s -kindness. - -“I don’t know what you are giving up,” said Spears. “I have got nothing -to sacrifice, except perhaps a little bit of a perverse liking for the -old country, bad as she is. It takes away a good deal of my pride in -myself, if the truth were known, to feel that after all the talk I’ve -gone through in my life, it isn’t for principle that I’m going, but to -better myself. I told this young fellow he oughtn’t to go--that is the -truth. He has no reason to be discontented. As long as the present state -of things holds out, it’s to his interest, and doubly to his interest, -to stay where he is. But this isn’t the kind of fellow to stand on -what’s pleasant to himself. He’s coming for the grand sake of the -cause--eh, Paul?--or if there’s another little bit of motive alongside, -why that’s nothing to anybody. We are not going to make a talk of that.” - -To imagine anything more distasteful to Paul than this speech would be -impossible. Only by the most strenuous exercise of self-control could he -keep from thrusting off Spears’s hand, his intolerable approval, and -still more intolerable pleasantry. He got up at last, unable to bear it -any longer. “We didn’t come here to comment on each other’s motives,” he -said. “Suppose you go on with the business we met for, Spears.” - -It was a little relief to get out of reach of the other’s hand. He stood -up against the narrow little mantelpiece behind Spears’s chair. It was -heaped with picture-frames, and the drawing which Spears had been making -in the morning stood there propped up against the wall; the great -foxglove from which he had designed it lay in a heap along with the -other flowers which he had rejected, swept up into the fireplace. A -faint odour of crushed stalks and broken flowers came from them. They -were swept up carelessly with the dust, their bright petals peeping -from under all the refuse of the shop, dishonoured and broken. Paul -thought it was symbolical. He stood and looked--more dispassionately -from a distance--at the rough, forcible head of the demagogue, and the -countenance all seamed and grimy of the Scotsman, who was concentrating -the keen light of his eyes upon Spears. The clerk, on the other hand, -clean, neat, and commonplace, did not seem to belong to the same world, -while the feeble, long head of Weaver was as the ghost and shadow of the -other animated and vigorous faces. The light of the mean little paraffin -lamp threw a yellow glow on them, but left in darkness all the corners -of the shop, the large shuttered window, full of picture-frames, and the -cavernous opening of the stairs which led to Spears’s house--and filled -the place with an odour which the accustomed senses of the others took -no notice of, but which to Paul was almost insupportable. He had -assisted at these conferences before; but however he had busied himself -in the details of the meetings, however earnestly and gravely he had -posed (to his own consciousness) as one of them, yet he had never been -one of them. He had been a spectator not an actor in the drama, little -referred to, scarcely believed in by the others; and he had taken them -calmly, as it is so easy to take those with whom we have nothing to do. -But now that he was entirely committed to their society, now that he had -burnt his ships, and shut every door of escape behind him, a new light -seemed to shine upon them. The smoky lamp, the smell of the paraffin, -the grimy haze about Fraser, the feeble whiteness of the other, the -little clerk, all smooth and smug, with his talk of capital and -interest--Paul seemed never to have seen them before. These were to be -henceforward his companions, fellow-founders of a new society. - -Paul felt himself grow giddy where he stood. Their talk went on; they -discussed and argued, but it was only a kind of hum in his ears. He did -not care what conclusion they came to--they themselves struck him like a -revelation. Perhaps if any other four men in the world had thus been -separated from all others as the future sharers of his life, his -feelings would have been much the same. Four Dons for instance; suppose -a group out of the Common-room put in the place of these workmen, would -they have been more supportable? He asked himself this question -vaguely, wistfully. Could he have put his future in their hands with -more confidence? or was it simply that the contemplation of any such -group as representing all your society for the rest of your life was -alarming? Paul put this question to himself with a curious dizziness and -sense of weakness. - -The stair, which has been several times referred to, went straight up -like a ladder from the side of the shop opposite the door, and the upper -part of it was of the most primitive description, mounting as through a -large trap-door to the floor above. As he stood listening without -hearing, seeing through a mist, Paul caught sight in the darkness of -some one standing under the shadow of this stair watching and listening. -The men at the table were closely engaged. They took no further notice -of the young man whom they could not believe in as one of themselves. -Even Spears, in the fervour of discussion, forgot Paul. He stood in all -the freedom of a bystander, thinking his own thoughts, while his eyes -rested upon the group, taking in the whole picture before him vaguely, -as a picture; and it was at this moment that he became aware, not only -of this vague and shadowy figure, but of a head put out round the -corner of the stair, with a dart and tremble of curiosity. It was the -fair head of Janet Spears, with all its frizz of loose locks. At first -it was but a dart, rapid and frightened; then, as she perceived the -absorption of the others, and saw that she had caught Paul’s attention, -she took courage. She gave a glance at them as Paul was doing, but with -a hundred times more conscious scorn, and then put all the contempt and -ridicule of which eyes were capable into the look with which she turned -to Paul, shrugging her shoulders at the group. Her next proceeding was -to point to the door, and invite him, as plainly as signs could do it, -to meet her there. Paul grew red as he received these signs, with wonder -and alarm, and a curious kind of shamefacedness. Was it the strangest -unpardonable liberty the girl was taking? or had she a right to do it? -With a rapid gesture she gave him to understand that he must come out, -and that he would find her at the door. - -Janet had never been presuming; she had not been a coquette; she had -done nothing to call to herself the attention of the young theorists who -frequented her father’s shop. But everything was different now, and she -felt herself not only at liberty to make signals to Paul, but conferring -a favour on him by so doing. He was sick of the consultation in which he -did not care to take any part, and weary at heart of all the strange -circumstances around him. And the paraffin was very disagreeable. Why -should he not obey Janet’s signs, and go and meet her outside? At least -it could not be any worse than this. After a few moments of struggle -with himself. Paul announced quietly that he was going. “My presence can -make no difference,” he said. They scarcely heard him, so busy were they -with their argument. No Rembrandt could have surpassed the curious group -of heads set in the surrounding darkness, with the light of the lamp so -fully upon them, and all so intent and full of living interest. Spears -turned round and gave him a good-humoured nod as he went away. He was -half-vexed to be deserted; yet he smiled--was it not natural? Outside, -though it was a little bye-street, and not immaculate, the air was -sweeter than in that atmosphere of paraffin; but it was with a curious -sense of humiliation and surprise at his own position, that Paul saw -Janet’s dark, slim figure stealing out at another door. That he should -meet a girl under the light of a street-lamp, jostled by passers-by, -remarked upon as Janet Spears’s lover, seemed something incredible. Yet -he was doing it; he scarcely could tell why. She came stealing close up -to him, with just the attitude and gesture he had seen in other humble -pairs of love-makers, and Paul could not help wondering, with a sharp -sting of self-scorn, whether he was as like the ordinary hero of such -encounters as she was like the heroine. Janet came up to him however -with all the fervour of a purpose. She put out her hand, and gave a -touch to his arm. - -“Did you hear what I said?--did you think of what I was saying?” she -asked. “Father came just when he wasn’t wanted. Perhaps you’ll think me -a bold girl to call you out here; but it’s for your good. Oh, Mr. Paul, -don’t listen to all that nonsense! What should _you_ go away for? You’re -a deal better off here than you ever would be there. Father may have -some excuse. He thinks, I suppose, as he’s getting old, and as it would -be better for me and the girls to be out there. I don’t think so. I’d -rather be anything at home. I’d rather take a situation. Still, father -has an excuse. But you--what do you want among men like them?--you that -are a gentleman. You never could put up with them. And why should you -go?--think a moment--why should you go?” - -“It is very good of you to interest yourself about me,” said Paul, -feeling himself so much stiffer and more solemn than he had ever been -before, “but I have chosen with my eyes open. I have done what I thought -best.” - -“Oh, _of course_ I interest myself in you. Who should I interest myself -in?” cried Janet, “above everything! And that is why I say don’t meddle -with them; don’t have anything to do with them. Oh, when you have a -father that will give you whatever you like; when you have your pockets -full of money; when, if you just wait a little, you will have a title, -and everything heart could desire--_why_ should you go a long sea -voyage, and mix yourself up with a parcel of working men?” “_Why?_” -cried Janet, with a wonderment that was slightly mingled with scorn, yet -was impassioned in its vehemence. “I would not demean myself like that, -not for all the world.” - -Paul stood and looked at her almost moved to laughter by the strangeness -of the position. Spears’s daughter! but the laughter would not have -been sweet. That strange paradox, and the still stranger one of his own -meeting with his supposed love under the lamp-post, filled him with the -profoundest mortification, wonder, and yet amusement. It seemed beyond -the power of belief, and yet it was true. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Sir William was better when he got home. When he reached his own house -he began to hold up his head, to hold himself, if not erect as of old, -yet in a way more like himself. He walked firmly into the house, always -with Fairfax’s arm, and said, “I am better, Brown; yes, much better,” -when Brown met him, very anxious and effusive, at the door. “I feel -almost myself,” he said, turning round to Lady Markham. And so he -looked--himself ten years older, but yet with something of the old -firmness and precise composure. How he could thus recover, though the -letter in his pocket-book bore the postmark of Markham Royal, and he had -come back into the very presence of the danger which at a distance had -overwhelmed him, it would be difficult to tell. “He’s picked up -wonderful,” Mr. Jarvis, Sir William’s own man, said to Mr. Brown; “but -for all that, he’s got notice to quit--he have. Just see if I ain’t -right.” Mrs. Fry was of the same opinion when she saw her master. She -had never had any comfort in her mind, she declared, since she heard of -these faintings. All the Markhams went like that. The late Sir Paul had -done just the same--nothing to speak of at first, and nobody -alarmed--but it was a thing that went fast, that was, Mrs. Fry said. -They were all very gloomy about Sir William down stairs, but in the -family there was no such alarm. He put away his trouble, or rather, as -he emerged out of the suffering of his attack into physical comfort -again, and no longer felt the blood ebbing, as it were, from his heart, -and consciousness failing in the giddy void into which he had seemed to -sink, nature in him declined to remember it, turned away from it. The -familiar house, the waving of the woods, the stately quiet about him, -healed him, and he would not allow himself to be pulled back. He came to -dinner, and occupied his place as usual, looking really, his wife and -daughter thought, almost quite himself. This almost made up to them, -poor ladies, for the moment--for all that it had cost them to leave -Oxford in such melancholy uncertainty about Paul. - -But there was one of the party who was not at his ease. Fairfax, who had -come away on the spur of the moment without any provision for a visit, -and who felt his presence here to be mere accident, nothing more, -scarcely knew what to do or say. After he had helped Sir William up -stairs on their arrival, he came to Lady Markham, confused yet smiling, -with his hat in his hand. “I must take my leave now. I hope Sir William -will go on mending, and no longer have need of my arm as a -walking-stick.” - -“Your leave!” said Lady Markham, “what does that mean? Do you think -after taking the use of you all the way here that I am going to let you -go away without making acquaintance with Markham? No, no; you are going -to stay.” - -“I came as a walking-stick,” said the young man; “and I have brought -nothing,” he added, laughing. “That is the disadvantage of a -walking-stick which is human, which wants tooth-brushes and all kinds of -things. Besides, I am of no further use. Sir William is better, and -there are shoals of men here.” - -“You make us out to be pleasant people,” said Lady Markham, “getting rid -of our friends as soon as we have need of them no longer. That will -never do. You must send for your things, and in the meantime there is -Paul’s wardrobe to fall back upon. He always leaves a number of things -here.” - -“But----” said Fairfax, flushing very deeply. He was not handsome, like -Paul. There was a look of easy good-humour, kindness, sympathy about -him, a desire to please, a readiness to be serviceable. He had brown -eyes, which were clear and kind; brown hair, crisp and curling; a -pleasant mouth; but nothing in his features or his aspect that could be -called distinguished. Pleasure, embarrassment, difficulty, a desire to -say something, yet a reluctance to say it, were all mingled in his face; -but the pleasure was the strongest. He gave an appealing look at Alice, -as if entreating her to help him out. - -“I want no buts,” said Lady Markham. “I want to go to Sir William, and -you are detaining me with a foolish argument which you know you cannot -convince me by. Send for your things, and Brown will show you your room: -and we can talk it all over,” she said, smiling, “as soon as your -portmanteau is here.” - -Fairfax made her an obeisance as he might have done to a queen. He stood -with his hat in his hand and his head bowed while she passed him going -out of the room. Every young man, it is to be supposed, has some -youthful feminine ideal in his mind, but to Fairfax Lady Markham was a -new revelation. He knew, if not by experience, yet from all the poets, -that there were creatures like her daughter in the world; that they were -the flower and blossom of humanity, supposed to be the most beautiful -things in life; but the next step from the Alices of creation was into a -darkness he knew nothing of. Age, or a youth that was pretended, false, -and disgusting, swallowed up all the rest. A mother (he had never known -his own) was an old stager or an old campaigner, a dragon or a -matchmaker, the gaoler or the executioner of her girls, the greatest -danger to all men; scheming with deadly wiles to get rid of her -daughters; then, in the terrible capacity of mother-in-law, using all -these wiles to get the girls who had escaped from her, back, and make -the lives of their husbands miserable. This is the conception which the -common Englishman gets from his light literature of all women who are -not young. Fairfax was no worse than his kind; he had never known his -own mother, and the name was not sacred to him. But when Lady Markham -came within his ken the young man was bewildered. He could understand -Alice, but he could not understand the woman who was so beautiful and -gracious, and yet Markham’s mother. She dazzled him, and filled him with -shame and generous compunction. Her very smile was a fresh wonder. He -was half afraid of her, yet to disobey or rebel against her seemed to -him a thing impossible. The revelation of this mother even changed the -character of his relations with Alice, for whom, on the first sight of -her, the natural attraction of the natural mate, the wondering interest, -admiration, and pleasure, which, if not love, is the first beginning of -the state of love--had caught him all at once. The mother brought a -softening as of domestic trust and affection into this nascent feeling. -Alice was brought the nearer to him, by some in explainable magic, -because of the dazzling superiority of this elder unknown princess, -whose very existence was a miracle to him. When Lady Markham had gone -out, with a smile and gracious bend of her head in answer to his -reverential salutation, Fairfax came back to Alice with a certain awe in -his look, which was half contradicted, half heightened, by the wavering -of the smile upon his face, in which there mingled something like -amusement at his own sense of awe. - -“Miss Markham, may I ask your advice?” he said. - -“You are frightened at mamma,” said Alice, with a soft laugh. “Oh, but -you need not! She is as kind--as kind--as if she were only old nurse,” -Alice said, in despair of finding a better illustration. - -“Don’t be profane!” cried Fairfax, with uplifted hands. “Yes, I am -frightened. I never knew that anybody’s mother could be like that. But, -Miss Markham, will you give me your advice?” - -“Is your mother--not living, Mr. Fairfax?” - -“She never has been for me--she died so long ago; I am afraid I have -never thought much about her. Ought I to stay, Miss Markham?” He raised -his eyes to her with a piteous look, yet one that was half comic in its -earnestness, and a sudden blush, unawares, as their eyes met, flamed -over both faces. For why? How could they tell? It was so, and they knew -no more. - -“Surely,” Alice said; “mamma wishes it, and we all wish it. After -showing us so much kindness, you would not go away the moment you have -come here?” - -“But that is not the question,” said Fairfax. “The fact is, I am nobody. -Don’t laugh, or I shall laugh too, and I am much more disposed to cry. I -have a tolerable name, haven’t I? but alas! it does not mean anything. I -don’t know what it means, nor how we came by it. I am one of the -unfortunate men, Miss Markham, who--never had a grandfather.” - -Alice had been waiting with much solemnity for the secret which made him -so profoundly grave (yet there was a twinkle, too, which nothing but the -deepest misfortune could quench, in the corner of his eye). When this -statement came, however, she was taken with a sudden fit of laughter. -Could anything be more absurd? And yet in her heart she felt a sudden -chill, a sense of horror. Alice would not have owned it, but this was a -terrible statement for any young man on the verge of intimacy to make. -No grandfather! It was a misfortune she could not understand. - -“At least, none to speak of,” he said, the fun growing in his eyes. -“You should not laugh, Miss Markham. Don’t you think it is hard upon a -man? To come to an enchanted palace, where he would give his head to be -allowed to stay, and to feel that for no fault of his, for a failure -which he is not responsible for, which can be laid only to the score of -those ancestors who did not exist----” - -“Mr. Fairfax, no one was thinking of your grandfather.” - -“I know that; but, dear Miss Markham, you know very well that to-night, -or to-morrow night, or a year hence, your mother, before whom I feel -disposed to go down upon my knees, will say with her smile, ‘Are you of -the Norfolk Fairfaxes, or the Westchester family, or----?’ And I, with -shame, will begin to say, ‘Madam, of no Fairfaxes at all.’ What will she -think of me then? Will not she think that I have done wrong to be -here--that I had no right to stay?” - -“Oh, Mr. Fairfax!” cried Alice, somewhat pale and troubled; “how can I -advise you? Mamma is not a fanatic about family. She does not build upon -it to that extent. I do not see why she should ever ask you. It is no -business of ours.” Alice was not strong enough to have such a -tremendous question thrown upon her to decide. As a matter of fact, she -knew that her mother would very soon make those inquiries about the -Westchester family and the Norfolk Fairfaxes. Already Lady Markham had -indulged in speculations on the subject, and had begun to remember that -in the one case she “used to know” a cousin of his, and in the other had -met his uncle, the ambassador, and saw a great deal of him once in -Paris. She grew quite pale, and her eyes puckered up and took the most -anxious aspect. Besides, it was a shock to herself. That absence of a -grandfather was a want which was almost indecent. She did not understand -it, and she was extremely sorry for him. He had no home then--no house -that his people had lived in for ages--no people. Poor boy! - -And Fairfax’s countenance also fell, in reflection of hers. However deep -may be one’s private consciousness of one’s own deficiencies, there is -always a little expectation in one’s mind that other people will make -light of them; but when you see your own dismay, and more than your own -dismay, in the eyes of your counsellor, then is the moment when you sink -into the abyss. His lip quivered for a moment, and though it eventually -succeeded in forming into a smile, the smile was very tremulous and -uncertain. - -“I see,” he said; “no need for another word. Good-bye. I have had a -glimpse into--the garden of Eden, though I must not stay.” - -“Mr. Fairfax!” cried Alice, as he turned away. “Come back--come back -this moment! How dare you take me up so? Do you want to get me into -trouble,” she cried, half crying, half laughing, “with mamma? Would you -like to have her--beat me?” - -“She does so sometimes?” - -“To be sure,” cried Alice, with an unsteady laugh. “Oh, Mr. Fairfax, -what a fright you have given me! You have made my heart beat!” - -“Not so much as mine,” he said. They had their laugh, and then they -stood once more looking at each other. “It is all very well,” said the -young man; “you want to spare my feelings; you would not hurt any one. -But beyond that, you know as well as I do that Lady Markham, knowing who -I am, would not like to have me here.” - -“Who are you?” said Alice, with a little renewed alarm; and in her mind -she tried to remember whether there had been any trials in the papers, -any criminals who bore this name. - -“I am nobody at all,” said Fairfax. “I haven’t even the distinction of -being improper, or belonging to people who have made themselves notable -either for evil or good. I am nobody. That is precisely what I want Lady -Markham to understand.” - -“I think, Mr. Fairfax,” said Alice, “you had better go and send for your -things, as mamma said.” - -“You think I may?” - -He looked at her with eyes full of pleasure and gratitude, putting more -meaning into her words than they would bear, and getting a thrill of -conscious happiness out of the little arbitrary tone which, half in jest -and half to hide her real doubts, Alice put on. He was so glad to obey, -to say to himself that it was their own doing and that they could not -blame him for it, so happy to be made to remain as he persuaded himself. -The children rushed in as he went away to obey what he called to himself -the order he had received, eager to know who he was, and making a -hundred inquiries about all kinds of things--about papa’s illness, why -he looked so grey, and what was the matter with him; about Paul, why he -did not come home; about Mr. Fairfax, who he was, what he was, what he -was doing there, whether he was going to stay. There was scarcely a -question that could be put on these subjects which the ingenious -children did not ask; and Alice was glad finally to suggest that they -should walk to the village with Mr. Fairfax and show him where the -post-office was, that he might telegraph for his portmanteau. They were -quite willing to take this on themselves. “We shall be sure to see the -little gentleman,” Bell said. “Who is the little gentleman?” asked -Alice; but she had so many things to think of that she did not pay any -attention to the reply, which was made by all the four voices at once. -What did it matter? She had a hundred things so much more important to -think of. - -And when the children had been sent off, forming a guard of honour about -Fairfax, cross-examining him to their heart’s content, and in their turn -communicating much information which was quite novel to him, Alice -thought she was very glad of the quiet and the interval of rest. Sir -William was resting, declaring himself much better; and Lady Markham, in -the relief of this fact, was lying down on the sofa, getting half an -hour’s doze after her sleepless night. Alice had not slept much more -than her mother, but she could not doze. After a while a sensation of -regret stole into her mind that she had not accompanied the others. -There was a soft breeze blowing among the trees which freshened the -aspect of nature, and the sky was blue and tender, doubly blue after the -smoky half-colour of a town. Alice sat by the window and watched the -flickering of the leaves, and wished she had gone with them. Something -seemed wanting to her. To be alone and free to rest, did not seem the -privilege she had thought it. She wanted--what? Some one to speak to, -some one’s eyes to meet hers. The leaves ruffled and seemed to call her; -the little breeze came and whispered at the edge of the window, blowing -the lace curtains about. All the world invited her, wooed her, to go out -into the fresh air, into the green avenue, into the joyful yet silent -world. “The air would have done me good,” Alice said to herself; and her -voice came back to her out of the silence as if it had been somebody -else’s voice. Then by degrees it came into her head that the air would -still do her good if she went out now, which somehow did not exactly -hit her wishes. After this, however, it occurred to her that to stroll -down the avenue and meet them as they came back would not be amiss, and -much comforted by this suggestion she ran to get her hat. Would they be -glad to see her, or would they ask her loudly why she came out now, when -nobody wanted her. Brothers and sisters under fourteen are apt to -express opinions of this sort very plainly. Alice felt angry at the -idea, but afterwards melted, and represented to herself that to meet -them in the avenue was of all the courses open to her the best. - -Sir William was able to come down stairs to dinner, which was more than -any one had hoped, and after dinner he came into the dining-room with -the ladies, and saw the children, as he had always been in the habit of -doing, while he took his coffee. A recovery of this kind from a sudden -fit of illness has often the most softening and happy effect. He had a -great deal of care on his mind, but the sensation of getting better -seemed to chase it all away. He seemed to be getting better of that too, -to be getting over it, before it ever came to anything. Had he been in -his usual condition he would have known very well that he had got over -nothing, that it was all waiting for him round the corner of the very -next day, or even hour; but Sir William convalescent was not in his -usual state of mind. He felt as if he had got over it, as if it all lay -behind him--the perplexity, and the trouble, and alarm. He sat in his -great chair, with cushions placed about him, looking so much older, and -so much softer, more indulgent and more talkative. A kind of -garrulousness had come upon him. He told his children stories of his own -childhood. He was not put out by their restlessness, by their -interruptions, as he generally was. Never had he been so gentle, so -amiable. He told them all about an adventure of his in the woods with -his brothers, when he had been about Roland’s age. It was like the story -of old Grouse in the gun-room to the little Markhams; they knew exactly -where to laugh, and what questions to ask to show their interest, and -they conducted themselves with the greatest propriety, not even putting -him right when he deviated from the correct routine of the story, which -they remembered better than he did. It was only after this wonderful -tale was over that Bell made the unfortunate remark which brought a new -transformation. How should the child know there was any harm in it? -“Oh,” she cried suddenly, “look, Harry! look, Marie! As papa sits there, -now! Did you ever see anything so like the little gentleman?” and Bell -clasped her hands together in admiring contemplation of this strange -fact. - -There was a pause. Had it not been for the entire ignorance of the easy -household, calm, and fearing no evil, it might have been thought that a -shiver ran through the air, as this crisis suddenly developed itself out -of the quiet: every one was quite still. They all looked at the child -with amused curiosity--all but one. And though there was nothing meant -by it the effect was strange. It was left to Sir William to speak, which -he did in a clear, thin voice, suddenly becoming judicial and solemn. - -“Whom do you mean by the little gentleman, Bell?” - -“Oh, he is a relation--he told us so,” said the little girl. - -“And he has brought me some sweetmeats from abroad--me!--though he -didn’t know my name. What sort of things would you call sweetmeats, -mamma?” - -“And he is living down at the Markham Arms. We saw him to-day. He jumped -into the railway carriage with Dolly Stainforth.” - -“Oh, but I saw him come back--following the carriage,” cried Roland. “He -stood at the station-gate to see you pass, papa, and looked so sorry. -That was him, Alice, that stopped us when we went to the village with -Mr. Fairfax. You saw him. He wanted to shake hands all round.” - -The pause now, after this clamour of voices, was more curious than ever. -Lady Markham began to wonder a little. - -“A relation!--who could it be? Do you know of any relation who would not -have come to us straight? I do not think it could be a relation. You -must have made a mistake.” - -“Oh, no; we have not made any mistake,” cried the children with one -voice. “Besides, he was such friends with us. He promised to give us -quantities of things; and then he is like papa.” - -“I don’t think Sir William is well,” said Fairfax, hurriedly. He rose -up with an exclamation of terror, and Lady Markham sprang to her feet -and rushed to her husband’s side. - -“I am feeling--a little faint,” he said, in a half-whisper, with a -tremendous attempt to regain command of himself; but it failed. His head -drooped, his eyelids quivered, and then lay half-closed upon the dim -langour underneath that had lost all power of seeing; his breath -laboured, and came in gasps from his pale lips. All the sudden recovery -in which they had been so happy was over. Alice put the children hastily -out of the room, like a flock frightened, as she ran to call Jarvis, to -get what was necessary, to send for the village doctor. The boys and -girls got together into a corner of the hall and cried silently, -clinging together in fright and sorrow; or at least the girls cried, -wondering-- - -“Was it anything we said?” - -“Oh, I wish--I wish!” cried Bell, but in a whisper, “that I had not said -anything about the little gentleman!” - -But of all the family she was the only one that thought of this. The -others though they were much alarmed were not surprised. There was -nothing, alas! more natural than that these fits should come on again. -The doctor had expected it. They said to each other that he had been -more tired with the journey than they supposed--that indeed it was -certain in his state of health that he must be worn out by the journey: -the wonder only was that he had revived at all. He was carried to his -room after a while, the children looking on drearily from their corner, -full of dismay. To them nothing seemed to be too dreadful to be -expected. - -“Oh, why does papa look so pale?” Marie sobbed, with that blighting -terror which seizes a child at the first sight of such signs of -mortality. Even the boys had much to do to rub away out of the corners -of their eyes the sudden burst of tears. - -“I am better--much better,” the sick man said, when he came to himself, -“but very weak. You won’t allow me to be disturbed? I cannot see any -one--it is impossible for me to see any one, Isabel.” - -“Do you think I will let you be disturbed?” said Lady Markham. “And who -would disturb you? Do you forget, William, that we are at home?” - -But that word, so full of consolation, fell upon him with no healing in -it. Yes, he knew very well that he was at home, and that his enemy who -had been waiting for him all these years--his enemy who meant him no -harm, who meant no one any harm--the deadliest foe of the children and -their mother, his own reproach and shame--that innocent yet mortal enemy -was close to him, lurking among the trees, behind the peaceful houses in -the village, to disturb him as no one else could. His wife put back the -curtain so as to shield his feeble eyes from the lamp, and sat -down--anxious, yet serene--wondering at his strange fancy. Disturb him! -Who could disturb him here? - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -This time Sir William did not get better as he had done before. His -third fainting-fit proved the beginning of an illness at which the -village doctor looked very grave. It was still but a very short time -since he had come down from London, relieved at the end of the session, -to enjoy his well-earned leisure, with everything prosperous around him, -nothing but the little vexation of Paul’s vagaries to give him a prick -now and then, a reminder that he too was subject to the ills of -mortality. What a happy house it had been to which the tired statesman -had come home! When he had taken his seat by the side of Alice in the -little pony-carriage there had been nothing but assured peace and -comfort in his mind. Paul:--yes--Paul has been a vexation; but no more. -Now all that brightness was overcast; the happy children in their -holiday freedom were hushed in their own corner of the house no longer -allowed to roam through it wherever they pleased. Lady Markham, with all -pretty gowns, her lace and ornaments put away, lived in her husband’s -sick-room, or came down stairs now and then with an anxious smile, “like -someone coming to call,” the little girls said. Alice had become not -Alice, but a sort of emissary between the outside world and that little -hidden world up stairs in which the life of the house seemed -concentrated. As for Sir William, he lay between life and death. First -one, then another great London physician had come down to see him--but -all that they could suggest had done him little or no good. All over the -country messengers came every day for news of him; the head of the -government, and even the Queen herself, and all the leading members of -the party sent telegrams of inquiry; and there were already flutters of -expectation in the town he represented as to the chances of the Liberal -interest, “should anything happen.” Even into Lady Markham’s mind, as -she sat in the silent room, often darkened and always quiet, trying hard -to keep herself from thinking, there would come thoughts, dreary -previsions of change, floating like clouds across her mental firmament, -against her will, in spite of all her precautions--visions of darkness -and blackness and solitude which she tried in vain to shut out. Her -husband lying so still under the high canopies of the bed, from which -all curtains and everything that could obstruct the free circulation of -air had been drawn aside, capable of no independent action, but still -the centre of every thought and plan--was it possible to imagine him -absent altogether, swept away out of the very life in which he had been -the chief actor! These thoughts did not come by any will of hers, but -drifted gloomily across her mind as she sat silent, sometimes trying to -read, mechanically going over page after page, but knowing nothing of -the meaning of the words that were under her eyes. To realise the death -of the sufferer whom one is nursing is, save when death is too close to -be any longer ignored, not only a shock, but a wrong, a guilt, a horror. -Is it not like signing his sentence, agreeing that he is to die? Lady -Markham felt as if she had consented to the worst that could happen when -these visions of the future drifted across her mind. - -Meanwhile who can describe the sudden dreariness of the house upon which -in full sunshine of youth and enjoyment this blight came? The boys -wished themselves at school--could there be any stronger evidence of the -gloom around them?--the girls grew sad and cross, and cried for nothing -at all. Fairfax lingered on, not knowing what to do, afraid to trouble -the anxious ladies even by proposing to go away, obliterating himself as -much as he could, though doing everything that Paul, had he been there, -would have been expected to do. Paul did not come till a week after, -though he was written to every day--but in that week a great many things -had happened. For one thing Lady Markham had seen and spoken with the -stranger who was living at the Markham Arms in the village, and who had -introduced himself to the children as a relation. She had heard nothing -of Mr. Gus except that one mention of him by little Bell on the night of -the return, and that had made no great impression on her mind. It had -been immediately before the recurrence of Sir William’s faint, which had -naturally occupied all her thoughts, and how could it be supposed that -Lady Markham would remember a thing of such small importance? It -surprised her much to meet in the hall that strange little figure in -light, loose clothes, standing hat in hand, as she went from one room -to another. Sir William then had been but a few days ill, and Lady -Markham had hitherto resolutely kept herself from all those drifting -shadows of fear. It was one of the days when she had come to “make a -call” on her children. Sir William was asleep, and she persuaded herself -that he was better, she had come down, as she said, to tell them the -good news; but her smile as she told it was so tremulous, that little -Bell, whose nerves had got entirely out of order, began to cry. And then -they all cried together for a minute, and were a little eased by it. -Alice protested that she was crying for joy because papa was better, and -that it was very silly, but she could not help it; and Lady Markham had -all the brightness of tears in her eyes as she came out into the hall on -her way back to the sick-room; and lo, there before her in the hall, -stood the little gentleman, bowing, with his hat in his hand. - -“I think you must have heard of me, Lady Markham,” he said. - -She looked at him, with a kind of horror that a stranger should be able -to find and detain her--she who ought to be by her husband’s bedside. In -her capacity of nurse it seemed almost as great a crime to intercept -her as it would be to disturb Sir William; but she was too courteous to -express her horror. - -“I do not think so,” she said, with a conciliatory smile which was -intended to take off any edge of offence that might be found in her -profession of ignorance. Then she looked at the card which he handed to -her. “Perhaps this ought to be given to Brown. Ah! but now I remember. -You are related to some kind people, the Lennys, who were here.” - -“Have the Lennys been here?” said Mr. Gus, with unfeigned surprise. -“Yes, I am a relation of theirs also; but in the meantime there is a -much nearer relationship.” - -“I am sure Mr. Gaveston,” said Lady Markham, with a smile by which she -begged pardon for what she was saying, “that you will not think it rude -if I leave you now. I don’t like to be long away from Sir William. When -he wakes he may miss me.” - -“Lady Markham,” said Mr. Gus, “I wish you would let me speak to you. I -do wish it indeed. It would be so much easier afterwards----” - -She looked at him with genuine surprise, then with a glance round her -up the great staircase, where she wished to go, and round the open doors -by which no one came for her deliverance, she yielded unwillingly. “I -fear I can only give you a few minutes,” she said, and led the way into -the library. She had done so without for the moment thinking that her -husband’s room was scarcely a place in which, at this moment, to -discourse placidly with a stranger on subjects of which she was -ignorant. It was so full of him. His books, his papers, all arranged as -if he had that moment left them; his chair at its usual angle, as if he -were seated in it unseen; everything marked with the more than good -order, the precision and formal regularity of all Sir William’s habits. -The things which mark the little foibles of character, the innocent -weaknesses of habit, are those which go most to the heart when death is -threatening a member of a household. The sight of all these little -_fads_, which sometimes annoyed her, and sometimes made her laugh when -all was well, gave Lady Markham a shock of sudden pain and sudden -_attendrissement_. Her heart had been soft enough before to her husband; -it melted now in a suffusion of tender love and grief. Her eyes filled. -Might it be that he never should sit at that table again? - -“I am sure,” she said, making once more the same instinctive appeal to -the sympathy of the stranger, “that you will not detain me longer than -you can help, for my husband is very ill. I cannot help being very -anxious----” She could not say any more. - -“I am very sorry, Lady Markham--but that is the very thing that makes it -so important. May I ask if it is possible you have never heard of me? -Never even _heard_ of me!--that is the strangest thing of all.” - -In her surprise she managed better to get rid of her tears. She gave a -startled glance at him, and then at the card she still held in her hand. -“I cannot quite say that--for Mrs. Lenny and the Colonel both spoke--I -cannot say of you--but of a family called Gaveston whom Sir William had -known. You are the son, I presume, of an old friend? My husband, Mr. -Gaveston,” said Lady Markham, with warmth, “is not a man to be -indifferent to old friends. You may be sure he would have been glad to -see you, and done his best to make Markham pleasant to you:--but the -circumstances--explain----” - -“Then,” said her strange companion with a certain air of sternness which -changed the character of his face, “that is all you know?” - -She looked at the card again. How was it she had not noticed the second -name before? “I see you have Markham in your name,” she said; “I had not -noticed. Is there then some distant relationship? But Mrs. Lenny never -claimed to be a relation: or perhaps--I see! you are Sir William’s -godson,” Lady Markham said, with a smile which was somewhat forced and -uncomfortable. She kept her eyes upon him, uneasy, not knowing what -might come next, vaguely foreseeing something which must wound her. - -Mr. Gus’s brown countenance grew red--he gave forth a sharp and angry -laugh. “His _god_son,” he said; “and that is all you know?” - -Lady Markham grew far more red than he had done. Her beautiful face -became crimson. The heat of shame and distress upon it seemed to get -into her eyes. What was this suspicion that was flung into her mind like -a fire-brand? and in this place where her husband’s blameless life had -been passed, and at this moment when he was ill, perhaps approaching the -end of all things! “Mr. Gaveston,” she said, trembling, “I cannot, I -cannot hear any more. It is not to me you ought to come, and at such a -time! Oh, if you have been put in any false position--if you have been -subjected to humiliation, by anything my husband has done----” Her voice -was choked by the growing heat and pain of her agitation; even to have -such a horrible thought suggested to her now seemed cruelty incredible. -It was wrong on her part to allow it to cross the threshold of a mind -which was sacred to _him_. “Oh,” she cried, wringing her hands, “if you -have had anything to suffer, I am sorry for you, with all my heart! but -I cannot hear any more now--do not ask me to hear any more now! Another -time, anything we can do for you, any amends that can be made to -you--but oh, for God’s sake, think of the state he is lying in, and say -no more now!” - -Mr. Gus listened with wonder, irritation, and dismay. That she should be -excited was natural, but with respect to their meaning, her words were -like raving to him. He could not tell what she meant. Do anything for -him, make him amends!--was the woman mad? He only stared at her blankly, -and did not make any reply. - -Then she held out her hand to him, trying to smile, with her eyes full -of tears. “It shall not do you any harm eventually,” she said, “your -kindness now. Thank you for not insisting now. I have not left--Sir -William for so long a time since he was ill.” - -She made a pause before her husband’s name. If it were possible that -there might be a link between him and this stranger--a link as strong -as----! It made her heart sick to think upon it; but she would not think -upon it. It flashed upon her mind only, but was not permitted to stay -there: and half because of real anxiety to get back to the sick-room, -half from a still greater eagerness to get rid of her visitor, she made -a step towards the door. - -“If you will let me say so,” said Mr. Gus, “you oughtn’t to shut -yourself up in a sick-room. You may think me an enemy, but I’m no enemy. -I wish you all well. I like the children. I think I could be very fond, -if she’d let me, of Alice, and I admire you----” - -“Sir!” Lady Markham said. She turned her astonished eyes upon him with a -blaze in them which would have frightened most men; then opened the door -with great stateliness and dignity, ignoring the attempt he made to do -it for her. “I must bid you good morning,” she said, making him a -curtsey worthy of a queen--then walked across the hall with the same -dignity; but as soon as she was out of sight, flew up stairs, and, -before going to her husband, went to her own room for a time to compose -herself. She felt herself outraged, insulted--a mingled sense of rage -and wonder had taken possession of her gentle soul. Who was this man, -and what could he mean by his claim upon her, his impudent expressions -of interest in the family, as if he belonged to the family? Was it not -bad enough to put a stigma upon her husband at the moment when he was -dying, and when all her thoughts were full of the tenderest veneration -for him, and recollection of all his goodness! To throw this shadow of -the sins of his youth, even vaguely, upon Sir William’s honourable, -beautiful age, was something like a crime. It was like desecration of -the holiest sanctuary. Lady Markham could not but feel indignant that -any man should seize this moment to put forth such a claim--and to make -it to _her_, disturbing her ideal, introducing doubt and shame into her -love, just at the moment when all her tenderness was most wanted! it was -cruel. And then, as if that was not enough, to assume familiarity, to -speak of her child as Alice, this stranger, this----! Delicate woman as -she was, Lady Markham, in her mind, applied as hard a word to Mr. Gus as -the severest of plainspoken men could have used. She seemed to see far, -far back in the mists of distance, a young man falling into temptation -and sin, and some deceitful girl--must it not have been a deceitful -girl?--working upon his innocence. This is how, when the heart is sore, -such blame is apportioned. He it was who must have been seduced and -deluded. How long ago? some fifty years ago, for the man looked as old -as Sir William. When this occurred to her, her heart gave a leap of joy. -Perhaps the story was all a lie--a fiction. He did look almost as old as -Sir William; how could it be possible? It must be a lie. - -When she came as far as this she bathed her eyes and composed herself, -and went back to her husband’s room. He was still asleep, and Lady -Markham took her usual place where she could watch him without -disturbing him, and took her knitting which helped to wile away the long -hours of her vigil. If the knitting could but have occupied her mind as -it did her hands! but in the quiet all her thoughts came back; her mind -became a court of justice, in which the arguments on each side were -pleaded before a most anxious, yet, alas, too clear-sighted judge. This -stranger, who figured as the accuser, was arraigned before her, and -examined in every point of view. He was strange; he was not like the men -whom Lady Markham was used to see; but he did not look like an impostor. -She tried to herself to prove him so, but she could not do it. He was -not like an impostor. In his curious foreignness and presumption, he yet -had the air of a true man. But then, she said to herself, how ignorant, -how foolish he must be, how incapable of any just thought or feeling of -shame. To come to _her_! If he had indeed a claim upon Sir William, -there were other ways of making that claim; but that he should come to -her--Sir William’s wife--and oh, at such a time! This was the refrain of -her thoughts to which she came back and back. As she sat there in the -darkened room, her fingers busy with her knitting, her ears intent to -hear the slightest movement the sleeper made, this was how her mind was -employed. Perhaps when they had gone through all these stages, her -thoughts came back with a still more exquisite tenderness to the sick -man lying there, she thought, so unconscious of this old, old sin of his -which had come back to find him out. How young he must have been at the -time, poor boy!--younger than Paul--and away from all his friends, no -one to think of him as Paul had, to pray for him--a youth tossed into -the world to sink or to swim. Lady Markham’s heart melted with sympathy. -And to make up for that youthful folly, in which perhaps he was sinned -against as well as sinning, what a life of virtue and truth he had led -ever since. She cast her thoughts back upon the past with a glow of -tender approval and praise. Who could doubt his goodness? He had done -his duty in everything that had been given him to do. He had served his -country, he had served his parish, both alike, well; and he had been the -Providence of all the poor people dependent upon him. She went over all -that part of his career which she had shared, with tears of melancholy -happiness coming to her eyes. Nothing there that any one could blame: -oh, far from that! everything to be praised. No man had been more good, -more kind, more spotless; no one who had trusted in him had ever been -disappointed. And what a husband he had been: what a father he had -been! If this were true, if he had done wrong in his youth, had he not -amply proved that it was indeed but a folly of youth, a temporary -aberration--nothing more. Lady Markham felt that she was a traitor to -her husband to sit here by his sick-bed and allow herself to think that -he had ever been wicked. Oh, no, he could not have been wicked! it was -not possible. She went softly to his bedside to look at him while he -slept. Though he was sleeping quietly enough, there was a cloud of -trouble on his face. Was it perhaps a reflection from the doubt she had -entertained of him, from the floating shadows of old evil that had been -blown up like clouds upon his waning sky? - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -Mr. Gus was much startled by the change in Lady Markham’s manner, by her -sudden withdrawal and altered looks. Had he offended her? He did not -know how. He had been puzzled, much puzzled, by all she had said. She -had professed to be sorry for him. Why? Of all who were concerned, Gus -felt that he himself was the one whom it was not needful to be sorry -for. The others might have some cause for complaint; but nothing could -affect him--his position was sure. And it was very mysterious to him -what Lady Markham could mean when she professed to be ready to make him -amends--for what? Gus could afford to laugh, though, indeed, he was very -much surprised. But happily the nature of the mistake which Lady Markham -had made, and the cause of her indignation were things he never guessed -at. They did not occur to him. His position had never been in the least -degree equivocal in any way. He had known exactly, and everybody around -him had known exactly, what it was. Though he had been adopted as his -uncle’s heir; he had never been kept in the dark--why should he?--as to -whose son he was. And when the poor old planter fell into trouble, and -the estate of which Gus was to be the heir diminished day by day, “It -does not matter for Gus,” the old man had said; “you must go back to -your own family when I am gone; there’s plenty there for you, if there -is not much here.” Gus had known all about Markham all his life. An old -pencil-drawing of the house, feeble enough, yet recognisable still, had -been hanging in his room since ever he could remember. It had belonged -to his poor young mother, and since the time he had been able to speak -he had known it as home. The idea of considering “the second family” had -only dawned upon him when he began to plan his voyage “home,” after his -uncle’s death. He had heard there were children, and consequently one of -his great packing-cases contained many things which children would be -likely to value. It gave Gus pleasure to think of little sisters and -brothers to whom he would be more like an uncle than a brother. He was -fond of children, and he had a very comfortable simple confidence in -himself. It had never occurred to him that they might not “get on.” It -was true that to hear of Paul gave him at first a certain twinge; but he -thought it impossible, quite impossible, that Sir William could have let -his son grow up to manhood without informing him of the circumstances. -Surely it was impossible! There might be reasons why Lady Markham need -not be told--it might make her jealous, it might be disappointing and -vexatious to her--but he would not permit himself to believe that Paul -had been left in ignorance. And Alice, who was grown up, it seemed -certain to him that she, too, must know something. He had been greatly -moved by the sight of Alice. The young ladies out in Barbadoes, he -thought, were not like that, nor did he in Barbadoes see many young -ladies; and this dainty, well-trained, well-bred English girl was a -wonder and delight to him. Why should he not say that he was fond of -Alice? It was not only natural, but desirable that he should be so. He -walked out after Lady Markham left him with a slight sense of -discomfiture; he could not tell why, but yet a smile at the “flurry” -into which she had allowed herself to be thrown. Women were subject to -“flurries” for next to no cause, he was aware. It was foolish of her, -but yet she was a woman to whom a good deal might be pardoned. And he -did not feel angry, only astonished, and half discomfited, and a little -amused. It was strange--he could not tell what she meant--but yet in -time no doubt, all would be amicably settled, and they would “get on,” -however huffy she might be for the moment. Gus knew himself very well, -and he knew that in general he was a person with whom it was easy to get -on. - -But he was a little disappointed to go away--after the hopes he had -formed of being at once received into the bosom of the family, -acknowledged by Sir William, and made known to the others--without any -advance at all. He had spoken to Alice when he met her with the -children, and had got “fond of her” on the spot: and he would have liked -to have had her brought to him, and to have made himself known in his -real character to all the girls and boys. But however, it must all come -right sooner or later, he said to himself; and no doubt Lady Markham, -with her husband sick on her hands, and her son, as all the village -believed, giving her a great deal of anxiety, might be forgiven if she -could not take the trouble to occupy herself about anything else. Gus -went away without meeting any one, and when he had got out in front of -the house, turned round to look at it, as he was in the custom of doing. -It was a dull day, drizzly and overcast. This made the house look very -like that woolly pencil-drawing, which had always hung at the head of -his bed, and always been called home. - -As he stood there some one came from behind the wing where the gate of -the flower-garden was, and approached him slowly. Gus had not been quite -able to make out who Fairfax was. He was “no relation,” and there did -not even seem to be any special understanding between him and Alice, -which was the first idea that had come into the stranger’s head. He had -spoken to Fairfax two or three times when he had met him with the -children, and Gus, who was full of the frankest and simplest curiosity, -waited for him as soon as he perceived him. “We are going the same way, -and I hope you don’t dislike company,” he said. To tell the truth, -Fairfax had no particular liking for company at that moment. It seemed -to him that he was in a very awkward position in this house where -dangerous sickness had come in and taken possession; but how to act, how -to disembarrass them of his constant presence, without depriving them of -his services, which, with natural self-regard he thought perhaps more -valuable than they really were, he did not know. The quaint “little -gentleman,” about whom all the children chattered, seemed for the first -moment somewhat of a bore to Fairfax; but after a moment’s hesitation he -accepted him with his usual good-nature, and joined him without any -apparent reluctance. Mr. Gus was very glad of the opportunity of -examining at his leisure this visitor whose connection with the family -he did not understand. - -“I have been asking for the old gentleman,” he said. “I have seen Lady -Markham. You know them a great deal better than I do, no doubt, though I -am--a relation.” - -“I do not know them very well,” said Fairfax. “Indeed, I find myself in -a very awkward position. I came here by chance because Sir William fell -ill when I was with them, and I was of some use for the moment. That -made me come on with them, without any intention of staying. And here I -am, a stranger, or almost a stranger, in a house where there is -dangerous illness. It is very embarrassing; I don’t know what to do.” - -He had thought Gus a bore one minute, and the next opened all his mind -to him. This was characteristic of the young man; but yet in his -carelessness and easy impulse there was a certain sudden sense that the -support of a third person somehow connected with the Markham family -might give him some countenance. - -“Then you don’t know them--much?” said Mr. Gus, half-satisfied, -half-contemptuous. “I couldn’t make you out, to tell the truth. Nobody -but an old friend or a connection--or some one who was likely to become -a connection”--he added, giving Fairfax a keen sidelong glance, “seemed -the right sort of person to be here.” - -Fairfax felt uneasy under that look. He blushed, he could scarcely tell -why. “I can’t be said to be more than a chance acquaintance,” he said. -“It was a lucky chance for me. I have known Markham for a long time. -I’ve known _him_ pretty well; but it was a mere chance which brought Sir -William to me when they were looking for Markham; and then, by another -chance, I was calling when he was taken ill. That’s all. I feel as if I -were of a little use, and that makes me hesitate; but I know I have no -right to be here.” - -“Who’s Markham? The--son, I suppose?” - -“Yes, the eldest son. I suppose you know him as Paul. Of course,” said -Fairfax, with hesitation, “he ought to be here; but there are some -family misunderstandings. He doesn’t know, of course, how serious it -is.” - -“Wild?” said Mr. Gus, with his little, precise air. - -“Oh--I don’t quite know what you mean by wild. Viewy he is, certainly.” - -“Viewy? Now I don’t know what you mean by viewy. It is not a word that -has got as far as the tropics, I suppose.” - -Fairfax paused to give a look of increased interest at the “little -gentleman.” He began to be amused, and it was easy--very easy--to lead -him from his own affairs into the consideration of some one else’s. -“Paul,” he said--“I have got into the way of calling him Paul since I -have been here, as they all do--goes wrong by the head, not in any other -way. We have been dabbling in--what shall I call it?--socialism, -communism, in a way--the whole set of us: and he is more in earnest than -the rest; he is giving himself up to it.” - -“Socialism--communism!” cried Mr. Gus; he was horrified in his -simplicity. “Why that’s revolution, that’s bloodshed and murder!” he -cried. - -“Oh, no; we’re not of the bloody kind--we’re not red,” said Fairfax, -laughing. “It’s the communism that is going to form an ideal -society--not fire and flame and barricades.” - -“You don’t mean to tell me,” said Gus, not listening to this -explanation, “that this young Markham--Paul, this Lady Markham’s son--is -one of those villains that want to assassinate all the kings, and plunge -all Europe into trouble? Good God! what a lucky thing I came here!” - -“No, no, I tell you,” said Fairfax. “On the contrary, what Paul wants is -to turn his back upon kings and aristocracies, to give up civilisation -altogether, for that matter, and found a new world in the backwoods. -We’ve all played with the notion. It sounds fine; and then there’s one -eloquent fellow--a real orator, mind you--who makes it look like the -grandest thing in the world to do. I believe he thinks it is, and so -does Paul. He’s gone wrong in his head on the subject; that is all that -is wrong with him. But there is this difference,” said Fairfax -reflectively, “from going wrong that way and--other ways. If you prove -yourself an ass in the common form, you’re sorry and ashamed of -yourself, and glad to make it up with your people at home; but when it’s -this sort of thing you stand on your high principles and will not give -in. That’s one difference between being viewy and--the other. Paul can’t -make up his mind to give in; and then probably he thinks they are making -the very most of his father’s illness in order to work upon his -feelings. Well! he ought to know better,” cried Fairfax, with a flush of -indignation; “Lady Markham is not the sort of person to be suspected in -that way; but you know the kind of ideas that are general. He makes -himself fancy so, I suppose.” - -“He seems a nice sort of young fellow to come into this fine property,” -said Gus, with another sidelong, inquisitive look at Fairfax. There was -an air of keen curiosity, and at the same time of sarcastic enjoyment, -on his face. - -“That is the strange thing about it,” said Fairfax reflectively stroking -the visionary moustache which very lightly adorned his lip. “Paul is a -very queer fellow. He is against the idea of property. He thinks it -should all be re-divided and every man have his share. And, what’s -stranger still,” he added, with an exclamation, “he’s the fellow to do -it if he had the chance. There is nothing sham about him. He would strip -himself of everything as easily as I would throw off a coat.” - -“Against the idea of property!” said little Gus, with a very odd -expression. He gave a long whistle of surprise and apparent -discomfiture. “He must be a very queer fellow indeed,” he said, with an -air of something like disappointment. Why should he have been -disappointed? But this was what no one, however intimately acquainted -with the circumstances, could have told. - -“Yes, he is a very queer fellow. He has a great deal in him. One thing -that makes me a little uncomfortable,” continued Fairfax, unconsciously -falling more and more into a confidential tone, “is that I don’t know -how he may take my being here.” - -“How should he take it? you are his friend, you said?” - -“Ye-es; oh, we’ve always been very good friends, and one time and -another have seen a great deal of each other. Still, you may like a -fellow well enough among men, and not care to see him domesticated, you -know, in your home. Besides, he might think I had put myself in the way -on purpose to curry favour when Sir William was ill--or--I don’t know -what he might think. It seems shabby somehow to be living with your -friend’s people when your friend isn’t there.” - -“Especially if he ought to be there, and you are doing his work.” - -“Perhaps,” Fairfax said; and they walked down to the end of the avenue -in silence. Mr. Gus had got a great deal to think of from this -interview. A new light had come into his mind--and somehow, strangely, -it was not at first an entirely agreeable light. He went along for some -way without saying anything, going out of the great gates, and into the -high road, which was so quiet. A country cart lumbering past now and -then, or a farmer’s gig, the sharp trot of a horse carrying a groom -from some other great house to inquire after Sir William, gave a little -more movement to the rural stillness, increasing the cheerfulness, -though the occasion was of the saddest; and as they approached the -village, a woman came out from a cottage door, and, making her homely -curtsey, asked the same question. - -“My lady will be in a sad way,” this humble inquirer said. It was of my -lady more than of Sir William that the rustic neighbours thought. - -“My lady’s a great person hereabout,” said Mr. Gus, with a look that was -half spiteful. “I wonder how she will like it when the property goes -away from her. She will not take it so easily as Paul.” - -“No,” said Fairfax, rousing up in defence, “it is not likely she would -take it easily; she has all her children to think of. It is to be hoped -Paul will have sense enough to provide for the children before he lets -it go out of his hands.” - -“Ah!” This again seemed to be a new light to Gus. “Your Lady Markham -would have nothing to say to me,” he said, after a pause. “She sent me -off fast enough. She neither knows who I am, nor wants to know. Perhaps -it would be better both for her and the children if she had been a -little more civil.” - -It was Fairfax’s turn to look at him now, which he did with quite a new -curiosity. He could not understand in what possible way it might be to -Lady Markham’s advantage to be civil to the little gentleman whom no one -knew anything about; then it occurred to him suddenly that the uncles -who appear mysteriously from far countries with heaps of money to -bestow, and who present themselves _incognito_ to test their families, -are not strictly confined to novels and the stage. Now and then such a -thing has happened, or has been said to happen, in real life. Could this -be an instance? He was puzzled and he was amused by the idea. Mr. Gus -did not look like the possessor of a colossal fortune looking for an -heir; nor, though Lady Markham thought him nearly as old-looking as Sir -William, did he seem to Fairfax old enough to adopt a simply beneficent -_rôle_. Still, there seemed no other way to account for this half -threat. It was all Fairfax could do to restrain his inclination to -laugh; but he did so, and exerted himself at once to restore Lady -Markham to his companion’s good opinion. - -“You must remember,” he said--“and all we have been saying proves how -much both you and I are convinced of it--that Sir William is very ill. -His wife’s mind is entirely occupied with him, and she is anxious about -Paul. Indeed, can any one doubt that she has a great many anxieties very -overwhelming to a woman who has been taken care of all her life? Fancy, -should anything happen to Sir William, what a charge upon her shoulders! -The wonder to me is that she can see any one; indeed she does not see -any one. And if she does not know, as you say, who you are----” - -“No,” said Mr. Gus. Something which sounded half like a chuckle of -satisfaction, and half a note of offence, was in his voice. He was like -a mischievous school-boy delighted with the effect of a mystification, -yet at the same time angry that he had not been found out. “She knows -nothing about me,” he said, with a half-laugh. Just then they had -reached the Markham Arms, into which Fairfax followed him without -thinking. They went into the little parlour, which was somewhat gloomy -on this dull day, and green with the shadow of the honeysuckle which -hung so delightfully over the window when the sun was shining, but -darkened the room now with its wreaths of obtrusive foliage, glistening -in the soft summer drizzle. “Come in, come in,” said Mr. Gus, pushing -the chair, which was miscalled easy, towards his visitor, and shivering -slightly; “nobody knows anything about me here: and if this is what you -call summer, I wish I had never left Barbados. I can tell you, Mr. -Fairfax, it was not a reception like this I looked for when I came -here.” - -“Probably,” said Fairfax, hitting the mark at a venture, “it is only Sir -William himself who is acquainted with all the family relations--and as -he is ill and disabled, of course he does not even know that you are -here.” - -“He does know that I am here,” cried the little gentleman, bursting with -his grievance. It had come to that pitch that he could not keep silence -any longer, and shut this all up in his own breast. “I wrote to let him -know I had come. I should think he did know about his relations; and -I--I can tell you, I’m a much nearer relation than any one here is -aware.” - -Fairfax received this intimation quite calmly; he was not excited. -Indeed it did not convey to him any kind of emotion. What did the -matter? Uncle or distant cousin, it was of very little consequence. He -said, placidly-- - -“The village looks very pretty from this window. Are you comfortable -here?” - -“Comfortable!” echoed Gus. “Do you think I came all this way across the -sea to shut myself up in a village public-house? I didn’t even know what -a village public-house was. I knew that house up there, and had known it -all my life. I’ve got a drawing of it I’ll show you, as like as anything -ever was. Do you suppose I thought I would ever be sent away from there? -I--oh, but you don’t know, you can’t suppose, how near a relation I am.” - -Fairfax thought the little man must be a monomaniac on this subject of -his relationship to the Markhams. He thought it was but another instance -of the wonderful way in which people worship family and descent. He -himself having none of these things had marked often, with the keenness -of a man who is beyond the temptation, the exaggerated importance which -most people gave to them. Sir William Markham, it might be said, was a -man whom it was worth while to be related to; but it did not matter what -poor bit of a squire it was, Fairfax thought; a man who could boast -himself the cousin of Hodge of Claypits was socially a better man than -the best man who was related to nobody. What a strange thing this kind -of test was! To belong to a famous historical family, or to be connected -with people of eminent acquirements, he could understand that there -might be a pride in that; but the poorest little common-place family -that had vegetated at one place for a century or two! He did not make -any answer to Mr. Gus, but smiled at him, and yet compassionated -him--this poor little fellow who had come over here from the tropics -with his head full of the glory of the Markhams, and now had nothing -better to do than to sit in this little inn parlour and brag of his -relationship to them; it was very pitiful, and yet it was ludicrous too. - -“I wonder,” he said suddenly, “whether they could put me up here? I want -to go, and yet I don’t want to be away, if you can understand that. If -anything were to happen, and Markham not here----” - -“I should be here,” said Gus. “I tell you you haven’t the least idea how -near a relation I am. Lady Markham may be as high and mighty as she -likes, but it would be better for her if she were a little civil. She -doesn’t know the power that a man may have whom she chooses to slight. -And I can tell you my papers are all in order. There are no registers -wanting or certificates, or anything to be put a question upon; uncle -took care of that. Though he adopted me, and had the intention of making -me his heir (if he had left anything to be heir to), he always took the -greatest care of all my papers. And he used to say to me, ‘Look here, -Gus, if anything should happen to me, here’s what will set you up, my -boy.’ I never thought much about it so long as he was living, I thought -things were going better than they were; and when the smash came I took -a little time to pick myself up. Then I thought I’d do what he always -advised--I’d come home. But if any one had told me I was to be living -here, in a bit of a tavern, and nobody knowing who I am, I should not -have believed a word.” - -“It is very unfortunate,” said Fairfax; “but of course it is because of -Sir William’s illness--that could not have been foreseen.” - -“No, to be sure it could not have been foreseen,” Gus said; then roused -himself again in the might of his injury. “But if you could guess, if -you could so much as imagine, who I really am----” - -Fairfax looked at him with curiosity. It was strange to see the -vehemence in his face: but Gus was now carried beyond self-control. He -could not help letting himself out, getting the relief of disclosure. He -leant across the little shining mahogany table and whispered a few words -into Fairfax’s ear. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -“What does the doctor say?” - -“Oh, Mr. Fairfax! worse, far worse than nothing! He looks at us as if -his heart would break. He has known us all our lives. He steals out -through the garden not to see me. But I know what he means, I know very -well what he means,” Alice said with irrestrainable tears. - -“But the other one from London--Sir Thomas: he is coming?” - -“This afternoon: but it will not do any good. Mr. Fairfax, will you -telegraph once more to Paul? I don’t think he believes us. Tell him that -papa----” - -“Don’t say any more, Miss Markham; I understand. But one moment,” said -Fairfax; “Paul will not like to find me here. No, there is no reason -why--we have never quarrelled. But he will not like to find me here.” - -“You have been very kind, very good to us, Mr. Fairfax; you have stayed -and helped us when there was no one else; you have always been -a--comfort. But then it must have been very, very dismal and gloomy for -you to be in a house where there was nothing but trouble,” Alice said. - -Her pretty eyes were swimming in tears. It gave her a little pang to -think that perhaps this visitor, though he had been so kind, had been -staying out of mere civility, and thinking it hard. It was not out of -any other feeling in her mind that she was aware of; but to think that -Fairfax had been longing to get away perhaps, feeling the tedium of his -stay, gave her a sharp little shock of pain. - -“Do not speak so--pray do not speak so,” said Fairfax, distressed. “That -is not the reason. But I think I will go to the village. There I can be -at hand whatever is wanted. You will know that I am ready by night or -day--but I have no right to be here.” - -Alice looked at him, scarcely seeing him through the great tears with -which her eyes were brimming over. She put out her hand with a -tremulous gesture of appeal. - -“Then you think,” she said, in a voice which was scarcely louder than a -whisper, “you think--it is very near?” - -Fairfax felt that he could not explain himself. In the very presence of -death could any one pause to think that Paul might find a visitor -intrusive, or that the visitor himself might be conscious of a false -position? - -“No,” he said, “no: how can I tell? I have not seen him. I could not be -a judge. It is on Paul’s account; but I shall be at the village--always -at hand whatever you may want.” - -This reassured her a little, and the glimmer of a feeble smile came on -her face. She gave him her trembling hand for a moment. He had been very -“kind.” It was not a word that expressed his devotion, but Alice did not -know what other to use: very--very kind. - -“The house will seem more empty still if you go. It looks so lonely,” -said Alice; “like what it used to be when they were away in town and we -left behind. Oh, if that were all! Paul ought to have been here all the -time, and you have taken his place. It is unjust that you should go when -he comes.” - -“I shall not go,” said Fairfax softly. He had held her hand in his for a -moment--only for a moment. Alice, in her grief, was soothed by his -sympathy; but Fairfax, on the other hand, was very well aware that he -must take no advantage of that sympathy. He would have liked to kiss the -trembling hand in an effusion of tender pity, and if it had been Lady -Markham he might have done so; but it was Alice, and he dared not. He -held himself aloof by main strength, keeping himself from even a word -more. There was almost a little chill in it to the girl, whose heart was -full of trouble and pain, and whose tearful eyes appealed unconsciously -to that “kindness” in which she had such confidence. To be deserted by -any one at such a moment would have seemed hard to her. The house was -oppressed by the slow rolling-up of this cloud, which was about to -overcloud all their life. - -Lady Markham now scarcely left the sick-room at all. When they warned -her that she would exhaust herself, that she would not be able to bear -the strain, she would shake her head with a woeful sort of smile. She -was not of the kind that breaks down. She was sure of herself so long as -she should be wanted, and afterwards, what did it matter? Now and then -she would come out and take a turn or two along the corridor, rather -because of the restlessness of anguish that would take possession of her -than from any desire to “change the air,” as the nurse said. And when -she was out of the room Sir William’s worn eyes would watch the door. -“Don’t leave me alone,” he said to her in his feeble voice. He had grown -very feeble now. For by far the greater part of the time he was occupied -entirely with his bodily sufferings; but now and then it would occur to -him that there was something in his pocket-book, something that would -give a great deal of trouble--and that there was somebody who wanted to -see him and to force an explanation. How was he able in his weak state, -to give any explanation? He had entreated his wife at first not to allow -him to be disturbed, and now as everything grew dimmer, he could not -bear that she should leave him. There was protection in her presence. At -times it occurred to him that his enemy was lurking outside, and that -all his attendants could do was to keep the intruder at bay. Now and -then he would hear a step in the corridor, which no doubt was his; but -the nurses were all faithful, and the dangerous visitor was never let -in. At these moments Sir William turned his feeble head to look for his -wife. She would protect him. As he went further and further, deeper and -deeper, into the valley of the shadow, he forgot even what the danger -was; but the idea haunted him still. All this time he had never asked -for Paul. He had not wished to see any one, only to have his room well -watched and guarded, and nobody allowed to disturb him. When the doctors -came there was always a thrill of alarm in his mind--not for his own -condition, as might have been supposed, but lest in their train or under -some disguise the man who was his enemy might get admission. And thus, -without any alarm in respect to himself, without any personal uneasiness -about what was coming, he descended gradually the fatal slope. The -thought of death never occurred to him at all. No solemn alarm was his, -not even any consciousness of what might be coming. He never breathed a -word as to what he wished to be done, or gave any directions. In short, -he did not apparently think much of his illness. The idea of a -dangerous and disagreeable visitor who would go away again if no notice -was taken of him, and of whom it was expedient to take no notice, was -the master idea in his mind, and with all the strength he had he kept -this danger secret--it was all the exertion of which he was now capable. - -And to be a visitor in the house at such a melancholy moment was most -embarrassing. There are some people who have a special knack of mixing -themselves up in the affairs of others, and Fairfax was one of these. He -was himself strangely isolated and alone in the world, and it seemed to -him that he had never found so much interest in anything as in this -family story into the midst of which he had been so suddenly thrown. -Almost before he had become acquainted with them, circumstances had made -him useful, and for the moment necessary, to them. He was an intruder, -yet he was doing the work of a son. And then in those long summer -evenings which Lady Markham spent in her husband’s sick-room, what a -strange charmed life the young man had drifted into! When the children -went to bed, Alice would leave the great drawing-room blazing with -lights, for that smaller room at the end which was Lady Markham’s -sanctuary, and which was scarcely lighted at all, and there the two -young people would sit alone, waiting for Lady Markham’s appearance or -for news from the sick-room, with only one dim lamp burning, and the -summer moonlight coming in through the little golden-tinted panes of the -great Elizabethan window. Sometimes they scarcely said anything to each -other, the anxiety which was the very atmosphere of the house hushing -them into watchfulness and listening which forbade speech; but -sometimes, on the other hand, they would talk in half-whispers, making -to each other without knowing it, many disclosures both of their young -lives and characters, which advanced them altogether beyond that -knowledge of each other which ordinary acquaintances possess. - -Nothing like love, it need not be said, was in those bits of -intercourse, broken sometimes by a hasty summons from the sick-room to -Alice, or a hurried commission to Fairfax--a telegram that had to be -answered, or something that it was necessary to explain to the doctor. -In the intervals of these duties, which seemed as natural to the one as -to the other, the girl and the young man would talk or would be silent, -somehow pleased and soothed mutually by each other’s presence, though -neither was conscious of thinking of the other. Alice at least was not -conscious. She felt that it was “a comfort” that he should be there, so -sympathetic, so kind, ready to go anywhere at a moment’s notice; and she -had come to be able to say to him “Go” or “Come” without hesitation, and -to take for granted his willing service. But it was scarcely to be -expected that Fairfax should be unconscious of the strangeness of the -union which was invisibly forming itself between them. At first a -certain amusement had mixed with the natural surprise of suddenly -finding himself in circumstances so strange; but it must be allowed that -by degrees Fairfax came to think Sir William’s illness a fortunate -chance, and so long as imminent danger was not thought of, had no -objection to its continuance. - -But things had become more grave from day to day. Sir William, without -doubt, seemed going to die, and Paul did not come, and the stranger’s -services became more and more necessary, yet more and more incongruous -with the circumstances of the house. The whole came to a climax when Gus -whispered that revelation across the table in the inn parlour. The -excitement and distress with which Fairfax received it is not to be -described. Could it be true? Certainly Gus was absolutely convinced of -its truth, and unaware of any possibility of denial. Fairfax asked -himself, with a perplexity more serious than he had ever known in his -life before, what he ought to do. Was it his duty to say something or to -say nothing? to warn them of the extraordinary blow that was coming, or -to hold his peace and merely look on? When he went back up the peaceful -avenue into the house which he was beginning to call home--the house -over which one dread cloud was hanging, but which had no prevision of -the other calamity--he felt as if he himself were a traitor conniving at -its destruction. But to whom could he speak? Not to Lady Markham who had -so much to bear--and Alice--to tell such a tale to Alice was impossible. -It was then that he determined at any cost that Paul must come, and he -himself go away. That Paul would not tolerate his presence in the house -he was aware, instinctively feeling that neither could he, in Paul’s -place, have borne it. And to go away was not so easy as it once might -have been; but there seemed no longer any question what his duty was. -He put up some of his things in a bag, and himself carried them with him -down the avenue, not able to feel otherwise than sadly heavy and sore -about the heart. He could not abandon the ladies; but he could not stay -there any longer with that secret in his possession. His telegram to -Paul was in a different tone from those which the ladies sent. - -“The doctors give scarcely any hope,” he said. “Come instantly. I cannot -but feel myself an intruder at such a moment; but I will not leave till -you come.” - -Then he went sadly with his bag to the Markham Arms. Was it right? Was -it wrong? It even glanced across his mind that to establish himself -there by the side of Gus might seem to the Markhams like taking their -enemy’s side against them. But what else could he do? He would neither -intrude upon them nor abandon them. - -Fairfax calculated justly. Paul, who had resisted his mother’s appeals -and his sister’s entreaties, obeyed at once the imperative message of -the man who threw the light of outside opinion and common necessity upon -the situation. He arrived that night, just after the great London -physician, who had come down to pronounce upon Sir William’s condition, -had been driven to the railway. Paul had no carriage sent for him, and -had said to himself that it was all an exaggeration and piece of folly, -since some one from Markham was evidently dining out. There were, -however, all the signs of melancholy excitement which usually follow -such a visit visible in the hall and about the house when he reached it. -Brown and one of his subordinates were standing talking in low tones on -the great steps, shaking their heads as they conversed. Mr. Brown -himself had managed to change his usually cheerful countenance into the -semblance of that which is characteristic of an undertaker’s mute. - -“I knew how it would be the moment I set eyes upon him,” Mr. Brown was -saying. “Death was in his face, if it ever was in a man’s.” - -Paul sprang from the lumbering old fly which he had found at the station -with a mixture of eagerness and incredulity. - -“How is my father?” he said. - -“Oh, sir, you’re come none too soon,” said Brown, “Sir William is as bad -as bad can be.” And then Alice, hearing something, she did not know -what, rushed out. Every sound was full of terror in the oppressed house. -She flung herself upon her brother and wept. There was no need to say -anything; and Paul who had been lingering, thinking they did not mean -what they said, believing it to be a device to get him seduced into that -dangerous stronghold of his enemy’s house, was overcome too. - -“Why did not I hear before?” he said. But nobody bid him remember that -he had been told a dozen times before. - -Sir William was very ill that night. He began to wander, and said things -in his confused and broken utterance which were very mysterious to the -listeners. But as none of them had any clue to what these wanderings -meant, they did not add, as they might have done, to the misery of the -night. There was no rest for any one during those tedious hours. The -children and the inferior servants went to bed as usual, but the elder -ones, and those domestics who had been long in the family, could not -rest any more than could those individually concerned; the excitement of -that gloomy expectation got into their veins. Mrs. Fry was up and down -all night, and Brown lay on a sofa in the housekeeper’s room, from which -he appeared at intervals looking very wretched and troubled, with that -air of half-fearing half hoping the worst, which gets into the faces of -those who stand about the outer chamber where death has shown his face. -Nothing however “happened” that night. The day began again, and life, -galvanised into a haggard copy of itself, with all the meals put upon -the table as usual. The chief figure in this new day, in this renewed -vigil, was Paul, who, always important in the house, was now doubly -important as so soon to be master of all. The servants were all very -careful of him that he should not be troubled; messages and commissions -which the day before would have been handed unceremoniously to Fairfax, -were now managed by Brown himself as best he could rather than trouble -Mr. Paul; and even Mrs. Fry was more anxious that he should lie down and -rest, than even that Alice, her favourite, should be spared. - -“It will all come upon him _after_,” the housekeeper said. - -As for Paul himself, the effect upon him was very great. Perhaps it was -because of the profound dissatisfaction in his mind with all his own -plans, that he had so long resisted the call to come home. Since his -father had left Oxford, Paul had gone through many chapters of -experience. Every day had made him more discontented with his future -associates, more secretly appalled by the idea that the rest of his life -was to be spent entirely among them. He had left his rooms in college, -and gone into some very homely ones not far from Spears’s, by way of -accustoming himself to his new life. This was a thing he had long -intended to do, and he had been angry with himself for his weak-minded -regard for personal comfort, but unfortunately his enthusiasm had begun -to sink into disgust before he took this step, and his loathing for the -little mean rooms, the narrow street full of crowding children and evil -odours was intense. That he had forced himself to remain, -notwithstanding this loathing, was perhaps all the worse for his plans. -He would not yield to his own disgust, but it inspired him with a secret -horror and opposition far more important than this mere dislike of his -surroundings. He saw that none of the others minded those things, which -made his existence miserable. Even Spears, whose perceptions in some -respects were delicate, did not smell the smell, nor perceive the -squalor. He thought Paul’s new lodgings very handsome; he called him -Paul, without any longer even the apologetic smile which at first -accompanied that familiarity, as a matter of course. And Janet gave him -no peace. She called him out with little beckonings and signs. She was -always in the way when he came or went. She took the charge of him, -telling him what he ought to do and what not to do, with an attempt at -that petty tyranny which a woman who is loved may exercise with -impunity, but which becomes intolerable in any other. - -It was thus with a kind of fierce determination to remain faithful to -his convictions that Paul had set himself like a rock against all the -appeals from home. His convictions! These convictions gradually resolved -themselves into a conviction of the utter unendurableness of life, under -the conditions which he had chosen, as day by day went on. Nothing, he -had resolved, should make him yield, or own himself mistaken--nothing -would induce him to give up the cause to which he had pledged himself. -But now that at last he had been driven out of that stronghold, and -forced to leave the surroundings he hated, and come back to those that -were natural to him, Paul’s mind was in a chaos indescribable. After the -first burst of penitence and remorse, there had stolen on him a sense of -well-being, a charm of association which he strove to struggle against, -but in vain. He was grieved, deeply grieved for his father; but is it -possible that in the mind of a young heir, aware of all the incalculable -differences in his own life which the end of his father’s must make, -there should not be a quivering excitement of the future mingling with -the sorrow of the present, however sincere? When he went out in the -morning, after the feverishness of that agitated night, to feel the -fresh air in his face, and saw around him all the spreading woods, all -the wealthy and noble grace of the old house which an hour or moment, -might make his own, a strange convulsion shook his being. Was not he -pledged to give all up, to relinquish everything--to share whatever he -had with his brother, and, leave all belonging to him? The question -brought a deadly faintness over him. While he stood under the trees -looking at his home, he seemed to see the keen eyes of the Scotsman, -Fraser, inspecting the place, and Short jotting down calculations on a -bit of paper as to what would be the value of the materials, and how -many villas semi-detached might be built on the site--while Spears, -perhaps, patted him on the shoulder, and bid him remember that even if -he had not given it up, this could not have lasted,--“the country would -not stand it long.” He seemed to see and hear them discussing his fate; -and Janet, standing at the door, making signs to him with her hand. What -had he to do here? It was to that society he belonged. Nevertheless, -Paul’s heart quivered with a strange excitement when he thought that -to-morrow--perhaps this very night!--And then he bethought himself of -the darkened room upstairs, and his mother’s lingering watch; and his -heart contracted with a sudden pang. - -Next evening it was apparent that the end was at hand. Just as the sun -went down, when the soft greyness of the summer twilight began to steal -into the air, the children were sent for into Sir William’s room. They -thronged in with pale faces and wide open eyes, having been bidden not -to cry--not to disturb the quiet of the death chamber. The windows were -all open, the sky appearing in wistful stretches of clearness; but near -the bed, in the shadow, a shaded lamp burned solemnly, and the window -beyond showed gleams of lurid colour in the western sky, barred by -strong black lines of cloud. These black lines of cloud, and the -mysterious shining of the lamp, gave a strange air of solemnity to the -room, all filled already by the awe and wonder of death. A sob of -mingled grief and terror burst from little Marie, as grasping her -sister’s hand convulsively, she followed Alice to her father’s bedside. -Was it he that lay there, propped up with cushions, breathing so hard -and painfully? The boys stood at the foot of the bed. Their hearts were -full of that dreary anguish of the unaccustomed and unknown, which gives -additional depth to every sorrow of early youth. Alice, who had taken -her place close to the head of the bed had lost this. She knew all about -it, poor child--what to do for him; what was coming; all that should be -administered to him. She was as pale as those pale stretches of sky, and -like them in the clear pathetic wistfulness of her face; but she had -something to do, and she was not afraid. - -“William--are you able to say anything to the children?” said Lady -Markham. “They have all come--to see you--to ask how you are----” She -could not say, “to bid you farewell;” that was not possible. Her voice -was quite steady and calm. The time was coming when she would be able to -weep, but not now. - -He opened his eyes and looked at them with a faint smile. He had always -been good to the children. At his most busy moment they had never been -afraid of him. Little Bell held her breath, opening her eyes wider and -wider to keep down that passion of tears which was coming, while Marie -clung to her, trying to imitate her, but with the tears already come, -and making blinding reflections of the solemn lamp and the evening -light. - -“Ah, yes, the children,” Sir William said. “I have not seen them since -Sunday. They have been very good--and kind; they have not--made any -noise. Who is that? I thought--I heard--some one--” - -“Nobody, papa,” said Alice--“nobody--except all of us.” - -“Ah! all of you,” he said, and gave one of those panting, hard-drawn -breaths which were so terrible to hear. - -The door was open, like the windows, to give all the air possible. The -servants were standing about the stairs and in the passages. Everybody -knew that the last act was about to be performed solemnly, and the -master of the house on the eve of his going away. Most of the women were -crying. Even when it is nothing to you, what event is there that can be -so much as this final going--this departure into the unseen? There was a -general hush of awe and excitement. And how it was that amidst them all -that stranger managed to get entrance, to walk up stairs, to thread -through the mournful group, no one ever knew. His step was audible, even -among that agitated company, as he came along the corridor. They all -heard it, with a certain sense of alarm. Was it the doctor coming back -again with something new he had thought of, or was it---- - -“Ah, all of you,” Sir William said; and as he spoke the words the -new-comer came in at the door. He walked up to the foot of the bed, no -one molesting him. They were all struck dumb with surprise; and what -could they have done, when a momentary tumult or scuffle would have -killed the sufferer at once? For the moment every eye was turned from -Sir William, and directed to Mr. Gus in his light clothes, with his -little brown face, so distinct from all the others. He came up close to -the foot of the bed. - -“Yes, all of us, now I am here,” he said. “I am sorry to disturb you at -such a time; but, Sir William Markham, you’ll have to own me before you -die.” - -Paul made a hasty step towards him, and put a hand upon his shoulder. - -“Don’t you see,” he said. “Go away, for God’s sake. Whatever you want -I’ll attend to you after.” - -“I’ll not go away,” said Gus. “I must stand for my rights, even if he is -dying. Sir William Markham, it’s your own doing. I have given you -warning. You’ll have to own me before you die.” - -Paul, beside himself, seized the stranger by the shoulders; but Gus, -though he was small, was strong. - -“Don’t make a scuffle,” he said in a low tone; “I won’t go, but I’ll -make no disturbance. He’s going to speak. Be still, you, and listen to -what he says.” - -Sir William signed impatiently to his attendants on each side--Alice and -her mother--to raise him. He looked round him, feebly peering into the -waning light. - -“They are beginning to fight--over my bed,” he said, with a quiver in -his voice. - -“No,” said Gus, getting free from Paul’s restraining grasp. He made no -noise, but he was supple and strong, and slid out of the other’s hands. -“No, there shall be no fighting; I have more respect--but own me, -father, before you die. I’ll take care of them. I’ll do no one any harm, -I swear before God; but own me before you die.” - -They all stood and listened, gazing, forgetting even the man who was -dying. The very children forgot him, and turned to the well-known -countenance of the little gentleman. Then there came a gasp, a sob, a -great quiver in the bed. Sir William flung out his emaciated arms with a -gesture of despair. - -“I said I was not to be disturbed,” he said, and fell back, never to be -disturbed any more. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -The news of Sir William Markham’s death made a great sensation in the -neighbourhood. It was as if a great house had fallen to the ground, a -great tree been riven up by the roots. There are some people whom no one -expects ever to die, and he was one of them. There seemed so much for -him to do in the world. He was so full of occupation, so well qualified -to do it, so precise and orderly in all his ways, every moment of his -time filled up, he did not seem to have leisure for all the troublesome -preliminaries of dying. But as it happened, he had found the time for -them, as we all do, and everybody was astonished. It was whispered in -the county that there had been “a very strange scene at the deathbed,” -and everybody concluded that this was somehow connected with the heir, -it being well known that Paul had only appeared the day before his -father’s death. Some vague rumours on this score flew about in the days -which elapsed before the funeral, but nobody could tell the rights of -the story, and it had already begun to fade before the great pomp and -ceremonial of the funeral day. This was to be a very great day at -Markham Royal. In the Markham Arms all the stables were getting cleared -out, in preparation for the horses of the gentry who would collect from -far and near to pay honour to the last scene in which the member for the -county would ever play any part; and all the village was roused in -expectation. No doubt it was a very solemn and sad ceremonial, and -Markham Royal knew that it had lost its best friend; but, -notwithstanding, any kind of excitement is pleasant in the country, and -they liked this well enough in default of better. The little gentleman -too, who was living at the Markham Arms, was a great diversion to the -village. He gave himself the air of superintending everything that was -done at the Markham burying place. He went about it solemnly--as if it -could by any possibility be his business--and he put on all the -semblance of one who has lost a near relation. He put away his light -clothes, and appeared in black, with a hat-band which almost covered -his tall hat. The village people felt it very natural that the little -gentleman should be proud of his relationship to the Markhams, and -should take such a good opportunity of showing it; but those who knew -about such matters laughed a little at the size of his hat-band. “If he -had been a son it could not have been larger. Sir Paul himself could not -do more,” Mr. Remnant, the draper, said. - -It happened that Dolly Stainforth was early astir on the funeral -morning. She thought it right to get all her parish work over at an -early hour, for the village would be full of “company,” and indeed Dolly -was aware that even in the rectory itself there would be a great many -people to luncheon, and that her father’s stables would be as full of -horses as those of the Markham Arms. She was full of excitement and -grief herself, partly for Sir William whom she had known all her life, -but still more for Alice and Lady Markham, for whom the girl grieved as -if their grief had been her own. She had put on a black frock to be so -far in sympathy with her friends, and before the dew was off the -flowers, had gathered all she could find in the rectory garden, and -made them into wreaths and crosses. This is an occupation which soothes -the sympathetic mourner. She stood under the shadow of a little -_bosquet_ on the slope of the rectory garden which looked towards the -churchyard, and worked silently at this labour of love, a tear now and -then falling upon the roses still wet with morning dew. From where she -stood she could see the preparations in the great Markham burying place; -the sexton superintending the place prepared in which Sir William was to -lie with his father, the lychgate under which the procession would pause -as they entered, and the path by which they would sweep round to the -church. That which was about to happen so soon seemed already to be -happening before her eyes. The tears streamed down Dolly’s fresh morning -cheeks. To die, to be put away under the cold turf, to leave the warm -precincts of the cheerful day, seems terrible indeed to a creature so -young as she was, so full of life, and on a summer morning all brimming -over with melody and beauty. When she shook the tears off her eyelashes -she saw a solitary figure coming through the churchyard, pausing for a -moment to look at the grave, then turning towards the gate which led -into the rectory garden. Dolly put the wreath she was making on her -arm, and hastened to meet him. Her heart beat; it was full of sorrow and -pity, and yet of excitement too. She went to him with the tears once -more streaming from her pretty eyes. “Oh Paul!” she said, putting her -hand into his, and able to say no more. Of late she had begun to call -him Mr. Markham, feeling shy of her old playfellow and of herself, but -she could not stand upon her dignity now. She would have liked to throw -her arms round his neck, to console him, to have called him dear Paul. -In his trouble it seemed impossible to do too much for him. And Paul on -his side took the little hand in both his, and held it fast. The tears -rose to his eyes too. He was very grown up, very tall and solemn, and -his mind was full of many a serious thought--but when he had little -Dolly by the hand the softest influence of which he was susceptible came -over him. “Thank you, Dolly,” he said, with quivering lips. - -“How are they?” said the little girl, coming very close to his side, and -looking up at him with her wet eyes. - -“Oh, how can they be?” said Paul; “my mother is worn out, she cannot -feel it yet: and Alice is with her night and day.” - -“Will they come?” said Dolly, with a sob in her voice. - -“I fear so; it is too much for them. But I am afraid they will come, -whatever I may say.” - -“Oh, don’t you think it is best? Then they will feel that they have not -left him, not for a moment, nor failed him, as long as there was -anything to do.” - -“But that makes it all the worse when there is nothing to do. I fear for -my mother.” - -“She has got you, Paul--and the children.” - -“Yes, me; and I did not come till the last. Did you hear that, -Dolly?--that I wasted all the time when he was dying, and was only here -the last day?” - -“Dear Paul,” said Dolly, giving him her hand again, “you did not mean -it. Do you think he does not know now? Oh, you may be sure he -understands!” she cried, with that confidence in the advancement of the -dead above all petty frailties which is so touching and so universal. - -“I hope so,” Paul said, with quivering lips; and as he stood here, with -this soft hand clasping his, and this familiar, almost childish, voice -consoling him, Paul felt as if he had awakened out of a dream. This was -the place he belonged to, not the squalid dream to which he had given -himself. Standing under those beautiful trees, with this soft, fair -innocent creature comprehending and consoling him, there suddenly -flashed before his eyes a vision of a narrow street, the lamp-post, the -children shouting and fighting, and another creature, who did not at all -understand him, standing close by him, pressing her advice upon him, -looking up at him with eager eyes. A sudden horror seized him even while -he felt the softness of Dolly’s consoling touch and voice. It quickened -the beating of his heart and brought a faintness of terror like a film -over his eyes. - -“Come and sit down,” said Dolly, alarmed. “You are so pale. Oh, Paul, -sit down, and I will run and bring you something. You have been shutting -yourself up too much; you have been making yourself ill. Oh, Paul! you -must not reproach yourself. You must remember how much there is to do.” - -“Do not leave me, Dolly. I am going to speak to the rector. I am not -ill--it was only a sudden recollection that came over me. I have not -been so good a son as I ought to have been.” - -“Oh, Paul! he sees now--he sees that you never meant it,” Dolly said. -“Do you think _they_ are like us, thinking only of the outside? And you -have your mother to think of now.” - -“And so I will,” he said, with a softening rush of tears to his eyes. -“Come in with me, Dolly.” - -Dolly was used to comforting people who were in trouble. She did not -take away her hand, but went in with him very quietly, like a child, -leading the young man who was so deeply moved. Her own heart was in a -great flutter and commotion, but she kept very still, and led him to her -father’s study and opened the door for him. “Here is Paul, papa,” she -said, as if Paul had been a boy again, coming with an exercise, or to be -scolded for some folly he had done. But afterwards Dolly went back to -her wreaths with her heart beating very wildly. She was ashamed and -angry with herself that it should be so on such a day--the morning of -the funeral. But then it is so in nature, let us chide as we will. One -day ends weeping, and the next thrusts its recollection away with -sunshine. Already the new springs of life were beginning to burst forth -from the very edges of the grave. - -When Paul went away after this last bit of melancholy business (he had -come to tell the rector what the hymn was which his mother wished to be -sung) he did not see Dolly again. She was putting all her flowers ready -with which to cover the darkness of the coffin--a tender expedient which -has everywhere suggested itself to humanity. He went away through the -early sunshine, walking with a subdued and measured tread as a man -enters a church not to disturb the worshippers. In Paul’s own mind there -was a feeling like that of convalescence--the sense of something painful -behind yet hopeful before--the faintness and weakness, yet renewal of -life, which comes after an illness. There was no anguish in his grief, -nor had there been after the first agony of self-reproach which he had -experienced, when he perceived the cruelty of his lingering and -reluctance to obey his mother’s call. But that was over. He had at least -done his duty at the last, and now the feeling in Paul’s mind was more -that of respectful compassion for his father now withdrawn out of all -the happiness of his life, than of any sorer, more personal sentiment. -The loss of him was not a thing against which his son’s whole soul cried -out as darkening heaven and earth to himself. The loss of a child has -this effect upon a parent, but that of a parent seldom so affects a -child; yet he was sorry, with almost a compunctious sense of the -happiness of living, for his father who had lost that--who had been -obliged to give up wife and children, and his happy domestic life, and -his property and influence, and the beautiful world and the daylight. At -this thought his heart bled for Sir William; yet for himself beat softly -with a sense of unbounded opening and expansion and new possibility. As -he walked softly home, his step instinctively so sobered and gentle, his -demeanour so subdued, the thoughts that possessed him were such as he -had never experienced before. They possessed him indeed; they were not -voluntary, not originated by any will of his, but swept through him as -on the wings of the wind, or gently floated into him, filling every nook -and corner. He was no longer the same being; the moody, viewy, -rebellious young man who was about to emigrate with Spears, to join a -little rude community of colonists and work with his hands for his daily -bread and sacrifice all his better knowledge, all the culture of a -higher social caste, to rough equality and primitive justice--had died -with Sir William. All that seemed to be years behind him. Sometimes his -late associates appeared to him as if in a dream, as the discomforts of -a past journey or the perils that we have overcome, flash upon us in -sudden pictures. He saw Spears and Fraser and the rest for a moment -gleaming out of the darkness, as he might have seen a precipice in the -Alps on the edge of which for a moment he had hung. It was not that he -had given them up; it was that in a moment they had become impossible. -He walked on, subdued, in his strange convalescence, with a kind of -content and resignation and sense of submission. A man newly out of a -fever, submits sweetly to all the immediate restraints that suit his -weakness. He does not insist upon exercises or indulgences of which he -feels incapable, but recognises with a grateful sense of trouble over, -the duty of submitting. This was how Paul felt. He was not glad, but -there was in his veins a curious elation, expansion, a rising tide of -new life. He had to cross the village street on his way home, and there -all the people he met took off their hats or made their curtseys with a -reverential respect that arose half out of respect for his new -dignities, and half out of sympathy for the son who had lost his father. -Just when his mind was soft and tender with the sight of this universal -homage, there came up to him a strange little figure, all in solemn -black. - -“You are going home,” said this unknown being. “I will walk with -you and talk it over; and let us try if we cannot arrive at an -understanding----” - -Paul put up his hand with sudden impatience. “I can’t speak to you -to-day,” he said hastily. - -“Not to-day? the day of our father’s funeral; that ought to be the most -suitable day of all--and indeed it must be,” the little gentleman said. - -“Mr. Gaveston,” said Paul, “if that is your name----” - -“No, it is not my name,” said Mr. Gus. - -“I suppose you lay claim to ours, then? You have no right. But Mr. -Markham Gaveston, or whatever you call yourself, you ought to see that -this is not the moment. I will not refuse to examine your claims at a -more appropriate time,” said Paul with lofty distance. - -A slight redness came over Gus’s brown face. He laughed angrily. “Yes, -you will have to consider my claims,” he said. And then after a little -hesitation, he went away. This disturbed the current of Paul’s languid, -yet intense, consciousness. He felt a horror of the man who had thus, he -thought, intruded the recollection of his father’s early errors to cloud -the perfect honour and regret with which he was to be carried to his -grave. The interruption hurt and wounded him. Of course the fellow would -have to be silenced--bought off at almost any price--rather than -communicate to the world this stigma upon the dead. By and by, however, -as he went on, the harshness of this jarring note floated away in the -intense calm and peace of the sweet atmosphere of the morning which -surrounded him. The country was more hushed than usual, as if in -sympathy with what was to happen to-day. The very birds stirred softly -among the trees, giving place, it might have been supposed, to that -plaintive coo of the wood pigeon “moaning for its mate” which is the -very voice of the woods. A soft awe seemed over all the earth--an awe -that to the young man seemed to concern as much his own life which was, -as the other which was ending. The same awe crept into his own heart as -he went towards his home, that temple of grief and mourning, from which -all the sunshine was shut out. There seemed to rise up within him a -sudden sense of the responsibilities of the future, a sudden warmth of -resolution which brought the tears to his eyes. - -“I will be good,” said the little princess, when she heard of the great -kingdom that was coming to her; and Paul, though he was not a child to -use that simple phraseology, felt the same. The follies of the past were -all departed like clouds. He was the head of the family--the universal -guardian. It lay with him to see that all were cared for, all kept from -evil; the fortune of many was in his hands; power had come to him--real -power, not visionary uncertain influence such as he had once thought the -highest of possibilities. “I will be good”--this thought swelled up -within him, filling his heart. - -It was past mid-day when the procession set out; the whole county had -come from all its corners, to do honour to Sir William, and the parish -sent forth a humble audience, scattered along all the roads, half-sad, -half-amused by the sight of all the carriages and the company. When they -caught a glimpse of my lady in her deep crape, the women cried: but -dried their tears to count the number of those who followed, and felt a -vague gratification in the honour done to the family. All the men who -were employed on the estate, and the farmers, and even many people from -Farboro’, the markettown, swelled the procession. Such a great funeral -had never been seen in the district. Lady Westland and her daughter, and -Mrs. Booth, and the other ladies in the parish, assembled under the -rectory trees, and watched the wonderful procession, not without much -remark on the fact that Dolly had gone to the grave with the family, a -thing which no one else had been asked to do. It was not the ladies on -the lawn, however, who remarked the strange occurrence which surprised -the lookers-on below, and which was so soon made comprehensible by what -followed. When the procession left the church-door, the stranger who was -living at the Markham Arms appeared all of a sudden, in the -old-fashioned scarves and hat-bands of the deepest conventional woe, and -placed himself behind the coffin, in a line with, or indeed a little in -advance of, Paul. There was a great flutter among the professional -conductors of the ceremony when this was observed. One of the attendants -rushed to him, and took him by the arm, and remonstrated with anxious -whispers. - -“You can follow behind, my good gentleman--you can follow behind,” the -undertaker said; “but this is the chief mourner’s place.” - -“It is my place,” said the intruder aloud, “and I mean to keep it.” - -“Oh, don’t you now, sir--don’t you now make a business,” cried the -distressed official. “Keep out of Sir Paul’s way!” - -The stranger shook the man off with a sardonic grin which almost sent -him into a fit, so appalling was it, and contrary to all the decorum of -the occasion. And what more could any one do? They kept him out of the -line of the procession, but they could not prevent him from keeping up -with, keeping close by Paul’s side. Indeed Mr. Gus got close to the side -of the grave, and made the responses louder than any one else, as if he -were indeed the chief actor in the scene. And his appearance in all -those trappings of woe, which no one else wore, pointed him doubly out -to public notice. Indeed the undertaker approved of him for that; it was -showing a right feeling--even though it was not from himself that Mr. -Gus had procured that livery of mourning. It was he that lingered the -longest when the mourners dispersed. This incident was very much -discussed and talked of in the parish and among the gentlemen who had -attended the funeral, during the rest of the day. But the wonder which -it excited was light and trivial indeed in comparison with the wonders -that were soon to follow. All day long the roads were almost gay (if it -had not been wrong to use such an expression in the circumstances) with -the carriages returning from the funeral, and the people in the roadside -cottages felt themselves at liberty to enjoy the sight of them now that -all was over, and Sir William safely laid in his last bed. - -“And here’s Sir Paul’s ’ealth,” was a toast that was many times repeated -in the Markham Arms, and in all the little alehouses where the thirsty -mourners refreshed themselves during the day; “and if he’s as good a -landlord and as good a master as his father, there won’t be much to say -again’ him.” - -There were many, however, who, remembering all that had been said about -him, the “bad company” he kept, and his long absences from home, shook -their heads when they uttered their good wishes, and had no confidence -in Sir Paul. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -The house had fallen into quiet after the gloomy excitement of the -morning. All the guests save two or three had gone away, the shutters -were opened, the rooms full once more of soft day-light, bright and -warm. The event, great and terrible as it was, was over, and ordinary -life again begun. - -But there was still one piece of business to do. Sir William’s will had -to be read before the usual routine of existence could be begun again. -This grand winding up of the affairs that were at an end, and setting in -motion of those which were about to begin, took place in the library -late in the afternoon, when all the strangers had departed. The family -lawyer, Colonel Fleetwood, who was Lady Markham’s brother, and old Mr. -Markham of Edge, the head of the hostile branch which had hoped to -inherit everything before Sir William married and showed them their -mistake--were the only individuals present along with Lady Markham, -Paul, and Alice. There was nothing exciting about the reading of this -will; no fear of eccentric dispositions, or of any arrangement different -from the just and natural one. Besides, the family knew what it was -before it was read. It was merely a part of the sad ceremonial which had -to be gone through like the rest. Lady Markham had placed herself as far -from the table as possible, with her face turned to the door. She could -not bear, yet, to look straight at her husband’s vacant place. Her -brother stood behind her, leaning thoughtfully against her chair, and -Alice was on a low seat by her side. The deep mourning of both the -ladies made the paleness which grief and watching had brought more -noticeable. Alice had begun to regain a little delicate colour, but her -mother was still wan and worn. And they were very weary with the -excitement of the gloomy day, and anxious to get away and conclude all -these agitating ceremonials. Lady Markham kept her eyes on the door. Her -loss was too recent to seem natural. What so likely as that he should -come in suddenly, and wonder to see them all collected there?--so much -more likely, so much more natural than to believe that for ever he was -gone away. - -And in the quiet the lawyer began to read--nothing to rouse them, -nothing they did not know; his voice, monotonous and calm, seemed to be -reading another kind of dull burial service, unbeautiful, without any -consolation in it, but full of the heavy, level cadence of ashes to -ashes and dust to dust. Paul stirred, almost impatiently, from time to -time, and changed his position; it affected his nerves. And sometimes -Colonel Fleetwood would give forth a sigh, which meant impatience too; -but the others did not move. Lady Markham’s beautiful profile, marble -pale, shone like a white cameo upon the dark background of the curtains. -She was scarcely conscious what they were doing, submitting to this last -duty of all. - -When the door opened, which it did, somewhat hastily, it startled the -whole party. Lady Markham sat up in her chair and uttered a low cry. -Paul turned round angrily. He turned to find fault with the servant who -was thus interrupting a solemn conference; but when he saw who the -intruder really was, the young man lost all patience. - -“This fellow again!” he said under his breath; and he made one stride -towards the door, where stood, closing it carefully behind him, while he -faced the company, Mr. Gus in his black suit. He was no coward; he faced -the young man, whom he had already exasperated, without -flinching--putting up his hand with a deprecating, but not undignified, -gesture. Paul, who had meant nothing less than to eject him forcibly, -came to a sudden stop, and stood hesitating, uncertain, before the -self-possessed little figure. What could he do? He was in his house, -where discourtesy was a crime. - -“Keep your temper, Paul Markham,” said the little gentleman; “I mean you -no harm. You and I can’t help damaging each other; but for heaven’s -sake, this day, and before _them_, let’s settle it with as little -disturbance as we can.” - -“What does this mean?” said Colonel Fleetwood: while the lawyer rested -his papers on the table, and looked on, across them, without putting -them out of his hand. - -“I can’t tell what it means,” cried Paul. “This is the second time this -man has burst into our company, at the most solemn moment, when my -father was dying----” - -“Mr. Gaveston,” said Lady Markham, in her trembling voice, “I have told -you that anything we can do for you, any amends we can make---- But oh, -would it not be better to choose another time--to come when we are -alone--when there need be no exposure?” - -“My Lady Markham,” said Gus, advancing to the table, “I don’t know what -you mean, but you are under a great mistake. It is no fault of yours, -and I am sorry for Paul. I might have been disposed to accept a -compromise before I saw the place; but anyhow, compromise or not, I must -establish my rights.” - -“This is the most extraordinary interruption of a family in their own -house,” said Colonel Fleetwood. “What does it mean? Isabel, you seem to -know him; who is this man?” - -“That is just what she does not know,” said Gus, calmly; “and what I’ve -come to tell you. Nothing can be more easy; I have all the evidence -here, which your lawyer can examine at once. I wrote to my father when -I arrived, but he took no notice. I am Sir Augustus Markham: Sir William -Markham’s eldest son--and heir.” - -Lady Markham rose up appalled--her lips falling apart, her eyes opened -wide in alarm, her hands clasped together. Paul, whose head had been -bent down, started, and raised it suddenly, as if he had not heard -rightly. - -“Good God!” cried Colonel Fleetwood. - -Mr. Scrivener, the lawyer, put down his papers carefully on the table, -and rose from his seat. - -“The man must be out of his senses,” he said. - -Mr. Gus looked round upon them all with excitement, in which there was a -gleam of triumph. “I am not out of my senses. With such a wrong done to -me I might have been; but I never knew of it till lately. And, mind you, -I don’t blame _them_ as if they knew it. If you are the lawyer, I have -brought you all the papers, honest and above-board. There they are, my -mother’s certificates and mine. Ask anybody in the island of Barbadoes,” -cried Mr. Gus; “bless you, it was not done in a corner; it was never -made a secret of. From the Governor to the meanest black, there isn’t -one but knows it all as well as I.” - -He had thrust a packet of papers into Mr. Scrivener’s hand, and now -stood with one arm extended, like a speaker addressing with energetic, -yet conciliatory warmth, a hostile assembly. But no one paid any -attention to Mr. Gus. The interest had gone from him to the lawyer who -was opening up with care and precaution the different papers. Colonel -Fleetwood stood behind Mr. Scrivener eagerly reading them over his -shoulder, chafing at his coolness. “Get on, can’t you?” he cried, under -his breath. They were enough to appal the inexperienced eye. To this -astonished spectator looking on, the lines of the marriage certificate -seemed to blaze as if written in fire. It was as if a bolt from heaven -had fallen among them. The chief sufferers themselves were stunned by -the shock of a sudden horror which they did not realise. What did it -mean? A kind of pale light came over Lady Markham’s face: she began to -remember the Lennys and their eccentric visit. She put out her hand as -one who has begun to grasp a possible clue. - -At this moment of intense and painful bewilderment, a sudden chuckle -burst into the quiet. It was poor old Mr. Markham, whose hopes had been -disappointed, who had never forgiven Sir William Markham’s children for -being born. “Gad! I always felt sure there was a previous marriage,” he -said, mumbling with old toothless jaws. Only the stillness of such a -pause would have made this senile voice of malice audible. Even the old -man himself was abashed to hear how audible it was. - -“A previous marriage!” Colonel Fleetwood went hurriedly to his sister, -and took her by the shoulders in fierce excitement, as if she could be -to blame. “What does this mean, Isabel?” he cried; “did you know of it? -did you consent to it? does it mean, my God! that you have never been -this man’s wife at all?” - -She turned upon him with a flash of energy and passion. “How dare you -speak of my husband so--my husband who was honour itself and truth?” -Then the poor lady covered her face with her hands. Her heart sank, her -strength forsook her. Who could tell what hidden things might be -revealed by the light of this sudden horrible illumination. “I can’t -tell you. I do not know! I do not know!” - -“This will never do,” said Mr. Scrivener hurriedly. “This is pre-judging -the case altogether. No one can imagine that with no more proof than -these papers (which may be genuine or not, I can’t say on the spur of -the moment) we are going to believe a wild assertion which strikes at -the honour of a family----” - -“Look here,” said Mr. Gus; his mouth began to get dry with excitement, -he could scarcely get out the words. “Look here, there’s nothing about -the honour of the family. There’s nothing to torment _her_ about. Do you -hear, you, whoever you are! My mother, Gussy Gaveston, died five and -thirty years ago, when I was born. Poor little thing,” cried the man who -was her son, with a confusion of pathos and satisfaction, “it was the -best thing she could do. She wasn’t one to live and put other people to -shame, not she. She was a bit of a girl, with no harm in her. The man -she married was a young fellow of no account, no older than him there, -Paul, my young brother; but all the same she would have been Lady -Markham had she lived; and I am her son that cost her her life, the only -one of the first family, Sir William’s eldest. That’s easily seen when -you look at us both,” he added with a short laugh; “there can’t be much -doubt, can there, which is the eldest, I or he?” - -Here again there was a strange pause. Colonel Fleetwood, who was the -spectator who had his wits about him, turned round upon old Mr. Markham, -who ventured to chuckle again in echo of poor Gus’s harsh little laugh, -which meant no mirth. “What the devil do you find to laugh at?” he said, -his lip curling over his white teeth with rage, to which he could give -vent no other way. But he was relieved of his worst fear, and he could -not help turning with a certain interest to the intruder. Gus was not a -noble figure in his old-fashioned long-tailed black-coat, with his -formal air; but there was not the least appearance of imposture about -him. The serene air of satisfaction and self-importance which returned -to his face when the excitement of his little speech subsided, his -evident conviction that he was in his right place, and confidence in his -position, contradicted to the eyes of the man of the world all -suggestion of fraud. He might be deceived: but he himself believed in -the rights he was claiming, and he was not claiming them in any cruel -way. - -As for Paul, since his first angry explanation he had not said a word. -The young man looked like a man in a dream. He was standing leaning -against the mantelpiece, every tinge of colour gone out of his face, -listening, but hardly seeming to understand what was said. He had -watched his mother’s movements, his uncle’s passionate appeal to her, -but he had not stirred. As a matter of fact the confusion in his mind -was such that nothing was clear to him. He felt as if he had fallen and -was still falling, from some great height into infinite space. His feet -tingled, his head was light. The sounds around him seemed blurred and -uncertain, as well as the faces. While he stood thus bewildered, two -arms suddenly surrounded his, embracing it, clinging to him. Paul -pressed these clinging hands mechanically to his side, and felt a -certain melting, a softness of consolation and support. But whether it -was Dolly whispering comfort to him in sight of his father’s grave, or -Alice bidding him take courage in the midst of a new confusing imbroglio -of pain and excitement, he could scarcely have told. Then, however, -voices more distinct came to him, voices quite steady and calm, in their -ordinary tones. - -“After this interruption it will be better to go no further,” the lawyer -said. “I can only say that I will consult with my clients, and meet -Mr. ----, this gentleman’s solicitor, on the subject of the extraordinary -claim he makes.” - -“If it is me you mean, I have no solicitor,” said Mr. Gus, “and I don’t -see the need of one. What have you got to say against my papers? They -are straightforward enough.” - -The lawyer was moved to impatience. - -“It is ridiculous,” he said, “to think that a matter of this -importance--the succession to a great property--can be settled in such a -summary way. There is a great deal more necessary before we get that -length. Lady Markham, I don’t think we need detain you longer.” - -But no one moved. Lady Markham had sunk into her chair too feeble to -stand. Her eyes were fixed upon her son and daughter standing together. -They seemed to have floated away from her on the top of this wave of -strange invasion. She thought there was anger on Paul’s pale stern face, -but her heart was too faint to go to them, to take the part she ought to -take. Did they think she was to blame? How was she to blame? She almost -thought so herself as she looked pathetically across the room at her -children, who seemed to have forsaken her. Mr. Scrivener made a great -rustling and scraping, tying up his papers, putting them together--these -strange documents along with the others; for Gus had made no effort to -retain them. The lawyer felt with a sinking of his heart that the last -doubt of the reality of this claim was removed when the claimant allowed -him to keep the certificates which proved his case. In such a matter -only men who are absolutely honest put faith in others. “He is not -afraid of any appeal to the registers,” Mr. Scrivener said to himself. -He made as much noise as he could over the tying up of these papers; but -nobody moved to go. At last he took out his watch and examined it. - -“Can any one tell me about the trains to town?” he said. - -This took away all excuse from old Mr. Markham, who very unwillingly put -himself in motion. - -“I must go too,” he said. “Can I put you down at the station?” - -And then these two persons stood together for a minute or more comparing -their watches, of which one was a little slow and the other a little -fast. - -“I think perhaps it will suit me better,” the lawyer said, “to wait for -the night train.” - -Then the other reluctantly took his leave. - -“I am glad that anyhow it can make no difference to you,” he said, -pressing Lady Markham’s hand; “that would have been worse, much worse, -than anything that can happen to Paul.” - -The insult made her shrink and wince, and this pleased the revengeful -old man who had never forgiven her marriage. Then he went to Mr. Gus -with a great show of friendliness. - -“We’re relations, too,” he said, “and I hope will be friends. Can I set -you down anywhere?” - -Mr. Gus looked at him with great severity and did not put out his hand. - -“I can’t help hurting them, more or less,” he said, “for I’ve got to -look after my own rights; but if you think I’ll make friends with any -one that takes pleasure in hurting them---- I am much obliged to you,” -Mr. Gus added with much state, “but I am at home, and I don’t want to be -set down anywhere.” - -These words, which were quite audible, sent a thrill of amazement -through the room. Colonel Fleetwood and Mr. Scrivener looked at each -other. Notwithstanding the ruin and calamity which surrounded them, a -gleam of amusement went over the lawyer’s face. Gus was moving about -restlessly, hovering round the brother and sister who had not changed -their position, like a big blue-bottle, moving in circles. He was not at -all unlike a blue-bottle in his black coat. Mr. Scrivener went up to -him, arresting him in one of his flights. - -“I should think--” said the lawyer, “don’t you agree with me?--that the -family would prefer to be left alone after such an exciting and -distressing day?” - -“Eh! the family? Yes, that is quite my opinion. You outsiders ought to -go, and leave us to settle matters between us,” said Gus. - -He scarcely looked at the lawyer, so intent was he upon Paul and Alice, -who were still standing together, supporting each other. The little man -was undisguisedly anxious to listen to what Alice was saying in her -brother’s ear. - -“I am their adviser,” said Mr. Scrivener. “I cannot leave till I have -done all I can for them; but you Mr. ----” - -“Sir Augustus, if you please,” said the little gentleman, drawing -himself up. “If you are their adviser, I, sir, am their brother. You -seem to forget that. The family is not complete without me. Leave them -to me, and there is no fear but everything will come straight.” - -Mr. Scrivener looked at this strange personage with a kind of -consternation. He was half afraid of him, half amused by him. The -genuineness of him filled the lawyer with dismay. He could not entertain -a hope that a being so true was false in his pretensions. Besides, there -were various things known perhaps only to Mr. Scrivener himself which -gave these pretensions additional weight. He shook his head when Colonel -Fleetwood, coming up to him on the other side, whispered to him an -entreaty to “get the fellow to go.” How was he to get the fellow to go? -He had not only right, but kindness and the best of intentions on his -side. - -“My dear sir,” he said, perplexed, “you must see, if you think, that -your claim, even if true, cannot be accepted in a moment as you seem to -expect. We must have time to investigate; any one may call himself Sir -William Markham’s son.” - -“But no one except myself can prove it,” said Gus, promptly; “and, my -dear sir, to use your own words, you had better leave my family to me, -as I tell you. I know better than any one else how to manage them. Are -they not my own flesh and blood?” - -“That may or may not be,” said the lawyer, at the end of his reasoning. - -It was easy to say “get him to go away,” but unless he ejected him by -sheer force, he did not see how it was to be done. As for Mr. Gus, he -himself saw that the time was come for some further step. First he -buttoned his coat as preparing for action, and put down his hat, with -its huge hat-band, upon the table. Then he hesitated for a moment -between Lady Markham and the young people; finally he said to himself -reflectively, almost sadly, “What claim have I upon her?” He moved a -step towards Paul and Alice, and cleared his throat. - -And it was now that Providence interposed to help the stranger. Just as -he had made up his mind to address the young man whom he had superseded, -there came a sound of footsteps at the door. It was opened a very -little, timidly, and through the chink Bell’s little soft voice (she was -always the spokeswoman) was heard with a little sobbing catch in it, -pleading-- - -“May we come in now, mamma?” - -The children thought everybody was gone. They had been huddled up, out -of the way, it seemed, for weeks. They were longing for their natural -lives, for their mother, for some way out of the strangeness and -desolation of this unnatural life they had been leading. They were all -in the doorway, treading upon each other’s heels in their eagerness, but -subdued by the influences about which took the courage out of them. It -seemed to Mr. Gus an interposition of Providence on his behalf. He went -quickly to the door and opened to them, then returned, leading one of -the little girls in each hand. - -“I told you I was a relation,” he said very gravely and kindly, with a -certain dignity which now and then took away all that was ridiculous in -him. “I am your brother, though you would not think it; your poor dear -father who is gone was my father too. He was my father when he was not -much older than Paul. I should like to be very fond of you all if you -would let me. I would not hurt one of you for the world. Will you give -me a kiss, because I am your brother, Bell and Marie?” - -The children looked at him curiously with their big eyes, which they had -made so much larger with crying. They looked pale and fragile in their -black frocks, with their anxious little faces turned up to him. - -“Our brother!” they both said in a breath, wondering; but they did not -shrink from the kiss he gave, turning with a quivering of real emotion -from one to another. - -“Yes, my dears,” he said, “and a good brother I’ll be to you, so help me -God!” the little gentleman’s brown face got puckered and tremulous, as -if he would cry. “I don’t want to harm anybody,” he said. “I’ll take -care of the boys as if they were my own. I’ll do anything for Paul that -he’ll let me, though I can’t give up my rights to him; and I’ll be fond -of you all if you let me,” cried Mr. Gus, dropping the hands of the -children, and holding out his own to the colder, more difficult, -audience round him. They all stood looking at him, with keen wonder, -opposition, almost hatred. Was it possible they could feel otherwise to -the stranger who thus had fallen among them, taking everything that they -thought was theirs out of their hands? - -END OF VOL. II. - -LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY; VOL. -II *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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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/64778-0.zip b/old/64778-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 1bcf0b2..0000000 --- a/old/64778-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/64778-h.zip b/old/64778-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index f82c453..0000000 --- a/old/64778-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/64778-h/64778-h.htm b/old/64778-h/64778-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 4b67d54..0000000 --- a/old/64778-h/64778-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5975 +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. II, 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. II, 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. II</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 #64778]</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. II ***</div> - -<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 II.<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><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_27">27</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">Chapter III.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_50">50</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">Chapter IV.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_66">66</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">Chapter V.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_87">87</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">Chapter VI.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_98">98</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_117">117</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">Chapter VIII.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_129">129</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">Chapter IX.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_145">145</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_186">186</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">Chapter XII.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_202">202</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">Chapter XIII.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_222">222</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">Chapter XIV.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_245">245</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">Chapter XV.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_262">262</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">At</span> Markham Chase there had been great wonder and consternation at the -sudden departure of the elders of the family. Bell had been called to -her mother’s room in the morning, and the morals of the house, so to -speak, placed in her hands. She was thirteen, a great age, quite a -woman. “Harry will help you: but he is careless, and he is always out. -You will promise to be very careful and look after everything,” Lady -Markham had said. Bell, growing pale with the solemnity of this strange -commission, gave her promise with paling cheek, and a great light of -excitement in her eyes; and when they heard of it, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> others were -almost equally impressed. “There is something the matter with Paul,” -Bell said; and when the carriage drove away the solemnity of the great -house all to themselves made a still greater impression upon them. It is -true that Mrs. Fry showed signs of thinking that she was the virtual -head of the establishment, and Brown did not pay that deference to -Bell’s orders which she expected as mamma’s deputy to receive; but still -they all acknowledged the responsibility that lay upon them to conduct -themselves better than girls and boys had ever conducted themselves -before. The girls naturally felt this the most. They would not go out -with their brothers, but stayed indoors and occupied themselves with -various rather grimy pieces of needlework begun on various occasions of -penitence or bad weather. To complete them felt like a proper exercise -for such an occasion; and Bell caused the door to be shut and all the -windows in front of the house. She and Marie established themselves in -their mother’s special sanctuary—the west room; where after a while the -work languished, and where the elder sister, with a sense of seniority -and protection, pointed out all the pictures to Marie, and gave her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> -their names. “That is me, when I was a baby,” said Bell, “just below the -Rafil.”</p> - -<p>“The Raffle,” said Marie. “I thought a raffle was a thing where you drew -lots.”</p> - -<p>“So it is,” said the elder with dignity, “but it is a man’s name, too. -It is pronounced a little different, and he was a very fine painter. You -know,” said the little instructress with great seriousness, “what the -subject is—the beautiful lady and the little boy?”</p> - -<p>“I know what they all are quite well,” said Marie, impatient of so much -superiority; “I have seen them just as often as you have. Mamma has told -me hundreds of times. That’s me too as well as you, underneath the big -picture, and there’s Alice, and that’s papa—as if I didn’t know!”</p> - -<p>“How can you help knowing Alice and papa; any one can do that,” said -Bell; “but you don’t know the landscapes. That one is painted by two -people, and it is called Both. At least, I suppose they both did a bit, -as mamma does sometimes with Alice. There is some one ringing the bell -at the hall door! Somebody must be coming to call. Will Brown say ‘My -lady is not at home,’ or will he say ‘The young ladies<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> are at home,’ as -he does when Alice is here? Oh, there it is again! Can anything have -happened? Either it is somebody who is in a great hurry, or it is a -telegram, or, Marie, quick, run to the schoolroom and there we can see.”</p> - -<p>As they neared the hall they ran across Brown, who was advancing in a -leisurely manner to open the door. “Young ladies,” said Brown, “you -should not scuttle about like that, frightening people. And I wonder who -it was that shut the hall door.”</p> - -<p>Bell made no reply, but ran out of the way, and they reached the -schoolroom window in time to see what was going to happen. At the door -stood some one waiting. “A little gentleman” in light-coloured clothes, -with a large white umbrella. There was no carriage, which was one reason -why Brown had taken his time in answering the bell. He would not, a -person of his importance, have condescended to open the door at all but -for a curiosity which had taken possession of him, a certainty in his -mind that something of more than ordinary importance was going on in the -family. The little gentleman who had rung the bell had walked up the -avenue slowly, and had looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> about him much. He had the air of being -very much interested in the place. At every opening in the trees he had -paused to look, and when he came to the open space in front of the -house, had stood still for some time with a glass in his eye examining -it. He was very brown of hue, very spare and slim, exceedingly neat and -carefully dressed, though in clothes that were not quite like English -clothes. They fitted him loosely, and they were of lighter material than -gentlemen usually wear in England; but yet he was very well dressed. He -had neat small feet, most carefully <i>chaussés</i>; and he had carried his -large white umbrella, lined with green, over his head as he approached -the door. When Brown threw the great door open, he was startled to see -this trim figure so near to him upon the highest step. He had put down -his white umbrella, and he stood with a small cardcase between his -finger and thumb, as ready at once to proclaim himself who he was.</p> - -<p>“Sir William Markham?” he asked. The little cardcase had been opened, -and the white edge of the card was visible in his hand.</p> - -<p>“Not at home, sir,” said Brown.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Ah! that’s your English way. I am not a novice, though you may think -so,” said the little gentleman. “Take in this card and you will see that -he will be at home for me.”</p> - -<p>“Beg your pardon, sir,” said Brown. Though he had no objection to saying -“not at home” when occasion demanded, he felt offended by being supposed -to have done so falsely when his statement was true. “Master is not a -gentleman that has himself denied when he is here. When I say not at -home, I mean it. Sir William left Markham to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Left to-day!—that is very unlucky,” said the stranger. He stood quite -disconcerted for the moment, and gnawed the ends of his moustache, still -with the card half extended between his finger and thumb. “You are sure -now,” he added in a conciliatory tone, “that it is not by way of getting -rid of intruders? I am no intruder. I am—a relation.”</p> - -<p>“Very sorry, sir,” said Brown; “if you were one of the family—if you -were Mr. Markham himself, I couldn’t say no different. Sir William, and -my lady, and Miss Alice, they went to Oxford this morning by the early -train.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Markham himself—who is Mr. Markham?” he said, with a peculiar -smile hovering about his mouth. “I am—a relation; but I have never been -in England before, and I don’t know much about the family. Is Mr. -Markham a son, or brother—perhaps brother to Sir William?”</p> - -<p>“The eldest son and heir, sir,” said Brown, with dignity. “You’ll see it -in the <i>Baronetage of England</i> all about him, ‘Paul Reginald, born May -6, 18—.’ He came of age this year.”</p> - -<p>The brown face of the stranger was full of varying expression while this -was said—surprise, a half amusement, mingled with anger; emotions much -too personal to be consistent with his ignorance of the family history. -Strange, when he did not know anything about it, that he should be so -much interested! Brown eyed him very keenly, with natural suspicion, -though he did not know what it was he suspected. The little gentleman -had closed his card-case, but still held it in his hand.</p> - -<p>“So,” he said, “the heir; then perhaps he is at home?”</p> - -<p>“There is nobody at home but the young ladies and the young gentlemen,” -said Brown, testily. “If any of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> the grown-up ones had been in the house -or about the place, I’d have said so.”</p> - -<p>Brown felt himself the master when the heads of the family were away, -and this sort of persistency did not please him.</p> - -<p>“I’d like to see the young ladies and gentlemen,” said the stranger. -“I’d like to see the house. You seem unwilling to let me in; but I am -equally unwilling to come such a long distance and then go away——”</p> - -<p>“Well, sir,” said Brown, embarrassed, “Markham Chase, though it’s one of -the finest places in the county, is not a show-place. I don’t say but -what the gardener would take a visitor round the gardens, and by the -fish-pond, and that, when the family are away; but it has never been -made a practice to show the house. And it cannot even be said at present -that the family are away. They’ve gone on some business as far as -Oxford. They might be back, Sir William told me, in two days.”</p> - -<p>“My man!” said the stranger, “I can promise you your master will give -you a good wigging when he hears that you have sent me away.”</p> - -<p>“A good—what, sir?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Brown grew red with indignation; but all the same a chill little doubt -stole over him. This personage, who was so very sure of his welcome, -might after all turn out to be a person whom he had no right to send -away.</p> - -<p>“I said a wigging, my good man. Perhaps you don’t understand that in -England. We do in our place. Come,” he said, drawing out the card, and -with it a very palpable sovereign, “here’s my name. You can see I’m no -impostor. You had better let me see the house.”</p> - -<p>The card was a very highly glazed foreign-looking piece of pasteboard, -and upon it was the name of Mr. Augustus Markham Gaveston, at full -length, in old English characters. And now that Brown looked at him -again, he seemed to see a certain likeness to Sir William in this -pertinacious visitor. He was about the same height, his eyes were the -same colour, and there was something in the sound of his voice—Brown -thought on the whole it would be best to pocket the indignity and the -sovereign, and let the stranger have his way.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said; “Sir William didn’t say nothing to me -about expecting a relation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> and I’m not one that likes to take -liberties in the absence of the family; but if so be as your mind is set -upon it, I think I may take it upon me to let you see the house.”</p> - -<p>“I thought we should understand each other, sooner or later,” said the -stranger, with a smile. “Sir William could not tell you, for he did not -know I was coming,” he said, a moment afterwards, with a short laugh. -“I’ve come from—a long way off, where people are not—much in the way -of writing letters. Besides, it is so long since he’s seen me, I dare -say he has forgotten me: but the first glance at my card will bring it -all back.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t doubt it, sir,” said Brown. He had taken the sovereign, though -not without doubts and compunctions, and now he felt himself half -unwillingly bound to the service of this unknown personage. He admitted -him into the hall with a momentary pang. “The house was built by the -great-grandfather of the present baronet,” he said. “This hall is -considered a great feature. The pillars were brought from Sicily; -they’re no imitation, like what you see in many places, but real marble. -On the right is the dining-room, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> on the left the drawing-room. -There is a fine gallery which is only used for balls and so forth——”</p> - -<p>“Ah—we’ll take them in turn,” said the little gentleman. He put down -his big white umbrella, and shook himself free of several particles of -dust which he perceived on his light coat. “I’ll rest here a moment, -thank you,” he said, seating himself in the same big chair in which -Colonel Lenny had fallen asleep. “This reminds me of where I’ve come -from. I dare say Sir William brought it over. Now fetch me some iced -water or seltzer, or cold punch if you’ve got such a thing. Before I -start sight-seeing, I’d like a little rest.”</p> - -<p>Brown stared with open mouth; his very voice died away in the blank -wonder that filled him.</p> - -<p>“Cold—punch!” he said.</p> - -<p>The stranger laughed.</p> - -<p>“Don’t look so much like a boiled goose. I don’t suppose you have cold -punch. Get me some seltzer, as I say, or iced water. I don’t suppose a -man who has been anywhere where there’s a sun can do without one of -them. Oh, yes, there’s a little sun in England now and then. Something -to drink!” he added, in peremptory tones.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span></p> - -<p>Brown, though he felt the monstrous folly of this order from a man who -had never set foot in the house before, felt himself moving -instinctively and very promptly to obey. It was the strangest thing in -the world, but he did it, leaving the stranger enthroned in the great -chair of Indian bamboo.</p> - -<p>Mr. Augustus Markham Gaveston, however, had no inclination to sleep. He -sat sunk in the chair, rubbing his hands, looking about him with his -little keen blue eyes.</p> - -<p>“So this is Markham Chase,” he said to himself. His eyes shone with a -mischievous eager light. There was a little triumph in them and some -amusement. Though he was far from being a boy, a sort of boyish gleam of -malicious pleasure was in his face, as if he had done something which it -had not been intended or desired that he should do, and thus had stolen -a march upon some one in authority. He pulled off his gloves in a -leisurely way, finger by finger, and threw them into his hat, which he -had placed at his feet. Then he rubbed his hands again, as if ready for -anything or everything.</p> - -<p>“The dining-room to the right, the drawing-room to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> the left, and a fine -gallery—for balls and that sort of thing,” he repeated, half under his -breath.</p> - -<p>The little girls had watched anxiously from the schoolroom window as -long as there was anything to see. They had seen the little gentleman -come in, which filled them with excitement. It was not a telegram, so -there was nothing to be afraid of. Their hearts jumped with excitement -and wonder. Who could it be?</p> - -<p>“I ought to go and see what he wants,” said Bell. “Mamma left the charge -of the house to me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bell—a strange gentleman! you would not know what to say to him, -though it is only a little gentleman,” said Marie.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, I know quite well. I shall ask him if he wants papa, and that I -am so sorry there is no one at home—and could I tell papa any message? -that is what Dolly Stainforth says.”</p> - -<p>“She is seventeen,” said Marie; “and you—you are only so little—he -will laugh at you. Bell, don’t go. Oh, I don’t like to go——”</p> - -<p>“He is little, too,” said Bell. “You can stay away if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> you please, but I -am going to see what it all means. Mamma left the charge to me.”</p> - -<p>Marie followed, shy, but curious.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wish the boys were here,” she said.</p> - -<p>“The boys!” cried Bell, with much contempt. “Who would pay any attention -to them? But you need not come unless you like. Mamma left the charge to -me.”</p> - -<p>Whether to be left alone, or to be dragged to the encounter to speak to -a strange gentleman, Marie did not know which was worst. It was the -first, however, which was most contrary to all her traditions. She -scarcely remembered that such a thing had ever happened. So she -followed, though ill at ease, holding a corner of Bell’s frock between -her fingers. As for Bell, she had the courage of a lion. She walked -quite boldly through all the passages, and never felt the slightest -inclination to run away, till she suddenly caught a glimpse of two neat -little feet, protruding from two lines of light trousers, on the other -side of the hall. Then she gave a start and a little cry, and clutched -at Marie behind her, who was more frightened than she.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span></p> - -<p>They stopped within the door, in a sudden <i>accès</i> of fright. Nothing was -visible but the grey trousers, the little feet in light cloth boots, and -two hands rubbing each other; all the rest of the stranger’s person -being sunk in the big chair.</p> - -<p>When he heard this exclamation, he roused himself, and turned a -wideawake head in their direction.</p> - -<p>“Ah! the young ladies!” he said. “How are you, my little dears? It is -you I most want to see.” And he held out to them the hands which had -been seen rubbing themselves together so complacently a moment before.</p> - -<p>“We are the Misses Markham. We are never spoken to like that,” said -Bell. Then she collected all her courage for the sake of her duty. “I am -the eldest,” she said. “Papa and mamma are gone away, if you wanted to -see them; but if you have any message you wish to leave——”</p> - -<p>“Come here,” he said. “I don’t wish to leave any message. Don’t be -frightened. I want to make friends with you. Come here and talk to me. I -am not a stranger. I am a—sort of a relation of yours.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“A relation!” said Bell. And as Brown’s solemn step was heard advancing -at this moment, the little girls advanced too. Brown carried a tray with -a long glass upon it, a fat little bottle of seltzer water, and a large -jug of claret-cup. Colonel Lenny had been very thirsty too when he fell -asleep in that same chair, but he had not been served in this way. The -little girls came forward, gravely interested, and watched with serious -eyes while the little gentleman drank. He nodded at them before he -lifted the glass to his lips with a comical air.</p> - -<p>“My name is Markham as well as yours,” he said. “I’ve come a long way to -make your acquaintance. This respectable person here—what do you call -him, Brown?—wanted to send me away; but I hope now that you have come -you will extend your protection to me, and not allow him to turn me -away.”</p> - -<p>“Are you a cousin?” said Bell.</p> - -<p>“Well—perhaps not exactly a cousin; and yet something of that sort.”</p> - -<p>“Are you one of the Underwood Markhams?” the little girl continued. “The -people that nurse says would get Markham if we were all to die?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“They must be very disagreeable people, I think,” said the stranger, -with a smile.</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>dreadful</i>! They never come here. Nurse says they were in such a -way when we were all born. They thought papa was going to let them have -it—as if it were not much more natural that Paul should have it! You -are not one of those people, are you, Mr.—Markham? Is that really your -name?”</p> - -<p>“I am not one of those people, and my name is Gus. What is yours? I want -to know what to call you, and your little sister. And don’t you think -you had better take me to see the house?”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried Bell, looking more serious than ever; “but we could not call -a gentleman, quite an old gentleman, like you, Gus.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think I am an old gentleman?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Well, not perhaps such a very old gentleman,” said Bell, hesitating.</p> - -<p>Marie, trusting herself to speak for the first time, said in a -half-whisper—</p> - -<p>“Oh, no—not very old; just about the same as papa.”</p> - -<p>The stranger burst into a laugh. This seemed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> amuse him more than the -humour of the speech justified.</p> - -<p>“There is a difference,” he said; “a slight difference. I am not so old -as—papa.”</p> - -<p>“Do you know papa? Do you know any of them? You must have met them,” -said Bell, “if you are in society. Alice came out this year, and they -went everywhere, and saw everybody, in society. Mamma told me so. Alice -is the eldest,” the little girl went on, pleased to enter into the -fullest explanations as soon as she had got started. “That is, not the -eldest of all, you know, but the eldest of the girls. She was at all the -balls, and even went out to dinner! but then it is no wonder, she is -eighteen, and quite as tall as mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Is she pretty?” said the gentleman.</p> - -<p>He went on drinking glass after glass of the claret-cup, while Brown -stood looking on alarmed, yet respectful. (“Such a little fellow as -that, I thought he’d bust hisself,” Brown said.)</p> - -<p>“She is not so pretty as mamma,” said the little girl. “Everybody says -mamma is beautiful. I am the one that is most like her,” continued Bell, -with naïve<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span> satisfaction. “There is a picture of her in the -drawing-room; you can come and see.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Isabel,” cried Brown, taking her aside. There was something -important even in the fact of being taken aside to be expostulated with -by Brown. “We don’t know nothing about the gentleman, miss,” said Brown. -“I don’t doubt that it is all right—still he mightn’t be what he -appears to be; and as it is me that is responsible to Sir William——”</p> - -<p>“You need not trouble yourself about that, Brown,” said Bell, promptly. -“Mamma said I was to have the charge of everything. I shall take him in -and show him the pictures and things. I will tell papa that it was me. -But Brown,” she added in an undertone, certain doubts coming over her, -“don’t go away; come with us all the same. Marie might be frightened; I -should like you to come all the same.”</p> - -<p>Meantime the stranger had turned to Marie.</p> - -<p>“Where do you come in the family?” he said. “Are there any younger than -you?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Marie, hanging her head. She was the shy one of the family. -She gave little glances at him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> sidelong, from under her eyelids; but -edged a little further off when he spoke.</p> - -<p>“Are you afraid? Do you think I would do you any harm?” said the little -gentleman. “It is quite the other way. Do you know I have brought some -sweetmeats over the sea, I can’t tell you how far, expressly for you.”</p> - -<p>“For me!” Marie was fairly roused out of her apathy. “But you didn’t -know even our names till you came here.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! there’s no telling how much I knew,” said the stranger with a -smile.</p> - -<p>He had risen up, and he was not very formidable. Though he was not -handsome, the smile on his face made it quite pleasant. And to have -sweetmeats brought, as he said, all that way, expressly for <i>you</i>, was a -very ingratiating circumstance. Marie tried to whisper this wonderful -piece of information to Bell when her interview with Brown was over. But -Bell had returned to all her dignity of (temporary) head of the house.</p> - -<p>“If you will follow me,” she said, trying to look, her sister said -afterwards, as if she were in long dresses, and putting on an air of -portentous importance, “we will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span> take you to see the house. Brown, you -can come with us and open the doors.”</p> - -<p>The visitor laughed. He was very little taller than Bell, as she swept -on with dignity at the head of the procession. Brown, not quite -satisfied to have his <i>rôle</i> taken out of his hands, yet unwilling to -leave the children in unknown company, and a little curious himself, and -desirous to see what was going on, followed with some perturbation. And -there never was a housekeeper more grandiose in description than Bell -proved herself, or more eloquently confused in her dates and details. -They went over all the house, even into the bedrooms, for the stranger’s -curiosity was inexhaustible. He learned all sorts of particulars about -the family, lingering over every picture and every chamber. When the -boys came in, calling loudly for their sisters, he put his glass in his -eye and examined them, as they rushed up the great staircase, where a -whispered but quite audible, consultation took place.</p> - -<p>“I say, we want our dinner,” cried Harry. “We’re after a wasps’ nest -down in the Brentwood Hollow, and if you don’t make haste, you’ll lose -all the fun.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, a wasps’ nest!” cried Bell; “but we can’t—we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> can’t: for here is a -gentleman who says he is a relation, and we’re showing him over the -house.”</p> - -<p>“Such a funny little gentleman,” said Marie, “and he says he’s got some -sweetmeats (what does one mean by sweetmeats?) for me.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care for your gentleman; I want my dinner,” cried Harry, whose -boots were all over mud from the Brentwood swamp. They both brought in a -whiff of fresh air like a fresh breeze into the stately house.</p> - -<p>“Miss Isabel,” said Brown, coming forward, and speaking in a stage -whisper, while the stranger, with his glass in his eye, calmly -contemplated all these communings from above, “if the gentleman is -really a relation, I don’t think my lady would mind if you asked him to -stay lunch.”</p> - -<p>To stay lunch! This took away the children’s breath.</p> - -<p>“It is a bore to have a man when he doesn’t belong to you,” said Roland.</p> - -<p>“He looks a queer little beggar,” said Harry. “I don’t think I like the -looks of him.”</p> - -<p>“But he is quite nice,” said the little girls in a breath.</p> - -<p>Then Bell suddenly gave a lamentable cry<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span>—</p> - -<p>“Oh, you boys, it is no use even thinking of the wasps’ nest. We have -all got to go to the rectory to the school-feast.”</p> - -<p>This calamity put the little gentlemen out of their heads. The boys -resisted wildly, but the girls began to think better of it, arguing that -it was a party, though only a parish party. The introduction of this -subject delayed the decision of the question about lunch, until at last -a violent appeal from Harry—</p> - -<p>“I say, Brown! <i>can’t</i> we have our dinner?” brought about a crisis.</p> - -<p>“You go and ask <i>him</i> to come, Harry,” said Bell, seized with an access -of shyness, and pushing her brother forward. “You are the biggest.”</p> - -<p>“Ask him yourself,” cried the boy. This difficult question however was -solved by the little gentleman himself, who came forward, still with his -glass in his eye.</p> - -<p>“My dear children,” he said, “don’t give yourselves any trouble. I am -very hungry, and when Mr. Brown is so kind as to give you your dinner, I -will share it with great pleasure.” (“Cheeky little brute—I don’t like -the looks of him,” said Harry to Roland. “But it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> was plucky of him all -the same,” said Roland to Harry.) “Allow me to offer Miss Markham my -arm,” the stranger added.</p> - -<p>To see Bell colour up, look round at them all in alarm, then put on a -grand air, and accept the little gentleman’s arm, was, all the children -thought, as good as a play. They followed in convulsions of suppressed -laughter, the boys pretending to escort each other, while Marie did her -best to subdue them. “Oh, boys, boys! when you know mamma says we are -never to laugh at people,” cried this small authority. But the meal thus -prepared for was very successful, and the young Markhams speedily became -quite intimate with their visitor. He told them he was going to stay in -the village, and Harry and Roland immediately made him free of the -woods. And he asked them a thousand questions about everybody and -everything, from their father and mother, to the school-feast where they -were going; but except the fact that he was staying in the village, he -gave them no information about himself. This Brown noted keenly, who, -though not disposed to trouble himself usually with a school-room -dinner, condescended to conduct the service on this occasion, keeping -both<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> ears and eyes in very lively exercise. Brown felt sure, with the -instinct of an old servant, that something was about to happen in the -family, and he would not lose an opportunity of making his observations. -The stranger remained until the children had got ready for their -engagement, and walked with them to the village, still asking questions -about everything. They had fallen quite easily into calling him Mr. Gus.</p> - -<p>“For I am Markham as well as you,” he said; “there would be no -distinction in that;” which was another source of anxiety and alarm to -Brown, who knew that on the visitor’s card there was another name.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, Mr. Gus, good-bye!’ the children cried at the rectory-gate. -The village inn was further on, and Mr. Gus lingered with perfectly open -and unaffected curiosity to look at the fine people who were getting out -of their carriages at the gate.</p> - -<p>“We will tell papa your message,” said Bell, turning round for a last -word; “and remember you are to come again when they come home.”</p> - -<p>“Never fear; you will see plenty of me before all is done,” he said; and -so went on into the village, waving his hand to them, with his big white -umbrella<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> over his head. All the girls and boys who were going to the -school-feast, stopped to look at him with wondering eyes. He was very -unlike the ordinary Englishman as seen in Markham Royal. But the little -Markhams themselves had now no doubt that he was a relation, for his -walk, they all agreed, was exactly like papa’s.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> rectory at Markham Royal was a pretty house, situated on a little -elevation, with pretty lawns and gardens, and a paddock at the foot of -the little height, open to the lawn, where there was a tent erected, and -plenty of space for the games. Spectators of the higher class -constituted quite another little party in the pretty slope of the -gardens, where they were walking about in bright-coloured groups, and -paying their various greetings to the rector and his daughter when the -little Markhams arrived. Their appearance was a great disappointment to -the company in general, and especially to Dolly Stainforth, who was the -hostess and the soul of everything that was going on. The rector himself -was old, and not able to take much trouble. He had a large family of -sons and daughters,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> who were all married and out in the world, with the -exception of the youngest of all, Dolly, who was a little younger than -Alice Markham, and a model of everything that a clergyman’s daughter -ought to be. Frank, the youngest son, a young barrister, who still -called the rectory home, and was generally present on all important -occasions, was the only other member of the family in whom Markham Royal -took any very great interest; and he was absent to-day, to the great -annoyance of his sister, who all the afternoon had been looking out, -shading her eyes, directly in the line of the sun, which made the -highroad one white and blazing line—looking for the carriage from the -Chase, which might, Dolly hoped, bring her the only compensation -possible for her brother’s absence. Alice was an unfailing aid in all -such emergencies, and Lady Markham’s gracious presence made everything -go well among the great people on the lawn. Also, this time at least, -there was another possibility that made Dolly’s heart beat. It had been -whispered among the girls for some time past that the birthday of Alice -being near, and Paul almost certain to come home for that family -festivity, he might, in all likelihood, be calculated upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> for the -rectory too; in which case Alice and he would remain for supper -afterwards, and the day would be a white day. Not many entertainments of -a lively description came in Dolly’s way. She had to drive out solemnly -with her father now and then, and attend garden parties which were not -always very amusing, but this day had been marked out as an exception to -all others. After the school-feast, which was the laborious part of it, -and in which she was to be helped by the people she admired and loved -most in the world, there was to be the much more exquisite pleasure of -the domestic party after, talks, and songs, and strolls in the -moonlight, and a whole little romance of happiness. Frank and Alice, -whom it would be almost delight enough to pair together, to see “taking -to each other,” and Paul—Perhaps it was part of Dolly’s training as, in -a way, mother of the parish, that she should make her little plans with -extreme regularity and perfection of all the details. This anticipation -had given her strength for all the preparations of the school-feast. -There was no curate to take any share of the responsibility; everything -came upon her own small shoulders, young and delicate as they were. But -what of that! With<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> such aid and such a recompense, Dolly did not care -what trouble she took. It was her duty in any case, but duty became a -kind of Paradise when pursued in company with Frank and Alice and Paul. -Alas! the morning’s post had brought a letter from Frank announcing his -inability to appear. Was it for a serious cause which his sister could -accept? Alas, no! only for a cricket match, which he -preferred—certainly preferred—to the rectory lawn and Alice Markham. -Frank was false, but the others must prove true. When did any one ever -know the Markhams to fail? When the four children appeared, Dolly -detached herself from Lady Westland, whom with a much disturbed -attention she had been entertaining:</p> - -<p>“Why are they so late?” she cried.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Dolly,” said Bell, half pleased to be of so much importance, half -sorry to convey bad news; “they are not coming at all! They have gone -off to Oxford, papa, mamma, and Alice; there is something the matter -with Paul.”</p> - -<p>Poor little Dolly never could tell how she bore this blow. Suddenly the -whole scene became dim before her, swimming in two big tears which -flooded her eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span> She had indeed said to herself that she would not -“build upon” the coming of Paul; but Alice at least she had a right to -build upon.</p> - -<p>“My dear child, what is the matter?” cried Lady Westland, whose eyes -were as keen as needles.</p> - -<p>Dolly, though she was still blind with the sudden moisture, recovered -her wits more quickly than she recovered her eyesight.</p> - -<p>“I think I shall cry,” she said. “I can’t help it. Alice is not coming; -and Alice was all my hope. There is no one such a help as she is. I -don’t know what I shall do without her.”</p> - -<p>It was a kind of comfort to Dolly to think that Ada Westland would be -wounded by an estimate which showed how little her services were thought -of; and this, perhaps, though not at all a right feeling for a good -little clergywoman, helped her to recover herself, as it was so -necessary she should do.</p> - -<p>The children were assembling in the paddock, all in their best clothes, -with the schoolmistress and the Sunday-school teachers, and a few -favoured villagers. There was the tea to make for them, the games to -organise, to keep everything going; and all the garden<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> walks were -occupied by idle people who were doing nothing to help, and from whom no -help could be expected. Her old maid, who had been her nurse, and who -was Dolly’s chief support in the household, and old George the old -man-servant, who managed the male department at the rectory, were both -required to hand tea, and attend upon these fine people, who did all -they could to detain Dolly herself, stopping her as she hurried down to -the field of action, to tell her that it was a pretty scene. Dolly was -far too good a girl, and too thoroughly trained to the duties of her -position to dwell at that moment upon her disappointment. But whenever -she paused for a moment, whenever the din of the voices and teacups -experienced a lull, it came back to her. Poor little Dolly! She had -everything on her shoulders.</p> - -<p>There was a line of chairs arranged under the lime-trees on the lawn for -the great people of the parish—the Trevors and the Westlands—apart -from the crowd of smaller people who came and went. Among these few -local magnates the rector meandered, and it was to them that old -George’s services were specially dedicated. They had the best of the -tea, which Dolly grudged greatly, and the best position, and the best -attendance;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span> and considered themselves to be doing a duty which they -owed to the parish in thus countenancing the school-feast. They -considered that they were doing their duty; but at the same time, in the -absence of anything better, they liked it as Bell and Marie did, -because, such as it was, it was a party, though only a school-feast. Old -Admiral Trevor was seated in the sunniest spot—for warmth, as his -daughters explained, was everything to him. He sat there, cooking in the -heat of the August afternoon with poor Miss Trevor close by, divided -between the necessity of being close to him and the love of the grateful -shade behind. The old admiral talked a great deal, mumbling between his -toothless gums with the greatest energy, and very indignant when he was -asked a second time what he had said. Miss Trevor, though she was deaf -and used an ear-trumpet, always heard her father, and was very quick and -clever in interpreting him, so as to save what she called -“unpleasantness.” Beside the Trevors were the Westlands—the whole four -of them—father, mother, son, and daughter. They were new people, and -therefore deeply impressed with the necessity of “countenancing” the -parish in which they had bought a house and park,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> and which they tried -to patronise as if it belonged to them. They were very rising people, -very rich, and fond of finding themselves in good company, even at a -school-feast; for naturally such people get on much better in town, -where there are all sorts of visitors, than in the country where -everybody knows all about their pedigree and belongings. Dolly’s only -real help was Miss Matilda Trevor, the second daughter of the admiral, a -plain, good woman, but so shortsighted that she had to put her nose into -everything before she could see it. Some of the smaller lights of -Markham, Mrs. Booth, and her niece, from Rosebank, and young Mrs. -Rossiter, the doctor’s wife, might have been of a little use; but their -heads were turned by the offer the rector inadvertently made of the -chairs reserved for the Markhams on the lawn. When they had such a -chance of distinction, of making their “position” quite apparent, and -showing their equality with the county people, who could wonder that -these ladies threw over the children, and Dolly, though not without many -compunctions? Poor ladies! they did not make very much of it; they -talked to each other which they could do any day, and now and then got a -word from Miss Trevor, who poked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> out her trumpet for the answer, -frightening Mrs. Rossiter out of her wits.</p> - -<p>This, however, accomplished Dolly’s discomfiture, leaving her altogether -to herself. It was a pretty scene, as everybody said. The people who -were walking about the garden dropped off as the afternoon went on, but -the great people sat it out; though they paused to say it was a pretty -scene, they were busy with their own talk, and had nothing else to do -that was of any importance. The admiral had got into an argument with -Lord Westland about the new ironclads—if argument that could be called -which consisted of vituperation on the part of the old sailor and -amiable remonstrances from the new lord.</p> - -<p>“Ships,” the bigoted old seaman cried, the foam flying from his lips, “I -doncall’em ships.” He ran his words into each other, which made him very -difficult to understand. “Shtinking old tin-kettles, old potshanpans, -that’s what I call ’em. Set a seaman afloatin’em shlike -puttin’emdownamine. I don’ callit afloat.”</p> - -<p>“My dear sir,” said Lord Westland, blandly, “there may be something in -what you say; but we might as well try to confine the waves of the sea, -as a certain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> king did, as to keep back science. Science, admiral, must -have her way.”</p> - -<p>“Let’erhav’erway,” cried the old man, “down to the bottom if sheshamind. -One good seamansh worth more ’ana shipload o’ph’losophers. -Let’emman’erownships; let’em man their own ships. Crew o’ph’losophers -’shtead o’seamen. Bust their boilers’s often ’shtheylike and devil a -harm.”</p> - -<p>“He says the new ships should have crews of philosophers,” said Miss -Trevor, tranquilly, putting up her hand to silence the anxious “I did -not catch your last remark,” to which Lord Westland was about to give -utterance. The peer shook his indulgent head.</p> - -<p>“My dear admiral, philosophers, though it may please you and me, who are -old-fashioned, to rail at them, are rapidly becoming the masters of the -world.”</p> - -<p>“Mashters-o-fiddlshticks,” said the old sailor. “Put’emdown the d——d -ratholes, shee how theylikeit’emshelves. Old coalmines under water, call -that a ship! None o’ God’s air, noneoGod’s light—all machines -an’gasburnersh. Smash ’erownconsortsh—run every thin’ down—’chept -enemish!” he sputtered forth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> triumphantly, with a laugh of angry -triumph in his own argument.</p> - -<p>“He says they run everything down, except the enemy,” said Miss Trevor. -“I should like myself to know why there are so many collisions nowadays. -My father says it is all science and boilers. Why is it, Lord Westland?” -And she put up that ear-trumpet, of which everybody was afraid, for her -noble neighbour’s use.</p> - -<p>“Did you hear that last piece of news about the Markhams?” said Lady -Westland. “All off at a moment’s notice, the very day they were expected -here. They really ought to have waited and showed themselves, and not -given colour to all the stories that are about.”</p> - -<p>“Are there stories about? I have not heard any. Markham only came home -two days ago. Do you mean about the ministry? Is it supposed to be -insecure?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no,” cried Lady Westland, with an ineffable smile. “The -ministry!—oh no, Mr. Stainforth; that is much too well secured with the -best and most influential support. The opposition need not trouble -themselves about that.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Lady Westland looked at her husband with honest admiration. He was a -consistent supporter of government—and standing, as he did, with his -legs wide apart and his shoulders squared, anticipating with dread the -necessity of speaking into the trumpet and preparing himself for the -effort, he looked a very substantial prop.</p> - -<p>“Ah, to be sure,” said the rector. “I forgot for the moment we take -different sides.”</p> - -<p>“My dear rector, how you, a dignified clergyman and a man of family, can -take the Liberal side!” said Lady Westland. “It seems more than one can -believe. But, oh no—oh dear no! of course I would not for the world say -a word to weaken old ties or change convictions. An opinion that has -stood the test of years is a sacred thing. But I did not mean anything -political. Don’t you know, dear Mr. Stainforth, the very sad stories -that are told everywhere about Paul?”</p> - -<p>“What has Paul been doing?” said the old rector. He did not himself very -much approve of Paul. Staying up to read was a new sort of idea which -had not been thought of in his day. He did not much believe in young -fellows reading when a set of them got together. “Much more likely they -are staying up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> for some mischief,” he had said when he heard of it, and -in consequence he was not disinclined or unprepared to hear that there -were stories about Paul.</p> - -<p>“Did not you hear what he did? He brought some frightful Radical -agitator, some public-house politician—so they say—to the Chase, and -made poor Lady Markham take him in, and gave her all sorts of trouble. I -believe Sir William has scarcely spoken to him since for being so silly. -But we all know what a devoted mother Lady Markham is. For my part, I -think one’s husband has the first claim. And now they say he is -inveigled into some engagement, and is going to be sent off to the -Colonies and got rid of in that way.”</p> - -<p>“I think there must be some mistake,” said the rector. “Men don’t send -their heirs to the Colonies, nor get rid of them, except for very -serious causes.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am so glad you stand up for Paul! I will never believe it,” said -Ada Westland. “Paul inveigled into any engagement! How could you believe -it, Mr. Stainforth? He is as proud as Lucifer. He thinks none of us fit -to pick up his handkerchief. Oh, I know, we are all supposed to be on -our promotion, waiting till he may be pleased to look at us. I—and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> -Dolly too—— but he never did condescend to look at us. If he were to -marry, after that, a girl off the streets——”</p> - -<p>“Ada, my love, for Heaven’s sake, take care how you talk!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, there is nobody but the rector, mamma, and he knows we girls are -not such fools as we are made to look. If Paul Markham were to marry -that sort of person, I should laugh. It would be our revenge—Dolly’s -and mine—whom he never would condescend to look at. It would be nuts to -me.”</p> - -<p>“Did you ever hear anything so vulgar?” said Mrs. Booth to Mrs. -Rossiter. “I never could abide that girl. They have all thrown her and -themselves at Paul Markham’s head. New people as they are, and shoddy -people, they would give their eyes to have her married into such an old -county family.”</p> - -<p>“But it is not true about Dolly,” said the doctor’s wife. “Dolly has not -such a notion in her head. Her mind is full of the parish, and her -father, and Frank. I don’t believe such an idea as getting married ever -crossed her mind at all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Hem!” said Mrs. Booth, with a doubtful little cough, “I should not -like to swear to that. What did you say, Lady Westland—haven’t I heard -it? Well, I have heard something about strange visitors. It appears -there have been several people at Markham lately whom nobody has been -asked to meet.”</p> - -<p>“That is very significant; I call it very significant. When one’s own -friends cease to introduce their friends to us, it is a token that all -is not well. Don’t you think so?” said Lady Westland, softly smiling on -the doctor’s wife.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Rossiter’s sympathies were all with the victims who were being -assailed. But the Westlands were very fine people, much more “difficult -to know” than the Markhams, and the doctor had not yet got a very -distinct footing at the Towers. His young wife thought of her husband’s -position, and acquiesced with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“But it is not like them,” she said. “The Markhams are so hospitable; -they are such nice people; they are always kind.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, they ask all sorts of people. It is extraordinary the people one -meets there,” Lady Westland said; which made Mrs. Rossiter’s cheek -flame, and was a very just recompense to her for her infidelity. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> -then there was a pause, and the boom of Admiral Trevor’s bass, and the -titillation of his sh’s came in like the chorus. He was still holding -forth on the subject of the <i>Devastation</i>.</p> - -<p>“I don’t wish ’em any harm,” said the old sailor; “I wish-e-may all go -down in port like that one t’other day. Wish-em wher-er shure to be -looked after. No, blesh us all—no harm!”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the games were going on merrily enough in the paddock. Dolly -flew about for three people. She set the little ones afloat in one game, -and the big ones in another. The Markhams were still her best allies, -Bell throwing herself into the rounds and dances of the infants with -characteristic vigour; but Harry and Roland stood apart and whispered to -each other, with their hands in their pockets. They would have taken the -boys off to play cricket, had that been in the programme.</p> - -<p>“No, I will not have it,” Dolly said. “For once in a way they shall be -together. It’s bad enough when they grow up, when all the boys troop off -for their own pleasure, and never think what the girls are doing. It’s -time enough to break up a party and make sects when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span> they’re grown up,” -Dolly said. The boys stared, and did not understand her. But it was -natural enough that she should be angry. Frank’s cricket match was -rankling in his sister’s mind. And Dolly thought that “for once in a -way” Paul Markham might have thought of old friends. It was sure to be -his fault that even Alice had failed her; Dolly had no idea how it could -be his fault, but she was sure of it. Her heart was full of fury as she -flew about from one group of children to another, struggling against -their tendency to fall into detached parties, and let the amusements -flag. “It is far more their parish than it is mine; they will always -have it,” she said to herself. When it began to be time for the children -to disperse, and the conclusion of her labours approached, she was so -far carried away by her feelings as to forget that the Miss Trevor who -had helped her with the tea, but had been standing helplessly about -since, always in the way, was the shortsighted one, and not the deaf -one. “Oh, I wonder why all these people don’t go away?” she cried. -“Haven’t they got dinners waiting at home? Why do they stay so long? I -am sure I don’t want to have to go and entertain them after the children -go away.” And then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> poor Dolly recollected with horror that Mrs. Booth -and Mrs. Rossiter were to stay for a high tea, and that the doctor was -to come in to join them. “Oh,” she cried, in her vexation, “I shall not -get rid of them to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Of whom are you speaking, my dear?” said Miss Trevor, astonished—which -brought Dolly to herself; and, fortunately, Miss Trevor could not see -that it was her own party, and the rest of the people on the lawn, whom -Dolly meant. “I am afraid we must be going very soon,” she added, with -regret. “I am sorry not to stay and help you to the end. But dear papa -must not be exposed to the night dews.”</p> - -<p>Dolly had to marshal the children for a march round, leading them in -front of the company on the lawn, and conducting the chorale (as the -schoolmistress called it) which they sang before they broke up. This was -what the fine people had remained for, and all the parish would have -been disappointed had they not stayed. But, notwithstanding, it was hard -upon her, tired as she was, to have to stand and receive their -compliments, and to be told that it had been “such a pretty scene.”</p> - -<p>“I enjoyed it very much,” said Lady Westland, “I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span> assure you; I only -came to do a duty and countenance you, my dear Dolly; but I quite -enjoyed it.”</p> - -<p>“We came to scoff, and we remained to play,” said Ada; while Lord -Westland squared his shoulders, and threw out his chest, and repeated -his wife’s observation about the pretty scene.</p> - -<p>“And I hope you will always calculate on me to give my countenance -whenever it is wanted,” he said.</p> - -<p>Dolly, though so tired, had to stand and smile, and look gratified by -all their compliments. And what was worse, when they had all at last -been got away, there rose up from behind the chairs on which Mrs. Booth -and Mrs. Rossiter, waiting with the ease of <i>habitués</i> till all was -over, had seated themselves again after their leave-takings, a tall and -gawky figure, dark in the fading light.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Westland is going to stay, Dolly, to share our evening meal, though -I have told him it will be a homely one,” the rector said, not without a -tone of apology in his voice. Another voice, high up in the air, -muttered something about the greatest pleasure. But Dolly took no -notice. This was the worst infliction of all. She let herself drop into -the wicker-work chair<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> with the cushions, which Lady Westland had -declared to be so comfortable.</p> - -<p>“I thought they were never going away,” she said with angry candour. “I -am so tired. I so wanted a little peace.”</p> - -<p>The rector and young Westland both knew the meaning of this speech, but -neither ventured to reply.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Booth, however, stretched out her hand and gave the girl a friendly -pinch. “They are the most important people in the county, Dolly.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed, that they are <i>not</i>” the girl cried loud out. She was not -one to desert her friends, even though they might not be so good to her -as she had hoped. But as Mrs. Booth’s remark had been made in a whisper, -no one knew exactly to what this prompt contradiction referred.</p> - -<p>At supper Mr. Westland was of course placed at Dolly’s right hand. If he -was not the most important young man in the neighbourhood, he was -nominally of the highest rank, and would no doubt have taken precedence -anywhere of Paul Markham. He was very tall, and very lean, an overgrown, -lanky boy, with big projecting eyes, which were full of meaning when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> -looked at Dolly—or at least of something which he intended for meaning. -He did not talk very much, but he gazed at her constantly, which was -very irritating to Dolly. Mr. Rossiter was a much more lively person. He -came in in a state of high good-humour, which none of the party already -assembled shared. Both the ladies who were Dolly’s guests had -grievances. They had sat on uncomfortable chairs all the afternoon by -way of showing their identity with the best families, but the Westlands -and the Trevors had taken very little notice of them. The doctor’s wife -for one felt that she had not been of that service to Dolly which Dolly -had a right to expect, and yet that she had not asserted her husband’s -position in anything like a satisfactory way by this failure in -friendship. The supper-table was not as lively as a supper-table ought -to be after a bright afternoon out of doors.</p> - -<p>“I hope it all went off well,” the doctor said as he looked round the -languid party, and saw how little response there was in their faces to -his cheery address and simple jokes.</p> - -<p>“Oh, beautifully!” said young Westland, finding his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> voice with an -effort; “like everything Miss Stainforth has to do with.”</p> - -<p>There was no murmur of response; and Dolly gave her champion a glance -which drove him back trembling upon himself. Then Mrs. Booth said, -stopping her knife and fork, “I think we missed Lady Markham.” She said -this as if it were a conclusion she had arrived at by a long process of -reasoning; and then she returned to her cold chicken with renewed zest.</p> - -<p>“That was it,” cried Mrs. Rossiter, glad to hit upon something which -relieved her own sense of guilt. “It was Lady Markham we wanted. She -makes everything go smooth. She makes you feel that she takes an -interest in you, and wants you to be comfortable.”</p> - -<p>“It is a pity,” said the rector, “that such a pleasant type of character -should so seldom be sincere.”</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said Dolly, “I can bear a great deal—but if any one says any -harm of the Markhams I will not put up with it. If they had been here I -should not have had everything to do myself. If they had been here those -tiresome people would have gone away at the right time, and everything -would have gone right. Sincere! Do you think it is sincere<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> to say nasty -things, and get out of temper when one is tired—like me?”</p> - -<p>And poor Dolly nearly cried; till the doctor threatened her with a -mixture to be taken three times a day; when she made a great effort, and -shook off her evil disposition. Besides she had fired her shots right -and left, wounding two bosoms at least, and there was an ease to the -mind in that which could not be gainsaid.</p> - -<p>“But I hear there are unpleasant stories afloat about the Markhams,” the -rector said at his end of the table. “I hope my old friend, Sir William, -has not been remiss in his duties. A father should never give up his -authority, even to his wife. I fear among them,” he added, shaking his -white head, “they have done everything they could to spoil Paul.”</p> - -<p>“So I hear,” said Mrs. Booth, shaking hers. But nobody knew what was the -real charge against the Markhams, or what it was that Paul had done. And -after Dolly’s profession of faith in them, which was something like an -accusation against the others, these others might shake their wise -heads, and communicate between themselves their adverse opinions. But -before Dolly there was not another word to say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> rectory of Markham Royal was a very good living—a living intended -for the second son of the reigning family when there was a second son; -and indeed it was more than probable that Roland Markham, when he grew -up, would have to “go in for” the Church, in order to take advantage of -this family provision. Sir William, being in his own person the third -son of his family, and the youngest, there was nobody who had a claim -upon it when he came into possession of the title and estates; for the -Markhams of Underwood, who were the next heirs, and who had been very -confident in their hopes up to the moment of Sir William’s marriage—a -wrong which they had never forgiven—had but one son, who was too old to -be cut into clerical trim. This was how Mr. Stainforth had got the -living. He had held it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> for nearly thirty-five years, and had been a -good rector enough, jogging on very easily, harming nobody, and if not -particularly active in his parish, at least quite amiable and -inoffensive, friendly with all the best families, and not uncharitable -to the poor. He had a little money of his own, and had kept a good -table, and returned to a certain degree the civilities of his richer -neighbours. And he had been able to keep a pretty little carriage for -his wife as long as she lived, and for his daughter; and altogether to -maintain the traditionary position which the rector of Markham Royal had -always held in the county. Perhaps an inoffensive man who disturbs -nobody is the one who can hold such a position best; just as it is -better (though this rule has at present a brilliant exception) for a -president of the Royal Academy to be not too distinguished a painter, -and even sometimes for a bishop not to be too great a divine. Society -prefers the suave and mediocre, and when a man acquires a high place in -its ranks by reason of his profession, requires of him that he should be -as little professional as possible. Mr. Stainforth was of the good old -order of the squire-parson, the clerical country gentleman who respects -abuses which are venerable,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> and deprecates any great eagerness about -the way to heaven. Perhaps he had not very distinct views about heaven -at all. Now and then he would preach a sermon about golden gates, and -harps, and shining raiment, but it was seldom, if ever, of his own -composition. In his own practice he thought it best to think as little -about dying as possible, and he did not try to impose a different rule -on his neighbours. He thought that it would most likely all come right -somehow or other in the end, and that in the meantime there was not much -good to be done by too much dwelling on the subject, which indeed is a -view of the subject which a great many people are disposed to take. He -had lived long enough to see all his sons and daughters established in -life, which was a great matter. He had two girls who were very well -married, and two sons with capital appointments, besides Frank, who was -scrambling for his living somehow, and could manage to “get on”—and -Dolly, who was too young to cost very much. There was enough to provide -for Dolly when the rector should die—and he felt that he had fully done -his duty to his family. And he had done his duty to his parish. There -was no more dissent than was inevitable; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> Mr. Stainforth treated it -as inevitable, and did not interfere with it. He was very reasonable on -this subject—so reasonable that the curates he had generally disagreed -with him violently; and he was at the present period taking the duty -alone, though it was somewhat laborious, rather than attempt to regulate -the young assistant priest who set up confessions, or the muscular young -parson who instituted games.</p> - -<p>“Let the people alone,” was Mr. Stainforth’s rule, to which these -hot-headed young neophytes without experience would give no faith. -Sometimes he would be quite eloquent on the subject. “Let the chapel -alone,” he would say. “What can we do in the Church with the emotions, -especially among the poor? A washerwoman who has feelings wants her -chapel. It makes her a great deal happier than you or I could do. All -that does the Church good. And let the others peg away at me if they -please. It keeps Spicer amused, and keeps him out of more mischief.”</p> - -<p>Spicer was the village grocer, against whom all the young men hurled -themselves and their arguments in vain. But the rector dealt with -Spicer, and always had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> a chat with him when he passed the shop-door. -There was a mutual respect between them.</p> - -<p>“But our rector, I don’t say nothing against him,” Spicer would say at -the end of his speech, when there was any demonstration in the -neighbourhood in the dissenting interest; “he mayn’t be much of a one -for work, but he’s a credit to the place.” There was a great deal to be -said for the head of the parish hierarchy who continued to get his -things from you, blandly indifferent to the fact that you were a -dissenter, and in despite of all those co-operative societies which -drive grocers to a keener frenzy than any Church establishment. Lord -Westland got all his things down from town, and so did the doctor and -the smaller magnates; while even the chapel minister was known to have a -clandestine hamper, given out to be a present from some supporter, but -arriving suspiciously once a month. The rector, however, never swerved. -To him the parish was the parish, and a Markham Royal grocer the proper -grocer for Markham Royal—a principle which could not but have its -reward.</p> - -<p>This was the chief reason, and not economy, as many people said, why Mr. -Stainforth did the duty himself,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> and had no curate. Dolly was his -curate. She had been born in the order, so to speak, and none could -recollect the time when she had not felt it her duty to set an example, -and carried more or less the burden of the parish upon her shoulders. -She had been dedicated, like young Samuel, from her earliest years to -the service of the Temple. She set out upon her round of visits every -day as regularly as any curate could have done, had her days for the -schools, and her clothing clubs, and her mother’s meetings, at which the -seventeen-year-old creature discoursed the women about their duties to -their families in a way which was beautiful to hear. How she could know -so much about children was a standing wonder to the women; but it was -just as astounding to see her calculate the interest upon elevenpence -ha’penny at four and a half per cent; indeed a great deal more -miraculous to some of us. She played the organ in church; she took -charge of the decorations. She watched all the sick people, careful to -observe just the right moment when it was expedient “to send papa;” and -the parish got on very pleasantly under the joint sway of the father and -daughter. It did not make a very great appearance in the diocesan<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> lists -of subscriptions, and there was no doubt that a great many of the people -who had feelings, as the rector said, went to the little Wesleyan -chapel. But Mr. Stainforth did not mind that. It was a safety valve, and -so was the Bethel chapel, in the nearest town, to which Spicer went -every Sunday, which was much less tolerant than Bethesda, and hurled all -manner of denunciations against the Church. Sometimes the neighbouring -incumbents would warn the rector that his village was a hotbed of -mischief, and be very severe on the subject of his excessive tolerance. -But Mr. Stainforth was seventy-six, and not likely to live long enough -to see any of the great earthquakes with which they threatened him. -“There will be peace in my time,” he said.</p> - -<p>This supineness did not displease Sir William, who, though in -opposition, held fast to the old Whig maxims of freedom of opinion, and -preferred to conciliate the dissenters, with an eye to the general -elections and their political support generally. He went very regularly -to church at the head of his fine family, but there was always a -consciousness in him that, much as he should regret it, it might -possibly be his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> duty one day or other to assail the establishment; and -he thought it a point of honour not to show any exaggerated attachment -to it now which might be turned into reproaches afterwards. Neither did -the Trevors object at all to Mr. Stainforth’s easy good temper. The -things they were afraid of were the Pope, and the Jesuits, whom they -supposed to be lurking under every hedgerow. So long as the rector kept -ritualism at bay they found no fault with him. The Westlands, however, -were very strong on the opposite side. They were people who endeavoured -always to do as persons of their rank ought to do, and they liked a high -ritual just as they liked high life. Though they “countenanced” the -school-feast, and were always ready to do their duty in this way in the -parish, yet they never let slip an opportunity of expressing their -opinion of the rector’s weakness.</p> - -<p>“But we have no influence,” Lady Westland said. “The living is in the -hands of the Markhams. Though they are commoners they were settled here -before us, and therefore have the advantage of us in a great many ways.”</p> - -<p>It was a bold thing to say this in the very district<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> where it was well -known the Markhams had been established for centuries, and where Lord -Westland had acquired the Towers by purchase only about a dozen years -before. But if there was one quality upon which Lady Westland prided -herself it was courage. She was somewhat bitter about the Markhams -altogether. There were so many things in which they had the advantage of -her. To be sure, she took precedence of Lady Markham whenever they met, -and walked triumphantly out of the room before her; but she could not -but be aware that in most other ways the baronet’s wife had the best of -it. The Chase had been in the Markham family for generations, whereas -Westland Towers was painfully new; and to come to still more intimate -particulars, Paul Markham was a young man of distinction, whereas George -Westland, though an honourable, was nothing but an overgrown school-boy. -Ada, indeed, was quite as handsome, perhaps handsomer, than Alice, and -much cleverer: but she did not receive the same attention. Ada was -withal rather a difficult young woman, who gave her parents a great deal -of trouble. She took a pleasure in running her talk to the very edge of -evil, and made every kind of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> daring revelation about herself and her -family, putting her mother’s secret intentions into large type and -publishing them abroad. She liked to see the flutter of semi-horror, -semi-incredulity with which her bold sayings were received. She liked to -shock people; but perhaps, at the same time, she made a shrewd -calculation that, when she published what seemed to be to her own -disadvantage, nobody would believe her. This, however, was not so -successful an expedient as appeared. When she said that Paul had been -expected to throw his handkerchief at her, nobody took it for an -impertinent volley of extravagance on her part. It was vain that she -involved Dolly in it. In the very faces of her auditors Ada saw the -truth reflected back to her; and thus, though she would not have -hesitated to marry the heir of the Markhams, she could not excuse the -family for what they brought upon her. Lord Westland was not a man to -feel the stings which hurt his wife and daughter. He was protected by a -much higher opinion of himself; but even he felt a certain annoyance -with “my friend Markham,” who was listened to more respectfully, and -looked up to with much more trust than he. Lord Westland took this as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> -an instance of the folly and stupidity of country people, but yet he -felt it in his heart.</p> - -<p>Thus the one family was to the other what Mordecai was to Haman. Lady -Westland kept her ears always open to hear anything to the disadvantage -of the Markhams. Paul’s youthful vagaries, and even the little scrapes -which Harry and Roland got into at school she seized upon with -eagerness. She was as much interested in chronicling these misdeeds as -if they had been so many items to her advantage; but, notwithstanding -everything, the Markhams always came off the best. George Westland got -into more scrapes at school than all of them put together; and now that -he had come home, and had finished his education, what must he do, this -heir to a peerage, this only son of so rich and important a house, but -go sighing and gaping after Dolly Stainforth, who was no more than the -parson’s daughter? His mother and sister were driven almost wild by the -mere suspicion of this. And not only was it day by day more evidently -true, but it even became apparent to them that George for once had -reached a point from which he would neither be bullied nor frightened. -He let<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> them say whatever they pleased, but he took his own way.</p> - -<p>What Dolly thought of this has been already seen. Dolly, who was angry -at her brother’s defection and sadly wounded by the failure of the -Markhams, resented George Westland’s presence more than she did the -absence of the others, and turned her back upon him, rejecting his -services. She treated him with absolute contumely, impatient of his very -look. Why is it that the wrong person will always present himself in -such cases? Why, when a girl’s fancy is caught by one youth, will -another attach himself to her side, and devote himself to her service, -to have all the little carelessnesses of the other resented upon him? -Dolly had not a word to say to young Westland. She would have liked to -have pushed him aside out of her way; and Paul perhaps had not given one -thought to Dolly since they danced together at the children’s balls at -the Chase, while he was still a schoolboy. Thus the threads in the -shuttle of life mix themselves up and get all woven the wrong way.</p> - -<p>The Trevors were happily beyond the reach of all tremors of this kind. -The old admiral lived a kind of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> mummy life, swathed in flannels against -the rheumatism, and in bandages against the gout, with his food weighed -out to him, and his wine measured by the too-scrupulous care of his -daughter, whose life was spent in guarding him against cold and -indigestion and excitement. Miss Trevor, the eldest, though she was -deaf, always heard and understood what he said; but Miss Matilda, the -second, never understood her dear papa, and had constantly to have his -commands repeated to her. Between her parish work, in which she was -assiduous, and her dear papa, this good soul’s existence was full. She -was very humble-minded, and anxious to please everybody, but yet she was -constantly giving offence to Mrs. Booth, whom she sometimes passed in -the road, and sometimes brushed against at the church door, without -seeing. Thus her inoffensive life was diversified by a succession of -little quarrels, wholly unintentional, and which the poor lady could not -understand. But these were the only palpitations in her calm existence; -and her sister was free even from such agitation. She gave herself up to -the housekeeping, and to reading the newspapers, which she did every -morning, from beginning to end, specially dwelling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> upon all the naval -debates and letters about the construction of ships. To give the admiral -his “nourishment” at the proper time, to see that the carriage came -round exactly at the right moment, to regulate the length of the drive -to a moment, this was “a woman’s work,” and absorbed the admiral’s -daughter in all the rigidity of routine. Thus life went on—as if it -would never end.</p> - -<p>As this history is for once to dwell in the highest circles, and deal -only with people who may be called county people, and were of the -highest importance in the district, it is scarcely necessary to speak of -the smaller gentry. There were one or two small proprietors who farmed -their own land, or who had so little land that it was scarcely worth -farming, who lived about the skirts of the parish, and scarcely counted -among its aristocracy. Some of these were so much nearer other parish -churches that they did not even come to church at Markham Royal. Sir -William Markham owned almost the whole of the parish. He had widened out -his borders year by year during the long time he had held the property, -and swallowed up various decaying houses of old squires. Such a little -villa as Rosebank<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> could not make any claim to be considered among the -very smallest proprietors, and it was more to her devotion to the church -than to anything else that Mrs. Booth owed her social elevation. She was -very good in the parish. She and her niece visited the poor assiduously, -and were familiar every-day visitors at the rectory, and so insensibly -saw themselves received everywhere. They were the agents of almost every -scheme of social improvement, always ready to act for the greater -ladies, who had less time to spare, and content to pick up the crumbs of -society from these great folks’ tables. Though they were quite -insignificant in themselves they were in the midst of everything, and -not unimportant members of the society which admitted them on -sufferance, yet ended by being somewhat dependent upon them. If ever -Miss Trevor enjoyed a holiday from her close attendance on her father, -it was when Mrs. Booth had the carriage sent for her before luncheon and -came to spend the day, with her dinner-dress and her cap in a little -box. She could manage to guess at what the admiral meant, and she would -play at backgammon with him, or read the newspapers, while Jane Trevor -rested her weary soul in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> own room, writing a detailed report to her -aurist, or putting a few new verses into a book with a Bramah lock, -which held the confidences of her life. It was Miss Booth who was the -most popular of the two at Westland Towers, where Ada liked to have a -hanger-on. But in the rectory they were both in their element—more -familiar, and constantly interfering with Dolly, whom they both were -very fond of, and whom they worried considerably. Rosebank had a balance -and pendant in Elderbower, where lived an Indian officer and his family, -but the Elders were a large family very much occupied with each other, -with the cares of education, and making both ends meet; and consequently -they took little part in what was going on, and need not be counted at -all.</p> - -<p>This was the circle which encompassed the Markhams like a chorus, like -the ring of spectators which is always found encircling combatants in -all classes. In this arena, round which were ranged all the bystanders, -was about to be enacted the drama of their family life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Augustus Markham Gaveston</span> strolled up the village when the children -left him, looking curiously at all the cottages, till he came to the -little whitewashed country inn, which called itself the Markham Arms. -The little gentleman was full of interest in everything. He stopped and -looked in at the windows of the little shop, where everything was sold, -from biscuits to petticoats—gazed in with as much interest as if it had -been a shop in Bond Street. He crossed over the street to see where the -post-office was, and to look at the smithy, where the blacksmith and his -journeyman and apprentice paused to push their caps from their foreheads -and stare at him, as did also the groom from Westland Towers, very trim -and fine, who had brought Mr. Westland’s horse to have his shoes looked -to. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> all stared, and the stranger returned their gaze with smiling -complacency, evidently thinking it quite natural that they should stare -at him—a thing to be looked for. And the school children stared at him -whom he met on their way to the rectory. Mr. Augustus did not mind. He -looked at them all paternally, patting the heads of some of the little -ones. The little girls curtsied to him—as you may be sure in schools -superintended by Miss Stainforth they had been taught to do—and this -pleased him greatly. He took off his hat to them, which astonished the -children as much as his white umbrella did, and the strangeness of his -appearance altogether. The village was in a commotion, as was natural, -by reason of the school-feast, and the arrival of so many carriages and -visitors. Half at least of the houses were still pouring forth little -bands in their best clothes, mothers and aunts standing at the door to -watch the effect. So that it was a kind of triumphal progress which he -made through the village street, where everybody was glad to have a new -object to occupy them after the children had disappeared. The Markham -Arms was not a much frequented inn; but it was as clean and neat as it -was quiet and homely,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> and there was a pretty little parlour with a -bow-window, all clustered with the common sweet clematis, the -travellers’ joy, and honeysuckle, into which Mrs. Boardman ushered the -stranger with secret pride, yet many apologies.</p> - -<p>There is a bigger room up stairs, sir; but if so be as you could do with -this till to-morrow——”</p> - -<p>“It is the very thing I want,” he said; and he bade her send some one to -the station for his portmanteaus. “Only the portmanteaus. I don’t want -the big cases.” This dazzled the landlady, and indeed there were found -to be three large cases besides the portmanteaus, cases so large that it -was all the little station could do to afford them shelter and safety. -John Boardman fetched the other boxes himself, and was duly impressed by -this evidence of wealth. The name on the luggage, as on the little -gentleman’s card, was Markham Gaveston; but whether by some freak of the -uninstructed artist who had written the name in bold characters of print -upon the cases, the Gaveston was small, and the Markham large, so that -there was some doubt in the minds of the people, both at the station and -the inn, which was the name to call<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> the new-comer by; and what was -still more odd, when they asked him, he only laughed and answered, -“Which you please,” which confused them more and more. He informed John -Boardman, however, that he was a relation of the family, but had been in -foreign parts all his life, and had never seen Markham before; and, as -he brought in the boys from the Chase to dine with him that very -evening, there could be no doubt as to the justice of this claim. Also -the landlord had a letter to put in the post for him that night which -was addressed to Sir William Markham at Oxford. He must be a relation, -but who was he? For the next two days the village was very much -disturbed by this question. There were old people in the place who were -proud to think that they knew Sir William’s relations better than he -himself did; but who this little gentleman was, and what might be the -degree of his cousinship, they found it very hard to make out. He -laughed once more when he was asked if he was “a full cousin,” or a more -distant relation.</p> - -<p>“Something of that sort,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye, as if this -was a capital joke. He was so constantly about, and so ready to make -acquaintance with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> everybody, that in two days the whole village knew -him; and this question weighed upon the mind of the community. At last -one of the old women in the almshouses who had spent half her life in -the nursery at the Chase, by dint of almost superhuman cogitation, found -a clue to the mystery. She remembered that one of the daughters of the -late Mr. Markham of Underwood, who was “full cousin” to Sir William, had -gone abroad after she became a widow, a very long time ago. Most likely -she must have married again and become the mother of this little brown -gentleman, who no doubt looked older than he was, being so spare and so -brown. This was an explanation that satisfied everybody. The lady’s name -had been Willoughby when she left England, but what of that? It took a -weight off the mind of the village to have the stranger thus made out -and set in his right place.</p> - -<p>And during the three days he spent in the village Mr. Markham Gaveston -made acquaintance with everybody. His curiosity was insatiable. All day -long he strolled about and questioned everybody. When he saw old Sophy -coming from the woods with her bundle of sticks, he insisted on knowing -where she got them, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span> how she got them, and all about her. Nothing -escaped him. He found out that it was Lord Westland’s groom that was at -the smithy when he passed, and that the horse belonged to the Honourable -Mr. Westland, and that the Honourable Mr. Westland was always finding -errands to bring him to the rectory. This information he picked up by -the way, as one to whom all news was pleasant; but the Markhams were the -real objects of his inquiries. And when the landlady proceeded to -intimate that Mr. Westland might save himself the trouble, since Miss -Dolly cared more for Mr. Paul’s little finger than for all his grandeur, -and his title, the little gentleman at once owned the stronger spell.</p> - -<p>“So there’s a love-story going on, is there?” he cried briskly. “Mr. -Paul! that’s my young relation, I suppose? Are they going to marry? -Come, tell me all about it. This interests me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>marry</i>, sir; bless you! No, it ain’t gone so far as that,” Mrs. -Boardman cried. And she had to protest that there was nothing but “idle -tales” in what she had said—her own silly fancies, as she added, with -anxious humility, and bits of gossip among the servants. “You won’t say -as I said it, sir,” she added. “I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> wouldn’t be the one to make mischief -for all the world, nor vex Miss Dolly, so good as she is; and most -likely my lady wouldn’t like it—and I don’t say nothing for Mr. Paul -neither. He is mostly away; it isn’t what you could call keeping -company. Oh, if us women hadn’t got no tongues, what a deal o’ -mischief’d be spared!’</p> - -<p>“That’s what I’m always telling you,” said John.</p> - -<p>“And the men’s worse,” said his wife, going on. “Us women, we lets a -thing slip, and never thinks; but the bad stories, them as sets folks by -the ears, they always comes from the men.”</p> - -<p>This amused Mr. Markham Gaveston greatly. He clapped his hands and -encouraged them both to continue.</p> - -<p>“At her, John!” he said, behind the good woman’s back; but John shook -his head and retired. He knew better.</p> - -<p>And Mrs. Boardman wiped her hands on her apron, and went off “to see to -my dinner.” The dinner naturally was not hers, but her guest’s, who was -a small eater—much too small an eater; a single chop was all he had for -lunch, a chicken served him two days for dinner. There was little credit -in cooking for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> any one who was so easily satisfied. To be sure he had -suggested one or two eccentric dishes to her when he came, which Mrs. -Boardman had never heard of, and which she had declared could not be -half so good for any one’s “innards” as a plain joint; but since that -the stranger had made no remarks, eating what was set before him without -remonstrance, but too little of it to please his hostess. He was much -more greedy of news than he was of his dinner; and this last piece of -information cost him a great deal of thought.</p> - -<p>Next day, the third day of his stay at Markham Royal, Dolly Stainforth -had a little expedition to make by railway. Though she was far from -being an emancipated young lady, and though her father was very careful -that she should have in general all the guardianship that her position -required, yet to be always accompanied by a servant on the little -journeys which she made periodically to see an old aunt only two -stations off was a burden Dolly could not consent to: for which reason -it had become the habit at Markham Royal to appropriate a vacant -carriage to the use of ladies—a carriage over which the guard was -supposed to watch, defending it from all male intruders. In this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> -compartment old George, the man-servant at the rectory, carefully placed -his young mistress; and all went on as usual till the very moment before -the train started, when old George was gone, and the attention of the -guard distracted; when the door of Dolly’s carriage was suddenly, -swiftly, noiselessly opened, and a little gentleman, in loose, -light-coloured clothes, jumped in.</p> - -<p>Dolly was so much startled that it was a minute before she found her -breath, and in that minute the train had glided from the station.</p> - -<p>“I fear I have frightened you,” the stranger said.</p> - -<p>Dolly was not at all frightened, but she was true to her father’s -precautions.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no; but this is a carriage for ladies,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Dear me, what a pity!” cried the little man; but it was easy to see by -his countenance that he did not think it a pity. “I am a stranger here,” -he said, “a stranger in England. I don’t know all your ways. I will -change at the next station if I am disagreeable to you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” cried Dolly, horrified to be supposed guilty of rudeness. “It -is not that. It is only that I am<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> supposed always to travel by myself. -Papa insists on a ladies’ carriage. But it does not at all matter,” she -added, with a glance that was not flattering to the special intruder in -question. “Nobody could mind——”</p> - -<p>Dear, dear! Dolly thought to herself, this is ruder still; and blushed -crimson.</p> - -<p>The stranger, however, did not draw from this any conclusions which were -humiliating to himself. People are not so close to mark our looks and -words as we imagine them to be. He smiled serenely, and as the train was -now plunging along in the fussy yet leisurely manner common to a country -train which stops at all the stations, resumed, with an air of great -satisfaction and complacency—</p> - -<p>“I am very glad you don’t mind; for I came into the carriage on -purpose—because I saw you get in. I wanted to speak to you,” said Mr. -Markham Gaveston, with a genial smile.</p> - -<p>Then Dolly began to quake a little. Was he mad—or what did he mean? “Do -you know me?” she said, faltering. She had heard of the stranger at the -Markham Arms, but had not seen him.</p> - -<p>“I have the pleasure of knowing who you are,” he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span> said, taking off his -hat with the utmost politeness. “My little—relations, the little -Markhams, pointed you out to me.’</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried Dolly again, “then you are——?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, exactly,” he said, smiling, “that is what I am. I have come from -the tropics, and I do not know much about England. If I say anything -that is very unusual, I hope you will excuse me. It is disagreeable that -they should be away just when I have come so far to see them.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Dolly, hesitating. She could not refuse to answer him; but -to discuss her friends with a stranger was a thing against which her -heart revolted. “They did not expect to be away; it was quite -unexpected,” she said.</p> - -<p>“And I have no reason to complain, for they did not know I was coming. -All the same, one may say it is disagreeable, don’t you think? I have to -put up in the inn, instead of being in my—instead of being among my own -people.”</p> - -<p>“Do you know the Markhams, sir?” said Dolly.</p> - -<p>She had a way of saying “sir” to men whom she considered old men; but -happily Mr. Markham<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> Gaveston did not know what was his title to so -respectful an address.</p> - -<p>“I know the little boys and the little girls,” he said. “I could wish -there were no more.”</p> - -<p>“Why?”</p> - -<p>Dolly turned upon him with a flash of indignation, with eyes wide open -and lips apart.</p> - -<p>“Ah! what a silly thing to say, wasn’t it?” he said. “You may be sure I -couldn’t have meant it. I want you to tell me about the others—the -eldest girl and the boy.”</p> - -<p>“I! tell you—about the others!”</p> - -<p>Dolly grew pale, and then red again. Either he must be mad, which had -been her first thought, or else——</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, quite calmly, “don’t be frightened. I want to have a -good account of them and that is what has brought me to you.”</p> - -<p>Once more Dolly stared at him in consternation. She wanted to be angry -and think him impertinent, but he was not impertinent.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be frightened,” her strange companion went on. “I want to hear -all that is good of them. They tell<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span> me that I won’t hear anything that -is not good from you.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. —— sir! —— How can I talk,” cried Dolly, with crimson cheeks, “of -my friends to you? I—don’t know you. Why do you want to question any -one about them? Who told you I would say nothing that was not good? Does -anybody think,” cried Dolly, her eyes flaming, “that I would say either -good or bad, for any one, that was not true?”</p> - -<p>“I cannot answer so many questions at once,” said the little gentleman; -“besides, that is not what I want; I want to ask, not to answer. I want -to know about my—relations. When I see them, perhaps they may not be -very civil to me; they may think me a bore.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Dolly, “certainly they will be civil. Alice is too kind for -anything else, and Paul—Paul is a gentleman,” she said, raising her -head. A softness came over the girl’s eyes. She had no thought of -betraying herself; perhaps indeed she was not aware that there was -anything to betray; but in spite of herself, a certain subdued and -dreamy glow, a kind of haze of golden light, came into her brown eyes at -Paul’s name.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well, that is something,” said the stranger; “you don’t think then that -they will take to me much? but because the one is kind, and the other a -gentleman——”</p> - -<p>“That was not what I meant. Am I to pay you compliments to your face?” -said Dolly, stopping short and looking suddenly up, half impatient, half -amused.</p> - -<p>“Certainly, if you wish to,” he cried, promptly. “Oh, yes—do not be -shy. I should not at all mind a compliment or two; indeed I think I -should like them. Do not stand upon ceremony. If you can say seriously -that you think me so nice that Alice will like me at once, and your Paul -claim me as a brother——”</p> - -<p>“He is not my Paul,” cried Dolly, with another hot blush. “I do not like -such a way of speaking. And, Mr. ——”</p> - -<p>She paused for his name, but the little man was malicious, and would not -give it. He nodded his head two or three times.</p> - -<p>“Just so,” he said. “That is quite right,” smiling with a mischievous -smile.</p> - -<p>“Mr.—Markham,” Dolly said with a burst. “If that is not your right -name, it is not my fault. How could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> Paul receive you as a brother? You -must mean as—an uncle perhaps. Do you know that Paul is only just come -of age, and Alice is but six months older than I?”</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said Mr. Markham Gaveston, stroking his moustache. “I did not -think of that,” and he looked at her with an expression half comic, half -sad, slightly discomfited there could be no doubt. From this he shook -himself free, however, and asked suddenly, “How old may Sir William be?”</p> - -<p>“Sir William? Oh, quite old,” said Dolly. She gave a furtive glance at -him this time, anxious to keep on the safe side, and making a -calculation in her own mind how old this little brown gentleman himself -could be. Fifty, sixty? these two ages were much the same to Dolly. -There was not to her any appreciable difference in their extreme oldness -and far-offness. Even forty was very old. Her mind wandered hazily, -confused on these grey and misty heights. “He is not so old as papa,” -she said with hesitation, “for papa, you know, was his tutor at college; -but he is a great deal older than Lady Markham. He did not marry till he -was about—I don’t quite know how much—about forty,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> I think I have -heard people say,” said Dolly, with a certain awe in her voice.</p> - -<p>“And that seems quite old to you?”</p> - -<p>“It is old to be married, is it not? And Lady Markham was so beautiful, -everybody says. She is beautiful still. I don’t know any one so lovely. -I tell Alice often though I love her dearly, she is not half, oh, not a -quarter so pretty as her mamma.”</p> - -<p>“How does Alice like that? It will not please her much, I should think. -I should not say that if I wanted her to like me.”</p> - -<p>The disdain with which Dolly erected her small head, and looked at him!</p> - -<p>“That only shows,” she said, “how little you know. Any girl would be a -great deal more proud of her beautiful mamma than if she were ever so -pretty herself. And Alice is very pretty. She has the sweetest eyes you -ever saw. Quite blue like the sky—the deep sky. Not this little bit of -no colour at all,” she said, pointing upwards to the hazy grey-blue of -heat: “but the deep, deep sky—the blue-blue behind the clouds. -Everything about her is pretty; but she is not so handsome, so -beautiful, as Lady Markham.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span> Being beautiful, and being pretty, are two -different things.”</p> - -<p>Her companion did not pay much attention to Dolly’s reflections. He -broke the thread of them quite abruptly by asking all at once—</p> - -<p>“And Paul?”</p> - -<p>“Paul!” Dolly raised her slight figure bolt upright as though she had -been fifty. “You are very much interested in Paul, Mr.—Markham; but -then you don’t know them. I care for Alice most.”</p> - -<p>He answered by a laugh. What did he laugh at, this very strange -disagreeable little gentleman? Dolly had thoughts of turning her back -upon him, of saying no more to him, of requesting him to change into -another carriage at the station which they were approaching. But after -all she did not want to be rid of him. She could not help liking to talk -about the Markhams. What could be more natural? Were they not her oldest -friends? her nearest neighbours? the people to whom she owed most of her -pleasures? It was not doing any harm to them; on the contrary, it might -be doing them good. Dolly tried to remember, though her heart fluttered, -whether she had ever heard<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span> of any rich uncle or benevolent relation who -might intend to surprise them, to come home <i>incognito</i>, and find out -their characters before he left them all his money. If this was so, -might it not be for their very highest advantage that she should talk of -them? Mr. Markham Gaveston was the ideal of a rich uncle travelling -<i>incognito</i>, such as appears now and then in novels. Perhaps he might -intend to represent himself as a poor, not a rich, relation in order to -try them. Dolly smiled within herself as this idea crossed her mind. -Then indeed it was quite certain who his money would come to! He would -be received as if he were a prince. Lady Markham and Alice would not -know how to do enough for him. They would try to make him forget his -imaginary troubles; they would comfort him for all his losses. If this -was what he meant to do, Dolly smiled to think of the certain issue. -Before she came to this smile, she had made a long circuit in her -thoughts, and had half or wholly forgotten the laugh which had for a -moment roused her indignation. And when he saw her smile, her companion -took it as a sign of amnesty, and himself resumed the conversation.</p> - -<p>“Come,” he said, “you have told me about the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> ladies; it is the turn of -the others now; so if you please, let us return to the most important. I -want to know about Paul.”</p> - -<p>“Is he the most important?” said Dolly, doing her best to move her -pretty upper lip into a semblance of scorn; then she dropped from this -height of proud disdain, and admitted in a cheerful tone, “I suppose he -will be to gentlemen. I do not know Paul so well; that is natural. He -has been away a great deal—not always at home like Alice; he was at -school first, and now he has been nearly three years at Oxford. I have -seen him only in the holidays. That makes a great difference,” said -Dolly, demurely. She looked at her questioner with quiet defiance. If he -thought she was going to betray herself a second time! And Mr. Markham -laughed too. They established a little tacit confidence on this -point—not that Dolly would have owned to it for any inducement—but the -stranger was quick, and understood.</p> - -<p>“Shall you go and stay with them,” she said, beginning to carry the war -into the enemy’s country, “when they come back?”</p> - -<p>“If they will have me,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh, I am sure they will have you. If you take my advice, Mr.—Markham, -this is what you must do. Pretend to be quite poor. Say you have lost -everything, and that instead of coming to England rich as you had hoped, -you have come with nothing. Oh, what fun it will be,” cried Dolly. “I -will back you up in everything you say. I will pretend you <i>told</i> me -about it. Do this, Mr. Markham, and you shall see what will happen.”</p> - -<p>“What would happen in many houses would be that I should be turned to -the door. But how do you know that I am not poor? then it would be no -fun at all.”</p> - -<p>Dolly’s laugh was a pleasure to hear; it was so honest, and simple, and -sure. She had no doubt whatever on the question. Her theory explained -everything delightfully. She did not even take the trouble to reply to -this suggestion. She said—</p> - -<p>“We are coming to the Pemberton station. Do you mean to change here as -you said?”</p> - -<p>“I will go certainly, if you turn me out.”</p> - -<p>Here Dolly’s laughing countenance suddenly clouded over. She cast at him -a quick glance of entreaty.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, don’t go, don’t go,” she cried. And then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> she added, in a tone -of annoyance, “I think everybody is travelling to-day. Some people are -always travelling. It is horrid,” cried Dolly, “to see the same faces -and hear the same voices wherever one goes.”</p> - -<p>The cause of this ebullition of temper was easily explained. It was -George Westland, very deprecating and humble, who had opened the -carriage door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> -<p>“<span class="smcap">Good</span> morning, Miss Stainforth.”</p> - -<p>“Good morning,” Dolly replied, with a forbidding face.</p> - -<p>“Is there any room in your carriage? I am going only as far as -Birtwood.”</p> - -<p>“There is always room in my carriage,” said Dolly, “for it is a ladies’ -carriage. This gentleman got in in a hurry just as we were starting, but -he is to leave if any ladies come and want his place. I could not let -any other gentleman come in, but if Ada is with you——”</p> - -<p>George Westland’s countenance fell. It was a heavy and not a lovely -face, but there was feeling in it, and a flicker of hope and pleasure -had made his eyes bright. Now the light went out of it suddenly. He -uttered a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> blank “Oh!” of disappointment, and stood looking at her with -a vacant look. Her companion in the carriage was not a likely person to -excite any young lover’s jealousy, but yet——</p> - -<p>“No, Ada is not with me,” he said, fixing an anxious look upon the -stranger, who had retired to the other window, and was ostentatiously -abstracting himself from the conversation. (She would surely never have -anything to say to a bit of a little old fellow like that, poor George -thought within himself.) He lingered at the window, not knowing what to -say more, for conversation was not his forte. At last he remembered a -subject which could not fail to be successful. “Have you heard,” he -said—“but of course you must have heard—that Sir William is ill? He -has been to Oxford—something about Paul. What Paul has been doing, I -don’t know,” the young man went on with increasing vigour, “but -something to make his people uneasy. And Sir William is ill; some one -said just now they were bringing him home to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Sir William ill! Oh, no, I have not heard anything about it. It must be -a mistake,” said Dolly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> “for I am sure the children did not know, and -they would be sure to hear.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid it is quite true,” said the young man. But with this he had -to make an abrupt disappearance, as the train was about setting off -again. When he had gone, Mr. Markham Gaveston drew near from the other -end of the carriage.</p> - -<p>“I did not want to interfere with your conversation,” he said, with -comical demureness. “He was not so bold as I; I did not ask leave. But -indeed, poor young man, as I am already in possession, it would not have -done him very much good.”</p> - -<p>Dolly did not think it necessary to take any notice, and the distance to -Birtwood was very short and left little time for further talk. Her -companion, on his side, did not take any notice of the news about Sir -William, which Dolly hoped was not true. “The Westlands always know -before any one else if there is anything the matter with the Markhams; -they seem to like to tell one,” she complained, with a contradiction of -her own hope. But though he had been so profuse in his inquiries before, -the stranger said nothing more now. A certain sternness had crept into -his brown face; the habitual<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> smile, half mocking, half complacent, died -away from his mouth, his upper lip set firmly upon the other. But Dolly, -who was not very deeply interested in the Markhams’ relation, did not -notice these changes.</p> - -<p>Birtwood was a railway junction, an important place in those regions. -All the traffic of the district, all the comings and goings, had to -concentrate there. Through all the county it was well known that you -were more apt to see your friends at Birtwood than anywhere else. It did -not matter where they were going, everybody passed by this point of -union. People met as they crossed each other to take the trains up and -down; there were all sorts of little services which one could render to -another; and it was said that many marriages had been made and -friendships cemented during the intervals of waiting which were -inevitable, in the tedium of that new ill which modern flesh is heir -to—the necessity of waiting for your train. The train in which Dolly -and Mr. Markham Gaveston were was a little local train, and therefore -used with indignity. It was pushed about, now to one side, now to the -other, before it was permitted to approach the platform, another more -important line of carriages being brought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> up and allowed to disgorge -its passengers before the very eyes of the humble travellers who were -kept behind, making little runs up and down, though they had arrived -before the train which was thus preferred to them. Dolly, though she was -used to this, felt it incumbent upon her to put on a show of -indignation, for she did not want a stranger to suppose that this was -how the trains from Markham Royal were always used. “I will make papa -write about it,” she said. She was standing in front of the window when -at last the train drew up, obscuring the scene for the little man -behind, who took it patiently enough. When, however, Dolly uttered a -little cry, and, leaning out head and shoulders, made eager signs to -some one already standing on the platform, exclaiming, “Oh, Alice! -Alice! wait a moment,” his interest was instantly roused. As soon as the -carriage stopped, the girl precipitated herself out of it, and rushed -towards two ladies who were waiting. Mr. Markham Gaveston made no -attempt to follow. He placed himself at the window of the carriage and -looked out, his brown face wholly changed in aspect, his eyebrows -contracted, his lips set firm. Two women, mother and daughter, one in -full maturity, the other in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> the sweetest bloom of youth, with their -face turned towards a third person, who came slowly along leaning upon -the arm of a young man. Dolly, rushing towards them, was received by the -other girl with a hurried gesture of her hand, half salutation, half -intended to draw the new-comer out of the way; while the elder lady took -no notice, her face, which was full of anxiety, being turned towards the -advancing group. All the people about followed more or less that anxious -look, and the officials of the place were crowding round in respectful -attendance. The spectator at the window, who had grown very pale through -his brownness, saw an old man walking slowly and feebly along, leaning -heavily upon his companion’s arm. He seemed to say something as they -made their way along, for the young man turned round and waved his -disengaged hand to warn the bystanders away. The blood rushed into Gus -Markham’s ears, tingling and throbbing, as he saw this little procession -pass, so close to where he sat at his window that he could have touched -the chief figure. Sir William was ashy pale, his under lip drooped, one -of his hands hung with a look of useless limpness by his side, he -shuffled slightly with one foot. The air of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> a man stricken and broken -down as by some great blow was upon him. The spectator gazed with the -strangest pang, eagerly, keenly at the face he had never consciously -seen before. Not a doubt of who it was crossed his mind. He had expected -to meet him coldly, perhaps to be received with doubt and antagonism; -but it had never occurred to Gus’s somewhat superficial but not -unamiable spirit that anything tragical would be involved in the -encounter. Gradually indeed, a sense of issues more serious than any -that had ever occurred to him before had been invading the kindly -self-satisfaction of his nature. Now he sat and gazed as under a spell. -They had shown him Sir William’s portrait at the Chase. Was it he that -had made the difference between that self-possessed, dignified, imposing -little statesman and this broken and suffering old man? Gus gazed as one -who cannot detach his eyes. The whole scene passed before him like a -picture. The beautiful, anxious woman, gazing with such circles of -trouble round her eyes, watching every step her husband made; the -beautiful girl, putting her young companion aside, watching her father -creep along through the sunshine; the young man—but here Gu<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span>s’s -thoughts broke off short. Was that Paul? It did not seem to him like the -idea of Paul which he had got from all that had been said. The young man -was not like any of the others. He had none of that “family look” which -distinguishes even in unlikeness members of the same race. His face was -serious, but not anxious like the others; he had an air of kind -solicitude, not of family trouble. Was it Paul? Was it Sir William’s -heir? They passed slowly before him, all the rest of the faces round -looking after them, turned towards them, making them the centre, as this -far more deeply interested spectator did.</p> - -<p>He felt himself drawn after them, he could not tell how, and stole quite -quietly out of the carriage as soon as they had passed. They were going -further on to another train—a special one—which was going back to -Markham Royal. Gus followed slowly among the other bystanders, walking -as near the principal persons as he could, following as at a funeral. -Was it his doing? Was it his fault? He heard the murmurs of the people -with a strange sense of guiltiness. “He’s aged ten years,” he heard one -say to another, “since the other day.” “Ah, sons has a deal to answer -for,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> another. This speech went buzzing through his mind like a -winged and stinging insect. It hurt him, though nobody could have -thought of him in saying it. He saw the sick man put carefully into the -carriage, watching every movement, and feeling as if he himself were -hurt by the little stumble of his foot as he went in—the jar of -unexpected motion in the train. Lady Markham passed him slowly, as he -stood looking with a woful face, deadly serious and awe-stricken, after -the sufferer, and gave him a grateful glance, seeing what she thought -the sympathy in his eyes. But it was not sympathy; it was a far -stronger, more personal feeling. He stood gazing while everything was -arranged for Sir William’s comfort, and started to hear his voice coming -out of the midst of the anxious group. It was not much he said—nothing, -indeed, but a “That will do—that will do!” half querulous, half -grateful. But the sound gave the looker-on a shock; it sounded to him -reproachful, almost terrible. He kept standing there, staring, seeing -nothing except the man whom he had never seen before—whom, for all he -knew—was it possible?—his letter had killed.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly the sound of other voices came to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> ears—a whispering -conversation. The two girls were behind him, not conscious of his -presence.</p> - -<p>“Very ill,” one was saying. “Oh, Dolly, yesterday we thought he would -have died. But he is so much better now. The doctor was quite perplexed; -he said he never saw anything so momentary; he could not call it a -fit—it lasted so short a time. He thinks in a day or two he will be -quite well again.”</p> - -<p>“Alice!” said the other’s whispering voice, “don’t tell me if it vexes -you; but I will never—never say a word. Oh, tell me! I can’t think of -anything else—was it Paul?”</p> - -<p>“Paul!” with a tone of indignation. Then the voice softened. “Dolly, -dear, I know why you ask. Paul has been—very—wilful: he has given us a -great deal of grief. I don’t know how to tell you. But it was not Paul. -Oh, there have been so many things! and he had letters—that worried -him.”</p> - -<p>“Was that all?”</p> - -<p>She was standing close by the man into whose heart these words sank like -a stone.</p> - -<p>“Everybody,” said Dolly, “is worried by letters; and now that he is -safely here, you and your mamma<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> will be able to take care of him, and -keep everything that is bad for him out of his way.”</p> - -<p>“I hope so,” said Alice doubtfully. And then she passed Gus Markham so -closely that her dress touched him. He withdrew from the touch hastily, -and looked at her with anxious eyes. If she had known! but she did not -look at him; far less had she any thought that he was involved in the -catastrophe that had happened. He stood quite still, paying no attention -to Dolly, watching them as Alice joined her mother in the carriage. Then -he hurried on to another compartment and got in. What a home-coming it -would be!—the children that had been so merry subdued and silenced at -once—the big house that had looked so peaceful, filled full of -apprehension and trouble. He got into one of the carriages that -followed, with a sense that nothing could disassociate him henceforward -from this troubled family.</p> - -<p>Dolly, standing wistful on the platform to watch her friend go away, -caught sight of him, too, as the train passed, and a gleam of wonder -shot over her little pale face. Yes, they would all wonder, no doubt. It -would seem strange—very strange to everybody. But it was clear that -wherever this party went he must follow them. His lot was cast in with -theirs, once for all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> -<p><span class="smcap">On</span> the morning when Lady Markham went upon that unfortunate visit to -Spears in his shop, which has been already recorded, both her husband -and daughter were early astir—astir in that way which so often occurs -in a family disturbed by domestic anxiety, when all are roused and in -movement before the ordinary time, yet all unwilling to begin the day, -to meet, to breakfast, to return once more to painful discussions of a -trouble which no discussions ever diminish. Lady Markham stole out, -thinking that both were asleep, while, on the other hand, both father -and daughter respected her restlessness, and used what expedients were -in their power to soothe their own.</p> - -<p>Sir William had his writing-case, and the despatchbox which he carried -everywhere with him, taken down<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> stairs, to the big, bare sitting-room, -in which his wife and he had discussed Paul on the previous night—a -high square room, like a box, as blank and featureless; and there sat -down, and made a pretence of writing his letters,—nay, more than a -pretence, for his mind was preternaturally clear, stirred into activity -and wakefulness more strenuous even than its wont, by the care which was -the undercurrent of all his thoughts, and perpetually present with him. -He wrote several letters about business, public and private, in which -his well-known terse and concentrated style was more concentrated and -terse than ever. And by times he laid down his pen, and breathed a sigh -out of the very depths of his chest, from the bottom of his heart. This -was all the sign he gave of the distractions which were in his mind. It -was much from him. He was not so overwhelmed as his wife by the -suggestion of Paul’s possible entanglement, but he was much more angry, -annoyed, and impatient of the folly which all his wisdom could not cure. -What can be more irritating, confusing, bewildering to a man who knows -himself a power and influence in the world: not to be able to influence -the being nearest to him to persuade his own son to hear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> reason! There -could not be a greater irony of fate. And behind this irritation and -annoyance there was the other mystery, which only he knew of—the danger -which menaced Paul in those prospects which Paul held so lightly, and -was ready to throw away on the lightest inducement. Would he care as -little for them if they were to disappear from him at the will of -another, not his own? To find himself thus, between two -impossibilities—between his young son whom he could no more move than -he could move a mountain, and another unknown being who for aught he -knew might be as little manageable as Paul, he was held fast and his -mind driven to bay. He kept himself out of the whirl of thought and -feeling which these perplexities raised by mere force of will, and sat -perfectly self-controlled at the bare table writing his letters, himself -as neat as usual, every fold of his trim attire in its right place, his -tie tied with all the usual exactitude, his sentences more sharply cut, -more tersely defined than ever. The suppressed excitement in him acted -as a powerful stimulant, quickening his heart’s action, and intensifying -the clearness of his brain; but now and then he put down his pen, forgot -the imperial problems which were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span> easier to solve than these private -ones, and relieved his full heart with the labouring of a profound sigh; -then set to work once more.</p> - -<p>The breakfast was brought in before Lady Markham appeared. Alice had -been up in her own room for, she thought, hours—trying to read, trying -to find any little trivial occupation, wandering to the window to gaze -out blindly, seeing nothing, fulfilling all the tricks of anxiety, as if -she, happy child, had been born to it, or had lived in no other -atmosphere all her days. And yet it was but a short time since the very -<i>a</i>, <i>b</i>, <i>c</i>, of this devouring absorbing passion, had been unknown to -her—so easily are all its habits learnt. She went down stairs when the -hour for breakfast arrived, and found Sir William very busy over his -papers.</p> - -<p>“Where is your mother?” he said.</p> - -<p>Alice did not know; but they easily concluded that being ready early she -had gone—it was not far—to see her boy in his rooms, perhaps to use -some argument with him which had been taught to her in the counsels of -the night.</p> - -<p>“She will have gone to bring Paul to breakfast,” Alice said, feeling it -was her business to smile, and keep<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> what show of liveliness was -possible. Then she made the tea, and going to the window once more stood -looking out, hearing in the silence the scratch of her father’s pen upon -the paper, and the bubbling and boiling of the urn upon the table.</p> - -<p>By and by they sat down to breakfast. Lady Markham possibly was staying -with Paul. Perhaps he was late, as usual, and kept her waiting. It -seemed a cheerful token, a sign of good, to fall back upon Paul’s -lateness—that familiar home grievance which they all had laughed and -scolded about a hundred times. To say that he was “late as usual,” that -mamma no doubt had found him in bed, and was waiting for him, lazy -fellow, seemed to break the new and gloomy spell.</p> - -<p>Just then, however, a step approached, and some one knocked; a servant, -and after him, their friend of yesterday, young Fairfax, very shamefaced -and blushing, who came to say that Lady Markham had sent him, that she -was taking off her hat up stairs, and would be down directly; and that -he was under her orders to wait here for something she wanted him to do.</p> - -<p>Fairfax blushed to the roots of his hair, and was full of apologies.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I am so sorry,” he said, “to disturb you; but Lady Markham——”</p> - -<p>“Bring another cup,” said Sir William.</p> - -<p>The waiter, who had ushered in Fairfax, had brought also a letter, which -was almost more surprising than the other visitor.</p> - -<p>Sir William, however, was glad of any one who took him out of himself. -He looked at his letter, but it did not seem important. The postmark was -Markham Royal. There was no one there to give him uneasiness of any -kind. He took it up between his finger and thumb, as he said—“Bring -another cup.”</p> - -<p>And then neither of the young people knew anything more about Sir -William till Lady Markham came in. He retired behind his letter as -behind a shield, and the others talked. Fairfax was somewhat shy. He -described how he had met Lady Markham in the fresh morning.</p> - -<p>“It is the most pleasant time for walking if people only knew.”</p> - -<p>“Did mamma go to see Paul? and oh, where is he? will not he come?” said -Alice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span></p> - -<p>The tears got into her voice. Had things gone so far that he would -refuse to come?</p> - -<p>“I don’t think she has seen Markham,” said young Fairfax.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham had brought him in with her that she might not be obliged -all at once to explain where she had been. The same reason made her -spend a longer time than was necessary in taking off her hat and putting -on the matronly cap with which she covered her beautiful hair. She -thought with the simple subtlety of an innocent woman that the -conversation would be in full course when she made her appearance and -any confusion on her own part be concealed. When she came in her manners -were of the conciliatory and effusive kind which is common to all -culprits desirous of avoiding explanations of equivocal conduct.</p> - -<p>“I met Mr. Fairfax when I went out, and I met him again coming back,” -she said, “and he owned he had not breakfasted. I hope you are giving -him something to eat, Alice.”</p> - -<p>Alice looked up anxiously in her mother’s eyes. Where was Paul? that -look inquired, but the glance with which Lady Markham replied conveyed -no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span> information. She shrank from her child’s look, and sitting down -began to talk almost volubly.</p> - -<p>“I went further than I meant to go; the morning was so lovely and -everything so still. Is it usually so still, so vacant, in summer, Mr. -Fairfax? In the country we are used to it—but to see a place usually so -full of young life in this state of quiet is strange. I met—scarcely -any one,” said Lady Markham. “William, you will have some more tea?”</p> - -<p>Sir William did not make any answer. The letter which he had been -holding up dropped, or rather the hand which had held it dropped upon -his knee; and he was leaning back in his chair, Lady Markham could see -with the corner of her eye—but she did not look at him, not wishing to -risk the encounter.</p> - -<p>“I thought I should be back before you were ready,” she said. “We are -all early this morning. I suppose it is because an inn is so unlike -home. William—Oh!” She rose to her feet in sudden alarm. “Are you ill? -What is the matter?”</p> - -<p>He was leaning back in his chair, his head drooping against it, his face -very pale, his mouth open and his breath labouring and painful, but he -had not lost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> command of himself. When his wife rushed to him he tried -to smile.</p> - -<p>“Feeling—faint,” he said, feebly.</p> - -<p>It was a weakness to which he had been subject before. While they -hurried to get wine, eau-de-Cologne, all the usual restoratives, he, -still keeping up a vestige of a smile, did his best to fold up the -letter he was holding, and groped about for the envelope.</p> - -<p>“I will put it away,” his wife said; but he made a slight negative -movement of his head and succeeded in pushing it into a letter-case, -which he always carried. The envelope had dropped on the floor. Who -thought anything of it? He had things to move him quite sufficient to -account for any disturbance of the heart without seeking for further -causes. After a while the faintness passed off, his breathing improved, -his heart began to beat naturally, and he came, or seemed to come, to -himself. When he went up stairs with Lady Markham’s anxious attendance, -Alice and the young man remained alone. These few minutes had done as -much as weeks generally do towards the growing acquaintance of these two -young persons. Fairfax had run hither and thither to get whatever they -wanted.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> He had supported Sir William up stairs. He had shared in the -alarm, the confusion, the trouble of the moment. Alice came down with -him after her father had been established in his room, to think of the -civilities which were due to a stranger. The half-eaten meal on the -table, the confusion of chairs, the air of human trouble and agitation -in the place had already made the bare room more like an inhabited -house. Alice faintly begged her companion to take his place again.</p> - -<p>“Mamma will come presently. He will want nothing but quiet and rest: he -has been—worried—you know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Fairfax; “it throws a light upon some things I never thought -of before. My people are robust, fortunately; they are only uncles and -aunts, who don’t suffer in the same way as one’s parents, I suppose. -But, Miss Markham, if any one had cared as much for me—I have given a -great deal more cause for anxiety than your brother has done. When I see -how you are all upset it makes me blush for myself.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Fairfax, it is so kind, so good of you to say so.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Is it?” he said, with genuine surprise; “now I wonder why? There is no -goodness about it, I fear, one way or the other. Only there are lots of -us that don’t realise—that can’t understand.”</p> - -<p>Alice’s heart grew quite light. She considered that this independent -testimony was as good as a vindication of Paul. A young man, a comrade, -must know all about him, that was self-evident; and when he declared so -distinctly Paul’s superiority to himself what doubt could there be that -such an uncalled, generous witness must be trustworthy? She could have -laughed, or cried for pleasure.</p> - -<p>“I should like mamma to hear you,” she said. “I suppose it is because he -is so much to us all that we are so foolish. You don’t think he will -really go away? That is what worries papa. He wants him to go into -parliament, and public life.”</p> - -<p>Fairfax laughed.</p> - -<p>“He is a lucky fellow. It is not possible to imagine that he could -willingly throw away all these chances; but if I can answer for -Markham’s heart I can’t answer for his head, Miss Markham. The one is as -right as a compass, but the other is packed full of crotchets I must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> -allow; and what he may be able to do in that way, how far he may go, I -would not undertake to say.”</p> - -<p>Alice’s countenance fell, then brightened faintly again with a little -light of opposition.</p> - -<p>“You may call them crotchets, Mr. Fairfax, but I am sure Paul’s ideas -are convictions, and what can he do but follow them out?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that is giving up the question,” said the other. “I believe they -are convictions; but you may be convinced of a foolish thing as well as -a wise one.”</p> - -<p>“What he says is not foolish. I do not agree with it,” said Alice, “but -it is fine, it is noble; he would do what our Lord says, give up -everything for the poor.”</p> - -<p>Fairfax shook his head.</p> - -<p>“It sounds very fine in that way, Miss Markham; but that is not how Paul -puts it. It is not giving to the poor, but sharing with his equals that -is his thought, and I do not think you would like that. If they all had -their share to-morrow, half would have two shares next day—at least so -everybody says,” he went on with a laugh—“all the philosophers; and I -am sure Paul would have no share at all. He would have given it away to -somebody who persuaded him that he had not drawn a good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> lot. ‘Take it,’ -he would say, ‘I can starve better than you can,’ for he is a fine -aristocrat, our friend Paul.”</p> - -<p>“Do you call that being an aristocrat?”</p> - -<p>“To be sure; isn’t it? A poor little <i>roturier</i> like myself has not the -knack of it. I should say, ‘Take a cut at mine,’ as if it was an orange, -and hack at it myself among the rest. But Markham does things with a -grand air. He will always have it; indeed, I think that when he had got -his share to which he would allow he had an indisputable right, he would -prefer to give it away in a lordly manner, and keep nothing but his -magnanimity. That is what he is doing now.”</p> - -<p>To have such an audience as Alice, with that glow of tender gratitude -and pleasure in her eyes, looking up to him, fixed upon his face, her -smile following every word of this pretended impartial and philosophical -description, was worth any man’s while. He was tempted to go on -romancing about Paul, giving him not only the praise he felt his due, -but a great deal more, in order to secure a little longer that rapt -attention. But perhaps it was better to stop, and leave her time enough -to say with her hands clasped, and her whole soul in her look—</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fairfax, you make me very happy. They have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> whispered things to -mamma which have made her wretched; but it is ‘nothing but his -magnanimity:’ that was what you said?”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham opened the door, and came into the room before Fairfax -could reply. She was preoccupied, and took no notice of the conversation -that was going on. “Your father has fallen asleep,” she said; “he is -very much exhausted. Oh, how I wish we had not left home.” Then she -perceived Fairfax, and added with a change of tone, “You have had no -breakfast. Alice, I thought you would attend to Mr. Fairfax.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Alice, “do you think he cares about breakfast when we are in -such trouble? He has been telling me about Paul. Mamma, listen to him. -He must know. He says it is all Paul’s magnanimity—that was the word.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear, my dear,” cried Lady Markham, “it is my fault. I have made -everything worse. Oh! why will women interfere? We ought to have stayed -at home, and had patience. What can we do one way or another? I have -behaved like a fool and got my boy into more trouble. And now your -father. What shall we do if he is ill too?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, it is impossible that you can be to blame.”</p> - -<p>“Quite impossible!” cried Fairfax. What gave him any right to speak? Yet -they took it as a matter of course. “And pardon me, Lady Markham, I do -not think there is any one much to blame. There is no harm in it at all. -If you could but see behind the scenes as I do! Spears is an -enthusiast—say a fanatic; he believes all he says, and Paul believes -him and thinks he thinks with him; but he does not altogether; and they -will differ more and more as time goes on. Patience, and it will come -right.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, if I could have had patience! Do you know what anxiety means?” said -Lady Markham. “It is a determination not to be unhappy. What does it -matter whether I am happy or not—I have been very happy all my life. I -ought to bear it, and wait till God sends a cure; but we would not, -Alice—we would rush into it, knowing nothing, meddling. Oh, why should -women interfere!”</p> - -<p>This strained Alice’s sense of natural justice.</p> - -<p>“Have not women as much to do with it as men?” she said.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham shook her head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I have made things worse—I have made everything worse. Mr. Fairfax, -will you go and tell Paul that his father is ill? Oh no, I have no right -to ask you to take so much trouble; but you are kind, I know. You have a -mother who would go out of her senses too, if anything was amiss. When -you tell her she will explain it all to you; how foolish, how foolish a -woman can be. Go and tell him that his father is ill. His father is not -a man to be ill for nothing. He will see it is no light matter when he -knows that his father is ill. There is something—a little—the matter -with Sir William’s heart—not much, thank God; but we ought to spare -him. Will you tell Paul?—but Alice, Alice, how could you be so -careless, Mr. Fairfax has had no breakfast!”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham rose hastily, and drew a chair to the table, and turned to -him, pointing to it, with a tremulous smile about her mouth, though the -tears were standing in her eyes.</p> - -<p>Was it possible that it was only yesterday he had come to know them? He -hurried out with his message, quite agitated by the sight of this family -trouble. It was no affair of his, and he had no mother as Lady Markham -suggested, to make him understand; but his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> heart seemed to be suddenly -filled up like an empty vessel with these new people’s affairs. He tried -to laugh at himself, but stopped in the midst of the effort, growing -portentously grave. Why should he laugh? If Sir William was ill, and -Paul on the point of abandoning his natural position and his native -country on a wildgoose chase, with which in all probability he would -soon be utterly disgusted, circumstances were very grave for the Markham -family. Perhaps Fairfax felt it all the more strongly that he in his own -person had no family to abandon. He felt the want so much that he -wondered all the more at one who, with all these pleasant things -belonging to him, should be willing to throw up everything, and go off -into the wilds with Spears—with Spears! he repeated to himself with -indignant, yet half-amused surprise. He did not know anything about -Janet, for the very good reason that till this morning there had been -nothing to know.</p> - -<p>Fairfax walked very rapidly to Paul’s college, but did not find him. As -he however came slowly back again across the deserted quadrangle, he met -young Markham coming gloomily along, his head down, and his countenance -obscured. There was a sort of dull decision in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> Paul’s aspect, as if all -his affairs had been settled at a stroke, as if the hopes and -uncertainties of ordinary life were over for him. He who held his head -so high, whose step was so light and elastic with all the rapidity of a -visionary, came along now crushing the grass with a heavy foot, all the -lightness and youthfulness gone out of him. Fairfax looked at him with -an impulse of wonder. This favourite of fortune, so much beloved, -important to so many, with the world at his feet, what could have put so -much perverseness into his mind that he, of all men in the world, should -be discontented with his lot! How wonderful it was! Paul did not want to -be accosted, to be disturbed in his gloomy thoughts by any frivolous -interruption. He was about to pass with a sullen nod when Fairfax -stopped him against his will.</p> - -<p>“Markham, I am sent to tell you that your father is ill.”</p> - -<p>Paul stopped, and regarded him with sudden anger.</p> - -<p>“What the devil,” he said, with altogether uncalled-for indignation, -“have you to do with my affairs?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing in the world; but your father has been taken ill at the hotel,” -said Fairfax. His cheek flushed, too, but he subdued himself. “Lady -Markham sent me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> to tell you. I have nothing to do with it,” he said; -then went on, while the other stood and glared at him. Fairfax felt the -blood boiling in his veins; but to quarrel with the undutiful son was -not in his <i>consigne</i>. A man with three such people hanging (it seemed) -their happiness on his wayward conclusions: his father ill, his mother -with those beautiful eyes all strained with anxiety; his -sister—Fairfax’s eyes grew dim, as with a dazzlement of light, as he -seemed to see before him Alice, with her head raised, her hands clasped, -her blue eyes full of emotion—all for Paul. Good heavens! who dared -speak of equality? This fellow, who was ready to share everything with -his neighbours—how insensible he was to all those happinesses which he -could not share.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> -<p><span class="smcap">Paul</span> did not at first obey the call thus sent to him. He lingered, angry -that his friend should interfere as he said. He knew it was not -interference, but the pride which was so strong in him, notwithstanding -all his theories, resented haughtily the intrusion of a stranger into -his family. Paul’s theory was far from being complete. He was ready -himself to abandon all he possessed, and to assert it as a necessity -that every honest man should do the like, receive his share and nothing -more; but he did not contemplate the idea of a general descent of his -family into the wider ranks of common brotherhood. That his father -should share his ideas, and resign his wealth and position, was a thing -incredible he well knew; and curiously enough he had never thought of -it. Whatever happened in the way of levelling, it had never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span> seriously -occurred to him to think that the Markhams would be as the Spears, as -the grocers or the hatters. (Grocers and hatters by the way are always -excluded in visionary schemes of revolution. One must draw a line -somewhere; and both the rich and poor draw it at the shopkeeper.) Such a -thing could not be; it was impossible. Were there a republic proclaimed -in England to-morrow, was there a general confiscation and -redistribution of everything, making all men the same, the Markhams -could not be as the Spears. It was not possible.</p> - -<p>But still more hotly, as in the presence of real danger, Paul’s pride -stood up against the possibility of the Markhams being as the Fairfaxes.</p> - -<p>Richard Fairfax was his friend; he was a gentleman—yes, no doubt, in -himself a gentleman—but not as the Markhams were gentlemen. He was a -nobody; he was the son of a nobody. He did not belong to the Fairfaxes -of the north or of the south. He had a good name, but no more. What had -such a fellow to do in Alice Markham’s company? Spears at the Chase was -an eccentricity of his own, which made Paul feel himself above -prejudice, and nobly superior to the conventional<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> maxims of society; -but Fairfax there affronted his pride. The two things were quite -different. The same rules did not seem to apply to the noble working -man, who was above them, as to the gentleman who was only a gentleman in -his own right. That his mother should have formed a kind of alliance -with this young man (though his own friend) irritated him beyond -measure. Women were so easily taken in. Good manners, and a look of good -breeding—so easily acquired nowadays when everybody is formed in the -same mould, and all kinds of people can achieve the hall-mark of public -schools and universities,—was enough to take in a woman. Had Paul been -consulted, no such person should have entered the sacred precincts.</p> - -<p>Yet Paul was a democrat, on the verge of surrendering everything, and -throwing in his fortunes with a little communistic party! The -inconsistency did not strike him, or if it ever stole across his mind, -he repelled the consciousness with a hot protestation within himself -that it was not at all the same thing. That Spears should be his equal -was a thing to fight for, a thing that could never derange the inborn -sense of aristocracy; but that Fairfax, who was so near his equal, -should be his equal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span>—therein lies the danger, which instinct seizes -upon, which rouses pride in arms.</p> - -<p>This proud distaste and discontent occupied his mind at first to the -exclusion of every other feeling. And when that faded, it may be allowed -that Paul had some cause for a disinclination to see his mother. What -had she done? She had dragged down upon his head the humble roof under -which he had intended to find shelter. She had thrown him into the arms -of those with whom indeed he was eager to consort, but whose embrace was -no way attractive—nay, was repulsive to him. She had changed all his -circumstances, vulgarised his plans, degraded him from the rank of a -political apostle into that of a wretched besotted lover. Young men who -are not in love, and in whom the intellect predominates, are apt to be -very hard upon what they consider the delusion, the incredible folly of -such a passion. To sacrifice freedom, personal independence, the -unencumbered lightness of manhood, for the sake of a woman, seems to -them the most ridiculous of mockeries until the moment comes when they -share it. This was Paul’s way of thinking. It was an outrage to his -nature and mental powers to make him appear to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> be doing that for Janet -Spears which he was doing from the highest principle. And this was what -his mother, with her womanish interpretation of his high aims and -wishes, had made appear. He could not forgive her; and in this he was -not without reason. He made many efforts before he could think with -patience of the strange morning’s work which had changed everything for -him. No, he could not go to her so soon. He went to his rooms and shut -himself in, sitting down among his books like any Roman among any ruins. -Read! why should he read? These were useless tools of an old world, -which he was about throwing off. “Honours!” what were they to him? The -schools and the struggle had retreated into dim distance. A degree would -be of far less consequence to him than a gun, and all his studies not -worth half so much as the simplest lesson of his country breeding. To -sit there, however, among all those relics of a time which was over, -which had no more hold upon him, was gloomy work. And every refuge -seemed taken from him. He did not want to go to the rooms of any other -“man” where he might meet Fairfax. He could not go back to Spears; his -heart revolted at the thought of going (as habit made him call<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span> the -place where his parents were) home. He was walking about in this gloomy -way, now gazing out of one window, now out of another, when a little tap -came to his door, a light foot, a soft voice, and agitated face.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Paul, may I come in?” Alice said. “Have you not seen Mr. Fairfax? -He was to tell you papa was ill. We want you—oh, we want you, Paul.”</p> - -<p>“What has Fairfax got to do with it?” growled Paul.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fairfax! Oh, nothing, but that he was so kind; he helped papa up -stairs. He came for you when mamma sent him. I do not know what we -should have done without him; for—<i>you</i> were not there, Paul!”</p> - -<p>“Not much wonder if I was not there!”</p> - -<p>“Why? Mamma does nothing but blame herself. She cries and says we should -not have come. Oh, Paul! and papa, I told you, has had one of his -faints. Will you come?” cried Alice, moved to tears, yet flushing high -with a generous impatience; “or are we to be left to shift for -ourselves?”</p> - -<p>“She deserves it,” he said. “What had she to do with it? Surely I am old -enough to manage my own affairs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Is it <i>mamma</i> you mean by she? Then stay—or go where you like. Oh, how -dare you!” cried Alice, wildly angry. “<i>Mamma!</i>” This stung her so that -she went to the door hurriedly, going away; but that little flash of -wrath was soon over. She stopped and turned round upon him, making -another appeal. “You don’t deserve that we should care for you; but we -do care for you,” she said. “Oh, Paul! when I tell you papa has had one -of his faints—for what? because to think of you going away, forsaking -us, giving up home, and your own place, and the people that you ought to -care for, was more than he could bear. Paul! how can you leave us—leave -Markham and everything you were once fond of—leave your duty, and the -place you were born to?”</p> - -<p>“My dear little Alice,” he said, with a smile, glad to conceal a little -melting of his own heart which was beyond his power of resisting, by -this fine superiority, “speak of things you understand.”</p> - -<p>Then Alice flashed upon him with all the visionary vehemence of a girl -in her own defence.</p> - -<p>“How should I not understand?” she cried, “Am I so stupid? It is you who -make yourself little, pretending to despise us girls. What is there to -despise<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> in us? We do not fill our head with pride and fancies like you. -We love those who belong to us, and serve them, and do our duty as we -know how. It is not we who leave our old father to suffer, or tear our -mother’s heart in two. It is not we that turn peace into trouble. There -you stand,” cried Alice, “a man! fit to be in parliament making the laws -better—fit to be doing something for them that belong to you, after -learning, learning all your life, doing nothing but learn, that you -might be good for something. And now, all you think you are good for is -to emigrate, like the poor Irish. Is that all you are good for? Then you -ought to be humble, and not dare to turn round and sneer and tell us to -speak of things we understand. Understand! I understand that if you can -do nothing better than that—if, after all, you can only betray us and -forsake us, and be no use, no help to any one, it is a shame!”</p> - -<p>Who can doubt that Alice’s eloquence was broken with sobs, and her fury -all blind with tears? She would not, however, for pride, let him see -them fall, but turned away from the door with passionate haste, and flew -down the deserted staircase, swallowing her sobs as best she could, and -dashing away the hasty torrent from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> her eyes. She heard him laugh as -she got out into the air in all her agitation, and this sound stung -Alice to the heart.</p> - -<p>But if she had known it, Paul’s laugh was like the ploughboy’s whistle -to keep his courage up. He had not expected any such onslaught, and he -was not insensible to it, any more than she was to his scorn. For, after -all, he did not in the least despise his sister, though it was so handy -to pretend to do so. When he was left again among his ruins, though he -stimulated himself, as by a sickly trumpet note of pretended victory by -that laugh, Paul did not feel half so grand a personage as he could have -wished, and for the next half hour or so there came and stabbed at him a -little array of by no means pleasant thoughts.</p> - -<p>In the afternoon, after some hours had elapsed, Paul walked into his -father’s room with a little air of defiance, and without any apologies. -Sir William was seated in an easy chair, looking aged and worn.</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry to hear that you have been ill, sir,” his son said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I have been ill,” said Sir William, “but it will pass off. I think -the best thing for me is to get home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I should not think you could be very comfortable here,” Paul said.</p> - -<p>His mother was in the room, and his grievance against her rose up -bitterly, and quenched the softer feeling which had moved him at sight -of his father’s pale face.</p> - -<p>“It would perhaps have been better that we had not come. There are many -things—that I must see after—in your interests. Paul, do you mean to -come home with us? Whatever you may do hereafter, it would be best for -you to come home now.”</p> - -<p>There was a momentary pause.</p> - -<p>Sir William put forward no arguments, not even that of his own -condition—and used no reproaches. But behind him appeared Lady -Markham’s face, pale and pathetic with entreaty. Her eyes were fixed -upon her son with a look which he could scarcely withstand. And -therefore Paul set his face like a rock, and would not yield.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see what good it would do, sir,” he said. “You know my -unalterable resolution. You know my principles, which are so much at -variance with yours, and would prevent me from ever taking the position<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> -you wish. Why should we worry each other since we can’t agree? Besides, -other circumstances have arisen,” he said, with a vengeful glance at his -mother. “But before I sail I shall certainly come to say good-bye.”</p> - -<p>His mother’s faint call after him, “Paul! Paul!” which sounded like a -cry of despair, caught at his very heart, but did not bring him back. -His feet felt like lead as he went down the stairs. Almost they would -not carry him from everything that was in reality most dear to him; but -the more nature held him back the more determined was his obstinate will -to go. He would come back to say good-bye before he sailed. Was he -leaving himself a place of repentance? But at present, though he was -wretched, though his heart seemed to have an arrow through it, and his -feet were like lead, he would not stay.</p> - -<p>This was how it came about that Sir William appeared at Birtwood -station, leaning upon the arm of a young man who was not his son. After -Paul’s visit he had another attack of faintness; and Fairfax, who came -back in the evening to put himself at the disposal of the ladies, found -them in great agitation, eager to get home<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> again, yet half afraid to -venture on the journey. He came back in the morning to help them to get -their patient to the railway; and when they got there, Sir William, -feeling the advantage of his arm, so held by him, that without either -invitation or preparation, the young man, so strangely united to these -strangers came with them, not a word being said on the subject. He had -not even a ticket, nor the smallest provision for a visit. What of that? -The young fellow was of that light heart and easy temper to which no -adventure comes wrong.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> -<p><span class="smcap">Paul Markham</span> went back to his rooms, and sat down again amid the ruins. -His heart was as heavy in his bosom as a lump of lead. It weighed upon -him, hindered his breathing, refused to rise or to beat more lightly, -let him do what he would. He had taken down his pictures, his china, all -that he had thought luxurious, from his walls long before. Nothing -remained of all his decorations which he had once loved but a copy of -Albert Dürer’s <i>Melancholia</i>, which he had kept, thinking it symbolical. -Besides, it was only a photograph. Had it been an original print, worth -a great deal more than its weight in gold, he would not have thought -himself at liberty to keep it. He looked round upon his books with -gloomy eyes. Ruins—nothing but ruins—all around him! What was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> -good of them? They had done him all the service they were capable of, -and in his life there was no further place for them. No schools now for -him, no honours, no need of endless philosophical hair-splitting, this -one’s theory of being, that one’s of knowing. He was going to put all -that babble away. There were a few that he might take with him. -Theocritus his <i>Idylls</i>; grey old Hesiod, that antique husbandman; Plato -in his <i>Republic</i>. But even Plato, what was the good of him, with all -his costly paraphernalia of a new society? Spears would do it all with -much less trouble. No long education would be wanted for <i>his</i> -rulers—if, indeed, any rulers should be needed. Less trouble! After -all, when he came to think of it, it was by no means sure that Spears’s -process was less painful, less costly than Plato’s. Himself, for -example. Would every pioneer who joined their ranks, every leader among -them, be obliged to pay his footing as dearly as Paul had done? To turn -his back upon his father and mother, to cast all his antecedents to the -winds, everything, from filial affection to the books upon his -shelves—it could not be said that this was a cheap or easy probation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span></p> - -<p>He sat thus for he did not know how long, the sunshine of the August -afternoon getting round the corner and streaming straight in, -inquisitive and troublesome. What were they doing now at the inn? Sir -William had been very gentle; he had not said a word of blame. His tone, -his looks, his very weakness had been conciliatory. Paul, when he -covered his eyes with his hands, seemed to see that scene again, and -twinges came to his heart, sudden impulses to get up and go to them—to -go at least to the place and ask after his father. There are temptations -to do right as well as to do wrong. Impulses came to him like little -good angels pulling at his sleeve, entreating him to come; but alas! it -is always more easy to resist temptations to do well than to do ill. -Once or twice he was so far moved that he got up from his chair; but -always sat down again after a blank look from the window over the -deserted quadrangle and the parched trees. Why should he go? It would -but raise vain hopes in them that he meant to yield: and he did not mean -to yield. This kept him a prisoner in his room; for if he did not go -<i>there</i>, where should he go? He paid no attention to the hour of dinner. -He could not, he felt, have gone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> to Hall where there was the little -dinner for the scanty summer contingent, the “men” who were “staying up -to read.” Even these heroes were dropping away daily, and at the best of -times the little group in a place which held so many was depressing; and -Paul did not want to dine—the common offices of life were disgusting -and distasteful to him. He roused himself to go out at last when the -daylight had begun to wane. There was to be a meeting that night in the -shop of Spears, of the people who were going with them to found the new -colony—for to this their plan of emigration had grown; but it was still -too early for that. The shadows were lengthening, the light almost -level, when Paul came out. He did not know where to go; he wandered -through the streets where the townspeople were all about enjoying the -beautiful evening, and strolled heedlessly, not caring where he went, -towards the inn. He could not get out of his mind the recollection of -the little party who would get no good of the beautiful evening. His -mother and Alice, like most mothers and sisters, had always imagined -themselves to be “very fond of Oxford.” They had liked to hear of all -its habits, and foolish, youthful ways—the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span> nightly flights from the -proctors, the corners where some hairbreadth ’scape had been made, the -“High” and the “Broad,” and all that innocent slang which a happy boy -pours forth on his first introduction to these delights. It had always -been an excitement, a delight to them to come here. Now he could not but -think of them shut up in that bare, gloomy room, with the high, pale -walls, and long green curtains. Oh, how they plucked at his sleeve and -at his heart, those persuading angels! How he was tempted to go back -again to bid bygones be bygones, to forgive everything (this was his way -of putting it)! But, no. Had it been the other kind of angel leading him -to another kind of presence most likely the young man would not have -stood out half so bravely. He strolled down to the river where one or -two melancholy “men” in boats were keeping themselves as retired as -possible from the splashing of the released shopboys, and the still more -uncomfortable vicinity of the town boats, which were rowed almost as -well as the ’Varsity. The sky was all rosy with sunset, glowing over the -long reflections in the water, touching the greenness of the banks and -trees into a fuller tint, and making more blue, with all those -contrasting tints<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> of rose, the blueness of the sky. The soft summer -evening, with a gentle exhaustion in it—sweet langour, yet relief after -the heat and work of the day—the soft plash of the oars, the voices all -harmonised by the warm air, the movement and simple enjoyment about, -were all like so many reproaches to him. How they would have liked to -walk with him, to laugh softly back to every sound of pleasure, to talk -of everything. Paul said to himself that all that was over. It was a -pity for Alice to be shut up in a dingy room, but to-morrow she would be -at home among their own woods, and what would it matter? As for himself, -it must be his henceforward to tread the stern path of a higher -duty—alone.</p> - -<p>Paul met with one or two interruptions on the way. He saw Fairfax at a -distance, and saw that he avoided him, turning quickly away; and he met -one or two others of those who were “staying up to read.” Finally he met -a being of a different order, less easy to separate himself from, a -young Don, who turned and walked with him, anxiously intimating that it -was quite immaterial which way he went,—a young man, not much older -than Paul himself, but cultivated to the very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> finger-tips, and anxious -to exercise a good influence if that might prove possible. This new -companion gave him a stab unawares by asking if it was true what he had -heard, that Sir William Markham was ill? Even in a deserted college in -the midst of the long vacation, when there happens to be a tragic -chapter of life going on, some echo of it will get abroad. The young Don -was very modest, and anxious not to offend or intrude upon any “man” in -trouble; but yet he would have been glad could he have exercised a good -influence. They walked along the river bank while the sunset faded out -of the west, and Paul at last acknowledged the relief of companionship -by plunging forth into a statement of his own intentions which filled -his auditor with horror and dismay. A man who did not intend to take his -degree was as a lost soul to the young Don. But even in these appalling -circumstances he could not be impolite. He listened with gentle -disapproval and regret, shaking his head now and then, yet saying -softly, “I see what you mean,” when Paul poured forth a passionate -statement of his difficulties, his sense of the injustice of his own -position, his horror at the corruption and falsehood of the world, and -determination never to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> sanction, never to accept in his own person the -cruel advantages to which he had been born. After all that had come and -gone it was a great ease to the young revolutionary, upon such a verge -of high devotion yet despair as he was, to make one impassioned -assertion of his principles, the higher rule of his conduct. Probably -the college, too, and all the men would hear that it was for the love of -Spears’s daughter that he was throwing his life away. He was glad (when -he came to think of it) of this chance of setting himself right. “I see -what you mean,” said the young Don. He would have said the same thing -with the same regretful air, non-argumentative and sympathetic, yet with -his own opinion in the background, had Paul poured into his ear a -confession of passionate attachment for Janet Spears. He understood what -political enthusiasm was, and he knew that the world might be well lost -for love, though he did not approve either of these passions. In either -case he would have been very glad to have established a good influence -over the man thus carried away, whether by the head or the heart. Paul, -however, if he did not come under any good influence, was solaced by his -own outburst. He got cooler as they turned back<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> towards the towers now -rising dimly into the cooled and softened atmosphere of the night, and -the glimmer of the friendly lights.</p> - -<p>It was a disappointment to the young Don when his companion left him -abruptly, long before they reached their college. He had meant to be -very kind to him at this violent crisis of life, and who could tell, -perhaps to win him back to safer views—at least to put before him so -forcibly the absolute necessity of taking his degree that passion itself -would be forced to pause. But Paul did not give him this chance. He said -a hurried good-night when they reached the spot at which he had met his -mother in the morning, the point at which the picturesque and graceful -old street was crossed by the line of uneven thoroughfares, in which -Spears’s house lay. The young Don looked after him in surprise and -disappointment as he walked away. He shook his head. He would not doubt -the authenticity of Paul’s confession of faith, but the low street -breathed out of it a chill of suspicion. He could understand anything -that was theoretical however wrong-headed, but Spears’s shop and the -street in which it stood was a great deal more difficult to understand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span></p> - -<p>Paul sped along, relieved of the immediate pressure on his heart, and -more determined than ever in his resolution. He had said little in the -morning in answer to Spears’s question. He had declared that it was not -love alone which had brought him there; that there had been nothing -feigned in his enthusiasm for that teaching in which the salvation of -the world he believed would be found to lie; but further he had said -nothing. And Spears had been too much relieved on his own account and -was too delicate on his child’s, to pursue the subject. To tell the -truth, the demagogue, though the kindest of fathers, had not been -delighted by the thought that his own favourite disciple, his captive -aristocrat, the young hero whom he had won out of the enemy’s ranks, and -who was his pride, had been all the time only his daughter’s lover. The -thought had hurt and humbled him. That Paul might love Janet in the -second place, might have learned to love her after his introduction to -the shop, was a different matter. The gratification of recovering his -own place and influence drove the other question from his mind; and by -the time it recurred to him, the delicacy of a mind full of natural -refinement had resumed its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> sway. It was for the lover to open this -subject, not the girl or her friends. And though he wondered a little -that Paul said nothing more to him, he asked no further question. It was -a relief to Paul, on the other hand, not to be called to account. The -evil day was deferred at least, if no more, and he was very glad to put -it off, to wait for what might happen, to hope perhaps that after all -nothing would happen. Paul did not know what had passed or what his -mother had said. Her own broken and tremulous confession of wrong, and -Janet’s consciousness, had been his only guides. He had thought himself -for the moment bound to Janet; but perhaps things had not gone so far as -he thought; and though he was determined to hold firmly to any bond of -honour that might hold him, even though it were not of his own making, -yet the sense that his freedom was still intact was an unspeakable -relief to him. Since then he had managed to forget Janet; but when he -turned his face towards her home it was not so easy to continue to -forget. The twilight was brightened by the twinkle of the lamps all the -way down the vista of the street, and by a dimmer light here and there -from a window. The shutters had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> put up in Spears’s shop, but the -door was open, and in the doorway, faintly indicated by the light -behind, stood some one looking out. Paul knew, before he could see, who -it was. She was looking out for him. It is hard to find our arrival -uncared for by those whom we want to see, but it is, if not more hard, -at least far more embarrassing, to find ourselves eagerly looked for by -those whom we have no wish to see. Paul’s heart sank when he saw the -girl, with the long lines of her black gown filling the doorway, leaning -out her graceful shoulders and fair head in an attitude of anxious -expectation looking for him. What could he say to her? The return of her -image thus suddenly thrust before him filled him with impatience and -annoyance. Yet he could not withdraw himself; he went on without a -pause, wondering with a troubled mind how far his mother had committed -him, what she expected; what she wanted, this girl who was no heroine, -no ideal woman, but only Janet Spears.</p> - -<p>Her eyes drooped as he came forward, with a shyness which had in it -something of finer feeling than Janet had yet known. He was very -dazzling to her in the light of his social superiority. A gentleman! -Janet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> had heard all her life that a gentleman was the work of nature, -not of circumstance, that those who arrogated the title to themselves -had often far less right to bear it than the working men whom they -scorned; but all these theories had passed lightly over her. <i>She</i> knew -the difference. They might talk what stuff they liked, but that would -not make one of them a <i>Sir</i>—a man whose wife would be “my Lady,” a -dazzling personage who drove in his carriage, who had horses to ride, -and men in livery to walk behind him. The other was all talk! fudge! -rubbish! but these things were realities. She watched him coming down -the street in the grey twilight, in the faint yellow of the lamps. His -very walk was different, the way in which he held his arms, not to speak -of his clothes, of which even the Sunday clothes of the others bore but -the faintest resemblance. Janet’s nature, such as it was, prostrated -itself before the finest thing, the highest thing she knew. And if this -is noble in other matters, why not in the most important of all? If it -is a sign of an elevated soul to seek the best and loftiest, why not in -a husband? Janet did not stand upon logic, yet her logic here was far -better practically than her father’s.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span> She recognised Paul without a -moment’s hesitation as the best thing within her reach, and why should -not she put forth her entire powers to gain the perfection she sought?</p> - -<p>“They have not come yet, Mr.—Paul,” said Janet, casting down her eyes.</p> - -<p>She had always called him Mr. Markham before; but she could not help -hoping that now he would tenderly reprove her for the previous title, -and bid her call him by his Christian name. Was not this the first step -in lovers’ intimacy? But this was not what happened. It struck Paul -disagreeably to hear his name at all, even with the Mr. before it. His -mind rebelled at this half appropriation of him. He could not help -feeling that it was cowardly of him to be rough with Janet, who had no -power of defending herself; but he could not help it. He brushed past -her with a half-sensation of disgust.</p> - -<p>“Haven’t they?” he said; “never mind. I dare say your father is in.”</p> - -<p>“Father is not in, Mr. Paul. He’s gone to tell Fraser, the Scotchman, to -come. He didn’t know there was a meeting. I am the only one that is in -to keep the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> house. The girls have gone to the circus—did you know -there was a circus?—but I,” said Janet, “I don’t care for such things. -I’ve stayed at home.”</p> - -<p>Then there was a pause. Paul had gone into the shop, which was swept, -and arranged with benches, and a table in the middle, for the emigrants’ -meeting, and Janet following him so far as to stand in the inner instead -of the outer doorway, stood gazing at him by the imperfect light of the -lamp. How could she help gazing at him? She expected him to say -something. This was not how he had looked at her in the morning. Poor -Janet was disappointed to the bottom of her heart.</p> - -<p>“That’s a pity,” said Paul, brusquely. “If I had known Spears would not -be here I should not have come so soon. I don’t see why he should keep -me waiting for him. I have a thousand things to do; all my time is taken -up. I might have been with my father, who is ill, if I had not come -here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, is he ill?” said Janet. Her eyes grew bigger in the dim light -gazing at him. “It must be very strange to be a gentleman’s son like -that,” she added softly; “and to think what a difference it might make<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span> -all at once if—— And you never can tell what may happen,” she -concluded with a sigh of excitement. “I don’t wonder you’re in a way.”</p> - -<p>“Am I in a way? I don’t think so,” said Paul. “I hope there is nothing -much the matter with my father,” he added, after a little pause.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Janet, disappointed; but she added, “There will be some time. -Some time or other you will be a great man, with a title and all that -property. Oh, I wanted to say one thing to you before those men come. -What in the world have you to do with <i>them</i>, Mr. Paul? They may think -themselves ill-used, but you can’t think yourself ill-used. Why should -you go away when you have everything, everything you can set your face -to, at home? Plenty of money, and a grand house, and horses and -carriages, and all sorts of things. You can understand folks doing it -that have nothing; but a gentleman like you that only need to wish and -have, whatever can <i>you</i> want to emigrate for?” Janet cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> -<p><span class="smcap">Spears</span> entered the shop suddenly, before Janet had quite ended her -astonishing address. If his dog had offered him advice Paul could -scarcely have been more surprised. He was standing at one end of the -shop gazing at her, his eyes wide opened with surprise, and -consternation in his mind, when her father came in. Spears was not so -much astonished as Paul was. He saw his daughter standing in the -doorway, her colourless face a little flushed by her earnestness, and -gaining much in beauty from that heightened tint, and from the meaning -in it. Spears thought within himself that it was true what all the -romancers said, that there was nothing like love for embellishing a -woman, and that his Janet had never looked so handsome before. But that -was all. He had come in by a back way, bringing with him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> the Scotchman, -Fraser, who was to be one of the colonists, and therefore could not make -any remark upon the conjunction of these two, or upon the few words he -heard her saying. What so natural as that she should be found lingering -about the place where Paul was expected, or that he should take her -opinion, however foolish it might be?</p> - -<p>“Come, you two,” Spears said, good-humouredly, “no more of this—there -is a time for everything;” and Janet, with a start, with one anxious -look at Paul to see what effect her eloquence was having, went slowly -away.</p> - -<p>Paul had been profoundly astonished by what she said. He could not -understand it. <i>She</i> to bid him remain at home!—she to ask him with -fervour, and almost indignation, what he wanted to emigrate for!—she, -her father’s daughter, to remind him of those advantages which her -father denounced! Paul felt himself utterly bewildered by what she said. -There was nothing in him which helped him to an understanding of Janet’s -real meaning. That her severely practical mind regarded her father’s -creed as simple folly and big words might have been made credible to -him: but that Janet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span> had a distinct determination, rapidly formed, but -of the most absolute force, not to permit himself—him—Paul—to give up -any advantages which she had the hope of sharing—that she was -determined to taste the sweets which he had set his foolish heart on -throwing away—no idea of this entered into his mind. Her warning -look—the little gesture of leave-taking which she made as she went -away, and into which she managed to convey the same warning—overwhelmed -him with amazement. What did she mean? He might have thought there was -some secret plan against him from which she meant to defend him, if he -had not had absolute confidence in Spears. Was it an effort of -generosity on her part to free him from the dilemma in which his -mother’s indiscretion had placed him—to put him away from the place in -which her company might be a danger to him—to restore him to the sphere -to which he belonged? For the first time with this idea a warm impulse -of gratitude and admiration moved him towards the demagogue’s daughter. -He waved his hand to her as she went away, with a smile which made -Janet’s heart jump, and in which indeed no great strain of imagination -was required to see a lover’s lingering of delight and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span> regret as the -object of his affection left him. Spears laughed; he saw no deficiency.</p> - -<p>“Come, come,” he said, “we have more serious work in hand. Leave all -that to a seasonable moment.” And upon the man’s face there came a -smile—soft, luminous, full of tender sympathy. In his day he too had -known what love was.</p> - -<p>Fraser was an uncouth, thick man, short of stature, with that -obscuration of griminess about him which sometimes appears in the -general aspect of a labouring man. He was not dirty, but he was -indistinct, as seen through a certain haze of atmosphere, which, -however, from his side was penetrated by two keen eyes. He gave Paul a -quick look, then, with a word of salutation, took his seat at the table, -on which a paraffin lamp, emitting no delightful odour, was standing. As -he did so two others came in. One a lean man, with spindle limbs and a -long pale face, who looked as if he had grown into exaggerated pale -length, like some imprisoned plant struggling upwards to the distant -light. The other was a clerk, in the decent, carefully arranged dress -which distinguishes his class, very neat and respectable, and “like a -gentleman,” though a world<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> apart from a gentleman’s ease of costume. -The tall man was Weaver; the clerk’s name was Short. They took their -seats also with brief salutations. There was room around the table for -several more, but these seemed all that were coming. Spears took his -place at the head. He was by far the most living and life-like of the -party.</p> - -<p>“Are we all here?” he said. “There are some vacant places. I hope that -doesn’t mean falling away. Where is Rees, Short? What has become of him? -It was you that brought him here.”</p> - -<p>“He has heard of another situation,” said the clerk. “His wife never -liked it. I doubt much whether we’ll see him again. He never was a man -to be calculated upon. Hot at first—very hot—but no stamina. I warned -you, Spears.”</p> - -<p>“And Layton—he was hot too—has he dropped off as well?”</p> - -<p>“Well, you see, Spears,” said the long man, with laboured utterance, -working his hand slowly up and down, “work’s mended in our trade; -there’s a deal in that. When it’s bad a man’s ready for anything; as it -was all the early summer—not a thing doing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> There were dozens on us as -would have gone anywhere to make sure of a bit o’ bread. But work’s -mended, and most of us think no more on what we’ve said. Not me,” the -speaker added; “I’m staunch. It’s nothing to me what the women say.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose you have got the maps and all the details?” said the clerk. -“If we’re going out in October, we’d better settle all the details -without delay.”</p> - -<p>Then there arose a discussion about the land that was offered by the -emigration commissioners, which it is needless to reproduce here. It was -debated between Spears, Fraser, and the clerk, all of whom threw -themselves into it with heat and energy, the eyes of the grimy little -Scotchman gleaming on one after another, throwing sudden light like that -of a lantern; while Short talked with great volubility and readiness, -and Spears, at the head of the table, held the balance between them. -Fraser was for closing with the official offer, and securing land before -they made their start, while the clerk held in his hand the plans of a -new township and the proposals of a land company, which seemed to him -the most advantageous. Spears, for his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> part, was opposed to both. He -was for waiting until they had arrived at their destination, and -choosing for themselves where they would fix their abode. He, for his -part, had no money to buy land, even at the cheapest rate. To take his -family out, to support them during the first probationary interval, was -as much as he could hope for. The debate rose high among them. Weaver -sat with his two elbows resting on the table, and his long pale head -supported in his hands, looking from one to another; his mouth and eyes -were open with perennial wonder and admiration. Land! he had never -possessed anything all his life, and the idea inflamed him. Paul had -never taken any part in these practical discussions; he was too logical. -If it was wrong for him to enjoy the advantages of wealth at home, he -did not see how he could carry any of these advantages away with him, to -purchase other advantages on the other side of the world. What right had -he to do it? He sat silent, but less patient than Weaver, less admiring, -feeling the peculiarities of the men doubly, now that he had associated -himself conclusively with them. The clerk’s precise little tone, cut and -dry—his disquisition upon the rates of interest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span> and the chances of -making a good speculation—Fraser’s dusky hands, which he put forward in -the heat of argument, beating out emphatic sentences with a short, -square forefinger—gave him an impression they had never done before. -Short was a little contemptuous (notwithstanding the democratical views -which he shared) of the working men, and their knowledge of what ought -to be done.</p> - -<p>“With the small means at our command,” he said, “to go out into the bush -would be folly. You can’t grow grain or even potatoes in a few weeks. -You must have civilisation behind you, and a town where you can push -along with your trades till the land begins to pay.”</p> - -<p>“And how are you to make the land pay without the plough, and somebody -to guide it?” said Fraser. “I am not one that holds with civilisation. -Most land will pay that’s well solicited with a good spade and a good -stout arm. We’ll take a pickle meal with us, or let’s say flour, and the -time the corn’s growing we’ll build our houses and live on our porridge. -I do not approve of the Government, but it makes a good offer, and land -cannot run away. Make yourself sure of a slice of the land; that is what -I’ll always say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Land,” said Spears, with some scorn in his tone, “that may be in the -middle of a marsh, or on the cold side of a hill. I put no faith in the -Government offer for my part, and a little less than none in your new -township, Short. Did you ever read about Eden in Mr. Dickens’s book? I -object to be slaughtered with fever for the sake of a new land company. -Here is my opinion: Take your money with you as you please—in your old -stocking, or in bits of paper—I,” said the demagogue, “feel the -superiority of a man that has no money to take. I’ve got my head and my -hands, and I mean to get <i>my</i> farm out of them. But let’s see the place -first and choose. Let’s try the forest primeval, as they call it; but -let us take our choice for ourselves.”</p> - -<p>Fraser, who had projected himself half across the table leaning upon his -elbows, and with his emphatic, blunt forefinger extended in act to -speak, here interposed, pointing that member at Paul, who said nothing. -“What’s he going to do? Hasn’t <i>he</i> got an opinion on the subject! I’m -keen to know what a lad will say that has the most money to spend, and -the most to lose—and a young fellow forbye;” said the Scot, flashing -the light of his eager eyes upon Paul, who sat half-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span>interested, -half-disgusted, holding his refined head, and white hands, and fine -linen, a little apart from the group round the table. He started -slightly when he heard himself appealed to.</p> - -<p>“If it is a false position to possess more than one’s neighbours here,” -he said, “I hold it a still more false position to take what ought to be -valuable to the country out of the country. I have very little money -either to spend or to lose, and I think with Spears.”</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said the Scotsman, “my lad, it’s a frolic for you. You’ll go and -you’ll play at what is life or death to us—and by the time you’re tired -of the novelty you’ll mind upon your folk at home, and your duty to -them. I’ve seen the like before. None like you for giving rash counsels: -not that you mean harm: but you know well you’ve them behind you that -will be too glad to have you back. That’s not our case—with us it’s -life or death.”</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue, Fraser,” said Spears. “This young fellow,”—he laid -his hand upon Paul as he spoke, with a kind, paternal air, which perhaps -the young man might have liked at another time, but which made him wince -now—“is in earnest—no sort of doubt that he’s in earnest. He is giving -up a great deal more than any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> of us are doing. We—that’s the worst of -it—are making no sacrifice—we’re going because it suits us; but, to -show his principles, he is giving up—a great deal more than was ever -within our reach.”</p> - -<p>“A man cannot give up more than he has got,” said the clerk. “What we -are sacrificing is every bit as much to us.”</p> - -<p>Spears kept his hand on Paul’s arm. He meant it very kindly, but it was -warm and heavy, and Paul had all the desire in the world to pitch it -off. He did not care for the paternal character of his instructor’s -kindness.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you are giving up,” said Spears. “I have got nothing -to sacrifice, except perhaps a little bit of a perverse liking for the -old country, bad as she is. It takes away a good deal of my pride in -myself, if the truth were known, to feel that after all the talk I’ve -gone through in my life, it isn’t for principle that I’m going, but to -better myself. I told this young fellow he oughtn’t to go—that is the -truth. He has no reason to be discontented. As long as the present state -of things holds out, it’s to his interest, and doubly to his interest, -to stay where he is. But this isn’t the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> kind of fellow to stand on -what’s pleasant to himself. He’s coming for the grand sake of the -cause—eh, Paul?—or if there’s another little bit of motive alongside, -why that’s nothing to anybody. We are not going to make a talk of that.”</p> - -<p>To imagine anything more distasteful to Paul than this speech would be -impossible. Only by the most strenuous exercise of self-control could he -keep from thrusting off Spears’s hand, his intolerable approval, and -still more intolerable pleasantry. He got up at last, unable to bear it -any longer. “We didn’t come here to comment on each other’s motives,” he -said. “Suppose you go on with the business we met for, Spears.”</p> - -<p>It was a little relief to get out of reach of the other’s hand. He stood -up against the narrow little mantelpiece behind Spears’s chair. It was -heaped with picture-frames, and the drawing which Spears had been making -in the morning stood there propped up against the wall; the great -foxglove from which he had designed it lay in a heap along with the -other flowers which he had rejected, swept up into the fireplace. A -faint odour of crushed stalks and broken flowers came from them. They -were swept up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span> carelessly with the dust, their bright petals peeping -from under all the refuse of the shop, dishonoured and broken. Paul -thought it was symbolical. He stood and looked—more dispassionately -from a distance—at the rough, forcible head of the demagogue, and the -countenance all seamed and grimy of the Scotsman, who was concentrating -the keen light of his eyes upon Spears. The clerk, on the other hand, -clean, neat, and commonplace, did not seem to belong to the same world, -while the feeble, long head of Weaver was as the ghost and shadow of the -other animated and vigorous faces. The light of the mean little paraffin -lamp threw a yellow glow on them, but left in darkness all the corners -of the shop, the large shuttered window, full of picture-frames, and the -cavernous opening of the stairs which led to Spears’s house—and filled -the place with an odour which the accustomed senses of the others took -no notice of, but which to Paul was almost insupportable. He had -assisted at these conferences before; but however he had busied himself -in the details of the meetings, however earnestly and gravely he had -posed (to his own consciousness) as one of them, yet he had never been -one of them. He had been a spectator<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> not an actor in the drama, little -referred to, scarcely believed in by the others; and he had taken them -calmly, as it is so easy to take those with whom we have nothing to do. -But now that he was entirely committed to their society, now that he had -burnt his ships, and shut every door of escape behind him, a new light -seemed to shine upon them. The smoky lamp, the smell of the paraffin, -the grimy haze about Fraser, the feeble whiteness of the other, the -little clerk, all smooth and smug, with his talk of capital and -interest—Paul seemed never to have seen them before. These were to be -henceforward his companions, fellow-founders of a new society.</p> - -<p>Paul felt himself grow giddy where he stood. Their talk went on; they -discussed and argued, but it was only a kind of hum in his ears. He did -not care what conclusion they came to—they themselves struck him like a -revelation. Perhaps if any other four men in the world had thus been -separated from all others as the future sharers of his life, his -feelings would have been much the same. Four Dons for instance; suppose -a group out of the Common-room put in the place of these workmen, would -they have been more supportable?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> He asked himself this question -vaguely, wistfully. Could he have put his future in their hands with -more confidence? or was it simply that the contemplation of any such -group as representing all your society for the rest of your life was -alarming? Paul put this question to himself with a curious dizziness and -sense of weakness.</p> - -<p>The stair, which has been several times referred to, went straight up -like a ladder from the side of the shop opposite the door, and the upper -part of it was of the most primitive description, mounting as through a -large trap-door to the floor above. As he stood listening without -hearing, seeing through a mist, Paul caught sight in the darkness of -some one standing under the shadow of this stair watching and listening. -The men at the table were closely engaged. They took no further notice -of the young man whom they could not believe in as one of themselves. -Even Spears, in the fervour of discussion, forgot Paul. He stood in all -the freedom of a bystander, thinking his own thoughts, while his eyes -rested upon the group, taking in the whole picture before him vaguely, -as a picture; and it was at this moment that he became aware, not only -of this vague<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span> and shadowy figure, but of a head put out round the -corner of the stair, with a dart and tremble of curiosity. It was the -fair head of Janet Spears, with all its frizz of loose locks. At first -it was but a dart, rapid and frightened; then, as she perceived the -absorption of the others, and saw that she had caught Paul’s attention, -she took courage. She gave a glance at them as Paul was doing, but with -a hundred times more conscious scorn, and then put all the contempt and -ridicule of which eyes were capable into the look with which she turned -to Paul, shrugging her shoulders at the group. Her next proceeding was -to point to the door, and invite him, as plainly as signs could do it, -to meet her there. Paul grew red as he received these signs, with wonder -and alarm, and a curious kind of shamefacedness. Was it the strangest -unpardonable liberty the girl was taking? or had she a right to do it? -With a rapid gesture she gave him to understand that he must come out, -and that he would find her at the door.</p> - -<p>Janet had never been presuming; she had not been a coquette; she had -done nothing to call to herself the attention of the young theorists who -frequented her father’s shop. But everything was different now, and she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> -felt herself not only at liberty to make signals to Paul, but conferring -a favour on him by so doing. He was sick of the consultation in which he -did not care to take any part, and weary at heart of all the strange -circumstances around him. And the paraffin was very disagreeable. Why -should he not obey Janet’s signs, and go and meet her outside? At least -it could not be any worse than this. After a few moments of struggle -with himself. Paul announced quietly that he was going. “My presence can -make no difference,” he said. They scarcely heard him, so busy were they -with their argument. No Rembrandt could have surpassed the curious group -of heads set in the surrounding darkness, with the light of the lamp so -fully upon them, and all so intent and full of living interest. Spears -turned round and gave him a good-humoured nod as he went away. He was -half-vexed to be deserted; yet he smiled—was it not natural? Outside, -though it was a little bye-street, and not immaculate, the air was -sweeter than in that atmosphere of paraffin; but it was with a curious -sense of humiliation and surprise at his own position, that Paul saw -Janet’s dark, slim figure stealing out at another door. That he should -meet a girl under<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> the light of a street-lamp, jostled by passers-by, -remarked upon as Janet Spears’s lover, seemed something incredible. Yet -he was doing it; he scarcely could tell why. She came stealing close up -to him, with just the attitude and gesture he had seen in other humble -pairs of love-makers, and Paul could not help wondering, with a sharp -sting of self-scorn, whether he was as like the ordinary hero of such -encounters as she was like the heroine. Janet came up to him however -with all the fervour of a purpose. She put out her hand, and gave a -touch to his arm.</p> - -<p>“Did you hear what I said?—did you think of what I was saying?” she -asked. “Father came just when he wasn’t wanted. Perhaps you’ll think me -a bold girl to call you out here; but it’s for your good. Oh, Mr. Paul, -don’t listen to all that nonsense! What should <i>you</i> go away for? You’re -a deal better off here than you ever would be there. Father may have -some excuse. He thinks, I suppose, as he’s getting old, and as it would -be better for me and the girls to be out there. I don’t think so. I’d -rather be anything at home. I’d rather take a situation. Still, father -has an excuse. But you—what do you want among men like them?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span>—you that -are a gentleman. You never could put up with them. And why should you -go?—think a moment—why should you go?”</p> - -<p>“It is very good of you to interest yourself about me,” said Paul, -feeling himself so much stiffer and more solemn than he had ever been -before, “but I have chosen with my eyes open. I have done what I thought -best.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>of course</i> I interest myself in you. Who should I interest myself -in?” cried Janet, “above everything! And that is why I say don’t meddle -with them; don’t have anything to do with them. Oh, when you have a -father that will give you whatever you like; when you have your pockets -full of money; when, if you just wait a little, you will have a title, -and everything heart could desire—<i>why</i> should you go a long sea -voyage, and mix yourself up with a parcel of working men?” “<i>Why?</i>” -cried Janet, with a wonderment that was slightly mingled with scorn, yet -was impassioned in its vehemence. “I would not demean myself like that, -not for all the world.”</p> - -<p>Paul stood and looked at her almost moved to laughter by the strangeness -of the position. Spears’s daughter!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> but the laughter would not have -been sweet. That strange paradox, and the still stranger one of his own -meeting with his supposed love under the lamp-post, filled him with the -profoundest mortification, wonder, and yet amusement. It seemed beyond -the power of belief, and yet it was true.<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">Sir William</span> was better when he got home. When he reached his own house -he began to hold up his head, to hold himself, if not erect as of old, -yet in a way more like himself. He walked firmly into the house, always -with Fairfax’s arm, and said, “I am better, Brown; yes, much better,” -when Brown met him, very anxious and effusive, at the door. “I feel -almost myself,” he said, turning round to Lady Markham. And so he -looked—himself ten years older, but yet with something of the old -firmness and precise composure. How he could thus recover, though the -letter in his pocket-book bore the postmark of Markham Royal, and he had -come back into the very presence of the danger which at a distance had -overwhelmed him, it would be difficult to tell. “He’s picked up -wonderful,” Mr. Jarvis, Sir<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> William’s own man, said to Mr. Brown; “but -for all that, he’s got notice to quit—he have. Just see if I ain’t -right.” Mrs. Fry was of the same opinion when she saw her master. She -had never had any comfort in her mind, she declared, since she heard of -these faintings. All the Markhams went like that. The late Sir Paul had -done just the same—nothing to speak of at first, and nobody -alarmed—but it was a thing that went fast, that was, Mrs. Fry said. -They were all very gloomy about Sir William down stairs, but in the -family there was no such alarm. He put away his trouble, or rather, as -he emerged out of the suffering of his attack into physical comfort -again, and no longer felt the blood ebbing, as it were, from his heart, -and consciousness failing in the giddy void into which he had seemed to -sink, nature in him declined to remember it, turned away from it. The -familiar house, the waving of the woods, the stately quiet about him, -healed him, and he would not allow himself to be pulled back. He came to -dinner, and occupied his place as usual, looking really, his wife and -daughter thought, almost quite himself. This almost made up to them, -poor ladies, for the moment—for all that it had cost them to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> leave -Oxford in such melancholy uncertainty about Paul.</p> - -<p>But there was one of the party who was not at his ease. Fairfax, who had -come away on the spur of the moment without any provision for a visit, -and who felt his presence here to be mere accident, nothing more, -scarcely knew what to do or say. After he had helped Sir William up -stairs on their arrival, he came to Lady Markham, confused yet smiling, -with his hat in his hand. “I must take my leave now. I hope Sir William -will go on mending, and no longer have need of my arm as a -walking-stick.”</p> - -<p>“Your leave!” said Lady Markham, “what does that mean? Do you think -after taking the use of you all the way here that I am going to let you -go away without making acquaintance with Markham? No, no; you are going -to stay.”</p> - -<p>“I came as a walking-stick,” said the young man; “and I have brought -nothing,” he added, laughing. “That is the disadvantage of a -walking-stick which is human, which wants tooth-brushes and all kinds of -things. Besides, I am of no further use. Sir William is better, and -there are shoals of men here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“You make us out to be pleasant people,” said Lady Markham, “getting rid -of our friends as soon as we have need of them no longer. That will -never do. You must send for your things, and in the meantime there is -Paul’s wardrobe to fall back upon. He always leaves a number of things -here.”</p> - -<p>“But——” said Fairfax, flushing very deeply. He was not handsome, like -Paul. There was a look of easy good-humour, kindness, sympathy about -him, a desire to please, a readiness to be serviceable. He had brown -eyes, which were clear and kind; brown hair, crisp and curling; a -pleasant mouth; but nothing in his features or his aspect that could be -called distinguished. Pleasure, embarrassment, difficulty, a desire to -say something, yet a reluctance to say it, were all mingled in his face; -but the pleasure was the strongest. He gave an appealing look at Alice, -as if entreating her to help him out.</p> - -<p>“I want no buts,” said Lady Markham. “I want to go to Sir William, and -you are detaining me with a foolish argument which you know you cannot -convince me by. Send for your things, and Brown will show you your room: -and we can talk it all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> over,” she said, smiling, “as soon as your -portmanteau is here.”</p> - -<p>Fairfax made her an obeisance as he might have done to a queen. He stood -with his hat in his hand and his head bowed while she passed him going -out of the room. Every young man, it is to be supposed, has some -youthful feminine ideal in his mind, but to Fairfax Lady Markham was a -new revelation. He knew, if not by experience, yet from all the poets, -that there were creatures like her daughter in the world; that they were -the flower and blossom of humanity, supposed to be the most beautiful -things in life; but the next step from the Alices of creation was into a -darkness he knew nothing of. Age, or a youth that was pretended, false, -and disgusting, swallowed up all the rest. A mother (he had never known -his own) was an old stager or an old campaigner, a dragon or a -matchmaker, the gaoler or the executioner of her girls, the greatest -danger to all men; scheming with deadly wiles to get rid of her -daughters; then, in the terrible capacity of mother-in-law, using all -these wiles to get the girls who had escaped from her, back, and make -the lives of their husbands miserable. This is the conception which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> the -common Englishman gets from his light literature of all women who are -not young. Fairfax was no worse than his kind; he had never known his -own mother, and the name was not sacred to him. But when Lady Markham -came within his ken the young man was bewildered. He could understand -Alice, but he could not understand the woman who was so beautiful and -gracious, and yet Markham’s mother. She dazzled him, and filled him with -shame and generous compunction. Her very smile was a fresh wonder. He -was half afraid of her, yet to disobey or rebel against her seemed to -him a thing impossible. The revelation of this mother even changed the -character of his relations with Alice, for whom, on the first sight of -her, the natural attraction of the natural mate, the wondering interest, -admiration, and pleasure, which, if not love, is the first beginning of -the state of love—had caught him all at once. The mother brought a -softening as of domestic trust and affection into this nascent feeling. -Alice was brought the nearer to him, by some in explainable magic, -because of the dazzling superiority of this elder unknown princess, -whose very existence was a miracle to him. When Lady Markham<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> had gone -out, with a smile and gracious bend of her head in answer to his -reverential salutation, Fairfax came back to Alice with a certain awe in -his look, which was half contradicted, half heightened, by the wavering -of the smile upon his face, in which there mingled something like -amusement at his own sense of awe.</p> - -<p>“Miss Markham, may I ask your advice?” he said.</p> - -<p>“You are frightened at mamma,” said Alice, with a soft laugh. “Oh, but -you need not! She is as kind—as kind—as if she were only old nurse,” -Alice said, in despair of finding a better illustration.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be profane!” cried Fairfax, with uplifted hands. “Yes, I am -frightened. I never knew that anybody’s mother could be like that. But, -Miss Markham, will you give me your advice?”</p> - -<p>“Is your mother—not living, Mr. Fairfax?”</p> - -<p>“She never has been for me—she died so long ago; I am afraid I have -never thought much about her. Ought I to stay, Miss Markham?” He raised -his eyes to her with a piteous look, yet one that was half comic in its -earnestness, and a sudden blush, unawares, as their eyes met, flamed -over both faces. For why? How could they tell? It was so, and they knew -no more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Surely,” Alice said; “mamma wishes it, and we all wish it. After -showing us so much kindness, you would not go away the moment you have -come here?”</p> - -<p>“But that is not the question,” said Fairfax. “The fact is, I am nobody. -Don’t laugh, or I shall laugh too, and I am much more disposed to cry. I -have a tolerable name, haven’t I? but alas! it does not mean anything. I -don’t know what it means, nor how we came by it. I am one of the -unfortunate men, Miss Markham, who—never had a grandfather.”</p> - -<p>Alice had been waiting with much solemnity for the secret which made him -so profoundly grave (yet there was a twinkle, too, which nothing but the -deepest misfortune could quench, in the corner of his eye). When this -statement came, however, she was taken with a sudden fit of laughter. -Could anything be more absurd? And yet in her heart she felt a sudden -chill, a sense of horror. Alice would not have owned it, but this was a -terrible statement for any young man on the verge of intimacy to make. -No grandfather! It was a misfortune she could not understand.</p> - -<p>“At least, none to speak of,” he said, the fun<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span> growing in his eyes. -“You should not laugh, Miss Markham. Don’t you think it is hard upon a -man? To come to an enchanted palace, where he would give his head to be -allowed to stay, and to feel that for no fault of his, for a failure -which he is not responsible for, which can be laid only to the score of -those ancestors who did not exist——”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fairfax, no one was thinking of your grandfather.”</p> - -<p>“I know that; but, dear Miss Markham, you know very well that to-night, -or to-morrow night, or a year hence, your mother, before whom I feel -disposed to go down upon my knees, will say with her smile, ‘Are you of -the Norfolk Fairfaxes, or the Westchester family, or——?’ And I, with -shame, will begin to say, ‘Madam, of no Fairfaxes at all.’ What will she -think of me then? Will not she think that I have done wrong to be -here—that I had no right to stay?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Fairfax!” cried Alice, somewhat pale and troubled; “how can I -advise you? Mamma is not a fanatic about family. She does not build upon -it to that extent. I do not see why she should ever ask you. It is no -business of ours.” Alice was not strong enough<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> to have such a -tremendous question thrown upon her to decide. As a matter of fact, she -knew that her mother would very soon make those inquiries about the -Westchester family and the Norfolk Fairfaxes. Already Lady Markham had -indulged in speculations on the subject, and had begun to remember that -in the one case she “used to know” a cousin of his, and in the other had -met his uncle, the ambassador, and saw a great deal of him once in -Paris. She grew quite pale, and her eyes puckered up and took the most -anxious aspect. Besides, it was a shock to herself. That absence of a -grandfather was a want which was almost indecent. She did not understand -it, and she was extremely sorry for him. He had no home then—no house -that his people had lived in for ages—no people. Poor boy!</p> - -<p>And Fairfax’s countenance also fell, in reflection of hers. However deep -may be one’s private consciousness of one’s own deficiencies, there is -always a little expectation in one’s mind that other people will make -light of them; but when you see your own dismay, and more than your own -dismay, in the eyes of your counsellor, then is the moment when you sink -into the abyss. His lip quivered for a moment, and though it eventually<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> -succeeded in forming into a smile, the smile was very tremulous and -uncertain.</p> - -<p>“I see,” he said; “no need for another word. Good-bye. I have had a -glimpse into—the garden of Eden, though I must not stay.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fairfax!” cried Alice, as he turned away. “Come back—come back -this moment! How dare you take me up so? Do you want to get me into -trouble,” she cried, half crying, half laughing, “with mamma? Would you -like to have her—beat me?”</p> - -<p>“She does so sometimes?”</p> - -<p>“To be sure,” cried Alice, with an unsteady laugh. “Oh, Mr. Fairfax, -what a fright you have given me! You have made my heart beat!”</p> - -<p>“Not so much as mine,” he said. They had their laugh, and then they -stood once more looking at each other. “It is all very well,” said the -young man; “you want to spare my feelings; you would not hurt any one. -But beyond that, you know as well as I do that Lady Markham, knowing who -I am, would not like to have me here.”</p> - -<p>“Who are you?” said Alice, with a little renewed alarm; and in her mind -she tried to remember whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> there had been any trials in the papers, -any criminals who bore this name.</p> - -<p>“I am nobody at all,” said Fairfax. “I haven’t even the distinction of -being improper, or belonging to people who have made themselves notable -either for evil or good. I am nobody. That is precisely what I want Lady -Markham to understand.”</p> - -<p>“I think, Mr. Fairfax,” said Alice, “you had better go and send for your -things, as mamma said.”</p> - -<p>“You think I may?”</p> - -<p>He looked at her with eyes full of pleasure and gratitude, putting more -meaning into her words than they would bear, and getting a thrill of -conscious happiness out of the little arbitrary tone which, half in jest -and half to hide her real doubts, Alice put on. He was so glad to obey, -to say to himself that it was their own doing and that they could not -blame him for it, so happy to be made to remain as he persuaded himself. -The children rushed in as he went away to obey what he called to himself -the order he had received, eager to know who he was, and making a -hundred inquiries about all kinds of things—about papa’s illness, why -he looked so grey, and what was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span> the matter with him; about Paul, why he -did not come home; about Mr. Fairfax, who he was, what he was, what he -was doing there, whether he was going to stay. There was scarcely a -question that could be put on these subjects which the ingenious -children did not ask; and Alice was glad finally to suggest that they -should walk to the village with Mr. Fairfax and show him where the -post-office was, that he might telegraph for his portmanteau. They were -quite willing to take this on themselves. “We shall be sure to see the -little gentleman,” Bell said. “Who is the little gentleman?” asked -Alice; but she had so many things to think of that she did not pay any -attention to the reply, which was made by all the four voices at once. -What did it matter? She had a hundred things so much more important to -think of.</p> - -<p>And when the children had been sent off, forming a guard of honour about -Fairfax, cross-examining him to their heart’s content, and in their turn -communicating much information which was quite novel to him, Alice -thought she was very glad of the quiet and the interval of rest. Sir -William was resting, declaring himself much better; and Lady Markham, in -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span> relief of this fact, was lying down on the sofa, getting half an -hour’s doze after her sleepless night. Alice had not slept much more -than her mother, but she could not doze. After a while a sensation of -regret stole into her mind that she had not accompanied the others. -There was a soft breeze blowing among the trees which freshened the -aspect of nature, and the sky was blue and tender, doubly blue after the -smoky half-colour of a town. Alice sat by the window and watched the -flickering of the leaves, and wished she had gone with them. Something -seemed wanting to her. To be alone and free to rest, did not seem the -privilege she had thought it. She wanted—what? Some one to speak to, -some one’s eyes to meet hers. The leaves ruffled and seemed to call her; -the little breeze came and whispered at the edge of the window, blowing -the lace curtains about. All the world invited her, wooed her, to go out -into the fresh air, into the green avenue, into the joyful yet silent -world. “The air would have done me good,” Alice said to herself; and her -voice came back to her out of the silence as if it had been somebody -else’s voice. Then by degrees it came into her head that the air would -still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> do her good if she went out now, which somehow did not exactly -hit her wishes. After this, however, it occurred to her that to stroll -down the avenue and meet them as they came back would not be amiss, and -much comforted by this suggestion she ran to get her hat. Would they be -glad to see her, or would they ask her loudly why she came out now, when -nobody wanted her. Brothers and sisters under fourteen are apt to -express opinions of this sort very plainly. Alice felt angry at the -idea, but afterwards melted, and represented to herself that to meet -them in the avenue was of all the courses open to her the best.</p> - -<p>Sir William was able to come down stairs to dinner, which was more than -any one had hoped, and after dinner he came into the dining-room with -the ladies, and saw the children, as he had always been in the habit of -doing, while he took his coffee. A recovery of this kind from a sudden -fit of illness has often the most softening and happy effect. He had a -great deal of care on his mind, but the sensation of getting better -seemed to chase it all away. He seemed to be getting better of that too, -to be getting over it, before it ever<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> came to anything. Had he been in -his usual condition he would have known very well that he had got over -nothing, that it was all waiting for him round the corner of the very -next day, or even hour; but Sir William convalescent was not in his -usual state of mind. He felt as if he had got over it, as if it all lay -behind him—the perplexity, and the trouble, and alarm. He sat in his -great chair, with cushions placed about him, looking so much older, and -so much softer, more indulgent and more talkative. A kind of -garrulousness had come upon him. He told his children stories of his own -childhood. He was not put out by their restlessness, by their -interruptions, as he generally was. Never had he been so gentle, so -amiable. He told them all about an adventure of his in the woods with -his brothers, when he had been about Roland’s age. It was like the story -of old Grouse in the gun-room to the little Markhams; they knew exactly -where to laugh, and what questions to ask to show their interest, and -they conducted themselves with the greatest propriety, not even putting -him right when he deviated from the correct routine of the story, which -they remembered better than he did. It was only after<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> this wonderful -tale was over that Bell made the unfortunate remark which brought a new -transformation. How should the child know there was any harm in it? -“Oh,” she cried suddenly, “look, Harry! look, Marie! As papa sits there, -now! Did you ever see anything so like the little gentleman?” and Bell -clasped her hands together in admiring contemplation of this strange -fact.</p> - -<p>There was a pause. Had it not been for the entire ignorance of the easy -household, calm, and fearing no evil, it might have been thought that a -shiver ran through the air, as this crisis suddenly developed itself out -of the quiet: every one was quite still. They all looked at the child -with amused curiosity—all but one. And though there was nothing meant -by it the effect was strange. It was left to Sir William to speak, which -he did in a clear, thin voice, suddenly becoming judicial and solemn.</p> - -<p>“Whom do you mean by the little gentleman, Bell?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he is a relation—he told us so,” said the little girl.</p> - -<p>“And he has brought me some sweetmeats from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> abroad—me!—though he -didn’t know my name. What sort of things would you call sweetmeats, -mamma?”</p> - -<p>“And he is living down at the Markham Arms. We saw him to-day. He jumped -into the railway carriage with Dolly Stainforth.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but I saw him come back—following the carriage,” cried Roland. “He -stood at the station-gate to see you pass, papa, and looked so sorry. -That was him, Alice, that stopped us when we went to the village with -Mr. Fairfax. You saw him. He wanted to shake hands all round.”</p> - -<p>The pause now, after this clamour of voices, was more curious than ever. -Lady Markham began to wonder a little.</p> - -<p>“A relation!—who could it be? Do you know of any relation who would not -have come to us straight? I do not think it could be a relation. You -must have made a mistake.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no; we have not made any mistake,” cried the children with one -voice. “Besides, he was such friends with us. He promised to give us -quantities of things; and then he is like papa.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think Sir William is well,” said Fairfax,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> hurriedly. He rose -up with an exclamation of terror, and Lady Markham sprang to her feet -and rushed to her husband’s side.</p> - -<p>“I am feeling—a little faint,” he said, in a half-whisper, with a -tremendous attempt to regain command of himself; but it failed. His head -drooped, his eyelids quivered, and then lay half-closed upon the dim -langour underneath that had lost all power of seeing; his breath -laboured, and came in gasps from his pale lips. All the sudden recovery -in which they had been so happy was over. Alice put the children hastily -out of the room, like a flock frightened, as she ran to call Jarvis, to -get what was necessary, to send for the village doctor. The boys and -girls got together into a corner of the hall and cried silently, -clinging together in fright and sorrow; or at least the girls cried, -wondering—</p> - -<p>“Was it anything we said?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wish—I wish!” cried Bell, but in a whisper, “that I had not said -anything about the little gentleman!”</p> - -<p>But of all the family she was the only one that thought of this. The -others though they were much alarmed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> were not surprised. There was -nothing, alas! more natural than that these fits should come on again. -The doctor had expected it. They said to each other that he had been -more tired with the journey than they supposed—that indeed it was -certain in his state of health that he must be worn out by the journey: -the wonder only was that he had revived at all. He was carried to his -room after a while, the children looking on drearily from their corner, -full of dismay. To them nothing seemed to be too dreadful to be -expected.</p> - -<p>“Oh, why does papa look so pale?” Marie sobbed, with that blighting -terror which seizes a child at the first sight of such signs of -mortality. Even the boys had much to do to rub away out of the corners -of their eyes the sudden burst of tears.</p> - -<p>“I am better—much better,” the sick man said, when he came to himself, -“but very weak. You won’t allow me to be disturbed? I cannot see any -one—it is impossible for me to see any one, Isabel.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think I will let you be disturbed?” said Lady Markham. “And who -would disturb you? Do you forget, William, that we are at home?”</p> - -<p>But that word, so full of consolation, fell upon him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> with no healing in -it. Yes, he knew very well that he was at home, and that his enemy who -had been waiting for him all these years—his enemy who meant him no -harm, who meant no one any harm—the deadliest foe of the children and -their mother, his own reproach and shame—that innocent yet mortal enemy -was close to him, lurking among the trees, behind the peaceful houses in -the village, to disturb him as no one else could. His wife put back the -curtain so as to shield his feeble eyes from the lamp, and sat -down—anxious, yet serene—wondering at his strange fancy. Disturb him! -Who could disturb him here?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> -<p><span class="smcap">This</span> time Sir William did not get better as he had done before. His -third fainting-fit proved the beginning of an illness at which the -village doctor looked very grave. It was still but a very short time -since he had come down from London, relieved at the end of the session, -to enjoy his well-earned leisure, with everything prosperous around him, -nothing but the little vexation of Paul’s vagaries to give him a prick -now and then, a reminder that he too was subject to the ills of -mortality. What a happy house it had been to which the tired statesman -had come home! When he had taken his seat by the side of Alice in the -little pony-carriage there had been nothing but assured peace and -comfort in his mind. Paul:—yes—Paul has been a vexation; but no more. -Now all that brightness was overcast; the happy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> children in their -holiday freedom were hushed in their own corner of the house no longer -allowed to roam through it wherever they pleased. Lady Markham, with all -pretty gowns, her lace and ornaments put away, lived in her husband’s -sick-room, or came down stairs now and then with an anxious smile, “like -someone coming to call,” the little girls said. Alice had become not -Alice, but a sort of emissary between the outside world and that little -hidden world up stairs in which the life of the house seemed -concentrated. As for Sir William, he lay between life and death. First -one, then another great London physician had come down to see him—but -all that they could suggest had done him little or no good. All over the -country messengers came every day for news of him; the head of the -government, and even the Queen herself, and all the leading members of -the party sent telegrams of inquiry; and there were already flutters of -expectation in the town he represented as to the chances of the Liberal -interest, “should anything happen.” Even into Lady Markham’s mind, as -she sat in the silent room, often darkened and always quiet, trying hard -to keep herself from thinking, there would come thoughts, dreary -previsions of change, floating like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> clouds across her mental firmament, -against her will, in spite of all her precautions—visions of darkness -and blackness and solitude which she tried in vain to shut out. Her -husband lying so still under the high canopies of the bed, from which -all curtains and everything that could obstruct the free circulation of -air had been drawn aside, capable of no independent action, but still -the centre of every thought and plan—was it possible to imagine him -absent altogether, swept away out of the very life in which he had been -the chief actor! These thoughts did not come by any will of hers, but -drifted gloomily across her mind as she sat silent, sometimes trying to -read, mechanically going over page after page, but knowing nothing of -the meaning of the words that were under her eyes. To realise the death -of the sufferer whom one is nursing is, save when death is too close to -be any longer ignored, not only a shock, but a wrong, a guilt, a horror. -Is it not like signing his sentence, agreeing that he is to die? Lady -Markham felt as if she had consented to the worst that could happen when -these visions of the future drifted across her mind.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile who can describe the sudden dreariness of the house upon which -in full sunshine of youth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> and enjoyment this blight came? The boys -wished themselves at school—could there be any stronger evidence of the -gloom around them?—the girls grew sad and cross, and cried for nothing -at all. Fairfax lingered on, not knowing what to do, afraid to trouble -the anxious ladies even by proposing to go away, obliterating himself as -much as he could, though doing everything that Paul, had he been there, -would have been expected to do. Paul did not come till a week after, -though he was written to every day—but in that week a great many things -had happened. For one thing Lady Markham had seen and spoken with the -stranger who was living at the Markham Arms in the village, and who had -introduced himself to the children as a relation. She had heard nothing -of Mr. Gus except that one mention of him by little Bell on the night of -the return, and that had made no great impression on her mind. It had -been immediately before the recurrence of Sir William’s faint, which had -naturally occupied all her thoughts, and how could it be supposed that -Lady Markham would remember a thing of such small importance? It -surprised her much to meet in the hall that strange little figure in -light,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> loose clothes, standing hat in hand, as she went from one room -to another. Sir William then had been but a few days ill, and Lady -Markham had hitherto resolutely kept herself from all those drifting -shadows of fear. It was one of the days when she had come to “make a -call” on her children. Sir William was asleep, and she persuaded herself -that he was better, she had come down, as she said, to tell them the -good news; but her smile as she told it was so tremulous, that little -Bell, whose nerves had got entirely out of order, began to cry. And then -they all cried together for a minute, and were a little eased by it. -Alice protested that she was crying for joy because papa was better, and -that it was very silly, but she could not help it; and Lady Markham had -all the brightness of tears in her eyes as she came out into the hall on -her way back to the sick-room; and lo, there before her in the hall, -stood the little gentleman, bowing, with his hat in his hand.</p> - -<p>“I think you must have heard of me, Lady Markham,” he said.</p> - -<p>She looked at him, with a kind of horror that a stranger should be able -to find and detain her—she who ought to be by her husband’s bedside. In -her capacity<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span> of nurse it seemed almost as great a crime to intercept -her as it would be to disturb Sir William; but she was too courteous to -express her horror.</p> - -<p>“I do not think so,” she said, with a conciliatory smile which was -intended to take off any edge of offence that might be found in her -profession of ignorance. Then she looked at the card which he handed to -her. “Perhaps this ought to be given to Brown. Ah! but now I remember. -You are related to some kind people, the Lennys, who were here.”</p> - -<p>“Have the Lennys been here?” said Mr. Gus, with unfeigned surprise. -“Yes, I am a relation of theirs also; but in the meantime there is a -much nearer relationship.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure Mr. Gaveston,” said Lady Markham, with a smile by which she -begged pardon for what she was saying, “that you will not think it rude -if I leave you now. I don’t like to be long away from Sir William. When -he wakes he may miss me.”</p> - -<p>“Lady Markham,” said Mr. Gus, “I wish you would let me speak to you. I -do wish it indeed. It would be so much easier afterwards——”</p> - -<p>She looked at him with genuine surprise, then with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> a glance round her -up the great staircase, where she wished to go, and round the open doors -by which no one came for her deliverance, she yielded unwillingly. “I -fear I can only give you a few minutes,” she said, and led the way into -the library. She had done so without for the moment thinking that her -husband’s room was scarcely a place in which, at this moment, to -discourse placidly with a stranger on subjects of which she was -ignorant. It was so full of him. His books, his papers, all arranged as -if he had that moment left them; his chair at its usual angle, as if he -were seated in it unseen; everything marked with the more than good -order, the precision and formal regularity of all Sir William’s habits. -The things which mark the little foibles of character, the innocent -weaknesses of habit, are those which go most to the heart when death is -threatening a member of a household. The sight of all these little -<i>fads</i>, which sometimes annoyed her, and sometimes made her laugh when -all was well, gave Lady Markham a shock of sudden pain and sudden -<i>attendrissement</i>. Her heart had been soft enough before to her husband; -it melted now in a suffusion of tender love and grief. Her eyes filled.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span> -Might it be that he never should sit at that table again?</p> - -<p>“I am sure,” she said, making once more the same instinctive appeal to -the sympathy of the stranger, “that you will not detain me longer than -you can help, for my husband is very ill. I cannot help being very -anxious——” She could not say any more.</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry, Lady Markham—but that is the very thing that makes it -so important. May I ask if it is possible you have never heard of me? -Never even <i>heard</i> of me!—that is the strangest thing of all.”</p> - -<p>In her surprise she managed better to get rid of her tears. She gave a -startled glance at him, and then at the card she still held in her hand. -“I cannot quite say that—for Mrs. Lenny and the Colonel both spoke—I -cannot say of you—but of a family called Gaveston whom Sir William had -known. You are the son, I presume, of an old friend? My husband, Mr. -Gaveston,” said Lady Markham, with warmth, “is not a man to be -indifferent to old friends. You may be sure he would have been glad to -see you, and done his best to make Markham pleasant to you:—but the -circumstances—explain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Then,” said her strange companion with a certain air of sternness which -changed the character of his face, “that is all you know?”</p> - -<p>She looked at the card again. How was it she had not noticed the second -name before? “I see you have Markham in your name,” she said; “I had not -noticed. Is there then some distant relationship? But Mrs. Lenny never -claimed to be a relation: or perhaps—I see! you are Sir William’s -godson,” Lady Markham said, with a smile which was somewhat forced and -uncomfortable. She kept her eyes upon him, uneasy, not knowing what -might come next, vaguely foreseeing something which must wound her.</p> - -<p>Mr. Gus’s brown countenance grew red—he gave forth a sharp and angry -laugh. “His <i>god</i>son,” he said; “and that is all you know?”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham grew far more red than he had done. Her beautiful face -became crimson. The heat of shame and distress upon it seemed to get -into her eyes. What was this suspicion that was flung into her mind like -a fire-brand? and in this place where her husband’s blameless life had -been passed, and at this moment when he was ill, perhaps approaching the -end of all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> things! “Mr. Gaveston,” she said, trembling, “I cannot, I -cannot hear any more. It is not to me you ought to come, and at such a -time! Oh, if you have been put in any false position—if you have been -subjected to humiliation, by anything my husband has done——” Her voice -was choked by the growing heat and pain of her agitation; even to have -such a horrible thought suggested to her now seemed cruelty incredible. -It was wrong on her part to allow it to cross the threshold of a mind -which was sacred to <i>him</i>. “Oh,” she cried, wringing her hands, “if you -have had anything to suffer, I am sorry for you, with all my heart! but -I cannot hear any more now—do not ask me to hear any more now! Another -time, anything we can do for you, any amends that can be made to -you—but oh, for God’s sake, think of the state he is lying in, and say -no more now!”</p> - -<p>Mr. Gus listened with wonder, irritation, and dismay. That she should be -excited was natural, but with respect to their meaning, her words were -like raving to him. He could not tell what she meant. Do anything for -him, make him amends!—was the woman mad? He only stared at her blankly, -and did not make any reply.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span></p> - -<p>Then she held out her hand to him, trying to smile, with her eyes full -of tears. “It shall not do you any harm eventually,” she said, “your -kindness now. Thank you for not insisting now. I have not left—Sir -William for so long a time since he was ill.”</p> - -<p>She made a pause before her husband’s name. If it were possible that -there might be a link between him and this stranger—a link as strong -as——! It made her heart sick to think upon it; but she would not think -upon it. It flashed upon her mind only, but was not permitted to stay -there: and half because of real anxiety to get back to the sick-room, -half from a still greater eagerness to get rid of her visitor, she made -a step towards the door.</p> - -<p>“If you will let me say so,” said Mr. Gus, “you oughtn’t to shut -yourself up in a sick-room. You may think me an enemy, but I’m no enemy. -I wish you all well. I like the children. I think I could be very fond, -if she’d let me, of Alice, and I admire you——”</p> - -<p>“Sir!” Lady Markham said. She turned her astonished eyes upon him with a -blaze in them which would have frightened most men; then opened the door -with great stateliness and dignity, ignoring the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> attempt he made to do -it for her. “I must bid you good morning,” she said, making him a -curtsey worthy of a queen—then walked across the hall with the same -dignity; but as soon as she was out of sight, flew up stairs, and, -before going to her husband, went to her own room for a time to compose -herself. She felt herself outraged, insulted—a mingled sense of rage -and wonder had taken possession of her gentle soul. Who was this man, -and what could he mean by his claim upon her, his impudent expressions -of interest in the family, as if he belonged to the family? Was it not -bad enough to put a stigma upon her husband at the moment when he was -dying, and when all her thoughts were full of the tenderest veneration -for him, and recollection of all his goodness! To throw this shadow of -the sins of his youth, even vaguely, upon Sir William’s honourable, -beautiful age, was something like a crime. It was like desecration of -the holiest sanctuary. Lady Markham could not but feel indignant that -any man should seize this moment to put forth such a claim—and to make -it to <i>her</i>, disturbing her ideal, introducing doubt and shame into her -love, just at the moment when all her tenderness was most wanted! it was -cruel. And then,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> as if that was not enough, to assume familiarity, to -speak of her child as Alice, this stranger, this——! Delicate woman as -she was, Lady Markham, in her mind, applied as hard a word to Mr. Gus as -the severest of plainspoken men could have used. She seemed to see far, -far back in the mists of distance, a young man falling into temptation -and sin, and some deceitful girl—must it not have been a deceitful -girl?—working upon his innocence. This is how, when the heart is sore, -such blame is apportioned. He it was who must have been seduced and -deluded. How long ago? some fifty years ago, for the man looked as old -as Sir William. When this occurred to her, her heart gave a leap of joy. -Perhaps the story was all a lie—a fiction. He did look almost as old as -Sir William; how could it be possible? It must be a lie.</p> - -<p>When she came as far as this she bathed her eyes and composed herself, -and went back to her husband’s room. He was still asleep, and Lady -Markham took her usual place where she could watch him without -disturbing him, and took her knitting which helped to wile away the long -hours of her vigil. If the knitting could but have occupied her mind as -it did her hands!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span> but in the quiet all her thoughts came back; her mind -became a court of justice, in which the arguments on each side were -pleaded before a most anxious, yet, alas, too clear-sighted judge. This -stranger, who figured as the accuser, was arraigned before her, and -examined in every point of view. He was strange; he was not like the men -whom Lady Markham was used to see; but he did not look like an impostor. -She tried to herself to prove him so, but she could not do it. He was -not like an impostor. In his curious foreignness and presumption, he yet -had the air of a true man. But then, she said to herself, how ignorant, -how foolish he must be, how incapable of any just thought or feeling of -shame. To come to <i>her</i>! If he had indeed a claim upon Sir William, -there were other ways of making that claim; but that he should come to -her—Sir William’s wife—and oh, at such a time! This was the refrain of -her thoughts to which she came back and back. As she sat there in the -darkened room, her fingers busy with her knitting, her ears intent to -hear the slightest movement the sleeper made, this was how her mind was -employed. Perhaps when they had gone through all these stages, her -thoughts came back with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span> a still more exquisite tenderness to the sick -man lying there, she thought, so unconscious of this old, old sin of his -which had come back to find him out. How young he must have been at the -time, poor boy!—younger than Paul—and away from all his friends, no -one to think of him as Paul had, to pray for him—a youth tossed into -the world to sink or to swim. Lady Markham’s heart melted with sympathy. -And to make up for that youthful folly, in which perhaps he was sinned -against as well as sinning, what a life of virtue and truth he had led -ever since. She cast her thoughts back upon the past with a glow of -tender approval and praise. Who could doubt his goodness? He had done -his duty in everything that had been given him to do. He had served his -country, he had served his parish, both alike, well; and he had been the -Providence of all the poor people dependent upon him. She went over all -that part of his career which she had shared, with tears of melancholy -happiness coming to her eyes. Nothing there that any one could blame: -oh, far from that! everything to be praised. No man had been more good, -more kind, more spotless; no one who had trusted in him had ever been -disappointed. And what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> a husband he had been: what a father he had -been! If this were true, if he had done wrong in his youth, had he not -amply proved that it was indeed but a folly of youth, a temporary -aberration—nothing more. Lady Markham felt that she was a traitor to -her husband to sit here by his sick-bed and allow herself to think that -he had ever been wicked. Oh, no, he could not have been wicked! it was -not possible. She went softly to his bedside to look at him while he -slept. Though he was sleeping quietly enough, there was a cloud of -trouble on his face. Was it perhaps a reflection from the doubt she had -entertained of him, from the floating shadows of old evil that had been -blown up like clouds upon his waning sky?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Gus</span> was much startled by the change in Lady Markham’s manner, by her -sudden withdrawal and altered looks. Had he offended her? He did not -know how. He had been puzzled, much puzzled, by all she had said. She -had professed to be sorry for him. Why? Of all who were concerned, Gus -felt that he himself was the one whom it was not needful to be sorry -for. The others might have some cause for complaint; but nothing could -affect him—his position was sure. And it was very mysterious to him -what Lady Markham could mean when she professed to be ready to make him -amends—for what? Gus could afford to laugh, though, indeed, he was very -much surprised. But happily the nature of the mistake which Lady Markham -had made, and the cause of her indignation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> were things he never guessed -at. They did not occur to him. His position had never been in the least -degree equivocal in any way. He had known exactly, and everybody around -him had known exactly, what it was. Though he had been adopted as his -uncle’s heir; he had never been kept in the dark—why should he?—as to -whose son he was. And when the poor old planter fell into trouble, and -the estate of which Gus was to be the heir diminished day by day, “It -does not matter for Gus,” the old man had said; “you must go back to -your own family when I am gone; there’s plenty there for you, if there -is not much here.” Gus had known all about Markham all his life. An old -pencil-drawing of the house, feeble enough, yet recognisable still, had -been hanging in his room since ever he could remember. It had belonged -to his poor young mother, and since the time he had been able to speak -he had known it as home. The idea of considering “the second family” had -only dawned upon him when he began to plan his voyage “home,” after his -uncle’s death. He had heard there were children, and consequently one of -his great packing-cases contained many things which children would be -likely to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span> value. It gave Gus pleasure to think of little sisters and -brothers to whom he would be more like an uncle than a brother. He was -fond of children, and he had a very comfortable simple confidence in -himself. It had never occurred to him that they might not “get on.” It -was true that to hear of Paul gave him at first a certain twinge; but he -thought it impossible, quite impossible, that Sir William could have let -his son grow up to manhood without informing him of the circumstances. -Surely it was impossible! There might be reasons why Lady Markham need -not be told—it might make her jealous, it might be disappointing and -vexatious to her—but he would not permit himself to believe that Paul -had been left in ignorance. And Alice, who was grown up, it seemed -certain to him that she, too, must know something. He had been greatly -moved by the sight of Alice. The young ladies out in Barbadoes, he -thought, were not like that, nor did he in Barbadoes see many young -ladies; and this dainty, well-trained, well-bred English girl was a -wonder and delight to him. Why should he not say that he was fond of -Alice? It was not only natural, but desirable that he should be so. He -walked out after Lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> Markham left him with a slight sense of -discomfiture; he could not tell why, but yet a smile at the “flurry” -into which she had allowed herself to be thrown. Women were subject to -“flurries” for next to no cause, he was aware. It was foolish of her, -but yet she was a woman to whom a good deal might be pardoned. And he -did not feel angry, only astonished, and half discomfited, and a little -amused. It was strange—he could not tell what she meant—but yet in -time no doubt, all would be amicably settled, and they would “get on,” -however huffy she might be for the moment. Gus knew himself very well, -and he knew that in general he was a person with whom it was easy to get -on.</p> - -<p>But he was a little disappointed to go away—after the hopes he had -formed of being at once received into the bosom of the family, -acknowledged by Sir William, and made known to the others—without any -advance at all. He had spoken to Alice when he met her with the -children, and had got “fond of her” on the spot: and he would have liked -to have had her brought to him, and to have made himself known in his -real character to all the girls and boys. But however, it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span> must all come -right sooner or later, he said to himself; and no doubt Lady Markham, -with her husband sick on her hands, and her son, as all the village -believed, giving her a great deal of anxiety, might be forgiven if she -could not take the trouble to occupy herself about anything else. Gus -went away without meeting any one, and when he had got out in front of -the house, turned round to look at it, as he was in the custom of doing. -It was a dull day, drizzly and overcast. This made the house look very -like that woolly pencil-drawing, which had always hung at the head of -his bed, and always been called home.</p> - -<p>As he stood there some one came from behind the wing where the gate of -the flower-garden was, and approached him slowly. Gus had not been quite -able to make out who Fairfax was. He was “no relation,” and there did -not even seem to be any special understanding between him and Alice, -which was the first idea that had come into the stranger’s head. He had -spoken to Fairfax two or three times when he had met him with the -children, and Gus, who was full of the frankest and simplest curiosity, -waited for him as soon as he perceived him. “We are going the same way, -and I hope you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> don’t dislike company,” he said. To tell the truth, -Fairfax had no particular liking for company at that moment. It seemed -to him that he was in a very awkward position in this house where -dangerous sickness had come in and taken possession; but how to act, how -to disembarrass them of his constant presence, without depriving them of -his services, which, with natural self-regard he thought perhaps more -valuable than they really were, he did not know. The quaint “little -gentleman,” about whom all the children chattered, seemed for the first -moment somewhat of a bore to Fairfax; but after a moment’s hesitation he -accepted him with his usual good-nature, and joined him without any -apparent reluctance. Mr. Gus was very glad of the opportunity of -examining at his leisure this visitor whose connection with the family -he did not understand.</p> - -<p>“I have been asking for the old gentleman,” he said. “I have seen Lady -Markham. You know them a great deal better than I do, no doubt, though I -am—a relation.”</p> - -<p>“I do not know them very well,” said Fairfax. “Indeed, I find myself in -a very awkward position. I came here by chance because Sir William fell -ill when I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> with them, and I was of some use for the moment. That -made me come on with them, without any intention of staying. And here I -am, a stranger, or almost a stranger, in a house where there is -dangerous illness. It is very embarrassing; I don’t know what to do.”</p> - -<p>He had thought Gus a bore one minute, and the next opened all his mind -to him. This was characteristic of the young man; but yet in his -carelessness and easy impulse there was a certain sudden sense that the -support of a third person somehow connected with the Markham family -might give him some countenance.</p> - -<p>“Then you don’t know them—much?” said Mr. Gus, half-satisfied, -half-contemptuous. “I couldn’t make you out, to tell the truth. Nobody -but an old friend or a connection—or some one who was likely to become -a connection”—he added, giving Fairfax a keen sidelong glance, “seemed -the right sort of person to be here.”</p> - -<p>Fairfax felt uneasy under that look. He blushed, he could scarcely tell -why. “I can’t be said to be more than a chance acquaintance,” he said. -“It was a lucky chance for me. I have known Markham for a long<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> time. -I’ve known <i>him</i> pretty well; but it was a mere chance which brought Sir -William to me when they were looking for Markham; and then, by another -chance, I was calling when he was taken ill. That’s all. I feel as if I -were of a little use, and that makes me hesitate; but I know I have no -right to be here.”</p> - -<p>“Who’s Markham? The—son, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, the eldest son. I suppose you know him as Paul. Of course,” said -Fairfax, with hesitation, “he ought to be here; but there are some -family misunderstandings. He doesn’t know, of course, how serious it -is.”</p> - -<p>“Wild?” said Mr. Gus, with his little, precise air.</p> - -<p>“Oh—I don’t quite know what you mean by wild. Viewy he is, certainly.”</p> - -<p>“Viewy? Now I don’t know what you mean by viewy. It is not a word that -has got as far as the tropics, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>Fairfax paused to give a look of increased interest at the “little -gentleman.” He began to be amused, and it was easy—very easy—to lead -him from his own affairs into the consideration of some one else’s. -“Paul,” he said—“I have got into the way of calling him Paul<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> since I -have been here, as they all do—goes wrong by the head, not in any other -way. We have been dabbling in—what shall I call it?—socialism, -communism, in a way—the whole set of us: and he is more in earnest than -the rest; he is giving himself up to it.”</p> - -<p>“Socialism—communism!” cried Mr. Gus; he was horrified in his -simplicity. “Why that’s revolution, that’s bloodshed and murder!” he -cried.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no; we’re not of the bloody kind—we’re not red,” said Fairfax, -laughing. “It’s the communism that is going to form an ideal -society—not fire and flame and barricades.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t mean to tell me,” said Gus, not listening to this -explanation, “that this young Markham—Paul, this Lady Markham’s son—is -one of those villains that want to assassinate all the kings, and plunge -all Europe into trouble? Good God! what a lucky thing I came here!”</p> - -<p>“No, no, I tell you,” said Fairfax. “On the contrary, what Paul wants is -to turn his back upon kings and aristocracies, to give up civilisation -altogether, for that matter, and found a new world in the backwoods. -We’ve all played with the notion. It sounds fine; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span> then there’s one -eloquent fellow—a real orator, mind you—who makes it look like the -grandest thing in the world to do. I believe he thinks it is, and so -does Paul. He’s gone wrong in his head on the subject; that is all that -is wrong with him. But there is this difference,” said Fairfax -reflectively, “from going wrong that way and—other ways. If you prove -yourself an ass in the common form, you’re sorry and ashamed of -yourself, and glad to make it up with your people at home; but when it’s -this sort of thing you stand on your high principles and will not give -in. That’s one difference between being viewy and—the other. Paul can’t -make up his mind to give in; and then probably he thinks they are making -the very most of his father’s illness in order to work upon his -feelings. Well! he ought to know better,” cried Fairfax, with a flush of -indignation; “Lady Markham is not the sort of person to be suspected in -that way; but you know the kind of ideas that are general. He makes -himself fancy so, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“He seems a nice sort of young fellow to come into this fine property,” -said Gus, with another sidelong, inquisitive look at Fairfax. There was -an air of keen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span> curiosity, and at the same time of sarcastic enjoyment, -on his face.</p> - -<p>“That is the strange thing about it,” said Fairfax reflectively stroking -the visionary moustache which very lightly adorned his lip. “Paul is a -very queer fellow. He is against the idea of property. He thinks it -should all be re-divided and every man have his share. And, what’s -stranger still,” he added, with an exclamation, “he’s the fellow to do -it if he had the chance. There is nothing sham about him. He would strip -himself of everything as easily as I would throw off a coat.”</p> - -<p>“Against the idea of property!” said little Gus, with a very odd -expression. He gave a long whistle of surprise and apparent -discomfiture. “He must be a very queer fellow indeed,” he said, with an -air of something like disappointment. Why should he have been -disappointed? But this was what no one, however intimately acquainted -with the circumstances, could have told.</p> - -<p>“Yes, he is a very queer fellow. He has a great deal in him. One thing -that makes me a little uncomfortable,” continued Fairfax, unconsciously -falling more and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> more into a confidential tone, “is that I don’t know -how he may take my being here.”</p> - -<p>“How should he take it? you are his friend, you said?”</p> - -<p>“Ye-es; oh, we’ve always been very good friends, and one time and -another have seen a great deal of each other. Still, you may like a -fellow well enough among men, and not care to see him domesticated, you -know, in your home. Besides, he might think I had put myself in the way -on purpose to curry favour when Sir William was ill—or—I don’t know -what he might think. It seems shabby somehow to be living with your -friend’s people when your friend isn’t there.”</p> - -<p>“Especially if he ought to be there, and you are doing his work.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” Fairfax said; and they walked down to the end of the avenue -in silence. Mr. Gus had got a great deal to think of from this -interview. A new light had come into his mind—and somehow, strangely, -it was not at first an entirely agreeable light. He went along for some -way without saying anything, going out of the great gates, and into the -high road, which was so quiet. A country cart lumbering past now and -then,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> or a farmer’s gig, the sharp trot of a horse carrying a groom -from some other great house to inquire after Sir William, gave a little -more movement to the rural stillness, increasing the cheerfulness, -though the occasion was of the saddest; and as they approached the -village, a woman came out from a cottage door, and, making her homely -curtsey, asked the same question.</p> - -<p>“My lady will be in a sad way,” this humble inquirer said. It was of my -lady more than of Sir William that the rustic neighbours thought.</p> - -<p>“My lady’s a great person hereabout,” said Mr. Gus, with a look that was -half spiteful. “I wonder how she will like it when the property goes -away from her. She will not take it so easily as Paul.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Fairfax, rousing up in defence, “it is not likely she would -take it easily; she has all her children to think of. It is to be hoped -Paul will have sense enough to provide for the children before he lets -it go out of his hands.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” This again seemed to be a new light to Gus. “Your Lady Markham -would have nothing to say to me,” he said, after a pause. “She sent me -off fast enough. She neither knows who I am, nor wants to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> know. Perhaps -it would be better both for her and the children if she had been a -little more civil.”</p> - -<p>It was Fairfax’s turn to look at him now, which he did with quite a new -curiosity. He could not understand in what possible way it might be to -Lady Markham’s advantage to be civil to the little gentleman whom no one -knew anything about; then it occurred to him suddenly that the uncles -who appear mysteriously from far countries with heaps of money to -bestow, and who present themselves <i>incognito</i> to test their families, -are not strictly confined to novels and the stage. Now and then such a -thing has happened, or has been said to happen, in real life. Could this -be an instance? He was puzzled and he was amused by the idea. Mr. Gus -did not look like the possessor of a colossal fortune looking for an -heir; nor, though Lady Markham thought him nearly as old-looking as Sir -William, did he seem to Fairfax old enough to adopt a simply beneficent -<i>rôle</i>. Still, there seemed no other way to account for this half -threat. It was all Fairfax could do to restrain his inclination to -laugh; but he did so, and exerted himself at once to restore Lady -Markham to his companion’s good opinion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You must remember,” he said—“and all we have been saying proves how -much both you and I are convinced of it—that Sir William is very ill. -His wife’s mind is entirely occupied with him, and she is anxious about -Paul. Indeed, can any one doubt that she has a great many anxieties very -overwhelming to a woman who has been taken care of all her life? Fancy, -should anything happen to Sir William, what a charge upon her shoulders! -The wonder to me is that she can see any one; indeed she does not see -any one. And if she does not know, as you say, who you are——”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Mr. Gus. Something which sounded half like a chuckle of -satisfaction, and half a note of offence, was in his voice. He was like -a mischievous school-boy delighted with the effect of a mystification, -yet at the same time angry that he had not been found out. “She knows -nothing about me,” he said, with a half-laugh. Just then they had -reached the Markham Arms, into which Fairfax followed him without -thinking. They went into the little parlour, which was somewhat gloomy -on this dull day, and green with the shadow of the honeysuckle which -hung so delightfully over the window when the sun was shining, but -darkened the room now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> with its wreaths of obtrusive foliage, glistening -in the soft summer drizzle. “Come in, come in,” said Mr. Gus, pushing -the chair, which was miscalled easy, towards his visitor, and shivering -slightly; “nobody knows anything about me here: and if this is what you -call summer, I wish I had never left Barbados. I can tell you, Mr. -Fairfax, it was not a reception like this I looked for when I came -here.”</p> - -<p>“Probably,” said Fairfax, hitting the mark at a venture, “it is only Sir -William himself who is acquainted with all the family relations—and as -he is ill and disabled, of course he does not even know that you are -here.”</p> - -<p>“He does know that I am here,” cried the little gentleman, bursting with -his grievance. It had come to that pitch that he could not keep silence -any longer, and shut this all up in his own breast. “I wrote to let him -know I had come. I should think he did know about his relations; and -I—I can tell you, I’m a much nearer relation than any one here is -aware.”</p> - -<p>Fairfax received this intimation quite calmly; he was not excited. -Indeed it did not convey to him any kind of emotion. What did the -matter? Uncle<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span> or distant cousin, it was of very little consequence. He -said, placidly—</p> - -<p>“The village looks very pretty from this window. Are you comfortable -here?”</p> - -<p>“Comfortable!” echoed Gus. “Do you think I came all this way across the -sea to shut myself up in a village public-house? I didn’t even know what -a village public-house was. I knew that house up there, and had known it -all my life. I’ve got a drawing of it I’ll show you, as like as anything -ever was. Do you suppose I thought I would ever be sent away from there? -I—oh, but you don’t know, you can’t suppose, how near a relation I am.”</p> - -<p>Fairfax thought the little man must be a monomaniac on this subject of -his relationship to the Markhams. He thought it was but another instance -of the wonderful way in which people worship family and descent. He -himself having none of these things had marked often, with the keenness -of a man who is beyond the temptation, the exaggerated importance which -most people gave to them. Sir William Markham, it might be said, was a -man whom it was worth while to be related to; but it did not matter what -poor bit of a squire it was,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span> Fairfax thought; a man who could boast -himself the cousin of Hodge of Claypits was socially a better man than -the best man who was related to nobody. What a strange thing this kind -of test was! To belong to a famous historical family, or to be connected -with people of eminent acquirements, he could understand that there -might be a pride in that; but the poorest little common-place family -that had vegetated at one place for a century or two! He did not make -any answer to Mr. Gus, but smiled at him, and yet compassionated -him—this poor little fellow who had come over here from the tropics -with his head full of the glory of the Markhams, and now had nothing -better to do than to sit in this little inn parlour and brag of his -relationship to them; it was very pitiful, and yet it was ludicrous too.</p> - -<p>“I wonder,” he said suddenly, “whether they could put me up here? I want -to go, and yet I don’t want to be away, if you can understand that. If -anything were to happen, and Markham not here——”</p> - -<p>“I should be here,” said Gus. “I tell you you haven’t the least idea how -near a relation I am. Lady Markham may be as high and mighty as she -likes, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> it would be better for her if she were a little civil. She -doesn’t know the power that a man may have whom she chooses to slight. -And I can tell you my papers are all in order. There are no registers -wanting or certificates, or anything to be put a question upon; uncle -took care of that. Though he adopted me, and had the intention of making -me his heir (if he had left anything to be heir to), he always took the -greatest care of all my papers. And he used to say to me, ‘Look here, -Gus, if anything should happen to me, here’s what will set you up, my -boy.’ I never thought much about it so long as he was living, I thought -things were going better than they were; and when the smash came I took -a little time to pick myself up. Then I thought I’d do what he always -advised—I’d come home. But if any one had told me I was to be living -here, in a bit of a tavern, and nobody knowing who I am, I should not -have believed a word.”</p> - -<p>“It is very unfortunate,” said Fairfax; “but of course it is because of -Sir William’s illness—that could not have been foreseen.”</p> - -<p>“No, to be sure it could not have been foreseen,” Gus said; then roused -himself again in the might of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span> his injury. “But if you could guess, if -you could so much as imagine, who I really am——”</p> - -<p>Fairfax looked at him with curiosity. It was strange to see the -vehemence in his face: but Gus was now carried beyond self-control. He -could not help letting himself out, getting the relief of disclosure. He -leant across the little shining mahogany table and whispered a few words -into Fairfax’s ear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> -<p>“<span class="smcap">What</span> does the doctor say?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Fairfax! worse, far worse than nothing! He looks at us as if -his heart would break. He has known us all our lives. He steals out -through the garden not to see me. But I know what he means, I know very -well what he means,” Alice said with irrestrainable tears.</p> - -<p>“But the other one from London—Sir Thomas: he is coming?”</p> - -<p>“This afternoon: but it will not do any good. Mr. Fairfax, will you -telegraph once more to Paul? I don’t think he believes us. Tell him that -papa——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say any more, Miss Markham; I understand. But one moment,” said -Fairfax; “Paul will not like to find me here. No, there is no reason -why—we have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span> never quarrelled. But he will not like to find me here.”</p> - -<p>“You have been very kind, very good to us, Mr. Fairfax; you have stayed -and helped us when there was no one else; you have always been -a—comfort. But then it must have been very, very dismal and gloomy for -you to be in a house where there was nothing but trouble,” Alice said.</p> - -<p>Her pretty eyes were swimming in tears. It gave her a little pang to -think that perhaps this visitor, though he had been so kind, had been -staying out of mere civility, and thinking it hard. It was not out of -any other feeling in her mind that she was aware of; but to think that -Fairfax had been longing to get away perhaps, feeling the tedium of his -stay, gave her a sharp little shock of pain.</p> - -<p>“Do not speak so—pray do not speak so,” said Fairfax, distressed. “That -is not the reason. But I think I will go to the village. There I can be -at hand whatever is wanted. You will know that I am ready by night or -day—but I have no right to be here.”</p> - -<p>Alice looked at him, scarcely seeing him through the great tears with -which her eyes were brimming over.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> She put out her hand with a -tremulous gesture of appeal.</p> - -<p>“Then you think,” she said, in a voice which was scarcely louder than a -whisper, “you think—it is very near?”</p> - -<p>Fairfax felt that he could not explain himself. In the very presence of -death could any one pause to think that Paul might find a visitor -intrusive, or that the visitor himself might be conscious of a false -position?</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, “no: how can I tell? I have not seen him. I could not be -a judge. It is on Paul’s account; but I shall be at the village—always -at hand whatever you may want.”</p> - -<p>This reassured her a little, and the glimmer of a feeble smile came on -her face. She gave him her trembling hand for a moment. He had been very -“kind.” It was not a word that expressed his devotion, but Alice did not -know what other to use: very—very kind.</p> - -<p>“The house will seem more empty still if you go. It looks so lonely,” -said Alice; “like what it used to be when they were away in town and we -left behind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> Oh, if that were all! Paul ought to have been here all the -time, and you have taken his place. It is unjust that you should go when -he comes.”</p> - -<p>“I shall not go,” said Fairfax softly. He had held her hand in his for a -moment—only for a moment. Alice, in her grief, was soothed by his -sympathy; but Fairfax, on the other hand, was very well aware that he -must take no advantage of that sympathy. He would have liked to kiss the -trembling hand in an effusion of tender pity, and if it had been Lady -Markham he might have done so; but it was Alice, and he dared not. He -held himself aloof by main strength, keeping himself from even a word -more. There was almost a little chill in it to the girl, whose heart was -full of trouble and pain, and whose tearful eyes appealed unconsciously -to that “kindness” in which she had such confidence. To be deserted by -any one at such a moment would have seemed hard to her. The house was -oppressed by the slow rolling-up of this cloud, which was about to -overcloud all their life.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham now scarcely left the sick-room at all. When they warned -her that she would exhaust herself, that she would not be able to bear -the strain, she would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span> shake her head with a woeful sort of smile. She -was not of the kind that breaks down. She was sure of herself so long as -she should be wanted, and afterwards, what did it matter? Now and then -she would come out and take a turn or two along the corridor, rather -because of the restlessness of anguish that would take possession of her -than from any desire to “change the air,” as the nurse said. And when -she was out of the room Sir William’s worn eyes would watch the door. -“Don’t leave me alone,” he said to her in his feeble voice. He had grown -very feeble now. For by far the greater part of the time he was occupied -entirely with his bodily sufferings; but now and then it would occur to -him that there was something in his pocket-book, something that would -give a great deal of trouble—and that there was somebody who wanted to -see him and to force an explanation. How was he able in his weak state, -to give any explanation? He had entreated his wife at first not to allow -him to be disturbed, and now as everything grew dimmer, he could not -bear that she should leave him. There was protection in her presence. At -times it occurred to him that his enemy was lurking outside, and that -all his attendants could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span> do was to keep the intruder at bay. Now and -then he would hear a step in the corridor, which no doubt was his; but -the nurses were all faithful, and the dangerous visitor was never let -in. At these moments Sir William turned his feeble head to look for his -wife. She would protect him. As he went further and further, deeper and -deeper, into the valley of the shadow, he forgot even what the danger -was; but the idea haunted him still. All this time he had never asked -for Paul. He had not wished to see any one, only to have his room well -watched and guarded, and nobody allowed to disturb him. When the doctors -came there was always a thrill of alarm in his mind—not for his own -condition, as might have been supposed, but lest in their train or under -some disguise the man who was his enemy might get admission. And thus, -without any alarm in respect to himself, without any personal uneasiness -about what was coming, he descended gradually the fatal slope. The -thought of death never occurred to him at all. No solemn alarm was his, -not even any consciousness of what might be coming. He never breathed a -word as to what he wished to be done, or gave any directions. In short, -he did not apparently think much of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> illness. The idea of a -dangerous and disagreeable visitor who would go away again if no notice -was taken of him, and of whom it was expedient to take no notice, was -the master idea in his mind, and with all the strength he had he kept -this danger secret—it was all the exertion of which he was now capable.</p> - -<p>And to be a visitor in the house at such a melancholy moment was most -embarrassing. There are some people who have a special knack of mixing -themselves up in the affairs of others, and Fairfax was one of these. He -was himself strangely isolated and alone in the world, and it seemed to -him that he had never found so much interest in anything as in this -family story into the midst of which he had been so suddenly thrown. -Almost before he had become acquainted with them, circumstances had made -him useful, and for the moment necessary, to them. He was an intruder, -yet he was doing the work of a son. And then in those long summer -evenings which Lady Markham spent in her husband’s sick-room, what a -strange charmed life the young man had drifted into! When the children -went to bed, Alice would leave the great drawing-room blazing with -lights, for that smaller room at the end<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> which was Lady Markham’s -sanctuary, and which was scarcely lighted at all, and there the two -young people would sit alone, waiting for Lady Markham’s appearance or -for news from the sick-room, with only one dim lamp burning, and the -summer moonlight coming in through the little golden-tinted panes of the -great Elizabethan window. Sometimes they scarcely said anything to each -other, the anxiety which was the very atmosphere of the house hushing -them into watchfulness and listening which forbade speech; but -sometimes, on the other hand, they would talk in half-whispers, making -to each other without knowing it, many disclosures both of their young -lives and characters, which advanced them altogether beyond that -knowledge of each other which ordinary acquaintances possess.</p> - -<p>Nothing like love, it need not be said, was in those bits of -intercourse, broken sometimes by a hasty summons from the sick-room to -Alice, or a hurried commission to Fairfax—a telegram that had to be -answered, or something that it was necessary to explain to the doctor. -In the intervals of these duties, which seemed as natural to the one as -to the other, the girl and the young man would talk or would be silent,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> -somehow pleased and soothed mutually by each other’s presence, though -neither was conscious of thinking of the other. Alice at least was not -conscious. She felt that it was “a comfort” that he should be there, so -sympathetic, so kind, ready to go anywhere at a moment’s notice; and she -had come to be able to say to him “Go” or “Come” without hesitation, and -to take for granted his willing service. But it was scarcely to be -expected that Fairfax should be unconscious of the strangeness of the -union which was invisibly forming itself between them. At first a -certain amusement had mixed with the natural surprise of suddenly -finding himself in circumstances so strange; but it must be allowed that -by degrees Fairfax came to think Sir William’s illness a fortunate -chance, and so long as imminent danger was not thought of, had no -objection to its continuance.</p> - -<p>But things had become more grave from day to day. Sir William, without -doubt, seemed going to die, and Paul did not come, and the stranger’s -services became more and more necessary, yet more and more incongruous -with the circumstances of the house. The whole came to a climax when Gus -whispered that revelation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> across the table in the inn parlour. The -excitement and distress with which Fairfax received it is not to be -described. Could it be true? Certainly Gus was absolutely convinced of -its truth, and unaware of any possibility of denial. Fairfax asked -himself, with a perplexity more serious than he had ever known in his -life before, what he ought to do. Was it his duty to say something or to -say nothing? to warn them of the extraordinary blow that was coming, or -to hold his peace and merely look on? When he went back up the peaceful -avenue into the house which he was beginning to call home—the house -over which one dread cloud was hanging, but which had no prevision of -the other calamity—he felt as if he himself were a traitor conniving at -its destruction. But to whom could he speak? Not to Lady Markham who had -so much to bear—and Alice—to tell such a tale to Alice was impossible. -It was then that he determined at any cost that Paul must come, and he -himself go away. That Paul would not tolerate his presence in the house -he was aware, instinctively feeling that neither could he, in Paul’s -place, have borne it. And to go away was not so easy as it once might -have been; but there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> seemed no longer any question what his duty was. -He put up some of his things in a bag, and himself carried them with him -down the avenue, not able to feel otherwise than sadly heavy and sore -about the heart. He could not abandon the ladies; but he could not stay -there any longer with that secret in his possession. His telegram to -Paul was in a different tone from those which the ladies sent.</p> - -<p>“The doctors give scarcely any hope,” he said. “Come instantly. I cannot -but feel myself an intruder at such a moment; but I will not leave till -you come.”</p> - -<p>Then he went sadly with his bag to the Markham Arms. Was it right? Was -it wrong? It even glanced across his mind that to establish himself -there by the side of Gus might seem to the Markhams like taking their -enemy’s side against them. But what else could he do? He would neither -intrude upon them nor abandon them.</p> - -<p>Fairfax calculated justly. Paul, who had resisted his mother’s appeals -and his sister’s entreaties, obeyed at once the imperative message of -the man who threw the light of outside opinion and common necessity upon -the situation. He arrived that night, just after the great<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> London -physician, who had come down to pronounce upon Sir William’s condition, -had been driven to the railway. Paul had no carriage sent for him, and -had said to himself that it was all an exaggeration and piece of folly, -since some one from Markham was evidently dining out. There were, -however, all the signs of melancholy excitement which usually follow -such a visit visible in the hall and about the house when he reached it. -Brown and one of his subordinates were standing talking in low tones on -the great steps, shaking their heads as they conversed. Mr. Brown -himself had managed to change his usually cheerful countenance into the -semblance of that which is characteristic of an undertaker’s mute.</p> - -<p>“I knew how it would be the moment I set eyes upon him,” Mr. Brown was -saying. “Death was in his face, if it ever was in a man’s.”</p> - -<p>Paul sprang from the lumbering old fly which he had found at the station -with a mixture of eagerness and incredulity.</p> - -<p>“How is my father?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, sir, you’re come none too soon,” said Brown, “Sir William is as bad -as bad can be.” And then Alice,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> hearing something, she did not know -what, rushed out. Every sound was full of terror in the oppressed house. -She flung herself upon her brother and wept. There was no need to say -anything; and Paul who had been lingering, thinking they did not mean -what they said, believing it to be a device to get him seduced into that -dangerous stronghold of his enemy’s house, was overcome too.</p> - -<p>“Why did not I hear before?” he said. But nobody bid him remember that -he had been told a dozen times before.</p> - -<p>Sir William was very ill that night. He began to wander, and said things -in his confused and broken utterance which were very mysterious to the -listeners. But as none of them had any clue to what these wanderings -meant, they did not add, as they might have done, to the misery of the -night. There was no rest for any one during those tedious hours. The -children and the inferior servants went to bed as usual, but the elder -ones, and those domestics who had been long in the family, could not -rest any more than could those individually concerned; the excitement of -that gloomy expectation got into their veins. Mrs. Fry was up and down<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span> -all night, and Brown lay on a sofa in the housekeeper’s room, from which -he appeared at intervals looking very wretched and troubled, with that -air of half-fearing half hoping the worst, which gets into the faces of -those who stand about the outer chamber where death has shown his face. -Nothing however “happened” that night. The day began again, and life, -galvanised into a haggard copy of itself, with all the meals put upon -the table as usual. The chief figure in this new day, in this renewed -vigil, was Paul, who, always important in the house, was now doubly -important as so soon to be master of all. The servants were all very -careful of him that he should not be troubled; messages and commissions -which the day before would have been handed unceremoniously to Fairfax, -were now managed by Brown himself as best he could rather than trouble -Mr. Paul; and even Mrs. Fry was more anxious that he should lie down and -rest, than even that Alice, her favourite, should be spared.</p> - -<p>“It will all come upon him <i>after</i>,” the housekeeper said.</p> - -<p>As for Paul himself, the effect upon him was very great. Perhaps it was -because of the profound dissatisfaction<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> in his mind with all his own -plans, that he had so long resisted the call to come home. Since his -father had left Oxford, Paul had gone through many chapters of -experience. Every day had made him more discontented with his future -associates, more secretly appalled by the idea that the rest of his life -was to be spent entirely among them. He had left his rooms in college, -and gone into some very homely ones not far from Spears’s, by way of -accustoming himself to his new life. This was a thing he had long -intended to do, and he had been angry with himself for his weak-minded -regard for personal comfort, but unfortunately his enthusiasm had begun -to sink into disgust before he took this step, and his loathing for the -little mean rooms, the narrow street full of crowding children and evil -odours was intense. That he had forced himself to remain, -notwithstanding this loathing, was perhaps all the worse for his plans. -He would not yield to his own disgust, but it inspired him with a secret -horror and opposition far more important than this mere dislike of his -surroundings. He saw that none of the others minded those things, which -made his existence miserable. Even Spears, whose perceptions in some -respects were delicate, did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> smell the smell, nor perceive the -squalor. He thought Paul’s new lodgings very handsome; he called him -Paul, without any longer even the apologetic smile which at first -accompanied that familiarity, as a matter of course. And Janet gave him -no peace. She called him out with little beckonings and signs. She was -always in the way when he came or went. She took the charge of him, -telling him what he ought to do and what not to do, with an attempt at -that petty tyranny which a woman who is loved may exercise with -impunity, but which becomes intolerable in any other.</p> - -<p>It was thus with a kind of fierce determination to remain faithful to -his convictions that Paul had set himself like a rock against all the -appeals from home. His convictions! These convictions gradually resolved -themselves into a conviction of the utter unendurableness of life, under -the conditions which he had chosen, as day by day went on. Nothing, he -had resolved, should make him yield, or own himself mistaken—nothing -would induce him to give up the cause to which he had pledged himself. -But now that at last he had been driven out of that stronghold, and -forced to leave the surroundings he hated, and come back to those that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> -were natural to him, Paul’s mind was in a chaos indescribable. After the -first burst of penitence and remorse, there had stolen on him a sense of -well-being, a charm of association which he strove to struggle against, -but in vain. He was grieved, deeply grieved for his father; but is it -possible that in the mind of a young heir, aware of all the incalculable -differences in his own life which the end of his father’s must make, -there should not be a quivering excitement of the future mingling with -the sorrow of the present, however sincere? When he went out in the -morning, after the feverishness of that agitated night, to feel the -fresh air in his face, and saw around him all the spreading woods, all -the wealthy and noble grace of the old house which an hour or moment, -might make his own, a strange convulsion shook his being. Was not he -pledged to give all up, to relinquish everything—to share whatever he -had with his brother, and, leave all belonging to him? The question -brought a deadly faintness over him. While he stood under the trees -looking at his home, he seemed to see the keen eyes of the Scotsman, -Fraser, inspecting the place, and Short jotting down calculations on a -bit of paper as to what would be the value of the materials, and how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span> -many villas semi-detached might be built on the site—while Spears, -perhaps, patted him on the shoulder, and bid him remember that even if -he had not given it up, this could not have lasted,—“the country would -not stand it long.” He seemed to see and hear them discussing his fate; -and Janet, standing at the door, making signs to him with her hand. What -had he to do here? It was to that society he belonged. Nevertheless, -Paul’s heart quivered with a strange excitement when he thought that -to-morrow—perhaps this very night!—And then he bethought himself of -the darkened room upstairs, and his mother’s lingering watch; and his -heart contracted with a sudden pang.</p> - -<p>Next evening it was apparent that the end was at hand. Just as the sun -went down, when the soft greyness of the summer twilight began to steal -into the air, the children were sent for into Sir William’s room. They -thronged in with pale faces and wide open eyes, having been bidden not -to cry—not to disturb the quiet of the death chamber. The windows were -all open, the sky appearing in wistful stretches of clearness; but near -the bed, in the shadow, a shaded lamp burned solemnly, and the window -beyond showed gleams of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> lurid colour in the western sky, barred by -strong black lines of cloud. These black lines of cloud, and the -mysterious shining of the lamp, gave a strange air of solemnity to the -room, all filled already by the awe and wonder of death. A sob of -mingled grief and terror burst from little Marie, as grasping her -sister’s hand convulsively, she followed Alice to her father’s bedside. -Was it he that lay there, propped up with cushions, breathing so hard -and painfully? The boys stood at the foot of the bed. Their hearts were -full of that dreary anguish of the unaccustomed and unknown, which gives -additional depth to every sorrow of early youth. Alice, who had taken -her place close to the head of the bed had lost this. She knew all about -it, poor child—what to do for him; what was coming; all that should be -administered to him. She was as pale as those pale stretches of sky, and -like them in the clear pathetic wistfulness of her face; but she had -something to do, and she was not afraid.</p> - -<p>“William—are you able to say anything to the children?” said Lady -Markham. “They have all come—to see you—to ask how you are——” She -could not say, “to bid you farewell;” that was not possible.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span> Her voice -was quite steady and calm. The time was coming when she would be able to -weep, but not now.</p> - -<p>He opened his eyes and looked at them with a faint smile. He had always -been good to the children. At his most busy moment they had never been -afraid of him. Little Bell held her breath, opening her eyes wider and -wider to keep down that passion of tears which was coming, while Marie -clung to her, trying to imitate her, but with the tears already come, -and making blinding reflections of the solemn lamp and the evening -light.</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes, the children,” Sir William said. “I have not seen them since -Sunday. They have been very good—and kind; they have not—made any -noise. Who is that? I thought—I heard—some one—”</p> - -<p>“Nobody, papa,” said Alice—“nobody—except all of us.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! all of you,” he said, and gave one of those panting, hard-drawn -breaths which were so terrible to hear.</p> - -<p>The door was open, like the windows, to give all the air possible. The -servants were standing about the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> stairs and in the passages. Everybody -knew that the last act was about to be performed solemnly, and the -master of the house on the eve of his going away. Most of the women were -crying. Even when it is nothing to you, what event is there that can be -so much as this final going—this departure into the unseen? There was a -general hush of awe and excitement. And how it was that amidst them all -that stranger managed to get entrance, to walk up stairs, to thread -through the mournful group, no one ever knew. His step was audible, even -among that agitated company, as he came along the corridor. They all -heard it, with a certain sense of alarm. Was it the doctor coming back -again with something new he had thought of, or was it——</p> - -<p>“Ah, all of you,” Sir William said; and as he spoke the words the -new-comer came in at the door. He walked up to the foot of the bed, no -one molesting him. They were all struck dumb with surprise; and what -could they have done, when a momentary tumult or scuffle would have -killed the sufferer at once? For the moment every eye was turned from -Sir William, and directed to Mr. Gus in his light clothes, with his -little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span> brown face, so distinct from all the others. He came up close to -the foot of the bed.</p> - -<p>“Yes, all of us, now I am here,” he said. “I am sorry to disturb you at -such a time; but, Sir William Markham, you’ll have to own me before you -die.”</p> - -<p>Paul made a hasty step towards him, and put a hand upon his shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you see,” he said. “Go away, for God’s sake. Whatever you want -I’ll attend to you after.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll not go away,” said Gus. “I must stand for my rights, even if he is -dying. Sir William Markham, it’s your own doing. I have given you -warning. You’ll have to own me before you die.”</p> - -<p>Paul, beside himself, seized the stranger by the shoulders; but Gus, -though he was small, was strong.</p> - -<p>“Don’t make a scuffle,” he said in a low tone; “I won’t go, but I’ll -make no disturbance. He’s going to speak. Be still, you, and listen to -what he says.”</p> - -<p>Sir William signed impatiently to his attendants on each side—Alice and -her mother—to raise him. He looked round him, feebly peering into the -waning light.</p> - -<p>“They are beginning to fight—over my bed,” he said, with a quiver in -his voice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span></p> - -<p>“No,” said Gus, getting free from Paul’s restraining grasp. He made no -noise, but he was supple and strong, and slid out of the other’s hands. -“No, there shall be no fighting; I have more respect—but own me, -father, before you die. I’ll take care of them. I’ll do no one any harm, -I swear before God; but own me before you die.”</p> - -<p>They all stood and listened, gazing, forgetting even the man who was -dying. The very children forgot him, and turned to the well-known -countenance of the little gentleman. Then there came a gasp, a sob, a -great quiver in the bed. Sir William flung out his emaciated arms with a -gesture of despair.</p> - -<p>“I said I was not to be disturbed,” he said, and fell back, never to be -disturbed any more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> news of Sir William Markham’s death made a great sensation in the -neighbourhood. It was as if a great house had fallen to the ground, a -great tree been riven up by the roots. There are some people whom no one -expects ever to die, and he was one of them. There seemed so much for -him to do in the world. He was so full of occupation, so well qualified -to do it, so precise and orderly in all his ways, every moment of his -time filled up, he did not seem to have leisure for all the troublesome -preliminaries of dying. But as it happened, he had found the time for -them, as we all do, and everybody was astonished. It was whispered in -the county that there had been “a very strange scene at the deathbed,” -and everybody concluded that this was somehow connected with the heir, -it being well known that Paul<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> had only appeared the day before his -father’s death. Some vague rumours on this score flew about in the days -which elapsed before the funeral, but nobody could tell the rights of -the story, and it had already begun to fade before the great pomp and -ceremonial of the funeral day. This was to be a very great day at -Markham Royal. In the Markham Arms all the stables were getting cleared -out, in preparation for the horses of the gentry who would collect from -far and near to pay honour to the last scene in which the member for the -county would ever play any part; and all the village was roused in -expectation. No doubt it was a very solemn and sad ceremonial, and -Markham Royal knew that it had lost its best friend; but, -notwithstanding, any kind of excitement is pleasant in the country, and -they liked this well enough in default of better. The little gentleman -too, who was living at the Markham Arms, was a great diversion to the -village. He gave himself the air of superintending everything that was -done at the Markham burying place. He went about it solemnly—as if it -could by any possibility be his business—and he put on all the -semblance of one who has lost a near relation. He put away his light -clothes, and appeared<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> in black, with a hat-band which almost covered -his tall hat. The village people felt it very natural that the little -gentleman should be proud of his relationship to the Markhams, and -should take such a good opportunity of showing it; but those who knew -about such matters laughed a little at the size of his hat-band. “If he -had been a son it could not have been larger. Sir Paul himself could not -do more,” Mr. Remnant, the draper, said.</p> - -<p>It happened that Dolly Stainforth was early astir on the funeral -morning. She thought it right to get all her parish work over at an -early hour, for the village would be full of “company,” and indeed Dolly -was aware that even in the rectory itself there would be a great many -people to luncheon, and that her father’s stables would be as full of -horses as those of the Markham Arms. She was full of excitement and -grief herself, partly for Sir William whom she had known all her life, -but still more for Alice and Lady Markham, for whom the girl grieved as -if their grief had been her own. She had put on a black frock to be so -far in sympathy with her friends, and before the dew was off the -flowers, had gathered all she could find in the rectory garden, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> -made them into wreaths and crosses. This is an occupation which soothes -the sympathetic mourner. She stood under the shadow of a little -<i>bosquet</i> on the slope of the rectory garden which looked towards the -churchyard, and worked silently at this labour of love, a tear now and -then falling upon the roses still wet with morning dew. From where she -stood she could see the preparations in the great Markham burying place; -the sexton superintending the place prepared in which Sir William was to -lie with his father, the lychgate under which the procession would pause -as they entered, and the path by which they would sweep round to the -church. That which was about to happen so soon seemed already to be -happening before her eyes. The tears streamed down Dolly’s fresh morning -cheeks. To die, to be put away under the cold turf, to leave the warm -precincts of the cheerful day, seems terrible indeed to a creature so -young as she was, so full of life, and on a summer morning all brimming -over with melody and beauty. When she shook the tears off her eyelashes -she saw a solitary figure coming through the churchyard, pausing for a -moment to look at the grave, then turning towards the gate which led -into the rectory<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span> garden. Dolly put the wreath she was making on her -arm, and hastened to meet him. Her heart beat; it was full of sorrow and -pity, and yet of excitement too. She went to him with the tears once -more streaming from her pretty eyes. “Oh Paul!” she said, putting her -hand into his, and able to say no more. Of late she had begun to call -him Mr. Markham, feeling shy of her old playfellow and of herself, but -she could not stand upon her dignity now. She would have liked to throw -her arms round his neck, to console him, to have called him dear Paul. -In his trouble it seemed impossible to do too much for him. And Paul on -his side took the little hand in both his, and held it fast. The tears -rose to his eyes too. He was very grown up, very tall and solemn, and -his mind was full of many a serious thought—but when he had little -Dolly by the hand the softest influence of which he was susceptible came -over him. “Thank you, Dolly,” he said, with quivering lips.</p> - -<p>“How are they?” said the little girl, coming very close to his side, and -looking up at him with her wet eyes.</p> - -<p>“Oh, how can they be?” said Paul; “my mother is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span> worn out, she cannot -feel it yet: and Alice is with her night and day.”</p> - -<p>“Will they come?” said Dolly, with a sob in her voice.</p> - -<p>“I fear so; it is too much for them. But I am afraid they will come, -whatever I may say.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t you think it is best? Then they will feel that they have not -left him, not for a moment, nor failed him, as long as there was -anything to do.”</p> - -<p>“But that makes it all the worse when there is nothing to do. I fear for -my mother.”</p> - -<p>“She has got you, Paul—and the children.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, me; and I did not come till the last. Did you hear that, -Dolly?—that I wasted all the time when he was dying, and was only here -the last day?”</p> - -<p>“Dear Paul,” said Dolly, giving him her hand again, “you did not mean -it. Do you think he does not know now? Oh, you may be sure he -understands!” she cried, with that confidence in the advancement of the -dead above all petty frailties which is so touching and so universal.</p> - -<p>“I hope so,” Paul said, with quivering lips; and as he stood here, with -this soft hand clasping his, and this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> familiar, almost childish, voice -consoling him, Paul felt as if he had awakened out of a dream. This was -the place he belonged to, not the squalid dream to which he had given -himself. Standing under those beautiful trees, with this soft, fair -innocent creature comprehending and consoling him, there suddenly -flashed before his eyes a vision of a narrow street, the lamp-post, the -children shouting and fighting, and another creature, who did not at all -understand him, standing close by him, pressing her advice upon him, -looking up at him with eager eyes. A sudden horror seized him even while -he felt the softness of Dolly’s consoling touch and voice. It quickened -the beating of his heart and brought a faintness of terror like a film -over his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Come and sit down,” said Dolly, alarmed. “You are so pale. Oh, Paul, -sit down, and I will run and bring you something. You have been shutting -yourself up too much; you have been making yourself ill. Oh, Paul! you -must not reproach yourself. You must remember how much there is to do.”</p> - -<p>“Do not leave me, Dolly. I am going to speak to the rector. I am not -ill—it was only a sudden<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> recollection that came over me. I have not -been so good a son as I ought to have been.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Paul! he sees now—he sees that you never meant it,” Dolly said. -“Do you think <i>they</i> are like us, thinking only of the outside? And you -have your mother to think of now.”</p> - -<p>“And so I will,” he said, with a softening rush of tears to his eyes. -“Come in with me, Dolly.”</p> - -<p>Dolly was used to comforting people who were in trouble. She did not -take away her hand, but went in with him very quietly, like a child, -leading the young man who was so deeply moved. Her own heart was in a -great flutter and commotion, but she kept very still, and led him to her -father’s study and opened the door for him. “Here is Paul, papa,” she -said, as if Paul had been a boy again, coming with an exercise, or to be -scolded for some folly he had done. But afterwards Dolly went back to -her wreaths with her heart beating very wildly. She was ashamed and -angry with herself that it should be so on such a day—the morning of -the funeral. But then it is so in nature, let us chide as we will. One -day ends weeping, and the next thrusts its recollection away with -sunshine. Already the new<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> springs of life were beginning to burst forth -from the very edges of the grave.</p> - -<p>When Paul went away after this last bit of melancholy business (he had -come to tell the rector what the hymn was which his mother wished to be -sung) he did not see Dolly again. She was putting all her flowers ready -with which to cover the darkness of the coffin—a tender expedient which -has everywhere suggested itself to humanity. He went away through the -early sunshine, walking with a subdued and measured tread as a man -enters a church not to disturb the worshippers. In Paul’s own mind there -was a feeling like that of convalescence—the sense of something painful -behind yet hopeful before—the faintness and weakness, yet renewal of -life, which comes after an illness. There was no anguish in his grief, -nor had there been after the first agony of self-reproach which he had -experienced, when he perceived the cruelty of his lingering and -reluctance to obey his mother’s call. But that was over. He had at least -done his duty at the last, and now the feeling in Paul’s mind was more -that of respectful compassion for his father now withdrawn out of all -the happiness of his life, than of any sorer, more personal sentiment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span> -The loss of him was not a thing against which his son’s whole soul cried -out as darkening heaven and earth to himself. The loss of a child has -this effect upon a parent, but that of a parent seldom so affects a -child; yet he was sorry, with almost a compunctious sense of the -happiness of living, for his father who had lost that—who had been -obliged to give up wife and children, and his happy domestic life, and -his property and influence, and the beautiful world and the daylight. At -this thought his heart bled for Sir William; yet for himself beat softly -with a sense of unbounded opening and expansion and new possibility. As -he walked softly home, his step instinctively so sobered and gentle, his -demeanour so subdued, the thoughts that possessed him were such as he -had never experienced before. They possessed him indeed; they were not -voluntary, not originated by any will of his, but swept through him as -on the wings of the wind, or gently floated into him, filling every nook -and corner. He was no longer the same being; the moody, viewy, -rebellious young man who was about to emigrate with Spears, to join a -little rude community of colonists and work with his hands for his daily -bread and sacrifice all his better<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> knowledge, all the culture of a -higher social caste, to rough equality and primitive justice—had died -with Sir William. All that seemed to be years behind him. Sometimes his -late associates appeared to him as if in a dream, as the discomforts of -a past journey or the perils that we have overcome, flash upon us in -sudden pictures. He saw Spears and Fraser and the rest for a moment -gleaming out of the darkness, as he might have seen a precipice in the -Alps on the edge of which for a moment he had hung. It was not that he -had given them up; it was that in a moment they had become impossible. -He walked on, subdued, in his strange convalescence, with a kind of -content and resignation and sense of submission. A man newly out of a -fever, submits sweetly to all the immediate restraints that suit his -weakness. He does not insist upon exercises or indulgences of which he -feels incapable, but recognises with a grateful sense of trouble over, -the duty of submitting. This was how Paul felt. He was not glad, but -there was in his veins a curious elation, expansion, a rising tide of -new life. He had to cross the village street on his way home, and there -all the people he met took off their hats or made their curtseys with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> -reverential respect that arose half out of respect for his new -dignities, and half out of sympathy for the son who had lost his father. -Just when his mind was soft and tender with the sight of this universal -homage, there came up to him a strange little figure, all in solemn -black.</p> - -<p>“You are going home,” said this unknown being. “I will walk with you and -talk it over; and let us try if we cannot arrive at an -understanding——”</p> - -<p>Paul put up his hand with sudden impatience. “I can’t speak to you -to-day,” he said hastily.</p> - -<p>“Not to-day? the day of our father’s funeral; that ought to be the most -suitable day of all—and indeed it must be,” the little gentleman said.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Gaveston,” said Paul, “if that is your name——”</p> - -<p>“No, it is not my name,” said Mr. Gus.</p> - -<p>“I suppose you lay claim to ours, then? You have no right. But Mr. -Markham Gaveston, or whatever you call yourself, you ought to see that -this is not the moment. I will not refuse to examine your claims at a -more appropriate time,” said Paul with lofty distance.</p> - -<p>A slight redness came over Gus’s brown face. He laughed angrily. “Yes, -you will have to consider my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> claims,” he said. And then after a little -hesitation, he went away. This disturbed the current of Paul’s languid, -yet intense, consciousness. He felt a horror of the man who had thus, he -thought, intruded the recollection of his father’s early errors to cloud -the perfect honour and regret with which he was to be carried to his -grave. The interruption hurt and wounded him. Of course the fellow would -have to be silenced—bought off at almost any price—rather than -communicate to the world this stigma upon the dead. By and by, however, -as he went on, the harshness of this jarring note floated away in the -intense calm and peace of the sweet atmosphere of the morning which -surrounded him. The country was more hushed than usual, as if in -sympathy with what was to happen to-day. The very birds stirred softly -among the trees, giving place, it might have been supposed, to that -plaintive coo of the wood pigeon “moaning for its mate” which is the -very voice of the woods. A soft awe seemed over all the earth—an awe -that to the young man seemed to concern as much his own life which was, -as the other which was ending. The same awe crept into his own heart as -he went towards his home, that temple of grief and mourning,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span> from which -all the sunshine was shut out. There seemed to rise up within him a -sudden sense of the responsibilities of the future, a sudden warmth of -resolution which brought the tears to his eyes.</p> - -<p>“I will be good,” said the little princess, when she heard of the great -kingdom that was coming to her; and Paul, though he was not a child to -use that simple phraseology, felt the same. The follies of the past were -all departed like clouds. He was the head of the family—the universal -guardian. It lay with him to see that all were cared for, all kept from -evil; the fortune of many was in his hands; power had come to him—real -power, not visionary uncertain influence such as he had once thought the -highest of possibilities. “I will be good”—this thought swelled up -within him, filling his heart.</p> - -<p>It was past mid-day when the procession set out; the whole county had -come from all its corners, to do honour to Sir William, and the parish -sent forth a humble audience, scattered along all the roads, half-sad, -half-amused by the sight of all the carriages and the company. When they -caught a glimpse of my lady in her deep crape, the women cried: but -dried their tears to count the number of those who followed, and felt a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span> -vague gratification in the honour done to the family. All the men who -were employed on the estate, and the farmers, and even many people from -Farboro’, the markettown, swelled the procession. Such a great funeral -had never been seen in the district. Lady Westland and her daughter, and -Mrs. Booth, and the other ladies in the parish, assembled under the -rectory trees, and watched the wonderful procession, not without much -remark on the fact that Dolly had gone to the grave with the family, a -thing which no one else had been asked to do. It was not the ladies on -the lawn, however, who remarked the strange occurrence which surprised -the lookers-on below, and which was so soon made comprehensible by what -followed. When the procession left the church-door, the stranger who was -living at the Markham Arms appeared all of a sudden, in the -old-fashioned scarves and hat-bands of the deepest conventional woe, and -placed himself behind the coffin, in a line with, or indeed a little in -advance of, Paul. There was a great flutter among the professional -conductors of the ceremony when this was observed. One of the attendants -rushed to him, and took him by the arm, and remonstrated with anxious -whispers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You can follow behind, my good gentleman—you can follow behind,” the -undertaker said; “but this is the chief mourner’s place.”</p> - -<p>“It is my place,” said the intruder aloud, “and I mean to keep it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t you now, sir—don’t you now make a business,” cried the -distressed official. “Keep out of Sir Paul’s way!”</p> - -<p>The stranger shook the man off with a sardonic grin which almost sent -him into a fit, so appalling was it, and contrary to all the decorum of -the occasion. And what more could any one do? They kept him out of the -line of the procession, but they could not prevent him from keeping up -with, keeping close by Paul’s side. Indeed Mr. Gus got close to the side -of the grave, and made the responses louder than any one else, as if he -were indeed the chief actor in the scene. And his appearance in all -those trappings of woe, which no one else wore, pointed him doubly out -to public notice. Indeed the undertaker approved of him for that; it was -showing a right feeling—even though it was not from himself that Mr. -Gus had procured that livery of mourning. It was he that lingered the -longest when the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> mourners dispersed. This incident was very much -discussed and talked of in the parish and among the gentlemen who had -attended the funeral, during the rest of the day. But the wonder which -it excited was light and trivial indeed in comparison with the wonders -that were soon to follow. All day long the roads were almost gay (if it -had not been wrong to use such an expression in the circumstances) with -the carriages returning from the funeral, and the people in the roadside -cottages felt themselves at liberty to enjoy the sight of them now that -all was over, and Sir William safely laid in his last bed.</p> - -<p>“And here’s Sir Paul’s ’ealth,” was a toast that was many times repeated -in the Markham Arms, and in all the little alehouses where the thirsty -mourners refreshed themselves during the day; “and if he’s as good a -landlord and as good a master as his father, there won’t be much to say -again’ him.”</p> - -<p>There were many, however, who, remembering all that had been said about -him, the “bad company” he kept, and his long absences from home, shook -their heads when they uttered their good wishes, and had no confidence -in Sir Paul.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> house had fallen into quiet after the gloomy excitement of the -morning. All the guests save two or three had gone away, the shutters -were opened, the rooms full once more of soft day-light, bright and -warm. The event, great and terrible as it was, was over, and ordinary -life again begun.</p> - -<p>But there was still one piece of business to do. Sir William’s will had -to be read before the usual routine of existence could be begun again. -This grand winding up of the affairs that were at an end, and setting in -motion of those which were about to begin, took place in the library -late in the afternoon, when all the strangers had departed. The family -lawyer, Colonel Fleetwood, who was Lady Markham’s brother, and old Mr. -Markham of Edge, the head of the hostile branch<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span> which had hoped to -inherit everything before Sir William married and showed them their -mistake—were the only individuals present along with Lady Markham, -Paul, and Alice. There was nothing exciting about the reading of this -will; no fear of eccentric dispositions, or of any arrangement different -from the just and natural one. Besides, the family knew what it was -before it was read. It was merely a part of the sad ceremonial which had -to be gone through like the rest. Lady Markham had placed herself as far -from the table as possible, with her face turned to the door. She could -not bear, yet, to look straight at her husband’s vacant place. Her -brother stood behind her, leaning thoughtfully against her chair, and -Alice was on a low seat by her side. The deep mourning of both the -ladies made the paleness which grief and watching had brought more -noticeable. Alice had begun to regain a little delicate colour, but her -mother was still wan and worn. And they were very weary with the -excitement of the gloomy day, and anxious to get away and conclude all -these agitating ceremonials. Lady Markham kept her eyes on the door. Her -loss was too recent to seem natural. What so likely as that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span> should -come in suddenly, and wonder to see them all collected there?—so much -more likely, so much more natural than to believe that for ever he was -gone away.</p> - -<p>And in the quiet the lawyer began to read—nothing to rouse them, -nothing they did not know; his voice, monotonous and calm, seemed to be -reading another kind of dull burial service, unbeautiful, without any -consolation in it, but full of the heavy, level cadence of ashes to -ashes and dust to dust. Paul stirred, almost impatiently, from time to -time, and changed his position; it affected his nerves. And sometimes -Colonel Fleetwood would give forth a sigh, which meant impatience too; -but the others did not move. Lady Markham’s beautiful profile, marble -pale, shone like a white cameo upon the dark background of the curtains. -She was scarcely conscious what they were doing, submitting to this last -duty of all.</p> - -<p>When the door opened, which it did, somewhat hastily, it startled the -whole party. Lady Markham sat up in her chair and uttered a low cry. -Paul turned round angrily. He turned to find fault with the servant who -was thus interrupting a solemn conference;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> but when he saw who the -intruder really was, the young man lost all patience.</p> - -<p>“This fellow again!” he said under his breath; and he made one stride -towards the door, where stood, closing it carefully behind him, while he -faced the company, Mr. Gus in his black suit. He was no coward; he faced -the young man, whom he had already exasperated, without -flinching—putting up his hand with a deprecating, but not undignified, -gesture. Paul, who had meant nothing less than to eject him forcibly, -came to a sudden stop, and stood hesitating, uncertain, before the -self-possessed little figure. What could he do? He was in his house, -where discourtesy was a crime.</p> - -<p>“Keep your temper, Paul Markham,” said the little gentleman; “I mean you -no harm. You and I can’t help damaging each other; but for heaven’s -sake, this day, and before <i>them</i>, let’s settle it with as little -disturbance as we can.”</p> - -<p>“What does this mean?” said Colonel Fleetwood: while the lawyer rested -his papers on the table, and looked on, across them, without putting -them out of his hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I can’t tell what it means,” cried Paul. “This is the second time this -man has burst into our company, at the most solemn moment, when my -father was dying——”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Gaveston,” said Lady Markham, in her trembling voice, “I have told -you that anything we can do for you, any amends we can make—— But oh, -would it not be better to choose another time—to come when we are -alone—when there need be no exposure?”</p> - -<p>“My Lady Markham,” said Gus, advancing to the table, “I don’t know what -you mean, but you are under a great mistake. It is no fault of yours, -and I am sorry for Paul. I might have been disposed to accept a -compromise before I saw the place; but anyhow, compromise or not, I must -establish my rights.”</p> - -<p>“This is the most extraordinary interruption of a family in their own -house,” said Colonel Fleetwood. “What does it mean? Isabel, you seem to -know him; who is this man?”</p> - -<p>“That is just what she does not know,” said Gus, calmly; “and what I’ve -come to tell you. Nothing can be more easy; I have all the evidence -here, which your lawyer can examine at once. I wrote to my father<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span> when -I arrived, but he took no notice. I am Sir Augustus Markham: Sir William -Markham’s eldest son—and heir.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham rose up appalled—her lips falling apart, her eyes opened -wide in alarm, her hands clasped together. Paul, whose head had been -bent down, started, and raised it suddenly, as if he had not heard -rightly.</p> - -<p>“Good God!” cried Colonel Fleetwood.</p> - -<p>Mr. Scrivener, the lawyer, put down his papers carefully on the table, -and rose from his seat.</p> - -<p>“The man must be out of his senses,” he said.</p> - -<p>Mr. Gus looked round upon them all with excitement, in which there was a -gleam of triumph. “I am not out of my senses. With such a wrong done to -me I might have been; but I never knew of it till lately. And, mind you, -I don’t blame <i>them</i> as if they knew it. If you are the lawyer, I have -brought you all the papers, honest and above-board. There they are, my -mother’s certificates and mine. Ask anybody in the island of Barbadoes,” -cried Mr. Gus; “bless you, it was not done in a corner; it was never -made a secret of. From the Governor to the meanest black, there isn’t -one but knows it all as well as I.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>He had thrust a packet of papers into Mr. Scrivener’s hand, and now -stood with one arm extended, like a speaker addressing with energetic, -yet conciliatory warmth, a hostile assembly. But no one paid any -attention to Mr. Gus. The interest had gone from him to the lawyer who -was opening up with care and precaution the different papers. Colonel -Fleetwood stood behind Mr. Scrivener eagerly reading them over his -shoulder, chafing at his coolness. “Get on, can’t you?” he cried, under -his breath. They were enough to appal the inexperienced eye. To this -astonished spectator looking on, the lines of the marriage certificate -seemed to blaze as if written in fire. It was as if a bolt from heaven -had fallen among them. The chief sufferers themselves were stunned by -the shock of a sudden horror which they did not realise. What did it -mean? A kind of pale light came over Lady Markham’s face: she began to -remember the Lennys and their eccentric visit. She put out her hand as -one who has begun to grasp a possible clue.</p> - -<p>At this moment of intense and painful bewilderment, a sudden chuckle -burst into the quiet. It was poor old Mr. Markham, whose hopes had been -disappointed, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> had never forgiven Sir William Markham’s children for -being born. “Gad! I always felt sure there was a previous marriage,” he -said, mumbling with old toothless jaws. Only the stillness of such a -pause would have made this senile voice of malice audible. Even the old -man himself was abashed to hear how audible it was.</p> - -<p>“A previous marriage!” Colonel Fleetwood went hurriedly to his sister, -and took her by the shoulders in fierce excitement, as if she could be -to blame. “What does this mean, Isabel?” he cried; “did you know of it? -did you consent to it? does it mean, my God! that you have never been -this man’s wife at all?”</p> - -<p>She turned upon him with a flash of energy and passion. “How dare you -speak of my husband so—my husband who was honour itself and truth?” -Then the poor lady covered her face with her hands. Her heart sank, her -strength forsook her. Who could tell what hidden things might be -revealed by the light of this sudden horrible illumination. “I can’t -tell you. I do not know! I do not know!”</p> - -<p>“This will never do,” said Mr. Scrivener hurriedly. “This is pre-judging -the case altogether. No one can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> imagine that with no more proof than -these papers (which may be genuine or not, I can’t say on the spur of -the moment) we are going to believe a wild assertion which strikes at -the honour of a family——”</p> - -<p>“Look here,” said Mr. Gus; his mouth began to get dry with excitement, -he could scarcely get out the words. “Look here, there’s nothing about -the honour of the family. There’s nothing to torment <i>her</i> about. Do you -hear, you, whoever you are! My mother, Gussy Gaveston, died five and -thirty years ago, when I was born. Poor little thing,” cried the man who -was her son, with a confusion of pathos and satisfaction, “it was the -best thing she could do. She wasn’t one to live and put other people to -shame, not she. She was a bit of a girl, with no harm in her. The man -she married was a young fellow of no account, no older than him there, -Paul, my young brother; but all the same she would have been Lady -Markham had she lived; and I am her son that cost her her life, the only -one of the first family, Sir William’s eldest. That’s easily seen when -you look at us both,” he added with a short laugh; “there can’t be much -doubt, can there, which is the eldest, I or he?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Here again there was a strange pause. Colonel Fleetwood, who was the -spectator who had his wits about him, turned round upon old Mr. Markham, -who ventured to chuckle again in echo of poor Gus’s harsh little laugh, -which meant no mirth. “What the devil do you find to laugh at?” he said, -his lip curling over his white teeth with rage, to which he could give -vent no other way. But he was relieved of his worst fear, and he could -not help turning with a certain interest to the intruder. Gus was not a -noble figure in his old-fashioned long-tailed black-coat, with his -formal air; but there was not the least appearance of imposture about -him. The serene air of satisfaction and self-importance which returned -to his face when the excitement of his little speech subsided, his -evident conviction that he was in his right place, and confidence in his -position, contradicted to the eyes of the man of the world all -suggestion of fraud. He might be deceived: but he himself believed in -the rights he was claiming, and he was not claiming them in any cruel -way.</p> - -<p>As for Paul, since his first angry explanation he had not said a word. -The young man looked like a man in a dream. He was standing leaning -against the mantel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span>piece, every tinge of colour gone out of his face, -listening, but hardly seeming to understand what was said. He had -watched his mother’s movements, his uncle’s passionate appeal to her, -but he had not stirred. As a matter of fact the confusion in his mind -was such that nothing was clear to him. He felt as if he had fallen and -was still falling, from some great height into infinite space. His feet -tingled, his head was light. The sounds around him seemed blurred and -uncertain, as well as the faces. While he stood thus bewildered, two -arms suddenly surrounded his, embracing it, clinging to him. Paul -pressed these clinging hands mechanically to his side, and felt a -certain melting, a softness of consolation and support. But whether it -was Dolly whispering comfort to him in sight of his father’s grave, or -Alice bidding him take courage in the midst of a new confusing imbroglio -of pain and excitement, he could scarcely have told. Then, however, -voices more distinct came to him, voices quite steady and calm, in their -ordinary tones.</p> - -<p>“After this interruption it will be better to go no further,” the lawyer -said. “I can only say that I <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span>will consult with my clients, and meet -Mr. ——, this gentleman’s solicitor, on the subject of the extraordinary -claim he makes.”</p> - -<p>“If it is me you mean, I have no solicitor,” said Mr. Gus, “and I don’t -see the need of one. What have you got to say against my papers? They -are straightforward enough.”</p> - -<p>The lawyer was moved to impatience.</p> - -<p>“It is ridiculous,” he said, “to think that a matter of this -importance—the succession to a great property—can be settled in such a -summary way. There is a great deal more necessary before we get that -length. Lady Markham, I don’t think we need detain you longer.”</p> - -<p>But no one moved. Lady Markham had sunk into her chair too feeble to -stand. Her eyes were fixed upon her son and daughter standing together. -They seemed to have floated away from her on the top of this wave of -strange invasion. She thought there was anger on Paul’s pale stern face, -but her heart was too faint to go to them, to take the part she ought to -take. Did they think she was to blame? How was she to blame? She almost -thought so herself as she looked pathetically across the room at her -children, who seemed to have forsaken her. Mr. Scrivener made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span> a great -rustling and scraping, tying up his papers, putting them together—these -strange documents along with the others; for Gus had made no effort to -retain them. The lawyer felt with a sinking of his heart that the last -doubt of the reality of this claim was removed when the claimant allowed -him to keep the certificates which proved his case. In such a matter -only men who are absolutely honest put faith in others. “He is not -afraid of any appeal to the registers,” Mr. Scrivener said to himself. -He made as much noise as he could over the tying up of these papers; but -nobody moved to go. At last he took out his watch and examined it.</p> - -<p>“Can any one tell me about the trains to town?” he said.</p> - -<p>This took away all excuse from old Mr. Markham, who very unwillingly put -himself in motion.</p> - -<p>“I must go too,” he said. “Can I put you down at the station?”</p> - -<p>And then these two persons stood together for a minute or more comparing -their watches, of which one was a little slow and the other a little -fast.</p> - -<p>“I think perhaps it will suit me better,” the lawyer said, “to wait for -the night train.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Then the other reluctantly took his leave.</p> - -<p>“I am glad that anyhow it can make no difference to you,” he said, -pressing Lady Markham’s hand; “that would have been worse, much worse, -than anything that can happen to Paul.”</p> - -<p>The insult made her shrink and wince, and this pleased the revengeful -old man who had never forgiven her marriage. Then he went to Mr. Gus -with a great show of friendliness.</p> - -<p>“We’re relations, too,” he said, “and I hope will be friends. Can I set -you down anywhere?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Gus looked at him with great severity and did not put out his hand.</p> - -<p>“I can’t help hurting them, more or less,” he said, “for I’ve got to -look after my own rights; but if you think I’ll make friends with any -one that takes pleasure in hurting them—— I am much obliged to you,” -Mr. Gus added with much state, “but I am at home, and I don’t want to be -set down anywhere.”</p> - -<p>These words, which were quite audible, sent a thrill of amazement -through the room. Colonel Fleetwood and Mr. Scrivener looked at each -other. Notwithstanding the ruin and calamity which surrounded them,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span> a -gleam of amusement went over the lawyer’s face. Gus was moving about -restlessly, hovering round the brother and sister who had not changed -their position, like a big blue-bottle, moving in circles. He was not at -all unlike a blue-bottle in his black coat. Mr. Scrivener went up to -him, arresting him in one of his flights.</p> - -<p>“I should think—” said the lawyer, “don’t you agree with me?—that the -family would prefer to be left alone after such an exciting and -distressing day?”</p> - -<p>“Eh! the family? Yes, that is quite my opinion. You outsiders ought to -go, and leave us to settle matters between us,” said Gus.</p> - -<p>He scarcely looked at the lawyer, so intent was he upon Paul and Alice, -who were still standing together, supporting each other. The little man -was undisguisedly anxious to listen to what Alice was saying in her -brother’s ear.</p> - -<p>“I am their adviser,” said Mr. Scrivener. “I cannot leave till I have -done all I can for them; but you Mr. ——”</p> - -<p>“Sir Augustus, if you please,” said the little gentleman, drawing -himself up. “If you are their adviser, I, sir, am their brother. You -seem to forget that. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span> family is not complete without me. Leave them -to me, and there is no fear but everything will come straight.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Scrivener looked at this strange personage with a kind of -consternation. He was half afraid of him, half amused by him. The -genuineness of him filled the lawyer with dismay. He could not entertain -a hope that a being so true was false in his pretensions. Besides, there -were various things known perhaps only to Mr. Scrivener himself which -gave these pretensions additional weight. He shook his head when Colonel -Fleetwood, coming up to him on the other side, whispered to him an -entreaty to “get the fellow to go.” How was he to get the fellow to go? -He had not only right, but kindness and the best of intentions on his -side.</p> - -<p>“My dear sir,” he said, perplexed, “you must see, if you think, that -your claim, even if true, cannot be accepted in a moment as you seem to -expect. We must have time to investigate; any one may call himself Sir -William Markham’s son.”</p> - -<p>“But no one except myself can prove it,” said Gus, promptly; “and, my -dear sir, to use your own words, you had better leave my family to me, -as I tell you. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span> know better than any one else how to manage them. Are -they not my own flesh and blood?”</p> - -<p>“That may or may not be,” said the lawyer, at the end of his reasoning.</p> - -<p>It was easy to say “get him to go away,” but unless he ejected him by -sheer force, he did not see how it was to be done. As for Mr. Gus, he -himself saw that the time was come for some further step. First he -buttoned his coat as preparing for action, and put down his hat, with -its huge hat-band, upon the table. Then he hesitated for a moment -between Lady Markham and the young people; finally he said to himself -reflectively, almost sadly, “What claim have I upon her?” He moved a -step towards Paul and Alice, and cleared his throat.</p> - -<p>And it was now that Providence interposed to help the stranger. Just as -he had made up his mind to address the young man whom he had superseded, -there came a sound of footsteps at the door. It was opened a very -little, timidly, and through the chink Bell’s little soft voice (she was -always the spokeswoman) was heard with a little sobbing catch in it, -pleading—</p> - -<p>“May we come in now, mamma?”</p> - -<p>The children thought everybody was gone. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span> had been huddled up, out -of the way, it seemed, for weeks. They were longing for their natural -lives, for their mother, for some way out of the strangeness and -desolation of this unnatural life they had been leading. They were all -in the doorway, treading upon each other’s heels in their eagerness, but -subdued by the influences about which took the courage out of them. It -seemed to Mr. Gus an interposition of Providence on his behalf. He went -quickly to the door and opened to them, then returned, leading one of -the little girls in each hand.</p> - -<p>“I told you I was a relation,” he said very gravely and kindly, with a -certain dignity which now and then took away all that was ridiculous in -him. “I am your brother, though you would not think it; your poor dear -father who is gone was my father too. He was my father when he was not -much older than Paul. I should like to be very fond of you all if you -would let me. I would not hurt one of you for the world. Will you give -me a kiss, because I am your brother, Bell and Marie?”</p> - -<p>The children looked at him curiously with their big eyes, which they had -made so much larger with crying. They looked pale and fragile in their -black frocks, with their anxious little faces turned up to him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Our brother!” they both said in a breath, wondering; but they did not -shrink from the kiss he gave, turning with a quivering of real emotion -from one to another.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dears,” he said, “and a good brother I’ll be to you, so help me -God!” the little gentleman’s brown face got puckered and tremulous, as -if he would cry. “I don’t want to harm anybody,” he said. “I’ll take -care of the boys as if they were my own. I’ll do anything for Paul that -he’ll let me, though I can’t give up my rights to him; and I’ll be fond -of you all if you let me,” cried Mr. Gus, dropping the hands of the -children, and holding out his own to the colder, more difficult, -audience round him. They all stood looking at him, with keen wonder, -opposition, almost hatred. Was it possible they could feel otherwise to -the stranger who thus had fallen among them, taking everything that they -thought was theirs out of their hands?</p> - -<p class="fint">END OF VOL. II.<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. II ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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