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diff --git a/old/64779-h/64779-h.htm b/old/64779-h/64779-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 3358d7b..0000000 --- a/old/64779-h/64779-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5924 +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. III, 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;} - -.lftspc {margin-left:.25em;} - - 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. III, 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. III</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 #64779]</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. III ***</div> -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="c"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" height="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_i" id="page_i">{i}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_ii" id="page_ii">{ii}</a></span> </p> - -<p class="c">HE THAT WILL NOT<br /> WHEN HE MAY</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iii" id="page_iii">{iii}</a></span> </p> - -<h1> -HE THAT WILL NOT<br /> -WHEN HE MAY</h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<i>IN THREE VOLUMES</i><br /> -<br /> -VOLUME III.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<span class="eng">London</span><br /> -MACMILLAN AND CO.<br /> -1880<br /> -<br /><small> -<i>The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved</i></small><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_iv" id="page_iv">{iv}</a></span><br /><br /><br /> -<small>LONDON:<br /> -<span class="smcap">R. Clay, Sons, and Taylor</span>,<br /> -BREAD STREET HILL.<br /></small> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_v" id="page_v">{v}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">Chapter I.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_1">1</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">Chapter II.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_12">12</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">Chapter III.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_27">27</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">Chapter IV.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_46">46</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">Chapter V.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_70">70</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">Chapter VI.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_88">88</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_108">108</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">Chapter VIII.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_127">127</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">Chapter IX.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_148">148</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">Chapter X.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_166">166</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">Chapter XI.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_190">190</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">Chapter XII.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_211">211</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">Chapter XIII.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_230">230</a></td></tr> -<tr><td class="smcap"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">Chapter XIV.</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_255">255</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">It</span> was late, quite late, when Mr. Gus was “got to go away.” And it might -have proved impossible altogether, but for some one who came for him and -would not be denied. Mr. Scrivener was sitting alone with him in the -library, from which all the others had gone, when this unknown summons -arrived. The lawyer had done all he could to convince him that it was -impossible he could remain; but Gus could not see the impossibility. He -was hurt that they should wish him to go away, and still more hurt when -the lawyer suggested that, in case of his claims being proved, Lady -Markham would evacuate the house and leave it to him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span></p> - -<p>“What would she do that for?” Gus cried. “Did I come here to be left in -a great desert all by myself? I won’t let them go away.”</p> - -<p>Between these two determinations the lawyer did not know what to do. He -was half-exasperated, half-amused, most reluctant to offend a personage -who would have everything in his power as respected the little Markhams, -and might make life so much happier, or more bitter, to all of them. He -would not offend him for their sake, but neither could he let him take -up his abode in the house and thus forestal all future settlement of the -question. When the messenger came Mr. Scrivener was very grateful. It -left him at liberty to speak with the others whose interests were much -closer to his heart. To his surprise the person who came for Gus -immediately addressed to him the most anxious questions about Lady -Markham and Alice.</p> - -<p>“I daren’t ask to see them,” this stranger said, who was half hidden in -the obscurity of the night. “Will you tell them Edward Fairfax sends -his—what do you call it?” said the young man—“duty, the poor people -say: my most respectful duty. I stayed for to-day. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> should have liked -to help to carry him, but I did not feel I had any right.” His eyes -glimmered in the twilight as eyes shine only through tears. “I helped to -nurse him,” he said in explanation, “poor old gentleman.”</p> - -<p>At this moment Gus, helped very obsequiously by Brown, who had got scent -of something extraordinary in the air, as servants do, was getting -himself into his overcoat.</p> - -<p>“Have you anything to do with <i>him</i>?” the lawyer replied.</p> - -<p>“No further than being in the inn with him. And I thought from what he -said they might have a difficulty in getting him away. So I came to -fetch him; but not entirely for that either,” Fairfax said.</p> - -<p>“Then you never did them a better service,” said the lawyer, “than -to-night.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think there is any harm in him,” Fairfax said.</p> - -<p>The lawyer shook his head. There might be no harm in him; but what harm -was coming because of him! He said nothing, and Gus came out, buttoned -up to the throat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You’ll not go, I hope, till it is all settled,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Settled—it may not be settled for years!” cried the lawyer, testily. -And then he turned to the other, who might be a confederate for anything -he knew, standing out in the darkness, “What name am I to tell Lady -Markham—Fairfax? Keep him away as long as you can,” he whispered; “he -will be the death of them.” He thought afterwards that he was in some -degree committing himself as allowing that Gus possessed the power of -doing harm, which it would have been better policy altogether to deny.</p> - -<p>Thus it was not till nightfall that the lawyer was able to communicate -to his clients his real opinion. All the exhaustion and desire of repose -which generally follows such a period of domestic distress had been made -an end of by this extraordinary new event. Lady Markham was sitting in -her favourite room, wrapped in a shawl, talking low with her brother and -Alice, when Mr. Scrivener came in. He told them how it was that he had -got free, and gave them the message Fairfax had sent. But it is to be -feared that the devotion and delicacy of it suffered in transmission. It -was his regards or his respects, and not his duty, which the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> lawyer -gave. What could the word matter? But he reported the rest more or less -faithfully. “He thought there would be a difficulty in getting rid of -our little friend,” Mr. Scrivener said, “and therefore he came. It was -considerate.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it was very considerate,” Lady Markham said, but, unreasonably, -the ladies were both disappointed and vexed, they could not tell why, -that their friend should thus make himself appear the supporter of their -enemy. Their hearts chilled to him in spite of themselves. Paul had gone -out; he was not able to bear any more of it; he could not rest. “Forgive -my boy, Mr. Scrivener,” his mother said; “he never was patient, and -think of all he has lost.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Paul,” said the lawyer coldly, “might have endured the restraint -for one evening, seeing I have waited on purpose to be of use to him.”</p> - -<p>The hearts of all three sank to their shoes when Mr. Scrivener, who was -his adviser, his supporter, the chief prop he had to trust to—who had -called the young man Sir Paul all the morning—thus changed his title. -Lady Markham put out her hand and grasped his arm.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You have given it up, then!” she said. “You have given it up! There is -no more hope!”</p> - -<p>And though he would not allow this, all that Mr. Scrivener had to say -was the reverse of hopeful. He was aware of Sir William’s residence in -Barbadoes, which his wife had never heard of until the Lennys had -betrayed it to her, and of many other little matters which sustained and -gave consistence to the story of Gus. They sat together till late, going -over everything, and before they separated it was tacitly concluded -among them that all was over, that there was no more hope. The lawyer -still spoke of inquiries, of sending a messenger to Barbadoes, and -making various attempts to defend Paul’s position. After all, it -resolved itself into a question of Paul. Lady Markham could not be -touched one way or another, and the fortunes of the children were -secured. But Paul—how was Paul to bear this alteration in everything, -this ruin of his life?</p> - -<p>“It is all over now,” Lady Markham said to her daughter, as after this -long and terrible day they went up stairs together. “Whatever might have -been, it is past hoping now. He will go with those people, and I shall -never see my boy more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>What could Alice say? She cried, which seemed the only thing possible. -There was no use in tears, but there is sometimes relief when no other -outlet is possible. They wept together, thankful that at least there -were two of them to mingle their tears. And Paul had not come in. He was -wandering about the woods in the moonlight, not caring for anything, his -head light, and his feet heavy. He had fallen, fallen, he scarcely knew -where or when. Instead of the subdued and sad happiness of the morning, -a sense of wounding and bruising and miserable downfall was in him and -about him. He did not know where he was going, though he was acquainted -with every glade and tangled alley of those familiar woods. Once (it was -now September) he was seized by the gamekeepers, who thought him a -poacher, and whose alarmed apologies and excuses when they discovered -that it was Sir Paul, gave him a momentary sensation of self-disgust as -if it were he who was the impostor. “I am not Sir Paul,” was on his lips -to say, but he did not seem to care enough for life to say it. One -delusion more or less, what did it matter?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span></p><p>He walked and walked, till he was footsore with fatigue. He went past -the Markham Arms in the dark, and saw his supplanter through the inn -window talking—to whom?—to Fairfax. What had Fairfax to do with it? -Was it a scheme invented by Fairfax to humble him? Then the unhappy -young fellow strayed to his father’s grave, all heaped up and covered -with the flowers that shone pale in the moonlight, quite detached from -the surrounding graves and upturned earth. He sat down there, all alone -in the silence of the world, and noticed, in spite of himself, how the -night air moved the leaves and grasses, and how the moonlight slowly -climbed the great slope of the skies. When the church tower came for a -little while between him and the light, he shivered. He dropped his head -into his hands and thought he slept. The night grew tedious to him, the -darkness unendurable. He went away to the woods again, with a vague -sense that to be taken for a poacher, or even shot by chance round the -bole of a tree, would be the best thing that could happen. Neither Sir -Paul nor any one—not even a poacher: what was he? A semblance, a -shadow, a vain show—not the same as he who had walked with his face to -heaven in the morning, and everything expanding,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> opening out around -him. In a moment they had all collapsed like a house of cards. He did -not want to go home; home! it was not home—nor to see his mother, nor -to talk to any one. The hoot of the owl, the incomprehensible stirring -of the woods were more congenial to him than human voices. What could -they talk about? Nothing but this on which there was nothing to say. -Supplanted! Yes, he was supplanted, turned out of his natural place by a -stranger. And what could he do? He could not fight for his inheritance, -which would have been a kind of consolation—unless indeed it were a -law-fight in the courts, where there would be swearing and -counter-swearing, and all the dead father’s life raked up, and perhaps -shameful stories told of the old man who had to-day been laid in his -grave with so much honour. This was the only way in which in these days -a man could fight.</p> - -<p>But it was only now and then, by intervals, that Paul’s thoughts took -any form so definite. He did not want to think. There was in him a vague -and general sense of destruction—ruin, downfall, and humiliation which -he could not endure. But, strangely enough, in all this he never thought -of the plans which so short a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> while ago he had considered as shaping -his life. He did not think that now he could go back to them, and, free -from all encumbrances of duty, pursue the way he had chosen. The truth -was, he did not think of them at all. In the morning Spears and his -colleagues had come to his mind as something from which he had escaped, -but at night he did not think of them at all. They were altogether wiped -out of his mind and obliterated by the loss of that which he had never -possessed.</p> - -<p>When he went home all the lights in the great house seemed extinguished -save one candle which flickered in the hall window, and the light in his -mother’s room, which shone out like a star into the summer darkness. It -was Alice who came noiseless, before he could knock, and opened the -great door.</p> - -<p>“Mamma cannot sleep till she has seen you,” said the girl. “Oh, Paul, we -must think of her now. I sent all the servants to bed. I have been -watching for you at the window. I could not bear Brown and the rest to -think that there was anything wrong.”</p> - -<p>“But they must soon know that everything is wrong. It is not a thing -that can be hid.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it may be hid, Paul. It may turn out it is all a delusion—or -an imposture.”</p> - -<p>“Let us go to my mother’s room,” said Paul.</p> - -<p>He said nothing as he went up the stairs, but when he got to the landing -he turned round upon the pale girl beside him carrying the light, whose -white face illuminated by her candle made a luminous point in the gloom. -He turned round to her all at once in the blackness of the great vacant -place.</p> - -<p>“It is no imposture; it is true. Whether we can bear it or not, it is -true!”</p> - -<p>“God will help us to bear it, Paul; if you will not desert us—if you -will stay by us——”</p> - -<p>“Desert you—was there ever any question of deserting you?” he said. He -looked at his sister with a half-complaining curiosity and surprise, and -shrugged his shoulders, so foolish did it sound to him. Then he took the -candle from her hand, almost rudely, and walked before her to their -mother’s room. “You women never understand,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">After</span> this a sudden veil and silence fell upon Markham. Nothing could be -more natural than that this should be the case. Paul went to town with -his uncle Fleetwood and the family lawyer, and shortly after the boys -went back to school, and perfect silence fell upon the mourning house. -The woods began to be touched by that finger of autumn which is chill -rather than fiery, notwithstanding Mr. Tennyson—a yellow flag hung out -here and there to warn the summer world, still in full brightness, of -what was coming; but no crack of gun was to be heard among the covers. -The county persistently and devotedly came to call, but Lady Markham was -not yet able to see visitors. She was visible at church and sometimes -driving, but never otherwise, which was all quite natural too, seeing -that she was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> woman who had always been a tender wife. No whisper of -any complication, of anything that made grief harder to bear had escaped -from the house. Or so at least they thought who lived an anxious life -there, not knowing what was to happen. But nevertheless by some strange -magnetism in the air it was known from one end to another of the county -that there was something mysterious going on. The servants had felt it -in the air almost before the family themselves knew. When Brown helped -“the little furrin gentleman” on with his coat on the evening of the -funeral day do you think he did not know that this was his future -master? The knowledge breathed even about the cottages and into the -village, where generally the rustic public was obtuse enough in -mastering any new fact. The young master who had been Sir Paul for one -brief day sank into Mr. Paul again, nobody knowing how, and what was -still more wonderful, nobody asking why. Among the higher classes there -was more distinct curiosity, and many floating rumours. That there was a -new claimant everybody was aware; and that there was to be a great trial -unfolding all the secrets of the family for generations and showing a -great many respectable personages to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> world in an entirely new -light, most people hoped. It was generally divined and understood that -the odd little foreigner (as everybody thought him) who had made himself -conspicuous at the funeral, and whom many people had met walking about -the roads, was the new heir. But how he came by his claim few people -understood. Sir William was not the man to be the hero of any doubtful -story, or to leave any uncertainty upon the succession to his property. -This was just the one evil which no one, not even his political enemies, -could think him capable of; therefore the imagination of his county -neighbours threw itself further back upon his two brothers who had -preceded him. Of these Sir Paul was known to have borne no spotless -reputation in his youth, and even Sir Harry might have had antecedents -that would not bear looking into. From one or other of these, the county -concluded, and not through Sir William, this family misfortune must have -come.</p> - -<p>One morning during this interval, when Paul was absent and all the -doings of the household at Markham were mysteriously hidden from the -world, a visitor came up the avenue who was not of the usual kind. She -seemed for some time very doubtful whether to go to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> the great door, or -to seek an entrance in a more humble way. She was a tall and slim young -woman, dressed in a black alpacca gown, with a black hat and feather, -and a shawl over her arm, a nondescript sort of person, not altogether a -lady, yet whom Charles, the footman, contemplated more or less -respectfully, not feeling equal to the impertinence of bidding her go -round to the servants’ door; for how could any one tell, he said? there -were governesses and that sort that stood a deal more on their dignity -than the ladies themselves. Mrs. Fry, who happened to see her from a -window in the wing where she was superintending the great autumn -cleaning in the nursery, concluded that it was some one come about the -lady’s-maid’s place, for Alice’s maid was going to be married. “But if -you get it,” said Mrs. Fry mentally, “I can tell you it’s not long -you’ll go trolloping about with that long feather, nor wear a bit of a -hat stuck on the top of your head.” While, however, Mrs. Fry was forming -this rapid estimate of her, Charles looked at the young person with -hesitating respect, and behaved with polite condescension, coming -forward as she approached. When she asked if she could see Lady Markham, -Charles shook his head. “My lady don’t see<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> nobody,” he replied with an -ease of language which was the first symptom he showed of feeling -himself on an equality with the visitor. It was the tone of her voice -which had produced this effect. Charles knew that this was not how a -lady spoke.</p> - -<p>“But she’ll see me, if she knows who I am,” said the girl. “I know -she’ll see me if you’ll be so kind as to take up my name. Say Miss Janet -Spears—as she saw in Oxford—”</p> - -<p>“If you’ve come about the lady’s-maid’s place,” said Charles, “there’s -our housekeeper, Mrs. Fry, she’ll see you.”</p> - -<p>“I haven’t come about no lady’s-maid’s place. You had better take up my -name, or it will be the worse for you after,” cried the girl angrily. -She gave him such a look that Charles shook in his shoes. He begged her -pardon humbly, and went off to seek Brown, leaving her standing at the -door.</p> - -<p>Then Brown came and inspected her from the further side of the hall. “I -don’t know why you should bother me, or me go and bother my lady,” said -Brown, not satisfied with the inspection; “take her to Missis Fry.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“But she won’t go. It’s my lady she wants, and just you look at her, -what she wants she’ll have, that’s sure; she says it’ll be the worse for -us after.”</p> - -<p>“What name did you say?” asked Brown. “I’ll tell Mrs. Martin, and she -can do as she thinks proper.” Mrs. Martin was Lady Markham’s own maid. -Thus it was through a great many hands that the name of Janet Spears -reached Lady Markham’s seclusion. Charles was very triumphant when the -message reached him that the young person was to go up stairs. “I told -you,” he said to Mr. Brown. But Brown on his part was satisfied to know -that it was only “a young person,” not a lady, whom his mistress -admitted. His usual discrimination had not deserted him. As for Janet, -the great staircase overawed her more than even the exterior of the -house; the size and the grandeur took away her breath; and though she -felt no respect for Charles, the air as of a dignified clergyman with -which Mr. Brown stepped out before her, to guide her to Lady Markham’s -room, not deigning to say anything, impressed her more than words could -tell. No clergyman she had ever encountered had been half so imposing; -though Janet from a general desire to better herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> in the world, and -determination not to lower herself to the level of her father’s -companions, had always been a good churchwoman and eschewed Dissenters. -But Mr. Brown, it may well be believed, in the gloss of his black -clothes and the perfection of his linen, was not to be compared with a -hardworking parish priest exposed to all weathers. By the time she had -reached Lady Markham’s door her breath was coming quick with fright and -excitement. Lady Markham herself had made no such strong impression. Her -dress had not been what Janet thought suitable for a great lady. She had -felt a natural scorn for a woman who, having silks and satins at her -command, could come out in simple stuff no better than her own. Mrs. -Martin, however, had a black silk which “could have stood alone,” and -everything combined to dazzle the rash visitor. Now that she had got so -far her knees began to tremble beneath her. Lady Markham was standing -awaiting her, in deep mourning, looking a very different person from the -beautiful woman whom Janet had seen standing in the sunshine in her -father’s shop. She made a step forward to receive her visitor, a -movement of anxiety and eagerness; then waited till the door was shut -upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span> her attendant. “You have come—from your father?” she said.</p> - -<p>“No, my lady.” Now that it had come to the point Janet felt an unusual -shyness come over her. She cast down her eyes and twisted her fingers -round the handle of the umbrella she carried. “My father was away: I had -a day to spare: and I thought I’d come and ask you——”</p> - -<p>“Do not be afraid. Tell me what it is you want; is it——” Lady Markham -hesitated more than Janet did. Was it something about Paul? What could -it be but about Paul? but she would not say anything to open that -subject again.</p> - -<p>“It is about Mr. Paul, my lady. There isn’t any reason for me to -hesitate. It was you that first put it into my head——”</p> - -<p>Now it was Lady Markham’s turn to droop. “I am very sorry,” she said -involuntarily. “I was—misled——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t know as there’s anything to be sorry about. Mr. Paul—I -suppose he is Sir Paul, now?”</p> - -<p>As Janet’s gaze, no longer shy, dwelt pointedly on her dress by way of -justifying the question, Lady Markham<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> shrank back a little. “It is -not—quite settled,” she said faintly; “there are some—unexpected -difficulties.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Janet’s eyes grew round as her exclamation, an expression of -surprise and profound disappointment went over her face. “Will he not be -a baronet then, after all?” she said.</p> - -<p>“These are family matters which I have not entered into with any one,” -said Lady Markham, recovering herself. “I cannot discuss them -now—unless——” here her voice faltered, “you have any right——”</p> - -<p>“I should think a girl just had a right where all her prospects are -concerned,” said Janet. “It was that brought me here. I wanted you to -know, my lady, that I’ve advised Mr. Paul against it—against the -emigration plan. If he goes it won’t be to please me. I don’t want him -to go. I don’t want to go myself—and that’s what I’ve come here for. If -so be,” said Janet, speaking deliberately, “as anything is to come of it -between him and me, I should be a deal happier and a deal better pleased -to stay on at home; and I thought if you knew that you’d give up -opposing. I’ve said it to him as plain as words can say. And if he will -go, it will be your blame and not mine. It will be because he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span> thinks -you’ve set your face so against it, that <i>that’s</i> the only way.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham trembled so much that she could not stand. She sank down -upon a chair. “Pardon me,” she said involuntarily, “I have not been -well.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t mention it, my lady,” said Janet, taking a chair too. “I was -just a going to ask you if you wouldn’t sit down and make yourself -comfortable.” She had got over her shyness; but that which liberated her -threw Lady Markham into painful agitation. It seemed to her that she had -the fate of her son thrown back into her hands. If she withdrew all -opposition to this marriage, would he indeed give up his wild ideas and -stay at home? If she opposed it, would he persevere? and how could she -oppose anything he had set his heart upon after all he had to renounce -on his side, poor boy? She did not know how to reply or how to face such -a dilemma. To help to make this woman Paul’s wife—or to lose Paul -altogether—what a choice it was to make! Her voice was choked by the -fluttering of her heart.</p> - -<p>“My son,” she said, faintly, “has never spoken to me on the subject.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“It is not likely,” said Janet, “when he knows he would meet with -nothing but opposition. For my part I’m willing, very willing, to stay -at home. I never went in with the emigration plan. Father is a good man, -and very steady, and has been a good father to us; but whenever it comes -to planning, there’s no telling the nonsense he’s got in his head.”</p> - -<p>“Does your father know that you have come to see me?” Lady Markham said. -With Spears himself she had some standing-ground. She knew how to talk -to the demagogue, understood him, and he her; but the young woman she -did not understand. Paul’s mother, notwithstanding all her experience, -was half afraid of this creature, so straightforward, so free of -prejudice, so—sensible. Yes, it was sense, no doubt. Janet did not want -to go away. She had no faith in her father, nor in the man who was -going, she hoped, to be her husband. Lady Markham, herself capable of -enthusiasm and devotion, and who could so well, in her maturity, have -understood the folly of a girl ready to follow to the end of the world -for love, was almost afraid of Janet. She was cowed by her steady look, -the bargain she evidently wished to make. She took refuge<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> as it were, -in Spears, mentally appealing to him in her heart.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Janet, “no one knows. He is away from home on one of his -speechifyings. Don’t think I hold with that, my lady. England’s good -enough for me, and things as they are; and if so be as you will make up -your mind not to go against us, Mr. Paul shall never go to foreign parts -through me. But he is Sir Paul, ain’t he?” the young woman said.</p> - -<p>“I will do nothing—to make my son unhappy,” said Lady Markham. How -could she help but sigh to think that this was the woman that could make -him happy? “He is not at home,” she added with a tone of relief.</p> - -<p>“But he is Sir Paul? What is the good of deceiving me, when I can hear -from any one—the gentleman down stairs, or any one.”</p> - -<p>“Is there a gentleman down stairs?” Lady Markham thought some one must -have come bringing news, perhaps, while she was shut up here.</p> - -<p>Janet blushed crimson. Now she had indeed made a mistake. She avoided -all reply which might have led to the discovery that Brown was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> -gentleman she meant; but this glaring error made her humbler.</p> - -<p>“You are very kind, my lady, to speak so reasonable,” she said. “And if -you like to tell Mr. Paul that I’m as set against emigration as you -are—I am not one that will be put upon,” said Janet; “but if we’re both -to be the same, you and me, both Lady Markhams,” here she paused a -moment to draw a long breath, half overcome by the thought which in this -scene became so dazzlingly real and possible, “I think it would be a -real good thing if we could be friends.”</p> - -<p>This thought, which fluttered Janet, made Lady Markham faint. The blood -seemed to ebb away from her heart as she heard these words. She could -not make any reply. It was true enough what the girl said, and if she -should ever be Paul’s wife, no doubt his mother would be bound to be her -friend. But she could not speak in reply. There was a pause. And Janet -looked round the richly-furnished, luxurious room which was not indeed -by any means so fine as she would have thought natural, with much -curiosity and interest. The sight of all its comforts revealed to her -the very necessities they were intended to supply, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> which had no -existence in her primitive state. Janet was not unreasonable. She was -content with the acquiescence she had elicited. Lady Markham had not -resisted her nor denounced her, as it was quite on the cards that she -might have done. “You have a very grand house, and a beautiful place -here, my lady,” she said. Lady Markham, more than ever subdued, made a -faint sound of assent in reply. “I should like to see over it,” Janet -said.</p> - -<p>“Miss—Spears!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t mind, if you would rather not! Some people don’t like them -that is to come after them. I have said all I came to say, my lady. So -perhaps I had better just say good-bye.”</p> - -<p>And Janet rose and put forth a moist hand in a black glove. She had got -these black gloves and the hat out of compliment to the family. Never -had a friendly and hospitable woman been in a greater difficulty. “I am -not seeing any one,” Lady Markham faltered; “but—should you not like -some refreshment before you go?”</p> - -<p>Janet paused. She would have liked to have eaten in such a house. What -they eat there must be different<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> from the common fare with which she -was acquainted, and a man in livery to wait behind her chair was an idea -which thrilled her soul; but when Lady Markham rang the bell, and -ordered Mrs. Martin to have a tray brought up stairs, she started in -high offence.</p> - -<p>“No, my lady; if I’m not good enough to take my meals with you, I’ll -have nothing in this house,” she cried, and flounced indignant out of -the room. This was the summary end of the first visit paid to Markham by -Janet Spears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> day after Paul’s departure for London with his lawyer and his uncle, -Mr. Gus left the Markham Arms. By a fatality Fairfax thought, he too was -going away at the same time. He had gone up to Markham in the morning -early for no particular reason. He said to himself that he wanted to see -the house of which he had so strangely become an inmate for a little -while and then had been swept out of, most probably for ever. To think -that he knew all those rooms as familiarly as if they belonged to him, -and could wander about them in his imagination, and remember whereabouts -the pictures hung on the walls, and how the patterns went in the carpet, -and yet never had seen them a month ago, and never might see them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> -again! It is a strange experience in a life when this happens, but not a -very rare one. Sometimes the passer-by is made for a single evening, for -an hour or two, the sharer of an existence which drops entirely into the -darkness afterwards, and is never visible to him again. Fairfax asked -himself somewhat sadly if this was how it was to be. He thought that he -would never in his life forget one detail of those rooms, the very way -the curtains hung, the covers on the tables: and yet they could never be -anything to him except a picture in his memory, hanging suspended -between the known and the unknown. The great door was open as he had -known it (“It is always open,” he said to himself), and all the windows -of the sitting-rooms, receiving the full air and sunshine into them. But -up stairs the house was not yet open. Over some of the windows the -curtains were drawn. Where they still sleeping, the two women who were -in his thoughts? He cared much less in comparison for the rest of the -family. Paul, indeed, being in trouble, had been much in his mind as he -came up the avenue; but Paul had not been here when Fairfax<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> had lived -in the house, and did not enter into his recollections; and Paul he knew -was away now. But the two ladies—Alice, whom he had been allowed to -spend so many lingering hours with, whom he had told so much about -himself—and Lady Markham, whom he had never ceased to wonder at; they -had taken him into the very closest circle of their friendship; they had -said “Go,” and he had gone; or “Come,” and he had always been ready to -obey. And now was he to see no more of them for ever? Fairfax could not -but feel very melancholy when this thought came into his mind. He came -slowly up the avenue, looking at the old house. The old house he called -it to himself, as people speak of the home they have loved for years. He -would never forget it though already perhaps they had forgotten him. His -foot upon the gravel caught the ear of Mr. Brown, who came to the door -and looked out curiously. When things of a mysterious character are -happening in a house the servants are always vigilant. Brown came down -stairs early; he suffered no sound to pass unnoticed. And now he came -out into the early sunshine, and looked about like a man determined to -let nothing escape him. And the sight of Fairfax<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> was a welcome sight, -for was not he “mixed up” with the whole matter, and probably able to -throw light upon some part of it, could he be got to speak.</p> - -<p>“I hope I see you well, sir,” said Mr. Brown. “This is a sad house, -sir—not like what it was a little time ago. We have suffered a great -affliction, sir, in the loss of Sir William.”</p> - -<p>“I am going away, Brown,” said Fairfax. “I came up to ask for the -ladies. Tell me what you can about them. How is Lady Markham? She must -have felt it terribly, I fear.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, and all that’s happened since,” said Brown. “A death, sir, is -a thing we must all look forward to. That will happen from time to time, -and nobody can say a word; but there’s a deal happened since, Mr. -Fairfax—and that do try my lady the worst of all.”</p> - -<p>Fairfax did not ask what had happened, which Mr. Brown very shrewdly -took as conclusive that he knew all about it. He said half to himself, -“I will leave a card, though that means nothing;” and then he mused long -over the card, trying to put more than a message<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span> ever contained into -the little space at his disposal. This was at last what he produced—</p> - -<div class="c"> -<a href="images/ill_001.png"> -<img src="images/ill_001.png" -width="450" -alt="[Image unavailable.]" -/></a> -</div> - -<p>When he had written this—and only when he had written it—it occurred -to him how much better it would have been to have written a note, and -then he hesitated whether to tear his card in pieces; but on reflection, -decided to let it go. He thought the crowded lines would discourage -Brown from the attempt to decipher it.</p> - -<p>“You will give them that, and tell them—but there is no need for -telling them anything,” Fairfax said with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“You are going away, sir?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Brown”—he said, confidentially, “directly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span>” feeling as if he -could cry; and Brown felt for the poor young fellow. He thought over the -matter for a moment, and reflected that if things were to go badly for -the family, it would be a good thing for Miss Alice to have a good -husband ready at hand. Various things had given Brown a high opinion of -Fairfax. There were signs about him—which perhaps only a person of Mr. -Brown’s profession could fully appreciate—of something like wealth. -Brown could scarcely have explained to any one the grounds on which he -built this hypothesis, but all the same he entertained it with profound -conviction. He eyed the card with great interest, meaning to peruse it -by and by; and then he said—</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, sir, but I think Miss Alice is just round the -corner, with the young ladies and the young gentlemen. You won’t -mention, sir, as I said it—but I think you’ll find them all there.”</p> - -<p>Fairfax was down the steps in a moment; but then paused:</p> - -<p>“I wonder if it will be an intrusion,” he said; then he made an abject -and altogether inappropriate appeal, “Brown! do you think I may venture, -Brown?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I would, sir, if I was you,” said that personage with a secret chuckle, -but the seriousness of his countenance never relaxed. He grinned as the -young man darted away in the direction he had pointed out. Brown was not -without sympathy for tender sentiments. And then he fell back upon those -indications already referred to. A good husband was always a good thing, -he said to himself.</p> - -<p>And Fairfax skimmed as if on wings round the end of the wing to a bit of -lawn which they were all fond of—where he had played with the boys and -talked with Alice often before. When he got within sight of it, however, -he skimmed the ground no longer. He began to get alarmed at his own -temerity. The blackness of the group on the grass which he had seen only -in their light summer dresses gave him a sensation of pain. He went -forward very timidly, very doubtfully. Alice was standing with her back -towards him, and it was only when he was quite near that she turned -round. She gave a little startled cry—“Mr. Fairfax!” and smiled; then -her eyes filled with tears. She held out one hand to him and covered her -face with the other. The little girls seeing this began to cry too. For -the moment it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> was their most prevailing habit. Fairfax took the -outstretched hand into both his, and what could he do to show his -sympathy but kiss it?—a sight which filled Bell and Marie with wonder, -seeing it, as they saw the world in general, through that blurred medium -of tears.</p> - -<p>“I could not help coming,” he said, “forgive me! just to look at the -windows. I know them all by heart. I had no hope of so much happiness as -to see—any one; but I could not—it was impossible to go -away—without——”</p> - -<p>Here they all thought he gave a little sob too, which said more than -words, and went to their hearts.</p> - -<p>“But, Mr. Fairfax,” said Bell, “you were here before—”</p> - -<p>“Yes; I could not go away. I always thought it possible that there might -be some errand—something you would tell me to do. At all events I must -have stayed for——”</p> - -<p>The funeral he would have added. He could not but feel that though Alice -had given him her hand, there was a little hesitation about her.</p> - -<p>“But, Mr. Fairfax,” Bell began again, “you were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> staying at the inn -with—the little gentleman. Don’t you know he is our enemy now?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think he is your enemy,” Fairfax said—which was not at all -what he meant to say.</p> - -<p>“Hush, Bell, that was not what it was; only mamma thought—and I—that -poor Paul was your friend and that you would not have put yourself—on -the other side.”</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> put myself on the other side!” cried the young man. “Oh, how little -you know! I was going to offer to go out to that place myself to make -sure, for it does not matter where I go. I am not of consequence to any -one like Paul; but——”</p> - -<p>“But—what?”</p> - -<p>Alice half put out her hand to him again.</p> - -<p>“You will not think this is putting myself on the other side. It all -looks so dreadfully genuine,” said Fairfax, sinking his voice.</p> - -<p>Only Alice heard what he said. She was unreasonable, as girls are.</p> - -<p>“In that case we will not say anything more on the subject, Mr. Fairfax; -you cannot expect us to agree with you,” she said. “Good-bye. I will -tell mamma you have called.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>She turned away from him as she spoke, then cast a glance at him from -under her eyelids, angry yet relenting. They stood for a moment like the -lovers in Molière, eying each other timidly, sadly—but there was no one -to bring them together, to say the necessary word in the ear of each. -Poor Fairfax uttered a sigh so big that it seemed to move the branches -round. He said—</p> - -<p>“Good-bye then, Miss Markham; won’t you shake hands with me before I -go?”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye,” said Alice faintly. She wanted to say something more, but -what could she say? Another moment and he was gone altogether, hurrying -down the avenue.</p> - -<p>“Oh, how nasty you were to poor Mr. Fairfax,” cried Bell. “And he was -always so kind. Don’t you remember, Marie, how he ran all the way in the -rain to fetch the doctor? even George wouldn’t go. He said he couldn’t -take a horse out, and was frightened of the thunder among the trees; but -Mr. Fairfax only buttoned his coat and flew.”</p> - -<p>“The boys said,” cried little Marie, “that they were sure he would win -the mile—in a moment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, children,” cried Alice, “what do you know about it? you will break -my heart talking such nonsense—when there is so much trouble in the -house. I am going in to mamma.”</p> - -<p>But things were not much better there, for she found Lady Markham with -Fairfax’s card in her hand, which she was reading with a great deal of -emotion. “Put it away with the letters,” Lady Markham said. They had -kept all the letters which they received after Sir William’s death by -themselves in the old despatch-box which had always travelled with him -wherever he went, and which now stood—with something of the same -feeling which might have made them appropriate the greenest paddock to -his favourite horse—in Lady Markham’s room. Some of them were very -“beautiful letters.” They had been dreadful to receive morning by -morning, but they were a kind of possession—an inheritance now.</p> - -<p>“Put it with the letters,” Lady Markham said; “any one could see that -his very heart was in it. He knew your dear father’s worth; he was -capable of appreciating him; and he knows what a loss we have had. Poor -boy—I will never forget his kindness—never as long as I live.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“But, mamma,” said Alice, loyal still though her heart was melting, “you -know you thought it very strange of Mr. Fairfax to take that horrid -little man’s part against Paul.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t think he did anything of the sort,” Lady Markham said, but she -would not enter into the question.</p> - -<p>It was not wonderful, however, if Alice was angry. She had sent him away -because of the general family anger against him; and lo, nobody seemed -to feel that anger except herself.</p> - -<p>But it may be easily understood how Fairfax felt it a fatality when he -found Gus’s portmanteaux packed, and himself awaiting his return to go -by the same train.</p> - -<p>“Why should I stay here?” he said. “I did not come to England to stay in -a village inn. I will go with you, and go to that lawyer, and get it all -settled. Why should they make such a fuss about it? I mean no one any -harm. Why can’t they take to me and make me one of the family? except -that I should be there instead of my poor father, I don’t know what -difference it need make.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“But that makes a considerable difference,” said Fairfax. “You must -perceive that.”</p> - -<p>“Of course it makes a difference; between father and son there is always -a difference—but less with me than with most people. I do not want to -marry, for instance. Most men marry when they come into their estates. -There was once a girl in the island,” said Gus, with a sigh; “but things -were going badly, and she married a man in the Marines. No, if they will -consent to consider me as one of the family—I like the children, and -Alice seems a nice sort of girl, and my stepmother a respectable -motherly woman——, eh?”</p> - -<p>Some hostile sound escaped from Fairfax which made the little gentleman -look up with great surprise. He had not a notion why his friend should -object to what he said.</p> - -<p>But the end was that the two did go to town together, and that it was -Fairfax who directed this enemy of his friends’ where to go, and how to -manage his business. Gus was perfectly helpless, not knowing anything -about London, and would have been as likely to settle himself in Fleet -Street as in Piccadilly—perhaps more so. Fairfax could not get rid of -his companion till he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> put him in communication with the lawyer, and -generally looked after all his affairs. For himself nothing could be -more ill-omened. He went about asking himself what would the Markhams -think of him?—and yet what could he do? Gus’s mingled perplexity and -excitement in town were amusing, but they were embarrassing too. He -wanted to go and see the Tower and St. Paul’s. He wanted Fairfax to tell -him exactly what he ought to give to every cabman. He stood in the -middle of the crowd in the streets folding his arms, and resisting the -stream which would have carried him one way or the other.</p> - -<p>“You call this a free country, and yet one cannot even walk as one -likes,” he said. “Why are these fellows jostling me; do they want to rob -me?”</p> - -<p>Fairfax did not know what to do with the burden thus thrown on his -hands.</p> - -<p>And it may be imagined what the young man’s sensations were, when having -just deposited Gus in the dining-room of one of the junior clubs of -which he was a member, he met Paul upon the steps of the building coming -in. Paul was a member too. Fairfax was driven to his wits’ end. The -little gentleman was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> tired, and would not budge an inch until he had -eaten his luncheon and refreshed himself. What was to be done? Paul was -not too friendly even to himself.</p> - -<p>“Are you here, too, Markham? I thought there was nobody in London but -myself,” Fairfax said.</p> - -<p>“There are only a few millions for those who take them into account; but -some people don’t——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you know what I mean,” Fairfax said. And then they stood and looked -at each other. Paul was pale. His mourning gave him a formal look, not -unlike his father. He had the air of some young official on duty, with a -great deal of unusual care and responsibility upon him.</p> - -<p>“You look as if you were the head of an office,” said Fairfax, -attempting a smile.</p> - -<p>“It would not be a bad thing,” said the other languidly; “but the tail -would be more like it than the head. I must do something of that kind.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that you are going into public life?”</p> - -<p>“That depends upon what <i>you</i> mean by public life,” said Paul. “I am -not, for instance, going into Parliament, though there were thoughts of -that once;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> but I have got to work, my good fellow, though that may seem -odd to you.”</p> - -<p>“To work!” Fairfax echoed with dismay; which dismay was not because of -the work, but because the means of getting him out of the place, and out -of risk of an encounter with Gus, became less and less every moment. -Paul laughed with a forced and theatrical laugh. In short, he was -altogether a little theatrical—his looks, his dress, everything about -him. In the excess of his determination to bear his downfall like a man, -he was playing with exaggerated honesty the part of a fallen gentleman -and ruined heir.</p> - -<p>“You think that very alarming then? but I assure you it depends -altogether on how you look at it. My father worked incessantly, and it -was his glory. If I work, not as a chief, but as an underling, it will -not be a bit less honourable.”</p> - -<p>“Markham, can you suppose for a moment that I think it less honourable?” -said Fairfax; “quite otherwise. But does it mean——? Stop, I must tell -you something before I ask you any questions. That little beggar who -calls himself your brother——”</p> - -<p>“I believe he is my brother,” said Paul, formally;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span> and then he added -with another laugh: “that is the noble development to which the house of -Markham has come.”</p> - -<p>“He is there. Yes, in the dining-room, waiting for his luncheon. One -moment, Markham!—we were at the inn in the village together, and he has -hung himself on to me. What could I do? he knew nothing about London; he -is as helpless as a baby. And the ladies,” said Fairfax, his countenance -changing, “the ladies—take it as a sign that I am siding with him -against you.”</p> - -<p>He felt a quiver come over his face like that of a boy who is -complaining of ill-usage, and for the moment could scarcely subdue a -rueful laugh at his own expense; but Paul laughed no more. He became -more than ever like the head of an office, too young for his post, and -solemnised by the weight of it. His face shaped itself into still more -profound agreement with the solemnity of those black clothes.</p> - -<p>“Pardon me, my good fellow,” he said. Paul was not one of the men to -whom this mode of address comes natural. There was again a theatrical -heroism in his look. “Pardon me; but in such a matter as this I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> don’t -see what your siding could do for either one or the other. It is fact -that is in question, nothing else.”</p> - -<p>And with a hasty good day he turned and went down the steps where they -had been talking. Fairfax was left alone, and never man stood on the -steps of a club and looked out upon the world and the passing cabs and -passengers with feelings more entirely uncomfortable. He had not been -unfaithful in a thought to his friend, but all the circumstances were -against him. For a few minutes he stood and reflected what he should do. -He could not go and sit down at table comfortably with the unconscious -little man who had made the breach; and yet he could not throw him over. -Finally he sent a message by one of the servants to tell Gus that he had -been called unexpectedly away, and set off down the street at his -quickest pace. He walked a long way before he stopped himself. He was -anxious to make it impossible that he should meet either Gus again or -Paul. Soon the streets began to close in. A dingier and darker part of -London received him. He walked on, half interested, half disgusted. How -seldom, save perhaps in a hansom driven at full speed, had he ever -traversed those streets leading one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span> out of another, these labyrinths of -poverty and toil. As he went on, thinking of many things that he had -thought of lightly enough in his day, and which were suggested by the -comparison between the region in which he now found himself and that -which he had left—the inequalities and unlikeness of mankind, the -strange difference of fate—his ear was suddenly caught by the sound of -a familiar voice. Fairfax paused, half thinking that it was the muddle -in his mind, caused by that association of ideas with the practical -drama of existence in which he found himself involved, which suggested -this voice to him; but looking round he suddenly found himself, as he -went across one of the many narrow streets which crossed the central -line of road, face to face with the burly form of Spears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">You</span> here, too,” said the demagogue; “I thought this was a time when all -you fine folks were enjoying yourselves, and London was left to the -toilers and moilers.”</p> - -<p>“Am I one of the fine folks? I am afraid that proves how little you know -of them, Spears.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t pretend to know much,” said Spears. “Markham’s here, too. -And what is all this about Markham? I don’t understand a word of it.”</p> - -<p>“What is about him?”</p> - -<p>Fairfax was determined to breathe no word of Paul’s altered -circumstances to any one, sheltering himself under the fact that he -himself knew nothing definite. The orator looked at him with a gaze -which it was difficult to elude.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I thought you had been with the family at that grand house of theirs? -However! Paul was hot upon our emigration scheme, you know; he would -hear no reason on that subject. I warned him that it was not a thing for -men like him, with soft hands and muscles unstrung; but he paid me no -attention. There was another thing, I believe, a secondary motive,” said -Spears, with a wave of his hand, “a thing that never would have come -into my head, which his mother found out—the kind of business that -women do find out. Well! His father is dead, and I suppose he has come -into the title and all that. But here’s the rub. We are within a -fortnight of our start, and never another word from Paul. What does he -mean by it? has he been persuaded by the women? has he thrown us -overboard and gone in for the old business of landlord and aristocrat? I -have told him many a time it was in his blood; but never was there one -more hot for better principles. Now look here, Fairfax, you’re not the -man to pretend ignorance. What do you know?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing but that Sir William is dead.”</p> - -<p>“Sir William is dead, that means, long live Sir Paul: <i>lay roy est -mortt, veeve lay roy</i>,” said Spears, with honest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> English pronunciation. -“Yes, the papers would tell you that. If he’s going to give it all up,” -he went on, a deep colour coming over his face, “I sha’n’t be surprised. -I don’t say that I’ll like it, but I sha’n’t be surprised. A large -property—and a title—may be a temptation: but in that case it’s his -duty to let us know. I suppose you and he see each other sometimes?”</p> - -<p>“By chance we have met to-day.”</p> - -<p>“By chance? I thought you were always meeting. Well, what does he mean? -I acknowledge,” said Spears, with very conscious satire, “that a Sir -Paul in our band will be an oddity. It wouldn’t be much more wonderful -if it was St. Paul,” he added, with a laugh; “but one way or other I -must know. And I don’t mind confessing to you,” he said, turning into -the way by which Fairfax seemed to be walking, and suddenly striking him -on the shoulder with an amicable but not slight blow, “that it will be a -disappointment. I had rather committed the folly of setting my heart on -that lad. He was the kind of thing, you know, that we mean in our class -when we say a gentleman. There’s you, now, you’re a gentleman, too; but -I make little account of you. You might just as well have been brought -up in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> my shop or in trade. But there’s something about Paul, mind -you—that’s where it is; he’s got that grand air, and that hot-headed -way. I hate social distinctions, but he’s above them. The power of money -is to me like a horrible monster, but he scorns it. Do you see what I -mean? A man like me reasons it all out, and sees the harm of it, and the -devilry of it, and it fires his blood. But Paul, he holds his head in -the air, and treats it like the dirt below his feet. That’s fine, that -takes hold of the imagination. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, -Fairfax,” said Spears, giving him another friendly tap on the shoulder, -“but you’re just a careless fellow, one thing doesn’t matter more than -another to you.”</p> - -<p>“Quite true. I am not offended,” said Fairfax, laughing. “You -discriminate very well, Spears, as you always do.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose I have a knack that way,” said the demagogue, simply. “I -shouldn’t wonder,” he added, “though it is not a subject that a man can -question his daughter about, that it was just the same thing that -attracted my girl.”</p> - -<p>Fairfax turned round upon him with quick surprise;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> he had not heard -anything about Janet. “What!” he said, “has Markham——” and then -paused; for Spears, though indulgent to freedom of speech, was in this -one point a dangerous person to meddle with. He turned round, with all -the force of his rugged features and broad shoulders, and looked the -questioner in the face.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, “Markham has—a fancy for my Janet. There is nothing -very wonderful in that. His mother tried to persuade me that this was -the entire cause of his devotion to my principles and me. But that is a -way women have. They think nothing comparable to their own influence. He -satisfied me as to that. Yes,” said Spears, with a softened, meditative -tone, “that is the secondary motive I spoke of; and, to tell the truth, -when I heard of the old fellow’s death I was sorry. I said to myself, -the girl will never be able to resist the temptation of being ‘my -lady.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>A smile began to creep about the corners of his mouth. For himself, it -is very likely that Spears would have had virtue enough to carry out his -own principles and resist all bribes of rank had they been thrown in his -way; but he contemplated the possible elevation of his child with a -tender sense of the wonderful, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> ludicrous, and incredible which -melted all sterner feelings. The idea that Janet might be “my lady” -filled him with a subdued pleasure and amusement, and a subtle pride -which veiled itself in the humour of the notion. It made him smile in -spite of himself. As for Fairfax, this had so completely taken his -breath away that he seemed beyond the power of speech, and Spears went -on musingly for a minute or two walking beside him, his active thoughts -lulled by the fantastic pleasure of that vision, and the smile still -lingered about his closely-shut lips. At last he started from the -weakness of this reverie.</p> - -<p>“There is to be a meeting to-night,” he said, “down in one of these -streets—and I’m going to give them an address. I’ve got the name of the -street here in my pocket and the house and all that—if you like to -come.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly I will come,” said Fairfax with alacrity. He had not much to -occupy his evenings, and he took a kind of careless speculative -interest, not like Paul’s impassioned adoption of the scheme and all its -issues, in Spears’s political crusade. The demagogue patted him on the -shoulders once more as he left him. He had always half-patronised, half -stood in awe of Fairfax,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> whose careless humour sometimes threw a -passing light of ridicule even on the cause. “If you see Markham, bring -him along with you; and tell him I must understand what he means,” he -said.</p> - -<p>But Fairfax did not see Paul again. He did not indeed put himself in the -way of Paul, though his mind was full of him, for the rest of the day. -Janet Spears was a new complication in Paul’s way. The whole situation -was dreary and hopeless enough. His position as head in his house and -family, the importance, his wealth, his power of influencing others, all -taken from him in a day, and Spears’s daughter—Janet Spears—hung round -his neck like a millstone. Paul! of all men in the world to get into -such a vulgar complication, Paul was about the last. And yet there could -be no mistake about it. Fairfax, who honestly felt himself Paul’s -inferior in everything, heard this news with the wondering dismay of one -whose own thoughts had taken a direction as much above him (he thought) -as the other’s was beneath him. With a painful flush of bewilderment, he -thought of himself floated up into regions above himself into a -different atmosphere, another world, by means of the woman who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> had been -Paul’s companion all his life, while Paul—— He had heard of such -things; of men falling into the mire out of the purest places, of -rebellions from the best to the worst. They were common enough. But that -it should be <i>Paul</i>!</p> - -<p>When evening came he took his way to the crowded quarter where he had -met Spears, and to the meeting, which was held in a back room in an -unsavoury street. It had begun to rain, the air was wet and warm, the -streets muddy, the floor of the room black and stained with many -footsteps. There was a number of men packed together in a comparatively -small space, which soon became almost insupportable with the flaring -gaslights, the odour from their damp clothes, and their breath. At one -end of it were a few men seated round a table, Spears among them. -Fairfax could only get in at the other end, and close to the door, which -was the saving of him. He exercised politeness at a cheap cost by -letting everybody who came penetrate further than he. Some of the men -looked at him with suspicion. He had kept on his morning dress, but even -that was very different from the clothes they wore. They were not very -penetrating in respect to looks, and some of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> them thought him a -policeman in plain clothes. This was not a comfortable notion among a -number of hot-blooded men. Fairfax, however, soon became too much -interested in the proceedings to observe the looks that were directed to -himself. There was a good deal of commonplace business to be gone -through first—small subscriptions to pay, some of which were weekly; -little books to produce, with little sums marked; reports to be given -in, on here and there a wavering member, a falling back into the world, -a new convert. It looked to Fairfax at first like a parochial meeting -about the little charities of the parish, the schools, and the -almshouses. Perhaps organisation of every kind has its inherent -vulgarities. This movement felt grand, heroic, to the men engaged in it, -how much above the curate and his pennies who could say; but it seemed -inevitable that it should begin in the same way.</p> - -<p>The walls were roughly plastered and washed with a dingy tone of colour. -The men sat on benches which were very uncomfortable, and showed all the -independent curves of backs which toil had not straightened, the rough -heads and dingy clothes. Over all this the gas flickered, unmitigated -even by the usual glass globe.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> There was a constant shuffling of feet, -a murmur of conversation, sometimes the joke of a privileged wit -whispered about with earthquakes of suppressed laughter. For the men, on -the whole, suppressed themselves with the sense of the dignity of a -meeting and the expectation of Spears’s address. “He’s a fellow from the -North, ain’t he?” Fairfax heard one man say. “No, he’s a miner fellow.” -“He’s one of the cotton spinners.” While another added authoritatively, -“None of you know anything about it. It’s Spears the delegate. He’s been -sent about all over the place. There’s been some talk of sending him to -Parliament.” “Parliament! I put no faith in Parliament.” “No more do I.” -“Nor I,” the men said. “And yet,” said the first speaker, “we’ve got no -chance of getting our rights till they’ve got a lot like him there.”</p> - -<p>At this moment one of the men at the table rose, and there was instant -silence. The lights flared, the rain rained outside with a persistent -swish upon the pavement, the restless feet shuffled upon the floor, but -otherwise there was not a sound to interrupt the stillness. This was -somewhat tried, however, by the reading of a report, still very like a -missionary report in a parish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> meeting. There was a good deal about an -S. C. and an L. M. who had been led to think of higher principles of -political morality by the action of the society, and who had now finally -given in their adhesion. The meeting greeted the announcement of these -new members by knocking with their boot-heels upon the floor. Then some -one else got up and said that the prospects of the society were most -hopeful, and that the conversion of L. C. and S. M. were only an earnest -of what was to come. Soon the whole mass of the working classes, as -already its highest intelligence, would be with them. The meeting again -applauded this “highest intelligence.” They felt it in themselves, and -they liked the compliment. “Mr. Spears will now address the meeting,” -the last speaker said, and then this confused part of the proceeding -came to an end, and everything became clear again when Spears spoke.</p> - -<p>And yet Fairfax thought, looking on, it was by no means clear what -Spears wanted, or wished to persuade the others that they wanted. Very -soon, however, he secured their attention which was one great point; the -very feet got disciplined into quiet, and when a late member came down -the long passage which led straight<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> into this room, there was a -universal murmur and hush as he bustled in. Spears stood up and looked -round him, his powerful square shoulders and rugged face dominating the -assembly. He took a kind of text for his address, “not from the Bible,” -he said, “which many of you think out of date,” at which there was a -murmur, chiefly of assent; “mind you,” said the orator, “I don’t; that’s -a subject on which I’m free to keep my private opinion; but the other -book you’ll allow is never out of date. It’s from the sayings of a man -that woke up out of the easy thoughts of a lad, the taking everything -for granted as we all do one time or another, to find that he could take -nothing for granted, that all about was false, horrible, mean, and -<i>sham</i>. That was the worst of it all—sham. He found the mother that -bore him was a false woman and the girl he loved hid his enemy behind -the door to listen to what he was saying, and his friends, the fellows -he had played with, went off with him on a false errand, with letters to -get him killed, ‘There’s something rotten,’ says he, ‘in this State of -Denmark—’ that was all the poor fellow could get out at first, -‘something rotten;’ ay, ay, Prince Hamlet, a deal that was rotten. We’re -not fond<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> of princes, my friends,” said Spears, stopping short with a -gleam of humour in his face, “but Shakspeare lived a good few years ago, -and hadn’t found that out. We’ve made a great many discoveries since his -day.”</p> - -<p>At this the feet applauded again, but there was a little doubtfulness -upon the faces of the audience who did not see what the speaker meant to -be at.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>There’s something rotten in the state of Denmark,’ that’s what he -said. He didn’t mean Denmark any more than I mean Clerkenwell. He meant -this life he was living in, where the scum floated to the top, and -nothing was what it seemed. That was Hamlet’s quarrel with the world, -and it’s my quarrel, and yours, and every thinking man’s. It was a grand -idea, my friends, to make a government, to have a king. Yes, wait a bit -till I’ve finished my sentence. I tell you it was a noble idea,” said -the orator, raising his voice, and cowing into silence half a dozen -violent contradictions, “to get hold of the best man and set him up -there to help them that couldn’t help themselves, to make the strong -merciful and the weak brave. That was an idea! I honour the man that -invented it whoever he was; but I’d lay you all a fortune if I had it, -I’d wager all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> I’m worth (which isn’t much) that whoever the first king -was, that was made after he had found out the notion, it wasn’t he! And -it was a failure, my lads,” said Spears.</p> - -<p>At this there was a tumult of applause. “I don’t see anything to stamp -about for my part,” he said shaking his head. “That gives me no -pleasure. It was a grand idea, but as sure as life they took the wrong -man, and it was a failure. And it has always been a failure and always -will be—so now there’s nothing for it but to abolish kings——”</p> - -<p>The rest of the sentence was lost in wild applause.</p> - -<p>“But the worst is,” continued the speaker, “that we’ve done that -practically for a long time in England, and we’re none the better. -Instead of one bad king we’ve got Parliament, which is a heap of bad -kings. Men that care no more for the people than I care for that fly. -Men that will grind you, and tax you, and make merchandise of you, and -neglect your interest and tread you down to the ground. Many is the -cheat they’ve passed upon you. At this moment you cheer me when I say -down with the kings, but you look at one another and you raise your -eyebrows when I say down with the parliament. You’ve got the suffrage -and you think that’s all right.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> The suffrage! what does the suffrage do -for you? It’s another sham, a little stronger than all the rest. They’ll -give more of you, and more of you the suffrage, till they let in the -women (I don’t say a word against that. Some of the women have more -sense than you have, and the rest you can always whop them) and the -babies next for anything I can tell. And it will all be rotten, rotten, -rotten to the core. And then a great cry will rise out of this poor -country, and it will be Hamlet again,” cried the orator, pouring out the -full force of his great melodious voice from his broad chest—“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Oh, -cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>There was a feeble stamp or two upon the floor; but the audience, though -curious and impressed, were not up to the level of the speaker, and did -not know what to make of him. He saw this, and he changed his tone.</p> - -<p>“I read the other day of the kind of parliament that was a real -parliament of the people. Once every two months the whole population met -in a great square; and there they were asked to choose the men that were -to govern them. They voted all by word of mouth—no ballot tickets in -those days—for there was not one of them that was afraid to give his -opinion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> They chose their men for two months, no more. They were men -that were known to all the place that had been known from their cradles; -no strangers there, but men they could lay their hands on if they went -wrong. It was for two months only, as I tell you, and then the -parliament came together again, and the men they had chosen gave an -account of what they had done. In my opinion—I don’t know what you may -think—that was as perfect a plan of government, and as true a rule of -the people as ever existed on this globe. Who is that grumbling behind -there? If it is you, Paul Markham, stand up like a man and say what -you’ve got to say.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause for a moment, and everybody looked round; but as no -reply was made, the hearers drowned all attempts at opposition in a -tumult of stamping feet and approving exclamations. “That was something -like,” they cried. And “Go on. Go on! Bravo, Spears!”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes. You say ‘Bravo, Spears!’ because I humour you. But that young -fellow there at the back, I know what he meant to say. It was all -rotten, rotten, rotten to the core; that peoples’ parliament was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> -greatest humbug that ever was seen; it was the instrument of tyrants; it -was the murderer of freedom; there was nothing too silly, nothing too -wicked for it; its vote was a sham, and its wisdom was a sham. Ah! you -don’t cry ‘Bravo, Spears!’ any more. The reason of all this is that we -never get hold of the right men. I don’t know what there is in human -nature that makes it so. I have studied it a deal, but I’ve never found -that out. The scum gets uppermost, boils up and sticks on the top. -That’s my experience. The less honest a man is, the more sure he is to -get up to the top. I don’t speak of being born equal like some folks; -but I think every man has a right to his share of the place he’s born -in—a right to have his portion wherever he is. One man with another, -our wants are about the same. One eats a little more, one drinks a -little more (and we all do more of that than is good for us), than the -rest. But what we’ve got a right to is our share of what’s going. -Instead of great estates, great parks, grand palaces where those who -call themselves our masters live and starve us, we have a right, every -man, to enough of it to live on, to enough——”</p> - -<p>Here the speaker was interrupted by the clamour of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> the cheering. The -men rose up and shouted; they drowned his voice in the enthusiasm of -their delight. Paul had come in behind after Spears began to speak. -Though there had been in him a momentary movement of offence when he saw -Fairfax, yet he had ended by remaining close to him, not seated, -however, by leaning against the doorway in the sight of all. And it was -likewise apparent in the sight of all that he was dressed, not like -Fairfax in morning clothes, which offered a less visible contrast with -the men surrounding him, but in evening dress, only partially covered by -his light overcoat. He had come indeed to this assembly met to denounce -all rights of the aristocrat, in the very livery of social superiority. -Fairfax, who was anxious about the issue, could not understand what it -meant. Paul’s eyes were fixed upon Spears, and there was a half smile -and air of something that might be taken for contempt on his face.</p> - -<p>The applause went to the orator’s head. He plunged into violent -illustrations of his theory, by the common instances of riot, impurity, -extravagance, debt, and general wickedness which were to be found in -what were called the higher classes. Perhaps Spears himself was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> aware -that his arguments would not bear a very close examination: and the face -of his disciple there before him, the face which had hitherto glowed -with acquiescence, flushed with indignation, answered every appeal he -made, but which was now set, pale, and impassive, without any response -at all, with indeed an evident determination to withstand him—filled -him with a curious passion. He could not understand it, and he could not -endure to see Paul standing there, Paul, his son in the faith, his -disciple of whom he was unconsciously more proud than of all the other -converts he had made, with that air of contradiction and defiance. The -applause excited him and this tacit opposition excited him still more. -Fairfax had produced no such effect upon the demagogue; he had been but -a half believer at the best, a critic more interested than convinced. He -was one of those whom other men can permit to look on, from whom they -can accept sympathy without concurrence, and tolerate dissent. But with -Paul the case was very different. Every glance at him inflamed the mind -of Spears. Was it possible (the idea flashed across his mind in full -torrent of his speech) that this beloved disciple was lost to him? He -would not believe it, he would not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> permit it to be; and with this -impulse he flung forth his burning accusations, piled up sham and -scandal upon the heads of aristocrats, represented them as standing in -the way of every good undertaking, of treading down the poor on every -side, of riding roughshod everywhere over liberties and charities alike, -robbers of their brethren, destroyers of their fellow-creatures. And as -every burning period poured forth, the noise, the enthusiasm became -indescribable. The men who listened were no more murderous rebels than -English landlords and millionaires are sanguinary oppressors, but they -shouted and stamped, and rent their throats with applause, all the more -that they were well acquainted with these arguments. Hamlet and “the -cursed spite” of his position were of doubtful interest; but here was -something which they understood. Thus they went on together, mutually -exciting each other, the speaker and the listeners—until suddenly in -the midst of the hubbub a strange note, a new voice, struck in, and -caught them all in full uproar.</p> - -<p>“What’s that?” cried Spears, with the quick hearing of offended -affection. “You behind there—some one spoke.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>The men all turned round—the entire assembly—to see what the -interruption was. Then they saw, leaning carelessly against the wall, -his grey overcoat open, showing the expanse of fine linen, the silk -lapels of the evening coat in which Paul had chosen to array himself, -the young aristocrat, looking his part to the fullest perfection, with -scorn on his face, and proud indifference, careless of them and their -opinions. The mere sight of him brought an impulse of fierce hostility.</p> - -<p>“I said, that’s not so,” said Paul, distinctly, throwing his defiance -over all their heads at his old instructor. Spears was almost beside -himself with pain and passion.</p> - -<p>“Do you give me the lie,” he said, “to my face—you, Paul? Oh, you shall -have your title—that’s the meaning of the change! you, Sir Paul -Markham, baronet,—Do you give me the lie?”</p> - -<p>“If you like to take it so, Spears. You know as well as I do that men -are not monsters like that in one rank and heroes in another. Title or -no title, that’s the truth, and you know it—whatever those men that -take in everything you are saying may think. You know that’s not so.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>The excited listeners saw Spears grow pale and wince. Then he shouted -out with an excited voice—</p> - -<p>“And that’s a lie whoever said it. I! say one thing and mean another! -The time has been when a man that said that to me would have rued it. He -would have rued it——”</p> - -<p>“And he shall rue it!” said a voice in the crowd. The people turned -round with a common impulse. Fairfax, when he saw what was coming, had -risen too, and thrown himself in front of Paul. He was not so tall a -man, and Paul’s dark hair towered over his light locks. He tried to push -him out into the narrow-flagged passage, and called to him to go—to go! -But Paul’s blood was up; he stood and faced them all, holding his arm -before him in defence against the raised fists and threatening looks. -“I’m one against a hundred,” he said, perfectly calm. “You can do what -you please. I will not give in, whatever you do. I tell you what Spears -says is not true.”</p> - -<p>And then the uproar got up again and raged round them. There was a -hesitation about striking the first blow. Nobody liked to begin the -onslaught upon one single man, or a man with but one supporter. Fairfax<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> -got his arm into his, and did his best to push and drag him away into -the paved passage. But it was not till Spears himself, breaking through -the angry crowd, gave him a thrust with his powerful arm that he -yielded. What might have happened even then, Fairfax did not know; for -the passage was narrow, and the two or three people hanging about the -door sufficed to make another angry crowd in their way. While, however, -he was pushing his way along by the wall, doing all he could to impel -before him Paul’s reluctant figure, a door suddenly opened behind them, -a light flashed out, and some one called to them to come in. Paul -stumbled backwards, fortunately, over the step, and was thus got at a -disadvantage; and in two minutes more Fairfax had struggled in, bringing -his companion with him. The place into which they were admitted was a -narrow passage, quite dark—and the contrast from the noise and crowd -without to this silence bewildered the young men. Even then, however, -the voice of Spears reached them over the murmur of the crowd.</p> - -<p>“There’s a specimen for you!” cried the orator, with a harsh laugh. “The -scum come uppermost! What did I tell you? that, take what pains you -like, you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> never get the right man. I loved that lad like my son; and -all I said was gospel to him. But he has come into his title, he has -come into the land he swore he never would take from the people, and -there’s the end. Would you like a better proof of what I said? Oh, -rotten, rotten, rotten to the core!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">They</span> were in a small, dingy room, lighted with one feeble candle—still -within hearing of the tumult close by. Paul had twisted his foot in the -stumble, which was the only thing that had saved him from a scuffle and -possible fight. He was paler than before with the pain. He had put his -foot up upon a chair at Fairfax’s entreaty, who feared a sprain; but -himself, in his excitement, did not seem to feel it.</p> - -<p>“My title and my lands!” he said, with a laugh which was more bitter -than that of Spears. “You heard him, Fairfax. I’ve come into my -property; that is what has caused this change in my opinions.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind, the man’s a fool,” said Fairfax angrily.</p> - -<p>“He is not a fool,” said Paul, “but it shows how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span> well you can judge a -man when you do not know his circumstances.”</p> - -<p>Fairfax, however, it must be owned, was as much puzzled as Spears. What -was it, that had caused the change? It was not much more than a month -since Paul’s devotion to Spears and his scheme had kept him from his -father’s death-bed. He had been intent then on giving up his whole life -to the creed which this evening he had publicly contradicted in the face -of its excited supporters. Fairfax could not make out what it meant any -more than the deserted demagogue could. If Paul, indeed, had reached the -high top-gallant of his fortunes—if he had held the control of a large -property in his hands—a position like that of a prince—there might -have been reason in such a change of faith. Though it gave a certain -foundation for Spears’s bitter sneer, yet there was reason in it. A -young man might very well be justified in abandoning the society of -revolutionaries, when he himself entered the ranks of those who are -responsible for the safety of the country and have a great deal to lose. -But he did not understand Paul’s position now, and a change so singular -bewildered him. It was not, however, either necessary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> or expedient to -enter into that question; and he addressed himself with more -satisfaction to rubbing the injured ankle. He had asked the woman who -admitted them, and who was in great terror of “the meeting,” to get a -cab, but had been answered that she dared not leave the house, and that -they must not think of leaving the house till all was over in the -“Hall.” It was not a cheerful prospect. To his surprise, however, Paul -showed less impatience than he did. He was full of the place and the -discussion they had just left.</p> - -<p>“He is no fool,” Paul said, “that is the most wonderful of all. A man -may go on telling a pack of lies for years, and yet be as true in -himself as all the rest is false. I understand your looks, Fairfax. You -think I have gone as far as most men.”</p> - -<p>“Keep your foot still, my good fellow,” was all Fairfax said.</p> - -<p>“That is all very well; you want an explanation of my conduct,” said -Paul. “You want to know what this inconsistency means; for it is -inconsistency. Well, then, there’s just this, that I don’t mean to tell. -I am as free as another man to form my own opinions, I hope.”</p> - -<p>“Hark! they’re cheering again,” said Fairfax.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> “What fellows they are to -cheer! He has got them into a good humour. They looked savage enough -half an hour ago. It’s a little absurd, isn’t it, that you and I, Paul, -who have been considered very advanced in our political opinions, should -be in a kind of hiding here?”</p> - -<p>“Hiding! I will go back at once and make my profession of faith,” cried -Paul; but when he sprang up to carry out his intention, the pain of his -foot overpowered him. “Have I sprained it, do you think?—that is an -affair of four or five weeks,” he said, with a look of dismay.</p> - -<p>After this very little passed. They sat on each side of the little deal -table with the coarse candle sputtering between them, and listened to -the hoarse sounds of the voices, the tumultuous applause on the other -side of the wall. This was still going on, though in subdued tones, when -the door suddenly opened. It was not easy at first to see who had come -in, till Spears’s face appeared over the flickering light. It was angry -and dark, and overclouded with something like shame.</p> - -<p>“I am glad you are here still, you two,” he said in subdued tones.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span></p> - -<p>Neither of the young men spoke. At last Fairfax, who was not the one on -whom his eyes were bent, said—</p> - -<p>“We were waiting till the meeting was over. Till then, it appears, we -can’t have a cab sent for. Markham has hurt his foot.”</p> - -<p>“Good Lord! How did he do that?” Spears came round and looked at it -where it lay supported on the chair. He looked as if he would have liked -to stroke and pet the injured limb like a child. “I hope it was none of -those fellows with their pushing and stupid folly,” he said.</p> - -<p>“It was not done by any refinement of politeness, certainly.”</p> - -<p>These were the first words Paul had said, and they were uttered with the -same half mocking smile.</p> - -<p>“They’re rough fellows, that’s the truth,” said Spears; “and they have -an idiot for a guide,” he went on in a low voice. “Look here, Paul, you -aggravated me with those grand looks of yours, and that sneer. You know -as well as I do what puts me out. When it’s a fellow I care for, I can’t -stand it. All the asses in Rotten Row might come and haw-haw at me, and -I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> shouldn’t mind; but you! that are a kind of child of my soul, Paul!”</p> - -<p>“I hope your other children will get more mercy from you, then,” said -Paul, without looking at him. “You have not had much for me, Spears.”</p> - -<p>“I, lad? What have I ever done but cherish you as if you were my own! I -have been as proud of you—! All your fine ways that I’ve jibed about -have been a pleasure to me all the time. It went to my heart to think -that you, the finest aristocrat of all the lot, were following old -Spears for love of a principle. I said to myself, abuse them as we like, -there’s stuff in these old races—there’s something in that blue blood. -I don’t deny it before you two, that may laugh at me as you please. I -that have just been telling all those lads that it’s the scum that comes -uppermost (and believe it too). I that have sworn an eternal war against -the principle of unequal rank and accumulation of property—”</p> - -<p>Spears paused. There was nothing ludicrous to him in the idea of this -eternal war, waged by a nameless stump orator against all the kingdoms -of the world and the power of them. He was too much in earnest to be -conscious of any absurdity. He was as serious in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span> crusade as if he -had been a conqueror with life and death in his hands, and his voice -trembled with the reality of this confession which he was going to make.</p> - -<p>“Well!” he said, “I, of whom you know all this as well as I do myself, -I’ve been proud of your birth and your breeding, Paul, because it was -all the grander of you to forget them for the cause. I’ve dwelt on these -things in my mind. I’ve said, there’s the flower of them all, and he’s -following after me! Look here! you’re not going to take it so dreadfully -amiss if, after not hearing a word from you, after not knowing what you -were going to do, seeing you suddenly opposite to me with your most -aggravating look (and you can put on an aggravating look when you like, -you know you can, and drive me wild,” Spears said with a deprecating, -tender smile, putting his hand, caressingly, on the back of Paul’s -chair)—“if I let out a bitter word, a lash of ill-temper against my -will, you are not going to make that a quarrel between you and me.”</p> - -<p>The man’s large mobile features were working, his eyes shining out under -their heavy brows. The generous soul in him was moved to its depth. He -had, being “wild,” as he said, with sudden passion, accused<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> Paul of -having yielded to the seductions of his new rank—but in his heart he -did not believe the accusation he had made. He trusted his young -disciple with all the doting confidence of a woman. Of a woman! his -daughter Janet, though she was a woman, and a young one, had no such -enthusiasm of trust in her being. She would have scorned his weakness -had she been by—very differently would Janet have dealt with a -hesitating lover. But the demagogue had enthroned in his soul an ideal -to which, perhaps, his very tenderest affections, the deepest sentiments -he was capable of, had clung. He had fallen for the moment into that -madness which works in the brain when we are wroth with those we love. -And he did not know now how to make sufficient amends for it, how to -open wide enough that window into his heart which showed the quivering -and longing within. But he had said for the moment all he could say.</p> - -<p>And for a time there was silence in the little room. Fairfax, who -understood him, turned away, and began to stare at a rude-coloured print -on the wall in order to leave the others alone. He would himself have -held out his hand before half this self-revelation had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span> made, and -perhaps Spears would have but lightly appreciated that naïve response. -But Paul was by no means ready to yield. He kept silence for what seemed -to the interested spectator ten minutes at least. Then he said, slowly—</p> - -<p>“I think it would be wise to inquire into the facts of the case before -permitting yourself to use such language, Spears—even if you had not -roused your rabble against me.”</p> - -<p>He said these strident words in the most forcible way, making the r’s -roll.</p> - -<p>“Rabble?” Spears repeated, with a tone of dismay; but his patience was -not exhausted, nor his penitence. “I know,” he said, “it was wrong. I -don’t excuse myself. I behaved like a fool, and it costs a man like me -something to say that. Paul—come! why should we quarrel? Let bygones be -bygones. They should have torn me to pieces before they had laid a -finger on you.”</p> - -<p>“A good many of them would have smarted for it if they had laid a finger -on me,” said Paul. “That I promise you.”</p> - -<p>Spears laughed; his mind was relieved. He gave his vigorous person a -shake and was himself again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well, that is all over,” he said. “It will be a lesson to me. I am a -confounded fool at bottom after all. Whatever mental advantages you may -have, that’s what the best of us have to come to. My blood gets hot, and -I lose my head. There’s a few extenuating circumstances though. Have you -forgotten, Paul, that we were to sail in October, and it’s the 20th of -September now? Not a word have I heard from you since you left Oxford, -three weeks ago. What was I to think? I know what’s happened in the -meantime; and I don’t say,” said Spears, slowly, “that if you were to -throw us overboard at the last moment, it would be a thing without -justification. I told you at the time you would be more wise to let us -alone. But you never had an old head on young shoulders. A generous -heart never counts the cost in that way; still—— And the time, my dear -fellow, is drawing very near.”</p> - -<p>“I may as well tell you,” said Paul, tersely, “I am not going with you, -Spears.”</p> - -<p>The man sat firm in his chair as if he had received a blow, leaning back -a little, pressing himself against the woodwork.</p> - -<p>“Well!” he said, and kept upon his face a curious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> smile—the smile, and -the effort alike, showing how deeply the stroke had penetrated. “Well!” -he repeated, “now that I know everything—now you have told me—I don’t -know that I have a word to say.”</p> - -<p>Paul said nothing, and for another minute there was again perfect -silence. Then Spears resumed—</p> - -<p>“I thought as much,” he said. “I have always thought it since the day -you went away. A man understands that sort of thing by instinct. Well! -it’s a disappointment, I don’t deny; but no doubt,” said Spears, with a -suppressed tone of satire in his voice, “though I’ve no experience of -the duties of a rich baronet, nor the things it lays upon you, no doubt -there’s plenty to do in that avocation; and looking after property -requires work. There’s a thousand things that it must now seem more -necessary to do than to start away across the Atlantic with a set of -visionaries. I told you so at the beginning, Paul—or Sir Paul, I -suppose I ought to say; but titles are not much in my way,” he added, -with a smile, “as you know.”</p> - -<p>“You may save yourself the trouble of titles here, for I am not Sir -Paul, nor have I anything in the way<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> of property to look after that -will give me much trouble. It appears—” said Paul, with a smile that -was very like that of Spears, which sat on his lips like a grimace, “it -appears that I have an elder brother who is kind enough to relieve me -from all inconvenience of that sort.”</p> - -<p>Spears turned to Fairfax with a look of consternation, as if appealing -to him to guarantee the sanity of his friend.</p> - -<p>“What does he mean?” he cried, bewildered.</p> - -<p>“We need not go into all the question,” said Paul. “Fairfax, haven’t -they got that cab yet? My foot’s better—I can walk to the door, and -these gentlemen seem to be dispersing. We need not enter into -explanations. I’m not a rich baronet, that is about all. The scum has -not come uppermost this time. You see you made a mistake in your -estimate of my motives.”</p> - -<p>This time he laughed that harsh, bitter, metallic laugh which is one of -the signs of nervous passion. He had such a superiority over his -assailant as nothing else could have given him. And as for Spears, -shame, and wonder, and distress, struck him dumb. He gasped for breath.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span></p> - -<p>“My God!” he said; “and I to fall upon you for what had never happened, -and taunt you with wealth when you were poor. Poor! are you actually -poor, Paul?”</p> - -<p>“What is the use of searching into it? the facts are as I have told you. -I shan’t starve,” said the young man, holding his head high.</p> - -<p>Spears looked at him with a mixture of grief and satisfaction, and held -out a large hand.</p> - -<p>“Never mind,” he said, his face melting and working, and a smile of a -very different character gleaming over it, “you would have been out of -place with us if you had been Sir Paul; but come now, my lad, come now! -It’s not money we want, but men. Come with us, you’ll be as welcome as -the sunshine, though you have not a penny. For a rich man, I could see -myself the incongruity; but for a poor man, what could be better than a -new country and a fair field. Come! don’t bear malice for a few hasty -words that were repented of as soon as they were said. I would have -scorned to pay a word had you been kept back by your new grandeur. But -now that you’re disinherited—why, Paul, come—Australia is the place -for such as you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span> Young and strong with a good heart, and all the world -before you! Why, there’s a new country for you to get hold of, to -govern, if you like. Come! I’ll not oppose any dignity you may gain out -there; and I tell you, you’ll have the ball at your foot, and the whole -world before you! Come with us, I ask this time as a favour, Paul.”</p> - -<p>He had held out his hand with some wavering and doubt, though with -enthusiasm. But gradually a curious expression of wonder came to his -face; his hand dropped at his side. Paul made no motion towards taking -it; the demagogue thought it was resentment. A flush of vivid colour -came over him. “Come, this is a little too much for old friends,” he -said, getting up hastily from his chair, with a thrill of wounded -feeling in his voice.</p> - -<p>“Don’t wrong him, Spears,” said Fairfax. “He has had a great deal to -bother him, and his foot is bad. You can meet another time and settle -that. At present, let us get him out of this place. If he is angry, he -has a right to be; but never mind that now. Let us get him out of here.”</p> - -<p>Spears did not say another word. He stalked away<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> into the house to -which this room belonged, and the “hall” beyond it. It was a little -tavern of the lower class in which he was living. By and by the woman -came to say there was a cab at the door. And Paul limped out, leaning on -Fairfax.</p> - -<p>All was quiet outside, the meeting dispersed; only one or two men -sitting in the room down stairs, who cast a curious look upon the two -young men, but took no further notice. As for Spears, he did not appear -at all. He was lurking behind, his heart wrung with various feelings, -but too much wounded, too much disappointed, too sore and sad to show -himself. If Paul had seemed to require help, the rejected prophet was -lingering in the hope of offering it; but nothing of the kind seemed the -case. He limped out holding Fairfax’s arm. He did not even look round -him as the other did, or show any signs of a wish to see his former -friend. Spears had not got through the world up to this time without -mortification; but he had never suffered so acutely as now.</p> - -<p>“Poor Spears,” Fairfax contrived to say, as they jolted along, leaving -the mean and monotonous streets behind them. “I think you might have -taken his hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Pshaw!’ said Paul, “I am tired to death of all that. I don’t mean to -say he is not honest—far more honest than most of them—but what is the -meaning of all that clap-trap? Why, Spears ought to know as well as any -man what folly it is. Bosh!” said the young man with an expression of -disgust. The milder spectator beside him looked at him with unfeigned -surprise.</p> - -<p>“I thought you went as far as he did, Markham. I thought you were out -and out in your principles, accepting no compromise: I thought——”</p> - -<p>“You thought I was a fool,” said Paul, bitterly, “and you were right -enough, if that is any satisfaction to you; but I had a lesson or two -before my poor father’s death—and more since. Don’t let us speak of it. -When a man has made an ass of himself, it is no pleasure to him to dwell -upon it. And I am not free yet, and I don’t know when I shall be,” he -cried, with an irrepressible desire for sympathy, then closed his mouth -as if he had shut a book, and said no more.</p> - -<p>Thus they went jolting and creaking over the wet pavements all gleaming -with muddy reflections. London was grim and dismal under that autumn -rain, no flashing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> of carriages about, or gleams of toilette, or signs -of the great world which does its work under the guise of pleasure; only -a theatre now and then in the glare of gas with idle people hanging -about, keeping themselves dry under the porch; and afterward the great -vacant rooms at the clubs with a vague figure scattered here and there, -belated “men,” or waiters at their ease; the foot-passengers hurrying -along under umbrellas, the cabs all splashed with mud, weary wayfarers -and muddy streets. There was scarcely a word exchanged between them as -they went along.</p> - -<p>“Where are you living?” said Fairfax at last.</p> - -<p>“The house is shut up,” said Paul, giving the name of his hotel.</p> - -<p>“But my place is not. Will you come with me and have your foot looked -to? I wish you would come, Markham. There are heaps of things I want to -say to you, and to ask you——”</p> - -<p>Paul was in so fantastic and unreasonable a condition of mind that these -last words were all that was necessary to alter his decision. He had -thought he would go—why not?—and escape a little from all the -contradictions in his own mind by means of his frien<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span>d’s company. But -the thought of having to answer questions made an end of that impulse of -confidence. He had himself taken to the hotel instead, where, he said to -himself with forlorn pride, at least there was nobody to insist upon any -account of his thoughts or doings, where he should be unmolested by -reason of being alone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> visit of Janet Spears had made a great impression upon Lady Markham. -She abstained as long as she could from speaking of it to Alice, but -what is there which a woman can keep from her closest companion, her -daughter, who is as her own soul? Up to this moment Alice had known -nothing whatever about Janet Spears, not even of her existence. Perhaps -Lady Markham’s discretion, and the painful sense that she had interfered -injudiciously in Paul’s affairs, might not have sufficed to keep her -secret; but Sir William’s illness had carried the day over everything, -and not a word had been said between the mother and daughter on this -subject. Even now Lady Markham made a heroic effort. Full as was her -mind of the visit, she kept it to herself for two long days, thinking -over<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> everything that had been said, and wondering if she had done as -she ought, or if she should have been more kind to the girl whom (was it -possible?) Paul loved, or more severe upon the creature who had -enthralled him. At one time she thought of Janet in one way, at another -in the other. The girl he loved (was it possible?), or the woman who had -put forth evil arts and got him in her power. It is hard for a woman to -be quite just to any one, male or female, who has injured her son: and -people say it is hardest to be just, to a woman who has done so. [In -this point I do not feel qualified to judge; but men say so who know -women better, naturally, than they know themselves.] Lady Markham -struggled very hard to be just: but it was difficult; and in a moment of -pressure, when Alice came upon her suddenly, and with a soft arm round -her and a soft cheek laid against hers, entreated to know if there was -any fresh trouble—how could she help but tell her everything? Alice -justified all vulgar sentiment on the subject by being triumphantly -unjust.</p> - -<p>“He must have been cheated into it,” she cried. “Paul—<i>Paul!</i> so -fastidious as he is, how could he ever, ever, have thought of a girl -like that?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>But Lady Markham, anxious to keep the balance even, shook her head.</p> - -<p>“My dearest, you don’t know much about men. I can’t tell why it is. They -choose those whom you would think they would fly from, and fly from -those whom you would think—I don’t know, Alice, perhaps they get tired -of the kind of women like you and me, whom they see every day.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma!”</p> - -<p>“I have thought so often, dear. <i>We</i> don’t feel so, but men—they get -tired of one kind of woman. They think they will try something -different. It has always been a mystery. And you must not think this was -a—was not a good girl. I saw nothing wrong about her. Perhaps a little -more—— no, I don’t know what to say. She was not saucy, or bold, -or—— Perhaps it was only that she was not a lady,” Lady Markham said -with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“But that Paul should care for any one who was not a lady,” Alice said, -clasping her hands together with mingled despair and impatience; and -then she cried suddenly, “Poor little Dolly!”</p> - -<p>“Dolly!” said Lady Markham. Nothing could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> exceed her surprise. The air -of grieved doubt and hesitation which had been in her face while they -discussed Janet gave way to lively astonishment and displeasure. “What -do you mean by Dolly?” she said.</p> - -<p>Then Alice faltered forth an ashamed confession—that she thought—that -she had supposed—that she did not know anything about it—did not -believe there was anything in it—but only, Dolly——</p> - -<p>Nothing was to be made of this hesitating speech.</p> - -<p>“Dolly,” said Lady Markham, drawing herself up, “is a dear little girl. -I am very fond of her. In her proper place she is charming; but my dear -Alice, Dolly is scarcely more suitable for Paul, in his position. -Ah!——”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham stopped short and hid her face in her hands.</p> - -<p>During the time that these conversations—the visit of Janet and all its -attendant circumstances, and the explanation of it thus given to -Alice—were going on, these ladies lived upon the post which brought -frequent communications from the people in London who were carrying on -such inquiries as could be made about the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> intruder into the family, he -who had so suddenly and decisively blighted all the prospects of Paul. -Colonel Fleetwood wrote, and Mr. Scrivener, and Paul himself, though -less frequently. The former was the only one that was hopeful; he was -perfectly ready to believe that Gus was an impostor, and the whole thing -“a got up affair.” Was it likely, he argued, that Sir William, the most -steady-going old fellow, could be guilty of such a tremendous mistake? -Had it only been a wickedness! but it was such a folly, such an error in -judgment. A statesman, a man in parliament, one of the rulers of the -country, how could any one suppose him capable of a thing so foolish? -Mr. Scrivener was far less confident. He knew what a lawyer’s law was in -his own private affairs, and he had not much more confidence in a -stateman’s wisdom. He had not sent any one to Barbadoes, but he was -making careful inquiries among all sorts of people who knew—West Indian -agents, ancient governors, and consuls. And he had heard of Gus from -more than one of these referees, and found his story confirmed in all -points as to his life in Barbadoes. About his connexion with Sir William -Markham, these people did not know, but they gave him the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> highest -character, and confirmed his statement in many important details. The -lawyer did not conceal from Lady Markham his complete conviction. -Neither did Paul, who had given up his own cause at once, though he -dragged on in London, dancing attendance at the lawyer’s office and -hearing from day to day some fresh and, as he thought, unmeaning piece -of additional proof. “Of course it is all right,” Paul wrote; “I never -for a moment doubted that the man was all right. He may be a cad, but he -was speaking the truth. I stay here to humour them; but I know very well -that they will discover nothing which will shake his credit; and the -best thing I can do is to get myself as soon as I can out of Sir Gus’s -way.” This way of speaking of it was to both the ladies like turning the -sword round in the wound. Where was it he meant to take himself, out of -the way? They had neither of them any clue to Paul’s changed sentiments, -and if he had vowed to go away while all was well with him, when he had -fortune and splendour within reach, with those socialist emigrants whose -very name was enough to alarm them, what would he do now when this -horrible downfall and disappointment had loosed the bonds between him -and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> native country? A wild desire to call for help, even upon the -least desirable of auxiliaries, upon Janet Spears herself, came to Lady -Markham’s mind. If the girl could keep him at home, she felt herself -able to receive even Janet to her heart.</p> - -<p>While their mother’s mind was thus occupied, the two little girls had -languidly resumed their lessons. It is no reproach to the children to -say that it was not very long before the impression made by their -father’s death would have died out naturally, in an occasional tender -recollection, or sudden burst of crying when something recalled him to -their memory. It was not grief that made them languid, but the sense of -something going on, a living agitation, and the shadow of a still -greater disturbance to come. It was whispered vaguely between them that -no doubt they would have to leave Markham, a thing which they sometimes -felt like a deathblow and sometimes like a deliverance. When Bell and -Marie thought of leaving their woods, their gardens, their “own house,” -in which they had been born, the desolation of the thought overwhelmed -them; but when, on the other hand, they thought of going away, perhaps -to London, perhaps “abroad,” a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> thrill of guilty rapture ran through -their bosoms. They had never come to such a pitch of wickedness as to -say this to each other, but already in the rapid communion of the eyes -each had guessed that the other thought there might be something to be -said for such a possibility; and the idea made them restless, unable to -settle to their work, and very trying to Mademoiselle, who, poor lady, -had to put up with this reverberation of the troubles of the house -without really having any share in them, or taking any very lively -interest in these family concerns. Sometimes she had a headache, caused, -as she said, by nothing but the continued disturbance of her nerves -through their endless rustlings and changes. And when this headache got -very bad and Mademoiselle betook herself to bed, it cannot be said that -her pupils were sorry. They put their books away (having been brought up -in the strictest habits of tidiness), and hastened out to their -favourite haunts. The air and the movement stilled their nerves, which -were as much at fault as those of Mademoiselle. They were seated on, or -rather in, a tree near the fishpond, the favourite centre of all their -games when the next great event occurred to them. Bell had brought out a -book with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> her, which she held embraced in her arms, but had not opened. -She was seated well up in the tree, dangling her feet close to Marie’s -head, who was seated on a lower branch. Marie had no book—her tastes -were not literary; and she was very near the edge of that great -discovery which both had made, but neither avowed, that under some -circumstances it might be “nice” to go away.</p> - -<p>“Were you ever in a great big, big place—in a city, Bell?”</p> - -<p>“You little silly, of course I have been in Farboro’. I have been with -mamma a hundred times, and so have you.”</p> - -<p>“Farboro’ is not what I mean. Farboro’ is only a town. There are not so -very many people in it, and the cathedral is the chief place. It is not -noisy or wicked at all. I mean a great horrid place where there are -crowds everywhere, and policemen, and where nobody goes to church. That -is what they call a city in books. London is a city,” said Marie.</p> - -<p>“I have never been in London, you know. I wonder if we shall ever see -it,” said Bell. “I wonder if mamma will ever take us there. I wonder if -you and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> will be quite different from Alice when we grow up. <i>She</i> has -been presented. I wonder if it makes a difference when poor girls are -like us—without any father,” she added, with a little choke of tears.</p> - -<p>“Do you think we shall be poor?” said Marie. “There is not much -difference now. We have all the same servants, and as much to eat, and -Mademoiselle just the same.”</p> - -<p>“It will not make any difference in what we have to eat,” said Bell, -approaching the dangerous subject. “But—perhaps we may not be able to -stay at Markham. Oh, Marie! what would you think if mamma were to give -up Markham altogether and go away?”</p> - -<p>Marie looked up with large eyes, stretching her neck, as her sister was -at an elevation almost perpendicular. She said, in a tone of awe, “Oh, I -don’t know! What would <i>you</i> think, Bell?”</p> - -<p>Neither of the children liked to commit themselves. At length Bell, who -felt that her superior age required of her that she should lead the way, -assumed the privilege of her years. “I don’t know either,” she said, -reflectively. “If it was in summer, when everything is bright, I should -not like it at all; but if, perhaps,” she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span> added, slower and slower, “it -was in the rainy weather—when you can’t go out, when the grass is so -wet you sink in it, when there is nothing but sleet and slush, and the -trees drop cold drops upon you even when it’s not raining, and you get -your frock all wet even in the avenue——”</p> - -<p>Marie’s eyes opened bigger and bigger after every step of this -hypothesis. She followed them with a movement of her lips and a gasp of -excitement at the end.</p> - -<p>“Then—” said Bell, “perhaps—I think—it might be rather nice, Marie.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bell! that is what I sometimes thought—but I never liked to say -it.”</p> - -<p>“Nor me,” said Bell, more courageous, indifferent to grammar—and going -on with hardihood after she had made the first plunge. “There would be -Madame Tussaud’s, and the Crystal Palace, and the British Museum, and -Westminster Abbey, and all the bazaars. However bad the weather was, -there would always be something. I dare say mamma would take us to the -theatre.”</p> - -<p>“But not just now,” said Marie. “It would not be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> nice to go just now. -It would look as if we had forgotten——”</p> - -<p>“Did I say <i>now</i>? At present it is only autumn, and everybody is in the -country. But when the days get short and dark, and you have to light the -candles directly—What is it?” cried Bell, for Marie had shaken herself -off her branch, and, with a cry of dismay, stood looking apparently at -something which was coming. “Is it Mademoiselle?” said the little girl -under her breath.</p> - -<p>Mademoiselle had a particular objection to that nest in the tree. Bell’s -seat was one which was usually occupied by a boy, not one of the girls’ -places, as Roland and Harry contemptuously called the lower branches. It -required some ingenuity to clamber into it, and more to get down -again—and not only ingenuity, but an absence of petticoats would have -been desirable. Bell felt herself catching here and there as she tried -to get down hastily. Then came the sound of a long rent, which sent her -brain all whirling. Her new black frock! and what would nurse say? The -idea of nurse and Mademoiselle both waiting, full of fury, for her -descent, was enough to obscure the perceptions of any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> child. Her foot -slipped from a mossy and treacherous twig; she caught wildly at -something, she did not know what, and with a sudden whirr and whirl and -blackness lost herself altogether for a moment. When she became aware of -what was going on again, she found herself seated at the foot of the -tree, staring across the fishpond, with a lump on her forehead and a -singing in her ears. Marie was crying, bending over her, and saying, -“Oh! what can we do—what shall I do? Do you think she will die, Mr. -Gus?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, what a little goose you are!” murmured Bell, gradually coming to -herself. “What should I die for? I have only got a knock—on my head.” -She felt the lump on her forehead wonderingly as she spoke, for it hurt -her, and nature directed her hand to the spot. “I have got a <i>dreadful</i> -knock on my head,” she added, not without satisfaction. Then Bell leaned -back on something, she did not know what, and saw a hand come round from -behind with a wet handkerchief to lay upon her forehead. The hand was a -brown hand with a big ring on it, at which Bell vaguely wondered where -she had seen it before. Then, all of a sudden, she jumped up, upon her -feet, though she felt very queer and giddy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span> “It is that little -gentleman! You have been talking to him, Marie!”</p> - -<p>“And won’t you talk to me, too?” said Gus, following her with his wet -handkerchief. “Well, never mind, put on this. The water is out of your -own fishpond; it cannot do you any harm.”</p> - -<p>Bell was not able to resist, and he made her sit down again and have her -forehead bathed. By degrees as she became aware of everything around -her, Bell perceived that the little gentleman was very kind. His thin, -brown hand touched her so gently, and he was not angry, though she had -been angry. By and by she said, “I am better. Please, oh, please go -away, Mr. Gus. I don’t want to be disagreeable, but how can <i>I</i> have -anything to say to you, when you have been so——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Gus. “What have I been?” For Bell paused, not -knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>The little girl did not continue. She contented herself with throwing -down Mr. Gus’s wet handkerchief from her forehead, which was not so bad -now. You are our enemy,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I am nobody’s enemy. I am your brother. I want<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> to do everything I can -for you, if you will let me. Don’t you remember what friends we made, -and how fond we were of each other before you knew who I was; and why -should you hate me now you know I am your brother?” said Gus.</p> - -<p>It was wonderful to see him standing there, so like their father: and it -was very hard for two little girls to keep up an argument with a -grown-up gentleman. But Bell, who had a great spirit, was not disposed -to throw down her arms. She said, “Paul is my brother, and you are his -enemy,” feeling at last that she was on steady ground.</p> - -<p>“I am no more Paul’s enemy than I am yours. Now listen, little girls. If -some one were to leave you something, Bell—if it was to be put in the -will that this was for Sir William Markham’s second daughter—how should -you feel if it were taken from you and given to Marie?”</p> - -<p>“I would not put up with it all,” said Bell promptly. Then perceiving -how she had committed herself, “It is not the same. It was Paul’s, and -you want to take it from Paul.”</p> - -<p>“But I am the heir, and not Paul,” said the little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> gentleman. “I am the -eldest. You are very fond of your little sister, but you would not give -up what was yours to Marie.”</p> - -<p>This time Bell was more wise. “You don’t know anything about it. What -would it matter? for when anything is given to me, I always give half to -Marie,” she said, with sparkling eyes.</p> - -<p>The little gentleman owned himself discomfited. “There you have the -better of me,” he said. “But I should like to give a great part to Paul. -I would give him everything in reason. And I have come now to see you, -to ask you to do me a very great favour.”</p> - -<p>They looked at him with eyes that grew bigger and bigger, and as Bell -was very pale, with a lump on her forehead, her aspect with her heroic -gaze was tragi-comical, to say the least. They were both greatly melted -and softened by the idea of having a favour asked of them, and Marie, -who was entirely gained over, did nothing but nudge and pull her -sister’s dress by way of recommending her to be merciful. Bell leant -back upon the tree like a little image of Justice, with the bandage -momentarily pushed off, but very much needed. It lay at her feet in the -shape of Mr. Gus’s white<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> handkerchief; but all the severity, yet -candour, of an entire Bench was in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I want you to make my peace with your mother. I want you to persuade -her to stay at Markham; to let me stay here to; to let me live among you -like your brother, which I am. If you all run away as soon as I come -near the place, what good will it do me?” said Gus. “I want you all. -When the boys come home, we should have all kinds of fun, and as for -you, I should not let anyone bother you. Fancy, I have nobody belonging -to me but you. You are my family. I am more like an old uncle than your -brother, but I should be very fond of you all the same. If your mother -would only listen to me, it would be very nice for us all. I am sure you -can be generous, Bell. You are old enough to understand. And I think -Alice would be on my side if she would hear what I have got to say.”</p> - -<p>“Alice would never be on your side,” said Bell with decision. “Paul is -Alice’s brother—her particular brother—and how could she bear to see -him put out? Don’t you know we are all in pairs at Markham? Harry is my -brother, and Roland is Marie’s.”</p> - -<p>“Ye-es,” said Marie tired of being left out, “but he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span> is not always -nice. He sends me away because I am a girl, as if it was my fault!”</p> - -<p>“Well then,” said Mr. Gus, “if Alice will not stand my friend, I must -trust it all to you. The thing you must do is to go to your mamma, and -tell her your old brother is outside, very sorry to be the cause of any -trouble, but that he can’t help being your brother, and a great deal -older than Paul. How could I help that? I did not choose who my father -was to be; and tell her if she would only speak to me, I will explain it -all to her. And there is nothing she can ask me to do that I will not do -for Paul. And tell her—but I need not tell you, Bell, for I can see in -your eyes that you know quite well what to say.”</p> - -<p>The conviction that she would indeed be a valuable and eloquent advocate -got into Bell’s mind as he went on. Yes, she felt she could say all that -to mamma and better than Mr. Gus had said it. She would use such -arguments that Lady Markham would be sure to yield. Bell was aware that -she was clever, and all her own opposition melted away in the delightful -mental excitement of this immense undertaking. She forgot the lump on -her forehead, the buzzing in her ears, and even<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> more, she forgot the -family opposition to the interloper who was taking away Paul’s -birthright. “Oh yes, I know very well what to say,” she cried with a -change of sentiment which was as complete as it was rapid, and in her -excitement she set off at once for the house, framing little speeches as -she went, in which the case of Gus should be put forth with all the -devices of forensic talent. Oh what a pity I am not a boy! was the -thought which flew through her mind as on the sudden gale of inspiration -which swept through her. For the moment, perhaps, this fact, which would -for ever prevent her from being a special pleader by profession, was a -decided advantage to Bell. Little Marie did not like to be left behind. -She looked wistfully after her sister, then she said, “I will tell mamma -too,” and rushed after Bell. Finally, Mr. Gus himself completed the -procession walking behind them. He had chosen no unfit ambassadors of -peace, though the elder emissary looked very much as if she had been in -the wars. And the little man walked after them with a little tremor -varying the calm of self-satisfaction which usually reigned in his -bosom. He knew he was doing what was by far the best and most Christian -thing to do, and he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> felt that he had managed it very cleverly in -putting his cause into such hands. But notwithstanding these consolatory -reflections, and notwithstanding the natural calm of his bosom, it is -certain that Mr. Gus felt in that bosom an unaccustomed quiver of -timidity which might almost have been called fear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Gus</span> came into the hall with Bell and Marie, and waited there while they -proceeded to plead his cause within. He walked about the hall softly, -and looked at the pictures, the old map of the county, and other -curiosities that were there. These things beguiled his anxiety about his -reception, and filled him with an altogether novel interest. A thing -which is quite indifferent to us while it belongs to our neighbour, -gains immediate attraction when it becomes our own. He looked at -everything with interest, even the cases of stuffed birds that decorated -one corner. Then he came and seated himself in the great bamboo chair in -which he had sat down the first time he came to Markham. It was not very -long ago, not yet two months, but what a difference there was! Then, -indeed, he had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> anxious about his reception, and he was anxious -about his reception now. But when he came first, he had been doubtful of -his position altogether, not sure what his rights were, or what claim he -could make—and now his anxieties were merely sentimental, and his -rights all established. He sat where he had sat then, and saw everything -standing just as he had seen it, the trees the same, except in colour, -nothing altered except himself. Now it was all his, this noble domain. -He had not known what welcome he might receive, whether his father would -acknowledge him, or what would happen, and now his father’s possessions -were his, and no one could infringe his rights. How strange it was! He -sat sunk in the great bamboo chair, and listened to the faint sound of -voices which he heard through the open door, the two little girls -pleading his cause. He was very desirous that they should be successful, -for if he was not successful, Markham would be a dull house—but still, -successful or not, nothing any longer could affect him vitally. A poor -stranger, a wanderer from the tropics, unused to England and English -ways, with not much money, and a very doubtful prospect before him, he -had been when he first came here. How could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> he help smiling at the -change? He had no desire to do any one harm. All the evil that he had -done was involuntary, but it could not be expected that he would give up -his rights. He felt very much at his ease as he seated himself in that -chair, notwithstanding the touch of anxiety in his mind. The prospect -which was before him was enough to satisfy an ambitious man, but Gus was -not ambitious. Indeed, the advantages he had gained were contracted in -his eyes by his own inability fully to understand their extent. They -were greater than he was aware, greater than his imagination could -grasp. But, at least, they included everything that his imagination was -able to grasp, and mortal man cannot desire more.</p> - -<p>Bell had gone in very quietly, inspired by her mission, without pausing -to think, and Marie had followed, as Marie always did. They went -straight into the room where they were sure, they thought, of seeing -their mother. It was in the recess, the west chamber, at the end of the -drawing room, that they found her. But the circumstances did not seem -very favourable to their plea. Lady Markham and Alice were reading a -letter together, and Alice, it was very apparent, was crying<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> over her -mother’s shoulder, while Lady Markham was very pale, and her eyes red as -if she had shed tears. “It is all over then,” she was saying as the -children came in, folding the letter up to put it away. And Alice cried, -and made no reply. This checked the straightforward fervour of Bell, who -had walked straight into the room and halfway up its length before she -discovered the state of affairs. “Mamma,” she had begun, “I have come -from——” Then Bell paused, and cried, “Oh, mamma, dear, what is the -matter?” with sudden alarm, stopping short in mid-career.</p> - -<p>“Nothing very much,” said Lady Markham, “nothing that we did not know -before. What is it, Bell? You may tell me all the same. We must face it, -you know. We must not allow ourselves to be overcome by it,” she said -with a little quiver of her lip, and a smile which made the little girls -inclined to cry too.</p> - -<p>“Oh mamma! I just came from—him,” Bell stopped short again, feeling as -if involved in a sort of treason, and her pale little countenance -flushed. Only then Lady Markham perceived the state in which the child -was.</p> - -<p>“What have you been doing to yourself, Bell? You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span> have hurt yourself. -You have got a blow on the forehead. What was it? Let me look at you. -You have been up in one of those trees.”</p> - -<p>“Oh mamma,” cried Bell, finding in this the very opportunity she wanted, -“I fell, and I think I might have killed myself: but all at once, I -don’t know where he came from, I never saw him coming, there was -the—little gentleman! He picked me up, and he spoiled all his -handkerchief bathing my forehead. He was very kind, he always was very -kind—to us children,” said Bell.</p> - -<p>“Oh Bell! how can you speak of that odious little man? how can you -bother mamma about him? We have heard a great deal too much about him -already,” cried Alice with an indignation that dried her tears.</p> - -<p>“It is not his fault,” said Lady Markham, “we must be just. What could -he do but what he has done? If we had known of it all along, we should -never have thought of blaming him—and it is not his fault that it all -burst upon us in a moment. It was not his fault,” she said, shaking her -head, “but you must not think I blame your dear papa. He meant it for -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span>the best. I can see how it all happened as distinctly—— At first he -thought it would wound me to hear that he had been married before. And -then—he forgot it altogether. You must remember how young he was, and -what is a baby to a man? He forgot about it. I can see it all so -plainly. The only thing is my poor Paul!” And here, after her defence of -his father, the mother broke down too.</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Bell, “oh, don’t cry, please don’t cry! That is exactly -what he says. He says he will do anything you like to tell him. He says -he never wanted to do any harm. He is as sorry—as sorry! But how could -he help being born, and being old—so much older than Paul? He says he -is very fond of us all. He does not mind what he does if you will only -let him come home and be the eldest brother. Mamma,” said Bell, -solemnly, struck with a new idea, “he must have saved my life, I think. -I might have broken my neck, and there was nobody but Marie to run and -get assistance. It was a very good thing for me that he was there. If he -had not been there, you would have had—only five children instead of -six,” Bell said, with a gulp, swallowing the lump in her throat. She -thought she saw herself being carried along all white and still,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> and -the thought overcame her with a sense of the pathos of the possible -situation. She seemed to hear all the people saying, “Such a promising -child and cut off in a moment;” and “Poor Lady Markham! just after her -other great grief;” so that Bell could scarcely help sobbing over -herself, though she had not been killed.</p> - -<p>“Oh Bell! it was not so bad as that! how could you be killed coming down -head over heels from the old tree?” cried Marie, almost with -indignation.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham had satisfied herself in the meantime that the lump on the -forehead was more ugly than serious.</p> - -<p>“Let us be very glad you have not suffered more,” she said. “But, Bell, -the right thing would be not to climb up there again.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, the right thing would be, if you care about me, at least, to let -poor Mr. Gus come in, and thank him for saving my life. Oh, let him come -in, mamma! How could he help being older than Paul? I dare say he would -rather have been younger if he could; and I am sure by what he says he -would give Paul anything—anything! to make it up to him, and to make -friends with you. He says how miserable he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> would be if you left him -here all alone. He could not bear to be down here thinking he had turned -us out. Oh, if you had only seen him! he looked as if he could cry—Ask -Marie. And he wanted to know if he might speak to Alice, if Alice would -speak for him. But I said I didn’t think it, because Paul was Alice’s -particular brother, and she could not bear anything that was hard upon -him; and then he said,” cried Bell, with unconscious embellishment, -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>You are my two little sisters, oh, go and plead for me! Say I will do -anything—anything—whatever she pleases.’ Oh mamma! who could say more -than that? He has nobody belonging to him, unless we will let him belong -to us. He is a poor little gentleman, not young, nor nice-looking, nor -clever, nor anything. And, mamma, he is a little—or more than a little, -a great deal—<i>very</i> like poor papa. Oh!” cried Bell, breaking off with -a suppressed shriek, as a hand suddenly was laid upon her shoulder.</p> - -<p>Nobody had observed him coming in. A light little man, with a soft step, -and soft unobtrusive shoes that never had creaked in the course of their -existence, upon a soft Turkey carpet, makes very little sound as he -moves. He had got tired waiting outside, and the doors<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> were open, and -Mr. Gus had never been shy. He had walked straight in, guided by their -voices; and the very fact that he had thus made his way within those -curtains into this sanctuary seemed to give him at once a footing in the -place. He put his hand upon Bell’s shoulder, and, though he was not much -taller than she was, made a very respectful bow to Lady Markham over her -head.</p> - -<p>“I thought I might take the liberty to come in and speak for myself, -Lady Markham,” he said. There was a flutter of his eyelids, giving that -sidelong glance round him, which was the only thing that betrayed Gus’s -consciousness that the place to which “he had taken the liberty” of -coming in was his own. “My little sisters” (he put his other hand upon -the shoulder of Marie, who was much consoled at thus being brought back -out of the cold into which Bell’s superior gifts invariably sentenced -her), “My little sisters can speak better for me than I can do; and -won’t you take me in for the sake of the little things who have always -been my friends? It is not my fault that this all came upon you as a -surprise. Don’t you think it would be better for everybody—for the -children, and for my poor fathe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span>r’s memory, and all, if you will just -put up with having me in the house?”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham grew very pale. She made a great effort, standing up to do -it.</p> - -<p>“Sir Augustus,” she said, and nobody knew what it cost her to give him -this title; all the blood ebbed away from her face: “Sir Augustus, the -house is your own, it appears. What I can put up with has nothing to do -with it.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, tranquilly, bowing in acknowledgment, “it is my own; but -it has been yours for a great many years. Why can’t we be friends? I -can’t help being their brother, you know, whatever happens.”</p> - -<p>Alice had been sitting with her hand over her eyes. She had a special -enmity towards this interloper; but now she took courage to look at him. -They all looked at him, distinct among the little group of female faces. -He was <i>dans son droit</i>, and it is impossible to tell how much the -certainty that all belonged to him, that he was no mere claimant, but -the proud possessor of the place, changed the aspect of the little -gentleman, even to those who had most reason to be wounded by it. It -gave him a dignity he had never possessed before, and a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span> magnanimity -too. When he saw Alice looking at him, he left the little girls and came -towards her, holding out his hands. He was a different man in this -interior from what he was outside.</p> - -<p>“I should be very fond of you if you would let me,” he said. “Alice, -though you are Paul’s particular sister, you can’t help being my sister -too; and there is some one else who is a friend of mine, who has been -very kind to me,” the little man said significantly, sinking his voice.</p> - -<p>What did he mean? Though she did not know what he meant; Alice felt a -flame of colour flush over her cheeks in spite of herself.</p> - -<p>“We are not monsters to disregard such an appeal,” said Lady Markham. -“Whatever may happen, and however we may feel, we must all acknowledge -that you mean to be very kind. You will not ask us to say more just now. -If you will send for your things, I will give orders to have your rooms -prepared at once.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma!” they all cried, in a chorus of wonder. Alice with something -like indignation, Bell and Marie with an excitement which was half -pleasure: for this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> was novelty, at least, if nothing else, which always -commends itself to the mind of youth.</p> - -<p>“If it is his right, he shall have it,” said Lady Markham, with a quiver -in her voice. “Mr. Scrivener tells me we must resist no longer—and he -is your brother, as he says, and we have no right to reject his -kindness. Do you know, children,” she cried, suddenly clasping her hands -together with an impatient movement, “while we are talking so much at -our ease, it is not our own house we are in, but this gentleman’s house? -He can turn us out of it whenever he pleases, while we are arguing -whether we will let him come into it! Sir,” she said, rising up once -more (but she had done it once; she could not again give him the title, -which ought to have been Paul’s)—“Sir, I acknowledge that you are kind, -generous—far more than we have any right to expect—but you will -understand that such a position is not easy—that it is very strange to -me—and very new, and——”</p> - -<p>“Certainly, ma’am,” said Gus. Her politeness (as he called it to -himself) put him on his mettle. “All you say is very true and just. If I -were a little monster, as Alice thinks, there are a great many things I -could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> do to make myself disagreeable; and if you were not a sensible -woman, as I always felt you to be, we might make a very pretty mess -between us. But as we are not fiends, but good Christians (I hope), -suppose you let the little ones come down with me to the village to see -after my things? It’s a nice afternoon, though a little dull. You ladies -ought to go out too and take the air. My little dears,” he said, “we’ll -have those big cases up; there are a lot of things in them I brought -from Barbadoes expressly for you. And those sweetmeats—I told you of -them the first time I came into this house.”</p> - -<p>“You said they were for me,” said Marie, with a tone of reproach; “but -that cannot have been true, for you did not know of me.”</p> - -<p>Gus had put one hand in Bell’s arm and the other on Marie’s shoulder. He -looked at his two little companions with the sincerest pleasure in his -little brown face.</p> - -<p>“I did not know you were Marie, nor that this was Bell: but I knew that -you were you,” said the little gentleman, with a smile. “And,” he added, -looking round upon them all, “I knew we must be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> friends sooner or -later. Let’s go and see after the cases now.”</p> - -<p>This was how it was all arranged, to the consternation and amazement of -all the world; and Lady Markham was not less astonished than all the -rest. She went to the Hall window when they were gone, and looked out -after them, scarcely believing her senses. Sir Augustus Markham (as he -must now be allowed to be) had put his arm into Bell’s, who was nearly -as tall as he was, and who had forgotten all about the bump on her -forehead and the tear in her frock; while Marie held his other hand, and -skipped along by his side, now in front, now behind, looking up into his -face and chattering to him. There was in Gus’s gait, in his trim little -figure, and his personality in general, a something which was much more -like Sir William than any of his other children. It had always been a -little private source of gratification to Lady Markham, notwithstanding -her sincere affection for her husband, that Paul was like the -Fleetwoods, who were much finer men. But this resemblance, which she had -not very much desired for her own children, had settled in the unknown -offspring of his youth. It added now another pang to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span> her heartache, not -only to see how like he was, but to see how entirely the children had -adopted their new, yet old, brother. She withdrew from the window in a -bewilderment of pain and excitement. What would Paul say to the step she -had taken? It was right, she had felt. She had done what was the hardest -to do, because it seemed evident that it was the best; but what would -Paul say? And now that all hope and resistance was over, and nothing to -be done but to submit and make the best of it, what was to become of her -boy? Lady Markham had not the solace of knowing of the change that had -taken place in Paul’s mind. She expected nothing else than that her next -meeting with Paul would be to take leave of him, to see him go away with -his chosen associates; most likely the husband of Janet Spears, or about -to become so. Could Janet Spears even now secure her son to her? bring -him back? fix him in England?—at least within reach of her care and -help? And should she—could she—do anything to persuade the girl to -exercise her influence? That discussion, which had been broken by the -sudden appearance of Bell, and this strange episode altogether, returned -to her mind as she went sadly up stairs to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span> consult with Mrs. Fry about -the rooms to be made ready for Sir Augustus. Poor Lady Markham! she -would have to speak of him by this name, and to acknowledge to the -servants the downfall of her own son, the descent of her own family to a -lower place—Sir William’s second family. It was hard—very hard—upon a -woman who had been strong in a pride which had nothing bitter in it, so -long as it had been unassailed, and all had gone well, but which gave -her pangs now that were sufficiently difficult to bear. And then there -was the dilemma in her heart still more difficult, still more painful. -She had done what she thought was the best, at much cost to herself, in -this matter; but ah, the other matter, which was still nearer her heart, -how was she, torn as she was by diverse emotions, to know in Paul’s case -what was the best?</p> - -<p>It would be needless to attempt to describe the excitement raised in the -household by the announcement that “Sir Augustus” was “coming home,” and -that his rooms were to be got ready with all speed.</p> - -<p>“My lady has give up the very best of everything,” Mrs. Fry said, -solemnly; “and as considerate, thinking which was to be the warmest, -seeing as he’s come from India, where it is <i>that</i> warm. It would not -become us<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> as are only servants, to be more particular than my lady, or -else I don’t know that I could make it convenient to stay with a -gentleman as has the blood of niggers in his veins.”</p> - -<p>“I knowed it!” Mr. Brown said, slapping his thigh; he was usually more -guarded in his language, but excitement carries the day over grammar -even with persons of more elevated breeding. “The last time as ever I -helped him on with his coat there was something as told me it was him -that was the man, and not Paul. Well! I don’t say as I don’t regret it -in some ways, but pride must have a fall, as the Bible says.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see as it lays in your spere to quote the Bible on a any such -subject,” said Mrs. Fry with indignation. “If it’s Mr. Paul, I just wish -he had a little more pride. His dear mother would be easier in her mind -this day if he was one that held more by his own class. And if you’re -pleased, you that have eat their bread this fifteen years, to have a bit -of a little upstart that is only half an Englishman, instead of your -young master that you’ve seen grown up from a boy—and as handsome a boy -as one could wish to see—I don’t think much of your Christianity, and -quoting out of the Bible. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span>t’s easier a deal to do that than to perform -what’s put down there.”</p> - -<p>“I hope I knows my duty, ma’am,” said Mr. Brown, resuming the dignity -which excitement had momentarily shaken, “without instruction from you -or any one.”</p> - -<p>“I hope you do, Mr. Brown,” said Mrs. Fry. And this little passage of -arms restored the equilibrium of these two important members of the -household. But when it became known in the village and at the station, -where the great cases which had been lying at the latter place were -ordered by Sir Augustus to be carried to the house, and his portmanteau -brought from the Markham Arms, and when slowly, through a hundred rills -of conflicting information, the news got spread about the country till -it flooded, like a rushing torrent, all the great houses and all the -outlying villages—drove the Trevors and the Westlands half out of their -senses, and communicated a sudden vertigo to the entire -neighbourhood—words fail us to describe the commotion. Everybody had -known there was something wrong, but who could have imagined anything so -sweeping and complete. “You see now, mamma, how right I was to let Paul -alone,” Ada Westland said with her frank<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> cynicism. “We must see that -your papa calls upon Sir Augustus,” that far-seeing mother replied. As -for old Admiral Trevor, who was getting more and more into his dotage -every day, he ordered his carriage at once to go out and “putsh shtop to -it.” “Will Markham ought to be ashamed of himself,” the old sailor said. -The same impulse moved the inhabitants of the rectory, both father and -daughter. Mr. Stainforth did nothing but go about his garden all day -wringing his hands and crying, “Dear! dear!” and trying to recollect -something about it, some way of proving an <i>alibi</i> or getting evidence -to show that it was impossible. He, too, felt that it was his duty to -put a stop to it. And as for Dolly, what could she do but cry her pretty -eyes out, and wish, oh so vainly, that she had a hundred thousand pounds -that she might give it all to Paul!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Lady Markham</span>, when she thus received Sir Augustus, did so with no -intention of herself remaining in the house which had been her home for -so long. In any case, when the lawyer had pronounced that there was no -longer any room for resistance, she would have yielded; she would not -have prolonged a vain struggle, or given the new owner any trouble in -gaining possession of his house. When she lay down that night for the -first time under the same roof with the interloper, he who had, she said -to herself, ruined her son’s prospects, and taken his inheritance from -him, she had not that satisfaction in her mind of having done her duty -which is supposed to be the unfailing recompense of a good action. She -had done her duty, she hoped. She did not think that she was justified -in refusing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> Sir Gus’s overtures, or in turning him into an enemy; but -it was with a sore heart and mind, much exercised with doubt, that she -thought of what she had done. It was right in one way, but was it right -in another? What would Paul think of her apparent alliance and -friendship with the man who certainly had been his supplanter, and so -far as any one could see had spoiled his life? Paul was Lady Markham’s -dearest son, but he was the darkest place in her landscape, the subject -which she dwelt upon most, yet had least comfort in contemplating. -Notwithstanding the love and anxiety which he called forth in her, all -the questions connected with him were so painful that, if she could, she -would have avoided them altogether. What was he going to do? Was he on -the eve of the voyage which might separate him from her for ever? Was he -on the eve of the marriage that would separate them still more? She -longed and pined every day for letters from him, and yet when the post -brought none, she was almost relieved. At least he was not going yet, at -least he was not married yet. She wrote to him almost every day, and -lavished upon him a thousand tendernesses, and yet it was no pleasure to -her to think of Paul.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span> His very name brought an additional line to her -forehead and quiver to her lip.</p> - -<p>Next morning she was more undecided than ever. What was she to do? Again -the post had come in, and Paul had not added a word to the information -she had received. He had not said whether he was coming, or what he was -going to do. It occurred to her as she was dressing that the presence of -his stepbrother in the house might keep him away—that indeed it was -almost certain to keep him away, and that this afforded an urgent reason -for speedy removal. The idea gave her a sensation of hurry and nervous -haste. There was a dower-house on the estate near the town of Farborough -to which perhaps it would be well for her to retire. But when she -thought of all that would be involved in the removal, Lady Markham’s -courage failed her. Why did not this man keep away? A few months she -might at least have had to detach herself, to accustom herself to the -change. It seemed hard, very hard, to face everything at once. Had she -really been right after all in yielding? Ought she not to have stood out -and made her bargain for time enough to prepare her removal tranquilly? -In the days when a glow of satisfaction followed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> every good action, -there must have been more absolute certainty upon the subject, what was -good and what was evil, than exists now. The kindness, the -self-sacrifice of her act had made it appear the best, the only thing to -do; but now came the cold shadow of doubt. Had not she compromised her -dignity by doing it? Had not she done something that would offend and -alienate Paul? The night not only had not brought counsel, but it had -made all her difficulties worse.</p> - -<p>When Lady Markham went downstairs, however, the first sight which met -her eyes was one of at least a very conciliatory character. In the hall -stood one of Gus’s larger packing-cases, those cases which had been -lying at the station for so long, opened at last, and giving forth its -riches. The floor was covered with West Indian sweetmeats, pots of guava -jelly, and ginger, and many other tropical dainties; while the two -little girls, in high excitement, were taking out the stores which -remained, the scented neck-laces and bark-lace, and all the curious -manufactures of the island; they were speechless with delight and -enthusiasm, yet bursting out now and then into torrents of questions, -asking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> about everything. Gus sat complacently in the midst of all the -rubbish in the big bamboo-chair, stretching out his little legs and -rubbing his hands. “I told you I brought them for you,” he was saying. -Bell and Marie could not believe their eyes as they saw the heaps that -accumulated round them. “I thought you would like to give presents to -your little friends; there is plenty for everybody.”</p> - -<p>“But oh! Mr. Gus,” cried Marie, dancing about him, “how could you know -just what we wanted? how could you tell we should have friends?”</p> - -<p>It was pretty to see him sitting among the litter, his brown countenance -beaming.</p> - -<p>“I knew, of course, you must be nice children,” he said; “I knew what -you would want. But you must not call me Mr. Gus any longer. Call me Gus -without the mister.”</p> - -<p>The two little girls looked at each other and laughed.</p> - -<p>“But you are so old,” they said.</p> - -<p>“It’s a pity, isn’t it?” said the little gentleman.</p> - -<p>They were as much at their ease together as if they had known him all -their lives. What mother could resist such a scene? She paused on the -stairs and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> looked over the banisters and watched them. If it had not -been for the tragedy involved, for her husband’s death and her son’s -disinheritance, what more pleasant than this domestic scene! The -children had never been so much at their ease with their father, nor -would it have occurred to them to use half so much freedom with Paul as -they did with the stranger Gus. Lady Markham’s heart thrilled with -pleasure and pain, and when at last she went downstairs, there was a -tone of cordiality in spite of herself in her morning greeting.</p> - -<p>“I fear I am a little late. I have kept you waiting,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh mamma! he has had his breakfast with us,” cried the little girls.</p> - -<p>“You must not mind me. I am from the tropics. I always rise with the -dawn,” said the little man. “But I am quite happy so long as I have the -children.”</p> - -<p>He followed her into the breakfast-room, Bell linking herself on to his -arm and Marie holding his hand. They brought in some of the sweetmeats -with them, and the little girls began with great importance to open -them, each making her offering to mamma. It was the first appearance of -anything like cheerfulness since<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span> grief had entered the house. While -this little bustle was going on, Alice came in after her mother very -quietly, hoping to avoid all necessity of speaking to the intruder. The -feeling that was in her mind was that she could not endure to see him -here, and that if her mother would not leave the place, she at least -must. When Gus saw her, however, her hope of escape was over. He came up -to her at once and took her hand, and made a little speech.</p> - -<p>“You will not make friends with me as the children do,” he said; “but -you will find your old brother will always stand your friend if you want -one.”</p> - -<p>Alice drew her hand away and escaped to her usual place with her cheeks -blazing. Why did he offer to “stand her friend?” what did he mean by his -reference last night to some one else? She knew very well what he -meant—it was this that made it impertinent. He had met her two or three -times with Mr. Fairfax, and no doubt had been so vulgar and disagreeable -as to suppose that Mr. Fairfax—not having the least idea of course how -they had been brought together, and that Mr. Fairfax’s presence at -Markham was entirely accidental! Alice knew perfectly well what Gus -meant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> He thought the young man was an undistinguished lover, whom -probably Lady Markham would not accept, but whom Alice was ready enough -to accept, and it was in this light that he proffered his presumptuous -and undesired help. Alice could not trust herself to speak. It seemed to -her that besides the harm it had done Paul, there was another wrong to -herself in these injudicious, unnecessary offers of assistance. She -would not look at the curiosities the little girls carried in their -frocks, folding up their skirts to make great pockets, nor taste their -sweetmeats, nor countenance their pleasure. Instead of that, Alice -wrapped herself up in abstraction and sadness. To be able to hide some -sulkiness and a great deal of annoyance and bitter constraint under the -mask of grief is often a great ease to the spirit. She had the -satisfaction of checking all the glee of Marie and Bell, and of making -even Lady Markham repent of the smile into which she had been beguiled.</p> - -<p>Thus, however, the day went on. When Lady Markham again watched her -children going down the avenue, one on either side of the new master of -the house, with a softened look in her face, Alice turned away from her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> -mother with the keenest displeasure; she forsook her altogether, going -away from her to her own room, where she shut herself up and began to -make a review of all her little possessions with the view of removing -them, somewhere, anywhere, she did not care where. And very dismal -visions crossed the inexperienced mind of Alice. She did not know how -this miserable change in the family affairs affected her own position or -her mother’s. She thought, perhaps, that they had lost everything, as -Paul had lost everything. And sooner than live on the bounty of this -stranger, Alice felt that there was nothing she could not do. She -thought of going out as a governess, as girls do in novels. Why not? -What was she better than the thousands of girls who did so, and rather -that a hundred times, rather that or anything! Then it occurred to her -that perhaps she might go with Paul. That, perhaps, would be a better -way. Even in the former days, out of the midst of luxury and comfort, it -had seemed to her that Paul’s dream of living a primitive life and -cultivating his bit of land, his just share of the universal possession -of man, had something fine, something noble in it. With her brother she -could go to the end of the world to sustain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> and comfort him. What would -she care what she did? Would she be less a lady if she cooked his dinner -or washed his clothes? Nay, not at all. What better could any woman -wish? But then there was this girl—the man’s daughter who had been at -Markham with Paul. Thus Alice was suddenly stopped again. Walls of iron -seemed to rise around her wherever she turned. Was it possible, was it -possible? Paul, who was so fastidious, so hard to please! Thus when -despairing of the circumstances around herself she turned to the idea of -her brother, her heart grew sick with a new and cruel barrier before -her. An alien had come into her home and spoiled it; an alien was to -share her brother’s life and ruin that. All around her the world was -breaking in with an insupportable intrusion—people who had nothing to -do with her coming into the very sanctuary of her life. Lady Markham was -going to put up with it, as it seemed, but Alice said to herself that -she could not, would not, put up with it. She could not tell what she -would do, or where she would flee, but to tolerate the man who had taken -Paul’s inheritance, or the woman who had got Paul’s heart, was above her -strength. Should she go out as a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> governess? this seemed the one outlet; -or—was there any other?</p> - -<p>Now, how it was that Fairfax should have suddenly leaped into her mind -with as startling an effect as if he had come through the window, or -down from the sky in bodily presence, I cannot pretend to tell. For a -little while he had been her chief companion—her helpmate, so to -speak—and, at the same time, her servant, watching her looks to see -what he could do for her—ready to fly, on a moment’s notice, to -supplement her services in the sick-room—making of himself, indeed, a -sort of complement of her and other self, doing the things she could not -do. He had been, not like Paul at home, for Paul had never been so ready -and helpful, but like nothing else than a man-Alice, another half of -her, understanding her before she spoke—doing what she wished by -intuition. This had not lasted very long, it is true, but while it had -lasted, it had been like nothing that Alice had ever known. She had said -to herself often that she scarcely knew him. He had come into her life -by accident, and he had gone out of it just as suddenly, and with an -almost angry dismissal on her part. Scarcely knew him! and yet was there -anybody that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span> she knew half so well? Why Fairfax should have suddenly -become, as it were, visible to her in the midst of her thoughts, she did -not know. One moment she could see nothing but those closing walls -around her—a barrier here, a barrier there; no way of escape. When all -at once, in the twinkling of an eye, there was a glimmer in the -darkness, an opening, and there he stood, looking at her tenderly, -deprecating, yet with a gleam of humour in his eyes. “You won’t have -anything to say to me,” he seemed to be saying; “but all the same, if -you should think better of it, I am here.”</p> - -<p>It is impossible to tell the effect this sudden apparition, as confusing -as if he had actually come in person, had upon Alice. She was so angry, -that she beat her hands together in sudden rage—with whom—with -herself? for if the treacherous heart within her conjured up the young -man’s image, was it Mr. Fairfax’s fault? But it was against him that she -threw out all that unnecessary anger. How dared he come when she wanted -none of him! To intrude yourself into a girl’s presence when she does -not want you is bad enough, but to leap thus into her imagination! it -was insupportable. She struck her hands together with a kind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> of -fury—it was a way she had—her cheeks grew crimson, her heart thumped -quite unnecessarily against her breast. And all the time he seemed to -stand and look at her not tragically, or with any heroic aspect (which -did not belong to him), but with that half smiling, half upbraiding -look, and always a little gleam of fun in his eyes. “If you should think -better of it, I am always here.” The words she put into his mouth were -quite characteristic of him. No high-flown professions of faithfulness -and devotion could have said more.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham had seen clearly enough that Alice was no longer in -sympathy with her, and her heart bled for the separation and for the -shadow in her child’s face, even while she could not refuse to feel a -certain satisfaction otherwise in the step she had taken. It is often -easier to justify one’s self to others than to respond to the secret -doubts that arise in one’s own bosom; but when the gloomy looks of Alice -proclaimed the indictment that was being drawn up against her mother in -her mind, Lady Markham, strangely enough, began to feel the balance -turn, and a little self-assertion came to her aid. But she was very glad -of the opportunity given her by a visit from the Rector to send for her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> -daughter, who had not come near her all the morning. The Rector was not -a very frequent visitor at the Chase, nor indeed anywhere. He was old, -and he was growing feeble, and he did not care to move about. It was, -however, so natural that he should make his appearance in the trouble -which existed in the house, that nothing but a visit of sympathy was -thought of. And Dolly was with him, upon whom Lady Markham looked with -different eyes—a little jealous, a little tender—ready to find out -every evidence the girl might show of interest in Paul. There was -abundant opportunity to judge of her feelings in this respect, for Paul -was the chief subject spoken of. Mr. Stainforth had come with no other -object. He led Lady Markham to the further end of the room while the two -girls talked.</p> - -<p>“I want to say something to you,” he said. It was to ask what Paul was -going to do—what his intentions were. “It breaks my heart to think of -it,” said the old man; “but we must submit to fate.” He was something of -a heathen, though he was a clergyman, and this was how he chose to put -it: “What is he going to do?”</p> - -<p>Alas! of all the subjects on which his mother could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> have been -questioned, this was the most embarrassing. She sighed, and said—</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell. There were some schemes in his head—or rather he had -been drawn into some schemes—of emigration—before all this sorrow -came.”</p> - -<p>“Emigration! before——!”</p> - -<p>The rector could not make this out.</p> - -<p>“You know, that his opinions gave us some trouble. It was a—visionary -scheme—for the advantage of other people,” Lady Markham said.</p> - -<p>“Ah! there must be no more of that, my dear Lady Markham; there must be -no more of that. Socialism under some gloss or other, I know:—but life -has become too serious with Paul now for any nonsense like that.”</p> - -<p>“I wish I could think he would see it in that light,” said his mother, -shaking her head.</p> - -<p>“But he <i>must</i>; there is no choice left him. He must see it in that -light. I do not know whether this that I am going to suggest ever came -into your mind. Lady Markham, Paul must take the living, that is all -about it. He must take orders; and as soon as he is ready, I will -abdicate. I should have done so long ago had there been a son of the -house coming on. He must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span> go into the Church—that is by far the best -thing to do.”</p> - -<p>“The Church!” said Lady Markham, in extreme surprise. “I fear he would -never think of that, Mr. Stainforth.”</p> - -<p>“Then he will be very foolish,” said the old Rector. “What do these -foolish young fellows mean? It is an excellent living, a good house, not -too much to do, good society, and a good position. Suppose they don’t -like visiting old women, and that sort of thing, they can always get -some one to do it for them—a curate at the worst, for that costs money; -but most likely the ladies about. If he marries, which of course he -would do, his wife would attend to that. There is Dolly, who saves me a -great deal of trouble. She is quite as good as a curate. Oh, for that -matter, there are as great drawbacks in the Church as in other -professions. What do the young fellows mean, Lady Markham, to reject a -very desirable life for such little annoyances as that?”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham still shook her head notwithstanding the Rector’s -eloquence.</p> - -<p>“Paul would not see it in that light,” she said. “Unless he could throw -himself into all the duties with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> his whole heart, he would never do it, -and I fear he would not be able to do that.”</p> - -<p>“This is nonsense,” said Mr. Stainforth. The old man was very much in -earnest. “I would soon show him that all that is really necessary is -very easy to get through, and short of his natural position there would -be none so suitable. He must think of it. I cannot think of anything -that would be so suitable. The bar is overcrowded, he is not a fellow to -think of the army, though, indeed,” said the old man, with a -cold-blooded determination to say out all he meant, “if there was a war, -and men had a chance of good promotion, I don’t know that I should say -anything against that. But the Church, Lady Markham, the Church:—Almost -as good a house as this is, if not so big, and a great deal of leisure. -I assure you I could easily convince him that there is nothing he could -choose which would not afford drawbacks quite as great. And, short of -his natural position, the Rector of Markham Royal is not a bad thing to -look to. He might marry well, and as probably the other will never -marry——”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Lady Markham, with her eyes full of tears, “it is easy to -talk; but Paul would never lend any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span> ear to that. In all likelihood, so -far as I know, his decision is already made. That is to say,” she added -with a sigh, “it was all settled before. Why should he change now when -everything favours him? when Providence itself has moved all hindrances -out of his way?”</p> - -<p>“But he must not, Madam,” cried the Rector, raising his voice. “What, -emigrate! and leave you here in your widowhood with no one to stand by -you! This is nonsense—nonsense, Lady Markham. I assure you, my dear -Madam, it is impossible, it must not be.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham smiled faintly through her tears. She shook her head. It -seemed to her that the old Rector, with all his long life behind him, -was so much less experienced, so much more youthful than she was. <i>Must</i> -not be! What did it matter who said that so long as the boy himself did -not say it? The Rector had so raised his voice that the two girls had an -excuse for coming nearer, for asking, with their eyes at least, what it -was.</p> - -<p>“The Rector says Paul must not go; that he ought to go into the Church -and succeed to the living. Ah!” cried Lady Markham, “it is so easy to -say ‘ought’ and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> ‘must not.’ And what can I say? that he will do what he -thinks right, not what we think right. What does any one else matter? He -will do—what he likes himself.”</p> - -<p>Her voice was choked—her heart was very sore. Never had she breathed a -word of censure upon Paul to other ears than perhaps those of Alice -before. Her usual strength had forsaken her. And Alice, who was -estranged and chilled, did not go near her mother. Dolly Stainforth had -never been brought up to neglect her duties in this particular. Her -business in life had always been with people who were in trouble; a kind -of professional habit, so to speak, delivered her from shyness even when -her own feelings were concerned. She went up quickly to the poor lady -who was weeping, without restraint, and took her hand in those soft -little firm hands which had held up so many. Not so much a shy girl full -of great tenderness as a little celestial curate, devoted everywhere to -the service of the sorrowful, she did not blush or hesitate, but with -two big tears in her eyes spoke her consolation.</p> - -<p>“Oh dear Lady Markham,” Dolly said, “are you not proud, are you not -happy to know that it is only what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> he thinks right that he will do? -What could any one say more? Papa does not know him as—as <i>you</i> do. He -thinks he might be persuaded, though his heart would not be in it; but -you—you would not have him do that? I—” said Dolly all unawares, -betraying herself with a little sob in her throat and her voice sinking -so low as almost to be inaudible—“I” (as if she had anything to do with -it! strong emotion gave her such importance) “would rather he should -go—than stay like that!”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham clasped her fingers about those two little firm yet -tremulous hands. It was the kind of consolation she wanted. She put up -her face to kiss Dolly, who straightway broke down and cried, and was an -angel-curate no longer. By this time herself had come in, and her own -deep-seated, childish preference, which she had not known to be love. -“Tch—tch—tch,” said the Rector under his breath, thinking within -himself some common thought about the ridiculousness of women, even the -best. But already there were other spectators who had seen and heard -some portion of what was going on. It was the worst of Lady Markham’s -pretty room that it was liable to be approached without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span> warning. Alice -suddenly sprang up with a cry of astonishment, dismay, and delight. -“Paul!” she cried, startling the whole party as if a shell had fallen -among them. The young man stood within the half-drawn curtains with a -pale and serious face, looking at the group. His mother thought of but -one thing as she looked up and saw him before her. He had come to tell -her that now all was over, and nothing remaining but the last farewell -to say.</p> - -<p>The rest of the party did not see, however, what Alice, who was detached -from them saw, that there was some one beyond the curtains, hanging -outside as one who had no right to enter—a little downcast, but yet, as -always, faintly amused by the situation. The sight of him gave her a -shock as of a dream come true. “If you should think better of it,” he -seemed to be saying. The sudden apparition, with the smile about the -corners of his lips which seemed so familiar, startled her as much as -the appearance which her imagination had called forth a few hours -before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> presence of Mr. Stainforth and his daughter added another -embarrassment to the sudden arrival of Paul. His mother did not know -what to say to him, how to restrain her questions,—how to talk of his -health and his occupations, if the journey had been pleasant, how he had -come from the station, and all the other trivialities which are said to -a visitor suddenly arriving. She had to treat Paul like a visitor while -the others were there. Paul for his part answered these matter-of-course -questions very briefly. He had an air of suffering both mentally and -bodily, and he was very pale. He looked at Dolly Stainforth, and said -nothing, sitting in the shade as far from the great window as possible. -And the Rector would not go away. He sat and put innumerable questions -to the new-comer. What he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> going to do? What he thought of this -thing and the other? Of course he was going back to Oxford to take his -degree? that was the one thing that was indispensable. Paul gave the -shortest possible answers to every question, and they were not of a -satisfactory description. His mother, anxiously watching and fretting -beyond measure to be thus kept in suspense about his purposes, could get -no information from what he said to Mr. Stainforth, nor did the earnest -gaze she had fixed upon him bring her any more enlightenment. Alice had -gone out beyond the shade of the curtains to speak to Fairfax, and the -embarrassment of the four thus left together was extreme. Dolly had not -spoken a word since Paul entered. She had given him her hand, no more, -when he came in, but she did not speak to him or even raise her head, -except to listen with something of the same breathless anxiety as was -apparent in Lady Markham’s face, while the old Rector went on with his -questions and advices. The two women trembled in concert with a mutual -sense of intolerable suspense, scarcely able to bear it. Dolly knew, -however, that she would have to bear it, that she had nothing to do with -the matter, that the only service she could do them was to relieve the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> -mother and son of her presence and that of her father, who, however, -after she had at length got him to his feet, still stood for ten minutes -at least holding Paul’s hand and impressing a great many platitudes upon -his attention—with “Depend upon it, my dear boy,” and “You may take my -word for it.” Paul had no mind to depend upon anything he said or to -take his word for it in any way. He stood saying “Yes” and “No,” or -replying only with a nod of his head to his mentor. But Mr. Stainforth -was not at all aware that he had stayed a second too long. He blamed -Dolly for the haste with which she had hurried him away. “But I am glad -I had the opportunity of seeing Paul,” the old man said complacently, as -his daughter drove him down the avenue. “You must have seen how pleased -he was to talk his circumstances over with such an old friend as myself. -Poor fellow, that is just what he must most want now. The ladies are -very much attached to him, of course, but with the best intentions in -the world, how can they know? He wants a man to talk to,” said Mr. -Stainforth; and “I suppose so, papa,” Dolly said.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham turned to her son as soon as the Rector’s back was turned, -her face quivering with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> anxiety. “Paul? Paul?” she said with the -intensest question in her tone, though she asked nothing, seizing him by -both hands.</p> - -<p>“Well, mother?” He met her eye with something of the old impatience in -his voice.</p> - -<p>“You have come to tell me——?” she said breathless.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what I have come to tell you. I have come to collect some -of my things. You speak as if I had some important decision to make. You -forget that there is nothing important about me, mother, one way or -another,” Paul said with a smile. It was an angry smile, and it did not -reassure his anxious hearer. He gave a little wave with his hand towards -the larger room. “Fairfax is with me,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fairfax! I thought we might have had you to ourselves for this time -at least.” There was a querulous tone in her voice. He did not know that -she was thinking of what he considered an old affair, of a separation -which might be for ever. All that had been swept away completely out of -Paul’s mind as if it had never been, and he could not comprehend her -anxiety. “But,” she added, recollecting herself, “I might have known -that could not be. Paul, I don’t know what you will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span> say to me. I was in -a great difficulty. I did not know what to do. I have let <i>him</i> come to -the house. He is here, actually staying here now.”</p> - -<p>“<i>He!</i> What do you mean by <i>he</i>?” Then while she looked at him with the -keenest anxiety, a gleam of understanding and contemptuous anger came -over his face. “Well!” he said, “I suppose you could not shut him out of -what is his own house.”</p> - -<p>“I might have left it, my dear. I intend to leave it——”</p> - -<p>“Why?” he said; “if you can live under the same roof with him, why not? -Do you think I will have any objection? It cannot matter much to me.”</p> - -<p>It was all settled then! She looked at him wistfully with a smile of -pain, clasping her hands together. “He is very friendly, Paul. He wants -to be very kind. And it is better there should be no scandal. I have -your—poor father’s memory to think of—”</p> - -<p>Paul’s face again took its sternest look. “It is a pity he himself had -not thought a little of what was to come after. I am going to put my -things together, mother.”</p> - -<p>“But you will stay, you are not going away to-night—not directly, -Paul!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Shall I have to ask Sir Gus’s leave to stay?” he said with a harsh -laugh.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Paul, you are very unkind, more unkind than he is,” said Lady -Markham, with tears in her eyes. “He has never taken anything upon him. -Up to this moment it has never been suggested to me that I was not in my -own house.”</p> - -<p>“Nevertheless, it is his,” said her son. He made a step or two towards -the opening, then turned back with some embarrassment. “Mother, it is -possible—I do not say likely—but still it is possible: that—Spears -may come here to make some final arrangements to-morrow, before he -goes.”</p> - -<p>“Oh Paul!” she said, with a low cry of pain: but there was nothing in -this exclamation to which he could make any reply. He hesitated for a -moment, then turned again and went away. Lady Markham stood where he had -left her, clasping her hands together against her bosom as if to staunch -the wounds she had received and hide them, feeling the throb and ache of -suffering go over her from head to foot. She felt that he was merciless, -not only abandoning her without a word of regret, but parading before -her his preparations<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> for this mad journey, and the new companions who -were to replace his family in his life. But Paul only thought she was -displeased by the name of Spears. He went his way heavily enough, going -through the familiar place which was no longer home, to the room which -had been his from his childhood, but was his no longer. As if this was -not pain enough, there was looming before him, threatening him, this -shadow of a last explanation with Spears. What was there to explain to -Spears? He could not tell. Others had deserted the undertaking as well -as he. And Paul would not say to himself that there was another -question, though he was aware of it to the depths of his being. Not a -word had been said about Janet; yet it was not possible but that -something must be said on that subject. His whole life was still made -uncertain, doubtful, suspended in a horrible uncertainty because of -this. What honour demanded of him, Paul knew that he must do; but what -was it that honour demanded? It was the last question of his old life -that remained to be settled, but it was a bitter question. And just when -it had to be decided, just when it was necessary that he should brave -himself to do what might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> turn out to be his duty, why, why was he made -the hearer unawares of Dolly’s little address in his defence? She had -always stood up for him; he remembered many a boyish offence in which -Dolly, a mere baby, uncertain in speech, had stood up for him. If he had -to do <i>this</i>—which he did not describe to himself in other words—Dolly -would still stand up for him. With all these thoughts in his mind as he -went upstairs, Paul was far too deeply occupied to think much of the -personage whom he contemptuously called Sir Gus—Sir Gus was only an -accident, though a painful and almost fatal one, in the young man’s -path.</p> - -<p>When Lady Markham had sufficiently overcome the sharp keenness of this -latest wound, her ear was caught by a murmur of voices in the other -room. This had been going on, she was vaguely sensible, for some time -through all Mr. Stainforth’s lingering and leavetaking, and through her -own conversation with Paul; voices that were low and soft—not -obtrusive; as if the speakers had no wish to attract attention, or to -have their talk interfered with. Perhaps this tone is of all others the -most likely to provoke any listener into interruption. A vague -uneasiness awoke in Lady Markham’s mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> She put back the curtains -which had partially veiled the entrance to her own room with a slightly -impatient hand. When one is wounded and aching in heart and mind, it is -so hard not to be impatient. Alice had seated herself in a low chair, -half hidden in one of the lace curtains that veiled a window, and -Fairfax was leaning against the window talking to her. There was -something tender and confidential in the sound of his voice. It was he -who spoke most, but her replies were in the same tone, a tone of which -both were entirely unconscious, but which struck Lady Markham with -mingled suspicion and alarm. How had these two got to know each other -well enough to speak in such subdued voices? She had never known or -realised how much they had been thrown together during her absence in -the sick room. When she drew back the curtain, Alice instinctively -withdrew her chair a hair’s breadth, and Fairfax stood quite upright, -leaning upon the window no longer. This alteration of their attitudes at -the sight of her startled Lady Markham still more. Fairfax came forward -hurriedly as she came into the drawing-room, a little flushed and -nervous.</p> - -<p>“I hope you will not consider this visit an imper<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span>tinence,” he said. “I -thought I must come with Markham to take care of him. He—twisted his -foot—did he tell you? It is all right now, but I thought it would be -well to come and take care of him,” Fairfax said, with that conciliatory -smile and unnecessary repetition which marked his own consciousness of a -feeble cause.</p> - -<p>“I did not hear anything about it,” Lady Markham said. “He has been -writing me very short letters. You are very kind, Mr. Fairfax—very -kind; we know that of old.”</p> - -<p>“That is the last name to give my selfish intrusion,” he said; then -added, after a pause, “And I had something I wanted to speak to you -about. Did Miss Markham,” he said, hesitating, shifting from one foot to -the other, and showing every symptom of extreme embarrassment—“Did Miss -Markham tell you—what I had been saying to her?”</p> - -<p>Alice had taken occasion of her mother’s entry upon the scene to rise -from her chair and come quite out of the shelter of the curtain. She was -standing (as indeed they all were) immediately in front of the window, -with the light full upon her, when he put this question. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> looked from -Lady Markham to her as he spoke, and by bad luck caught Alice’s eye. -Then—why or wherefore, who could say?—the countenances of these two -foolish young people suddenly flamed, the one taking light from the -other, with the most hot and overwhelming blush. Alice seemed to be -enveloped in it; she felt it passing over her like the sudden reflection -of some instantaneous flame. She shrank back a step, her eyes fell with -an embarrassment beyond all power of explanation. As for Fairfax, he -stole a second guilty look at her, and stopped short—his voice suddenly -breaking off with a thrill in it, like that of a cord that has snapped. -Lady Markham looked on at this extraordinary pantomime with -consternation. What could she think, or any mother? She felt herself -grow crimson, too, with alarm and distress.</p> - -<p>“What was it you were saying, Mr. Fairfax? Alice has not said anything -to me.”</p> - -<p>“O—oh!” he said; then gave a faint little laugh of agitation and -confusion, and something that sounded strangely like happiness. “It -was—nothing—not much—something of very little importance—only about -myself. Perhaps you would let me have a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> little conversation, when it is -quite convenient, Lady Markham, with you?”</p> - -<p>“Surely,” she said, but with a coldness she could not restrain. What a -thing it is to be a mother! The sentiment has found utterance in Greek, -so it does not profess to be novel. If not one thing, then another; -sometimes two troubles together, or six, as many as she has -children—except that, in the merciful dispensation of Providence, the -woman who has many children cannot make herself so wretched about every -individual as she who has few contrives to do. Only Paul and Alice -however were old enough to give their mother this kind of discipline, -and in a moment she felt herself plunged into the depths of a second -anxiety. There was a very uncomfortable pause. Alice would have liked to -run away to her room, to hide herself in utter shame of her own -weakness, but dared not, fearing that this would only call the attention -of the others more forcibly to it—as if anything was wanted to confirm -that impression! She stood still, therefore, for a few minutes, and made -one or two extremely formal remarks, pointing out that the days were -already much shorter and the afternoon beginning to close in. Both<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span> her -companions assented, the one with tender, the other with suspicious and -alarmed glances. Then it occurred to Alice to say that she would go and -see if Paul wanted anything. The others watched her breathless as she -went away.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fairfax, what does this mean?” said Lady Markham, almost haughtily.</p> - -<p>Was it not enough to make the politest of women forget her manners? -Fairfax did not know, any more than she did, what it meant. He hoped -that it meant a great deal more than he had ever hoped, and his heart -was dancing with sudden pride and happiness.</p> - -<p>“It means,” he said, “dear Lady Markham, what you see: that I have -forgotten myself, and that being nobody, I have ventured to lift my -eyes—oh, don’t imagine I don’t know it!—to one who is immeasurably -above me—to one who—I won’t trust myself to say anything about -her—<i>you</i> know,” said the young man. “How could I help it? I saw -her—though it was but for a little while—every day.”</p> - -<p>“When her father was dying!” cried Lady Markham, with a sob. This was -what went to her heart. Her Alice, her spotless child—to let this -stranger woo her in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> the very shadow of her father’s death-bed. She -covered her face with her hands. Paul had not wrung her heart enough; -there was one more drop of pain to be crushed out.</p> - -<p>“I did not think of that. I did not think of anything, except that I was -there—in a paradise I had no right to be in—by her side: heaven knows -how. I had so little right to it that it looked like heaven’s own doing, -Lady Markham. I did not know there was any such garden of Eden in the -world,” he said. “I never knew there was such a woman as you; and then -she—that was the crown of all. Do you think I intended it? I was -surprised out of my senses altogether. I should have liked to stretch -myself out like a bit of carpet for you to walk on: and she——”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fairfax, this is nonsense,” said Lady Markham, but in a softened -tone. “My daughter is just like other girls; but when I was compelled to -leave her, when my other duties called me, could I have supposed that a -gentleman would have taken advantage——”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” he said, with a tone of profound discouragement, “perhaps that is -what it is—perhaps it may be because I am not what people call a -gentleman.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fairfax!” cried Lady Markham, with horror in her voice.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, with a sigh, “it is out now; that is what I wanted to -ask if Miss Markham had told you. I am nobody, Lady Markham. I don’t -belong to the Wiltshire Fairfaxes, or to the Fairfaxes of the north, or -to any Fairfaxes that ever were heard of: I told her so. I did not want -to come into your house under false pretences; and it was <i>that</i> that I -meant to ask Miss Markham when—I betrayed myself.”</p> - -<p>“<i>You</i> betrayed yourself?” Lady Markham was entirely bewildered; for to -her it appeared that it was Alice who had betrayed herself. But this new -statement calmed and restrained her. If he had not remarked, perhaps, -the agitation of Alice, it was not for her mother to point it out. “Am I -to understand, Mr. Fairfax, that you said anything to Alice, when you -were here in the midst of our trouble——?”</p> - -<p>“No,” he cried out; “surely no. What do you take me for?”</p> - -<p>She put out her hand to him with her usual gracious kindness: “For a -gentleman, Mr. Fairfax; and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> kindest heart in the world. Of course I -knew there must be some mistake.”</p> - -<p>But when they had gone through this explanation and reconciliation, they -came back simultaneously to a recollection of that blaze of sudden -colour on Alice’s face, and felt the one with rapture, the other with -great alarm and tribulation, that in respect to this there could not be -any mistake.</p> - -<p>“But, Lady Markham,” said the young man, “all this does not alter my -circumstances. You are very kind and good to me; but here are the facts -of the case. I have seen her now; none of us can alter that. It was not, -so to speak, my doing. It was—accident, as people say. When a man has -had a revelation like this, he does not believe it is an accident; he -knows,” said Fairfax, with a slight quiver of his lip, “that something -higher than accident has had to do with it. And it can’t be altered now. -When that comes into a man’s heart, it is for his life. And, at the same -time, I confess to you that I am nobody, Lady Markham—not fit to tie -her shoe; but I might be a prince, and not good enough for that. What is -to be done with me? Am I to be put to the door once for all, and never -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> come near her again? Whatever you say I am to do, I will do it. I -believe in you as I do in heaven. What you tell me, I will do it; though -it may make an end of me, it shall be done all the same.”</p> - -<p>“Did you come to Markham all the way to say this to me, Mr. Fairfax?” -Lady Markham put the question only to gain a little time.</p> - -<p>“No; I came pretending it was to take care of Paul, who <i>did</i> twist his -foot—that is true; and pretending that it was to ask you to persuade -him to let me help him (I know a few people and that sort of thing,” -said Fairfax hurriedly); “but I believe, if I must tell the truth, it -was only just to have the chance of getting one look at her again. That -was all. I did not mean to be so bold as to say a word—only to see her -again.”</p> - -<p>“You wanted to help Paul!” Lady Markham felt her head going round. If he -was nobody, how could he help Paul? The whole imbroglio seemed more than -she could fathom. And Fairfax was confused too.</p> - -<p>“There are some little things—that I have in my power: I thought, if he -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span>would let me, I might set him in the way——: I’ll speak of all that -another time, Lady Markham. When a thing like this gets the upper hand, -one can’t get one’s head clear for anything else. Now that I have -betrayed myself, which I did not mean to, tell me—tell me what is to be -done with me. I cannot think of anything else.”</p> - -<p>What was to be done with him? It is to be feared that, kind as Lady -Markham was, she would have made but short work with Fairfax, had it -been he only who had betrayed himself. But the light that had blazed on -the face of Alice was another kind of illumination altogether. A hasty -sentence would not answer here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> would have been difficult to imagine a more embarrassed and -embarrassing party than were the Markham family, when they assembled to -dinner that evening. Sir Gus and the little girls had met Fairfax going -down the avenue, and had tried every persuasion in their power to induce -him to return with them; but he would not do so. “I am coming back -to-morrow,” he said; but for this evening he was bound for the Markham -Arms, where he had been before, and nothing would move him from his -determination.</p> - -<p>When Gus went into the drawing-room with his little companions, the tea -was found there, all alone in solitary dignity; the table set out, the -china and silver shining, the little kettle emitting cheerful puffs of -steam, but no one visible. What can be more dismal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> than this ghost of -the cheerfullest of refreshments—the tea made and waiting, but not a -woman to be seen? It impressed this innocent group with a sense of -misfortune.</p> - -<p>“Where can they be?” Bell cried; and she ran upstairs, sending her -summons before her: “Mamma—mamma—please come to tea.”</p> - -<p>By and by, however, Bell came down looking extremely grave.</p> - -<p>“Mamma has a headache,” she said. This was a calamity almost unknown at -Markham. “And Alice has a headache too,” she added, after a moment’s -pause.</p> - -<p>Bell’s looks were very serious, and the occasion could scarcely be -called less than tragical. The little girls themselves had to make Gus’s -tea—they did it, as it were, in a whisper—one putting in the sugar, -the other burning her fingers with the tea-pot. It was not like -afternoon tea at all, but like some late meal in the schoolroom when -Mademoiselle had a headache. It was only Mademoiselle who was given to -headache at Markham. It was Brown who told Sir Augustus of Paul’s -arrival. Lady Markham had been wounded by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span> Brown’s behaviour from the -first. He had not clung to the “family” to which he had expressed so -much devotion. He had gone over at once to the side of the new master of -the house. He had felt no indignation towards the interloper, nor any -partisanship on behalf of Paul. He came up now with his most obsequious -air, as Gus came out of the drawing-room.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, Sir Augustus, but Mr. Paul has come.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he has come, has he?” Gus said.</p> - -<p>Brown stood respectfully ready, as if he would undertake at the next -word to turn Mr. Paul out of the house; no wonder Lady Markham was -indignant. Gus understood it all now—the headaches and the deserted -tea-table. No doubt the mother and sister were with Paul, comforting and -consoling him. He gave forth a little sigh when he thought of it. -Whatever might happen, no one would ever console him in that way. Paul -had always the better of him, even when disinherited. But when they went -into the drawing-room before dinner, he was very anxious to be friendly -to Paul. He went up to him holding out his hand.</p> - -<p>“I am very glad that we meet like this,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> “Your mother has -taken me in, for which I am grateful to her; and I am very glad that we -have met. I hope you will not think any worse of me than you can help.”</p> - -<p>“I do not think worse of you at all,” Paul said, briefly; but he would -not enter into conversation. And the whole party were silent. Whether it -was the influence of the son’s return, who was nothing now but a -secondary person in the house where he had been the chief, or whether -there was any other cause beside, Gus could not tell. Even the mother -and daughter did not talk to each other. When dinner was over, and Mr. -Brown, with his too observant eyes, was got rid of, the forlorn little -stranger, who was the new baronet, the conqueror, the master of the -situation, could almost have wept, so lonely and left out did he feel.</p> - -<p>“Is anything going to happen?” he said. “I know I am no better than an -outsider among you, but I would like to enter into everything that -concerns you, if you would let me. Is anything going to happen?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know of anything that is going to happen,” said Paul; and the -ladies said nothing. There was no longer that intercourse of looks -between them, of half-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span>words and rapid allusions, which Gus admired. -They sat, each wrapped as in a cloud of her own. And rarely had a night -of such confused melancholy and depression been spent at Markham. Alice, -who feared to encounter any examination by her mother, went upstairs -again, scarcely entering the drawing-room at all. And Lady Markham sat -alone amid all the soft, yet dazzling, lights, which again seemed to -blaze as they had blazed when Sir William was dying, suggesting the -tranquil household peace which seemed now over for ever. Was it over for -ever? The very room in which she was seated was hers no longer. Her son -was hers no longer, but about to be lost to her—separated by wide seas, -and still more surely by other associations, and the severance of the -heart. And even Alice—Lady Markham could not reconcile herself to the -thought that while her husband was dying, and she watching by his side, -Alice had allowed herself to be drawn into a new life and new thoughts. -It seemed an impiety to him who was gone. Everything was impiety to him: -the stranger in his place, though that stranger was his son; the -shattering of his image, though it was his own hand that had done it; -the dispersion of his children. Thank God! three<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> were still the little -ones. She thought, with a forlorn pang in her heart, that she would -withdraw herself with them to the contracted life of the Dower-house, -and there reconstruct her domestic temple. Bell and Marie, Harry and -Roland, would retain the idea of their father unimpaired, as Paul and -Alice could not do. But what does it matter that all is well with the -others when one of your children is in trouble? it is always the lean -kine that swallow up those that are fat and flourishing. Her heart was -so sore with the present that she could not console herself with the -future. How could it be that Job was comforted with other sons and -daughters, instead of those he had lost? How many a poor creature has -wondered over this! Can one make up for another? Lady Markham sat all -alone, half suffocated with unshed tears. Paul was going away, and she -had not the courage to go to Alice, to question her, to hear that in -heart she also had gone away. Thus she sat disconsolate in the -drawing-room, while Gus took possession of the library. The poor little -gentleman was still sadder than Lady Markham; not so unhappy, but -sadder, not knowing what to do with himself. The long evening alone -appalled him. He took a book, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> he was not very fond of reading. The -children had gone to bed. He went to the window once, and, looking out, -saw a red spark, moving about among the trees, of Paul’s cigar. -Probably, if he joined him, it would only be to feel more the enormity -of his own existence. Gus went back to his chair, and drawing himself -close to the fire (which Mr. Brown had caused to be lighted, reflecting -that Sir Augustus was a foreigner, and might feel chilly), fell asleep -there, and so spent a forlorn evening all by himself. Was this what he -had come to England for, to struggle for his rights, and make everybody -unhappy? It was not a very lofty end after all.</p> - -<p>And next day there was so much to be settled. Paul was astir early, -excited and restless, he could not tell why. It seemed to him that one -way or other his fate was to be settled that day. If Janet Spears clung -to him, if she insisted on keeping her hold upon him, what was he to do? -He went down very early to the village, wandering about all the places -he had known. He had never been very genial in his manners with the poor -people, but yet he had been known to them all his life, and received -salutations on all sides. Some of them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span> still called him Sir Paul. They -knew he was not his father’s successor—that there was another and -altogether new name in the Markham family—but the good rustics, many of -them, could not make out how, once having been Sir Paul to their certain -consciousness, he could ever cease to bear that title. The name brought -back to the young man’s mind the flash of finer feeling, the subdued and -sorrowful elation with which he had walked about these quiet roads on -the morning of his father’s funeral. He had meant to lead a noble life -among these ancestral woods. All that his father was and more, he had -intended to be. He had meant to show his gratitude for having escaped -from the snare of those follies of his youth which had nearly cast him -away, by tolerance and help to those who were like himself. In politics, -in the management of the people immediately within his influence, he had -meant to give the world assurance of a man. But now that was all over. -In his place was poor little Gus: and he himself had neither influence -nor power. What a change it was! He strayed into the churchyard to his -father’s grave, still covered with flowers, and then—why not?—he -thought he would go up to the rectory and ask them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> to give him some -breakfast. Though he did not care enough for Gus to avoid his presence, -yet it was a restraint; there never, he thought, could be any true -fellowship between them. He went and tapped at the window of the -breakfast-room which he knew so well, and where Dolly was making the -tea. She opened it to him with a little cry of pleasure. Dolly had not -made any pretence of putting on mourning when Sir William died, but ever -since she had worn her black frock; nobody could reproach her with -encroaching upon the privileges of the family by this, for a black frock -was what any one might wear; but Paul, who was ignorant, was touched by -her dress. She had been looking pale when she stood over the table with -the tea-caddy, but when she saw who it was Dolly bloomed like a -winter-rose. It was October now, the leaves beginning to fall, and a -little fire made the room bright, though the weather was not yet cold -enough for fires. Paul had never once considered himself in love with -Dolly in the old days. Perhaps it was only the contrast between her and -Janet Spears that moved him now. He knew that one way or other the -question about Janet Spears would have to be concluded before the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> day -was done; and this consciousness made Dolly fairer and sweeter to him -than ever she had been before.</p> - -<p>And the rector was very glad to see Paul. He understood the young man’s -early visit at once. Mr. Stainforth had never entertained any doubt on -the subject. To talk over his affairs with a man of experience and good -sense must be a very different thing from discussing them with ladies, -however sensible; and he plunged into good advice to the young man -almost before he began his tea.</p> - -<p>“There is one thing I am certain you ought to do,” Mr. Stainforth said, -“I told your mother so yesterday. I am an old man and I cannot stand -long in any one’s way. Paul, you must take orders; that is what you must -do: and succeed me in the living. It is a thing which has always been -considered an excellent provision for a second son; among your own -people—and you know that this is an excellent house. Dolly will show -you all over it. For a man of moderate tastes it is as good as Markham, -and not expensive to keep up. And as for the duty, depend upon it, my -dear boy, you would find no difficulty about that. Why, Dolly does the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> -most part of the parish work. Of course you could not have Dolly,” said -the old man, at his ease, not thinking of how the young ones felt, “but -somebody would turn up. It is a good position and it is not a hard life. -As soon as I heard what had happened I said to myself at once, the -living is the very thing for Paul.”</p> - -<p>Paul could not help a furtive glance round him, a momentary review of -the position, a rapid imperceptible flash of his eyes towards Dolly, who -sat very demurely in front of the tea-urn. How glad she was of that -tea-urn! But he shook his head.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid I shall not be able to settle myself so easily as that,” he -said.</p> - -<p>“But why not, why not?” asked the old man; and he went on expatiating -upon the advantages of this step, “I would retire as soon as you were -ready. I have often thought of retiring. It is Dolly rather than I that -has wanted to remain. Dolly seems to think that she cannot live away -from Markham Royal.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, papa,” Dolly cried, “it was only because there was no reason. I -could live—anywhere.”</p> - -<p>“I know what you will do,” said the old man, “when I am gone, you will -come back and flutter like a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span> ghost about your schools and your -poor people: you will think nobody can manage them but yourself; unless -you marry, you know—unless you marry. That would make a difference. For -the peace of the new rector I must get you married, Dolly, before I -receive notice to quit, my dear.”</p> - -<p>And he laughed with his old shrill laugh, not thinking what might be -going on in those young bosoms. That Dolly should marry anybody was a -joke to her father, and that Paul should have any feeling on the subject -never occurred to him. He cackled and laughed at his own joke, and then -he became serious, and once more impressed all the advantages of the -living upon his visitor. The curious mingling of confusion, -embarrassment, distress, and pleasure with which the two listened it -would be difficult to describe. Even Dolly, though she was abashed and -horrified by the two simple suggestions which the old man neither -intended nor dreamt of, felt a certain vague shadowy pleasure in it, as -of a thing that never could come true but yet was sweet enough as a -dream; and because of the tea-urn which hid her from Paul, felt safe, -and was almost happy in the thrill of consciousness which ran to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span> -finger tips. They did not see each other, either of them: and this was a -thing which was impossible, never to be. But yet it put them by each -other’s side as if they were going to set out upon life together, and -the sensation was sweet.</p> - -<p>Paul turned it over and over in his head as he went home. It was not the -life he would have chosen, but the old man’s materialistic view of it -had for the moment a charm. The sheltered quiet life, the mild duty, the -ease and leisure, with no struggle or trouble to attain to them—was it -a temptation? He laughed out as he asked himself the question. No! Paul -might perhaps have been a missionary after the apostolic model; but a -clergyman with very little to do and a wife to do the great part of that -little for him—no, he said to himself, no! And then he sighed—for the -rectory, under those familiar skies, and little Dolly, whom he had known -since she was a baby, were very sweet.</p> - -<p>It was something very different for which he had to prepare himself now. -As he walked towards home he suddenly came in sight, as he turned the -village corner into the high road, of a pair who were walking on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> before -him from the station. Paul’s heart gave a sudden leap in his breast, but -not with joy. He stood still for a moment, then went on, making no -effort to overtake them. A man and a woman plodding along the dusty -road: he with the long strides and clumsy gait of one who was quite -destitute of that physical training which gives to the upper classes so -much of their superiority, his arms swinging loosely from his shoulders; -she encumbered with the skirt of her dress, which trailed along the -dusty road. The sun was high by this time, and very warm, and they felt -it. Paul did not take his eyes from them as they went along, but he made -no effort to make up to them. This was what he had played with in the -time of his folly—what he thought he had chosen, without ever choosing -it. What could he do, what could he do, he cried out in his heart with -the vehemence of despair, to be clear of it now?</p> - -<p>Spears had come to settle his accounts with Paul. In the course of the -negotiation which had gone so far, which had gone indeed as far as -anything could go not to be settled and concluded, he had received money -from the young man for his share of the emigration capital. That Paul, -when he separated himself from the party meant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> to leave this with them -as a help to them, there was no doubt; and this was one reason why he -had avoided meeting with his old associates, or ending formally the -connection between them. And when Spears demanded that a place of -meeting should be appointed, Paul had with reluctance decided upon -Markham as a half-way house, where he would have the help of his mother -to smooth down and mollify the demagogue. Spears had been deeply -compunctious for the part he had taken against Paul in London, but was -also deeply wounded by Paul’s refusal to accept his self-humiliation; -and his object in seeking him now was not, as Paul thought, to reproach -him for his desertion, nor was it to call him to account on the subject -of Janet. Paul himself was not sufficiently generous, not noble enough -to understand the proud and upright character of the humble agitator, -who carried the heart of a prince under his working man’s clothes, and -to whom it was always more easy to give than to take. Spears was coming -with a very different purpose. With the greatest trouble and struggle he -had managed to reclaim, and separate from the other money collected, the -sum paid by Paul. It had been not only a wonderful blow to his personal -pride and his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> affections, but it diminished greatly his importance -among his fellows when it was discovered that the young aristocrat, of -whose adhesion they were inconsistently proud, was no longer under the -influence or at the command of Spears; and it had cost him not only a -great deal of trouble to collect Paul’s money, but a sacrifice of -something of his own; and he had so little! Nevertheless, he had it all -in his pocket-book when he prepared that morning to keep the rendezvous -which Paul had unwillingly given him.</p> - -<p>Spears did not know till the last moment that his daughter meant to -accompany him. She walked to the station with him, and took his ticket -for him, and he suspected nothing. It was not until she joined him in -the railway carriage that he understood what she meant, and then it was -too late to remonstrate. Besides, his daughter told him it was Lady -Markham she was going to see. Lady Markham had been very kind to her. It -was right that she should go to say good-bye; “and besides, you know, -father—” Janet said. Yes, he knew, but he did not know much; and Janet -was aware, as Paul was not, that her father was far too delicate, far -too proud, to speak on her behalf. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> would scorn to recall his -daughter to any one who had forgotten her; if there was anything to be -done for Janet; it was herself who must do it. And Spears was so -uncertain about the whole business, so unaware of what she was going to -do, that he did not even try to prevent her. He accepted her society -accordingly, and did not attempt to resist her will. She had a right, no -doubt, to look after her own affairs; and he who did not even know what -these affairs were, what could he say? They had a very silent journey, -finding little to say to each other. His mind was full of saddened and -embittered affection, and of a proud determination not to be indebted to -a friend who had deserted him. “Rich gifts grow poor when givers prove -unkind,” he was saying to himself. Undoubtedly it had given him -importance, the fact that the richest of all the colonists was under his -influence, and ready to do whatever he might suggest. Not for a moment, -however, would Spears let this weigh with him. Yet it made his heart all -the sorer in spite of himself. As for Janet, she had a still more -distinct personal arrangement on her hands. They scarcely exchanged a -word as they walked all that way along the high road, and up the avenue, -Paul<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> following, though they did not see him. In the hall, Janet -separated herself from her father.</p> - -<p>“It is Lady Markham <i>I</i> want to see,” she said, with a familiarity and -decision which amazed her father, who knew nothing about her previous -visit. Janet recognised the footman Charles who had admitted her before. -“You know that Lady Markham will see me,” she said; “show me to Lady -Markham’s room, please.”</p> - -<p>Spears did not understand it, but he looked on with a vague smile. He -himself was quite content to wait in the hall until Paul should appear. -He was standing there vaguely remarking the things about him when Paul -made his appearance. He gave his former friend his hand, but there was -little said between them. Paul took him into the library which for the -moment was vacant. It seemed to him that it would be easier to answer -questions there where already he had often suffered interrogation and -censure. And he did not know—he could not divine what Spears was about -to say.</p> - -<p>“When do you go?” the young man said.</p> - -<p>“We have everything settled to sail on the 21st. That is five days from -now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I fear,” said Paul, “it must have been very inconvenient for you coming -here. I am sorry, very sorry, you have taken so much trouble. I should -have gone to you, but my mind has been in a whirl; the whole thing looks -to me like a dream.”</p> - -<p>“It is a dream that has given some of your friends a great deal of -trouble. Take care, my good fellow, another time how you fall into -dreams like this. It is best to take a little more trouble at the -beginning to know your own mind,” he said slowly, tugging at his pocket. -“But after all you came to yourself before there was any harm done, -Markham. If it had happened in the middle of the ocean, or when we had -got to our destination, it would have been still more awkward. As it -was, it has been possible to recover your property,” said Spears, at -last producing a packet out of its receptacle with a certain glow of -suppressed disdain in his countenance. He got out a little bag of money -as he spoke, and laid it on the table, then produced his pocket-book, -which he opened, and took something out.</p> - -<p>“What does this mean, Spears?”</p> - -<p>“It means what is very simple, Paul—mere A B C<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> work, as you should -know. It is the amount of your subscriptions—what you have contributed -in one way or another. I won’t trouble you with the items,” he said; -“they are all on a piece of paper with the bank notes. And now here is -the whole affair over,” said Spears with the motion of snapping his -fingers, “and no harm done. Few young men are able to say as much of -their vagaries. Perhaps if you had involved yourself with a higher -class, with people more like yourself, it might not have been equally -easy to get away.”</p> - -<p>“But this is impossible! this cannot be!” cried Paul. “I intended -nothing of the kind. Spears, you humble me to the dust. You must not—it -is not possible that I can accept this. I intended—I made sure——”</p> - -<p>“You meant to leave us yourself, but to let your money go as alms to the -revolutionaries?” cried Spears, with a thrill of agitation in his voice -which seemed to make the room ring. “Yes, I suppose you might have -fallen among people who would have permitted it. (The strange thing was -that most of the members of the society had been of this opinion, and -that it was all that Spears could do to rescue the money which the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span> -others thought lawfully forfeited.) But we are not of that kind. We -don’t want filthy money with the man away, or even with his heart away.”</p> - -<p>The orator held his head high; there was a certain scorn about his -gestures, about his mouth. He tried to show by a careless smile and air -that what he was doing was of no importance, an easy and certain step of -which there could be no doubt; but the thrill of excited feeling in him -could not be got out of his voice. And Paul, perhaps, had even more -excuse for excitement.</p> - -<p>“I will not take a farthing of the money,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Then you will carry it back yourself, my lad. I have washed my hands of -it. If you think I will permit a penny of yours to go into our treasury -apart from yourself and your sympathy and your help! I would have taken -all that and welcome. I have told you already—to little use—what you -were to me, Paul Markham. The Bible is right after all about idols, -though many is the word I’ve spoken against it. I made an idol of you, -and lo! my image is broken into a thousand pieces. It is like giving the -thing a kick the more,” he said, with a sudden burst of harsh laughter, -“to think when it was all over and ended that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> I would take the money! -It shows how much you knew me.”</p> - -<p>“Then it is a mere matter of personal offence and disappointment, -Spears?”</p> - -<p>“Offence!” he cried. “Yes, offence if you like the word—as it is -offence when your friend puts a knife into you. The first thing you feel -is surprise. Who could believe it? He! to stab you, when you were -leaning upon him. It takes all a man’s credulity to believe that. But -when it is done—” he added with one of the sudden smiles which used to -illuminate his rugged countenance, but now lighted it up with a gleam of -angry melancholy, just touched with humour, “you don’t take money from -him, Paul.”</p> - -<p>“Nor does he take it from you,” said Paul, quickly. “Spears, this is all -folly. It is not a matter of passion, as you make it. Say I am as much -in the wrong as you like. I did not know my own mind. I have had enough -to go through in the last six weeks to teach me many things more -important than my own mind. I can’t go with you; I have found out -that—but what then? I don’t lose my interest in you; we don’t cease to -be friends. As for stabbing you, putting a knife<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> into you—that is -ludicrous,” he cried, with an angry laugh. “It is like a couple of -lovers in a French novel; not two Englishmen and friends.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what, Paul,” said the other, taking no notice; “if all -had been going well with you, why I could have put up with it. A place -like this makes a man think. I’ve told you so before. It’s like being a -prince on a small scale. Had I been born a prince I might have been a -tyrant, but I shouldn’t have abandoned my throne; and no more would you, -I always thought, if you once felt the charm of it. But when all that -was over, Paul, when you had lost everything, come down from your high -estate, and felt,” cried Spears, with an outburst of vehement feeling, -“the burning and the bitterness of disappointment, that you should have -abandoned us, and the cause, and me—your friend and father, <i>then</i>!”</p> - -<p>He turned away, and walked from end to end of the long room. As for -Paul, he did not say a word. What could he say? how could he explain -that it was precisely then, when he had lost everything, that those -strange companions had become most intolerable to him. They were -bearable when his choice of them was a folly, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> his own position -utterly different from theirs; but as the distance lessened, the breach -grew more apparent. This however he could not say. Nor had he a word to -answer when Spears called himself his father. What did it mean? and -where was Janet, whom he had seen entering the house, but who had -disappeared? Paul’s thoughts veered away from the chief subject of the -interview, while Spears, walking up and down the room, talked on. The -money lay on the table, neither taking any further notice of it. It was -found there by Gus when he came in an hour after, lying upon the table -in the same spot. Gus thought it a temptation to the servants, and threw -it into a drawer. He was not used to careless dealing with money, and he -looked out very curiously at the strange man who was walking up and down -the avenue with Paul, talking much and gesticulating largely. This was a -kind of man altogether apart from all Sir Gus’s experiences, and his -curiosity was much exercised. Was it perhaps an electioneering agent -come here to talk of the representation of Farborough, and Sir William’s -vacant seat? Gus stood at the window and watched, for he had a great -deal of curiosity, with very keen eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Alice</span> and her mother kept apart for one night. They said good-night to -each other hurriedly, the one too much wounded to ask, the other too -proud to offer, her confidence. But when they had done this they had -reached the length of their respective tethers. Next morning the girl -stole into her mother’s room before any one was awake, and clinging -about her, begged her pardon—for what she did not say. And Lady Markham -kissed her and forgave her, though there was nothing to forgive. Words -after all are the poorest exponents of meaning; they knew a great deal -better what it was than if they had put it into words. And it was not -till long after this reunion that Lady Markham said, quite accidentally, -“Why did you not tell me Mr. Fairfax’s secret, Alice? He seems to be -much in earnest about it, poor boy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Said Alice, very seriously, “How could I speak to you, mamma, about -anything so—about anything that I was not obliged to speak of, at such -a time?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear, that is true, that is most true. But it hurt me a little, -for it made me feel as if—you were keeping something from me.”</p> - -<p>“We all like Mr. Fairfax,” said Alice, courageously, “but it does not -matter, does it, about his family? He was very good, very kind, at a -time when we needed help; but to tell you about his want of a -grandfather——”</p> - -<p>Feeling safe in the smile which such a want would naturally call forth, -Alice (rashly) ventured to meet her mother’s eyes. And then to her -confusion, the former accident repeated itself, notwithstanding every -precaution. It is very difficult indeed to take precautions against such -accidents. Once more an exasperating, but unpreventable blush, of doubly -died crimson, hot, sudden, scorching, flamed over Alice’s face.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham saw it, and felt the shock thrill through her again; but -she was wise and took no notice. She shook her head. “I am not so sure -about that,” she said. “It is always of consequence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> to know to whom -your friends belong. I wish—I wish——</p> - -<p>But what she was going to say—whether to wish for a grandfather to -Fairfax, or to wish that she had not opened her house to him, could -never be known; for just then Mrs. Martin opened the door with a little -impatience and annoyance, and begged to know whether her lady was -expecting again the young person who had been at Markham some time -ago—a young person who insisted that Lady Markham would be sure to see -her, and of whom Mrs. Martin evidently did not at all approve—by name -Spears.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham cast a hurried glance at Alice. It was her turn now to -blush. “You can bring her in,” she said. Then a few words were hastily -exchanged between the mother and daughter. Alice seized upon some -needlework which lay by. Sheltered by that, she drew her seat away -towards the window out of her mother’s immediate neighbourhood. Janet -came in with a free and familiar step. She was elated by the readiness -of her reception, the power of once more crowing over the important and -dignified Mrs. Martin, and with something else which she was aware -enhanced her own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span> position still more. She came quickly in, and, without -any of the timidity and awe of her first appearance, advanced to Lady -Markham with outstretched hand, and a countenance covered with smiles; -but notwithstanding, with instantaneous quickness noticed Alice, and -felt that to be thus made acquainted with Miss Markham added another -glory still. Was it not treating her as one of the family? When Janet -saw this she determined to sell her consent to become one of the family -still more dear.</p> - -<p>“How do you do, my lady?” she said. “I thought as father was coming to -see Mr. Paul I might just as well come too and see your ladyship, and -speak about—the business that is between you and me.”</p> - -<p>Here Janet, delighted to feel herself so entirely at home, took a chair -and drew it close to the table at which Lady Markham had been seated. -She put her umbrella down against the table, and undid the fastening of -her mantle.</p> - -<p>“We have walked all the way from the station,” she said, with engaging -ease, “and it was so hot.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham did not know what to say; the words were taken out of her -mouth. She seated herself also,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span> humbly, and looked at her visitor, who -had made so wonderful an advance in self-confidence since she saw her -first.</p> - -<p>“Your father-has come with you?” she said.</p> - -<p>“He thinks it is me that has come with him, my lady,” said Janet. Then -she looked pointedly at Alice bending over her work against the window. -“I may speak before the young lady? I would not wish what I’ve got to -say to go any further—not out of the family,” she said.</p> - -<p>“It is my daughter,” said Lady Markham. “Alice, this is the daughter of -Mr. Spears.”</p> - -<p>Janet smiled, and bowed her head graciously. She was in a state of great -suppressed elation and excitement.</p> - -<p>“I don’t need to ask,” she said, “my lady, if you followed my advice?”</p> - -<p>“Your advice?”</p> - -<p>“About Sir Paul; it answered very quick, didn’t it? I thought that would -bring him to his senses. Father is as vexed! he thinks it is all my -fault, but I never pretended different. A gentleman that has everything -he can set his face to, and a title, and a beautiful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> property, why -should he emigrate? But now there is something else that I’ve come to -ask you about.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that my son—has given up the idea?” Lady Markham could -scarcely articulate the words.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, bless you, as soon as ever you let him know that it would not -make any difference. I knew very well that was what he meant all along. -What should he go abroad for, a gentleman with his fortune? it was all -nonsense. And Lady Markham,” said Janet, solemnly, “it would be mean to -leave him in the lurch, I know, after all that; but still, I’ve got -myself to look to. I don’t understand what all this story is about a new -gentleman, and him, after all, not having anything. I can’t feel easy in -my mind about it. I like Sir Paul the best, and always will; but I’ve -had another very good offer. It’s too serious to play fast and loose -with,” said Janet, gravely, “it’s something as I must take or leave. Now -there is nobody but you, my lady, that will tell me the truth. He is Sir -Paul, ain’t he? he has got the property? I wouldn’t take it upon me to -ask such questions if it wasn’t that I am, so to speak, one of the -family. And as for father—I can’t put no confidence in what father -says.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Alice got up hurriedly from her chair and threw down her work; it was a -mere movement of impatience, but to Janet every movement meant -something. She kept her eyes upon the young lady who might, for anything -she could tell, be in a conspiracy to keep the truth from her.</p> - -<p>“Father thinks of nothing but love,” she said, following Alice with her -eyes, “but there’s more in marriage than that. I can’t trust in father -to tell me true.”</p> - -<p>“What is it you want me to tell you?” said Lady Markham, trembling with -eagerness.</p> - -<p>She would have told her—almost anything that was not directly false. -She began to frame in her mind a description of Paul’s disinheritance, -but she feared to spoil her case by too great anxiety. As for Alice, she -stood by the window pale, speechless, indignant—too wildly angry on -Paul’s account to perceive what her mother saw so plainly, that here was -a chance of escape for Paul.</p> - -<p>“Well, just the truth, my lady,” said Janet, “if it is true what folks -are saying. I can’t believe it’s true. You are Lady Markham, I never -heard anything against<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> that, and he is your eldest. But they say he is -not Sir Paul and hasn’t the property. I can’t tell how that can be.”</p> - -<p>“It is true, though,” said Lady Markham, speaking low; even when there -was an excellent use for it, it was not easy to repeat all the wrongs -that her son had borne. “My son is not Sir Paul,” she said, “nor has he -the Markham estates. He has an elder brother who has inherited -everything. This has only been quite certain for two or three days. My -boy—who had every prospect of being rich—is now poor. That is very -grievous for him; but to those who love him,” said the indiscreet woman, -her heart triumphing over her reason, “he is not changed; he is all he -ever was, and more.”</p> - -<p>“Neither the property nor the title?” said Janet, with a blank -countenance. “Poor instead of being rich? Oh, it is not a thing to put -up with—it is not to be borne! But I can’t see how it can be,” she -cried; “poor instead of rich! If it wasn’t for one or two things, I -should think it was a plot to disgust me—to separate him and me.”</p> - -<p>“But,” said Lady Markham—she had never perhaps in her life before -spoken with the cold energy of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> taunt, with that desperate calm of -severity, yet trembling of suspense—“that is in your own hands, Miss -Spears. If you love him, no one can separate him from you.”</p> - -<p>It was all she could do to get out the words; her breath went in the -tumult of her heart.</p> - -<p>“Oh—love him!” The trouble and disappointment on Janet’s face were -quite genuine; every line in her countenance fell. “You know as well as -I do that’s not everything, Lady Markham. You may like a man well -enough; but when you were just thinking that all was settled, and -everything as you could wish—and to find as he has nothing—not even -the Sir to his name! Oh, it’s too bad—it’s too bad—it’s cruel! I would -not believe father, and I can hardly believe you.”</p> - -<p>“It is true, however,” Lady Markham said.</p> - -<p>She watched the girl with a keenness of contempt, yet a breathless gasp -of hope—emotions more intense than she had almost ever known before. -She was fighting for her son’s deliverance—she who had delivered him -into the toils. As for Alice, she stood with her face pressed against -the window, and her hands upon her ears. She did not want either to hear -or to see.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well!” said Janet, with a long breath, too deep for a sigh. “I am glad -I came,” she added after a moment; “I would never have believed it, -never! And I’m sure I am sorry for him—very, very sorry. After giving -up the colony for my sake, and all! But I could not be expected to ruin -all my prospects, could I, my lady? And me that had set my heart on -being Lady Markham like you!” she cried, clasping her hands. This was a -bitter reflection to Janet; her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know -how I can face him to say ‘No’ to him,” she went on; “he will take it so -unkind. But if you consider that I have another offer—a very good -offer—plenty of money, and no need for me to trouble my head about -anything. That would be different—very different from anybody that -married Mr. Paul now.”</p> - -<p>“Very different, Miss Spears. My son’s wife would be a poor woman; she -would have to struggle with poverty and care. And it would be all the -worse because he is not used to poverty; indeed, he could not marry—he -has no money at all. She would have to wait for years and years.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s too bad—it’s too bad—it’s cruel!” cried Janet once more. -Then she relapsed into a grateful<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span> sense of her escape. “But I am very -glad I came. I never would have believed it from any one but you. Oh, -dear, oh, dear!” cried Janet again, “what a downfall for him, poor young -gentleman—and he that was always so proud! I won’t say nothing to him, -Lady Markham, not to make him feel it more. I will give out that I only -came with father, and to see you, and ask you if you will recommend our -shop. Now that all this is settled, I may as well tell you that I’ve -almost quite made up my mind to marry Mosheer Lisiere, the new partner -at our shop. He is a French gentleman, but he’s very well off, and very -clever in the business. I think I cannot do better than take him,” said -Janet, adding with a sigh the emphatic monosyllable, “<i>now</i>.”</p> - -<p>Notwithstanding, however, that this was so comfortably settled, Janet -turned round upon Lady Markham, who was going down stairs with her to -make sure that Paul had no hankering after this sensible young woman, -and to keep the government of the crisis generally in her own hands. -Janet turned round upon her as they were going out of the room.</p> - -<p>“But he will have your money?” she said.</p> - -<p>“His sisters,” said Lady Markham, with a little gasp,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> for she had not -expected this assault, and was not prepared for it—“his sisters,” she -said “will have my money.”</p> - -<p>Janet looked at her searchingly, and then, convinced at last, went -slowly down stairs. She had lost something. Never more was she likely to -have the chance of being my lady—never would she strike awe into the -bosoms of the servants who had looked so suspiciously on her by -returning as young Lady Markham. On the other hand, there was a -satisfaction in being able to see her own way clear before her. She was -very thoughtful, but she was not dissatisfied with her morning’s work. -Supposing she had gone so far as to marry Paul Markham, a gentleman (she -used the word now in her thoughts as an expression of contempt) without -a penny! Janet shivered at the thought. Instead of that, she would step -at once into a good house with a cook and a housemaid, and everything -handsome about her. She was very glad that she had come to Lady Markham -and insisted on knowing the truth.</p> - -<p>As for Lady Markham, she was still quivering with the conflict out of -which she had come victorious. But triumph was in her heart. She could -afford now to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> magnanimous. “You went away without any refreshment -the last time you were here,” she said graciously, as she followed her -visitor down stairs; “but you must take some luncheon with us to-day, -your father and you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, thank you, my lady,” Janet cried, forgetting her dignity. This of -itself almost repaid her for giving up Paul.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham did not forget Janet’s request to see the house, which had -been so boldly made when the girl had thought herself Paul’s future -wife. She took her into the great drawing-room with a little gleam of -malicious pleasure, to show her what she had lost, and watched her -bewildered admiration and awe. By this time the happiness of knowing -that her son was not going to forsake her had begun to diffuse itself -through Lady Markham’s being like a heavenly balsam, soothing all her -troubles. When they met going into the dining-room as the luncheon-bell -rang, she put her hand within his arm, holding it close to her side for -one moment of indulgence.</p> - -<p>“You are not going away,” she said in his ear. “Thank God! Oh, why did -you not make me happy sooner—why did you not tell me, Paul?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Going away,” he said perplexed, “of course I am going away.” And then -her real meaning crossed him. “What, with Spears?” he said. “There has -not been any thought of that for many a day.”</p> - -<p>Spears talked little at this meal; he was full of the discouragement and -mournful anger of disappointment. Up to the last moment he had hoped -that Paul would change his mind—perhaps on the ground of his supposed -love for Janet, if nothing else. But Paul had said nothing about Janet. -He did not understand it, but it made his heart sore. The rest of the -party were embarrassed enough, except Gus, who still thought this man -with the heavy brows was an electioneering agent yet did not like to -tackle him much, lest he should show his own ignorance of English -policy—(“Decidedly I must read the papers and form opinions,” Gus said -to himself); and Janet, who, seated at this beautiful table, with the -flowers on it and all the sparkling glass and silver, and Charles -waiting behind her chair, was sparkling with delight and pride. She was -seated by the side of Sir Augustus, and spoke to him, calling him by -that name. The dishes which were handed to her by the solemn assiduity -of Mr. Brown were food for the gods,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span> she thought, though they were -simple enough. She made notes of everything for her own future guidance. -It was just possible, M. Lisiere had said, that he might keep a page to -wait upon his wife; thus the glory of a “man-servant” might still be -hers. In imagination she framed her life on the model of Markham; and so -full was her mind of these thoughts that Janet scarcely noticed Paul, -who, on his side, paid no attention to her. As for Lady Markham, she was -the soul of the party. She almost forgot her recent sorrow, and the -sight of Sir Augustus at the other end of the table did not subdue her -as usual. She asked Spears questions about his journey with the very -wantonness of relief—that journey which she had shuddered to hear -named, which had overshadowed her mind night and day was like a dead -lion to her; she could smile at it now.</p> - -<p>“Ay, my lady, that’s how it’s going to end,” said Spears. “I don’t say -that it’s the way I could have wished. There was a time when the thought -of new soil and a fresh start was like a new life to me. But perhaps -it’s only because the time is so close, and a crisis has something in it -that makes you think. It’s a kind of dying, though it’s a kind of new -living too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> Everything is like that, I suppose—one state ends and the -other begins. We don’t know what we are going to, but we know what we’re -giving up. Paul there—you see he has changed his mind. He had a right -to change his mind if he liked—I am saying nothing against it. But -that’s another sort of dying to me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Spears, do not say so. To me it is new life. Did not I tell you -once, if we were in trouble, if we needed him to stand by us (God knows -I little thought how soon it would come true!), that my boy would never -forsake his family and his position then? Paul might have left us -prosperous,” said his mother with tears in her eyes, “but he would never -leave us in sorrow and trouble. Mr. Spears, I told you so.”</p> - -<p>And who can doubt that she spoke (and by this time felt) as if her -confidence in Paul had never for a moment flagged, but had always been -determined and certain as now?</p> - -<p>And Spears looked at her with the respect of a generous foe who owned -himself vanquished. “And so you did,” he said. “I remember it all now. -My lady, you knew better—you were wiser than I.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, not wiser,” she said, still magnanimous; “but it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span> stands to reason -that I should know my own boy better than you.”</p> - -<p>Again he looked at her, respectful, surprised, half convinced; perhaps -it was so. After all his pride and sense of power, perhaps it was true -that the simplest might know better than he. He let a great sigh escape -from his breast, and rose in his abstraction from the table, without -waiting for the mistress of the house, which it was usually part of his -careful politeness to do.</p> - -<p>“We must be going,” he said; “our hours are numbered. Good-bye, my Lady -Markham; you are a woman that would have been a stronghold to us in my -class. I am glad I ever knew one like you; though you will not say the -same of me.”</p> - -<p>“Do not say that, Mr. Spears,” said Lady Markham again. It was true she -had often been disposed to curse his name; and yet she would have said -as he had said—she was glad she had ever known one like him. She put -out her hand to him with a genuine impulse of friendship, and did not -wince even when it was engulfed and grasped as in a vice by his strong -and resolute hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span></p> - -<p>“God bless you, my lady,” he said, looking at her with a little moisture -coming by hard pressure into the corners of his eyes.</p> - -<p>“And God bless you too, Mr. Spears—my friend,” she said with a -hesitation that almost made the words more expressive, and her long -eyelashes suddenly grew all bedewed and dewy, and shone with tears. The -demagogue wrung the delicate hand of the great lady, and strode away out -of the house, paying no attention to the calls of his daughter, who was -not quite ready to follow him. Paul rose too, and accompanied them -silently down the avenue. Janet talked a little, chiefly to assure her -father there was no hurry, and to upbraid him with hurrying her away. At -the gate Spears turned round and took Paul by the hands.</p> - -<p>“Come no further,” he said. “She knew better than I. She said you would -never forsake your post, and I don’t deny your post is here. I am glad -to be convinced of it, lad, for it lets me think well of you, and better -than ever. It goes against me to say it, Paul; but if your heart melts -to me after I am gone, you may tell yourself Spears was the happier to -think it was your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> duty that kept you after all. If you should never -hear of me again——”</p> - -<p>“But I shall hear of you again, and often,” cried Paul, with an emotion -he had never anticipated, grasping the other’s hand.</p> - -<p>“God knows,” said Spears; “but I’m glad I came. Good-bye.”</p> - -<p>And again he strode away, leaving Janet to follow, and Paul standing -looking after him, with a sudden pang in his heart.</p> - -<p>Fairfax was coming along the road very seriously—coming to know his -fate too. He paused, surprised, at the sight of the pair. But Spears -took little notice of Fairfax. He gave him a grasp of his hand in -passing, and said; “Good-bye, my lad,” with a clear voice. The young man -stopped for a moment to look after them; then went on to where Paul was -standing, somewhat dreamily, looking after them too.</p> - -<p>“I feel as if I had lost a friend,” Paul said, “though he has done me -more harm than good, I suppose. He has brought me back my money, -Fairfax; he will not take a penny from me; and that will be all the -worse for him among those others. What can I do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Leave it to me,” said Fairfax—it was a way he had; “and good-bye to an -honest soul. I am glad that ugly place in Clerkenwell is not the last -place I have seen him in.”</p> - -<p>Paul’s countenance darkened. “I wish you had not reminded me of that,” -he said.</p> - -<p>And they walked up to the house together, saying little more. Fairfax -had but little leisure to think of Spears. He was going to his own -trial, and he did not know how he was to come out of it. The court had -sat upon his case for the last twenty-four hours, and no doubt had come -to a final decision. It would have been an important subject indeed -which could have done more than touch the edge of his anxious mind. Paul -left him in the hall; and Mr. Brown, divining that something more was -going on, and having, as has been said, a well-founded and favourable -estimate of Fairfax, for reasons of his own, showed him with great -solemnity into the sanctuary where Lady Markham sat alone. She did not -rise to meet him, but smiled, and held out her left hand to him, with -the pretty French fashion of acknowledging intimacy. It was a good sign. -He went up very eagerly to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> the beautiful, kind woman, in whose hands he -felt was his fate.</p> - -<p>“You find me quite <i>emotionnée</i>,” she said, “parting from Mr. Spears. -Yes, you may smile—but I was more like crying. I am sure he is a good -man, though he may be—led astray.”</p> - -<p>“He is not led astray,” said Fairfax; but then he remembered that it was -not his business to plead any cause but his own. He looked at her -wistfully, though there was always that under-gleam of humour in his -eyes. “I have come up for sentence, Lady Markham,” he said.</p> - -<p>She smiled. “The sentence will not be very severe; there is not much -harm done.”</p> - -<p>This was far worse than any severity could be. His countenance fell, -sudden despondency filled his heart; and now the humour fled altogether -from the mournful eyes with which he looked up into his judge’s face.</p> - -<p>This time Lady Markham almost laughed. “You do not seem pleased to hear -it,” she said. “I thought it might ease your mind.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Lady Markham do not jeer at me! You may think it does not matter, -but to me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“It is sport to me, but death to you?” she said; “is that what you would -say? No, Mr. Fairfax—no; not so bad as that. And you must pardon me if -I am light-minded. I am happy. Paul is not going with those mad people; -he is safe; he is free.”</p> - -<p>“I am very glad,” said Fairfax, “but may I say that Paul is irrelevant -just now? I have come up for my sentence. Is it to be banishment, or is -it——? Ah, Lady Markham, tell me—is there any hope?”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fairfax,” she said, with great gravity, “you ask me for leave to -get my Alice from me, if you can; and then you tell me you are nobody, -of no family, with no connections. Pardon me; my only informant in -yourself.”</p> - -<p>“It is true—quite true.”</p> - -<p>“Then,” she said, and paused, “judge for me, Mr. Fairfax, what can I -say?”</p> - -<p>He made no reply, and there was an interval of silence, which was very -heavy, very painful to Lady Markham’s kind heart. She felt compelled to -speak, because of that stillness of expectation which made the moment -tragical.</p> - -<p>“If,” she said, faltering, “there had been time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span> enough for real love to -take possession of you—both of you—if it had come to <i>that</i>, that you -could not be parted, it would be a different matter, Mr. Fairfax; but -you have known each other so short a time, the plant cannot have very -deep roots. Cannot you be brave, and pluck it up, and bear the wrench? -In the end, perhaps, it would be better for you both.”</p> - -<p>“Better!” he cried, with a bitterness never heard before in his voice.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fairfax, God knows I do not want to be hard upon you. My poor boy, -I am fond of you,” she said, with a sudden, tender impulse; “but what -can I say? A man who tells me he is obscure and humble, and not a match -for her—am I to give my Alice up to a struggling, harassed life?”</p> - -<p>“There is one thing I forgot to say, Lady Markham. It is of no -consequence; it does not affect the question one way or another. Still, -perhaps I ought to tell you. It is that I am ridiculously, odiously, -abominably——”</p> - -<p>“What?” she said, in alarm.</p> - -<p>“Rich!” cried the young man. “You know the worst of me now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">After</span> these events an interval of great quiet occurred at Markham. Paul -went to town, where he was understood to be reading for the bar, like -most other young men, or preparing for a public office—opinions being -divided as to which it was. Naturally Sir William Markham’s son found no -difficulty in getting any opening into life which the mania of -examination permitted. Indeed there were friends of his father’s very -anxious to get him into parliament, and “push him on” into the higher -branches of the public service; but he had not yet sufficiently -recovered from the rending and tearing of the past to make this -possible. He was inseparable from one of his Oxford comrades, a young -fellow whom nobody knew, a young Crœsus, the son of some City man, who -had judiciously died and left him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> unencumbered by any vulgar -relations, with an immense fortune. It already began to be said by -people who saw the young men together, that no doubt Lady Markham would -be wise enough to secure this fine fortune for Alice; but at present, of -course, in the first blackness of their mourning, nothing could be -definitely arranged on this subject. Paul lived in London, at first -moodily enough, resenting the great harm that had been done him, but -afterwards not so badly on the whole. He had lost a great deal -certainly, but not anything that takes the comfort out of actual life. -He was as well lodged, and had his wants as comfortably supplied as if -he had been Sir Paul Markham. Hard as his reverses had been upon him, -they had not plunged him into privations, and indeed it is possible that -young Paul in a public office would have as much real enjoyment of his -life as any landed baronet or county magnate, perhaps more; but then for -Paul, if he wanted to “settle,” for Paul married and middle-aged, the -case would be very different; unless indeed he married money, which he -showed very little inclination to do.</p> - -<p>Spears sailed in the end of October with his younger<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> daughters, Janet -having first been married with much solemnity to her master at the shop, -who gave her a very gorgeous house, with more gilding about it than any -house in the neighbourhood, and dressed her so that she was a sight to -see. Her father never pretended to understand the history of the tie -which had been formed, he could not tell how, and broken in the same -mysterious way. He had a vague consciousness that he ought to have done -or said something in the matter, but how was he to do it? And all is -well that ends well. Before the emigrants sailed, Fairfax appeared -suddenly and renewed his anxious desire to take those shares in the -undertaking which Spears had not permitted Paul to retain. Fairfax -protested that it was as a speculation he did it, and that nowhere could -he find a better way of investing his money. And though Spears was only -half deceived, he was at the same time, in spite of himself, elated by -this profession of confidence, which restored the <i>amour-propre</i> which -had been so deeply wounded, and at the same time restored himself, as -the controller of so large an amount of capital, to his right place -among the adventurers. He would not have accepted a farthing from Paul, -but from that easy-going<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> fellow Fairfax all seemed so natural! Whatever -happened <i>he</i> would not mind; but there could be little doubt that the -estimate thus formed was entirely true.</p> - -<p>Thus quiet fell upon Markham with the winter mists and rains. It was not -cheerful there in the midst of the wet woods, when the dark weather -closed in without any of the hospitalities and wholesome country -diversions which make winter bright. Their sorrow and their mourning -only began to reign supreme when all the agitation was stilled, and Paul -had settled into his strangely-changed existence, and Sir Augustus had -become the master of the house. The only variety the family had was in a -sudden visit from the Lennys, husband and wife, who had only heard of -all that had passed on her return from a round of the cheap places on -the Continent, which was their way of living when they had no visits to -make. Mrs. Lenny knew, what so few of us know, where these cheap places -were, and had eaten funny foreign dinners, and knew how to choose what -was the best in them, in many an out-of-the-way corner. They had been in -Germany and Switzerland, appearing now and then at a watering-place, as -a seal comes to the surface to take breath. And it was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> till nearly -Christmas that they heard all that had happened. Mrs. Lenny came and -threw herself upon Lady Markham’s shoulder and wept. “If I had known, my -dear lady, if I had known the trouble that was coming on your dear -family through me and mine!” the good woman said. As for Colonel Lenny, -he could not speak to Lady Markham, but went off with the boys, who were -at home for the holidays, after one silent grasp of her hand; but his -wife talked and cried, and cried and talked all the afternoon through.</p> - -<p>“And don’t blame poor Will Markham more than you can help,” she said. -“It was a baby when he left the island, and what does a young man think -of a baby? It doesn’t seem to count at all. And then my brother had -adopted the little thing. It didn’t seem as if it belonged to him.”</p> - -<p>This appeal to her on behalf of her own husband, wounded Lady Markham -almost as much as blame.</p> - -<p>“I understand how it was,” she replied with proud stoicism; though even -at that moment, in hearing him thus defended, there glanced across Lady -Markham’s mind a sense of the wrong he had done which was almost -intolerable to her. Thus the mind works by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span> contradiction, seeing most -distinctly that which it is called upon not to see. Afterwards, Mrs. -Lenny told her the whole story of Gus’s young mother, and her love and -death, which she listened to with a strange feeling that she herself was -the girl who was being talked of, who had died so young.</p> - -<p>“He was no better than a lad himself,” Mrs. Lenny said. “I don’t doubt -that it was like a dream to him. When Lenny and I talked to him first he -did not seem to understand about the boy.”</p> - -<p>“You talked to him then—about—his son?”</p> - -<p>“That was what we came for, surely,” said Mrs. Lenny, “that was what we -came for. We knew nothing about you, my dear lady, and we didn’t know -there was a family. When I heard of your fine young gentleman that was -to be the heir,—God bless him!—you might have knocked me down with a -straw; and I told Will he should make a clean breast of it. But do you -think a man, and a great statesman, would take a woman’s advice? They -think they know better, and he would not. He thought nothing would ever -happen, poor Will! And here it’s come upon you like a tempest, without a -word of warning.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“We will say no more about it,” said Lady Markham.</p> - -<p>If she could she would have obliterated the story from everybody’s -memory; instead of dwelling upon her wrongs it was her pride to ignore -them. It was intolerable to her to think that all the world of her -acquaintance must have discussed her and her husband, and all that had -happened, as Mrs. Lenny, with the best of intentions and the kindest of -thoughts, was doing. She put a stop to the conversation pointedly, -leading her companion to other subjects, and though she was more kind to -them than ever, and treated those kind and innocent Bohemians as if, -Mrs. Lenny said, they had been the governor and his lady, she did not -encourage any return to this subject. As for Gus, though he had scarcely -any recollection of them, he was very glad to see these relations, who -knew so much more about him than any of his family did. Colonel Lenny -was a godsend to him in the dark winter days. He could hardly make up -his mind to let them go. But the Lennys were too much accustomed to -wandering, and too determined, whatever might be wanting to them, that a -little amusement never should be wanting, to relish the gloom of Markham -in its mourning. When they went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> away, Mrs. Lenny whispered a solemn -intimation, of which it was difficult to say whether it was a warning or -a prophecy, into Lady Markham’s ear. “He’ll not stand it long,” she -said. Her note was half melancholy, half congratulatory, and she nodded -and shook her head alternately, looking back as the carriage went down -the avenue upon the group at the great door. Lady Markham, with a shawl -round her, was as fair in her matronly beauty as ever, though a little -paler than of old. She was not afraid of the chill, but stood there -waving her hand to her departing guests till they were out of sight. But -Sir Gus withdrew shivering to his fire, which roared up the chimney -night and day, and could never be made big enough to please him. He -could not understand what pleasure it could be to any one to encounter -that chill air, laden with moisture, out of doors.</p> - -<p>The fact was that the English winter was a terrible experience for Sir -Gus. He had not contemplated anything so unlike all that he had -previously known. He had heard of it, of course, and knew that there was -cold to encounter such as he had never felt before, but he was not aware -what were the consequences of that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span> cold, either mental or bodily. He -shrank visibly in the midst of his wrappings, and grew leaner and -browner as the year went on, and sat shivering close by his great fire -when the boys came in glowing with exercise, and the little girls, his -favourites, with brilliant roses of winter on their cheeks. “Come out, -come out, and you will get warm!” they all cried; but he would not leave -his fire. A man more out of place in an English country-house in a -severe winter could not be. Gus could do nothing that the other -gentlemen did. He neither hunted nor shot, nor even walked or rode. He -did not understand English law or customs, to occupy himself with the -duties of a magistrate; he did not care about farming; he knew nothing -about the preserving of the game, or even the care of the woods. He was -fretful when the agent or his clerk came to consult him on any of these -subjects. Go out and look at the timber! he only wanted more to burn, to -have better and better fires.</p> - -<p>By this time the family at Markham had almost begun to forget that Gus -was an intruder. There was no more question of Lady Markham’s removal to -the dower-house. Nothing had been said about it by one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span> or the other, -but it had been quietly, practically laid aside, as a visionary scheme -impossible in the circumstances. They all lived together calmly, -monotonously, in perfect family understanding. Even Alice, who stood out -so long against him, had learned to accept Gus. The little girls made -him their slave; he was always ready to do anything they wanted, to take -them wherever they pleased. But life got to be very heavy upon Gus’s -hands as these winter days went on. He had nothing to do; he did not -even read—that resource of the unoccupied; he had no letters to write, -or business to do like his father, and he soon began to hate the library -which had been appropriated to him, notwithstanding its huge fireplace. -He was more at home in the soft brightness of the drawing-room, with -velvet curtains drawn round him, and the lights reflected in the mirrors -and sparkling on-the pretty china and ornaments. The ladies found him in -their territories more than in his own. He interrupted nothing, but -notwithstanding, there, as everywhere, there was nothing for him to do. -It was only now and then, not once a day at the most, that there was a -skein of silk or of wool to hold for some one. Sometimes he would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span> -volunteer to read aloud, but he soon tired of that. He bore this want of -occupation very well on the whole, sitting buried in the big bamboo -chair, which he had filled with soft cushions, at the corner of the fire -in the drawing-room, looking on at all that was doing, and more -interested in the needlework than those who worked at it. Poor little -gentleman! Sir Gus did not even care for the newspapers; he looked at -the little paragraphs of general interest, but turned with a grimace -from the long reports of the debates. “What good does all that do me?” -he said, when Lady Markham, who was somewhat horrified by his -indifference, endeavoured to rouse him to a sense of his duties.</p> - -<p>“But it concerns the country,” she would say, “and few people have a -greater stake in the country.”</p> - -<p>“That is how Paul would have felt,” said Sir Gus; “he would have read -all these speeches; he would have understood everything that is said. It -would have mattered to him——”</p> - -<p>“Indeed it matters to us all,” said Lady Markham, with grave dignity. Of -all people in the world to listen while a parliamentary debate is talked -of with contempt, the wife of a man who was once a Cabinet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> minister is -the last—and all the more if her husband held but a secondary place. -She was half-offended and half-shocked; but Sir Gus could not see the -error of his ways. He got all the picture-papers, which he enjoyed along -with Bell and Marie; and sent to the boys after, when they were at -school. He cared nothing about the game, except to eat it when it was -set before him. From morn to chilly eve he would sit by that fire, and -note everything that happened. Not a letter arrived but he was there to -see how it was received, and what was in it. Lady Markham declared that -had she heard anywhere else, or read in a book, of a man who was always -in the drawing-room, who had no duties of his own, and who sat and -watched everything, the situation would have seemed intolerable. But it -was not so intolerable in reality. They got used, at last, to the big -bamboo chair and its inhabitant; they got used to his comments. There -was no harm in Mr. Gus; but life was hard upon him. Everybody else was -doing something—even the little girls in the school-room were learning -their lessons—but he, burying himself in the cushions of his chair, -showing nothing out of it but two little brown hands, twirling a -paper-knife, or a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> pencil, or anything else he had got hold of, had -nothing to do. Sometimes he would get up and walk to the window. When it -was fine it would give him much pleasure to watch the birds collecting -about the breadcrumbs, which he insisted on scattering everywhere.</p> - -<p>“There is a lazy one, like me,” he would say; and a little pert robin -redbreast, a sort of little almoner, who came and superintended the -giving away of these charities, gave Sir Gus the greatest amusement. But -the people who came to call were not equally amusing. When a man came, -he expected Sir Gus to take an interest in the debates, or in the places -where the hounds met, and stared, when he knew that Gus, like Gallio, -cared for none of these things. And he was not even interested in the -parish. When Dolly Stainforth brought up a report of some village -catastrophe, Sir Gus was not the one who responded with the greatest -liberality. He was not used to have very much money to spare, and he was -careful of it. It was not that he loved money, but he had not the habit -of spending it lavishly, as we foolish people have. Sometimes he would -drive out in a close carriage, to the great contempt of everybody -concerned.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span></p> - -<p>“The new master, he <i>be</i> a muff,” the people in the porter’s lodge said. -Even from that mild exercise, however, he was glad to come in, -shivering, and call Brown to put on a great many more coals in the fire. -The house was full of schemes for warming it more effectually. Hot -water, hot air—all kinds of expedients; and never had so much fuel been -used in Markham in the memory of man.</p> - -<p>“He will ruin my lady in coals,” Brown said; but Sir Gus did not take -this into consideration. It was about the greatest pleasure he had in -the good fortune which was to make him so happy.</p> - -<p>In February there came, as there sometimes comes, a spell of bright -weather—a few soft, spring-like days—and the poor little gentleman -from the tropics brightened along with the crocuses. “It is over at -last,” he said, in beatific self-delusion; and he was persuaded to pay a -visit to town when Parliament was on the point of meeting, and the -general tuning up for the great concert of the season had begun to -begin. Here Sir Gus was confided to the charge of Fairfax, who took him -into his own house, and roasted him over huge fires, and made little -dinners for him, collecting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span> other tropical persons to meet him. But -very soon Sir Gus found out that it was not over. He found out that not -to be interested in the debates, nor in society, nor in books and -pictures, and, above all, not to “know people,” were sad drawbacks to -life in London. He sat dumb while his companions talked of meeting -So-and-so at Lord What-d’ye-call-’em’s, and of the too-well-known -intimacy—“Don’t you know?”—between Sir Robert and Lady John. He stared -at the talkers, the poor little foreigner! and tired even of Fairfax’s -big fires. The skies that hang so low over the London streets, the rain -and muddy ways, or the east wind that parched them into whiteness, made -his very soul shrink. That was not at all a successful experiment. He -went back on Lady Markham’s hands in March, having ensconced himself now -in a coat lined with sables, which buried him still more completely than -the big chair.</p> - -<p>“England is a very fine place,” he said, with his teeth chattering, as -he came in, out of a boisterous March wind, which carried upon it -bushels of that dust that is worth a king’s ransom. “It is a very fine -place but—only I don’t seem to agree with it.” But that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> summer must -certainly come some time—and spring was certainly come at this period, -though Gus did not recognise that pleasant season in its English -garb—they must all have given in altogether. But when the primroses -appeared in the woods Sir Gus began to get back a little of his courage. -Fortunately the summer opened brightly, promising to be as warm and -genial as the winter had been severe; and by degrees the little -gentleman let his fires go down, and left off his furs. Who can doubt -that the winter had been very long at Markham for the whole household? -They were living alone in their mourning, and Paul, though only in -London, was separated from them, and in a state of great uncertainty and -doubtful comfort. And other visitors were banished too. But when the -spring came back the household awoke, and broke the bonds of gloom. Even -Lady Markham began to smile naturally upon her children—not with the -smile of duty put on for their advantage, but with a little natural -rising of the clouds. And Alice brightened insensibly, knowing that -“they” were to come for Easter; that is, Paul and “one of his friends.” -Nothing had been said to Alice upon any subject that was likely to -agitate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> her prematurely, but it was pleasant to look forward to that -visit from Paul and his friend-from which fact it may be divined that -Lady Markham had been not unfavourably moved by the last item in -Fairfax’s confession.</p> - -<p>Thus summer came again, communicating brightness; and Sir Gus began to -live again, and to believe that it might be possible to put up with -England after all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">That</span> summer was as bright as the winter had been cold. The hot weather -came on in May, and the country about Markham brightened into a perfect -paradise of foliage and blossom. Sir Gus came to life; he began to show -himself in the country, to move about, to accept the invitations which -were given to him. And it cannot be denied that his thoughts and plans -were much modified after he had made acquaintance with the county and -began to feel that people were inclined to pay him a great deal of -attention. He had wanted nothing better at first than to be received as -a member of Lady Markham’s family, to adopt, as it were, his brothers -and sisters, and to make them as little conscious as possible of the -change he had brought into their life. He had promised that he would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> -never marry, nor do anything to spoil Paul’s prospects further. But -before the summer was over his views in this respect had sensibly -modified. He began to think that perhaps the length and dreariness of -the winter had been partly owing to the fact that Lady Markham and her -children were less satisfactory than a wife and children of his own. Why -should he (after all) sacrifice himself to serve Paul? He was not old, -whatever those arrogant young people might think; and probably it was in -this way that happiness might come to him. Paul would no doubt get on -very well in society; he would marry well, and his younger son’s portion -was not contemptible; there really seemed no reason why his elder -brother should sacrifice himself on Paul’s account. And gradually there -dawned upon him an idea that before winter came on again he might have -some one belonging to him who should be his very own.</p> - -<p>Gus dined out very solemnly by himself, making acquaintance with his -neighbours during the Easter recess, and when the great people of the -neighbourhood came back to the country after the season; and did not -scorn the tables of the less great who remained in the country all the -year round. He was not exclusive.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> The less great houses were still -great enough for Gus. He liked to go to the Rectory, where Mr. -Stainforth, who was a politic old man, often invited him; and indeed, -Sir Augustus, who everybody said was so exceedingly simple and -unpretentious, became quite popular in the district where at first -everybody had been against him as an intruder. Though it was no less -hard upon Paul than before, the new heir was pardoned in the county -because of his adoption of the family and his kindness and genuine -humility. There could not be any harm in him, people said, when he was -so good to the children, when he sought so persistently the friendship -of his stepmother, and endeavoured to make everything pleasant for her.</p> - -<p>Then it became very evident that Sir Gus, though not so young as he once -was, was still marriageable and likely to marry, which naturally still -further increased his popularity; and as, instead of attempting any -stratagems of self-defence, he was but too eager to put himself into the -society of young ladies, and showed unequivocal signs of regarding them -with the eye of a purchaser, it was natural that the elder ladies should -accept this challenge, and on their parts do what they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> could to make -him acquainted with the stores the county possessed. Women do not give -themselves to this business of settling marriages in England with the -candour and honesty that prevail in other countries. The work is -stealthy and unacknowledged, but it is too natural and too just not to -be done with more or less vigour; and the county was not less active -than other counties. “Poor Paul!” some people said, who had at first -received the new baronet as a merely temporary holder of the title and -estates—one who, according to a legend dear to the popular mind, had -bound himself not to do anything towards the achievement of an heir; but -by and by they said, “Poor Sir Gus!” and could see no reason in the -world why he should sacrifice himself. This was a little after the time -when he had himself come to the same conclusion.</p> - -<p>When all the families began to return at the end of July, he was asked -everywhere. Mourning is not for a man a very rigid bond, and it was now -nearly a year since Sir William died, so that there was nothing to -restrain him; indeed there were some who said that Lady Markham was too -punctilious in keeping Alice at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> home, never letting her be seen -anywhere—a girl who really <i>ought</i> to marry, now that the family were -in so changed a position. Sir Gus went a great deal to Westland Towers, -where there had never been so many parties before—garden parties, -archery meetings, competitions at lawn-tennis, to which the entire -county was convoked; and at all these parties there was no more favoured -guest than Gus. This was a great change, and pleased him much. At “home” -he was not much more than put up with. They had come to like him, and -they had always been very kind to him; but he had been an intruder, and -he had banished the son of the house, and it was not to be supposed that -mortal forbearance should go so far as to admire and honour him as the -chief person in the household, even though he was its nominal head. When -he went elsewhere Gus was made more of than at Markham, and at the -Towers he felt the full force of his own position. His sayings were -listened for, his jokes were laughed at, and he himself was followed by -judicious flattery. All his little eccentricities were allowed and -approved, his light clothes extolled as the most convenient garments in -the world, and his distaste for sport and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span> the winter amusements of -country life sanctioned and approved.</p> - -<p>“How men of refined habits can do it has always been a mystery to me,” -said Lady Westland.</p> - -<p>“You forget, mamma, that a taste for bloodshed is one of the most -refined tastes in the world,” said Ada, who was herself fond of hunting -when she had a chance, and never was better pleased than when she could -lunch with a shooting party at the cover-side. Ada made a grimace behind -Gus’s back, and said “Little monster!” to the other young ladies.</p> - -<p>“Ah, poor Paul! We used to see so much of him,” she said, “when he was -the man, poor fellow, and no one had ever heard of this little Creole. -But parents are nothing if not prudent,” Miss Westland added; “and now -the tropics are in the ascendant, and poor Paul is nowhere. What can one -do?” she said with a shrug of her shoulders up to her ears.</p> - -<p>Dolly Stainforth, who was of the party, but not old enough or important -enough to say anything, grew pale with righteous indignation. She was -very well aware that Paul had never “seen much” of the family at -Westland Towers: but that they should now pretend to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> hold him at arm’s -length stung her to the heart. This took place at a garden party, and -the explanation about Paul had been made in the midst of a great many -people of the neighbourhood, who had all been very sorry for Paul in -their day, yet were all beginning now to turn towards the new-risen sun. -Dolly had turned her back upon them, and gone off by herself in -bitterly-suppressed indignation, sore and wounded, though not for her -own sake, when she encountered Sir Gus, who had spied her in a turning -of the shrubbery. George Westland had spied her too, but had been -stopped by his mother on his way to her, and might be seen in the -distance standing gloomily on the outskirts of a group of notables, with -whom he was supposed to be ingratiating himself, gazing towards the -<i>bosquet</i> in which the object of his affections had disappeared.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter, Miss Dolly?” Sir Gus had said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing. I was not crying,” Dolly said, with a sob. “I am too -indignant to cry. It is the horridness of people,” she cried with an -outburst of wrath and grief. Sir Gus was distressed. He did not like to -see any one cry, much less this dainty little creature, who was almost -his first acquaintance in the place.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Don’t,” he said, touching her shoulder lightly with his brown hand. -“Whatever it is it cannot be worth crying about. None of them can do any -harm to you.”</p> - -<p>“Harm to <i>me</i>! I wish they could,” said Dolly; “that would not matter -much. But don’t believe them, don’t you believe them: a little while ago -they were all for Paul—nobody was so nice as Paul—and now it is all -you, and Paul, they say, is nowhere. Do you think it is like a lady to -say that poor Paul is ‘nowhere,’ only because he has lost his property, -and you have got it?” cried Dolly, turning with fury, which it was -difficult to restrain, upon the poor little baronet. He changed colour: -of course he knew that it was his position, and not any special gifts of -his own, which recommended him; yet he did not like the thought.</p> - -<p>“That is not my fault, Miss Dolly,” he said. “You should not be unjust; -though it is your favourite who has been the loser, you ought not to be -unjust, for I have nothing more than what is my right.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Sir Augustus,” said Dolly, alarmed by her own vehemence, “it was -not you I meant. You have always been kind. It was those horrid people -who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> think of nothing but who has the money. And then, you know,” she -said, turning her tearful eyes upon him, “I have known them all my -life—and I can’t bear to hear them speak so of Paul.”</p> - -<p>“And you can’t bear me, I suppose, for putting this Paul of yours out of -his place?” Gus said.</p> - -<p>“No, indeed I don’t blame you. A woman might have given it up, but it is -not your fault if you are different from a woman—all men are,” said -Dolly, shaking her head. “When one knows as much about a village as I -do, one soon finds out that.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose you think the women are better than the men,” said Sir Gus, -shaking his head too.</p> - -<p>“I am for my own side,” said Dolly promptly, her tears drying up in the -impulse of war; “but I did not mean that,” she added, “only different. -Men and women are not good—or nasty—in the same way. I don’t -suppose—you—could have done anything but what you did.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I could,” said Sir Gus, briefly.</p> - -<p>“But the people here,” said Dolly, “oh, the people here!” She stamped -her foot upon the ground in her impatience and indignation; but when he -would have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span> pursued the subject, Dolly became prudent, and stopped -short. She would say nothing more, except another appeal to heaven and -earth against “the horridness of people.” This, however, gave Sir Gus a -great deal to think of. Dolly did not in the least know what he had in -his mind. She was not aware that the little man was going about among -all the pretty groups of the garden party in the conscious exercise of -choice, noting all the ladies, selecting the one that pleased him. Two -or three had pleased him more or less—but one most of all: which was -what Dolly Stainforth never suspected. Sir Gus walked about with the air -of a man occupied with important business. He had no time to pay any -attention to the progress of the games that were going on; his own -affairs engrossed him altogether. Sometimes he selected one lady from a -number on pretence of showing her something, or of watching a game, or -hearing the band play a particular air, and carried her off with him to -the suggested object, talking much and earnestly. He did not pay much -court to the mothers and chaperons, but went boldly to the -fountain-head. And some of the pretty young women to whom he talked so -gravely did not quite know what to make of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> the little baronet. They -laughed among themselves, and asked each other, “Did he ask you whether -you liked town better or country? and if you would not like to take a -voyage to the tropics?” Dolly on being asked this question quite early -in their acquaintance, had answered frankly, “Not at all,” and had -further explained that life out of the parish was incomprehensible to -her. “I could not leave my poor people for months and months, with -nobody but papa to look after them,” Dolly had said.</p> - -<p>It was only after he had enjoyed about half a dozen interviews of this -kind, amusing the greater part of his temporary companions, but -fluttering the bosoms of one or two who were quick-witted enough to see -the handkerchief trembling in the little sultan’s hand, that Sir Gus -allowed himself to be carried off in his turn by Ada Westland, who came -up to him in her bold way, neglecting all decorum.</p> - -<p>“Come with me, Sir Augustus,” she said, “I have got a view to show you,” -and she led him to where among the trees, there was a glimpse of the -beautiful rich country, undulating, all wooded and rich with cornfields, -to where Markham Chase, with all its oaks and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span> beeches, shut in the -horizon line. There was a glimpse of the house to be had in the -distance, peeping from the foliage: and in the centre of the scene, the -red roofs of the village and the slope of the Rectory garden in the -sunshine. “I used to be brought here often to have my duty taught me,” -said Ada. “Mamma made quite a point of it every day when we first came -here.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad your duty makes you look at my house, Miss Westland,” said -Sir Gus, making her a bow.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t mean now,” said the outspoken young woman. “That is quite a -different matter. I was quite young then, you know, and so was Paul, and -my mother trained me up in the way that a girl should go. We are new -people, you know; we have not much distinction in the way of family. -What mamma intended to do with me was to make me marry Paul.”</p> - -<p>Once more Sir Augustus bowed his head quite gravely. He did not laugh at -the bold announcement, as she meant he should. “Was your heart in it?” -he said.</p> - -<p>“My heart? Do you think I have got one? I don’t know—I don’t think it -was, Sir Augustus. ‘Look at all that sweep of country,’ mamma used to -say; ‘that may all be yours if you play your cards well—and a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> family -going back to the Conqueror.’ There have only been two generations of -<i>us</i>,” said Ada; “you may think how grand it would have felt to know -that there was a Crusader’s monument in the family. In some moods of my -mind, especially when I have been very much sat upon by the blue-blooded -people, I don’t think I should have minded marrying the Crusader -himself.”</p> - -<p>“I can understand the feeling,” said Gus. He was perfectly grave, his -muscles did not relax a hairsbreadth. He stood and looked upon the woods -that were his own, and the house which he called home. It looked a -little chilly to him, even in the midst of the sunshine. The sky was -pale with heat, and all the colours of the country subdued in the -brilliant afternoon light, the trees hanging together like terrestrial -clouds, the stubblefields grey where the corn had been already cut, and -the roads white with dust. But it did not occur to him as he stood and -gazed at Markham that it would make him happy to live there with his -present companion by his side. “Beauty is deceitful, and favour is -vain.” She was one of the prettiest persons present. She was full of wit -and cleverness, and had far more wit and knowledge than half of her -party put together. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span> the heart of the little baronet was not gained -by those qualities. He stood quite unmoved by Ada’s side. She might have -married the Crusader for anything Sir Augustus cared. Ada waited a -little to see if no better reply would come, and then she made another -<i>coup</i>.</p> - -<p>“Pity us for an unfortunate family, foiled on every side,” she said. -“Paul you know, has ceased to be a <i>parti</i> altogether. Anybody may marry -him who pleases—and to a district in which men do not abound this is a -great grievance—but I don’t blame you for that, Sir Augustus, though -some do. And look there,” she said, suddenly turning round, “look at the -door of the conservatory. There are mamma’s hopes tumbling down in -another direction. I don’t feel the disappointment so much in my own -case, but about George, I do really pity mamma. She can’t marry me to -the next property, as she intended; and just look at George, making a -fool of himself with the parson’s daughter. Now, Sir Augustus, don’t you -feel sorry for mamma?”</p> - -<p>“Miss Stainforth is a very charming young lady,” said Sir Gus, still as -grave as ever, “but I thought that she——” here he stopped in some -confusion, having nearly committed himself, he felt.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I know what you were going to say,” said Ada, with a laugh. “You think -she had a fancy for Paul too. She might just as well have had a fancy -for the moon. The Markhams would never have permitted that; and as for -Paul himself, he thought no more of Dolly——! Fancy, Dolly! but my -brother does. It is a pity, a great pity, don’t you think, that brothers -and sisters can’t change places sometimes? George would have made a much -better young lady than I do. I am much too outspoken and candid for a -girl, but I should never have fallen in love with Dolly Stainforth. If -mamma could change us now, it would be some consolation to her still.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Stainforth is a very charming young lady,” Sir Gus said again.</p> - -<p>“A—ah!” said Ada, with a malicious laugh, “you admire Dolly too, Sir -Augustus? I beg a thousand pardons. I ought to have been more cautious. -But I never thought that a man who had seen the world, a man of -judgment, a person with experience and discrimination——”</p> - -<p>“You think too favourably of me,” said Sir Gus. “It is true I have come -over a great part of the world;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> but I don’t know that of itself that -gives one much experience. You think too favourably of me.”</p> - -<p>“That is a fault,” said Ada, “which most men pardon very easily,” and -she looked at him in a way that was flattering, Gus felt, but a little -alarming too.</p> - -<p>This conversation too had its effect upon him. He felt that there was no -time to lose in making up his mind. If he was to secure for himself a -companion before the winter came on, it would be well not to lose any -time. And Miss Westland was very flattering and agreeable; she seemed to -have a very high opinion of him. Gus did not feel that she was the woman -he would like to marry; but if by any chance it might happen that she -was a woman who would like to marry him, he did not feel that she would -be very easy to resist. That such a woman might possibly wish to marry -him was of itself very flattering; still on the whole, Gus felt that he -would prefer to choose rather than to be chosen. And with a shrewd sense -of the difficulties of his position, he decided that to have another -young lady betrothed to him would be by far his best safeguard against -Ada. A woman who belonged<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> to him would stand up for him; and the mere -fact that he belonged to her would be an effectual defence. As it -happened, fortune favoured him. Mrs. Booth, who had come with Dolly in -her little carriage to the Towers, wanted to get back early, as the -evening was so fine, and Dolly declared that there was nothing she would -like so much as to walk. There would certainly be somebody going her way -to bear her company. Then Sir Gus stepped forward and said he would -certainly be going her way, and would walk with her to the Rectory gate. -Dolly smiled upon him so gratefully when he said this that his heart -stirred in Gus’s bosom. She kept near him all the rest of the time, -coming up to him now and then to see if he was ready, if he wished to -go, with much filial attention; but Gus did not think of it in that -light. Nor did he think that it was by way of getting rid of George -Westland that she devoted herself to him. This is not an idea which -naturally suggests itself to a man who has never had any reason to think -badly of himself. Gus had always, on the contrary, entertained a very -good opinion of himself; he had known that, on the whole, he deserved -that mankind in general should entertain a good opinion of him, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> -there was nothing at all out of the way, or even unexpected in the fact -that Dolly should be pleased by his care of her, and attracted towards -himself. It was a thing which was very natural and delightful, and -pleased him greatly. When the company began to disperse, he was quite -ready to obey Dolly’s indication of a wish to go, and to take leave of -Lady Westland when her son was out of the way, according to the girl’s -desire. They set out upon the dusty road together in the grateful cool -of the summer evening, carriage after carriage rolling past them, with -many nods and wreathed smiles from the occupants, and no doubt many -remarks also upon Dolly’s cavalier. But the pair themselves took it very -tranquilly. They went slowly along, lingering on the grassy margin of -the road to escape the dust, and enjoying the coolness and the quiet.</p> - -<p>“How sweet it is,” Dolly said, “after the heat of the day.”</p> - -<p>“You call that hot, Miss Dolly?” said Gus. “We should not call it hot -where I come from.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I am glad I have nothing to do with the tropics,” Dolly said. “I -like the cool evening better than the day. One can move now—one can -walk; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> I suppose you never can do anything there in the heat of the -day?”</p> - -<p>“I am sorry you don’t like the tropics,” he said. “I think you would, -though, if you had ever been there. It is more natural than England. -Yes, you laugh, but I know what I mean. I should like to show you the -bright-coloured flowers, and the birds, and all the things so full of -colour—there’s no colour here. I tell Bell and Marie so, and they tell -me it is I that can’t see. And then the winter——” Gus shuddered as he -spoke.</p> - -<p>“But you ought to have gone out more,” said Dolly, “and taken exercise; -that makes the blood run in your veins. Oh, I like the winter! We have -not had any skating here for years. It has been so mild. I like a good -sharp frost, and no wind, and a real frosty sun, and the ice bearing. -You don’t know how delightful it is.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed,” said Gus, with a shudder. “But, perhaps,” he added, “if -one had a bright little companion like you, one might be tempted to move -about more. Bell and Marie are delightful children, but they are a -little too young, you know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“But Alice——” said Dolly, with a little anxiety.</p> - -<p>“Alice never has quite forgiven me, I fear; and then she has her mother -to think of; and they always tell me she cannot do this or that for her -mourning. It is very right to wear mourning, I don’t doubt,” said Gus, -“but never to be able to go out, or meet your fellow-creatures——”</p> - -<p>“That would be <i>impossible!</i>” said Dolly, with decision. “It is not a -year yet. <i>You</i> did not know poor Sir William. But next winter it will -be different, and we must all try to do our best”—for Lady Markham, she -was going to say—but he interrupted her.</p> - -<p>“That will be very kind, Miss Dolly. I think you could do a great deal -without trying very much. I always feel more cheerful in your company. -Do you remember the first time we ever were in each other’s company, on -the railway?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” cried Dolly. She was very incautious. “I thought you were -such a——” She did not say queer little man, but felt as if she had -said it, so near was it to her lips; and blushed, which pleased Gus -greatly, and made him imagine a much more flattering conclusion. “You -asked me a great deal about poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span> Paul,” she said, “and then we met them -coming home; and Sir William, oh! how ill he looked—as if he would -die!”</p> - -<p>“You remember that day?” said Gus, much delighted, “and so do I. You -told me a great deal about my family. It was strange to talk of my -family as if I had been a stranger, and to hear so much about them.”</p> - -<p>“I thought you were a stranger, Sir Augustus.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, and you wished I had been one when you found out who I really was. -Oh, I don’t blame you, Miss Dolly—it was very natural; but I hope now, -my dear,” he said, with a tone that was quite fatherly, though he did -not intend it to be so, “that you are not so sorry, but rather glad on -the whole to know Gus Markham, who is not so bad as you thought.”</p> - -<p>Dolly was surprised to be called “my dear;” but at his age was it not -quite natural?</p> - -<p>“Oh,” she said, faltering, “I never thought you were bad, Sir Augustus; -you have always been very kind, I know.”</p> - -<p>But she could not say she was glad of his existence, which had done so -much harm to—other people; even<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> though in her heart she had a liking -for Sir Gus, the queerest little man that ever was!</p> - -<p>“I have tried to be,” he said; “and I think they all feel I have done my -best to show myself a real friend; but there comes a time when one wants -something more than a friend, and, Dolly, I think that time has come -now.”</p> - -<p>Well! it was a little odd, but she did not at all mind being called -Dolly by Sir Gus. She looked at him with a little surprise, doubtful -what he could mean. They were by this time quite near the village and -the Rectory gate.</p> - -<p>“I think,” he said, “that if I don’t get married, my dear, I shall never -be able to stand another winter at Markham. It nearly killed me last -year.”</p> - -<p>“Married!” she cried, her voice going off in a high quaver of surprise -and consternation. If her father had intimated a similar intention she -could scarcely have been more astonished. This is what everybody had -consoled themselves by thinking such a man was never likely to do.</p> - -<p>“Yes, married,” he said. “Don’t you think you know, Dolly, a dear little -girl that would marry me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> though I am not so young nor so handsome as -Paul? You see it is not Paul now, it is me; and though he was handsomer -and taller, I don’t think he was nearly so good-tempered as I am, my -dear. I give very little trouble, and I should always be willing to do -what my wife wanted to do—or at least almost always, Dolly—and you -would not get that with many other men. Haven’t you ever thought of it -before? Oh, I have, often. I went through all the others to-day, just to -give myself a last chance, to see if, at the last moment, there was any -one I liked better; but there was none so nice as you. You see, I have -not done it without thought. Now, my pretty Dolly, my little dear, just -say you will marry me before the winter, and to-morrow we can settle all -the rest.”</p> - -<p>He had taken her hand as they stood together at the gate. Dolly’s -amazement knew no bounds. She was so bewildered that she could only -stand and gaze at him with open mouth.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean me?” she cried at last—“me?” with mingled horror and -surprise. “I don’t know what you mean!” she said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear, I mean you. I tell you I looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> again at all the rest, -and there was not one so nice. Of course I mean you, Dolly. I have -always been fond of you from the first. I will make you a good husband, -dear, and you will make me a sweet little wife.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no, no!” Dolly cried. The world, and the sky, and the trees, -seemed to be going round with her. She caught at the gate to support -herself. “No, no, no! It is all a dreadful mistake.”</p> - -<p>“It cannot be a mistake. I know very well what I am doing, Dolly.”</p> - -<p>“But oh dear! oh dear! Sir Augustus, let me speak. Do you think I know -what <i>I</i> am doing? No, no, no, <i>no!</i> You must be going out of your -senses to ask me.”</p> - -<p>“Why? because you are so young and so little? But that is just what I -like. You are the prettiest of all the girls. You are a dear, sweet, -good little thing that will never disappoint me. No, no, it is no -mistake.”</p> - -<p>To see him standing there beaming and smiling through the dusk was a -terrible business for Dolly.</p> - -<p>“It <i>is</i> a mistake. I cannot, cannot do it—indeed I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span> cannot. I will not -marry you—never! I don’t want to marry anybody,” she said, beginning to -weep in her excitement.</p> - -<p>Now and then a villager would lumber by, and, seeing the couple at the -porch, grin to himself and think that Miss Dolly was just the same as -the other lasses. It was a pity the gentleman was so little, was all -they said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">At</span> last the year of the mourning was over. The Lennys, the good colonel -and his wife, had come to Markham a few days before, and he was a great -godsend to the boys, who were vaguely impressed by the anniversary, but -could not but feel the grief a little tedious which had lasted a whole -year. They were very glad to go out quite early in the morning with the -colonel, not at all, as it were, for their own pleasure, but because his -visit was to be short, and the keeper was in despair about the birds -which no one shot, and which Sir Augustus was so utterly indifferent -about.</p> - -<p>“He wouldn’t mind a bit if the place was given up to the poachers,” -Harry said. “He says, ‘What’s the good of the game—can’t we buy all we -want?’ I think he is cracked on that point.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I don’t mind Gus at all in some things,” said Roland. “He’s not half a -bad fellow in some things; but he’s an awful muff—no one can deny -that.”</p> - -<p>“He has not been brought up as you have been,” the colonel said.</p> - -<p>While they stole out in the early morning, the old man and the boys, all -keen with anticipated pleasure, Gus felt already the first <i>frisson</i> of -approaching winter in the sunny haze of September, and had coverings -heaped upon him, and dressed by the fire when he got up two hours after. -Poor Sir Gus was not at all cheerful. Dolly’s refusal had not indeed -broken his heart, but it had disappointed him very much, and he did not -know what he was to do to make life tolerable now that this expedient -had failed. The anniversary oppressed him more or less, not with grief, -but with a sense that, after all, the huge change and advancement that -had come to him with his father’s death had not perhaps brought all he -expected it to bring. To be Sir Augustus, and have a fine property and -more money than he knew how to spend, and a grand position, had not -increased his happiness. On the contrary, it seemed to him that the -first day he had come to Markham, when the children<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> had given him -luncheon and showed so much curiosity about him as a relation, had been -happier than any he had known since. He too had been full of lively -curiosity and expectation, and had believed himself on the verge of a -very happy change in his life. But he did not anticipate the death or -the trouble to others which were the melancholy gates by which he had to -enter upon his higher life. When he had dressed, he sat over the fire -thinking of it on that bright September morning. He was half angry -because he could not get rid of the feeling of the anniversary. After -all, there was nothing more sad in the fifteenth of September than in -any other day. But Lady Markham, no doubt, would shut herself up, and -Alice look at him as if, somehow or other, he was the cause of it; and -they would speak in subdued tones, and it would be a kind of sin to do -or say anything amusing. Gus could not but feel a little irritation -thinking of the long day before him, and then of the long winter that -was coming. And all the prophets said it was to be a hard winter. The -holly-trees in the park, where they grew very tall, were already crimson -with berries. Already one or two nights’ frost had made the geraniums -droop.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span> A hard winter! The last had been said to be a mild one. If this -was worse than that, Sir Gus did not know what he should do.</p> - -<p>The day, however, passed over more easily than he thought. His aunt, -Mrs. Lenny, was a godsend to him as the colonel was to the boys. She -made him talk of nothing but “the island” all the day long. It was long -since she had left it. She wanted to know about everybody, the old -negroes, the governor’s parties, the regiments that had been there. On -her side she had a hundred stories to tell of her own youth, which -looked all the brighter for being so far in the distance. They took a -drive together in the middle of the day, basking in the sunshine, and as -the evening came on they had a roaring fire, and felt themselves in the -tropics.</p> - -<p>“Shouldn’t you like to go back?” Mrs. Lenny said. “If I were as rich as -you, Gus, I’d have my estate there, like in the old days, and there I’d -spend my winters. With all the money you’ve got, what would it matter -whether it paid or not? You could afford to keep everything up as in the -old days.”</p> - -<p>“But there’s the sea. I would do it in a moment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span>” Gus said, his brown -face lighting up, “but for the sea.”</p> - -<p>“You would soon get used to the sea—it’s nothing. You would get over -the sickness in a day, and then it’s beautiful. Take me with you one -time, Gus, there’s a darling. I’d like to see it all again before I -die.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll think of it,” Gus said: and indeed for the next twenty-four hours -he thought of nothing else.</p> - -<p>Would it be possible? Some people went to Italy for the winter, why not -to Barbadoes? No doubt it was a longer voyage; but then what a different -life, what a smoothed and warmed existence, without all this English -cold and exercise. He thought of it, neither more nor less, all the next -night and all the next day.</p> - -<p>And no doubt it was a relief to the house in general when the -anniversary was over. A vague lightening, no one could tell exactly -what, was in the atmosphere. They had spared no honour to the dead, and -now it was the turn of the living. To see Bell and Marie in white frocks -was an exhilaration to the house. And it cannot be said that any one was -surprised when quite quietly, without any warning, Fairfax walked into -the hall<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span> where the children were all assembled next day. He had paid -them various flying visits with Paul during the past year, coming for a -day or two at Easter, for a little while in the summer. But there was -something different, they all thought, about him now. From the moment -when Lady Markham had been informed of that one little detail of his -circumstances mentioned in a previous chapter, the young man had taken a -different aspect in her eyes. He had no longer seemed the careless young -fellow of no great account one way or another, very “nice,” very simple -and humble-minded, the most good-humoured of companions and serviceable -of friends, which was how he appeared to all the rest. Mr. Brown had -judged justly from the first. The simplicity of the young millionaire -had not taken in his experienced faculties. He had always been -respectful, obsequious, devoted, long before any one else suspected the -truth. How it was, however, that Lady Markham—who was very different -from Brown, who considered herself above the vulgar argument of wealth, -one to whom the mystic superiority of blood was always discernible, and -a rich <i>roturier</i> rather less agreeable than a poor one—how it was that -she looked upon this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> easy, careless, lighthearted young man, who was -ready to make himself the servant of everybody, and who made his way -through life like an obscure and trusted but careless spectator, rather -than an agent of any personal importance—with altogether different eyes -after the secret of his wealth had been communicated to her, is what we -do not pretend to explain. She said to herself that it did not, could -not; make any difference; but she knew all the same that it made an -immense difference. Had he been poor as well as a nobody, she would have -fought with all her powers against all and every persuasion which might -have been brought to bear upon her. She would have accorded him her -daughter only as it were at the sword’s point, if it had been a matter -of life and death to Alice. But when she knew of Fairfax’s wealth, Lady -Markham’s opposition gradually and instinctively died away. She said it -was the same as ever; but while she said so, felt the antagonism and the -dislike fading out of her mind, why, she did not know. His wealth was -something external to himself, made no difference in him; but somehow it -made all the difference. Lady Markham from that moment gave up the -struggle. She made up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span> her mind to him as her son. She never thought -more about his grandfather. Was this worldly-mindedness, love of money -on her part? It was impossible to think so, and yet what was it? She did -not herself understand, and who else could do so?</p> - -<p>But nobody else had been aware of this change in the standard by which -Fairfax was judged, and everybody had treated him easily, carelessly, as -before. Only when he appeared to-day the family generally were conscious -of a difference. He was more serious, even anxious; he had not an ear -for every piece of nonsense as before, but was grave and pre-occupied, -not hearing what was said to him. Mrs. Lenny thought she knew exactly -what was the matter. He attracted her special sympathies.</p> - -<p>“Poor young fellow,” she said, “he’s come courting, and he might just as -well court the fairies at the bottom of the sea. My Lady Markham’s not -the woman I take her for if she’ll ever give her pretty daughter to the -likes of him.”</p> - -<p>“He wants to marry Alice, do you think?” said Gus. “I wonder if <i>she’ll</i> -have nothing to say to him either?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>He was thinking of Dolly, but Mrs. Lenny understood that it was of Lady -Markham’s opposition he thought.</p> - -<p>“I would not answer for the girl herself,” Mrs. Lenny said; “but Gus, my -dear, you have done harm enough in this house; here’s a case in which -you might be of use. You have neither chick nor child. Why shouldn’t you -settle something on your pretty young sister, and let her marry the man -she likes?”</p> - -<p>“No, I have neither chick nor child,” Gus said.</p> - -<p>It was not a speech that pleased him, and yet it was very true. He -pondered this question with a continually increasing depression in his -mind all day. He could not get what he wanted himself, but he might help -Fairfax to get it, and make up to him for the imperfections of fortune. -Perhaps he might even be asked, for anything he could tell, to serve -Paul in the same way. This made the little baronet sad, and even a -little irritated. Was this all he had been made a great man for, an -English landed proprietor, in order that he should use his money to get -happiness for other people, none for himself?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span></p><p>In the meantime Fairfax had followed Alice to the west room, her -mother’s favourite place, but Lady Markham was not there.</p> - -<p>“I will tell mamma. I am sure she will be glad to see you,” Alice said.</p> - -<p>“Just one moment—only wait one moment,” Fairfax said, detaining her -with his hand raised in appeal.</p> - -<p>But when she stopped at his entreaty he did not say anything. What -answer could she make him? She was standing waiting with a little wonder -and much embarrassment. And he said nothing; at last—</p> - -<p>“Paul is very well,” he said.</p> - -<p>“I am very glad. We heard from him yesterday.”</p> - -<p>Then there was another pause.</p> - -<p>“Miss Markham,” said Fairfax, “I told your mother myself of <i>that</i>, you -know, and a great deal more. She was not so—angry as I feared.”</p> - -<p>“Angry!” Alice laughed a little, but very nervously. “How could she be -angry? It was not anything that could——”</p> - -<p>What had she been going to say? Something cruel, something that she did -not mean.</p> - -<p>“Nothing that could—matter to you? I was afraid<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> not,” said Fairfax; -“that is what I have been fearing you would say.”</p> - -<p>“Of course it does not matter to us,” said Alice, “how should it? Why -should it matter to any one? We are not such poor creatures, Mr. -Fairfax. You think you—like us; but you have a very low opinion of us -after all.”</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t think I like you. I think something very different. You -know what I think,” he said. “It all depends upon what you will say. I -have waited till yesterday was over and would not say a word; but now -the world had begun again. How is it to begin for me? It has not been -good for very much in the past; but there might be new heavens and a new -earth if—— Alice!” he cried, coming close to her, his face full of -emotion, his hands held out.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Fairfax!” she said, drawing back a step. “There is mamma to think -of. I cannot go against her. I must do what she says.”</p> - -<p>“Just one word, whatever comes of it, to myself—from you to me—from -you to me! And after,” he said, breathless, “she shall decide.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Alice did not say any word. Perhaps she had not time for it—perhaps it -was not needed. But just then the curtains that half veiled the west -room were drawn aside with a fretful motion.</p> - -<p>“If it is you who are there, Alice and Fairfax,” said Sir Gus—and in -his voice, too, there was a fretful tone, “I just want to say one word. -I’ll make it all right for you. You need not be afraid of mamma. I’ll -make it all right with her. There! that was all I wanted to say.”</p> - -<p>When Sir Gus had delivered himself of this little speech he went off -again very hastily to the hall, not meaning to disturb any tender scene. -The idea had struck him all at once, and he carried it out without -giving himself time to think. It did him a little good; but yet he was -cross, not like himself, Bell and Marie thought. There was a fire in the -hall, too, which the children, coming in hot and flushed from their -games, had found great fault with.</p> - -<p>“You will roast us all up; you will make us thin and brown like -yourself,” said Bell, who was always saucy.</p> - -<p>“Am I so thin and so brown?” the poor little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span> gentleman had said. “Yes, -I suppose so, not like you, white and red.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bell, how could you talk so, to hurt his feelings?” said little -Marie, as they stood by the open door and watched him, standing sunning -himself in the warmth.</p> - -<p>His brown face looked very discontented, sad, yet soft, with some -feeling that was not anger. The little girls began to draw near. For one -thing the autumn air was cool in the afternoon, and their white frocks -were not so thick as their black ones. They began to see a little reason -in the fire. Then Bell, always the foremost, sprang suddenly forward, -and clasped his arm in both hers.</p> - -<p>“He is quite right to have a fire,” she said. “And I hate you for being -cross about it, Marie. He is the kindest old brother that ever was. I -don’t mind being roasted, or any thing else Gus pleases.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Gus, you know it wasn’t me!” cried Marie, clinging to the other -arm.</p> - -<p>His face softened as he looked from one to another.</p> - -<p>“It wasn’t either of you,” he said. “I was cross, too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span> It is the -cold—it is the winter that is coming. One can’t help it.”</p> - -<p>It was not winter that was coming, but still there was a chill little -breeze playing about, and the afternoon was beginning to cloud over. -Lady Markham coming down stairs was struck by the group in the full -light of the fire, which threw a ruddy gleam into the clouded daylight. -Something touched her in it. She paused and stood beside them, looking -at him kindly.</p> - -<p>“You must not let them bother you. You are too kind to them,” she said.</p> - -<p>Just then the post-bag came in; and Mrs. Lenny along with it, eager, as -people who never have any letters to speak of always are, about the -post. They all gathered about while the bag was opened and the letters -distributed. All that Mrs. Lenny got was a newspaper—a queer little -tropical broadsheet, which was of more importance, as it turned out, -than all the letters which the others were reading. She put herself by -the side of the fire to look over it, while Lady Markham in the window -opened her correspondence, and Gus took the stamps off a foreign letter -he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> received to give them to Bell and Marie. The little girls were -in all the fervour of stamp-collecting. They had a book full of the -choicest specimens, and this was just the kind of taste in which Sir Gus -could sympathise. He was dividing the stamps between them equally, -bending his little brown head to the level of Marie, for Bell was now -quite as tall as her brother. Their little chatter was restrained, for -the sake of mamma and Colonel Lenny, who were both reading letters, into -a soft hum of accompaniment, which somehow harmonised with the ruddy -glow of the fire behind them, warming the dull air of the afternoon.</p> - -<p>“That will make the German ones complete,” Bell was saying. And, “Oh, if -I had only a Greek, like Bell, I should be happy!” cried Marie. The -little rustle of the newspaper in Mrs. Lenny’s hand was almost as loud -as their subdued voices. All at once, into the midst of this quiet, -there came a cry, a laughing, a weeping, and Mrs. Lenny, jumping up, -throwing down the chair she had been sitting on, rushed at Sir Gus, -thrusting the paper before him, and grasping his arm with all her force.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Gus, Gus, Gus!” she cried, “Oh, Colonel,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> look here! Gavestonville -estate’s in the market. The old house is going to be sold again. Oh, -Colonel, why haven’t we got any money to buy it, you and me!”</p> - -<p>“Give it here,” said Sir Gus.</p> - -<p>He held it over Marie’s head, who stood shadowed by it as under a tent, -gazing up at him and holding her stamp in her hand. The little gentleman -did not say another word. He paid no attention either to Mrs. Lenny’s -half hysterics or the calls of little Marie, who had a great deal to say -to him about her stamp. His face grew pale with excitement under the -brown. He walked straight away from them, up the staircase and to his -own room; while even Lady Markham, roused from her letters, stood -looking after him and listening to the footstep ringing very clear and -steady, but with a sound of agitation in it, step by step up the stairs -and along the corridor above. It seemed to them all, young and old, as -if something had happened, but what they could not tell.</p> - -<p>Sir Gus was very grave at dinner: he did not talk much—and though he -was more than usually kind, yet he had not much to say, even to the -children, after.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> But by this time the interest had shifted in those -changeable young heads to Fairfax, who was the last novelty, “engaged -to” Alice, a piece of news which made Bell and Marie tremulous with -excitement, and excited an instinctive opposition in Roland and Harry. -But when the evening was over Gus requested an interview with Lady -Markham, and conducted her with great solemnity to the library, though -it was a room he did not love. There he placed himself in front of the -fire, contemplating her with a countenance quite unlike his usual calm.</p> - -<p>“I have something very important to tell you,” he said. “I have taken a -resolution, Lady Markham.” And in every line of the little baronet’s -figure it might be seen how determined this resolution was.</p> - -<p>“Tell me what it is,” Lady Markham said, as he seemed to want her to say -something. And then Sir Gus cleared his throat as if he were about to -deliver a speech.</p> - -<p>“It is—but first let me tell you that I promised to make it all right -for those young people, Alice and Fairfax. I hope you’ll let them be -happy. It seems<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> to me that to be happy when you are young, when you can -have it is the best thing. I promise to make it all right with you. I’ll -settle upon her whatever you think necessary.”</p> - -<p>“You have a heart of gold,” said Lady Markham, much moved, “and they -will be as grateful to you as if they wanted it. Mr. Fairfax,” she said -(and Lady Markham, though she was not mercenary, could not help saying -it with a little pride), “Mr. Fairfax is very rich. He has a great -fortune; he can give Alice everything that could be desired—though all -the same, dear Gus, they will be grateful to you.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Sir Gus, with a blank air of surprise like a man suddenly -stopped by a blank wall. He made a dead stop and looked at her, then -resumed. “I have taken a resolution, Lady Markham. I think I never ought -to have come here; at all events it has not done me very much good, has -it, nor any one else? And I daren’t face another winter. I think I -should die. Perhaps if I had married and that sort of thing it might -have been better. It is too late to think of that now.”</p> - -<p>“Why too late?” said Lady Markham. Her heart<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span> had begun to beat loudly; -but she would not be outdone in generosity, and indeed nothing had been -more kind than poor Gus. She determined to fight his battle against -himself. “Why too late? You must not think so. You will not find the -second winter so hard as the first—and as for marrying——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, that’s out of the question, Lady Markham; and at first I never -meant to, because of Paul. So here is what I am going to do. You heard -what old Aunt Katie said. The old house is for sale again; the old place -where she was born and I was born, my uncle’s old place that he had to -sell, where I am as well known as Paul is at Markham. I am going back -there; don’t say a word. It’s better for me, and better for you, and all -of us, I’ll take the old woman with me, and I’ll be as happy as the day -is long.”</p> - -<p>Here Gus gave a little gulp. Lady Markham got up and went towards him -with her hand extended in anxious deprecation, though who can tell what -a storm was going on in her bosom, of mingled reluctance and -expectation—an agitation beyond words. He too raised <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span>his hand to keep -her silent. T “Don’t say anything,” he said; “I’ve made up my mind; it -will be a great deal better. Paul can come back, and I dare say he’ll -marry little Dolly. You can say I hope he will, and make her a good -husband. And since Fairfax is rich, why that is all right without me. -Send for Paul, my lady, and we’ll settle about the money; for I must -have money you know. I must have my share. And I’d like to give a sort -of legacy to the little girls. They’re fond of me, really, those two -children, they are now, though you might not think it.”</p> - -<p>“We are all fond of you,” said Lady Markham, with tears.</p> - -<p>“Well, perhaps that is too much to expect; but you have all been very -kind. Send for Paul, and make him bring the lawyer, and we’ll get it all -settled. I shall go out by the next steamer,” said Sir Gus, after a -little pause, recovering his usual tone. “No more of this cold for me. I -shall be king at Gavestonville, as Paul will be here. I don’t think, -Lady Markham, I have anything more to say.”</p> - -<p>“But,” she cried clinging to her duty. “<i>But</i>—I don’t know what to say -to you. Gus—Gus!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I have made up my mind,” said the little gentleman with great dignity, -and after that there was not another word to say.</p> - -<p>But there was a great convulsion in Markham when Sir Gus went away. The -children were inconsolable. And Dolly stood by the Rectory gate when his -carriage went past to the railway with the tears running down her -cheeks. He had the carriage stopped at that last moment, and stepped out -to speak to her, letting his fur cloak fall on the road.</p> - -<p>“Marry Paul, my dear,” he said, “that will be a great deal better than -if you had married me. But you may give me a kiss before I go away.”</p> - -<p>There was a vague notion in Sir Gus’s mind that little Dolly had wanted -to marry him, but that he had discouraged the idea. He spoke in -something of the same voice to the children as they saw him go away, -watched him driving off. “I can’t take you with me,” he said, “but you -shall come and see me.” And so, with great dignity and satisfaction, Sir -Gus went away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span></p> - -<p>Thus Paul Markham had his property again when he had given up all -thought of it; but the little gentleman who is the greatest man in -Barbadoes has not the slightest intention of dying to oblige him, and in -all likelihood the master of Markham will never be Sir Paul.</p> - -<p class="fint">THE END.<br /><br /><br /> -LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY; VOL. 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