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 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 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.
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 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 following, though they did not see him. In the hall, Janet separated herself from her father.
“It is Lady Markham 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.”
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.
“When do you go?” the young man said.
“We have everything settled to sail on the 21st. That is five days from now.”
“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.”
“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.
“What does this mean, Spears?”
“It means what is very simple, Paul—mere A B C 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.”
“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——”
“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 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.”
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.
“I will not take a farthing of the money,” he said.
“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 I would take the money! It shows how much you knew me.”
“Then it is a mere matter of personal offence and disappointment, Spears?”
“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.”
“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 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.”
“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, then!”
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 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.
CHAPTER XI.
Alice 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.”
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?”
“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.”
“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——”
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.
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 to know to whom your friends belong. I wish—I wish——
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.
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 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.
“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.”
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.
“We have walked all the way from the station,” she said, with engaging ease, “and it was so hot.”
Lady Markham did not know what to say; the words were taken out of her mouth. She seated herself also, humbly, and looked at her visitor, who had made so wonderful an advance in self-confidence since she saw her first.
“Your father-has come with you?” she said.
“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.
“It is my daughter,” said Lady Markham. “Alice, this is the daughter of Mr. Spears.”
Janet smiled, and bowed her head graciously. She was in a state of great suppressed elation and excitement.
“I don’t need to ask,” she said, “my lady, if you followed my advice?”
“Your advice?”
“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 property, why should he emigrate? But now there is something else that I’ve come to ask you about.”
“Do you mean that my son—has given up the idea?” Lady Markham could scarcely articulate the words.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“What is it you want me to tell you?” said Lady Markham, trembling with eagerness.
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.
“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 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“But,” said Lady Markham—she had never perhaps in her life before spoken with the cold energy of a 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.”
It was all she could do to get out the words; her breath went in the tumult of her heart.
“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.”
“It is true, however,” Lady Markham said.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“Oh, it’s too bad—it’s too bad—it’s cruel!” cried Janet once more. Then she relapsed into a grateful 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, “now.”
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.
“But he will have your money?” she said.
“His sisters,” said Lady Markham, with a little gasp, for she had not expected this assault, and was not prepared for it—“his sisters,” she said “will have my money.”
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.
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 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.”
“Oh, thank you, my lady,” Janet cried, forgetting her dignity. This of itself almost repaid her for giving up Paul.
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.
“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?”
“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.”
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, 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.
“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. 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.”
“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.”
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?
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.”
“Oh, not wiser,” she said, still magnanimous; “but it stands to reason that I should know my own boy better than you.”
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.
“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.”
“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.
“God bless you, my lady,” he said, looking at her with a little moisture coming by hard pressure into the corners of his eyes.
“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.
“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 duty that kept you after all. If you should never hear of me again——”
“But I shall hear of you again, and often,” cried Paul, with an emotion he had never anticipated, grasping the other’s hand.
“God knows,” said Spears; “but I’m glad I came. Good-bye.”
And again he strode away, leaving Janet to follow, and Paul standing looking after him, with a sudden pang in his heart.
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.
“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?”
“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.”
Paul’s countenance darkened. “I wish you had not reminded me of that,” he said.
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 the beautiful, kind woman, in whose hands he felt was his fate.
“You find me quite emotionnée,” 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.”
“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.
She smiled. “The sentence will not be very severe; there is not much harm done.”
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.
This time Lady Markham almost laughed. “You do not seem pleased to hear it,” she said. “I thought it might ease your mind.”
“Oh, Lady Markham do not jeer at me! You may think it does not matter, but to me——”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“It is true—quite true.”
“Then,” she said, and paused, “judge for me, Mr. Fairfax, what can I say?”
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.
“If,” she said, faltering, “there had been time enough for real love to take possession of you—both of you—if it had come to that, 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.”
“Better!” he cried, with a bitterness never heard before in his voice.
“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?”
“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——”
“What?” she said, in alarm.
“Rich!” cried the young man. “You know the worst of me now.”
CHAPTER XII.
After 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, 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.
Spears sailed in the end of October with his younger 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 amour-propre 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 fellow Fairfax all seemed so natural! Whatever happened he would not mind; but there could be little doubt that the estimate thus formed was entirely true.
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 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.
“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.”
This appeal to her on behalf of her own husband, wounded Lady Markham almost as much as blame.
“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 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.
“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.”
“You talked to him then—about—his son?”
“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.”
“We will say no more about it,” said Lady Markham.
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 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.
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 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.
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 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 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.
“But it concerns the country,” she would say, “and few people have a greater stake in the country.”
“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——”
“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 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 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.
“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.
“The new master, he be 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.
“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.
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 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.
“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 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 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.
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.
CHAPTER XIII.
That 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 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.
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. 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.
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 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.
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 home, never letting her be seen anywhere—a girl who really ought 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 the winter amusements of country life sanctioned and approved.
“How men of refined habits can do it has always been a mystery to me,” said Lady Westland.
“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.
“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.
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 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 bosquet in which the object of his affections had disappeared.
“What is the matter, Miss Dolly?” Sir Gus had said.
“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.
“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.”
“Harm to me! 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.
“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.”
“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 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.”
“And you can’t bear me, I suppose, for putting this Paul of yours out of his place?” Gus said.
“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.”
“I suppose you think the women are better than the men,” said Sir Gus, shaking his head too.
“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.”
“I don’t think I could,” said Sir Gus, briefly.
“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 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 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.