He that will not when he may; vol. III

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 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 He took a kind of text for his address, “not from the Bible,” he said, “which many of you think out of date,” at which there was a murmur, chiefly of assent; “mind you,” said the orator, “I don’t; that’s a subject on which I’m free to keep my private opinion; but the other book you’ll allow is never out of date.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 sham. 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 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.”

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.

“‘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 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.

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——”

The rest of the sentence was lost in wild applause.

“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. 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—“‘Oh, cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!’”

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.

“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. 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.”

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!”

“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 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——”

Here the speaker was interrupted by the clamour of 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.

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 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 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.

“What’s that?” cried Spears, with the quick hearing of offended affection. “You behind there—some one spoke.”

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.

“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.

“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?”

“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.”

The excited listeners saw Spears grow pale and wince. Then he shouted out with an excited voice—

“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——”

“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.”

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 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.

“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 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!”

CHAPTER V.

“He is not a fool,” said Paul, “but it shows how well you can judge a man when you do not know his circumstances.”

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 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.

“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.”

“Keep your foot still, my good fellow,” was all Fairfax said.

“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.”

“Hark! they’re cheering again,” said Fairfax. “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?”

“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.

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.

“I am glad you are here still, you two,” he said in subdued tones.

Neither of the young men spoke. At last Fairfax, who was not the one on whom his eyes were bent, said—

“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.”

“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.

“It was not done by any refinement of politeness, certainly.”

These were the first words Paul had said, and they were uttered with the same half mocking smile.

“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 shouldn’t mind; but you! that are a kind of child of my soul, Paul!”

“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.”

“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—”

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 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.

“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.”

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 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.

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 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—

“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.”

He said these strident words in the most forcible way, making the r’s roll.

“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.”

“A good many of them would have smarted for it if they had laid a finger on me,” said Paul. “That I promise you.”

Spears laughed; his mind was relieved. He gave his vigorous person a shake and was himself again.

“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.”

“I may as well tell you,” said Paul, tersely, “I am not going with you, Spears.”

The man sat firm in his chair as if he had received a blow, leaning back a little, pressing himself against the woodwork.

“Well!” he said, and kept upon his face a curious 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.”

Paul said nothing, and for another minute there was again perfect silence. Then Spears resumed—

“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.”

“You may save yourself the trouble of titles here, for I am not Sir Paul, nor have I anything in the way 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.”

Spears turned to Fairfax with a look of consternation, as if appealing to him to guarantee the sanity of his friend.

“What does he mean?” he cried, bewildered.

“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.”

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.

“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?”

“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.

Spears looked at him with a mixture of grief and satisfaction, and held out a large hand.

“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. 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.”

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.

“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.”

Spears did not say another word. He stalked away 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.

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.

“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.”

“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.

“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——”

“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.

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 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.

“Where are you living?” said Fairfax at last.

“The house is shut up,” said Paul, giving the name of his hotel.

“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——”

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 friend’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.

CHAPTER VI.

The 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 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.

“He must have been cheated into it,” she cried. “Paul—Paul! so fastidious as he is, how could he ever, ever, have thought of a girl like that?”

But Lady Markham, anxious to keep the balance even, shook her head.

“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.”

“Mamma!”

“I have thought so often, dear. We 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.

“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!”

“Dolly!” said Lady Markham. Nothing could 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.

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——

Nothing was to be made of this hesitating speech.

“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!——”

Lady Markham stopped short and hid her face in her hands.

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 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 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 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.

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 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 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.

“Were you ever in a great big, big place—in a city, Bell?”

“You little silly, of course I have been in Farboro’. I have been with mamma a hundred times, and so have you.”

“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.

“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 will be quite different from Alice when we grow up. She 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.

“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.”

“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?”

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 you think, Bell?”

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 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——”

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.

“Then—” said Bell, “perhaps—I think—it might be rather nice, Marie.”

“Oh, Bell! that is what I sometimes thought—but I never liked to say it.”

“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.”

“But not just now,” said Marie. “It would not be nice to go just now. It would look as if we had forgotten——”

“Did I say now? 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.

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 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?”

“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 dreadful 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. “It is that little gentleman! You have been talking to him, Marie!”

“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.”

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 have anything to say to you, when you have been so——”

“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Gus. “What have I been?” For Bell paused, not knowing what to say.

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.

“I am nobody’s enemy. I am your brother. I want 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.

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.

“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?”

“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.”

“But I am the heir, and not Paul,” said the little gentleman. “I am the eldest. You are very fond of your little sister, but you would not give up what was yours to Marie.”

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.

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.”

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 handkerchief; but all the severity, yet candour, of an entire Bench was in her eyes.

“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.”

“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.”

“Ye-es,” said Marie tired of being left out, “but he is not always nice. He sends me away because I am a girl, as if it was my fault!”

“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.”

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 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 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.

CHAPTER VII.

Gus 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 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 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.

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 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.

“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.

“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.

“What have you been doing to yourself, Bell? You 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.”

“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.

“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.

“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 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.

“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, 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.

“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.

Lady Markham had satisfied herself in the meantime that the lump on the forehead was more ugly than serious.

“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.”

“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 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, “‘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—very like poor papa. Oh!” cried Bell, breaking off with a suppressed shriek, as a hand suddenly was laid upon her shoulder.

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 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.

“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 father’s memory, and all, if you will just put up with having me in the house?”

Lady Markham grew very pale. She made a great effort, standing up to do it.

“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.”

“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.”

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 dans son droit, 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 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.

“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.

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.