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.”