The Markhams of the Chase were one of the most important families in the
county, as has been already intimated. They owned three parts at least
of the parish (for my Lord Westland was a new man, who had bought, not
inherited, that property, and all that the Trevors had was their house
and park and a few fields that did not count), and a great deal more
besides. It was generally said that they had risen into importance as a
family only at the time of the Commonwealth, but their pedigree extended
far beyond that. In the former generation the family had not been
fortunate. Sir William Markham himself had been born the third son, and
in his youth he had been absent from England, and had “knocked about the
world,” as people say, in a way which had no doubt enlarged his
experiences and made him perhaps more fit for the responsibilities of
public life in which he had been so fortunate. He had succeeded, on the
death of his second brother, when he was over thirty, and it was not
till ten years later that he married.
It had occasioned some surprise in the neighbourhood when Isabel
Fleetwood, who was a great beauty, and had made quite a sensation, it
was said, in her first season, accepted the middle-aged and extremely
sedate and serious little baronet. He was not handsome;--he had no
sympathy with the gay life into which she had been plunged by her
brother and aunt, who were her only guardians; and the world, always
pleased to believe that interested motives are involved, and fond of
prophesying badly of a marriage, concluded almost with one voice that it
was the ambitious aunt and the extravagant brother who had made it up,
and that the poor girl was sacrificed. But this was as great a mistake
as the world ever made. Perhaps it would be wrong to assert that the
marriage was a romantic one, and that the beautiful girl under twenty
was passionately in love with her little statesman. Perhaps her modest,
tranquil disposition, her dislike to the monotonous whirl of fashion,
and her sense of the precarious tenure by which she held her position in
her brother’s house, her only home (he married immediately after she
did, as everybody knows, and did not conceal the fact that it was
necessary to get rid of his sister before venturing upon a wife), had
something to do with her decision. But she had never shown any signs of
regretting it through all these years. Sir William was neither young nor
handsome, but he was a man whose opinion was listened to wherever it was
given, whose voice commanded the attention of the country, whose name
was known over Europe. And this in some cases affects a young
imagination as much as the finest moustache in the world, or the most
distinguished stature. She was not clever, but she was a woman of that
gracious nature, courteous, tolerant, and sympathetic, which is more
perfect without the sharpness of intellect. Nothing that was unkind was
possible to her. She had no particular imagination in the common sense
of the word, but she had a higher gift, the moral imagination (so to
speak) which gave her an exquisite understanding of other people’s
feelings, and made her incapable of any injury to them. This made Lady
Markham the very ideal of a great lady. As for Sir William, he held his
place more firmly than ever with such a partner by his side. They were
the happiest couple in the county, as well as the most important. Not
only did you meet the best of company at their house, but the sight of a
husband and wife so devoted to each other was good for you, everybody
said. They were proud of each other, as they had good reason to be: she
listened to him as to an oracle, and his tender consideration for her
was an example to all. Everything had gone well with the Markhams. They
were rich, and naturally inheritances and legacies and successions of
all kinds fell to them, which made them richer. Their children were the
healthiest and most thriving children that had ever been seen. Alice
promised to be almost as pretty as her mother, and Paul was _not_ short
like Sir William. Thus fortune had favoured them on every side.
About a year before the date of this history, a cloud--like that famous
cloud no bigger than a man’s hand--had floated up upon the clear sky,
almost too clear in unshadowed well-being, over this prosperous house.
It was nothing--a thing which most people would have laughed at, a mere
reminder that even the Markhams were not to have everything their own
way. It was that Paul, a model boy at school, had suddenly become--wild?
Oh no! not wild, that was not the word: indeed it was difficult to know
what word to use. He had begun as soon as he went to Oxford by having
opinions. He had not been six months there before he was known at the
Union and had plunged into all the politico-philosophical questions
afloat in that atmosphere of the absolute. This was nothing but what
ought to have been in the son of a statesman; but unfortunately to
everything his father believed and trusted, Paul took the opposite side.
He took up the highest republican principles, the most absolute views as
to the equality of the human race. That, though it somewhat horrified
his mother and sister, produced at first very little effect upon Sir
William, who laughed and informed his family that Johnny Shotover had
held precisely the same views when he was an undergraduate, though now
he was Lord Rightabout’s secretary and as sound a politician as it was
possible to desire. “It is the same as the measles,” Sir William said.
Paul, however, had a theoretical mind and an obstinate temper: he was
too logical for life. As soon as he had come to the conviction that all
men are equal, he took the further step which costs a great deal more,
and decided that there ought to be equality of property as well as of
right. This made Sir William half angry, though it amused him. He bade
his son not to be a fool.
“What would become of you,” he cried, “you young idiot!” using language
not at all parliamentary, “if there was a re-distribution of property?
How much do you think would fall to your share?”
“As much as I have any right to, sir,” the young revolutionary said.
And then Lady Markham interposed, and assured Paul that he was talking
nonsense.
“Why should you take such foolish notions into your head? No one of your
family ever did so before. And can you really imagine,” she asked with
gentle severity, “that you are a better judge of such matters than your
papa?” but neither did this powerful argument convince the unreasonable
boy.
There was one member of the family, however, who was affected by Paul’s
arguments, and this was his sister. Alice was dazzled at once by the
magnanimity of his sentiments and by his eloquence. Altogether
independent of this, she was, as a matter of course, his natural
partisan and defender, always standing up for Paul, with a noble
disregard for the right or the wrong in question, which is a
characteristic of girls and sisters. (For, Alice justly argued, if he
was wrong, he had all the more need for some one to stand up for him.)
But in this case her mind was, if not convinced, at least dazzled and
imposed upon by the grandeur of this new way of thinking. She would not
admit it to Paul, and indeed maintained with him a pretence of serious
opposition, arguing very feebly for the most part, though sometimes
dealing now and then, all unaware of its weight, a sudden blow under
which the adversary staggered, and in the success of which Alice
rejoiced without seeing very clearly how it was that one argument should
tell so much more than another. But at heart she was profoundly touched
by the generosity and nobleness of her brother’s views. Such a sweeping
revolution would not be pleasant. To be brought down from her own
delightful place, to be no longer Miss Markham of the Chase, but only a
little girl on the same level with her maid, was a thing she could not
endure to think of, and which brought the indignant blood to her cheek.
“_That_ you could never do,” she cried; “you might take away our money,
but you could never make gentlefolk into common people.” This was one of
the hits which found out a joint in Paul’s armour, but unaware of that
Alice went on still more confidently. “You _know_ good blood makes all
the difference--you cannot take that from us. People who have ancestors
as we have can never be made into nobodies.” At which her brother
scoffed and laughed, and bade her remember that old Brown had quite as
many grandfathers as they, and was descended from Adam as certainly as
the Queen was. “And Harry Fleetwood,” said this defiler of his own nest,
“do you call him an example of the excellence of blood?” Poor Alice was
inclined to cry when her disreputable cousin was thus thrown in her
teeth. She clung to her flag and fought for her caste like a little
heroine. But when Paul was gone, she owned to her mother that there was
a great deal in what he said. It was very noble as Paul stated it. When
he asked with lofty indignation, “What have I done to deserve all I have
got? I have taken the trouble to be born,”--Alice felt in her heart that
there was no answer to this plea.
“My dear,” Lady Markham said, “think how foolish it all is; does he know
better than your papa and all the men that have considered the subject
before him?”
“It may be silly,” said Alice, changing her argument, “but it is very
different from other young men. They all seem to think the world was
made for them; and if Paul is wrong, it is finer than being right like
_that_.”
This was a fanciful plea which moved Lady Markham, and to which she
could make no reply. She shook her head and repeated her remark about
Paul’s presumption in thinking himself wiser than papa; but she too was
affected by the generosity and magnanimity which seemed the leading
influences of the creed so warmly adopted by her boy.
This was the state of semi-warfare, not serious enough to have caused
real pain, but yet a little disquieting in respect to Paul’s future,
when the event occurred which has been recorded in the two last
chapters. The ladies saw more of the strange companion whom Paul had
brought with him than they generally saw of ordinary visitors. He had no
letters to write, nor calls to make, nor private occupations of any
kind; neither had he sufficient understanding of the rules of society
to know that guests are expected to amuse themselves, and not to oppress
with their perpetual presence the ladies of the house. What he wanted,
being as it were a traveller in an undiscovered country, was to study
the ways of the house, and the women of it, and the manner of their
life. And as he was so original as not to know anybody they knew, Lady
Markham in her politeness was led to invent all kinds of subjects of
conversation, upon which, without exception, Mr. Spears found something
to say. He assailed them on all points with the utmost frankness. He sat
(on the edge of his chair) and watched Lady Markham at her worsted work,
and found fault even with that.
“You spend a great deal of time over it,” he said; “and what do you mean
to do with it?”
This was the second evening, and they had become quite accustomed to
Spears.
“I am not quite sure, to tell the truth. It is for a cushion--probably I
shall put it on that sofa, or it will do for a window-seat somewhere,
or----”
“There are three cushions on the sofa already, and all the window-seats
are as soft as down-beds. You are doing something that will not be of
any use when it is done, and that, excuse me, is not very pretty, and
takes up a great deal of your time.”
“Show Mr. Spears your work, Alice; he will like that better. Everybody
is severe now upon these poor abandoned Berlin wools. Now, Mr. Spears,
that pattern came from the School of Art Needlework. It was drawn by
somebody very distinguished indeed. It is intended to elevate the mind
as well as to occupy the fingers. You cannot but be pleased with that.”
“What is it for?” said the critic.
“I--scarcely know; for a screen I think--part of a screen you know, Mr.
Spears, to keep off the fire----”
“Ah!--no, I don’t know. Among the people I belong to, Miss Alice, there
is no need of expedients to keep off the fire. Sometimes there is no
fire to have even a look at. I’ve known poor creatures wandering into
the streets when the gas was lighted, because it was warm there. The gas
in the shop-windows was all the fire they had a chance of. Did you ever
see a little wretched room all black of a winter’s night? Black--there’s
no blackness like that; it is blacker than the crape you all put on when
your people die.”
“No; she has never seen it,” cried Lady Markham. “I did once in our
village at home before I was married. Oh, Mr. Spears, I know! it made me
cold for years after. No, thank God, Alice has never seen it. We take
care there is nothing like that here----. But,” she added after a
pause--“I don’t like to say anything unkind; but, Mr. Spears, after all,
it was their own fault.”
“Ah, my lady! you that make screens to keep off the fire, do you never
do what is wrong? you that are cushioned at every angle, and never know
what a hard seat is, or a hard-bed, or a harsh look, or a nip of frost,
or a pinch of hunger--do you always do what is right? You ought to. You
are like angels, with everything beautiful round you; and you look like
angels, and you ought to be what they are said to be; but, if instead of
all this pretty nonsense you had misery and toil around you, and
ugliness, and discord, and quarrelling, would it be wonderful if you
went astray sometimes, and gave the other people, the warm, wealthy,
well-clothed people, reason to say it was your own fault? Great God!”
cried the orator, jumping up. “Why should we be sitting here in this
luxury, with everything that caprice can want, and waste our lives
working impossible flowers upon linen rags, while they are starving, and
perishing, and sinning for want, trying for the hardest work, and not
getting it? Why should there be such differences in life?”
“This is not a place to ask such a question, Spears,” said Paul. “You
forget that we are the very people who are taking the bread out of the
mouths of our brothers. We, and such as we----”
“Hold your tongue, Markham,” said the orator. “Do you think it is as
easy as that? Don’t take any notice of him, my lady. He’s young, and he
knows no better. He thinks that if he were able to give up all your
estates to the people, justice would be done. That is all he knows.
Stuff! we could do it all by a rising if it were as easy as that. You
young ass,” the man continued, filling the ladies with resentment more
warm than when he had denounced them all, “don’t you see it’s a deal
better in the hands of your father and mother, that take some thought of
the people, than with a beast of a shoddy millionaire, who cares for
nothing on this earth but money? I beg your pardon,” he added, with a
smile, “for introducing such a subject at all; but sometimes it gets
too much for me. I remember the things I’ve seen. I would not treat
lilies in that way, Miss Alice, if I were putting them on wood.”
“Oh!” cried Alice with tears in her eyes; “how can you care about a
pattern after what you have been saying?” His eloquence had moved her so
much that she felt disposed to fling her pattern away. “What can one do?
How can one help it?” she said, below her breath, appealing to him with
her heart in her eyes.
“I don’t like the pattern,” said Spears. “If I were going to put it on
wood, I’d treat it so--and so.” To illustrate his meaning, he made lines
with his thumb nail upon her satin. “I’d turn the leaves this way, and
the bud _so_. They should not be so stiff--or else they should be
stiffer.”
“They are conventionally treated, Mr. Spears,” said Lady Markham, “and
you don’t treat anything conventionally, neither our patterns nor your
friends.”
She had not forgotten that he had called her son Paul, and “you young
ass” was still tingling in her ears. Paul took it, however, with the
greatest composure as a matter of course.
Spears burst into a great good-humoured laugh.
“I beg your pardon, my lady. We don’t mind how we talk to young fellows.
I’d have it as conventional, or more, Miss Alice. This falls between two
stools. The lily’s a glorious thing when you enter into it. Look at the
ribs of it, as strong as steel, though they are all sheathed in
something smoother than satin. And every curl of the petal is full of
vigour and life. I used to think till you drew it or carved it, you
never could understand what that means--‘Consider the lilies of the
field.’ There they stand, nobody taking any trouble about them, and come
out of the earth built like a tower, or a ship, anything that’s strong
and full of grand curves and sweeping lines. Now the fault I find with
_that_ is, that you never would come to understand it a bit better if
you worked a hundred of them. If I had a knife and a bit of wood----”
“Do you carve wood, Mr. Spears?”
“Do I carve wood?” he laughed as Lord Lytton might have laughed had he
been asked whether he wrote novels. Did not all the world know it? The
ignorance of this pretty little lady was not insulting but amusing,
showing how far she was out of the world, and how little in this silent
country house they knew what was going on. “Yes--a little,” he said,
with again a laugh. It tickled him. Her mother had not known who Spears
was--Spears the orator--the reformer--the enemy of her order--and now
here was this girl who asked with that inimitable innocence, “Do you
carve wood?” He was amused beyond measure. “But I could not bring a lily
like that out of the softest deal,” he said; “it would break its back
and lie flat--it has no anatomy. If I had a pencil----”
Alice, who was full of curiosity and interest, here put the desired
pencil into his hand, and he sat down at the nearest table, and with
many contortions of his limbs and contractions of his lips, as if all
his body was drawing, produced in bold black lines a tall lily with a
twist of bindweed hanging about its lovely powerful stalk, like strength
and weakness combined. “That is as near nature as you can do it without
seeing it,” he said, pleased with the admiration his drawing called
forth. “But if I were to treat it conventionally, I’d split the lily,
and lay it flat, without light and shadow at all. I should not make a
thing which is neither one nor the other, like your pattern there.”
This was the way in which the man talked, assailing them on every side,
interesting them, making them angry, keeping them in commotion and
amusement. Lady Markham said that it had never cost her so much to be
civil to any one; but she was very civil to him, polite, and sometimes
even gracious. He stayed three days, and though she uttered a heartfelt
thanksgiving when the dog-cart in which Paul drove him to the railway
disappeared down the avenue, “Thank heaven he is gone, and your papa
only comes back to-morrow!” Lady Markham herself did not deny their
strange visitor justice. “But,” she said, “now he is gone, let as little
as possible be said about him. I do not want to conceal anything from
your papa, but I am sure he will not be pleased when he hears of it. For
Paul’s sake, let as little as possible be said. I will mention it, of
course, but I will not dwell upon it. It is much better that little
should be said.”