Sir William did not come home for two days, but when he did return there
was a line between his eyebrows which everybody knew did not come there
for nothing. The first glimpse of him made the whole family certain
_that he knew_: and that he was angry; but he did not say anything until
dinner was over and the children gone to bed. By that time the ladies
began to hope with trembling, either that they had been mistaken, or
that nothing was going to be said. “I will tell him this evening, but I
will choose my time,” Lady Markham whispered to Alice as Sir William
stood up in front of the fireplace and took his coffee after dinner. He
was not a man who sat long after dinner, and he liked to have his coffee
in the drawing-room, when all the boys and girls had said good-night.
He was a little man of very neat and precise appearance, always
carefully dressed, always dignified and stately. Perhaps this had been
put on at first as a necessary balance to his insignificant stature; but
it was part of himself now. His family could not but look up to a man
who so thoroughly respected himself. He had a fine head, with abundant
hair, though it was growing white, and very penetrating, keen blue eyes;
but to see him standing thus against the carved marble of the
mantelpiece with the faint glimmer of an unnecessary fire throwing up
now and then a feeble flash behind him, it was not difficult to
understand that his family were afraid of his displeasure. The
conversation they maintained was of the most feeble, disjointed
description, while he stood there not saying a word. Paul stood about
too, helplessly, as men do in a drawing-room, unoccupied, and prepared
to resent anything that might be said to him. If only he could be got
away Lady Markham felt that she would have courage to dare everything,
and tell her husband, as was her wont, all that had occurred since he
went away.
“The Westlands called on Tuesday. They were not more amusing than usual.
He wanted to tell you of some great discovery he has made about the
state of the law. Paul, will you go and fetch me that law-book I told
you of, out of the library? I want to show something in it to papa.”
“I don’t know what you mean by a law-book,” said Paul. He saw that it
was intended as a pretext to send him away, and he would not budge.
“And I had a long talk with the vicar about the new cottages. He thinks
only those should be allowed to get them who have been very well behaved
in the old ones. Paul, by the way, that reminds me I promised to send
down the Mudie books to the vicarage. Will you go and see after them,
and tell Brown to send them away?”
“Presently,” said Paul. He drank his coffee with the most elaborate
tediousness. The more his mother tried to get rid of him, the more
determined he was not to go.
“Except the vicar and the Westlands we have seen--scarcely anybody. But
I want those books to go to-night, Paul.”
“You are very anxious to get Paul out of the way,” said Sir William.
“What does ‘scarcely anybody’ mean? Is it true that a man called
Spears, a trades-unionist, a paid agitator----?”
“He is nothing of the sort,” said Paul, with a sudden burst of passion.
“If he is an agitator, it is for the right against the wrong, not for
payment; anybody who knows him will tell you so.”
“I have heard it from people who know him,” said Sir William. “Is it
possible that you took advantage of my absence, Paul, to bring such a
man here--to lodge such a person in my house?”
“Such a person!” Paul, who had felt it coming ever since his father’s
arrival, stood to his arms at once. “He is the best man I know,” he
said, indignantly. “There is no house in the country that might not be
proud to receive him; and as for taking advantage of your absence,
sir----”
“Indeed,” said Lady Markham, holding up her head, though she had grown
pale, “you must not say so, William; he did not know you were away; and
as for Mr. Spears, I was just about to tell you. He is not a man to be
afraid of. It is true he is not--in society, perhaps--he has not quite
the air of a person in society--has he, Alice?” This was said with
scarcely a tremble. “But his manners were perfectly good, and his
appearance, though it was quite simple--I think you must be making some
mistake. I saw no harm in him.”
Will it be believed that Paul, instead of showing gratitude, was
indignant at this mild approval? “Saw no harm in him,” he cried; “his
manners, his appearance. Are you mad, mother? He is a man who is worthy
to be a king, if merit made kings; or if any man worth the name would
accept an office which has been soiled by such ignoble use!”
“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Sir William. “It is you who are mad. A
stump-orator, a fellow who does much mischief in England! My house is
not to be made a shelter for such _canaille_. Your mother should have
turned him to the door; and so she would have done, I don’t doubt--her
instincts are too fine not to have seen the kind of creature he was--but
for her foolish devotion to you.”
“Paul, Paul! Oh, don’t speak--don’t say anything,” cried Alice in an
agony, in her brother’s ear.
“Let him say what he pleases,” said Sir William. “This must be put a
stop to. When the house is his, he can dishonour it if he likes, but in
the meantime the house is mine.”
“Certainly the house is yours, sir,” cried his son; “I make no claim on
it. I feel no right to it. Let me alone, Alice! Do I want the house, or
the land, or the money which we steal from the poor to make ourselves
splendid, while our fellow-creatures are starving? I am ready to give it
up at a moment’s notice. It wounds my conscience, it restrains my
action. I want nothing with your house, sir. If I may not bring one
honest man into it, you may hand it over to any one you please; it is no
home for me.”
“Paul, Paul!” cried his mother in tones of alarm. Sir William only
laughed that laugh of anger which frightens a household.
“Let him rave--let him rave,” he cried, throwing himself into a chair.
“A boy who speaks so of his home does not deserve one. He does not
deserve the position Providence has given him--a good name, a good
fortune, honourable ancestors, all thrown away.”
“I acknowledge no honour in the ancestors that robbed the poor to make
me rich,” cried the hot-headed youth. And the end of all was that his
mother and sister had much ado to keep him from leaving the house at
once, late as it was, in the heat of passion. Never before had such a
storm--or indeed any storm at all--arisen in the peaceful house. It
marked the ending of that idyllic age in which the rulers of a family
are supreme, and where no new-developed will confronts them within their
sacred walls. Raised voices and faces aglow with anger are terrible
things in such an inclosure. It seemed to Lady Markham that she would
die with shame when she met the look of subdued wonder, curiosity, and
sympathy in old Brown’s eyes; when, after the storm was over, after a
decent interval, he came in, taking great precautions to make himself
audible as he approached. It was the first time since she entered the
house that her servants had occasion to be sorry for Lady Markham, and
this consciousness went to her heart. By the time Brown came in,
however, all was very quiet. Sir William had gone away to his library,
and Paul, breathing indignation at every pore, was walking about the
room with his hands in his pockets, now and then launching an arrow at
his mother or sister. A truce had been patched up. He had consented, as
a great matter, not to plunge out of the house into the darkness, but
to wait till to-morrow. This was a concession for which they were as
grateful as if it had been the noblest gift; it was for their sake he
did it; nothing else, he declared, would have made him remain an hour
under the same roof.
“Oh hush, Paul--hush! I forbid you to say another word,” cried his
mother; and then all was silent, as they heard Brown cough before he
opened the door.
“Tell Lewis to have the dog-cart ready for Mr. Markham for the first
train,” she said, not raising her eyes. But all the same she saw the
pity in the face of old Brown. He asked no question; he did not express
his sorrow to hear of Mr. Markham’s sudden departure, as on previous
occasions he would have done, exercising the right of his old service;
he said, “Certainly, my lady,” in a tone which went to Lady Markham’s
heart. Even Brown perceived that there was no more to be said.
That was in other ways a notable year for the Markhams. For one thing
Alice “came out.” She was eighteen: she had not been prematurely
introduced as an eldest daughter very often is. And in consequence Lady
Markham stayed in London longer and went more into society. This moment,
so exciting to the _débutante_, was clouded over to Alice and to her
mother by the fact that Paul was in disgrace. They were still in London
when the Oxford term ended, and it had been their hope that he would
join them there. It is true that this prospect was not altogether an
unmingled delight, for a certain alarm was involved in their joy. How
would his father and he “get on” after this first quarrel? Would Paul be
as submissive, would Sir William be as forgiving, as they ought? All the
little triumphs of Alice, her _succès_, the admiration she had excited
were made of no account by this doubt and fear about her brother. But
when, just before the long vacation began, a letter arrived from Paul,
announcing that he did not mean to join them at all, but was going to
“stay up and read,” with a party of other “men” who entertained that
virtuous intention, the revulsion of feeling in the minds of the mother
and sister was very painful. They forgot that they had ever entertained
any fear about his coming, and cried over his letter with the bitterest
pangs of disappointment.
“It is all papa’s fault,” Alice cried in mournful wrath; and though
Lady Markham checked her daughter, saying, “Hush! surely your papa knows
better than you do,” yet there was a little rebellion in her heart too
against the head of the house. Had he been less hard, Paul would have
been more docile.
Sir William, however, as it happened, was rather mollified than offended
by this intimation. The authorities of Paul’s college had been finding
fault. High hopes had been entertained of the young man at first. It had
been believed that he would bring distinction to his college, which, who
can doubt? is the first thing to be considered. But that hope had proved
delusive; he had not “gone in for” half so much as he ought, and of all
those things he had “gone in for” he had not been successful in one.
This made him to be looked upon coldly by eyes which at first winked
with benevolence at the blunders and idleness of a statesman’s son. Now
that they were aware that he was not likely to bring them any honour,
the dons grew querulous with Paul. He was not a duke or a duke’s son
that he should ride roughshod over the habitudes of the university and
its inviolable order. They had not of late shown that delight in him
which parents love to see. He had not excited parental feelings in
their academical bosoms. He was visionary, he was Radical; and it was
whispered that he received visitors in his rooms who were not of a
character to be received there. Fortunately this last accusation had not
reached Lady Markham’s ears. Had she known, how could she ever have
borne that “staying up to read,” which at present seemed a proof of
Paul’s innate virtue? But Sir William was of tougher fibre. He was not
displeased to be free of personal contact with his son at this crisis.
It is not expedient that there should be quarrels in a family. All that
nonsense would blow over. Paul’s intellectual measles might be severe,
but they were only measles after all, a malady of youth which a young
man of marked character took more seriously than a frivolous boy, but
which would pass away. “It will be all the better for his degree,” his
father said with that simplicity of confidence in the noble purpose of
“staying up to read” which it is so touching to see. And what could the
women say? If it was good for him, was it their part to complain? They
were cruelly disappointed, and yet perhaps they were relieved as well.
They wrote letters full of the former feeling, but they did not say
anything about the latter--not even to each other. How could they allow
even to themselves that it was better for Paul to stay away?
However this disappointment seriously interfered with the glories of her
first season to Alice. She did not wish to stay longer in town than Lady
Markham’s usual time. She longed for the country, when the summer
reached its very crown of brightness, and the park looked baked and the
streets scorching. They went home as they were in the habit of doing, in
the end of June, leaving Sir William to toil through the end of the
session by himself; and though it was still more melancholy to be
without Paul in the quietness of home, yet there were compensations.
They had their usual work to occupy them, and that routine of ordinary
living which is the best prop and support of the anxious mind; and Alice
was young enough, and her mother scarcely too old to forget, by times
altogether, that there were troubles in the world. Nothing very dreadful
had happened after all. If Paul did not write very often, were not all
boys the same? Thus they kept their anxieties subdued, and were not
unhappy--except perhaps for half an hour now and then.
Thus the summer went on. The holidays came once more. The boys came
home, the girls were delivered from their governess, and the reign of
innocence recommenced. Not to last long this time, for everybody knew
that in the second week in August papa was coming home. The children,
however, took the good of the fortnight they had all to themselves. The
sunshine, the harvest, the woods, how delightful they are in August,
with no lessons, no governess, and mamma all to themselves! From morning
till night the house was full of laughter and commotion, except when it
lay all open and silent with the whole family out of it, gone
pic-nicking, gone upon excursions, making simple holiday.
“My lady is the biggest baby of them all,” Mrs. Fry said with indulgent
disapproval, shaking her head, “if she wasn’t thinking all the time of
Mr. Paul.”
“Bless you there ain’t a minute as that boy is out of her head,” said
Brown. Brown was too respectful to say anything but Mr. Markham in
public, but he said Mr. Paul, or even Paul _tout court_, when he was in
the housekeeper’s room. While these pranks were going on, the house lay
like an enchanted palace, all its doors and windows open to the sweet
summer air, the rooms full of flowers and sweetness, but nobody there.
There were too many servants about for any fear of robbers, but it is
doubtful whether Sir William would have thought it decorous had he seen
the openness and vacancy of this summer palace, waiting all garnished
and bright for the return of the revellers, for the rush of light feet,
the smiles, the voices, the chattering and laughter, the gaiety and glee
that in a moment would flood it through and through. But to the
spectator whose dignity was not involved, these changes were pretty and
pleasant to see, and it was not to be wondered at perhaps if Brown and
the army under his charge took holiday too.
One day very shortly before that on which Sir William was expected, a
stranger walked slowly up the avenue and came to the great open door.
Everything was open as usual. He saw into the great hall as he came
gradually up, and saw that it was empty and still. It was a warm day,
and he was weighted with a little valise, which he carried, shifting it
from one hand to the other with some appearance of fatigue. He was a
tall man, very thin and very brown, with the unmistakable look of an
old soldier in his well-squared shoulders, even though his figure
drooped a little with fatigue and heat, and slightly with age. When he
reached the door, he looked round him, and seeing nobody there went in
and placed himself in a great chair which was near the open door. “He’s
come into my house without knocking many’s the day,” he said to himself.
It was hot, and he was tired, and the coolness and shade inside
completed what the glare without had done. He put his valise down by his
side and leaned back, and felt himself very comfortable; then quite
tranquilly and pleasantly closed his eyes and rested; had there been
anything to drink all would have been perfect. But even without this it
was very comfortable. The house was perfectly still, but outside a
little breeze was getting up, making a murmuring cadence among the
trees. There was a sound of bees in the air close at hand, and of birds
further off among the branches--everything was sweet and summery and
reposeful. The new-comer lay back in his chair in the mood which makes
fatigue an accessory of enjoyment. Something of the vagabond was in his
appearance which yet scarcely marred his air of gentleman. Poor he was
without doubt, growing old, very tired, dusty, and travel-worn. He was
not fastidious about his accommodation, and could have slept as well on
a grassy bank, had it been needful, but the chair was very comfortable
and pleasant. He fell asleep, or rather went to sleep, quite
voluntarily. It was afternoon, near the time when the party might be
expected to return, but up to this moment nobody had made any
preparation for them, and the new-comer took possession without
challenge of all the comfort of the vacant place.
Roland had been allowed that day to drive the dog-cart, the carriage
being full, and he and Marie had so urged the stout cob Primrose, which
was the steed specially given up to the uses of the schoolroom, that he
flew like the wind and got home before the carriage. The little pair
burst into the stable-yard like a flash of lightning, and tossed the
reins to the first astonished groom they encountered.
“Let’s rush in the back way and pretend we have been here for an hour,”
cried Marie.
They flew rather than walked round by the flower-garden, and through the
open window of the drawing-room. There was the carriage turning in at
the gate, a quarter of a mile off; there was plenty of time. But the
fact that there was plenty of time did not make them move quietly. They
proceeded into the hall, making themselves audible by the chatter of
their childish voices and laughter.
“Won’t mamma be surprised!” cried Marie.
But, on the contrary, it was herself that was surprised. She gave a
lengthened “Oh!” of wonder, alarm, and consternation, as they came in
sight of the stranger in the hall. She turned round and clutched at
Roland, and like a little coward put him first. He was twelve, not an
age to be frightened, and Marie was but eleven. Roland said “Oh!” too,
but with a different tone, and, dropping back a little upon her,
confronted and gazed at the sleeper in the easy chair. His looks were
not of the kind that children fly. The heavy moustache drooping over his
mouth seemed to add to the appearance of complete, yet pleasant
weariness, in which the shabby figure was wrapped. Here was a thing to
encounter when one got home: a man, a gentleman, whom one had never seen
before, fast asleep in the great chair in the hall!
“Will he not wake?” whispered Marie. “Oh, Roland! are you frightened?
Shall I run and tell Brown?”
“Frightened!--likely,” said Roland; but he kept hold of her frock, not
that she could have been of any real assistance to him, but “for
company.”
The two children stood transfixed before this strange apparition,
watching if he would move. At the first stir, Marie most likely would
have run away with a shriek; but after all what was there to fear? Mamma
had certainly turned into the avenue, and might arrive any moment, and
Brown with his army of men and maids was somewhere in the background
within call, so there was no real reason to fear. Nevertheless, when the
arms that rested on the arms of the chair began to stretch themselves,
and the intent gaze of the children drew the tired eyes open, Marie’s
best efforts to command herself could not restrain a tremulous cry,
which quite completed the stranger’s awakening.
“Bless me, I’ve been asleep!” he said, opening his eyes. Then when he
saw the two little figures before him, his eyelids opened wider, and a
smile came out from underneath them. “Little folks, who are you?”
“It’s you to tell us,” cried Roland with spirit. “This is our house, but
it isn’t yours.”
“That’s true, my little man. I’ve been asleep, more shame to me. It was
hot, and I’ve had a long walk.”
“If you are very tired, poor gentleman,” said Marie, coming in now that
there seemed nothing to be afraid of, “I--don’t think mamma will mind.
Oh, Rol, here she is! come and tell her,” the little girl cried. They
forgot their triumph of being first, in the excitement of this strange
piece of news, and flew bursting with it to the door of the carriage
which swept up at the moment, filling the stillness with echoes, and
waking up the whole silent house. Brown and the footman on duty appeared
as by magic, and the whole enchanted palace came to life. The stranger
sat still and watched it all with a smile on his face. He saw pretty
Alice and her beautiful mother descend from the carriage, and a curious
light broke over his countenance.
“Lucky little beggar,” he said.
He repeated this phrase two or three times to himself before he was
altogether roused from the half-dream, half-languor, he was still in, by
the sight of Lady Markham’s eyes fixed upon him, and the alarmed,
guilty, nervous inspection of old Brown.
“You must get out of here, sir--you must get out of here, sir--heaven
knows how you got into it; this must have been your fault, Charles. I
can’t let you stay here, though I don’t want to be uncivil. My lady’s
coming this way.”
“It’s your lady I want, my friend,” said the intruder, rising languidly.
He made Lady Markham a fine bow as she approached, with surprise in her
face. “I must be my own godfather, and present myself to my old friend’s
family,” he said. “I am Colonel Lenny, of the 50th West India Regiment.
St. John Lenny at your service, my dear madam, once Will Markham’s
closest friend.”
Lady Markham made him a curtsey in return for his bow.
“Sir William is not at home,” she said. If she had not already suffered
for her hospitality, his reception would have been less cold; but she
had never heard of Colonel Lenny, and what could she say?
“He must have talked to you about me and mine. I married a
Gaveston--Katey. You must have heard him speak of her. No? That is very
strange. Then perhaps you will think me an intruder, my Lady Markham. I
beg your pardon. I thought I was sure of a welcome; and I was so done
with the heat, though I used not to mind the heat, that I fell asleep in
your nice, pleasant hall, in this big chair.”
Lady Markham inclined her head in assent. What was she to do? who was
Colonel Lenny? She cast a glance at Alice, seeking counsel; but how
could Alice advise?
“Will you come in now and take a cup of tea with us?” she said.