“You have kept me a long time waiting,” said Sir William. “I should have
thought elaborate leave-takings unnecessary in a place where you seem so
much at home.”
“I took no leave,” said Paul; “it was quite unnecessary. I shall see
Spears again to-night.”
Sir William turned round upon his son with quick impatience; then
paused. This was not a case to be treated hastily, and patience was the
best. “You and I differ in a great many points,” he said; “therefore it
is not wonderful perhaps that I should think you have made a curious
choice of a trade to learn: for I suppose you are by way of learning a
trade. Don’t you think a certain amount of civilisation is necessary
before picture-frames will become remunerative? I don’t think you could
live by them in the bush.”
Paul coloured high with that acute sense of being open to ridicule which
is so terrible to youth. “Spears is selling off his stock,” he said. “I
do not know if it is a sign of high civilisation, but he sells his
picture-frames and lives by them. Most men of genius have been reduced
to make their livelihood by some inferior branch of their work.”
“And what then do you call his highest work?” Sir William asked
carelessly. Paul, astonished, but willing to believe that his father had
taken an interest in Spears and that all was about to go as he wished,
fell into the trap, as any other unsuspicious nature would have done.
“His carvings are wonderful,” he said, with all the fervour of
enthusiasm. “When he has a congenial subject he is equal to Gibbons or
any one. He ought to have been a great sculptor. If you saw some of the
things he has done you would see what bitter satire it is that _he_
should live by those wretched little picture-frames.”
“Is it so, indeed?” said Sir William. “Then it is the higher branch of
wood-carving and not picture-frames that you are learning, I suppose?
Do you mean then to carry high art, Paul, into the bush?”
“I cannot see what this has to do with the bush, sir,” said Paul,
impatiently. “One must live there by one’s hands, and to know how to use
them in any special way cannot be a disadvantage in any other way. That
is Spears’s view of the subject, and mine too.”
“I doubt if wood-carving will help you much in felling trees or making
them into huts,” said Sir William, with a great air of candour. “What do
you suppose the advantage is likely to be of changing from a state of
society where everything that is beautiful has its value, to one where
you will live by your hands, as you say, and where the highest skill
will only not do you any harm? I should like to know the reasoning by
which you have arrived at your present convictions--the ideas expressed
in the letter I got last night.”
“You have received my letter then?” Paul said, with dignity. “You know
what my settled determination is. I hope you do not mean, and that my
mother does not mean, to attempt to turn me from a plan which I have not
decided on without great thought.”
“I don’t know what your mother may mean to do, my boy,” said Sir
William, quietly. “She will act according to her own standards of duty,
not mine; but I know what I intend myself, and the first thing is to
understand your reasons for the extraordinary step you propose. You, the
heir of a fine property----” Sir William made a stumble before the word
_heir_, which, notwithstanding that Paul was about to abjure everything,
led him to make a rapid calculation of his father’s power in this
matter. The Markham property was not all entailed. Did the father mean
to disinherit his lawful successor? Paul felt a flush of indignation go
over him, though he was about to declare his intention of giving up all.
“The heir of a fine property,” said Sir William, “and an influential
position. At this moment, young as you are, you might make a start in
public life, and have a hand in the government of your country, which is
as high an ambition as a man can entertain. How have you managed to
persuade yourself that to go out into a half savage country and
encounter the first difficulties of savage life is better or more
honourable than this? To live by your hands instead of your head,” he
continued, growing warm, “to surround yourself with beggarly elements
of living instead of the highest developments of civilisation--to make
yourself of no more account than any ploughboy----”
Here Paul felt himself touch the ground. There had stolen over him a
chill of alarm as to how he was to answer such a question, but this last
clause brought him back to the superficial polemics with which he was
familiar enough. “Why should I be of more account than any ploughboy?”
he said; “that is the whole question. Why is there this immense gulf
between the ploughboy and me? Is he less a man than I am? Are not my
advantages a shame to me in the face of manhood? What right have I to
humiliate him for my advancement?”
“What right have you to be a fool?” said Sir William, bitterly. “I don’t
know: your mother is not a fool, though she is not clever. If your
ploughboy had been educated as you have been, your argument might have
had some show of reason. Do you mean to tell me that education is
nothing--that a lad from the fields ought to be of as much use in the
world as you are? This is to despise not only rank, which I know is your
favourite type of injustice, but breeding, culture, everything you have
acquired by your work. How do you justify yourself in throwing away
_that_? There is no question of humiliating the ploughboy; the ploughboy
will be of ten times as much use as you are in the bush.”
This view of the question was not pleasant to Paul. He held himself up
with great stateliness, and did not deign to look at his father. “That
remains to be seen, sir,” he said.
“What remains to be seen?--that a man brought up to farming will make a
better farmer than you--or your friend the wood-carver? Suppose we
consider the question from his point of view,” said Sir William. “He is
a skilled workman, you tell me.”
“I said a man of genius.”
“All the better for my argument. Your man of genius,” Sir William went
on with a barely perceptible smile, “may be--appreciated, let us say, in
a country like this, where art is known: but who will care for his art
where he is going?”
“More than here,” cried Paul hotly, interrupting his father. “Here,
because he has no money, nor position to make him known, and no
impudence to push him into favour, his beautiful work is taken no
notice of, and he lives by making picture-frames. Ploughing and digging
is better than that. The earth at least is grateful for what is done for
her.”
“Not always,” said Sir William. “I thought you had heard enough about
farming to know better. However, the advantage of emigrating to
your--friend, will be, not the gain of anything, but the giving up of
his work, and the sacrifice of what you call his genius. No, I do not
scoff at his genius. I know nothing about it. I take it on your word.
Your man of genius will throw away his chief distinction on your own
showing; and _you_ will throw away what as yet are your only
distinctions, the position you derive from your ancestors, the education
which you have got (partially) by your own exertions--for what? to
attempt to do clumsily what two ploughmen could do much better than
you.---- Ah! who is that?”
Paul’s eye had been caught some moments before by a lady coming towards
them, at sight of whom a sudden flush came over his face. A lady! was
she a lady? She was dressed very simply in a black alpaca gown, the
long plain lines of which harmonised and gave elegance to a tall,
well-developed figure. The dress was well made and graceful, such as any
lady might have worn; but the little hat upon the young woman’s head was
doubtful. Even Sir William, who looked somewhat anxiously at her, seeing
the flush on his son’s face, felt that it was doubtful. The faded brown
velvet and scrubby little feather did not suit the rest of the dress.
She walked well, as she came towards them, but when she perceived Paul
and his companion, an air of embarrassment which was half fright came
over her face. When Paul, all red and glowing with a mixture of feelings
which Sir William could not fathom, took off his hat, she gave him an
alarmed, inquiring look, blushed fiercely, and replied to his salutation
with a hurried nod of her head, which made the question of her position
more uncertain than ever. Still she was a handsome young woman: before
she had seen Paul, Sir William himself had remarked her stately carriage
and figure. “Who is that?” he repeated, suspicious, as a parent
naturally is of a young man’s unknown female friends, yet not unprepared
to hear that it was somebody not unworthy to be known by Sir William
Markham’s son; for it might well be that ladies in a learned community,
fearless of misconception, were not always so particular as could be
desired about their hats. He turned half round and gave a glance after
her as she continued her way, which, as she had just done the same, was
somewhat awkward. But Paul marched straight forward and took no notice.
“Who is that?” Sir William repeated, sharply, determined this time to
have a reply.
Paul’s blush and discomfiture, and his marked and ceremonious
recognition of the stranger, meant several things. They meant that he
felt himself certain to be misconstrued, yet was too proud and too
sincere to take any means of avoiding misconstruction; that he was
annoyed by the encounter, alarmed by the new idea which his father would
certainly take up in consequence; yet forced by this alarm and annoyance
to show a more marked and excessive courtesy to the person (oh, had she
but gone down another street and kept out of the way!) whose appearance
plunged him into so much confusion, and would, he felt sure, complicate
everything. Whether this sudden liveliness of consciousness did not mean
that there was cause for alarm is another matter. In the meantime all
that Paul felt was that the girl’s name once mentioned must add tenfold
to the difficulty of his position.
“Who is it? It is Spears’s eldest daughter,” he said curtly, with a new
and brilliant suffusion of colour over all his face.
“Oh!” was all Sir William said. What more was necessary? The young man
felt, with a sensation of intolerable impatience that he was judged and
condemned on the spot; but he could not protest against a conclusion
which was not put into words. If he said anything, would not his guilt
be considered doubly proved? Silence seemed his only policy; and no more
was said. The discussion, which had been so serious, came to a dead
stop. They walked on together without saying another word. Sir William,
who had been so bent upon convincing his son, dropped his argument all
at once. Paul did not look at him, but yet he was aware that the line on
his forehead, the pucker that meant trouble, had deepened. The young man
felt himself suddenly in the grip of despair. He felt himself judged,
the question settled, everything changed. His whole conduct had assumed
a new light in his father’s eyes, and it was a false light. Instead of
respecting him as the logical if rash devotee of certain fixed
principles, his father evidently concluded him to be the victim of a
commonplace love affair. How was Paul to overcome this hasty and false
judgment? Pride and prudence alike made it necessary that he should take
no notice of it. He held his head higher in the air than ever, and
walked on with a certain protestation and appeal against the injustice
done him in every step he took. Sir William, on his side, dropped the
argument with a mixture of despair and contempt. This was how it
was--far more easy to understand than democratic ideas or communistic
principles in the heir to a great property, here was an inducement which
was plain to the meanest capacity: a fine, handsome, young woman! This
was how it was! Sir William felt angry with himself for being duped, and
for having really for a moment believed in the revolutionary sentiments
which had been assumed (he had no doubt) in order to carry on this other
pursuit. How foolish he had been to allow himself to be thus deceived!
He gave up his argument with an abruptness which had impatience in it,
and for the moment he could not say anything to the boy who had thus
succeeded in deceiving him, and added the feeling of shame for his own
gullibility to that of anger. He had taken the trouble to attempt to
convince him, to believe in an intellectual error, which, however
exasperating, was not discreditable--and this was how it was!
What was to be done? It was all a mistake, but Paul could not say so,
for his father did not condescend to make any accusation. Thus they
walked on, fuming both with indignation and impatience. Now and then the
young man eyed his father as if he could have taken him by the shoulders
and shaken him, an undutiful form of the mutual exasperation. But Sir
William was beyond this. What was the good? He would save his breath, he
thought, for better purposes. Why should he talk himself hoarse while
Paul laughed in his sleeve, not caring a straw for his arguments,
meaning perhaps to laugh with the girl the next time they met over the
ease with which his father had fallen into the snare. No, the fellow was
not worthy of argument; he who was capable of masking an unworthy
entanglement in this way. Let his mother try her hand upon him, the
father thought, indignantly. She might do something. A woman’s tears
and suffering are sometimes more effectual than reason. Sir William felt
in his indignant disgust that to let his own beautiful and perfect wife
enter the lists against this--hussy--yes, he was coarse in his vexation
and distress--to let Lady Markham, the pride of the county, a woman whom
it was a glory for a man to have won--to let her come down from her
pedestal and humble herself to the pleadings and the tears of an anxious
mother for a boy so little worthy of her as to be capable of such a
connection--was a disgrace. But then he knew that was not how she would
feel it. She would not think of her own dignity. And she would get it
all out of him--women can; they do not disdain to return and return to
the inquiry, to ask question after question; he would not be able to
elude her examination. She would get it all out of him--how far it had
gone, all about it. And then some strong step must be taken--something
must be done--though, for the moment, he could not think what that
something should be.
“I see them at last,” said Alice from the window. “Oh, Paul! Papa is
coming along quite quietly, not scolding him. He is looking--not so
angry. It is so natural to see them walking along--quite friendly. He is
not scolding----”
“Oh, my dear! do not use such a word. Scold! we might scold Harry for
climbing trees: but this is too serious, far too serious. How is my poor
boy looking? Oh, I hope--I hope your papa has not been hard upon him.
Men forget that they were once young and foolish too.’
“That was what I meant,” said Alice. “I wonder---- they are not saying
anything to each other, mamma.”
Lady Markham had come to the window and was looking out too, over her
child’s shoulder, while the father and the son came along the street
together, silent, separated by so much that was real, and something that
was mistaken. The mother and daughter looked out together with but one
heart. Not a breath had ever come between these two: they knew each
other absolutely as no one else knew either. How could it be possible
for them to misunderstand each other, to fall apart, to experience ever
whatever might happen, the chill distance and severance which was
between Sir William and his son? Lady Markham leant upon her child’s
shoulder.
“Not a word,” she said; “not a word. Oh, my boy--my boy! Your father
must have given it up; he must think there is nothing more to be said.”
“But we will never give him up!” cried the girl. “How could we give him
up? That is impossible. You could as soon give up _me_!”
“Not Paul, dear--never Paul: but the attempt to turn him from his own
way. If he will not listen to your papa, Alice, what attention will he
pay to me and you?”
Alice had no answer to make to this question, so intent was she,
watching the expression of Paul’s face as he crossed the street and
disappeared under the gateway. She read in it, or thought she read in
it, the conclusion of a stormy argument, the opposition to all that
could be said to him, the determination to have his own way which was
natural to Paul. And she too, with a sigh, recognised the futility of
argument.
“He never would listen to papa,” she said. “Papa proves you so in the
wrong that you can’t help going on with it. But he will not be cruel to
you and me. Oh, when he knows it will break our hearts!” said Alice.
And then they were silent, hearing the steps come up the staircase,
turning two pairs of anxious eyes towards the door. Sir William came in
first with a kind of stern introduction of the culprit.
“Here is Paul,” he said. And then without any words, with a certain
half-protest against their presence there at all, Paul submitted to be
kissed by his mother and sister. They stood all together in a confused
group for a moment, not knowing what to do or say, for it is difficult
to rush into such a subject as this which was in all their thoughts in a
company of four. Lady Markham held her boy by the hand, and looked at
him pathetically with an unspoken appeal which made his heart ache, but
felt that she must have him to herself, must be free of all spectators,
before she could say all she had to say to him. “We had better go back
to the inn and get some luncheon,” said Sir William, breaking the spell
with practical simplicity. He took his wife by the arm as they went down
stairs. “The democracy is a pretence, and so is the fancy for a new
world,” he half-whispered, hissing into her ear. “It is a woman, as I
thought.”
Lady Markham started so that she almost lost her footing, and her
parasol fell out of her hand.
“A woman?” she said, with a scarlet blush of trouble and shame. The
first intrusion of this possibility daunts and terrifies a mother. A
woman! what does that mean?--not the pure and delicate love with which
all her thoughts would be in sympathy; something very different. The
shock of separation between the boy, the heir of all her hopes, and a
man half-known, who is no longer the child of her bosom, was almost more
than she could bear. The cry she gave echoed low but bitter through the
empty passages, where many such have echoed, audible or inaudible,
before.