The day after Paul’s departure for London with his lawyer and his uncle,
Mr. Gus left the Markham Arms. By a fatality Fairfax thought, he too was
going away at the same time. He had gone up to Markham in the morning
early for no particular reason. He said to himself that he wanted to see
the house of which he had so strangely become an inmate for a little
while and then had been swept out of, most probably for ever. To think
that he knew all those rooms as familiarly as if they belonged to him,
and could wander about them in his imagination, and remember whereabouts
the pictures hung on the walls, and how the patterns went in the carpet,
and yet never had seen them a month ago, and never might see them
again! It is a strange experience in a life when this happens, but not a
very rare one. Sometimes the passer-by is made for a single evening, for
an hour or two, the sharer of an existence which drops entirely into the
darkness afterwards, and is never visible to him again. Fairfax asked
himself somewhat sadly if this was how it was to be. He thought that he
would never in his life forget one detail of those rooms, the very way
the curtains hung, the covers on the tables: and yet they could never be
anything to him except a picture in his memory, hanging suspended
between the known and the unknown. The great door was open as he had
known it (“It is always open,” he said to himself), and all the windows
of the sitting-rooms, receiving the full air and sunshine into them. But
up stairs the house was not yet open. Over some of the windows the
curtains were drawn. Where they still sleeping, the two women who were
in his thoughts? He cared much less in comparison for the rest of the
family. Paul, indeed, being in trouble, had been much in his mind as he
came up the avenue; but Paul had not been here when Fairfax had lived
in the house, and did not enter into his recollections; and Paul he knew
was away now. But the two ladies--Alice, whom he had been allowed to
spend so many lingering hours with, whom he had told so much about
himself--and Lady Markham, whom he had never ceased to wonder at; they
had taken him into the very closest circle of their friendship; they had
said “Go,” and he had gone; or “Come,” and he had always been ready to
obey. And now was he to see no more of them for ever? Fairfax could not
but feel very melancholy when this thought came into his mind. He came
slowly up the avenue, looking at the old house. The old house he called
it to himself, as people speak of the home they have loved for years. He
would never forget it though already perhaps they had forgotten him. His
foot upon the gravel caught the ear of Mr. Brown, who came to the door
and looked out curiously. When things of a mysterious character are
happening in a house the servants are always vigilant. Brown came down
stairs early; he suffered no sound to pass unnoticed. And now he came
out into the early sunshine, and looked about like a man determined to
let nothing escape him. And the sight of Fairfax was a welcome sight,
for was not he “mixed up” with the whole matter, and probably able to
throw light upon some part of it, could he be got to speak.
“I hope I see you well, sir,” said Mr. Brown. “This is a sad house,
sir--not like what it was a little time ago. We have suffered a great
affliction, sir, in the loss of Sir William.”
“I am going away, Brown,” said Fairfax. “I came up to ask for the
ladies. Tell me what you can about them. How is Lady Markham? She must
have felt it terribly, I fear.”
“Yes, sir, and all that’s happened since,” said Brown. “A death, sir, is
a thing we must all look forward to. That will happen from time to time,
and nobody can say a word; but there’s a deal happened since, Mr.
Fairfax--and that do try my lady the worst of all.”
Fairfax did not ask what had happened, which Mr. Brown very shrewdly
took as conclusive that he knew all about it. He said half to himself,
“I will leave a card, though that means nothing;” and then he mused long
over the card, trying to put more than a message ever contained into
the little space at his disposal. This was at last what he produced--
+-----------------------------------------+
| With but always |
| at Lady |
| Markham’s |
| service |
| to the end |
| of his life. |
| |
| EDWARD FAIRFAX’S |
|most respectful and affectionate humble |
|duty, his best wishes, his completest |
|sympathy, only longing to be able to do |
|anything, to be of any use. Going away |
|_Trin: Coll._ with a heavy heart, |
+-----------------------------------------+
When he had written this--and only when he had written it--it occurred
to him how much better it would have been to have written a note, and
then he hesitated whether to tear his card in pieces; but on reflection,
decided to let it go. He thought the crowded lines would discourage
Brown from the attempt to decipher it.
“You will give them that, and tell them--but there is no need for
telling them anything,” Fairfax said with a sigh.
“You are going away, sir?”
“Yes, Brown”--he said, confidentially, “directly,” feeling as if he
could cry; and Brown felt for the poor young fellow. He thought over the
matter for a moment, and reflected that if things were to go badly for
the family, it would be a good thing for Miss Alice to have a good
husband ready at hand. Various things had given Brown a high opinion of
Fairfax. There were signs about him--which perhaps only a person of Mr.
Brown’s profession could fully appreciate--of something like wealth.
Brown could scarcely have explained to any one the grounds on which he
built this hypothesis, but all the same he entertained it with profound
conviction. He eyed the card with great interest, meaning to peruse it
by and by; and then he said--
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I think Miss Alice is just round the
corner, with the young ladies and the young gentlemen. You won’t
mention, sir, as I said it--but I think you’ll find them all there.”
Fairfax was down the steps in a moment; but then paused:
“I wonder if it will be an intrusion,” he said; then he made an abject
and altogether inappropriate appeal, “Brown! do you think I may venture,
Brown?”
“I would, sir, if I was you,” said that personage with a secret chuckle,
but the seriousness of his countenance never relaxed. He grinned as the
young man darted away in the direction he had pointed out. Brown was not
without sympathy for tender sentiments. And then he fell back upon those
indications already referred to. A good husband was always a good thing,
he said to himself.
And Fairfax skimmed as if on wings round the end of the wing to a bit of
lawn which they were all fond of--where he had played with the boys and
talked with Alice often before. When he got within sight of it, however,
he skimmed the ground no longer. He began to get alarmed at his own
temerity. The blackness of the group on the grass which he had seen only
in their light summer dresses gave him a sensation of pain. He went
forward very timidly, very doubtfully. Alice was standing with her back
towards him, and it was only when he was quite near that she turned
round. She gave a little startled cry--“Mr. Fairfax!” and smiled; then
her eyes filled with tears. She held out one hand to him and covered her
face with the other. The little girls seeing this began to cry too. For
the moment it was their most prevailing habit. Fairfax took the
outstretched hand into both his, and what could he do to show his
sympathy but kiss it?--a sight which filled Bell and Marie with wonder,
seeing it, as they saw the world in general, through that blurred medium
of tears.
“I could not help coming,” he said, “forgive me! just to look at the
windows. I know them all by heart. I had no hope of so much happiness as
to see--any one; but I could not--it was impossible to go
away--without----”
Here they all thought he gave a little sob too, which said more than
words, and went to their hearts.
“But, Mr. Fairfax,” said Bell, “you were here before--”
“Yes; I could not go away. I always thought it possible that there might
be some errand--something you would tell me to do. At all events I must
have stayed for----”
The funeral he would have added. He could not but feel that though Alice
had given him her hand, there was a little hesitation about her.
“But, Mr. Fairfax,” Bell began again, “you were staying at the inn
with--the little gentleman. Don’t you know he is our enemy now?”
“I don’t think he is your enemy,” Fairfax said--which was not at all
what he meant to say.
“Hush, Bell, that was not what it was; only mamma thought--and I--that
poor Paul was your friend and that you would not have put yourself--on
the other side.”
“_I_ put myself on the other side!” cried the young man. “Oh, how little
you know! I was going to offer to go out to that place myself to make
sure, for it does not matter where I go. I am not of consequence to any
one like Paul; but----”
“But--what?”
Alice half put out her hand to him again.
“You will not think this is putting myself on the other side. It all
looks so dreadfully genuine,” said Fairfax, sinking his voice.
Only Alice heard what he said. She was unreasonable, as girls are.
“In that case we will not say anything more on the subject, Mr. Fairfax;
you cannot expect us to agree with you,” she said. “Good-bye. I will
tell mamma you have called.”
She turned away from him as she spoke, then cast a glance at him from
under her eyelids, angry yet relenting. They stood for a moment like the
lovers in Molière, eying each other timidly, sadly--but there was no one
to bring them together, to say the necessary word in the ear of each.
Poor Fairfax uttered a sigh so big that it seemed to move the branches
round. He said--
“Good-bye then, Miss Markham; won’t you shake hands with me before I
go?”
“Good-bye,” said Alice faintly. She wanted to say something more, but
what could she say? Another moment and he was gone altogether, hurrying
down the avenue.
“Oh, how nasty you were to poor Mr. Fairfax,” cried Bell. “And he was
always so kind. Don’t you remember, Marie, how he ran all the way in the
rain to fetch the doctor? even George wouldn’t go. He said he couldn’t
take a horse out, and was frightened of the thunder among the trees; but
Mr. Fairfax only buttoned his coat and flew.”
“The boys said,” cried little Marie, “that they were sure he would win
the mile--in a moment----”
“Oh, children,” cried Alice, “what do you know about it? you will break
my heart talking such nonsense--when there is so much trouble in the
house. I am going in to mamma.”
But things were not much better there, for she found Lady Markham with
Fairfax’s card in her hand, which she was reading with a great deal of
emotion. “Put it away with the letters,” Lady Markham said. They had
kept all the letters which they received after Sir William’s death by
themselves in the old despatch-box which had always travelled with him
wherever he went, and which now stood--with something of the same
feeling which might have made them appropriate the greenest paddock to
his favourite horse--in Lady Markham’s room. Some of them were very
“beautiful letters.” They had been dreadful to receive morning by
morning, but they were a kind of possession--an inheritance now.
“Put it with the letters,” Lady Markham said; “any one could see that
his very heart was in it. He knew your dear father’s worth; he was
capable of appreciating him; and he knows what a loss we have had. Poor
boy--I will never forget his kindness--never as long as I live.”
“But, mamma,” said Alice, loyal still though her heart was melting, “you
know you thought it very strange of Mr. Fairfax to take that horrid
little man’s part against Paul.”
“I can’t think he did anything of the sort,” Lady Markham said, but she
would not enter into the question.
It was not wonderful, however, if Alice was angry. She had sent him away
because of the general family anger against him; and lo, nobody seemed
to feel that anger except herself.
But it may be easily understood how Fairfax felt it a fatality when he
found Gus’s portmanteaux packed, and himself awaiting his return to go
by the same train.
“Why should I stay here?” he said. “I did not come to England to stay in
a village inn. I will go with you, and go to that lawyer, and get it all
settled. Why should they make such a fuss about it? I mean no one any
harm. Why can’t they take to me and make me one of the family? except
that I should be there instead of my poor father, I don’t know what
difference it need make.”
“But that makes a considerable difference,” said Fairfax. “You must
perceive that.”
“Of course it makes a difference; between father and son there is always
a difference--but less with me than with most people. I do not want to
marry, for instance. Most men marry when they come into their estates.
There was once a girl in the island,” said Gus, with a sigh; “but things
were going badly, and she married a man in the Marines. No, if they will
consent to consider me as one of the family--I like the children, and
Alice seems a nice sort of girl, and my stepmother a respectable
motherly woman----, eh?”
Some hostile sound escaped from Fairfax which made the little gentleman
look up with great surprise. He had not a notion why his friend should
object to what he said.
But the end was that the two did go to town together, and that it was
Fairfax who directed this enemy of his friends’ where to go, and how to
manage his business. Gus was perfectly helpless, not knowing anything
about London, and would have been as likely to settle himself in Fleet
Street as in Piccadilly--perhaps more so. Fairfax could not get rid of
his companion till he had put him in communication with the lawyer, and
generally looked after all his affairs. For himself nothing could be
more ill-omened. He went about asking himself what would the Markhams
think of him?--and yet what could he do? Gus’s mingled perplexity and
excitement in town were amusing, but they were embarrassing too. He
wanted to go and see the Tower and St. Paul’s. He wanted Fairfax to tell
him exactly what he ought to give to every cabman. He stood in the
middle of the crowd in the streets folding his arms, and resisting the
stream which would have carried him one way or the other.
“You call this a free country, and yet one cannot even walk as one
likes,” he said. “Why are these fellows jostling me; do they want to rob
me?”
Fairfax did not know what to do with the burden thus thrown on his
hands.
And it may be imagined what the young man’s sensations were, when having
just deposited Gus in the dining-room of one of the junior clubs of
which he was a member, he met Paul upon the steps of the building coming
in. Paul was a member too. Fairfax was driven to his wits’ end. The
little gentleman was tired, and would not budge an inch until he had
eaten his luncheon and refreshed himself. What was to be done? Paul was
not too friendly even to himself.
“Are you here, too, Markham? I thought there was nobody in London but
myself,” Fairfax said.
“There are only a few millions for those who take them into account; but
some people don’t----”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” Fairfax said. And then they stood and looked
at each other. Paul was pale. His mourning gave him a formal look, not
unlike his father. He had the air of some young official on duty, with a
great deal of unusual care and responsibility upon him.
“You look as if you were the head of an office,” said Fairfax,
attempting a smile.
“It would not be a bad thing,” said the other languidly; “but the tail
would be more like it than the head. I must do something of that kind.”
“Do you mean that you are going into public life?”
“That depends upon what _you_ mean by public life,” said Paul. “I am
not, for instance, going into Parliament, though there were thoughts of
that once; but I have got to work, my good fellow, though that may seem
odd to you.”
“To work!” Fairfax echoed with dismay; which dismay was not because of
the work, but because the means of getting him out of the place, and out
of risk of an encounter with Gus, became less and less every moment.
Paul laughed with a forced and theatrical laugh. In short, he was
altogether a little theatrical--his looks, his dress, everything about
him. In the excess of his determination to bear his downfall like a man,
he was playing with exaggerated honesty the part of a fallen gentleman
and ruined heir.
“You think that very alarming then? but I assure you it depends
altogether on how you look at it. My father worked incessantly, and it
was his glory. If I work, not as a chief, but as an underling, it will
not be a bit less honourable.”
“Markham, can you suppose for a moment that I think it less honourable?”
said Fairfax; “quite otherwise. But does it mean----? Stop, I must tell
you something before I ask you any questions. That little beggar who
calls himself your brother----”
“I believe he is my brother,” said Paul, formally; and then he added
with another laugh: “that is the noble development to which the house of
Markham has come.”
“He is there. Yes, in the dining-room, waiting for his luncheon. One
moment, Markham!--we were at the inn in the village together, and he has
hung himself on to me. What could I do? he knew nothing about London; he
is as helpless as a baby. And the ladies,” said Fairfax, his countenance
changing, “the ladies--take it as a sign that I am siding with him
against you.”
He felt a quiver come over his face like that of a boy who is
complaining of ill-usage, and for the moment could scarcely subdue a
rueful laugh at his own expense; but Paul laughed no more. He became
more than ever like the head of an office, too young for his post, and
solemnised by the weight of it. His face shaped itself into still more
profound agreement with the solemnity of those black clothes.
“Pardon me, my good fellow,” he said. Paul was not one of the men to
whom this mode of address comes natural. There was again a theatrical
heroism in his look. “Pardon me; but in such a matter as this I don’t
see what your siding could do for either one or the other. It is fact
that is in question, nothing else.”
And with a hasty good day he turned and went down the steps where they
had been talking. Fairfax was left alone, and never man stood on the
steps of a club and looked out upon the world and the passing cabs and
passengers with feelings more entirely uncomfortable. He had not been
unfaithful in a thought to his friend, but all the circumstances were
against him. For a few minutes he stood and reflected what he should do.
He could not go and sit down at table comfortably with the unconscious
little man who had made the breach; and yet he could not throw him over.
Finally he sent a message by one of the servants to tell Gus that he had
been called unexpectedly away, and set off down the street at his
quickest pace. He walked a long way before he stopped himself. He was
anxious to make it impossible that he should meet either Gus again or
Paul. Soon the streets began to close in. A dingier and darker part of
London received him. He walked on, half interested, half disgusted. How
seldom, save perhaps in a hansom driven at full speed, had he ever
traversed those streets leading one out of another, these labyrinths of
poverty and toil. As he went on, thinking of many things that he had
thought of lightly enough in his day, and which were suggested by the
comparison between the region in which he now found himself and that
which he had left--the inequalities and unlikeness of mankind, the
strange difference of fate--his ear was suddenly caught by the sound of
a familiar voice. Fairfax paused, half thinking that it was the muddle
in his mind, caused by that association of ideas with the practical
drama of existence in which he found himself involved, which suggested
this voice to him; but looking round he suddenly found himself, as he
went across one of the many narrow streets which crossed the central
line of road, face to face with the burly form of Spears.