The visit of Janet Spears had made a great impression upon Lady Markham.
She abstained as long as she could from speaking of it to Alice, but
what is there which a woman can keep from her closest companion, her
daughter, who is as her own soul? Up to this moment Alice had known
nothing whatever about Janet Spears, not even of her existence. Perhaps
Lady Markham’s discretion, and the painful sense that she had interfered
injudiciously in Paul’s affairs, might not have sufficed to keep her
secret; but Sir William’s illness had carried the day over everything,
and not a word had been said between the mother and daughter on this
subject. Even now Lady Markham made a heroic effort. Full as was her
mind of the visit, she kept it to herself for two long days, thinking
over everything that had been said, and wondering if she had done as
she ought, or if she should have been more kind to the girl whom (was it
possible?) Paul loved, or more severe upon the creature who had
enthralled him. At one time she thought of Janet in one way, at another
in the other. The girl he loved (was it possible?), or the woman who had
put forth evil arts and got him in her power. It is hard for a woman to
be quite just to any one, male or female, who has injured her son: and
people say it is hardest to be just, to a woman who has done so. [In
this point I do not feel qualified to judge; but men say so who know
women better, naturally, than they know themselves.] Lady Markham
struggled very hard to be just: but it was difficult; and in a moment of
pressure, when Alice came upon her suddenly, and with a soft arm round
her and a soft cheek laid against hers, entreated to know if there was
any fresh trouble--how could she help but tell her everything? Alice
justified all vulgar sentiment on the subject by being triumphantly
unjust.
“He must have been cheated into it,” she cried. “Paul--_Paul!_ so
fastidious as he is, how could he ever, ever, have thought of a girl
like that?”
But Lady Markham, anxious to keep the balance even, shook her head.
“My dearest, you don’t know much about men. I can’t tell why it is. They
choose those whom you would think they would fly from, and fly from
those whom you would think--I don’t know, Alice, perhaps they get tired
of the kind of women like you and me, whom they see every day.”
“Mamma!”
“I have thought so often, dear. _We_ don’t feel so, but men--they get
tired of one kind of woman. They think they will try something
different. It has always been a mystery. And you must not think this was
a--was not a good girl. I saw nothing wrong about her. Perhaps a little
more---- no, I don’t know what to say. She was not saucy, or bold,
or---- Perhaps it was only that she was not a lady,” Lady Markham said
with a sigh.
“But that Paul should care for any one who was not a lady,” Alice said,
clasping her hands together with mingled despair and impatience; and
then she cried suddenly, “Poor little Dolly!”
“Dolly!” said Lady Markham. Nothing could exceed her surprise. The air
of grieved doubt and hesitation which had been in her face while they
discussed Janet gave way to lively astonishment and displeasure. “What
do you mean by Dolly?” she said.
Then Alice faltered forth an ashamed confession--that she thought--that
she had supposed--that she did not know anything about it--did not
believe there was anything in it--but only, Dolly----
Nothing was to be made of this hesitating speech.
“Dolly,” said Lady Markham, drawing herself up, “is a dear little girl.
I am very fond of her. In her proper place she is charming; but my dear
Alice, Dolly is scarcely more suitable for Paul, in his position.
Ah!----”
Lady Markham stopped short and hid her face in her hands.
During the time that these conversations--the visit of Janet and all its
attendant circumstances, and the explanation of it thus given to
Alice--were going on, these ladies lived upon the post which brought
frequent communications from the people in London who were carrying on
such inquiries as could be made about the intruder into the family, he
who had so suddenly and decisively blighted all the prospects of Paul.
Colonel Fleetwood wrote, and Mr. Scrivener, and Paul himself, though
less frequently. The former was the only one that was hopeful; he was
perfectly ready to believe that Gus was an impostor, and the whole thing
“a got up affair.” Was it likely, he argued, that Sir William, the most
steady-going old fellow, could be guilty of such a tremendous mistake?
Had it only been a wickedness! but it was such a folly, such an error in
judgment. A statesman, a man in parliament, one of the rulers of the
country, how could any one suppose him capable of a thing so foolish?
Mr. Scrivener was far less confident. He knew what a lawyer’s law was in
his own private affairs, and he had not much more confidence in a
stateman’s wisdom. He had not sent any one to Barbadoes, but he was
making careful inquiries among all sorts of people who knew--West Indian
agents, ancient governors, and consuls. And he had heard of Gus from
more than one of these referees, and found his story confirmed in all
points as to his life in Barbadoes. About his connexion with Sir William
Markham, these people did not know, but they gave him the highest
character, and confirmed his statement in many important details. The
lawyer did not conceal from Lady Markham his complete conviction.
Neither did Paul, who had given up his own cause at once, though he
dragged on in London, dancing attendance at the lawyer’s office and
hearing from day to day some fresh and, as he thought, unmeaning piece
of additional proof. “Of course it is all right,” Paul wrote; “I never
for a moment doubted that the man was all right. He may be a cad, but he
was speaking the truth. I stay here to humour them; but I know very well
that they will discover nothing which will shake his credit; and the
best thing I can do is to get myself as soon as I can out of Sir Gus’s
way.” This way of speaking of it was to both the ladies like turning the
sword round in the wound. Where was it he meant to take himself, out of
the way? They had neither of them any clue to Paul’s changed sentiments,
and if he had vowed to go away while all was well with him, when he had
fortune and splendour within reach, with those socialist emigrants whose
very name was enough to alarm them, what would he do now when this
horrible downfall and disappointment had loosed the bonds between him
and his native country? A wild desire to call for help, even upon the
least desirable of auxiliaries, upon Janet Spears herself, came to Lady
Markham’s mind. If the girl could keep him at home, she felt herself
able to receive even Janet to her heart.
While their mother’s mind was thus occupied, the two little girls had
languidly resumed their lessons. It is no reproach to the children to
say that it was not very long before the impression made by their
father’s death would have died out naturally, in an occasional tender
recollection, or sudden burst of crying when something recalled him to
their memory. It was not grief that made them languid, but the sense of
something going on, a living agitation, and the shadow of a still
greater disturbance to come. It was whispered vaguely between them that
no doubt they would have to leave Markham, a thing which they sometimes
felt like a deathblow and sometimes like a deliverance. When Bell and
Marie thought of leaving their woods, their gardens, their “own house,”
in which they had been born, the desolation of the thought overwhelmed
them; but when, on the other hand, they thought of going away, perhaps
to London, perhaps “abroad,” a thrill of guilty rapture ran through
their bosoms. They had never come to such a pitch of wickedness as to
say this to each other, but already in the rapid communion of the eyes
each had guessed that the other thought there might be something to be
said for such a possibility; and the idea made them restless, unable to
settle to their work, and very trying to Mademoiselle, who, poor lady,
had to put up with this reverberation of the troubles of the house
without really having any share in them, or taking any very lively
interest in these family concerns. Sometimes she had a headache, caused,
as she said, by nothing but the continued disturbance of her nerves
through their endless rustlings and changes. And when this headache got
very bad and Mademoiselle betook herself to bed, it cannot be said that
her pupils were sorry. They put their books away (having been brought up
in the strictest habits of tidiness), and hastened out to their
favourite haunts. The air and the movement stilled their nerves, which
were as much at fault as those of Mademoiselle. They were seated on, or
rather in, a tree near the fishpond, the favourite centre of all their
games when the next great event occurred to them. Bell had brought out a
book with her, which she held embraced in her arms, but had not opened.
She was seated well up in the tree, dangling her feet close to Marie’s
head, who was seated on a lower branch. Marie had no book--her tastes
were not literary; and she was very near the edge of that great
discovery which both had made, but neither avowed, that under some
circumstances it might be “nice” to go away.
“Were you ever in a great big, big place--in a city, Bell?”
“You little silly, of course I have been in Farboro’. I have been with
mamma a hundred times, and so have you.”
“Farboro’ is not what I mean. Farboro’ is only a town. There are not so
very many people in it, and the cathedral is the chief place. It is not
noisy or wicked at all. I mean a great horrid place where there are
crowds everywhere, and policemen, and where nobody goes to church. That
is what they call a city in books. London is a city,” said Marie.
“I have never been in London, you know. I wonder if we shall ever see
it,” said Bell. “I wonder if mamma will ever take us there. I wonder if
you and I will be quite different from Alice when we grow up. _She_ has
been presented. I wonder if it makes a difference when poor girls are
like us--without any father,” she added, with a little choke of tears.
“Do you think we shall be poor?” said Marie. “There is not much
difference now. We have all the same servants, and as much to eat, and
Mademoiselle just the same.”
“It will not make any difference in what we have to eat,” said Bell,
approaching the dangerous subject. “But--perhaps we may not be able to
stay at Markham. Oh, Marie! what would you think if mamma were to give
up Markham altogether and go away?”
Marie looked up with large eyes, stretching her neck, as her sister was
at an elevation almost perpendicular. She said, in a tone of awe, “Oh, I
don’t know! What would _you_ think, Bell?”
Neither of the children liked to commit themselves. At length Bell, who
felt that her superior age required of her that she should lead the way,
assumed the privilege of her years. “I don’t know either,” she said,
reflectively. “If it was in summer, when everything is bright, I should
not like it at all; but if, perhaps,” she added, slower and slower, “it
was in the rainy weather--when you can’t go out, when the grass is so
wet you sink in it, when there is nothing but sleet and slush, and the
trees drop cold drops upon you even when it’s not raining, and you get
your frock all wet even in the avenue----”
Marie’s eyes opened bigger and bigger after every step of this
hypothesis. She followed them with a movement of her lips and a gasp of
excitement at the end.
“Then--” said Bell, “perhaps--I think--it might be rather nice, Marie.”
“Oh, Bell! that is what I sometimes thought--but I never liked to say
it.”
“Nor me,” said Bell, more courageous, indifferent to grammar--and going
on with hardihood after she had made the first plunge. “There would be
Madame Tussaud’s, and the Crystal Palace, and the British Museum, and
Westminster Abbey, and all the bazaars. However bad the weather was,
there would always be something. I dare say mamma would take us to the
theatre.”
“But not just now,” said Marie. “It would not be nice to go just now.
It would look as if we had forgotten----”
“Did I say _now_? At present it is only autumn, and everybody is in the
country. But when the days get short and dark, and you have to light the
candles directly--What is it?” cried Bell, for Marie had shaken herself
off her branch, and, with a cry of dismay, stood looking apparently at
something which was coming. “Is it Mademoiselle?” said the little girl
under her breath.
Mademoiselle had a particular objection to that nest in the tree. Bell’s
seat was one which was usually occupied by a boy, not one of the girls’
places, as Roland and Harry contemptuously called the lower branches. It
required some ingenuity to clamber into it, and more to get down
again--and not only ingenuity, but an absence of petticoats would have
been desirable. Bell felt herself catching here and there as she tried
to get down hastily. Then came the sound of a long rent, which sent her
brain all whirling. Her new black frock! and what would nurse say? The
idea of nurse and Mademoiselle both waiting, full of fury, for her
descent, was enough to obscure the perceptions of any child. Her foot
slipped from a mossy and treacherous twig; she caught wildly at
something, she did not know what, and with a sudden whirr and whirl and
blackness lost herself altogether for a moment. When she became aware of
what was going on again, she found herself seated at the foot of the
tree, staring across the fishpond, with a lump on her forehead and a
singing in her ears. Marie was crying, bending over her, and saying,
“Oh! what can we do--what shall I do? Do you think she will die, Mr.
Gus?”
“Oh, what a little goose you are!” murmured Bell, gradually coming to
herself. “What should I die for? I have only got a knock--on my head.”
She felt the lump on her forehead wonderingly as she spoke, for it hurt
her, and nature directed her hand to the spot. “I have got a _dreadful_
knock on my head,” she added, not without satisfaction. Then Bell leaned
back on something, she did not know what, and saw a hand come round from
behind with a wet handkerchief to lay upon her forehead. The hand was a
brown hand with a big ring on it, at which Bell vaguely wondered where
she had seen it before. Then, all of a sudden, she jumped up, upon her
feet, though she felt very queer and giddy. “It is that little
gentleman! You have been talking to him, Marie!”
“And won’t you talk to me, too?” said Gus, following her with his wet
handkerchief. “Well, never mind, put on this. The water is out of your
own fishpond; it cannot do you any harm.”
Bell was not able to resist, and he made her sit down again and have her
forehead bathed. By degrees as she became aware of everything around
her, Bell perceived that the little gentleman was very kind. His thin,
brown hand touched her so gently, and he was not angry, though she had
been angry. By and by she said, “I am better. Please, oh, please go
away, Mr. Gus. I don’t want to be disagreeable, but how can _I_ have
anything to say to you, when you have been so----”
“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Gus. “What have I been?” For Bell paused, not
knowing what to say.
The little girl did not continue. She contented herself with throwing
down Mr. Gus’s wet handkerchief from her forehead, which was not so bad
now. You are our enemy,” she said.
“I am nobody’s enemy. I am your brother. I want to do everything I can
for you, if you will let me. Don’t you remember what friends we made,
and how fond we were of each other before you knew who I was; and why
should you hate me now you know I am your brother?” said Gus.
It was wonderful to see him standing there, so like their father: and it
was very hard for two little girls to keep up an argument with a
grown-up gentleman. But Bell, who had a great spirit, was not disposed
to throw down her arms. She said, “Paul is my brother, and you are his
enemy,” feeling at last that she was on steady ground.
“I am no more Paul’s enemy than I am yours. Now listen, little girls. If
some one were to leave you something, Bell--if it was to be put in the
will that this was for Sir William Markham’s second daughter--how should
you feel if it were taken from you and given to Marie?”
“I would not put up with it all,” said Bell promptly. Then perceiving
how she had committed herself, “It is not the same. It was Paul’s, and
you want to take it from Paul.”
“But I am the heir, and not Paul,” said the little gentleman. “I am the
eldest. You are very fond of your little sister, but you would not give
up what was yours to Marie.”
This time Bell was more wise. “You don’t know anything about it. What
would it matter? for when anything is given to me, I always give half to
Marie,” she said, with sparkling eyes.
The little gentleman owned himself discomfited. “There you have the
better of me,” he said. “But I should like to give a great part to Paul.
I would give him everything in reason. And I have come now to see you,
to ask you to do me a very great favour.”
They looked at him with eyes that grew bigger and bigger, and as Bell
was very pale, with a lump on her forehead, her aspect with her heroic
gaze was tragi-comical, to say the least. They were both greatly melted
and softened by the idea of having a favour asked of them, and Marie,
who was entirely gained over, did nothing but nudge and pull her
sister’s dress by way of recommending her to be merciful. Bell leant
back upon the tree like a little image of Justice, with the bandage
momentarily pushed off, but very much needed. It lay at her feet in the
shape of Mr. Gus’s white handkerchief; but all the severity, yet
candour, of an entire Bench was in her eyes.
“I want you to make my peace with your mother. I want you to persuade
her to stay at Markham; to let me stay here to; to let me live among you
like your brother, which I am. If you all run away as soon as I come
near the place, what good will it do me?” said Gus. “I want you all.
When the boys come home, we should have all kinds of fun, and as for
you, I should not let anyone bother you. Fancy, I have nobody belonging
to me but you. You are my family. I am more like an old uncle than your
brother, but I should be very fond of you all the same. If your mother
would only listen to me, it would be very nice for us all. I am sure you
can be generous, Bell. You are old enough to understand. And I think
Alice would be on my side if she would hear what I have got to say.”
“Alice would never be on your side,” said Bell with decision. “Paul is
Alice’s brother--her particular brother--and how could she bear to see
him put out? Don’t you know we are all in pairs at Markham? Harry is my
brother, and Roland is Marie’s.”
“Ye-es,” said Marie tired of being left out, “but he is not always
nice. He sends me away because I am a girl, as if it was my fault!”
“Well then,” said Mr. Gus, “if Alice will not stand my friend, I must
trust it all to you. The thing you must do is to go to your mamma, and
tell her your old brother is outside, very sorry to be the cause of any
trouble, but that he can’t help being your brother, and a great deal
older than Paul. How could I help that? I did not choose who my father
was to be; and tell her if she would only speak to me, I will explain it
all to her. And there is nothing she can ask me to do that I will not do
for Paul. And tell her--but I need not tell you, Bell, for I can see in
your eyes that you know quite well what to say.”
The conviction that she would indeed be a valuable and eloquent advocate
got into Bell’s mind as he went on. Yes, she felt she could say all that
to mamma and better than Mr. Gus had said it. She would use such
arguments that Lady Markham would be sure to yield. Bell was aware that
she was clever, and all her own opposition melted away in the delightful
mental excitement of this immense undertaking. She forgot the lump on
her forehead, the buzzing in her ears, and even more, she forgot the
family opposition to the interloper who was taking away Paul’s
birthright. “Oh yes, I know very well what to say,” she cried with a
change of sentiment which was as complete as it was rapid, and in her
excitement she set off at once for the house, framing little speeches as
she went, in which the case of Gus should be put forth with all the
devices of forensic talent. Oh what a pity I am not a boy! was the
thought which flew through her mind as on the sudden gale of inspiration
which swept through her. For the moment, perhaps, this fact, which would
for ever prevent her from being a special pleader by profession, was a
decided advantage to Bell. Little Marie did not like to be left behind.
She looked wistfully after her sister, then she said, “I will tell mamma
too,” and rushed after Bell. Finally, Mr. Gus himself completed the
procession walking behind them. He had chosen no unfit ambassadors of
peace, though the elder emissary looked very much as if she had been in
the wars. And the little man walked after them with a little tremor
varying the calm of self-satisfaction which usually reigned in his
bosom. He knew he was doing what was by far the best and most Christian
thing to do, and he felt that he had managed it very cleverly in
putting his cause into such hands. But notwithstanding these consolatory
reflections, and notwithstanding the natural calm of his bosom, it is
certain that Mr. Gus felt in that bosom an unaccustomed quiver of
timidity which might almost have been called fear.