That summer was as bright as the winter had been cold. The hot weather
came on in May, and the country about Markham brightened into a perfect
paradise of foliage and blossom. Sir Gus came to life; he began to show
himself in the country, to move about, to accept the invitations which
were given to him. And it cannot be denied that his thoughts and plans
were much modified after he had made acquaintance with the county and
began to feel that people were inclined to pay him a great deal of
attention. He had wanted nothing better at first than to be received as
a member of Lady Markham’s family, to adopt, as it were, his brothers
and sisters, and to make them as little conscious as possible of the
change he had brought into their life. He had promised that he would
never marry, nor do anything to spoil Paul’s prospects further. But
before the summer was over his views in this respect had sensibly
modified. He began to think that perhaps the length and dreariness of
the winter had been partly owing to the fact that Lady Markham and her
children were less satisfactory than a wife and children of his own. Why
should he (after all) sacrifice himself to serve Paul? He was not old,
whatever those arrogant young people might think; and probably it was in
this way that happiness might come to him. Paul would no doubt get on
very well in society; he would marry well, and his younger son’s portion
was not contemptible; there really seemed no reason why his elder
brother should sacrifice himself on Paul’s account. And gradually there
dawned upon him an idea that before winter came on again he might have
some one belonging to him who should be his very own.
Gus dined out very solemnly by himself, making acquaintance with his
neighbours during the Easter recess, and when the great people of the
neighbourhood came back to the country after the season; and did not
scorn the tables of the less great who remained in the country all the
year round. He was not exclusive. The less great houses were still
great enough for Gus. He liked to go to the Rectory, where Mr.
Stainforth, who was a politic old man, often invited him; and indeed,
Sir Augustus, who everybody said was so exceedingly simple and
unpretentious, became quite popular in the district where at first
everybody had been against him as an intruder. Though it was no less
hard upon Paul than before, the new heir was pardoned in the county
because of his adoption of the family and his kindness and genuine
humility. There could not be any harm in him, people said, when he was
so good to the children, when he sought so persistently the friendship
of his stepmother, and endeavoured to make everything pleasant for her.
Then it became very evident that Sir Gus, though not so young as he once
was, was still marriageable and likely to marry, which naturally still
further increased his popularity; and as, instead of attempting any
stratagems of self-defence, he was but too eager to put himself into the
society of young ladies, and showed unequivocal signs of regarding them
with the eye of a purchaser, it was natural that the elder ladies should
accept this challenge, and on their parts do what they could to make
him acquainted with the stores the county possessed. Women do not give
themselves to this business of settling marriages in England with the
candour and honesty that prevail in other countries. The work is
stealthy and unacknowledged, but it is too natural and too just not to
be done with more or less vigour; and the county was not less active
than other counties. “Poor Paul!” some people said, who had at first
received the new baronet as a merely temporary holder of the title and
estates--one who, according to a legend dear to the popular mind, had
bound himself not to do anything towards the achievement of an heir; but
by and by they said, “Poor Sir Gus!” and could see no reason in the
world why he should sacrifice himself. This was a little after the time
when he had himself come to the same conclusion.
When all the families began to return at the end of July, he was asked
everywhere. Mourning is not for a man a very rigid bond, and it was now
nearly a year since Sir William died, so that there was nothing to
restrain him; indeed there were some who said that Lady Markham was too
punctilious in keeping Alice at home, never letting her be seen
anywhere--a girl who really _ought_ to marry, now that the family were
in so changed a position. Sir Gus went a great deal to Westland Towers,
where there had never been so many parties before--garden parties,
archery meetings, competitions at lawn-tennis, to which the entire
county was convoked; and at all these parties there was no more favoured
guest than Gus. This was a great change, and pleased him much. At “home”
he was not much more than put up with. They had come to like him, and
they had always been very kind to him; but he had been an intruder, and
he had banished the son of the house, and it was not to be supposed that
mortal forbearance should go so far as to admire and honour him as the
chief person in the household, even though he was its nominal head. When
he went elsewhere Gus was made more of than at Markham, and at the
Towers he felt the full force of his own position. His sayings were
listened for, his jokes were laughed at, and he himself was followed by
judicious flattery. All his little eccentricities were allowed and
approved, his light clothes extolled as the most convenient garments in
the world, and his distaste for sport and the winter amusements of
country life sanctioned and approved.
“How men of refined habits can do it has always been a mystery to me,”
said Lady Westland.
“You forget, mamma, that a taste for bloodshed is one of the most
refined tastes in the world,” said Ada, who was herself fond of hunting
when she had a chance, and never was better pleased than when she could
lunch with a shooting party at the cover-side. Ada made a grimace behind
Gus’s back, and said “Little monster!” to the other young ladies.
“Ah, poor Paul! We used to see so much of him,” she said, “when he was
the man, poor fellow, and no one had ever heard of this little Creole.
But parents are nothing if not prudent,” Miss Westland added; “and now
the tropics are in the ascendant, and poor Paul is nowhere. What can one
do?” she said with a shrug of her shoulders up to her ears.
Dolly Stainforth, who was of the party, but not old enough or important
enough to say anything, grew pale with righteous indignation. She was
very well aware that Paul had never “seen much” of the family at
Westland Towers: but that they should now pretend to hold him at arm’s
length stung her to the heart. This took place at a garden party, and
the explanation about Paul had been made in the midst of a great many
people of the neighbourhood, who had all been very sorry for Paul in
their day, yet were all beginning now to turn towards the new-risen sun.
Dolly had turned her back upon them, and gone off by herself in
bitterly-suppressed indignation, sore and wounded, though not for her
own sake, when she encountered Sir Gus, who had spied her in a turning
of the shrubbery. George Westland had spied her too, but had been
stopped by his mother on his way to her, and might be seen in the
distance standing gloomily on the outskirts of a group of notables, with
whom he was supposed to be ingratiating himself, gazing towards the
_bosquet_ in which the object of his affections had disappeared.
“What is the matter, Miss Dolly?” Sir Gus had said.
“Oh, nothing. I was not crying,” Dolly said, with a sob. “I am too
indignant to cry. It is the horridness of people,” she cried with an
outburst of wrath and grief. Sir Gus was distressed. He did not like to
see any one cry, much less this dainty little creature, who was almost
his first acquaintance in the place.
“Don’t,” he said, touching her shoulder lightly with his brown hand.
“Whatever it is it cannot be worth crying about. None of them can do any
harm to you.”
“Harm to _me_! I wish they could,” said Dolly; “that would not matter
much. But don’t believe them, don’t you believe them: a little while ago
they were all for Paul--nobody was so nice as Paul--and now it is all
you, and Paul, they say, is nowhere. Do you think it is like a lady to
say that poor Paul is ‘nowhere,’ only because he has lost his property,
and you have got it?” cried Dolly, turning with fury, which it was
difficult to restrain, upon the poor little baronet. He changed colour:
of course he knew that it was his position, and not any special gifts of
his own, which recommended him; yet he did not like the thought.
“That is not my fault, Miss Dolly,” he said. “You should not be unjust;
though it is your favourite who has been the loser, you ought not to be
unjust, for I have nothing more than what is my right.”
“Oh, Sir Augustus,” said Dolly, alarmed by her own vehemence, “it was
not you I meant. You have always been kind. It was those horrid people
who think of nothing but who has the money. And then, you know,” she
said, turning her tearful eyes upon him, “I have known them all my
life--and I can’t bear to hear them speak so of Paul.”
“And you can’t bear me, I suppose, for putting this Paul of yours out of
his place?” Gus said.
“No, indeed I don’t blame you. A woman might have given it up, but it is
not your fault if you are different from a woman--all men are,” said
Dolly, shaking her head. “When one knows as much about a village as I
do, one soon finds out that.”
“I suppose you think the women are better than the men,” said Sir Gus,
shaking his head too.
“I am for my own side,” said Dolly promptly, her tears drying up in the
impulse of war; “but I did not mean that,” she added, “only different.
Men and women are not good--or nasty--in the same way. I don’t
suppose--you--could have done anything but what you did.”
“I don’t think I could,” said Sir Gus, briefly.
“But the people here,” said Dolly, “oh, the people here!” She stamped
her foot upon the ground in her impatience and indignation; but when he
would have pursued the subject, Dolly became prudent, and stopped
short. She would say nothing more, except another appeal to heaven and
earth against “the horridness of people.” This, however, gave Sir Gus a
great deal to think of. Dolly did not in the least know what he had in
his mind. She was not aware that the little man was going about among
all the pretty groups of the garden party in the conscious exercise of
choice, noting all the ladies, selecting the one that pleased him. Two
or three had pleased him more or less--but one most of all: which was
what Dolly Stainforth never suspected. Sir Gus walked about with the air
of a man occupied with important business. He had no time to pay any
attention to the progress of the games that were going on; his own
affairs engrossed him altogether. Sometimes he selected one lady from a
number on pretence of showing her something, or of watching a game, or
hearing the band play a particular air, and carried her off with him to
the suggested object, talking much and earnestly. He did not pay much
court to the mothers and chaperons, but went boldly to the
fountain-head. And some of the pretty young women to whom he talked so
gravely did not quite know what to make of the little baronet. They
laughed among themselves, and asked each other, “Did he ask you whether
you liked town better or country? and if you would not like to take a
voyage to the tropics?” Dolly on being asked this question quite early
in their acquaintance, had answered frankly, “Not at all,” and had
further explained that life out of the parish was incomprehensible to
her. “I could not leave my poor people for months and months, with
nobody but papa to look after them,” Dolly had said.
It was only after he had enjoyed about half a dozen interviews of this
kind, amusing the greater part of his temporary companions, but
fluttering the bosoms of one or two who were quick-witted enough to see
the handkerchief trembling in the little sultan’s hand, that Sir Gus
allowed himself to be carried off in his turn by Ada Westland, who came
up to him in her bold way, neglecting all decorum.
“Come with me, Sir Augustus,” she said, “I have got a view to show you,”
and she led him to where among the trees, there was a glimpse of the
beautiful rich country, undulating, all wooded and rich with cornfields,
to where Markham Chase, with all its oaks and beeches, shut in the
horizon line. There was a glimpse of the house to be had in the
distance, peeping from the foliage: and in the centre of the scene, the
red roofs of the village and the slope of the Rectory garden in the
sunshine. “I used to be brought here often to have my duty taught me,”
said Ada. “Mamma made quite a point of it every day when we first came
here.”
“I am glad your duty makes you look at my house, Miss Westland,” said
Sir Gus, making her a bow.
“Oh, I don’t mean now,” said the outspoken young woman. “That is quite a
different matter. I was quite young then, you know, and so was Paul, and
my mother trained me up in the way that a girl should go. We are new
people, you know; we have not much distinction in the way of family.
What mamma intended to do with me was to make me marry Paul.”
Once more Sir Augustus bowed his head quite gravely. He did not laugh at
the bold announcement, as she meant he should. “Was your heart in it?”
he said.
“My heart? Do you think I have got one? I don’t know--I don’t think it
was, Sir Augustus. ‘Look at all that sweep of country,’ mamma used to
say; ‘that may all be yours if you play your cards well--and a family
going back to the Conqueror.’ There have only been two generations of
_us_,” said Ada; “you may think how grand it would have felt to know
that there was a Crusader’s monument in the family. In some moods of my
mind, especially when I have been very much sat upon by the blue-blooded
people, I don’t think I should have minded marrying the Crusader
himself.”
“I can understand the feeling,” said Gus. He was perfectly grave, his
muscles did not relax a hairsbreadth. He stood and looked upon the woods
that were his own, and the house which he called home. It looked a
little chilly to him, even in the midst of the sunshine. The sky was
pale with heat, and all the colours of the country subdued in the
brilliant afternoon light, the trees hanging together like terrestrial
clouds, the stubblefields grey where the corn had been already cut, and
the roads white with dust. But it did not occur to him as he stood and
gazed at Markham that it would make him happy to live there with his
present companion by his side. “Beauty is deceitful, and favour is
vain.” She was one of the prettiest persons present. She was full of wit
and cleverness, and had far more wit and knowledge than half of her
party put together. But the heart of the little baronet was not gained
by those qualities. He stood quite unmoved by Ada’s side. She might have
married the Crusader for anything Sir Augustus cared. Ada waited a
little to see if no better reply would come, and then she made another
_coup_.
“Pity us for an unfortunate family, foiled on every side,” she said.
“Paul you know, has ceased to be a _parti_ altogether. Anybody may marry
him who pleases--and to a district in which men do not abound this is a
great grievance--but I don’t blame you for that, Sir Augustus, though
some do. And look there,” she said, suddenly turning round, “look at the
door of the conservatory. There are mamma’s hopes tumbling down in
another direction. I don’t feel the disappointment so much in my own
case, but about George, I do really pity mamma. She can’t marry me to
the next property, as she intended; and just look at George, making a
fool of himself with the parson’s daughter. Now, Sir Augustus, don’t you
feel sorry for mamma?”
“Miss Stainforth is a very charming young lady,” said Sir Gus, still as
grave as ever, “but I thought that she----” here he stopped in some
confusion, having nearly committed himself, he felt.
“I know what you were going to say,” said Ada, with a laugh. “You think
she had a fancy for Paul too. She might just as well have had a fancy
for the moon. The Markhams would never have permitted that; and as for
Paul himself, he thought no more of Dolly----! Fancy, Dolly! but my
brother does. It is a pity, a great pity, don’t you think, that brothers
and sisters can’t change places sometimes? George would have made a much
better young lady than I do. I am much too outspoken and candid for a
girl, but I should never have fallen in love with Dolly Stainforth. If
mamma could change us now, it would be some consolation to her still.”
“Miss Stainforth is a very charming young lady,” Sir Gus said again.
“A--ah!” said Ada, with a malicious laugh, “you admire Dolly too, Sir
Augustus? I beg a thousand pardons. I ought to have been more cautious.
But I never thought that a man who had seen the world, a man of
judgment, a person with experience and discrimination----”
“You think too favourably of me,” said Sir Gus. “It is true I have come
over a great part of the world; but I don’t know that of itself that
gives one much experience. You think too favourably of me.”
“That is a fault,” said Ada, “which most men pardon very easily,” and
she looked at him in a way that was flattering, Gus felt, but a little
alarming too.
This conversation too had its effect upon him. He felt that there was no
time to lose in making up his mind. If he was to secure for himself a
companion before the winter came on, it would be well not to lose any
time. And Miss Westland was very flattering and agreeable; she seemed to
have a very high opinion of him. Gus did not feel that she was the woman
he would like to marry; but if by any chance it might happen that she
was a woman who would like to marry him, he did not feel that she would
be very easy to resist. That such a woman might possibly wish to marry
him was of itself very flattering; still on the whole, Gus felt that he
would prefer to choose rather than to be chosen. And with a shrewd sense
of the difficulties of his position, he decided that to have another
young lady betrothed to him would be by far his best safeguard against
Ada. A woman who belonged to him would stand up for him; and the mere
fact that he belonged to her would be an effectual defence. As it
happened, fortune favoured him. Mrs. Booth, who had come with Dolly in
her little carriage to the Towers, wanted to get back early, as the
evening was so fine, and Dolly declared that there was nothing she would
like so much as to walk. There would certainly be somebody going her way
to bear her company. Then Sir Gus stepped forward and said he would
certainly be going her way, and would walk with her to the Rectory gate.
Dolly smiled upon him so gratefully when he said this that his heart
stirred in Gus’s bosom. She kept near him all the rest of the time,
coming up to him now and then to see if he was ready, if he wished to
go, with much filial attention; but Gus did not think of it in that
light. Nor did he think that it was by way of getting rid of George
Westland that she devoted herself to him. This is not an idea which
naturally suggests itself to a man who has never had any reason to think
badly of himself. Gus had always, on the contrary, entertained a very
good opinion of himself; he had known that, on the whole, he deserved
that mankind in general should entertain a good opinion of him, and
there was nothing at all out of the way, or even unexpected in the fact
that Dolly should be pleased by his care of her, and attracted towards
himself. It was a thing which was very natural and delightful, and
pleased him greatly. When the company began to disperse, he was quite
ready to obey Dolly’s indication of a wish to go, and to take leave of
Lady Westland when her son was out of the way, according to the girl’s
desire. They set out upon the dusty road together in the grateful cool
of the summer evening, carriage after carriage rolling past them, with
many nods and wreathed smiles from the occupants, and no doubt many
remarks also upon Dolly’s cavalier. But the pair themselves took it very
tranquilly. They went slowly along, lingering on the grassy margin of
the road to escape the dust, and enjoying the coolness and the quiet.
“How sweet it is,” Dolly said, “after the heat of the day.”
“You call that hot, Miss Dolly?” said Gus. “We should not call it hot
where I come from.”
“Well, I am glad I have nothing to do with the tropics,” Dolly said. “I
like the cool evening better than the day. One can move now--one can
walk; but I suppose you never can do anything there in the heat of the
day?”
“I am sorry you don’t like the tropics,” he said. “I think you would,
though, if you had ever been there. It is more natural than England.
Yes, you laugh, but I know what I mean. I should like to show you the
bright-coloured flowers, and the birds, and all the things so full of
colour--there’s no colour here. I tell Bell and Marie so, and they tell
me it is I that can’t see. And then the winter----” Gus shuddered as he
spoke.
“But you ought to have gone out more,” said Dolly, “and taken exercise;
that makes the blood run in your veins. Oh, I like the winter! We have
not had any skating here for years. It has been so mild. I like a good
sharp frost, and no wind, and a real frosty sun, and the ice bearing.
You don’t know how delightful it is.”
“No, indeed,” said Gus, with a shudder. “But, perhaps,” he added, “if
one had a bright little companion like you, one might be tempted to move
about more. Bell and Marie are delightful children, but they are a
little too young, you know.”
“But Alice----” said Dolly, with a little anxiety.
“Alice never has quite forgiven me, I fear; and then she has her mother
to think of; and they always tell me she cannot do this or that for her
mourning. It is very right to wear mourning, I don’t doubt,” said Gus,
“but never to be able to go out, or meet your fellow-creatures----”
“That would be _impossible!_” said Dolly, with decision. “It is not a
year yet. _You_ did not know poor Sir William. But next winter it will
be different, and we must all try to do our best”--for Lady Markham, she
was going to say--but he interrupted her.
“That will be very kind, Miss Dolly. I think you could do a great deal
without trying very much. I always feel more cheerful in your company.
Do you remember the first time we ever were in each other’s company, on
the railway?”
“Oh, yes,” cried Dolly. She was very incautious. “I thought you were
such a----” She did not say queer little man, but felt as if she had
said it, so near was it to her lips; and blushed, which pleased Gus
greatly, and made him imagine a much more flattering conclusion. “You
asked me a great deal about poor Paul,” she said, “and then we met them
coming home; and Sir William, oh! how ill he looked--as if he would
die!”
“You remember that day?” said Gus, much delighted, “and so do I. You
told me a great deal about my family. It was strange to talk of my
family as if I had been a stranger, and to hear so much about them.”
“I thought you were a stranger, Sir Augustus.”
“Yes, and you wished I had been one when you found out who I really was.
Oh, I don’t blame you, Miss Dolly--it was very natural; but I hope now,
my dear,” he said, with a tone that was quite fatherly, though he did
not intend it to be so, “that you are not so sorry, but rather glad on
the whole to know Gus Markham, who is not so bad as you thought.”
Dolly was surprised to be called “my dear;” but at his age was it not
quite natural?
“Oh,” she said, faltering, “I never thought you were bad, Sir Augustus;
you have always been very kind, I know.”
But she could not say she was glad of his existence, which had done so
much harm to--other people; even though in her heart she had a liking
for Sir Gus, the queerest little man that ever was!
“I have tried to be,” he said; “and I think they all feel I have done my
best to show myself a real friend; but there comes a time when one wants
something more than a friend, and, Dolly, I think that time has come
now.”
Well! it was a little odd, but she did not at all mind being called
Dolly by Sir Gus. She looked at him with a little surprise, doubtful
what he could mean. They were by this time quite near the village and
the Rectory gate.
“I think,” he said, “that if I don’t get married, my dear, I shall never
be able to stand another winter at Markham. It nearly killed me last
year.”
“Married!” she cried, her voice going off in a high quaver of surprise
and consternation. If her father had intimated a similar intention she
could scarcely have been more astonished. This is what everybody had
consoled themselves by thinking such a man was never likely to do.
“Yes, married,” he said. “Don’t you think you know, Dolly, a dear little
girl that would marry me, though I am not so young nor so handsome as
Paul? You see it is not Paul now, it is me; and though he was handsomer
and taller, I don’t think he was nearly so good-tempered as I am, my
dear. I give very little trouble, and I should always be willing to do
what my wife wanted to do--or at least almost always, Dolly--and you
would not get that with many other men. Haven’t you ever thought of it
before? Oh, I have, often. I went through all the others to-day, just to
give myself a last chance, to see if, at the last moment, there was any
one I liked better; but there was none so nice as you. You see, I have
not done it without thought. Now, my pretty Dolly, my little dear, just
say you will marry me before the winter, and to-morrow we can settle all
the rest.”
He had taken her hand as they stood together at the gate. Dolly’s
amazement knew no bounds. She was so bewildered that she could only
stand and gaze at him with open mouth.
“Do you mean me?” she cried at last--“me?” with mingled horror and
surprise. “I don’t know what you mean!” she said.
“Yes, my dear, I mean you. I tell you I looked again at all the rest,
and there was not one so nice. Of course I mean you, Dolly. I have
always been fond of you from the first. I will make you a good husband,
dear, and you will make me a sweet little wife.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” Dolly cried. The world, and the sky, and the trees,
seemed to be going round with her. She caught at the gate to support
herself. “No, no, no! It is all a dreadful mistake.”
“It cannot be a mistake. I know very well what I am doing, Dolly.”
“But oh dear! oh dear! Sir Augustus, let me speak. Do you think I know
what _I_ am doing? No, no, no, _no!_ You must be going out of your
senses to ask me.”
“Why? because you are so young and so little? But that is just what I
like. You are the prettiest of all the girls. You are a dear, sweet,
good little thing that will never disappoint me. No, no, it is no
mistake.”
To see him standing there beaming and smiling through the dusk was a
terrible business for Dolly.
“It _is_ a mistake. I cannot, cannot do it--indeed I cannot. I will not
marry you--never! I don’t want to marry anybody,” she said, beginning to
weep in her excitement.
Now and then a villager would lumber by, and, seeing the couple at the
porch, grin to himself and think that Miss Dolly was just the same as
the other lasses. It was a pity the gentleman was so little, was all
they said.