Paul did not at first obey the call thus sent to him. He lingered, angry
that his friend should interfere as he said. He knew it was not
interference, but the pride which was so strong in him, notwithstanding
all his theories, resented haughtily the intrusion of a stranger into
his family. Paul’s theory was far from being complete. He was ready
himself to abandon all he possessed, and to assert it as a necessity
that every honest man should do the like, receive his share and nothing
more; but he did not contemplate the idea of a general descent of his
family into the wider ranks of common brotherhood. That his father
should share his ideas, and resign his wealth and position, was a thing
incredible he well knew; and curiously enough he had never thought of
it. Whatever happened in the way of levelling, it had never seriously
occurred to him to think that the Markhams would be as the Spears, as
the grocers or the hatters. (Grocers and hatters by the way are always
excluded in visionary schemes of revolution. One must draw a line
somewhere; and both the rich and poor draw it at the shopkeeper.) Such a
thing could not be; it was impossible. Were there a republic proclaimed
in England to-morrow, was there a general confiscation and
redistribution of everything, making all men the same, the Markhams
could not be as the Spears. It was not possible.
But still more hotly, as in the presence of real danger, Paul’s pride
stood up against the possibility of the Markhams being as the Fairfaxes.
Richard Fairfax was his friend; he was a gentleman--yes, no doubt, in
himself a gentleman--but not as the Markhams were gentlemen. He was a
nobody; he was the son of a nobody. He did not belong to the Fairfaxes
of the north or of the south. He had a good name, but no more. What had
such a fellow to do in Alice Markham’s company? Spears at the Chase was
an eccentricity of his own, which made Paul feel himself above
prejudice, and nobly superior to the conventional maxims of society;
but Fairfax there affronted his pride. The two things were quite
different. The same rules did not seem to apply to the noble working
man, who was above them, as to the gentleman who was only a gentleman in
his own right. That his mother should have formed a kind of alliance
with this young man (though his own friend) irritated him beyond
measure. Women were so easily taken in. Good manners, and a look of good
breeding--so easily acquired nowadays when everybody is formed in the
same mould, and all kinds of people can achieve the hall-mark of public
schools and universities,--was enough to take in a woman. Had Paul been
consulted, no such person should have entered the sacred precincts.
Yet Paul was a democrat, on the verge of surrendering everything, and
throwing in his fortunes with a little communistic party! The
inconsistency did not strike him, or if it ever stole across his mind,
he repelled the consciousness with a hot protestation within himself
that it was not at all the same thing. That Spears should be his equal
was a thing to fight for, a thing that could never derange the inborn
sense of aristocracy; but that Fairfax, who was so near his equal,
should be his equal--therein lies the danger, which instinct seizes
upon, which rouses pride in arms.
This proud distaste and discontent occupied his mind at first to the
exclusion of every other feeling. And when that faded, it may be allowed
that Paul had some cause for a disinclination to see his mother. What
had she done? She had dragged down upon his head the humble roof under
which he had intended to find shelter. She had thrown him into the arms
of those with whom indeed he was eager to consort, but whose embrace was
no way attractive--nay, was repulsive to him. She had changed all his
circumstances, vulgarised his plans, degraded him from the rank of a
political apostle into that of a wretched besotted lover. Young men who
are not in love, and in whom the intellect predominates, are apt to be
very hard upon what they consider the delusion, the incredible folly of
such a passion. To sacrifice freedom, personal independence, the
unencumbered lightness of manhood, for the sake of a woman, seems to
them the most ridiculous of mockeries until the moment comes when they
share it. This was Paul’s way of thinking. It was an outrage to his
nature and mental powers to make him appear to be doing that for Janet
Spears which he was doing from the highest principle. And this was what
his mother, with her womanish interpretation of his high aims and
wishes, had made appear. He could not forgive her; and in this he was
not without reason. He made many efforts before he could think with
patience of the strange morning’s work which had changed everything for
him. No, he could not go to her so soon. He went to his rooms and shut
himself in, sitting down among his books like any Roman among any ruins.
Read! why should he read? These were useless tools of an old world,
which he was about throwing off. “Honours!” what were they to him? The
schools and the struggle had retreated into dim distance. A degree would
be of far less consequence to him than a gun, and all his studies not
worth half so much as the simplest lesson of his country breeding. To
sit there, however, among all those relics of a time which was over,
which had no more hold upon him, was gloomy work. And every refuge
seemed taken from him. He did not want to go to the rooms of any other
“man” where he might meet Fairfax. He could not go back to Spears; his
heart revolted at the thought of going (as habit made him call the
place where his parents were) home. He was walking about in this gloomy
way, now gazing out of one window, now out of another, when a little tap
came to his door, a light foot, a soft voice, and agitated face.
“Oh, Paul, may I come in?” Alice said. “Have you not seen Mr. Fairfax?
He was to tell you papa was ill. We want you--oh, we want you, Paul.”
“What has Fairfax got to do with it?” growled Paul.
“Mr. Fairfax! Oh, nothing, but that he was so kind; he helped papa up
stairs. He came for you when mamma sent him. I do not know what we
should have done without him; for--_you_ were not there, Paul!”
“Not much wonder if I was not there!”
“Why? Mamma does nothing but blame herself. She cries and says we should
not have come. Oh, Paul! and papa, I told you, has had one of his
faints. Will you come?” cried Alice, moved to tears, yet flushing high
with a generous impatience; “or are we to be left to shift for
ourselves?”
“She deserves it,” he said. “What had she to do with it? Surely I am old
enough to manage my own affairs.”
“Is it _mamma_ you mean by she? Then stay--or go where you like. Oh, how
dare you!” cried Alice, wildly angry. “_Mamma!_” This stung her so that
she went to the door hurriedly, going away; but that little flash of
wrath was soon over. She stopped and turned round upon him, making
another appeal. “You don’t deserve that we should care for you; but we
do care for you,” she said. “Oh, Paul! when I tell you papa has had one
of his faints--for what? because to think of you going away, forsaking
us, giving up home, and your own place, and the people that you ought to
care for, was more than he could bear. Paul! how can you leave us--leave
Markham and everything you were once fond of--leave your duty, and the
place you were born to?”
“My dear little Alice,” he said, with a smile, glad to conceal a little
melting of his own heart which was beyond his power of resisting, by
this fine superiority, “speak of things you understand.”
Then Alice flashed upon him with all the visionary vehemence of a girl
in her own defence.
“How should I not understand?” she cried, “Am I so stupid? It is you who
make yourself little, pretending to despise us girls. What is there to
despise in us? We do not fill our head with pride and fancies like you.
We love those who belong to us, and serve them, and do our duty as we
know how. It is not we who leave our old father to suffer, or tear our
mother’s heart in two. It is not we that turn peace into trouble. There
you stand,” cried Alice, “a man! fit to be in parliament making the laws
better--fit to be doing something for them that belong to you, after
learning, learning all your life, doing nothing but learn, that you
might be good for something. And now, all you think you are good for is
to emigrate, like the poor Irish. Is that all you are good for? Then you
ought to be humble, and not dare to turn round and sneer and tell us to
speak of things we understand. Understand! I understand that if you can
do nothing better than that--if, after all, you can only betray us and
forsake us, and be no use, no help to any one, it is a shame!”
Who can doubt that Alice’s eloquence was broken with sobs, and her fury
all blind with tears? She would not, however, for pride, let him see
them fall, but turned away from the door with passionate haste, and flew
down the deserted staircase, swallowing her sobs as best she could, and
dashing away the hasty torrent from her eyes. She heard him laugh as
she got out into the air in all her agitation, and this sound stung
Alice to the heart.
But if she had known it, Paul’s laugh was like the ploughboy’s whistle
to keep his courage up. He had not expected any such onslaught, and he
was not insensible to it, any more than she was to his scorn. For, after
all, he did not in the least despise his sister, though it was so handy
to pretend to do so. When he was left again among his ruins, though he
stimulated himself, as by a sickly trumpet note of pretended victory by
that laugh, Paul did not feel half so grand a personage as he could have
wished, and for the next half hour or so there came and stabbed at him a
little array of by no means pleasant thoughts.
In the afternoon, after some hours had elapsed, Paul walked into his
father’s room with a little air of defiance, and without any apologies.
Sir William was seated in an easy chair, looking aged and worn.
“I am very sorry to hear that you have been ill, sir,” his son said.
“Yes, I have been ill,” said Sir William, “but it will pass off. I think
the best thing for me is to get home.”
“I should not think you could be very comfortable here,” Paul said.
His mother was in the room, and his grievance against her rose up
bitterly, and quenched the softer feeling which had moved him at sight
of his father’s pale face.
“It would perhaps have been better that we had not come. There are many
things--that I must see after--in your interests. Paul, do you mean to
come home with us? Whatever you may do hereafter, it would be best for
you to come home now.”
There was a momentary pause.
Sir William put forward no arguments, not even that of his own
condition--and used no reproaches. But behind him appeared Lady
Markham’s face, pale and pathetic with entreaty. Her eyes were fixed
upon her son with a look which he could scarcely withstand. And
therefore Paul set his face like a rock, and would not yield.
“I don’t see what good it would do, sir,” he said. “You know my
unalterable resolution. You know my principles, which are so much at
variance with yours, and would prevent me from ever taking the position
you wish. Why should we worry each other since we can’t agree? Besides,
other circumstances have arisen,” he said, with a vengeful glance at his
mother. “But before I sail I shall certainly come to say good-bye.”
His mother’s faint call after him, “Paul! Paul!” which sounded like a
cry of despair, caught at his very heart, but did not bring him back.
His feet felt like lead as he went down the stairs. Almost they would
not carry him from everything that was in reality most dear to him; but
the more nature held him back the more determined was his obstinate will
to go. He would come back to say good-bye before he sailed. Was he
leaving himself a place of repentance? But at present, though he was
wretched, though his heart seemed to have an arrow through it, and his
feet were like lead, he would not stay.
This was how it came about that Sir William appeared at Birtwood
station, leaning upon the arm of a young man who was not his son. After
Paul’s visit he had another attack of faintness; and Fairfax, who came
back in the evening to put himself at the disposal of the ladies, found
them in great agitation, eager to get home again, yet half afraid to
venture on the journey. He came back in the morning to help them to get
their patient to the railway; and when they got there, Sir William,
feeling the advantage of his arm, so held by him, that without either
invitation or preparation, the young man, so strangely united to these
strangers came with them, not a word being said on the subject. He had
not even a ticket, nor the smallest provision for a visit. What of that?
The young fellow was of that light heart and easy temper to which no
adventure comes wrong.