This time Sir William did not get better as he had done before. His
third fainting-fit proved the beginning of an illness at which the
village doctor looked very grave. It was still but a very short time
since he had come down from London, relieved at the end of the session,
to enjoy his well-earned leisure, with everything prosperous around him,
nothing but the little vexation of Paul’s vagaries to give him a prick
now and then, a reminder that he too was subject to the ills of
mortality. What a happy house it had been to which the tired statesman
had come home! When he had taken his seat by the side of Alice in the
little pony-carriage there had been nothing but assured peace and
comfort in his mind. Paul:--yes--Paul has been a vexation; but no more.
Now all that brightness was overcast; the happy children in their
holiday freedom were hushed in their own corner of the house no longer
allowed to roam through it wherever they pleased. Lady Markham, with all
pretty gowns, her lace and ornaments put away, lived in her husband’s
sick-room, or came down stairs now and then with an anxious smile, “like
someone coming to call,” the little girls said. Alice had become not
Alice, but a sort of emissary between the outside world and that little
hidden world up stairs in which the life of the house seemed
concentrated. As for Sir William, he lay between life and death. First
one, then another great London physician had come down to see him--but
all that they could suggest had done him little or no good. All over the
country messengers came every day for news of him; the head of the
government, and even the Queen herself, and all the leading members of
the party sent telegrams of inquiry; and there were already flutters of
expectation in the town he represented as to the chances of the Liberal
interest, “should anything happen.” Even into Lady Markham’s mind, as
she sat in the silent room, often darkened and always quiet, trying hard
to keep herself from thinking, there would come thoughts, dreary
previsions of change, floating like clouds across her mental firmament,
against her will, in spite of all her precautions--visions of darkness
and blackness and solitude which she tried in vain to shut out. Her
husband lying so still under the high canopies of the bed, from which
all curtains and everything that could obstruct the free circulation of
air had been drawn aside, capable of no independent action, but still
the centre of every thought and plan--was it possible to imagine him
absent altogether, swept away out of the very life in which he had been
the chief actor! These thoughts did not come by any will of hers, but
drifted gloomily across her mind as she sat silent, sometimes trying to
read, mechanically going over page after page, but knowing nothing of
the meaning of the words that were under her eyes. To realise the death
of the sufferer whom one is nursing is, save when death is too close to
be any longer ignored, not only a shock, but a wrong, a guilt, a horror.
Is it not like signing his sentence, agreeing that he is to die? Lady
Markham felt as if she had consented to the worst that could happen when
these visions of the future drifted across her mind.
Meanwhile who can describe the sudden dreariness of the house upon which
in full sunshine of youth and enjoyment this blight came? The boys
wished themselves at school--could there be any stronger evidence of the
gloom around them?--the girls grew sad and cross, and cried for nothing
at all. Fairfax lingered on, not knowing what to do, afraid to trouble
the anxious ladies even by proposing to go away, obliterating himself as
much as he could, though doing everything that Paul, had he been there,
would have been expected to do. Paul did not come till a week after,
though he was written to every day--but in that week a great many things
had happened. For one thing Lady Markham had seen and spoken with the
stranger who was living at the Markham Arms in the village, and who had
introduced himself to the children as a relation. She had heard nothing
of Mr. Gus except that one mention of him by little Bell on the night of
the return, and that had made no great impression on her mind. It had
been immediately before the recurrence of Sir William’s faint, which had
naturally occupied all her thoughts, and how could it be supposed that
Lady Markham would remember a thing of such small importance? It
surprised her much to meet in the hall that strange little figure in
light, loose clothes, standing hat in hand, as she went from one room
to another. Sir William then had been but a few days ill, and Lady
Markham had hitherto resolutely kept herself from all those drifting
shadows of fear. It was one of the days when she had come to “make a
call” on her children. Sir William was asleep, and she persuaded herself
that he was better, she had come down, as she said, to tell them the
good news; but her smile as she told it was so tremulous, that little
Bell, whose nerves had got entirely out of order, began to cry. And then
they all cried together for a minute, and were a little eased by it.
Alice protested that she was crying for joy because papa was better, and
that it was very silly, but she could not help it; and Lady Markham had
all the brightness of tears in her eyes as she came out into the hall on
her way back to the sick-room; and lo, there before her in the hall,
stood the little gentleman, bowing, with his hat in his hand.
“I think you must have heard of me, Lady Markham,” he said.
She looked at him, with a kind of horror that a stranger should be able
to find and detain her--she who ought to be by her husband’s bedside. In
her capacity of nurse it seemed almost as great a crime to intercept
her as it would be to disturb Sir William; but she was too courteous to
express her horror.
“I do not think so,” she said, with a conciliatory smile which was
intended to take off any edge of offence that might be found in her
profession of ignorance. Then she looked at the card which he handed to
her. “Perhaps this ought to be given to Brown. Ah! but now I remember.
You are related to some kind people, the Lennys, who were here.”
“Have the Lennys been here?” said Mr. Gus, with unfeigned surprise.
“Yes, I am a relation of theirs also; but in the meantime there is a
much nearer relationship.”
“I am sure Mr. Gaveston,” said Lady Markham, with a smile by which she
begged pardon for what she was saying, “that you will not think it rude
if I leave you now. I don’t like to be long away from Sir William. When
he wakes he may miss me.”
“Lady Markham,” said Mr. Gus, “I wish you would let me speak to you. I
do wish it indeed. It would be so much easier afterwards----”
She looked at him with genuine surprise, then with a glance round her
up the great staircase, where she wished to go, and round the open doors
by which no one came for her deliverance, she yielded unwillingly. “I
fear I can only give you a few minutes,” she said, and led the way into
the library. She had done so without for the moment thinking that her
husband’s room was scarcely a place in which, at this moment, to
discourse placidly with a stranger on subjects of which she was
ignorant. It was so full of him. His books, his papers, all arranged as
if he had that moment left them; his chair at its usual angle, as if he
were seated in it unseen; everything marked with the more than good
order, the precision and formal regularity of all Sir William’s habits.
The things which mark the little foibles of character, the innocent
weaknesses of habit, are those which go most to the heart when death is
threatening a member of a household. The sight of all these little
_fads_, which sometimes annoyed her, and sometimes made her laugh when
all was well, gave Lady Markham a shock of sudden pain and sudden
_attendrissement_. Her heart had been soft enough before to her husband;
it melted now in a suffusion of tender love and grief. Her eyes filled.
Might it be that he never should sit at that table again?
“I am sure,” she said, making once more the same instinctive appeal to
the sympathy of the stranger, “that you will not detain me longer than
you can help, for my husband is very ill. I cannot help being very
anxious----” She could not say any more.
“I am very sorry, Lady Markham--but that is the very thing that makes it
so important. May I ask if it is possible you have never heard of me?
Never even _heard_ of me!--that is the strangest thing of all.”
In her surprise she managed better to get rid of her tears. She gave a
startled glance at him, and then at the card she still held in her hand.
“I cannot quite say that--for Mrs. Lenny and the Colonel both spoke--I
cannot say of you--but of a family called Gaveston whom Sir William had
known. You are the son, I presume, of an old friend? My husband, Mr.
Gaveston,” said Lady Markham, with warmth, “is not a man to be
indifferent to old friends. You may be sure he would have been glad to
see you, and done his best to make Markham pleasant to you:--but the
circumstances--explain----”
“Then,” said her strange companion with a certain air of sternness which
changed the character of his face, “that is all you know?”
She looked at the card again. How was it she had not noticed the second
name before? “I see you have Markham in your name,” she said; “I had not
noticed. Is there then some distant relationship? But Mrs. Lenny never
claimed to be a relation: or perhaps--I see! you are Sir William’s
godson,” Lady Markham said, with a smile which was somewhat forced and
uncomfortable. She kept her eyes upon him, uneasy, not knowing what
might come next, vaguely foreseeing something which must wound her.
Mr. Gus’s brown countenance grew red--he gave forth a sharp and angry
laugh. “His _god_son,” he said; “and that is all you know?”
Lady Markham grew far more red than he had done. Her beautiful face
became crimson. The heat of shame and distress upon it seemed to get
into her eyes. What was this suspicion that was flung into her mind like
a fire-brand? and in this place where her husband’s blameless life had
been passed, and at this moment when he was ill, perhaps approaching the
end of all things! “Mr. Gaveston,” she said, trembling, “I cannot, I
cannot hear any more. It is not to me you ought to come, and at such a
time! Oh, if you have been put in any false position--if you have been
subjected to humiliation, by anything my husband has done----” Her voice
was choked by the growing heat and pain of her agitation; even to have
such a horrible thought suggested to her now seemed cruelty incredible.
It was wrong on her part to allow it to cross the threshold of a mind
which was sacred to _him_. “Oh,” she cried, wringing her hands, “if you
have had anything to suffer, I am sorry for you, with all my heart! but
I cannot hear any more now--do not ask me to hear any more now! Another
time, anything we can do for you, any amends that can be made to
you--but oh, for God’s sake, think of the state he is lying in, and say
no more now!”
Mr. Gus listened with wonder, irritation, and dismay. That she should be
excited was natural, but with respect to their meaning, her words were
like raving to him. He could not tell what she meant. Do anything for
him, make him amends!--was the woman mad? He only stared at her blankly,
and did not make any reply.
Then she held out her hand to him, trying to smile, with her eyes full
of tears. “It shall not do you any harm eventually,” she said, “your
kindness now. Thank you for not insisting now. I have not left--Sir
William for so long a time since he was ill.”
She made a pause before her husband’s name. If it were possible that
there might be a link between him and this stranger--a link as strong
as----! It made her heart sick to think upon it; but she would not think
upon it. It flashed upon her mind only, but was not permitted to stay
there: and half because of real anxiety to get back to the sick-room,
half from a still greater eagerness to get rid of her visitor, she made
a step towards the door.
“If you will let me say so,” said Mr. Gus, “you oughtn’t to shut
yourself up in a sick-room. You may think me an enemy, but I’m no enemy.
I wish you all well. I like the children. I think I could be very fond,
if she’d let me, of Alice, and I admire you----”
“Sir!” Lady Markham said. She turned her astonished eyes upon him with a
blaze in them which would have frightened most men; then opened the door
with great stateliness and dignity, ignoring the attempt he made to do
it for her. “I must bid you good morning,” she said, making him a
curtsey worthy of a queen--then walked across the hall with the same
dignity; but as soon as she was out of sight, flew up stairs, and,
before going to her husband, went to her own room for a time to compose
herself. She felt herself outraged, insulted--a mingled sense of rage
and wonder had taken possession of her gentle soul. Who was this man,
and what could he mean by his claim upon her, his impudent expressions
of interest in the family, as if he belonged to the family? Was it not
bad enough to put a stigma upon her husband at the moment when he was
dying, and when all her thoughts were full of the tenderest veneration
for him, and recollection of all his goodness! To throw this shadow of
the sins of his youth, even vaguely, upon Sir William’s honourable,
beautiful age, was something like a crime. It was like desecration of
the holiest sanctuary. Lady Markham could not but feel indignant that
any man should seize this moment to put forth such a claim--and to make
it to _her_, disturbing her ideal, introducing doubt and shame into her
love, just at the moment when all her tenderness was most wanted! it was
cruel. And then, as if that was not enough, to assume familiarity, to
speak of her child as Alice, this stranger, this----! Delicate woman as
she was, Lady Markham, in her mind, applied as hard a word to Mr. Gus as
the severest of plainspoken men could have used. She seemed to see far,
far back in the mists of distance, a young man falling into temptation
and sin, and some deceitful girl--must it not have been a deceitful
girl?--working upon his innocence. This is how, when the heart is sore,
such blame is apportioned. He it was who must have been seduced and
deluded. How long ago? some fifty years ago, for the man looked as old
as Sir William. When this occurred to her, her heart gave a leap of joy.
Perhaps the story was all a lie--a fiction. He did look almost as old as
Sir William; how could it be possible? It must be a lie.
When she came as far as this she bathed her eyes and composed herself,
and went back to her husband’s room. He was still asleep, and Lady
Markham took her usual place where she could watch him without
disturbing him, and took her knitting which helped to wile away the long
hours of her vigil. If the knitting could but have occupied her mind as
it did her hands! but in the quiet all her thoughts came back; her mind
became a court of justice, in which the arguments on each side were
pleaded before a most anxious, yet, alas, too clear-sighted judge. This
stranger, who figured as the accuser, was arraigned before her, and
examined in every point of view. He was strange; he was not like the men
whom Lady Markham was used to see; but he did not look like an impostor.
She tried to herself to prove him so, but she could not do it. He was
not like an impostor. In his curious foreignness and presumption, he yet
had the air of a true man. But then, she said to herself, how ignorant,
how foolish he must be, how incapable of any just thought or feeling of
shame. To come to _her_! If he had indeed a claim upon Sir William,
there were other ways of making that claim; but that he should come to
her--Sir William’s wife--and oh, at such a time! This was the refrain of
her thoughts to which she came back and back. As she sat there in the
darkened room, her fingers busy with her knitting, her ears intent to
hear the slightest movement the sleeper made, this was how her mind was
employed. Perhaps when they had gone through all these stages, her
thoughts came back with a still more exquisite tenderness to the sick
man lying there, she thought, so unconscious of this old, old sin of his
which had come back to find him out. How young he must have been at the
time, poor boy!--younger than Paul--and away from all his friends, no
one to think of him as Paul had, to pray for him--a youth tossed into
the world to sink or to swim. Lady Markham’s heart melted with sympathy.
And to make up for that youthful folly, in which perhaps he was sinned
against as well as sinning, what a life of virtue and truth he had led
ever since. She cast her thoughts back upon the past with a glow of
tender approval and praise. Who could doubt his goodness? He had done
his duty in everything that had been given him to do. He had served his
country, he had served his parish, both alike, well; and he had been the
Providence of all the poor people dependent upon him. She went over all
that part of his career which she had shared, with tears of melancholy
happiness coming to her eyes. Nothing there that any one could blame:
oh, far from that! everything to be praised. No man had been more good,
more kind, more spotless; no one who had trusted in him had ever been
disappointed. And what a husband he had been: what a father he had
been! If this were true, if he had done wrong in his youth, had he not
amply proved that it was indeed but a folly of youth, a temporary
aberration--nothing more. Lady Markham felt that she was a traitor to
her husband to sit here by his sick-bed and allow herself to think that
he had ever been wicked. Oh, no, he could not have been wicked! it was
not possible. She went softly to his bedside to look at him while he
slept. Though he was sleeping quietly enough, there was a cloud of
trouble on his face. Was it perhaps a reflection from the doubt she had
entertained of him, from the floating shadows of old evil that had been
blown up like clouds upon his waning sky?