Mr. Gus was much startled by the change in Lady Markham’s manner, by her
sudden withdrawal and altered looks. Had he offended her? He did not
know how. He had been puzzled, much puzzled, by all she had said. She
had professed to be sorry for him. Why? Of all who were concerned, Gus
felt that he himself was the one whom it was not needful to be sorry
for. The others might have some cause for complaint; but nothing could
affect him--his position was sure. And it was very mysterious to him
what Lady Markham could mean when she professed to be ready to make him
amends--for what? Gus could afford to laugh, though, indeed, he was very
much surprised. But happily the nature of the mistake which Lady Markham
had made, and the cause of her indignation were things he never guessed
at. They did not occur to him. His position had never been in the least
degree equivocal in any way. He had known exactly, and everybody around
him had known exactly, what it was. Though he had been adopted as his
uncle’s heir; he had never been kept in the dark--why should he?--as to
whose son he was. And when the poor old planter fell into trouble, and
the estate of which Gus was to be the heir diminished day by day, “It
does not matter for Gus,” the old man had said; “you must go back to
your own family when I am gone; there’s plenty there for you, if there
is not much here.” Gus had known all about Markham all his life. An old
pencil-drawing of the house, feeble enough, yet recognisable still, had
been hanging in his room since ever he could remember. It had belonged
to his poor young mother, and since the time he had been able to speak
he had known it as home. The idea of considering “the second family” had
only dawned upon him when he began to plan his voyage “home,” after his
uncle’s death. He had heard there were children, and consequently one of
his great packing-cases contained many things which children would be
likely to value. It gave Gus pleasure to think of little sisters and
brothers to whom he would be more like an uncle than a brother. He was
fond of children, and he had a very comfortable simple confidence in
himself. It had never occurred to him that they might not “get on.” It
was true that to hear of Paul gave him at first a certain twinge; but he
thought it impossible, quite impossible, that Sir William could have let
his son grow up to manhood without informing him of the circumstances.
Surely it was impossible! There might be reasons why Lady Markham need
not be told--it might make her jealous, it might be disappointing and
vexatious to her--but he would not permit himself to believe that Paul
had been left in ignorance. And Alice, who was grown up, it seemed
certain to him that she, too, must know something. He had been greatly
moved by the sight of Alice. The young ladies out in Barbadoes, he
thought, were not like that, nor did he in Barbadoes see many young
ladies; and this dainty, well-trained, well-bred English girl was a
wonder and delight to him. Why should he not say that he was fond of
Alice? It was not only natural, but desirable that he should be so. He
walked out after Lady Markham left him with a slight sense of
discomfiture; he could not tell why, but yet a smile at the “flurry”
into which she had allowed herself to be thrown. Women were subject to
“flurries” for next to no cause, he was aware. It was foolish of her,
but yet she was a woman to whom a good deal might be pardoned. And he
did not feel angry, only astonished, and half discomfited, and a little
amused. It was strange--he could not tell what she meant--but yet in
time no doubt, all would be amicably settled, and they would “get on,”
however huffy she might be for the moment. Gus knew himself very well,
and he knew that in general he was a person with whom it was easy to get
on.
But he was a little disappointed to go away--after the hopes he had
formed of being at once received into the bosom of the family,
acknowledged by Sir William, and made known to the others--without any
advance at all. He had spoken to Alice when he met her with the
children, and had got “fond of her” on the spot: and he would have liked
to have had her brought to him, and to have made himself known in his
real character to all the girls and boys. But however, it must all come
right sooner or later, he said to himself; and no doubt Lady Markham,
with her husband sick on her hands, and her son, as all the village
believed, giving her a great deal of anxiety, might be forgiven if she
could not take the trouble to occupy herself about anything else. Gus
went away without meeting any one, and when he had got out in front of
the house, turned round to look at it, as he was in the custom of doing.
It was a dull day, drizzly and overcast. This made the house look very
like that woolly pencil-drawing, which had always hung at the head of
his bed, and always been called home.
As he stood there some one came from behind the wing where the gate of
the flower-garden was, and approached him slowly. Gus had not been quite
able to make out who Fairfax was. He was “no relation,” and there did
not even seem to be any special understanding between him and Alice,
which was the first idea that had come into the stranger’s head. He had
spoken to Fairfax two or three times when he had met him with the
children, and Gus, who was full of the frankest and simplest curiosity,
waited for him as soon as he perceived him. “We are going the same way,
and I hope you don’t dislike company,” he said. To tell the truth,
Fairfax had no particular liking for company at that moment. It seemed
to him that he was in a very awkward position in this house where
dangerous sickness had come in and taken possession; but how to act, how
to disembarrass them of his constant presence, without depriving them of
his services, which, with natural self-regard he thought perhaps more
valuable than they really were, he did not know. The quaint “little
gentleman,” about whom all the children chattered, seemed for the first
moment somewhat of a bore to Fairfax; but after a moment’s hesitation he
accepted him with his usual good-nature, and joined him without any
apparent reluctance. Mr. Gus was very glad of the opportunity of
examining at his leisure this visitor whose connection with the family
he did not understand.
“I have been asking for the old gentleman,” he said. “I have seen Lady
Markham. You know them a great deal better than I do, no doubt, though I
am--a relation.”
“I do not know them very well,” said Fairfax. “Indeed, I find myself in
a very awkward position. I came here by chance because Sir William fell
ill when I was with them, and I was of some use for the moment. That
made me come on with them, without any intention of staying. And here I
am, a stranger, or almost a stranger, in a house where there is
dangerous illness. It is very embarrassing; I don’t know what to do.”
He had thought Gus a bore one minute, and the next opened all his mind
to him. This was characteristic of the young man; but yet in his
carelessness and easy impulse there was a certain sudden sense that the
support of a third person somehow connected with the Markham family
might give him some countenance.
“Then you don’t know them--much?” said Mr. Gus, half-satisfied,
half-contemptuous. “I couldn’t make you out, to tell the truth. Nobody
but an old friend or a connection--or some one who was likely to become
a connection”--he added, giving Fairfax a keen sidelong glance, “seemed
the right sort of person to be here.”
Fairfax felt uneasy under that look. He blushed, he could scarcely tell
why. “I can’t be said to be more than a chance acquaintance,” he said.
“It was a lucky chance for me. I have known Markham for a long time.
I’ve known _him_ pretty well; but it was a mere chance which brought Sir
William to me when they were looking for Markham; and then, by another
chance, I was calling when he was taken ill. That’s all. I feel as if I
were of a little use, and that makes me hesitate; but I know I have no
right to be here.”
“Who’s Markham? The--son, I suppose?”
“Yes, the eldest son. I suppose you know him as Paul. Of course,” said
Fairfax, with hesitation, “he ought to be here; but there are some
family misunderstandings. He doesn’t know, of course, how serious it
is.”
“Wild?” said Mr. Gus, with his little, precise air.
“Oh--I don’t quite know what you mean by wild. Viewy he is, certainly.”
“Viewy? Now I don’t know what you mean by viewy. It is not a word that
has got as far as the tropics, I suppose.”
Fairfax paused to give a look of increased interest at the “little
gentleman.” He began to be amused, and it was easy--very easy--to lead
him from his own affairs into the consideration of some one else’s.
“Paul,” he said--“I have got into the way of calling him Paul since I
have been here, as they all do--goes wrong by the head, not in any other
way. We have been dabbling in--what shall I call it?--socialism,
communism, in a way--the whole set of us: and he is more in earnest than
the rest; he is giving himself up to it.”
“Socialism--communism!” cried Mr. Gus; he was horrified in his
simplicity. “Why that’s revolution, that’s bloodshed and murder!” he
cried.
“Oh, no; we’re not of the bloody kind--we’re not red,” said Fairfax,
laughing. “It’s the communism that is going to form an ideal
society--not fire and flame and barricades.”
“You don’t mean to tell me,” said Gus, not listening to this
explanation, “that this young Markham--Paul, this Lady Markham’s son--is
one of those villains that want to assassinate all the kings, and plunge
all Europe into trouble? Good God! what a lucky thing I came here!”
“No, no, I tell you,” said Fairfax. “On the contrary, what Paul wants is
to turn his back upon kings and aristocracies, to give up civilisation
altogether, for that matter, and found a new world in the backwoods.
We’ve all played with the notion. It sounds fine; and then there’s one
eloquent fellow--a real orator, mind you--who makes it look like the
grandest thing in the world to do. I believe he thinks it is, and so
does Paul. He’s gone wrong in his head on the subject; that is all that
is wrong with him. But there is this difference,” said Fairfax
reflectively, “from going wrong that way and--other ways. If you prove
yourself an ass in the common form, you’re sorry and ashamed of
yourself, and glad to make it up with your people at home; but when it’s
this sort of thing you stand on your high principles and will not give
in. That’s one difference between being viewy and--the other. Paul can’t
make up his mind to give in; and then probably he thinks they are making
the very most of his father’s illness in order to work upon his
feelings. Well! he ought to know better,” cried Fairfax, with a flush of
indignation; “Lady Markham is not the sort of person to be suspected in
that way; but you know the kind of ideas that are general. He makes
himself fancy so, I suppose.”
“He seems a nice sort of young fellow to come into this fine property,”
said Gus, with another sidelong, inquisitive look at Fairfax. There was
an air of keen curiosity, and at the same time of sarcastic enjoyment,
on his face.
“That is the strange thing about it,” said Fairfax reflectively stroking
the visionary moustache which very lightly adorned his lip. “Paul is a
very queer fellow. He is against the idea of property. He thinks it
should all be re-divided and every man have his share. And, what’s
stranger still,” he added, with an exclamation, “he’s the fellow to do
it if he had the chance. There is nothing sham about him. He would strip
himself of everything as easily as I would throw off a coat.”
“Against the idea of property!” said little Gus, with a very odd
expression. He gave a long whistle of surprise and apparent
discomfiture. “He must be a very queer fellow indeed,” he said, with an
air of something like disappointment. Why should he have been
disappointed? But this was what no one, however intimately acquainted
with the circumstances, could have told.
“Yes, he is a very queer fellow. He has a great deal in him. One thing
that makes me a little uncomfortable,” continued Fairfax, unconsciously
falling more and more into a confidential tone, “is that I don’t know
how he may take my being here.”
“How should he take it? you are his friend, you said?”
“Ye-es; oh, we’ve always been very good friends, and one time and
another have seen a great deal of each other. Still, you may like a
fellow well enough among men, and not care to see him domesticated, you
know, in your home. Besides, he might think I had put myself in the way
on purpose to curry favour when Sir William was ill--or--I don’t know
what he might think. It seems shabby somehow to be living with your
friend’s people when your friend isn’t there.”
“Especially if he ought to be there, and you are doing his work.”
“Perhaps,” Fairfax said; and they walked down to the end of the avenue
in silence. Mr. Gus had got a great deal to think of from this
interview. A new light had come into his mind--and somehow, strangely,
it was not at first an entirely agreeable light. He went along for some
way without saying anything, going out of the great gates, and into the
high road, which was so quiet. A country cart lumbering past now and
then, or a farmer’s gig, the sharp trot of a horse carrying a groom
from some other great house to inquire after Sir William, gave a little
more movement to the rural stillness, increasing the cheerfulness,
though the occasion was of the saddest; and as they approached the
village, a woman came out from a cottage door, and, making her homely
curtsey, asked the same question.
“My lady will be in a sad way,” this humble inquirer said. It was of my
lady more than of Sir William that the rustic neighbours thought.
“My lady’s a great person hereabout,” said Mr. Gus, with a look that was
half spiteful. “I wonder how she will like it when the property goes
away from her. She will not take it so easily as Paul.”
“No,” said Fairfax, rousing up in defence, “it is not likely she would
take it easily; she has all her children to think of. It is to be hoped
Paul will have sense enough to provide for the children before he lets
it go out of his hands.”
“Ah!” This again seemed to be a new light to Gus. “Your Lady Markham
would have nothing to say to me,” he said, after a pause. “She sent me
off fast enough. She neither knows who I am, nor wants to know. Perhaps
it would be better both for her and the children if she had been a
little more civil.”
It was Fairfax’s turn to look at him now, which he did with quite a new
curiosity. He could not understand in what possible way it might be to
Lady Markham’s advantage to be civil to the little gentleman whom no one
knew anything about; then it occurred to him suddenly that the uncles
who appear mysteriously from far countries with heaps of money to
bestow, and who present themselves _incognito_ to test their families,
are not strictly confined to novels and the stage. Now and then such a
thing has happened, or has been said to happen, in real life. Could this
be an instance? He was puzzled and he was amused by the idea. Mr. Gus
did not look like the possessor of a colossal fortune looking for an
heir; nor, though Lady Markham thought him nearly as old-looking as Sir
William, did he seem to Fairfax old enough to adopt a simply beneficent
_rôle_. Still, there seemed no other way to account for this half
threat. It was all Fairfax could do to restrain his inclination to
laugh; but he did so, and exerted himself at once to restore Lady
Markham to his companion’s good opinion.
“You must remember,” he said--“and all we have been saying proves how
much both you and I are convinced of it--that Sir William is very ill.
His wife’s mind is entirely occupied with him, and she is anxious about
Paul. Indeed, can any one doubt that she has a great many anxieties very
overwhelming to a woman who has been taken care of all her life? Fancy,
should anything happen to Sir William, what a charge upon her shoulders!
The wonder to me is that she can see any one; indeed she does not see
any one. And if she does not know, as you say, who you are----”
“No,” said Mr. Gus. Something which sounded half like a chuckle of
satisfaction, and half a note of offence, was in his voice. He was like
a mischievous school-boy delighted with the effect of a mystification,
yet at the same time angry that he had not been found out. “She knows
nothing about me,” he said, with a half-laugh. Just then they had
reached the Markham Arms, into which Fairfax followed him without
thinking. They went into the little parlour, which was somewhat gloomy
on this dull day, and green with the shadow of the honeysuckle which
hung so delightfully over the window when the sun was shining, but
darkened the room now with its wreaths of obtrusive foliage, glistening
in the soft summer drizzle. “Come in, come in,” said Mr. Gus, pushing
the chair, which was miscalled easy, towards his visitor, and shivering
slightly; “nobody knows anything about me here: and if this is what you
call summer, I wish I had never left Barbados. I can tell you, Mr.
Fairfax, it was not a reception like this I looked for when I came
here.”
“Probably,” said Fairfax, hitting the mark at a venture, “it is only Sir
William himself who is acquainted with all the family relations--and as
he is ill and disabled, of course he does not even know that you are
here.”
“He does know that I am here,” cried the little gentleman, bursting with
his grievance. It had come to that pitch that he could not keep silence
any longer, and shut this all up in his own breast. “I wrote to let him
know I had come. I should think he did know about his relations; and
I--I can tell you, I’m a much nearer relation than any one here is
aware.”
Fairfax received this intimation quite calmly; he was not excited.
Indeed it did not convey to him any kind of emotion. What did the
matter? Uncle or distant cousin, it was of very little consequence. He
said, placidly--
“The village looks very pretty from this window. Are you comfortable
here?”
“Comfortable!” echoed Gus. “Do you think I came all this way across the
sea to shut myself up in a village public-house? I didn’t even know what
a village public-house was. I knew that house up there, and had known it
all my life. I’ve got a drawing of it I’ll show you, as like as anything
ever was. Do you suppose I thought I would ever be sent away from there?
I--oh, but you don’t know, you can’t suppose, how near a relation I am.”
Fairfax thought the little man must be a monomaniac on this subject of
his relationship to the Markhams. He thought it was but another instance
of the wonderful way in which people worship family and descent. He
himself having none of these things had marked often, with the keenness
of a man who is beyond the temptation, the exaggerated importance which
most people gave to them. Sir William Markham, it might be said, was a
man whom it was worth while to be related to; but it did not matter what
poor bit of a squire it was, Fairfax thought; a man who could boast
himself the cousin of Hodge of Claypits was socially a better man than
the best man who was related to nobody. What a strange thing this kind
of test was! To belong to a famous historical family, or to be connected
with people of eminent acquirements, he could understand that there
might be a pride in that; but the poorest little common-place family
that had vegetated at one place for a century or two! He did not make
any answer to Mr. Gus, but smiled at him, and yet compassionated
him--this poor little fellow who had come over here from the tropics
with his head full of the glory of the Markhams, and now had nothing
better to do than to sit in this little inn parlour and brag of his
relationship to them; it was very pitiful, and yet it was ludicrous too.
“I wonder,” he said suddenly, “whether they could put me up here? I want
to go, and yet I don’t want to be away, if you can understand that. If
anything were to happen, and Markham not here----”
“I should be here,” said Gus. “I tell you you haven’t the least idea how
near a relation I am. Lady Markham may be as high and mighty as she
likes, but it would be better for her if she were a little civil. She
doesn’t know the power that a man may have whom she chooses to slight.
And I can tell you my papers are all in order. There are no registers
wanting or certificates, or anything to be put a question upon; uncle
took care of that. Though he adopted me, and had the intention of making
me his heir (if he had left anything to be heir to), he always took the
greatest care of all my papers. And he used to say to me, ‘Look here,
Gus, if anything should happen to me, here’s what will set you up, my
boy.’ I never thought much about it so long as he was living, I thought
things were going better than they were; and when the smash came I took
a little time to pick myself up. Then I thought I’d do what he always
advised--I’d come home. But if any one had told me I was to be living
here, in a bit of a tavern, and nobody knowing who I am, I should not
have believed a word.”
“It is very unfortunate,” said Fairfax; “but of course it is because of
Sir William’s illness--that could not have been foreseen.”
“No, to be sure it could not have been foreseen,” Gus said; then roused
himself again in the might of his injury. “But if you could guess, if
you could so much as imagine, who I really am----”
Fairfax looked at him with curiosity. It was strange to see the
vehemence in his face: but Gus was now carried beyond self-control. He
could not help letting himself out, getting the relief of disclosure. He
leant across the little shining mahogany table and whispered a few words
into Fairfax’s ear.