The house had fallen into quiet after the gloomy excitement of the
morning. All the guests save two or three had gone away, the shutters
were opened, the rooms full once more of soft day-light, bright and
warm. The event, great and terrible as it was, was over, and ordinary
life again begun.
But there was still one piece of business to do. Sir William’s will had
to be read before the usual routine of existence could be begun again.
This grand winding up of the affairs that were at an end, and setting in
motion of those which were about to begin, took place in the library
late in the afternoon, when all the strangers had departed. The family
lawyer, Colonel Fleetwood, who was Lady Markham’s brother, and old Mr.
Markham of Edge, the head of the hostile branch which had hoped to
inherit everything before Sir William married and showed them their
mistake--were the only individuals present along with Lady Markham,
Paul, and Alice. There was nothing exciting about the reading of this
will; no fear of eccentric dispositions, or of any arrangement different
from the just and natural one. Besides, the family knew what it was
before it was read. It was merely a part of the sad ceremonial which had
to be gone through like the rest. Lady Markham had placed herself as far
from the table as possible, with her face turned to the door. She could
not bear, yet, to look straight at her husband’s vacant place. Her
brother stood behind her, leaning thoughtfully against her chair, and
Alice was on a low seat by her side. The deep mourning of both the
ladies made the paleness which grief and watching had brought more
noticeable. Alice had begun to regain a little delicate colour, but her
mother was still wan and worn. And they were very weary with the
excitement of the gloomy day, and anxious to get away and conclude all
these agitating ceremonials. Lady Markham kept her eyes on the door. Her
loss was too recent to seem natural. What so likely as that he should
come in suddenly, and wonder to see them all collected there?--so much
more likely, so much more natural than to believe that for ever he was
gone away.
And in the quiet the lawyer began to read--nothing to rouse them,
nothing they did not know; his voice, monotonous and calm, seemed to be
reading another kind of dull burial service, unbeautiful, without any
consolation in it, but full of the heavy, level cadence of ashes to
ashes and dust to dust. Paul stirred, almost impatiently, from time to
time, and changed his position; it affected his nerves. And sometimes
Colonel Fleetwood would give forth a sigh, which meant impatience too;
but the others did not move. Lady Markham’s beautiful profile, marble
pale, shone like a white cameo upon the dark background of the curtains.
She was scarcely conscious what they were doing, submitting to this last
duty of all.
When the door opened, which it did, somewhat hastily, it startled the
whole party. Lady Markham sat up in her chair and uttered a low cry.
Paul turned round angrily. He turned to find fault with the servant who
was thus interrupting a solemn conference; but when he saw who the
intruder really was, the young man lost all patience.
“This fellow again!” he said under his breath; and he made one stride
towards the door, where stood, closing it carefully behind him, while he
faced the company, Mr. Gus in his black suit. He was no coward; he faced
the young man, whom he had already exasperated, without
flinching--putting up his hand with a deprecating, but not undignified,
gesture. Paul, who had meant nothing less than to eject him forcibly,
came to a sudden stop, and stood hesitating, uncertain, before the
self-possessed little figure. What could he do? He was in his house,
where discourtesy was a crime.
“Keep your temper, Paul Markham,” said the little gentleman; “I mean you
no harm. You and I can’t help damaging each other; but for heaven’s
sake, this day, and before _them_, let’s settle it with as little
disturbance as we can.”
“What does this mean?” said Colonel Fleetwood: while the lawyer rested
his papers on the table, and looked on, across them, without putting
them out of his hand.
“I can’t tell what it means,” cried Paul. “This is the second time this
man has burst into our company, at the most solemn moment, when my
father was dying----”
“Mr. Gaveston,” said Lady Markham, in her trembling voice, “I have told
you that anything we can do for you, any amends we can make---- But oh,
would it not be better to choose another time--to come when we are
alone--when there need be no exposure?”
“My Lady Markham,” said Gus, advancing to the table, “I don’t know what
you mean, but you are under a great mistake. It is no fault of yours,
and I am sorry for Paul. I might have been disposed to accept a
compromise before I saw the place; but anyhow, compromise or not, I must
establish my rights.”
“This is the most extraordinary interruption of a family in their own
house,” said Colonel Fleetwood. “What does it mean? Isabel, you seem to
know him; who is this man?”
“That is just what she does not know,” said Gus, calmly; “and what I’ve
come to tell you. Nothing can be more easy; I have all the evidence
here, which your lawyer can examine at once. I wrote to my father when
I arrived, but he took no notice. I am Sir Augustus Markham: Sir William
Markham’s eldest son--and heir.”
Lady Markham rose up appalled--her lips falling apart, her eyes opened
wide in alarm, her hands clasped together. Paul, whose head had been
bent down, started, and raised it suddenly, as if he had not heard
rightly.
“Good God!” cried Colonel Fleetwood.
Mr. Scrivener, the lawyer, put down his papers carefully on the table,
and rose from his seat.
“The man must be out of his senses,” he said.
Mr. Gus looked round upon them all with excitement, in which there was a
gleam of triumph. “I am not out of my senses. With such a wrong done to
me I might have been; but I never knew of it till lately. And, mind you,
I don’t blame _them_ as if they knew it. If you are the lawyer, I have
brought you all the papers, honest and above-board. There they are, my
mother’s certificates and mine. Ask anybody in the island of Barbadoes,”
cried Mr. Gus; “bless you, it was not done in a corner; it was never
made a secret of. From the Governor to the meanest black, there isn’t
one but knows it all as well as I.”
He had thrust a packet of papers into Mr. Scrivener’s hand, and now
stood with one arm extended, like a speaker addressing with energetic,
yet conciliatory warmth, a hostile assembly. But no one paid any
attention to Mr. Gus. The interest had gone from him to the lawyer who
was opening up with care and precaution the different papers. Colonel
Fleetwood stood behind Mr. Scrivener eagerly reading them over his
shoulder, chafing at his coolness. “Get on, can’t you?” he cried, under
his breath. They were enough to appal the inexperienced eye. To this
astonished spectator looking on, the lines of the marriage certificate
seemed to blaze as if written in fire. It was as if a bolt from heaven
had fallen among them. The chief sufferers themselves were stunned by
the shock of a sudden horror which they did not realise. What did it
mean? A kind of pale light came over Lady Markham’s face: she began to
remember the Lennys and their eccentric visit. She put out her hand as
one who has begun to grasp a possible clue.
At this moment of intense and painful bewilderment, a sudden chuckle
burst into the quiet. It was poor old Mr. Markham, whose hopes had been
disappointed, who had never forgiven Sir William Markham’s children for
being born. “Gad! I always felt sure there was a previous marriage,” he
said, mumbling with old toothless jaws. Only the stillness of such a
pause would have made this senile voice of malice audible. Even the old
man himself was abashed to hear how audible it was.
“A previous marriage!” Colonel Fleetwood went hurriedly to his sister,
and took her by the shoulders in fierce excitement, as if she could be
to blame. “What does this mean, Isabel?” he cried; “did you know of it?
did you consent to it? does it mean, my God! that you have never been
this man’s wife at all?”
She turned upon him with a flash of energy and passion. “How dare you
speak of my husband so--my husband who was honour itself and truth?”
Then the poor lady covered her face with her hands. Her heart sank, her
strength forsook her. Who could tell what hidden things might be
revealed by the light of this sudden horrible illumination. “I can’t
tell you. I do not know! I do not know!”
“This will never do,” said Mr. Scrivener hurriedly. “This is pre-judging
the case altogether. No one can imagine that with no more proof than
these papers (which may be genuine or not, I can’t say on the spur of
the moment) we are going to believe a wild assertion which strikes at
the honour of a family----”
“Look here,” said Mr. Gus; his mouth began to get dry with excitement,
he could scarcely get out the words. “Look here, there’s nothing about
the honour of the family. There’s nothing to torment _her_ about. Do you
hear, you, whoever you are! My mother, Gussy Gaveston, died five and
thirty years ago, when I was born. Poor little thing,” cried the man who
was her son, with a confusion of pathos and satisfaction, “it was the
best thing she could do. She wasn’t one to live and put other people to
shame, not she. She was a bit of a girl, with no harm in her. The man
she married was a young fellow of no account, no older than him there,
Paul, my young brother; but all the same she would have been Lady
Markham had she lived; and I am her son that cost her her life, the only
one of the first family, Sir William’s eldest. That’s easily seen when
you look at us both,” he added with a short laugh; “there can’t be much
doubt, can there, which is the eldest, I or he?”
Here again there was a strange pause. Colonel Fleetwood, who was the
spectator who had his wits about him, turned round upon old Mr. Markham,
who ventured to chuckle again in echo of poor Gus’s harsh little laugh,
which meant no mirth. “What the devil do you find to laugh at?” he said,
his lip curling over his white teeth with rage, to which he could give
vent no other way. But he was relieved of his worst fear, and he could
not help turning with a certain interest to the intruder. Gus was not a
noble figure in his old-fashioned long-tailed black-coat, with his
formal air; but there was not the least appearance of imposture about
him. The serene air of satisfaction and self-importance which returned
to his face when the excitement of his little speech subsided, his
evident conviction that he was in his right place, and confidence in his
position, contradicted to the eyes of the man of the world all
suggestion of fraud. He might be deceived: but he himself believed in
the rights he was claiming, and he was not claiming them in any cruel
way.
As for Paul, since his first angry explanation he had not said a word.
The young man looked like a man in a dream. He was standing leaning
against the mantelpiece, every tinge of colour gone out of his face,
listening, but hardly seeming to understand what was said. He had
watched his mother’s movements, his uncle’s passionate appeal to her,
but he had not stirred. As a matter of fact the confusion in his mind
was such that nothing was clear to him. He felt as if he had fallen and
was still falling, from some great height into infinite space. His feet
tingled, his head was light. The sounds around him seemed blurred and
uncertain, as well as the faces. While he stood thus bewildered, two
arms suddenly surrounded his, embracing it, clinging to him. Paul
pressed these clinging hands mechanically to his side, and felt a
certain melting, a softness of consolation and support. But whether it
was Dolly whispering comfort to him in sight of his father’s grave, or
Alice bidding him take courage in the midst of a new confusing imbroglio
of pain and excitement, he could scarcely have told. Then, however,
voices more distinct came to him, voices quite steady and calm, in their
ordinary tones.
“After this interruption it will be better to go no further,” the lawyer
said. “I can only say that I will consult with my clients, and meet
Mr. ----, this gentleman’s solicitor, on the subject of the extraordinary
claim he makes.”
“If it is me you mean, I have no solicitor,” said Mr. Gus, “and I don’t
see the need of one. What have you got to say against my papers? They
are straightforward enough.”
The lawyer was moved to impatience.
“It is ridiculous,” he said, “to think that a matter of this
importance--the succession to a great property--can be settled in such a
summary way. There is a great deal more necessary before we get that
length. Lady Markham, I don’t think we need detain you longer.”
But no one moved. Lady Markham had sunk into her chair too feeble to
stand. Her eyes were fixed upon her son and daughter standing together.
They seemed to have floated away from her on the top of this wave of
strange invasion. She thought there was anger on Paul’s pale stern face,
but her heart was too faint to go to them, to take the part she ought to
take. Did they think she was to blame? How was she to blame? She almost
thought so herself as she looked pathetically across the room at her
children, who seemed to have forsaken her. Mr. Scrivener made a great
rustling and scraping, tying up his papers, putting them together--these
strange documents along with the others; for Gus had made no effort to
retain them. The lawyer felt with a sinking of his heart that the last
doubt of the reality of this claim was removed when the claimant allowed
him to keep the certificates which proved his case. In such a matter
only men who are absolutely honest put faith in others. “He is not
afraid of any appeal to the registers,” Mr. Scrivener said to himself.
He made as much noise as he could over the tying up of these papers; but
nobody moved to go. At last he took out his watch and examined it.
“Can any one tell me about the trains to town?” he said.
This took away all excuse from old Mr. Markham, who very unwillingly put
himself in motion.
“I must go too,” he said. “Can I put you down at the station?”
And then these two persons stood together for a minute or more comparing
their watches, of which one was a little slow and the other a little
fast.
“I think perhaps it will suit me better,” the lawyer said, “to wait for
the night train.”
Then the other reluctantly took his leave.
“I am glad that anyhow it can make no difference to you,” he said,
pressing Lady Markham’s hand; “that would have been worse, much worse,
than anything that can happen to Paul.”
The insult made her shrink and wince, and this pleased the revengeful
old man who had never forgiven her marriage. Then he went to Mr. Gus
with a great show of friendliness.
“We’re relations, too,” he said, “and I hope will be friends. Can I set
you down anywhere?”
Mr. Gus looked at him with great severity and did not put out his hand.
“I can’t help hurting them, more or less,” he said, “for I’ve got to
look after my own rights; but if you think I’ll make friends with any
one that takes pleasure in hurting them---- I am much obliged to you,”
Mr. Gus added with much state, “but I am at home, and I don’t want to be
set down anywhere.”
These words, which were quite audible, sent a thrill of amazement
through the room. Colonel Fleetwood and Mr. Scrivener looked at each
other. Notwithstanding the ruin and calamity which surrounded them, a
gleam of amusement went over the lawyer’s face. Gus was moving about
restlessly, hovering round the brother and sister who had not changed
their position, like a big blue-bottle, moving in circles. He was not at
all unlike a blue-bottle in his black coat. Mr. Scrivener went up to
him, arresting him in one of his flights.
“I should think--” said the lawyer, “don’t you agree with me?--that the
family would prefer to be left alone after such an exciting and
distressing day?”
“Eh! the family? Yes, that is quite my opinion. You outsiders ought to
go, and leave us to settle matters between us,” said Gus.
He scarcely looked at the lawyer, so intent was he upon Paul and Alice,
who were still standing together, supporting each other. The little man
was undisguisedly anxious to listen to what Alice was saying in her
brother’s ear.
“I am their adviser,” said Mr. Scrivener. “I cannot leave till I have
done all I can for them; but you Mr. ----”
“Sir Augustus, if you please,” said the little gentleman, drawing
himself up. “If you are their adviser, I, sir, am their brother. You
seem to forget that. The family is not complete without me. Leave them
to me, and there is no fear but everything will come straight.”
Mr. Scrivener looked at this strange personage with a kind of
consternation. He was half afraid of him, half amused by him. The
genuineness of him filled the lawyer with dismay. He could not entertain
a hope that a being so true was false in his pretensions. Besides, there
were various things known perhaps only to Mr. Scrivener himself which
gave these pretensions additional weight. He shook his head when Colonel
Fleetwood, coming up to him on the other side, whispered to him an
entreaty to “get the fellow to go.” How was he to get the fellow to go?
He had not only right, but kindness and the best of intentions on his
side.
“My dear sir,” he said, perplexed, “you must see, if you think, that
your claim, even if true, cannot be accepted in a moment as you seem to
expect. We must have time to investigate; any one may call himself Sir
William Markham’s son.”
“But no one except myself can prove it,” said Gus, promptly; “and, my
dear sir, to use your own words, you had better leave my family to me,
as I tell you. I know better than any one else how to manage them. Are
they not my own flesh and blood?”
“That may or may not be,” said the lawyer, at the end of his reasoning.
It was easy to say “get him to go away,” but unless he ejected him by
sheer force, he did not see how it was to be done. As for Mr. Gus, he
himself saw that the time was come for some further step. First he
buttoned his coat as preparing for action, and put down his hat, with
its huge hat-band, upon the table. Then he hesitated for a moment
between Lady Markham and the young people; finally he said to himself
reflectively, almost sadly, “What claim have I upon her?” He moved a
step towards Paul and Alice, and cleared his throat.
And it was now that Providence interposed to help the stranger. Just as
he had made up his mind to address the young man whom he had superseded,
there came a sound of footsteps at the door. It was opened a very
little, timidly, and through the chink Bell’s little soft voice (she was
always the spokeswoman) was heard with a little sobbing catch in it,
pleading--
“May we come in now, mamma?”
The children thought everybody was gone. They had been huddled up, out
of the way, it seemed, for weeks. They were longing for their natural
lives, for their mother, for some way out of the strangeness and
desolation of this unnatural life they had been leading. They were all
in the doorway, treading upon each other’s heels in their eagerness, but
subdued by the influences about which took the courage out of them. It
seemed to Mr. Gus an interposition of Providence on his behalf. He went
quickly to the door and opened to them, then returned, leading one of
the little girls in each hand.
“I told you I was a relation,” he said very gravely and kindly, with a
certain dignity which now and then took away all that was ridiculous in
him. “I am your brother, though you would not think it; your poor dear
father who is gone was my father too. He was my father when he was not
much older than Paul. I should like to be very fond of you all if you
would let me. I would not hurt one of you for the world. Will you give
me a kiss, because I am your brother, Bell and Marie?”
The children looked at him curiously with their big eyes, which they had
made so much larger with crying. They looked pale and fragile in their
black frocks, with their anxious little faces turned up to him.
“Our brother!” they both said in a breath, wondering; but they did not
shrink from the kiss he gave, turning with a quivering of real emotion
from one to another.
“Yes, my dears,” he said, “and a good brother I’ll be to you, so help me
God!” the little gentleman’s brown face got puckered and tremulous, as
if he would cry. “I don’t want to harm anybody,” he said. “I’ll take
care of the boys as if they were my own. I’ll do anything for Paul that
he’ll let me, though I can’t give up my rights to him; and I’ll be fond
of you all if you let me,” cried Mr. Gus, dropping the hands of the
children, and holding out his own to the colder, more difficult,
audience round him. They all stood looking at him, with keen wonder,
opposition, almost hatred. Was it possible they could feel otherwise to
the stranger who thus had fallen among them, taking everything that they
thought was theirs out of their hands?
END OF VOL. II.
LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.