“What is it?—from Paul, William? he has written to you too,” said Lady Markham, with trembling lips.
“What does it mean?” cried Sir William. “He is going off, he says—away—to Australia or New Zealand, or somewhere. What does it mean? No doubt he takes you into his confidence. If you have known of this intention long you ought to have let me know.”
“I am as much overwhelmed as you can be, William. I have just got a letter.” Lady Markham stopped, her lips trembling. “Oh, Paul, my boy! He cannot mean it,” she said. “It must be some fancy of the moment. At his age everything is exaggerated. William, William, something must be done. We must go to him and save him.”
“Save him! from what are we to save him?” Sir William began to pace up and down with impatience and perplexity. He was not so angry (they thought) as they had feared. He was anxious, unhappy, as they were, though querulous too. “What is the meaning of it? Follies like this do not spring up all at once. You must have seen it coming on. You must know what it means. What has he been writing to you about lately? Is there—any woman——?”
“William!” cried his wife.
“Well!—Alice, run away; we can discuss this better without you.—Well! it need not be anything criminal or vicious, though of course that is what at once you imagine it to be. Has he spoken of any one? Has he ever—— No, he would not do that. He is a fool,” cried the anxious father; “he is capable of any nonsense. But it need not necessarily be anything that is vicious—from your point of view.”
Alice had not gone away. She shrank behind her mother into the dim corner, yet to her own consciousness stood confronting her brother’s accuser with a resolute countenance, from which the colour had all gone out. Her blue eyes were open wide with horror yet denial. Whatever Paul might have done she was ready to defend him; although the possibility of any such wrongdoing went through her like a sword of fire. The light of the candle flickered upon her faintly, showing scarcely anything but her attitude, partially relieved against the lightness of the window—a slim, straight, indignant figure drawn up and set in defence.
“He has not written often lately,” said Lady Markham, faltering; “but oh, William, it is not possible; he is not capable——”
“What do you know about it” cried Sir William, almost roughly. “How can you tell what he is capable of? A young man will go from a house like this, from his mother’s side, and will find pleasure—actual pleasure—in the society of creatures bred upon the streets; in their noisy talk, in their bad manners, in all that is most unlike you. God knows how it is; but so it is. Paul may be no better than the rest. Alice, I tell you, run away.”
Lady Markham grew red and then deadly pale. She rose trembling to her feet. “Can we go to-night? Can we go at once?” she cried. “Oh, William, let us not lose an hour!”