He that will not when he may; vol. I

by Mrs. Oliphant

“I will go with you,” said Sir William, in his cold way, which admitted of no appeal; “you know the way, Isabel, to Paul’s rooms.” And thus they parted, the young man looking at the ladies again with a kind of dismayed protest: can I help it? He was very much dismayed to have Sir William with him. Fairfax had not much doubt as to where Paul was, and he did not think it was a place which would please his father. He felt already that he had established an understanding with the others which justified his glance of dismay. Lady Markham and her daughter turned very reluctantly away. They went across the quadrangle with drooping heads. Everything lay vacant in the sunshine, no cheerful bustle about, the windows all black, no voices, no footsteps, no lounging figures under the trees. Slowly they went across the light with their heads close together. “He knows where Paul is,” said Lady Markham, with a sigh. “But he did not want papa to go,” said Alice with another. They crept up the silent staircase and went into the vacant room, and sat down timidly, not venturing to look at anything. They were afraid of seeing something, even a book, which in Paul’s absence would betray Paul. His mother glanced furtively, pitifully about her. She was more bound by honour here in her son’s room, more determined to make no discoveries, than if her boy had been her enemy; and who can tell how the consciousness of this sank like a stone into her heart! A few years ago everything would have been so lightly reviewed, so gaily discussed—but now! The fringes of her cloak swept some papers off a side-table, and she let them lie, not venturing to touch them. Paul should not suppose that his mother had come to pry into his secrets. God forbid! He should be allowed to explain himself, to say the best he could for himself.

“Mr. Fairfax looked as if he knew everything. Did not you think so, mamma?”

“Oh, my darling, what can I say? He looked, I think, as if he were fond of Paul.”

“That I am sure he did. He was not very nice looking, nor well dressed; but these young men are very careless, are they not, when they are living alone?”

“I should not think anything of that, dear,” said Lady Markham, decidedly; “I think, too, though he was careless of his appearance, that he had an innocent look. He met your eye; there was nothing down-looking about him; and he blushed; that is always a good sign, and smiled at me, like a boy who has got a mother.”

“And he did not look at all frightened to see us; as he would have done had there been anything very wrong. I think he was rather pleased—it was papa he was afraid of. Now it is clear that if Paul had been—wicked, as papa said—(oh, Paul, Paul, I beg your pardon dear, I never thought it!)—it would have been you and me, mamma, don’t you think, that they would have been afraid of? They could not have borne to look us in the face if that had been true; whereas,” said Alice, in a tingle of logic, the tears starting into her eyes, “it was papa Mr. Fairfax was afraid of, not you or me.”

“That is true,” said Lady Markham, brightening slowly, but she did not take all the comfort from this potent argument that Alice expected. “Unless they are very intimate, he is not likely to know all that Paul is doing” she said, shaking her head. Paul’s room was far from orderly. Once upon a time he had been very fond of knick-knacks, and had cultivated china and hung plates about the walls. All that was gone now. Lady Markham looked at the bareness of the room with a pang. Would he have neglected it so if everything had been going well with him? Perhaps had it been much decorated she would have asked herself whether these meritricious ornaments did not indicate a mind given up to frivolity; but at this moment it seemed a curious and significant fact that the ornaments had all disappeared from his walls.

In the meantime young Fairfax was hurrying Sir William at a pace which scarcely befitted his dignity, or his years, along the streets. Probably the young man forgot that his companion was likely to suffer from this rapid progress; and when he remembered, he was not without hope of tiring the angry (as he supposed) father. But Sir William was a statesman and trained to exertion. He puffed a little and got very hot, but he did not flinch. Fairfax it was evident knew very well where he was going. He made a cunning attempt to deceive his companion by pretending to pause and wonder at the first corner; then he smote his thigh, and declared that of course he knew where Paul would be at this hour—not in any man’s lodgings—with the man who was teaching him—what was it? He could not recollect what it was—wood-carving, or something of that sort. “It is a good way off; would it not be better to let me fetch him?” he said, making a last attempt. “Let us get a cab,” said Sir William. “Oh, it is not so far as that,” said his guide, with a blush. Sir William had a half-suspicion that he was being led round and round about to make him think the way longer than it really was; but that part of Oxford had changed since his time, and he was not quite sure of the way. At last, however, when no further delay was possible, he found himself at the door of a little grimy house, the ground floor of which seemed to be occupied as some kind of workshop, where a man sat working. The place smelt of varnish and the window was full of small picture-frames, gilt and ungilt, and other very simple articles, carved workboxes and book-shelves. “Oh, Spears! has Markham been here?” the young man cried with a certain relief in his tone, evidently pleased not to see the person of whom he was in search. The workman looked up from his work. He was busy with a glue-pot, and the varnish which smelt so badly. He did not rise from his bench in honour of the gentleman, or remove his cap from his head. He said shortly, but in a voice of unusual sweetness and refinement—

“He is here still. He has gone up stairs, to wash his hands I suppose.”

“Ah!” said Fairfax. It was not a syllable, it was a sigh. He had hoped to have escaped easily; but it was not to be so. He went to the foot of the stairs, which led directly out of the workshop. “Markham!” he cried, “are you there? Come down at once; you are wanted.” How could he throw special significance into his voice? It sounded to himself just as careless as usual, though he had meant to make it very serious. “Markham, I say, there’s some one wants you—important! Come at once!” he added, going up a few steps.