And nobody could say anything against that. Getting up early was a virtue in which Paul had been sadly deficient, as everybody was aware.
However, this was long enough to have been occupied about Paul, and the children, tired of the subject, had already plunged into their own affairs, when their elder brother suddenly appeared, ushering in Mr. Spears—who in the morning light looked more out of place than ever—through the great bow window which opened on the lawn. The stranger had his hat in his hand, and made an awkward sort of bow.
“I am afraid it is a liberty, my lady,” he said, stepping in with shoes all wet from the dewy grass. He did not know what to do with his hat, and ended by putting it under his chair when he got to the table. But by that time his embarrassment had disappeared, and his face grew benignant as he looked round, before sitting down, upon the girls and boys. “The sight of children is a benediction,” he said with that softening which mothers know by instinct. He was very like the man who wound up the clocks, who was a most respectable country tradesman; but this look reconciled Lady Markham to him more than anything else which had happened yet.
“You are fond of children?” she said.
“I ought to be. I have had six of my own; but they had hard times after my wife died, and there are but three left.”
“Ah!” Lady Markham cried out of the depths of her heart. She looked round upon her own children, and the tears came to her eyes. “I am very, very sorry. There can be nothing in the world so dreadful.”
“It is a pull,” said her visitor. “Yes, it is a pull. A man does not know what it is till he has gone through it. Often you think, poor things, it is better for them; you would never have been able to rear them as you ought; but when it comes it is a pull; though you may have no bread to give them, it is hard to part with them.”
He had begun to eat his breakfast very composedly, notwithstanding this. The way he held his fork was a wonder to Marie who had but recently acquired full mastery of her own, and Harry had watched with great gravity and interest the passage of the stranger’s knife to his mouth. But Lady Markham no longer noticed these things. She forgot that he was like the man that wound up the clocks.
“I always feel,” she said, “when I hear of losses like yours as if I ought to go down on my knees and beg your pardon for being so much better off—thank God!”
Spears looked up at her suddenly, putting down his knife and fork. Here was a strange thing; while all the rest were so conscious of the difference between them, the two chief persons had forgotten it. But he did not make any immediate reply. He looked at her wondering, grateful, understanding; and that piece of silent conversation was more effective than anything that could be said.