“It sounds very fine in that way, Miss Markham; but that is not how Paul puts it. It is not giving to the poor, but sharing with his equals that is his thought, and I do not think you would like that. If they all had their share to-morrow, half would have two shares next day—at least so everybody says,” he went on with a laugh—“all the philosophers; and I am sure Paul would have no share at all. He would have given it away to somebody who persuaded him that he had not drawn a good lot. ‘Take it,’ he would say, ‘I can starve better than you can,’ for he is a fine aristocrat, our friend Paul.”
“Do you call that being an aristocrat?”
“To be sure; isn’t it? A poor little roturier like myself has not the knack of it. I should say, ‘Take a cut at mine,’ as if it was an orange, and hack at it myself among the rest. But Markham does things with a grand air. He will always have it; indeed, I think that when he had got his share to which he would allow he had an indisputable right, he would prefer to give it away in a lordly manner, and keep nothing but his magnanimity. That is what he is doing now.”
To have such an audience as Alice, with that glow of tender gratitude and pleasure in her eyes, looking up to him, fixed upon his face, her smile following every word of this pretended impartial and philosophical description, was worth any man’s while. He was tempted to go on romancing about Paul, giving him not only the praise he felt his due, but a great deal more, in order to secure a little longer that rapt attention. But perhaps it was better to stop, and leave her time enough to say with her hands clasped, and her whole soul in her look—
“Mr. Fairfax, you make me very happy. They have whispered things to mamma which have made her wretched; but it is ‘nothing but his magnanimity:’ that was what you said?”
Lady Markham opened the door, and came into the room before Fairfax could reply. She was preoccupied, and took no notice of the conversation that was going on. “Your father has fallen asleep,” she said; “he is very much exhausted. Oh, how I wish we had not left home.” Then she perceived Fairfax, and added with a change of tone, “You have had no breakfast. Alice, I thought you would attend to Mr. Fairfax.”
“Oh!” cried Alice, “do you think he cares about breakfast when we are in such trouble? He has been telling me about Paul. Mamma, listen to him. He must know. He says it is all Paul’s magnanimity—that was the word.”
“Oh, my dear, my dear,” cried Lady Markham, “it is my fault. I have made everything worse. Oh! why will women interfere? We ought to have stayed at home, and had patience. What can we do one way or another? I have behaved like a fool and got my boy into more trouble. And now your father. What shall we do if he is ill too?”
“Mamma, it is impossible that you can be to blame.”
“Quite impossible!” cried Fairfax. What gave him any right to speak? Yet they took it as a matter of course. “And pardon me, Lady Markham, I do not think there is any one much to blame. There is no harm in it at all. If you could but see behind the scenes as I do! Spears is an enthusiast—say a fanatic; he believes all he says, and Paul believes him and thinks he thinks with him; but he does not altogether; and they will differ more and more as time goes on. Patience, and it will come right.”