“No further than being in the inn with him. And I thought from what he said they might have a difficulty in getting him away. So I came to fetch him; but not entirely for that either,” Fairfax said.
“Then you never did them a better service,” said the lawyer, “than to-night.”
“I don’t think there is any harm in him,” Fairfax said.
The lawyer shook his head. There might be no harm in him; but what harm was coming because of him! He said nothing, and Gus came out, buttoned up to the throat.
“You’ll not go, I hope, till it is all settled,” he said.
“Settled—it may not be settled for years!” cried the lawyer, testily. And then he turned to the other, who might be a confederate for anything he knew, standing out in the darkness, “What name am I to tell Lady Markham—Fairfax? Keep him away as long as you can,” he whispered; “he will be the death of them.” He thought afterwards that he was in some degree committing himself as allowing that Gus possessed the power of doing harm, which it would have been better policy altogether to deny.
Thus it was not till nightfall that the lawyer was able to communicate to his clients his real opinion. All the exhaustion and desire of repose which generally follows such a period of domestic distress had been made an end of by this extraordinary new event. Lady Markham was sitting in her favourite room, wrapped in a shawl, talking low with her brother and Alice, when Mr. Scrivener came in. He told them how it was that he had got free, and gave them the message Fairfax had sent. But it is to be feared that the devotion and delicacy of it suffered in transmission. It was his regards or his respects, and not his duty, which the lawyer gave. What could the word matter? But he reported the rest more or less faithfully. “He thought there would be a difficulty in getting rid of our little friend,” Mr. Scrivener said, “and therefore he came. It was considerate.”
“Yes, it was very considerate,” Lady Markham said, but, unreasonably, the ladies were both disappointed and vexed, they could not tell why, that their friend should thus make himself appear the supporter of their enemy. Their hearts chilled to him in spite of themselves. Paul had gone out; he was not able to bear any more of it; he could not rest. “Forgive my boy, Mr. Scrivener,” his mother said; “he never was patient, and think of all he has lost.”
“Mr. Paul,” said the lawyer coldly, “might have endured the restraint for one evening, seeing I have waited on purpose to be of use to him.”
The hearts of all three sank to their shoes when Mr. Scrivener, who was his adviser, his supporter, the chief prop he had to trust to—who had called the young man Sir Paul all the morning—thus changed his title. Lady Markham put out her hand and grasped his arm.