It would have been difficult to imagine a more embarrassed and embarrassing party than were the Markham family, when they assembled to dinner that evening. Sir Gus and the little girls had met Fairfax going down the avenue, and had tried every persuasion in their power to induce him to return with them; but he would not do so. “I am coming back to-morrow,” he said; but for this evening he was bound for the Markham Arms, where he had been before, and nothing would move him from his determination.
When Gus went into the drawing-room with his little companions, the tea was found there, all alone in solitary dignity; the table set out, the china and silver shining, the little kettle emitting cheerful puffs of steam, but no one visible. What can be more dismal than this ghost of the cheerfullest of refreshments—the tea made and waiting, but not a woman to be seen? It impressed this innocent group with a sense of misfortune.
“Where can they be?” Bell cried; and she ran upstairs, sending her summons before her: “Mamma—mamma—please come to tea.”
By and by, however, Bell came down looking extremely grave.
“Mamma has a headache,” she said. This was a calamity almost unknown at Markham. “And Alice has a headache too,” she added, after a moment’s pause.
Bell’s looks were very serious, and the occasion could scarcely be called less than tragical. The little girls themselves had to make Gus’s tea—they did it, as it were, in a whisper—one putting in the sugar, the other burning her fingers with the tea-pot. It was not like afternoon tea at all, but like some late meal in the schoolroom when Mademoiselle had a headache. It was only Mademoiselle who was given to headache at Markham. It was Brown who told Sir Augustus of Paul’s arrival. Lady Markham had been wounded by Brown’s behaviour from the first. He had not clung to the “family” to which he had expressed so much devotion. He had gone over at once to the side of the new master of the house. He had felt no indignation towards the interloper, nor any partisanship on behalf of Paul. He came up now with his most obsequious air, as Gus came out of the drawing-room.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Augustus, but Mr. Paul has come.”
“Oh, he has come, has he?” Gus said.
Brown stood respectfully ready, as if he would undertake at the next word to turn Mr. Paul out of the house; no wonder Lady Markham was indignant. Gus understood it all now—the headaches and the deserted tea-table. No doubt the mother and sister were with Paul, comforting and consoling him. He gave forth a little sigh when he thought of it. Whatever might happen, no one would ever console him in that way. Paul had always the better of him, even when disinherited. But when they went into the drawing-room before dinner, he was very anxious to be friendly to Paul. He went up to him holding out his hand.
“I am very glad that we meet like this,” he said. “Your mother has taken me in, for which I am grateful to her; and I am very glad that we have met. I hope you will not think any worse of me than you can help.”