“And God bless you too, Mr. Spears—my friend,” she said with a hesitation that almost made the words more expressive, and her long eyelashes suddenly grew all bedewed and dewy, and shone with tears. The demagogue wrung the delicate hand of the great lady, and strode away out of the house, paying no attention to the calls of his daughter, who was not quite ready to follow him. Paul rose too, and accompanied them silently down the avenue. Janet talked a little, chiefly to assure her father there was no hurry, and to upbraid him with hurrying her away. At the gate Spears turned round and took Paul by the hands.
“Come no further,” he said. “She knew better than I. She said you would never forsake your post, and I don’t deny your post is here. I am glad to be convinced of it, lad, for it lets me think well of you, and better than ever. It goes against me to say it, Paul; but if your heart melts to me after I am gone, you may tell yourself Spears was the happier to think it was your duty that kept you after all. If you should never hear of me again——”
“But I shall hear of you again, and often,” cried Paul, with an emotion he had never anticipated, grasping the other’s hand.
“God knows,” said Spears; “but I’m glad I came. Good-bye.”
And again he strode away, leaving Janet to follow, and Paul standing looking after him, with a sudden pang in his heart.
Fairfax was coming along the road very seriously—coming to know his fate too. He paused, surprised, at the sight of the pair. But Spears took little notice of Fairfax. He gave him a grasp of his hand in passing, and said; “Good-bye, my lad,” with a clear voice. The young man stopped for a moment to look after them; then went on to where Paul was standing, somewhat dreamily, looking after them too.
“I feel as if I had lost a friend,” Paul said, “though he has done me more harm than good, I suppose. He has brought me back my money, Fairfax; he will not take a penny from me; and that will be all the worse for him among those others. What can I do?”
“Leave it to me,” said Fairfax—it was a way he had; “and good-bye to an honest soul. I am glad that ugly place in Clerkenwell is not the last place I have seen him in.”
Paul’s countenance darkened. “I wish you had not reminded me of that,” he said.
And they walked up to the house together, saying little more. Fairfax had but little leisure to think of Spears. He was going to his own trial, and he did not know how he was to come out of it. The court had sat upon his case for the last twenty-four hours, and no doubt had come to a final decision. It would have been an important subject indeed which could have done more than touch the edge of his anxious mind. Paul left him in the hall; and Mr. Brown, divining that something more was going on, and having, as has been said, a well-founded and favourable estimate of Fairfax, for reasons of his own, showed him with great solemnity into the sanctuary where Lady Markham sat alone. She did not rise to meet him, but smiled, and held out her left hand to him, with the pretty French fashion of acknowledging intimacy. It was a good sign. He went up very eagerly to the beautiful, kind woman, in whose hands he felt was his fate.