“Then,” she said, and paused, “judge for me, Mr. Fairfax, what can I say?”
He made no reply, and there was an interval of silence, which was very heavy, very painful to Lady Markham’s kind heart. She felt compelled to speak, because of that stillness of expectation which made the moment tragical.
“If,” she said, faltering, “there had been time enough for real love to take possession of you—both of you—if it had come to that, that you could not be parted, it would be a different matter, Mr. Fairfax; but you have known each other so short a time, the plant cannot have very deep roots. Cannot you be brave, and pluck it up, and bear the wrench? In the end, perhaps, it would be better for you both.”
“Better!” he cried, with a bitterness never heard before in his voice.
“Mr. Fairfax, God knows I do not want to be hard upon you. My poor boy, I am fond of you,” she said, with a sudden, tender impulse; “but what can I say? A man who tells me he is obscure and humble, and not a match for her—am I to give my Alice up to a struggling, harassed life?”
“There is one thing I forgot to say, Lady Markham. It is of no consequence; it does not affect the question one way or another. Still, perhaps I ought to tell you. It is that I am ridiculously, odiously, abominably——”
“What?” she said, in alarm.
“Rich!” cried the young man. “You know the worst of me now.”
CHAPTER XII.
After these events an interval of great quiet occurred at Markham. Paul went to town, where he was understood to be reading for the bar, like most other young men, or preparing for a public office—opinions being divided as to which it was. Naturally Sir William Markham’s son found no difficulty in getting any opening into life which the mania of examination permitted. Indeed there were friends of his father’s very anxious to get him into parliament, and “push him on” into the higher branches of the public service; but he had not yet sufficiently recovered from the rending and tearing of the past to make this possible. He was inseparable from one of his Oxford comrades, a young fellow whom nobody knew, a young Crœsus, the son of some City man, who had judiciously died and left him, unencumbered by any vulgar relations, with an immense fortune. It already began to be said by people who saw the young men together, that no doubt Lady Markham would be wise enough to secure this fine fortune for Alice; but at present, of course, in the first blackness of their mourning, nothing could be definitely arranged on this subject. Paul lived in London, at first moodily enough, resenting the great harm that had been done him, but afterwards not so badly on the whole. He had lost a great deal certainly, but not anything that takes the comfort out of actual life. He was as well lodged, and had his wants as comfortably supplied as if he had been Sir Paul Markham. Hard as his reverses had been upon him, they had not plunged him into privations, and indeed it is possible that young Paul in a public office would have as much real enjoyment of his life as any landed baronet or county magnate, perhaps more; but then for Paul, if he wanted to “settle,” for Paul married and middle-aged, the case would be very different; unless indeed he married money, which he showed very little inclination to do.