“I don’t mean anything—to make you ask, perhaps. I have no doubt I mean that finding out what was the exact pound of flesh the farmers could demand, and how much on our side we could exact, did not seem very lofty work: until I remembered that you were doing it too.”
“My doing it makes no difference,” said Lady Markland. “You ought to know better than to make me those little compliments. But for all that, it is a fine trade. Looking after the land is the best of trades. Everything must have begun with it, and it will go on forever. And the pleasure of thinking one can improve, and hand it over richer and better for the expenditure of a little brains upon it, as well as other condiments—” she said, with a laugh. “Guano, you will say, is of more use perhaps than the brains.”
She carried off a little enthusiasm, which had lit up her eyes, with this laugh at the end.
“I don’t think so,” said Warrender. “Do you think I meant any compliment? but to see you giving yourself up to this, you, who—and to remember that I had been perhaps grumbling, thinking of the schools, and other such paltry honours.”
“Oh, not paltry—not paltry at all; very, very much the reverse. I am sure no one interested in you can think so.”
“I think so myself,” he said. “I must tell you my little experiences on that subject.” And with this he told her all his little story about the devotion of the Dons; about their discovery of his pursuits, and the slackening of their approbation; and about how Brunson (a very good fellow, and quite aware of their real meaning) had taken his place. Lady Markland was duly interested, amused, and indignant; interested enough to be quite sincere in her expressions, and yet independent enough to smile a little at the conflict between wounded feeling and philosophy on Warrender’s part.
“But,” she added, with a woman’s liking for a practicable medium, “you might have postponed your deeper reading till you had done what was necessary, and so pleased both them and yourself.”
“I thought one could not serve two masters,” said Theo; “and that is why I encourage myself, by your example, to take to the land and its duties, and give up the other poor little bubble of reputation.”
“Don’t talk of my example,” she said. “I am not disinterested. I am making no choice. What I am doing is for the only object I have in life, the only thing I have in the world.”
He did not ask any question, but he fixed her with intent, inquiring eyes.
“You need not look as if you had any doubt what it was. It is Geoff, of course. I don’t care very much for anything else. But to hand back his inheritance unburdened, to make a man of my poor little Geoff—” Her bright eyes moistened with quick-springing tears. She smiled, and her face looked to Theo like the face of an angel; though he was impatient of the motive, he adored her for it. And she gave her head a little toss, as if to shake off this undue emotion. “I need not talk any high-flown nonsense about such a simple duty, need I?” she said, once more with a soft laugh. Instead of making the most of her pathetic position, she would always ignore the claims she had upon sympathy. Her simple duty—that was all.
“We must not discuss that question,” he said; “for if I were to say what I thought—And this brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about, Lady Markland. Geoff—”
She looked at him, with a sudden catching of her breath. She had no expectation of a sudden invasion of the practical into the vague satisfaction of the pause, which kept Geoff still by his mother’s side. And yet she knew that it was her duty to listen, to accept any reasonable suggestion that might be made.
“There was that question—between a school and a tutor,” he said. “I have been thinking a great deal about it. We settled, you remember, that to send him away to school would be too much; not good for himself, as he is delicate: and for you it would be hard. You would miss him dreadfully.”
“Miss him!” she said. As if these common words could express the vacancy, the blank solitude, into which her life without Geoff would settle down!
“But it seems to me now that there is another side to the question,” he continued, with what seemed to Lady Markland a pitiless persistency. “A tutor here would be too much in your way. You would not like to let him live by himself altogether. His presence would be a constant embarrassment. You could not have him with you, nor could you, for Geoff’s sake, keep him quite at a distance.”
She held out her hands to stop this too clear exposition. “Don’t!” she cried. “Do you think I have not considered all that? You only make me see the difficulties more and more clearly, and I see them so clearly already. But what am I to do?”
“Dear Lady Markland,” he said, rising from his chair, “I want to propose something to you.” The young man had grown so pale, yet by moments flushed so suddenly, and had altogether such an air of agitation and passionate earnestness, that a certain alarm flashed into her mind. The word had an ominous sound. Could he be thinking—was it possible—She felt a hot flush of shame and a cold shiver of horror and fear at the thought, which after all was not
