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. “You have given it up, then!” she said. “You have given it up! There is no more hope!” And though he would not allow this, all that Mr. Scrivener had to say was the reverse of hopeful. He was aware of Sir William’s residence in Barbadoes, which his wife had never heard of until the Lennys had betrayed it to her, and of many other little matters which sustained and gave consistence to the story of Gus. They sat together till late, going over everything, and before they separated it was tacitly concluded among them that all was over, that there was no more hope. The lawyer still spoke of inquiries, of sending a messenger to Barbadoes, and making various attempts to defend Paul’s position. After all, it resolved itself into a question of Paul. Lady Markham could not be touched one way or another, and the fortunes of the children were secured. But Paul--how was Paul to bear this alteration in everything, this ruin of his life? “It is all over now,” Lady Markham said to her daughter, as after this long and terrible day they went up stairs together. “Whatever might have been, it is past hoping now. He will go with those people, and I shall never see my boy more.”