ANOTHER FALL

Felix Graham had plenty of nurses, but Madeline was not one of them.  Augustus Staveley came home while the Alston doctor was still busy at the broken bones, and of course he would not leave his friend.  He was one of those who had succeeded in the hunt, and consequently had heard nothing of the accident till the end of it.  Miss Tristram had been the first to tell him that Mr. Graham had fallen in leaving the covert, but having seen him rise to his legs she had not thought he was seriously hurt.

“I do not know much about your friend,” she had said; “but I think I may comfort you by an assurance that your horse is none the worse.  I could see as much as that.”

“Poor Felix!” said, Staveley.  “He has lost a magnificent run.  I suppose we are nine or ten miles from Monkton Grange now?”

“Eleven if we are a yard,” said the lady.  “It was an ugly country, but the pace was nothing wonderful.”  And then others dropped in, and at last came tidings about Graham.  At first there was a whisper that he was dead.  He had ridden over Orme, it was said; had nearly killed him, and had quite killed himself.  Then the report became less fatal.  Both horses were dead, but Graham was still living though with most of his bones broken.

“Don’t believe it,” said Miss Tristram.  “In what condition Mr. Graham may be I won’t say; but that your horse was safe and sound after he got over the fence, of that you may take my word.”  And thus, in a state of uncertainty, obtaining fresh rumours from every person he passed, Staveley hurried home.  “Right arm and two ribs,” Peregrine said to him, as he met him in the hall.  “Is that all?” said Augustus.  It was clear therefore that he did not think so much about it as his sister.

“If you’d let her have her head she’d never have come down like that,” Augustus said, as he sat that evening by his friend’s bedside.

“But he pulled off, I fancy, to avoid riding over me,” said Peregrine.

“Then he must have come too quick at his leap,” said Augustus.  “You should have steadied him as he came to it.”  From all which Graham perceived that a man cannot learn how to ride any particular horse by two or three words of precept.

“If you talk any more about the horse, or the hunt, or the accident, neither of you shall stay in the room,” said Lady Staveley, who came in at that moment.  But they both did stay in the room, and said a great deal more about the hunt, and the horse, and the accident before they left it; and even became so far reconciled to the circumstance that they had a hot glass of brandy and water each, sitting by Graham’s fire.

“But, Augustus, do tell me how he is,” Madeline said to her brother, as she caught him going to his room.  She had become ashamed of asking any more questions of her mother.

“He’s all right; only he’ll be as fretful as a porcupine, shut up there.  At least I should be.  Are there lots of novels in the house?  Mind you send for a batch to-morrow.  Novels are the only chance a man has when he’s laid up like that.”  Before breakfast on the following morning Madeline had sent off to the Alston circulating library a list of all the best new novels of which she could remember the names.

No definite day had hitherto been fixed for Peregrine’s return to The Cleeve, and under the present circumstances he still remained at Noningsby assisting to amuse Felix Graham.  For two days after the accident such seemed to be his sole occupation; but in truth he was looking for an opportunity to say a word or two to Miss Staveley, and paving his way as best he might for that great speech which he was fully resolved that he would make before he left the house.  Once or twice he bethought himself whether he would not endeavour to secure for himself some confidant in the family, and obtain the sanction and special friendship either of Madeline’s mother, or her sister, or her brother.  But what if after that she should reject him?  Would it not be worse for him then that any one should have known of his defeat?  He could, as he thought, endure to suffer alone; but on such a matter as that pity would be unendurable.  So as he sat there by Graham’s fireside, pretending to read one of poor Madeline’s novels for the sake of companionship, he determined that he would tell no one of his intention; ­no one till he could make the opportunity for telling her.

And when he did meet her, and find, now and again, some moment for saying a word alone to her, she was very gracious to him.  He had been so kind and gentle with Felix, there was so much in him that was sweet and good and honest, so much that such an event as this brought forth and made manifest, that Madeline, and indeed the whole family, could not but be gracious to him.  Augustus would declare that he was the greatest brick he had ever known, repeating all Graham’s words as to the patience with which the embryo baronet had knelt behind him on the cold muddy ground, supporting him for an hour, till the carriage had come up.  Under such circumstances how could Madeline refrain from being gracious to him?

“But it is all from favour to Graham!” Peregrine would say to himself with bitterness; and yet though he said so he did not quite believe it.  Poor fellow!  It was all from favour to Graham.  And could he have thoroughly believed the truth of those words which he repeated to himself so often, he might have spared himself much pain.  He might have spared himself much pain, and possibly some injury; for if aught could now tend to mature in Madeline’s heart an affection which was but as yet nascent, it would be the offer of some other lover.  But such reasoning on the matter was much too deep for Peregrine Orme.  “It may be,” he said to himself, “that she only pities him because he is hurt.  If so, is not this time better for me than any other?  If it be that she loves him, let me know it, and be out of my pain.”  It did not then occur to him that circumstances such as those in question could not readily be made explicit; ­that Madeline might refuse his love, and yet leave him no wiser than he now was as to her reasons for so refusing; ­perhaps, indeed, leave him less wise, with increased cause for doubt and hopeless hope, and the green melancholy of a rejected lover.

Madeline during these two days said no more about the London doctor; but it was plain to all who watched her that her anxiety as to the patient was much more keen than that of the other ladies of the house.  “She always thinks everybody is going to die,” Lady Staveley said to Miss Furnival, intending, not with any consummate prudence, to account to that acute young lady for her daughter’s solicitude.  “We had a cook here, three months since, who was very ill, and Madeline would never be easy till the doctor assured her that the poor woman’s danger was altogether past.”

“She is so very warm-hearted,” said Miss Furnival in reply.  “It is quite delightful to see her.  And she will have such pleasure when she sees him come down from his room.”

Lady Staveley on this immediate occasion said nothing to her daughter, but Mrs. Arbuthnot considered that a sisterly word might perhaps be spoken in due season.

“The doctor says he is doing quite well now,” Mrs. Arbuthnot said to her, as they were sitting alone.

“But does he indeed?  Did you hear him?” said Madeline, who was suspicious.

“He did so, indeed.  I heard him myself.  But he says also that he ought to remain here, at any rate for the next fortnight, ­if mamma can permit it without inconvenience.”

“Of course she can permit it.  No one would turn any person out of their house in such a condition as that!”

“Papa and mamma both will be very happy that he should stay here; ­of course they would not do what you call turning him out.  But, Mad, my darling,” ­and then she came up close and put her arm round her sister’s waist.  “I think mamma would be more comfortable in his remaining here if your charity towards him were ­what shall I say? ­less demonstrative.”

“What do you mean, Isabella?”

“Dearest, dearest; you must not be angry with me.  Nobody has hinted to me a word on the subject, nor do I mean to hint anything that can possibly be hurtful to you.”

“But what do you mean?”

“Don’t you know, darling?  He is a young man ­and ­and ­people see with such unkind eyes, and hear with such scandal-loving ears.  There is that Miss Furnival ­”

“If Miss Furnival can think such things, I for one do not care what she thinks.”

“No, nor do I; ­not as regards any important result.  But may it not be well to be careful?  You know what I mean, dearest?”

“Yes ­I know.  At least I suppose so.  And it makes me know also how very cold and shallow and heartless people are!  I won’t ask any more questions, Isabella; but I can’t know that a fellow-creature is suffering in the house, ­and a person like him too, so clever, whom we all regard as a friend, ­the most intimate friend in the world that Augustus has, ­and the best too, as I heard papa himself say ­without caring whether he is going to live or die.”

“There is no danger now, you know.”

“Very well; I am glad to hear it.  Though I know very well that there must be danger after such a terrible accident as that.”

“The doctor says there is none.”

“At any rate I will not ­” And then instead of finishing her sentence she turned away her head and put up her handkerchief to wipe away a tear.

“You are not angry with me, dear?” said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

“Oh, no,” said Madeline; and then they parted.

For some days after that Madeline asked no question whatever about Felix Graham, but it may be doubted whether this did not make the matter worse.  Even Sophia Furnival would ask how he was at any rate twice a day, and Lady Staveley continued to pay him regular visits at stated intervals.  As he got better she would sit with him, and brought back reports as to his sayings.  But Madeline never discussed any of these; and refrained alike from the conversation, whether his broken bones or his unbroken wit were to be the subject of it.  And then Mrs. Arbuthnot, knowing that she would still be anxious, gave her private bulletins as to the state of the sick man’s progress; ­all which gave an air of secrecy to the matter, and caused even Madeline to ask herself why this should be so.

On the whole I think that Mrs. Arbuthnot was wrong.  Mrs. Arbuthnot and the whole Staveley family would have regarded a mutual attachment between Mr. Graham and Madeline as a great family misfortune.  The judge was a considerate father to his children, holding that a father’s control should never be brought to bear unnecessarily.  In looking forward to the future prospects of his sons and daughters it was his theory that they should be free to choose their life’s companions for themselves.  But nevertheless it could not be agreeable to him that his daughter should fall in love with a man who had nothing, and whose future success at his own profession seemed to be so very doubtful.  On the whole I think that Mrs. Arbuthnot was wrong, and that the feeling that did exist in Madeline’s bosom might more possibly have died away, had no word been said about it ­even by a sister.

And then another event happened which forced her to look into her own heart.  Peregrine Orme did make his proposal.  He waited patiently during those two or three days in which the doctor’s visits were frequent, feeling that he could not talk about himself while any sense of danger pervaded the house.  But then at last a morning came on which the surgeon declared that he need not call again till the morrow; and Felix himself, when the medical back was turned, suggested that it might as well be to-morrow week.  He began also to scold his friends, and look bright about the eyes, and drink his glass of sherry in a pleasant dinner-table fashion, not as if he were swallowing his physic.  And Peregrine, when he saw all this, resolved that the moment had come for the doing of his deed of danger.  The time would soon come at which he must leave Noningsby, and he would not leave Noningsby till he had learned his fate.

Lady Staveley, who with a mother’s eye had seen her daughter’s solicitude for Felix Graham’s recovery, ­had seen it, and animadverted on it to herself, ­had seen also, or at any rate had suspected, that Peregrine Orme looked on her daughter with favouring eyes.  Now Peregrine Orme would have satisfied Lady Staveley as a son-in-law.  She liked his ways and manners of thought ­in spite of those rumours as to the rat-catching which had reached her ears.  She regarded him as quite clever enough to be a good husband, and no doubt appreciated the fact that he was to inherit his title and The Cleeve from an old grandfather instead of a middle-aged father.  She therefore had no objection to leave Peregrine alone with her one ewe-lamb, and therefore the opportunity which he sought was at last found.

“I shall be leaving Noningsby to-morrow, Miss Staveley,” he said one day, having secured an interview in the back drawing-room ­in that happy half-hour which occurs in winter before the world betakes itself to dress.  Now I here profess my belief, that out of every ten set offers made by ten young lovers, nine of such offers are commenced with an intimation that the lover is going away.  There is a dash of melancholy in such tidings well suited to the occasion.  If there be any spark of love on the other side it will be elicited by the idea of a separation.  And then, also, it is so frequently the actual fact.  This making of an offer is in itself a hard piece of business, ­a job to be postponed from day to day.  It is so postponed, and thus that dash of melancholy, and that idea of separation are brought in at the important moment with so much appropriate truth.

“I shall be leaving Noningsby to-morrow, Miss Staveley,” Peregrine said.

“Oh dear! we shall be so sorry.  But why are you going?  What will Mr. Graham and Augustus do without you?  You ought to stay at least till Mr. Graham can leave his room.”

“Poor Graham! ­not that I think he is much to be pitied either; but he won’t be about for some weeks to come yet.”

“You do not think he is worse; do you?”

“Oh, dear, no; not at all.”  And Peregrine was unconsciously irritated against his friend by the regard which her tone evinced.  “He is quite well; only they will not let him be moved.  But, Miss Staveley, it was not of Mr. Graham that I was going to speak.”

“No ­only I thought he would miss you so much.”  And then she blushed, though the blush in the dark of the evening was lost upon him.  She remembered that she was not to speak about Felix Graham’s health, and it almost seemed as though Mr. Orme had rebuked her for doing so in saying that he had not come there to speak of him.

“Lady Staveley’s house has been turned up side down since this affair, and it is time now that some part of the trouble should cease.”

“Oh! mamma does not mind it at all.”

“I know how good she is; but nevertheless, Miss Staveley, I must go to-morrow.”  And then he paused a moment before he spoke again.  “It will depend entirely upon you,” he said, “whether I may have the happiness of returning soon to Noningsby.”

“On me, Mr. Orme!”

“Yes, on you.  I do not know how to speak properly that which I have to say; but I believe I may as well say it out at once.  I have come here now to tell you that I love you and to ask you to be my wife.”  And then he stopped as though there were nothing more for him to say upon the matter.

It would be hardly extravagant to declare that Madeline’s breath was taken away by the very sudden manner in which young Orme had made his proposition.  It had never entered her head that she had an admirer in him.  Previously to Graham’s accident she had thought nothing about him.  Since that event she had thought about him a good deal; but altogether as of a friend of Graham’s.  He had been good and kind to Graham, and therefore she had liked him and had talked to him.  He had never said a word to her that had taught her to regard him as a possible lover; and now that he was an actual lover, a declared lover standing before her, waiting for an answer, she was so astonished that she did not know how to speak.  All her ideas too, as to love, ­such ideas as she had ever formed, were confounded by his abruptness.  She would have thought, had she brought herself absolutely to think upon it, that all speech of love should be very delicate; that love should grow slowly, and then be whispered softly, doubtingly, and with infinite care.  Even had she loved him, or had she been in the way towards loving him, such violence as this would have frightened her and scared her love away.  Poor Peregrine!  His intentions had been so good and honest!  He was so true and hearty, and free from all conceit in the matter!  It was a pity that he should have marred his cause by such ill judgment.

But there he stood waiting an answer, ­and expecting it to be as open, definite, and plain as though he had asked her to take a walk with him.  “Madeline,” he said, stretching out his hand when he perceived that she did not speak to him at once.  “There is my hand.  If it be possible give me yours.”

“Oh, Mr. Orme!”

“I know that I have not said what I had to say very ­very gracefully.  But you will not regard that I think.  You are too good, and too true.”

She had now seated herself, and he was standing before her.  She had retreated to a sofa in order to avoid the hand which he had offered her; but he followed her, and even yet did not know that he had no chance of success.  “Mr. Orme,” she said at last, speaking hardly above her breath, “what has made you do this?”

“What has made me do it?  What has made me tell you that I love you?”

“You cannot be in earnest!”

“Not in earnest!  By heavens, Miss Staveley, no man who has said the same words was ever more in earnest.  Do you doubt me when I tell you that I love you?”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” And then she hid her face upon the arm of the sofa and burst into tears.

Peregrine stood there, like a prisoner on his trial, waiting for a verdict.  He did not know how to plead his cause with any further language; and indeed no further language could have been of any avail.  The judge and jury were clear against him, and he should have known the sentence without waiting to have it pronounced in set terms.  But in plain words he had made his offer, and in plain words he required that an answer should be given to him.  “Well,” he said, “will you not speak to me?  Will you not tell me whether it shall be so?”

“No, ­no, ­no,” she said.

“You mean that you cannot love me.”  And as he said this the agony of his tone struck her ear and made her feel that he was suffering.  Hitherto she had thought only of herself, and had hardly recognised it as a fact that he could be thoroughly in earnest.

“Mr. Orme, I am very sorry.  Do not speak as though you were angry with me.  But ­”

“But you cannot love me?” And then he stood again silent, for there was no reply.  “Is it that, Miss Staveley, that you mean to answer?  If you say that with positive assurance, I will trouble you no longer.”  Poor Peregrine!  He was but an unskilled lover!

“No!” she sobbed forth through her tears; but he had so framed his question that he hardly knew what No meant.

“Do you mean that you cannot love me, or may I hope that a day will come ?  May I speak to you again ?”

“Oh, no, no!  I can answer you now.  It grieves me to the heart.  I know you are so good.  But, Mr. Orme ­”

“Well ­”

“It can never, never be.”

“And I must take that as answer?”

“I can make no other.”  He still stood before her, ­with gloomy and almost angry brow, could she have seen him; and then he thought he would ask her whether there was any other love which had brought about her scorn for him.  It did not occur to him, at the first moment, that in doing so he would insult and injure her.

“At any rate I am not flattered by a reply which is at once so decided,” he began by saying.

“Oh!  Mr. Orme, do not make me more unhappy ­”

“But perhaps I am too late.  Perhaps ­” Then he remembered himself and paused.  “Never mind,” he said, speaking to himself rather than to her.  “Good-bye, Miss Staveley.  You will at any rate say good-bye to me.  I shall go at once now.”

“Go at once!  Go away, Mr. Orme?”

“Yes; why should I stay here?  Do you think that I could sit down to table with you all after that?  I will ask your brother to explain my going; I shall find him in his room.  Good-bye.”

She took his hand mechanically, and then he left her.  When she came down to dinner she looked furtively round to his place and saw that it was vacant.