SHOWING HOW THINGS WENT ON AT NONINGSBY

Yes, Lady Staveley had known it before.  She had given a fairly correct guess at the state of her daughter’s affections, though she had not perhaps acknowledged to herself the intensity of her daughter’s feelings.  But the fact might not have mattered if it had never been told.  Madeline might have overcome this love for Mr. Graham, and all might have been well if she had never mentioned it.  But now the mischief was done.  She had acknowledged to her mother, ­and, which was perhaps worse, she had acknowledged to herself, ­that her heart was gone, and Lady Staveley saw no cure for the evil.  Had this happened but a few hours earlier she would have spoken with much less of encouragement to Peregrine Orme.

And Felix Graham was not only in the house, but was to remain there for yet a while longer, spending a very considerable portion of his time in the drawing-room.  He was to come down on this very day at three o’clock, after an early dinner, and on the next day he was to be promoted to the dining-room.  As a son-in-law he was quite ineligible.  He had, as Lady Staveley understood, no private fortune, and he belonged to a profession which he would not follow in the only way by which it was possible to earn an income by it.  Such being the case, her daughter, whom of all girls she knew to be the most retiring, the least likely to speak of such feelings unless driven to it by great stress, ­her daughter had positively declared to her that she was in love with this man!  Could anything be more hopeless?  Could any position be more trying?

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” she said, almost wringing her hands in her vexation, ­“No, my darling I am not angry,” and she kissed her child and smoothed her hair.  “I am not angry; but I must say I think it very unfortunate.  He has not a shilling in the world.”

“I will do nothing that you and papa do not approve,” said Madeline, holding down her head.

“And then you know he doesn’t think of such a thing himself ­of course he does not.  Indeed, I don’t think he’s a marrying man at all.”

“Oh, mamma, do not talk in that way; ­as if I expected anything.  I could not but tell you the truth when you spoke of Mr. Orme as you did.”

“Poor Mr. Orme! he is such an excellent young man.”

“I don’t suppose he’s better than Mr. Graham, mamma, if you speak of goodness.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Lady Staveley, very much put beside herself.  “I wish there were no such things as young men at all.  There’s Augustus making a fool of himself.”  And she walked twice the length of the room in an agony of maternal anxiety.  Peregrine Orme had suggested to her what she would feel if Noningsby were on fire; but could any such fire be worse than these pernicious love flames?  He had also suggested another calamity, and as Lady Staveley remembered that, she acknowledged to herself that the Fates were not so cruel to her as they might have been.  So she kissed her daughter, again assured her that she was by no means angry with her, and then they parted.

This trouble had now come to such a head that no course was any longer open to poor Lady Staveley, but that one which she had adopted in all the troubles of her married life.  She would tell the judge everything, and throw all the responsibility upon his back.  Let him decide whether a cold shoulder or a paternal blessing should be administered to the ugly young man up stairs, who had tumbled off his horse the first day he went out hunting, and who would not earn his bread as others did, but thought himself cleverer than all the world.  The feelings in Lady Staveley’s breast towards Mr. Graham at this especial time were not of a kindly nature.  She could not make comparisons between him and Peregrine Orme without wondering at her daughter’s choice.  Peregrine was fair and handsome, one of the curled darlings of the nation, bright of eye and smooth of skin, good-natured, of a sweet disposition, a young man to be loved by all the world, and ­incidentally ­the heir to a baronetcy and a good estate.  All his people were nice, and he lived close in the neighbourhood!  Had Lady Staveley been set to choose a husband for her daughter she could have chosen none better.  And then she counted up Felix Graham.  His eyes no doubt were bright enough, but taken altogether he was, ­at least so she said to herself ­hideously ugly.  He was by no means a curled darling.  And then he was masterful in mind, and not soft and pleasant as was young Orme.  He was heir to nothing; and as to people of his own he had none in particular.  Who could say where he must live?  As likely as not in Patagonia, having been forced to accept a judgeship in that new colony for the sake of bread.  But her daughter should not go to Patagonia with him if she could help it!  So when the judge came home that evening, she told him all before she would allow him to dress for dinner.

“He certainly is not very handsome,” the judge said, when Lady Staveley insisted somewhat strongly on that special feature of the case.

“I think he is the ugliest young man I know,” said her ladyship.

“He looks very well in his wig,” said the judge.

“Wig!  Madeline would not see him in a wig; nor anybody else very often, seeing the way he is going on about his profession.  What are we to do about it?”

“Well.  I should say, do nothing.”

“And let him propose to the dear girl if he chooses to take the fancy into his head?”

“I don’t see how we are to hinder him.  But I have that impression of Mr. Graham that I do not think he will do anything unhandsome by us.  He has some singular ideas of his own about law, and I grant you that he is plain ­”

“The plainest young man I ever saw,” said Lady Staveley.

“But, if I know him, he is a man of high character and much more than ordinary acquirement.”

“I cannot understand Madeline,” Lady Staveley went on, not caring overmuch about Felix Graham’s acquirements.

“Well, my dear, I think the key to her choice is this, that she has judged not with her eyes, but with her ears, or rather with her understanding.  Had she accepted Mr. Orme, I as a father should of course have been well satisfied.  He is, I have no doubt, a fine young fellow, and will make a good husband some day.”

“Oh, excellent!” said her ladyship; “and The Cleeve is only seven miles.”

“But I must acknowledge that I cannot feel angry with Madeline.”

“Angry! no, not angry.  Who would be angry with the poor child?”

“Indeed, I am somewhat proud of her.  It seems to me that she prefers mind to matter, which is a great deal to say for a young lady.”

“Matter!” exclaimed Lady Staveley, who could not but feel that the term, as applied to such a young man as Peregrine Orme, was very opprobrious.

“Wit and intellect and power of expression have gone further with her than good looks and rank and worldly prosperity.  If that be so, and I believe it is, I cannot but love her the better for it.”

“So do I love her, as much as any mother can love her daughter.”

“Of course you do.”  And the judge kissed his wife.

“And I like wit and genius and all that sort of thing.”

“Otherwise you would have not taken me, my dear.”

“You were the handsomest man of your day.  That’s why I fell in love with you.”

“The compliment is a very poor one,” said the judge.

“Never mind that.  I like wit and genius too; but wit and genius are none the better for being ugly; and wit and genius should know how to butter their own bread before they think of taking a wife.”

“You forget, my dear, that for aught we know wit and genius may be perfectly free from any such thought.”  And then the judge made it understood that if he were left to himself he would dress for dinner.

When the ladies left the parlour that evening they found Graham in the drawing-room, but there was no longer any necessity for embarrassment on Madeline’s part at meeting him.  They had been in the room together on three or four occasions, and therefore she could give him her hand, and ask after his arm without feeling that every one was watching her.  But she hardly spoke to him beyond this, nor indeed did she speak much to anybody.  The conversation, till the gentlemen joined them, was chiefly kept up by Sophia Furnival and Mrs. Arbuthnot, and even after that the evening did not pass very briskly.

One little scene there was, during which poor Lady Staveley’s eyes were anxiously fixed upon her son, though most of those in the room supposed that she was sleeping.  Miss Furnival was to return to London on the following day, and it therefore behoved Augustus to be very sad.  In truth he had been rather given to a melancholy humour during the last day or two.  Had Miss Furnival accepted all his civil speeches, making him answers equally civil, the matter might very probably have passed by without giving special trouble to any one.  But she had not done this, and therefore Augustus Staveley had fancied himself to be really in love with her.  What the lady’s intentions were I will not pretend to say; but if she was in truth desirous of becoming Mrs. Staveley, she certainly went about her business in a discreet and wise manner.

“So you leave us to-morrow, immediately after breakfast,” said he, having dressed his face with that romantic sobriety which he had been practising for the last three days.

“I am sorry to say that such is the fact,” said Sophia.

“To tell you the truth I am not sorry,” said Augustus; and he turned away his face for a moment, giving a long sigh.

“I dare say not, Mr. Staveley; but you need not have said so to me,” said Sophia, pretending to take him literally at his word.

“Because I cannot stand this kind of thing any longer.  I suppose I must not see you in the morning, ­alone?”

“Well, I suppose not.  If I can get down to prayers after having all my things packed up, it will be as much as I can do.”

“And if I begged for half an hour as a last kindness ­”

“I certainly should not grant it.  Go and ask your mother whether such a request would be reasonable.”

“Psha!”

“Ah, but it’s not psha!  Half-hours between young ladies and young gentlemen before breakfast are very serious things.”

“And I mean to be serious,” said Augustus.

“But I don’t,” said Sophia.

“I am to understand then that under no possible circumstances ­”

“Bless me, Mr. Staveley, how solemn you are.”

“There are occasions in a man’s life when he is bound to be solemn.  You are going away from us, Miss Furnival ­”

“One would think I was going to Jeddo, whereas I am going to Harley Street.”

“And I may come and see you there!”

“Of course you may if you like it.  According to the usages of the world you would be reckoned very uncivil if you did not.  For myself I do not much care about such usages, and therefore if you omit it I will forgive you.”

“Very well; then I will say good-night, ­and good-bye.”  These last words he uttered in a strain which should have melted her heart, and as he took leave of her he squeezed her hand with an affection that was almost painful.

It may be remarked that if Augustus Staveley was quite in earnest with Sophia Furnival, he would have asked her that all-important question in a straightforward manner as Peregrine Orme had asked it of Madeline.  Perhaps Miss Furnival was aware of this, and, being so aware, considered that a serious half-hour before breakfast might not as yet be safe.  If he were really in love he would find his way to Harley Street.  On the whole I am inclined to think that Miss Furnival did understand her business.

On the following morning Miss Furnival went her way without any further scenes of tenderness, and Lady Staveley was thoroughly glad that she was gone.  “A nasty, sly thing,” she said to Baker.  “Sly enough, my lady,” said Baker; “but our Mr. Augustus will be one too many for her.  Deary me, to think of her having the imperance to think of him.”  In all which Miss Furnival was I think somewhat ill used.  If young gentlemen, such as Augustus Staveley, are allowed to amuse themselves with young ladies, surely young ladies such as Miss Furnival should be allowed to play their own cards accordingly.

On that day, early in the morning, Felix Graham sought and obtained an interview with his host in the judge’s own study.  “I have come about two things,” he said, taking the easy chair to which he was invited.

“Two or ten, I shall be very happy,” said the judge cheerily.

“I will take business first,” said Graham.

“And then pleasure will be the sweeter afterwards,” said the judge.

“I have been thinking a great deal about this case of Lady Mason’s, and I have read all the papers, old and new, which Mr. Furnival has sent me.  I cannot bring myself to suppose it possible that she can have been guilty of any fraud or deception.”

“I believe her to be free from all guilt in the matter ­as I told you before.  But then of course you will take that as a private opinion, not as one legally formed.  I have never gone into the matter as you have done.”

“I confess that I do not like having dealings with Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Aram.”

“Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Aram may not be so bad as you, perhaps in ignorance, suppose them to be.  Does it not occur to you that we should be very badly off without such men as Chaffanbrass and Aram?”

“So we should without chimney-sweepers and scavengers.”

“Graham, my dear fellow, judge not that you be not judged.  I am older than you, and have seen more of these men.  Believe me that as you grow older and also see more of them, your opinion will be more lenient, ­and more just.  Do not be angry with me for taking this liberty with you.”

“My dear judge, if you knew how I value it; ­how I should value any mark of such kindness that you can show me!  However I have decided that I will know something more of these gentlemen at once.  If I have your approbation I will let Mr. Furnival know that I will undertake the case.”

The judge signified his approbation, and thus the first of those two matters was soon settled between them.

“And now for the pleasure,” said the judge.

“I don’t know much about pleasure,” said Graham, fidgeting in his chair, rather uneasily.  “I’m afraid there is not much pleasure for either of us, or for anybody else, in what I’m going to say.”

“Then there is so much more reason for having it said quickly.  Unpleasant things should always be got over without delay.”

“Nothing on earth can exceed Lady Staveley’s kindness to me, and yours, and that of the whole family since my unfortunate accident.”

“Don’t think of it.  It has been nothing.  We like you, but we should have done as much as that even if we had not.”

“And now I’m going to tell you that I have fallen in love with your daughter Madeline.”  As the judge wished to have the tale told quickly, I think he had reason to be satisfied with the very succinct terms used by Felix Graham.

“Indeed!” said the judge.

“And that was the reason why I wished to go away at the earliest possible time ­and still wish it.”

“You are right there, Mr. Graham.  I must say you are right there.  Under all the circumstances of the case I think you were right to wish to leave us.”

“And therefore I shall go the first thing to-morrow morning” ­in saying which last words poor Felix could not refrain from showing a certain unevenness of temper, and some disappointment.

“Gently, gently, Mr. Graham.  Let us have a few more words before we accede to the necessity of anything so sudden.  Have you spoken to Madeline on this subject?”

“Not a word.”

“And I may presume that you do not intend to do so.”

For a moment or so Felix Graham sat without speaking, and then, getting up from his chair, he walked twice the length of the room.  “Upon my word, judge, I will not answer for myself if I remain here,” he said at last.

A softer-hearted man than Judge Staveley, or one who could make himself more happy in making others happy, never sat on the English bench.  Was not this a gallant young fellow before him, ­gallant and clever, of good honest principles, and a true manly heart?  Was he not a gentleman by birth, education, and tastes?  What more should a man want for a son-in-law?  And then his daughter had had the wit to love this man so endowed.  It was almost on his tongue to tell Graham that he might go and seek the girl and plead his own cause to her.

But bread is bread, and butcher’s bills are bills!  The man and the father, and the successful possessor of some thousands a year, was too strong at last for the soft-hearted philanthropist.  Therefore, having collected his thoughts, he thus expressed himself upon the occasion: ­

“Mr. Graham, I think you have behaved very well in this matter, and it is exactly what I should have expected from you.”  The judge at the time knew nothing about Mary Snow.  “As regards yourself personally I should be proud to own you as my son-in-law, but I am of course bound to regard the welfare of my daughter.  Your means I fear are but small.”

“Very small indeed,” said Graham.

“And though you have all those gifts which should bring you on in your profession, you have learned to entertain ideas, which hitherto have barred you from success.  Now I tell you what you shall do.  Remain here two or three days longer, till you are fit to travel, and abstain from saying anything to my daughter.  Come to me again in three months, if you still hold the same mind, and I will pledge myself to tell you then whether or no you have my leave to address my child as a suitor.”

Felix Graham silently took the judge’s hand, feeling that a strong hope had been given to him, and so the interview was ended.