MISS STAVELEY DECLINES TO EAT MINCED VEAL

The house at Noningsby was now very quiet.  All the visitors had gone, including even the Arbuthnots.  Felix Graham and Sophia Furnival, that terrible pair of guests, had relieved Mrs. Staveley of their presence; but, alas! the mischief they had done remained behind them.  The house was very quiet, for Augustus and the judge were up in town during the greater part of the week, and Madeline and her mother were alone.  The judge was to come back to Noningsby but once before he commenced the circuit which was to terminate at Alston; and it seemed to be acknowledged now on all sides that nothing more of importance was to be done or said in that locality until after Lady Mason’s trial.

It may be imagined that poor Madeline was not very happy.  Felix had gone away, having made no sign, and she knew that her mother rejoiced that he had so gone.  She never accused her mother of cruelty, even within her own heart.  She seemed to realise to herself the assurance that a marriage with the man she loved was a happiness which she had no right to expect.  She knew that her father was rich.  She was aware that in all probability her own fortune would be considerable.  She was quite sure that Felix Graham was clever and fit to make his way through the world.  And yet she did not think it hard that she should be separated from him.  She acknowledged from the very first that he was not the sort of man whom she ought to have loved, and therefore she was prepared to submit.

It was, no doubt, the fact that Felix Graham had never whispered to her a word of love, and that therefore, on that ground, she had no excuse for hope.  But, had that been all, she would not have despaired.  Had that been all, she might have doubted, but her doubt would have been strongly mingled with the sweetness of hope.  He had never whispered a syllable of love, but she had heard the tone of his voice as she spoke a word to him at his chamber door; she had seen his eyes as they fell on her when he was lifted into the carriage; she had felt the tremor of his touch on that evening when she walked up to him across the drawing-room and shook hands with him.  Such a girl as Madeline Staveley does not analyze her feelings on such a matter, and then draw her conclusions.  But a conclusion is drawn; the mind does receive an impression; and the conclusion and impression are as true as though they had been reached by the aid of logical reasoning.  Had the match been such as her mother would have approved, she would have had a hope as to Felix Graham’s love ­strong enough for happiness.

As it was, there was no use in hoping; and therefore she resolved ­having gone through much logical reasoning on this head ­that by her all ideas of love must be abandoned.  As regarded herself, she must be content to rest by her mother’s side as a flower ungathered.  That she could marry no man without the approval of her father and mother was a thing to her quite certain; but it was, at any rate, as certain that she could marry no man without her own approval.  Felix Graham was beyond her reach.  That verdict she herself pronounced, and to it she submitted.  But Peregrine Orme was still more distant from her; ­Peregrine Orme, or any other of the curled darlings who might come that way playing the part of a suitor.  She knew what she owed to her mother, but she also knew her own privileges.

There was nothing said on the subject between the mother and child during three days.  Lady Staveley was more than ordinarily affectionate to her daughter, and in that way made known the thoughts which were oppressing her; but she did so in no other way.  All this Madeline understood, and thanked her mother with the sweetest smiles and the most constant companionship.  Nor was she, even now, absolutely unhappy, or wretchedly miserable; as under such circumstances would be the case with many girls.  She knew all that she was prepared to abandon, but she understood also how much remained to her.  Her life was her own, and with her life the energy to use it.  Her soul was free.  And her heart, though burdened with love, could endure its load without sinking.  Let him go forth on his career.  She would remain in the shade, and be contented while she watched it.

So strictly wise and philosophically serene had Madeline become within a few days of Graham’s departure, that she snubbed poor Mrs. Baker, when that good-natured and sharp-witted housekeeper said a word or two in praise of her late patient.

“We are very lonely, ain’t we, miss, without Mr. Graham to look after?” said Mrs. Baker.

“I’m sure we are all very glad that he has so far recovered as to be able to be moved.”

“That’s in course, ­though I still say that he went before he ought.  He was such a nice gentleman.  Where there’s one better, there’s twenty worse; and as full of cleverness as an egg’s full of meat.”  In answer to which Madeline said nothing.

“At any rate, Miss Madeline, you ought to say a word for him,” continued Mrs. Baker; “for he used to worship the sound of your voice.  I’ve known him lay there and listen, listen, listen, for your very footfall.”

“How can you talk such stuff, Mrs. Baker?  You have never known anything of the kind ­and even if he had, how could you know it?  You should not talk such nonsense to me, and I beg you won’t again.”  Then she went away, and began to read a paper about sick people written by Florence Nightingale.

But it was by no means Lady Staveley’s desire that her daughter should take to the Florence Nightingale line of life.  The charities of Noningsby were done on a large scale, in a quiet, handsome, methodical manner, and were regarded by the mistress of the mansion as a very material part of her life’s duty; but she would have been driven distracted had she been told that a daughter of hers was about to devote herself exclusively to charity.  Her ideas of general religion were the same.  Morning and evening prayers, church twice on Sundays, attendance at the Lord’s table at any rate once a month, were to herself ­and in her estimation for her own family ­essentials of life.  And they had on her their practical effects.  She was not given to backbiting ­though, when stirred by any motive near to her own belongings, she would say an ill-natured word or two.  She was mild and forbearing to her inferiors.  Her hand was open to the poor.  She was devoted to her husband and her children.  In no respect was she self-seeking or self-indulgent.  But, nevertheless, she appreciated thoroughly the comforts of a good income ­for herself and for her children.  She liked to see nice-dressed and nice-mannered people about her, preferring those whose fathers and mothers were nice before them.  She liked to go about in her own carriage, comfortably.  She liked the feeling that her husband was a judge, and that he and she were therefore above other lawyers and other lawyers’ wives.  She would not like to have seen Mrs. Furnival walk out of a room before her, nor perhaps to see Sophia Furnival when married take precedence of her own married daughter.  She liked to live in a large place like Noningsby, and preferred country society to that of the neighbouring town.

It will be said that I have drawn an impossible character, and depicted a woman who served both God and Mammon.  To this accusation I will not plead, but will ask my accusers whether in their life’s travail they have met no such ladies as Lady Staveley?

But such as she was, whether good or bad, she had no desire whatever that her daughter should withdraw herself from the world, and give up to sick women what was meant for mankind.  Her idea of a woman’s duties comprehended the birth, bringing up, education, and settlement in life of children, also due attendance upon a husband, with a close regard to his special taste in cookery.  There was her granddaughter Marian.  She was already thinking what sort of a wife she would make, and what commencements of education would best fit her to be a good mother.  It is hardly too much to say that Marian’s future children were already a subject of care to her.  Such being her disposition, it was by no means matter of joy to her when she found that Madeline was laying out for herself little ways of life, tending in some slight degree to the monastic.  Nothing was said about it, but she fancied that Madeline had doffed a ribbon or two in her usual evening attire.  That she read during certain fixed hours in the morning was very manifest.  As to that daily afternoon service at four o’clock ­she had very often attended that, and it was hardly worthy of remark that she now went to it every day.  But there seemed at this time to be a monotonous regularity about her visits to the poor, which told to Lady Staveley’s mind ­she hardly knew what tale.  She herself visited the poor, seeing some of them almost daily.  If it was foul weather they came to her, and if it was fair weather she went to them.  But Madeline, without saying a word to any one, had adopted a plan of going out exactly at the same hour with exactly the same object, in all sorts of weather.  All this made Lady Staveley uneasy; and then, by way of counterpoise, she talked of balls, and offered Madeline carte blanche as to a new dress for that special one which would grace the assizes.  “I don’t think I shall go,” said Madeline; and thus Lady Staveley became really unhappy.  Would not Felix Graham be better than no son-in-law?  When some one had once very strongly praised Florence Nightingale in Lady Staveley’s presence, she had stoutly declared her opinion that it was a young woman’s duty to get married.  For myself, I am inclined to agree with her.  Then came the second Friday after Graham’s departure, and Lady Staveley observed, as she and her daughter sat at dinner alone, that Madeline would eat nothing but potatoes and sea-kale.  “My dear, you will be ill if you don’t eat some meat.”

“Oh no, I shall not,” said Madeline with her prettiest smile.

“But you always used to like minced veal.”

“So I do, but I won’t have any to-day, mamma, thank you.”

Then Lady Staveley resolved that she would tell the judge that Felix Graham, bad as he might be, might come there if he pleased.  Even Felix Graham would be better than no son-in-law at all.

On the following day, the Saturday, the judge came down with Augustus, to spend his last Sunday at home before the beginning of his circuit, and some little conversation respecting Felix Graham did take place between him and his wife.

“If they are both really fond of each other, they had better marry,” said the judge, curtly.

“But it is terrible to think of their having no income,” said his wife.

“We must get them an income.  You’ll find that Graham will fall on his legs at last.”

“He’s a very long time before he begins to use them,” said Lady Staveley.  “And then you know The Cleeve is such a nice property, and Mr. Orme is ­”

“But, my love, it seems that she does not like Mr. Orme.”

“No, she doesn’t,” said the poor mother in a tone of voice that was very lachrymose.  “But if she would only wait she might like him, ­might she not now?  He is such a very handsome young man.”

“If you ask me, I don’t think his beauty will do it.”

“I don’t suppose she cares for that sort of thing,” said Lady Staveley, almost crying.  “But I’m sure of this, if she were to go and make a nun of herself, it would break my heart, ­it would, indeed.  I should never hold up my head again.”

What could Lady Staveley’s idea have been of the sorrows of some other mothers, whose daughters throw themselves away after a different fashion?

After lunch on Sunday the judge asked his daughter to walk with him, and on that occasion the second church service was abandoned.  She got on her bonnet and gloves, her walking-boots and winter shawl, and putting her arm happily and comfortably within his, started for what she knew would be a long walk.

“We’ll get as far as the bottom of Cleeve Hill,” said the judge.

Now the bottom of Cleeve Hill, by the path across the fields and the common, was five miles from Noningsby.

“Oh, as for that, I’ll walk to the top if you like,” said Madeline.

“If you do, my dear, you’ll have to go up alone,” said the judge.  And so they started.

There was a crisp, sharp enjoyment attached to a long walk with her father which Madeline always loved, and on the present occasion she was willing to be very happy; but as she started, with her arm beneath his, she feared she knew not what.  She had a secret, and her father might touch upon it; she had a sore, though it was not an unwholesome festering sore, and her father might probe the wound.  There was, therefore, the slightest shade of hypocrisy in the alacrity with which she prepared herself, and in the pleasant tone of her voice as she walked down the avenue towards the gate.

But by the time that they had gone a mile, when their feet had left the road and were pressing the grassy field-path, there was no longer any hypocrisy in her happiness.  Madeline believed that no human being could talk as did her father, and on this occasion he came out with his freshest thoughts and his brightest wit.  Nor did he, by any means, have the talk all to himself.  The delight of Judge Staveley’s conversation consisted chiefly in that ­that though he might bring on to the carpet all the wit and all the information going, he rarely uttered much beyond his own share of words.  And now they talked of pictures and politics ­of the new gallery that was not to be built at Charing Cross, and the great onslaught which was not to end in the dismissal of Ministers.  And then they got to books ­to novels, new poetry, magazines, essays, and reviews; and with the slightest touch of pleasant sarcasm the judge passed sentence on the latest efforts of his literary contemporaries.  And thus at last they settled down on a certain paper which had lately appeared in a certain Quarterly ­a paper on a grave subject, which had been much discussed ­and the judge on a sudden stayed his hand, and spared his raillery.  “You have not heard, I suppose, who wrote that?” said he.  No; Madeline had not heard.  She would much like to know.  When young people begin their world of reading there is nothing so pleasant to them as knowing the little secrets of literature; who wrote this and that, of which folk are then talking; ­who manages this periodical, and puts the salt and pepper into those reviews.  The judge always knew these events of the inner literary world, and would communicate them freely to Madeline as they walked.  No; there was no longer the slightest touch of hypocrisy in her pleasant manner and eager voice as she answered, “No, papa, I have not heard.  Was it Mr. So-and-so?” and she named an ephemeral literary giant of the day.  “No,” said the judge, “it was not So-and-so; but yet you might guess, as you know the gentleman.”  Then the slight shade of hypocrisy came upon her again in a moment.  “She couldn’t guess,” she said; “she didn’t know.”  But as she thus spoke the tone of her voice was altered.  “That article,” said the judge, “was written by Felix Graham.  It is uncommonly clever, and yet there are a great many people who abuse it.”

And now all conversation was stopped.  Poor Madeline, who had been so ready with her questions, so eager with her answers, so communicative and so inquiring, was stricken dumb on the instant.  She had ceased for some time to lean upon his arm, and therefore he could not feel her hand tremble; and he was too generous and too kind to look into her face; but he knew that he had touched the fibres of her heart, and that all her presence of mind had for the moment fled from her.  Of course such was the case, and of course he knew it.  Had he not brought her out there, that they might be alone together when he subjected her to the violence of this shower-bath?

“Yes,” he continued, “that was written by our friend Graham.  Do you remember, Madeline, the conversation which you and I had about him in the library some time since?”

“Yes,” she said, “she remembered it.”

“And so do I,” said the judge, “and have thought much about it since.  A very clever fellow is Felix Graham.  There can be no doubt of that.”

“Is he?” said Madeline.

I am inclined to think that the judge also had lost something of his presence of mind, or, at least, of his usual power of conversation.  He had brought his daughter out there with the express purpose of saying to her a special word or two; he had beat very wide about the bush with the view of mentioning a certain name; and now that his daughter was there, and the name had been mentioned, it seemed that he hardly knew how to proceed.

“Yes, he is clever enough,” repeated the judge, “clever enough; and of high principles and an honest purpose.  The fault which people find with him is this, ­that he is not practical.  He won’t take the world as he finds it.  If he can mend it, well and good; we all ought to do something to mend it; but while we are mending it we must live in it.”

“Yes, we must live in it,” said Madeline, who hardly knew at the moment whether it would be better to live or die in it.  Had her father remarked that they must all take wings and fly to heaven, she would have assented.

Then the judge walked on a few paces in silence, bethinking himself that he might as well speak out at once the words which he had to say.  “Madeline, my darling,” said he, “have you the courage to tell me openly what you think of Felix Graham?”

“What I think of him, papa?”

“Yes, my child.  It may be that you are in some difficulty at this moment, and that I can help you.  It may be that your heart is sadder than it would be if you knew all my thoughts and wishes respecting you, and all your mother’s.  I have never had many secrets from my children, Madeline, and I should be pleased now if you could see into my mind and know all my thoughts and wishes as they regard you.”

“Dear papa!”

“To see you happy ­you and Augustus and Isabella ­that is now our happiness; not to see you rich or great.  High position and a plentiful income are great blessings in this world, so that they be achieved without a stain.  But even in this world they are not the greatest blessings.  There are things much sweeter than them.”  As he said this, Madeline did not attempt to answer him, but she put her arm once more within his, and clung to his side.

“Money and rank are only good, if every step by which they are gained be good also.  I should never blush to see my girl the wife of a poor man whom she loved; but I should be stricken to the core of my heart if I knew that she had become the wife of a rich man whom she did not love.”

“Papa!” she said, clinging to him.  She had meant to assure him that that sorrow should never be his, but she could not get beyond the one word.

“If you love this man, let him come,” said the judge, carried by his feelings somewhat beyond the point to which he had intended to go.  “I know no harm of him.  I know nothing but good of him.  If you are sure of your own heart, let it be so.  He shall be to me as another son, ­to me and to your mother.  Tell me, Madeline, shall it be so?”

She was sure enough of her own heart; but how was she to be sure of that other heart?  “It shall be so,” said her father.  But a man could not be turned into a lover and a husband because she and her father agreed to desire it; ­not even if her mother would join in that wish.  She had confessed to her mother that she loved this man, and the confession had been repeated to her father.  But she had never expressed even a hope that she was loved in return.  “But he has never spoken to me, papa,” she said, whispering the words ever so softly lest the winds should carry them.

“No; I know he has never spoken to you,” said the judge.  “He told me so himself.  I like him the better for that.”

So then there had been other communications made besides that which she had made to her mother.  Mr. Graham had spoken to her father, and had spoken to him about her.  In what way had he done this, and how had he spoken?  What had been his object, and when had it been done?  Had she been indiscreet, and allowed him to read her secret?  And then a horrid thought came across her mind.  Was he to come there and offer her his hand because he pitied and was sorry for her?  The Friday fastings and the evening church and the sick visits would be better far than that.  She could not however muster courage to ask her father any question as to that interview between him and Mr. Graham.

“Well, my love,” he said, “I know it is impertinent to ask a young lady to speak on such a subject; but fathers are impertinent.  Be frank with me.  I have told you what I think, and your mamma agrees with me.  Young Mr. Orme would have been her favourite ­”

“Oh, papa, that is impossible.”

“So I perceive, my dear, and therefore we will say no more about it.  I only mention his name because I want you to understand that you may speak to your mamma quite openly on the subject.  He is a fine young fellow, is Peregrine Orme.”

“I’m sure he is, papa.”

“But that is no reason you should marry him if you don’t like him.”

“I could never like him, ­in that way.”

“Very well, my dear.  There is an end of that, and I’m sorry for him.  I think that if I had been a young man at The Cleeve, I should have done just the same.  And now let us decide this important question.  When Master Graham’s ribs, arms, and collar bones are a little stronger, shall we ask him to come back to Noningsby?”

“If you please, papa.”

“Very well, we’ll have him here for the assize week.  Poor fellow, he’ll have a hard job of work on hand just then, and won’t have much time for philandering.  With Chaffanbrass to watch him on his own side, and Leatherham on the other, I don’t envy him his position.  I almost think I should keep my arm in the sling till the assizes were over, by way of exciting a little pity.”

“Is Mr. Graham going to defend Lady Mason?”

“To help to do so, my dear.”

“But, papa, she is innocent; don’t you feel sure of that?”

The judge was not quite so sure as he had been once.  However, he said nothing of his doubts to Madeline.  “Mr. Graham’s task on that account will only be the more trying if it becomes difficult to establish her innocence.”

“Poor lady!” said Madeline.  “You won’t be the judge; will you, papa?”

“No, certainly not.  I would have preferred to have gone any other circuit than to have presided in a case affecting so near a neighbour, and I may almost say a friend.  Baron Maltby will sit in that court.”

“And will Mr. Graham have to do much, papa?”

“It will be an occasion of very great anxiety to him, no doubt.”  And then they began to return home, ­Madeline forming a little plan in her mind by which Mr. Furnival and Mr. Chaffanbrass were to fail absolutely in making out that lady’s innocence, but the fact was to be established to the satisfaction of the whole court, and of all the world, by the judicious energy of Felix Graham.

On their homeward journey the judge again spoke of pictures and books, of failures and successes, and Madeline listened to him gratefully.  But she did not again take much part in the conversation.  She could not now express a very fluent opinion on any subject, and to tell the truth, could have been well satisfied to have been left entirely to her own thoughts.  But just before they came out again upon the road, her father stopped her and asked a direct question.  “Tell me, Madeline, are you happy now?”

“Yes, papa.”

“That is right.  And what you are to understand is this; Mr. Graham will now be privileged by your mother and me to address you.  He has already asked my permission to do so, and I told him that I must consider the matter before I either gave it or withheld it.  I shall now give him that permission.”  Whereupon Madeline made her answer by a slight pressure upon his arm.

“But you may be sure of this, my dear; I shall be very discreet, and commit you to nothing.  If he should choose to ask you any question, you will be at liberty to give him any answer that you may think fit.”  But Madeline at once confessed to herself that no such liberty remained to her.  If Mr. Graham should choose to ask her a certain question, it would be in her power to give him only one answer.  Had he been kept away, had her father told her that such a marriage might not be, she would not have broken her heart.  She had already told herself, that under such circumstances, she could live and still live contented.  But now, ­now if the siege were made, the town would have to capitulate at the first shot.  Was it not an understood thing that the governor had been recommended by the king to give up the keys as soon as they were asked for?

“You will tell your mamma of this my dear,” said the judge, as they were entering their own gate.

“Yes,” said Madeline.  But she felt that, in this matter, her father was more surely her friend than her mother.  And indeed she could understand her mother’s opposition to poor Felix, much better than her father’s acquiescence.

“Do, my dear.  What is anything to us in this world, if we are not all happy together?  She thinks that you have become sad, and she must know that you are so no longer.”

“But I have not been sad, papa,” said Madeline, thinking with some pride of her past heroism.

When they reached the hall-door she had one more question to ask; but she could not look in her father’s face as she asked.

“Papa, is that review you were speaking of here at Noningsby?”

“You will find it on my study table; but remember, Madeline, I don’t above half go along with him.”

The judge went into his study before dinner, and found that the review had been taken.