FELIX GRAHAM RETURNS TO NONINGSBY

“If you love the man, let him come.”  It was thus that the judge had declared to his daughter his opinion of what had better be done in that matter of Felix Graham.  Then he had gone on to declare that he had given his permission to Felix Graham to say anything that he had got to say, and finally had undertaken to invite Felix Graham to spend the assize week at Noningsby.  Of course in the mind of the judge all this amounted to an actual giving away of his daughter.  He regarded the thing now as done, looking upon the young people as betrothed, and his reflections mainly ran on the material part of the business.  How should Graham be made to earn an income, and what allowance must be made to him till he did so?  There was a certain sum set apart for Madeline’s fortune, but that would by no means suffice for the livelihood of a married barrister in London.  Graham no doubt earned something as it was, but that was done by his pen rather than by his wig, and the judge was inclined to think that the pen must be abandoned before the wig could be made profitable.  Such were the directions which his thoughts took regarding Madeline’s lot in life.  With him the next week or two, with their events, did not signify much; whereas the coming years did signify a great deal.

At that time, on that Sunday afternoon, there still remained to Madeline the best part of a month to think of it all, before Felix should reappear upon the scene.  But then she could not think of it by herself in silence.  Her father had desired her to tell her mother what had passed, and she felt that a great difficulty still lay before her.  She knew that her mother did not wish her to marry Felix Graham.  She knew that her mother did wish her to marry Peregrine Orme.  And therefore though no mother and child had ever treated each other with a sweeter confidence, or loved each other with warmer hearts, there was as it were a matter of disunion between them.  But nevertheless she must tell her mother, and the dread of this telling weighed heavy upon her as she sat that night in the drawing-room reading the article which Felix had written.

But she need not have been under any alarm.  Her father, when he told her to discuss the matter with her mother, had by no means intended to throw on her shoulders the burden of converting Lady Staveley to the Graham interest.  He took care to do this himself effectually, so that in fact there should be no burden left for Madeline’s shoulders.  “Well, my dear,” he said that same Sunday evening to his wife, “I have had it all out with Madeline this afternoon.”

“About Mr. Graham, do you mean?”

“Yes; about Mr. Graham.  I have promised that he shall come here for the assize week.”

“Oh, dear!”

“It’s done, my love; and I believe we shall find it all for the best.  The bishops’ daughters always marry clergymen, and the judges’ daughters ought to marry lawyers.”

“But you can’t give him a practice.  The bishops have livings to give away.”

“Perhaps I may show him how to make a practice for himself, which would be better.  Take my word for it that it will be best for her happiness.  You would not have liked to be disappointed yourself, when you made up your mind to be married.”

“No, I should not,” said Lady Staveley.

“And she will have a will of her own quite as strong as you had.”  And then there was silence in the room for some time.

“You’ll be kind to him when he comes?” said the judge.

“Oh, yes,” said Lady Staveley, in a voice that was by no means devoid of melancholy.

“Nobody can be so kind as you when you please.  And as it is to be ­”

“I always did like him,” said Lady Staveley, “although he is so very plain.”

“You’ll soon get used to that, my dear.”

“And as for poor young Mr. Orme ­”

“As for poor young Mr. Orme, as you call him, he will not die of a broken heart.  Poor young Mr. Orme has all the world before him and will soon console himself.”

“But he is so attached to her.  And then The Cleeve is so near.”

“We must give up all that, my dear.”

“Very well,” said Lady Staveley; and from that moment it may be said that she had given in her adhesion to the Graham connection.  When some time after she gave her orders to Baker as to preparing a room for Mr. Graham, it was made quite clear to that excellent woman by her mistress’s manner and anxiety as to the airing of the sheets, that Miss Madeline was to have her own way in the matter.

But long previous to these preparations Madeline and her mother had discussed the matter fully.  “Papa says that Mr. Graham is to come here for the assize week,” said Lady Staveley.

“Yes; so he told me,” Madeline replied, very bashfully.

“I suppose it’s all for the best.”

“I hope it is,” said Madeline.  What could she do but hope so?

“Your papa understands everything so very well that I am sure he would not let him come if it were not proper.”

“I suppose not,” said Madeline.

“And now I look upon the matter as all settled.”

“What matter, mamma?”

“That he ­that he is to come here as your lover.”

“Oh, no, mamma.  Pray don’t imagine that.  It is not so at all.  What should I do if you were to say anything to make him think so?”

“But you told me that you loved him.”

“So I do, mamma.”

“And he told your papa that he was desperately in love with you.”

“I don’t know, mamma.”

“But he did; ­your papa told me so, and that’s why he asked him to come down here again.  He never would have done it without.”

Madeline had her own idea about this, believing that her father had thought more of her wants in the matter than he had of those of Felix Graham; but as to this she said nothing.  “Nevertheless, mamma, you must not say that to any one,” she answered.  “Mr. Graham has never spoken to me, ­not a word.  I should of course have told you had he done so.”

“Yes, I am sure of that.  But, Madeline, I suppose it’s all the same.  He asked papa for permission to speak to you, and your papa has given it.”

“I’m sure I don’t know, mamma.”

It was a quarter of an hour after that when Lady Staveley again returned to the subject.  “I am sure Mr. Graham is very clever, and all that.”

“Papa says that he is very clever indeed.”

“I’m quite sure he is, and he makes himself very nice in the house, always talking when there are people to dinner.  Mr. Arbuthnot never will talk when there are people to dinner.  But Mr. Arbuthnot has got a very nice place in Warwickshire, and they say he’ll come in for the county some day.”

“Of course, mamma, if there should be anything of that sort, we should not be rich people, like Isabella and Mr. Arbuthnot.”

“Not at first, dear.”

“Neither first nor last.  But I don’t care about that.  If you and papa will like him, and ­and ­if it should come to that! ­Oh, mamma, he is so good, and so clever, and he understands things, and talks about things as though he knew how to make himself master of them.  And he is honest and proud.  Oh, mamma, if it should be so, I do hope you will love him.”

And then Lady Staveley promised that she would love him, thinking nevertheless that had things gone differently she would have extended a more motherly warmth of affection to Peregrine Orme.

And about this time Peregrine Orme made another visit to Noningsby.  His intention was to see the judge, explaining what steps his grandfather had taken as to The Cleeve property, and then once more to have thrown himself at Madeline’s feet.  But circumstances as they turned out prevented this.  Although he had been at some trouble to ascertain when the judge would be at Noningsby, nevertheless, on his arrival, the judge was out.  He would be home, the servant said, to dinner, but not before; and therefore he had again seen Lady Staveley, and after seeing her had not thrown himself at Madeline’s feet.

He had made up his mind to give a systematic and detailed account of his pecuniary circumstances, and had selected nearly the very words in which this should be made, not actuated by any idea that such a process would have any weight with Madeline, or by any means assist him with her, but hoping that he might thus procure the judge’s permission to press his suit.  But all this preparation and all his chosen words were of no use to him.  When he saw Lady Staveley’s face he at once knew that she had no comfort to offer to him.  “Well,” he said; “is there any chance for me?” He had intended to speak in a very different tone, but words which have been prepared seldom manage to fit themselves into their appropriate places.

“Oh, Mr. Orme,” she said, taking him by the hand, and holding it.  “I wish it were different; I wish it could be different.”

“There is no hope then?” And as he spoke there was a sound in his voice as though the tidings would utterly unman him.

“I should be wicked to deceive you,” she said.  “There is no hope.”  And then as she looked up at the sorrow so plainly written in the lines of his young, handsome face, tears came into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.  How could it be that a daughter of hers should be indifferent to the love of such a suitor as this?

But Peregrine, when he saw her sorrow, repressed his own.  “Very well,” said he; “I will at any rate know how to take an answer.  And for your kindness to me in the matter I am much obliged.  I ought to have known myself better than to have supposed she could have cared for me.”

“I am sure she feels that you have done her great honour.”

“Psha! honour!  But never mind ­Good-bye, Lady Staveley.”

“Will you not see her?”

“No.  Why should I see her?  Give her my love ­my best love ­”

“I will ­I will.”

“And tell her that I hope she may be happy, and make some fellow happy who is more fortunate than I am.  I shall get out of the way somewhere, so that I shall not make a fool of myself when I see it.”  And then he took his departure, and rode back again to The Cleeve.  This happened two days before the commencement of the trial, and the day before that on which Graham was to arrive at Noningsby.

When Graham received the judge’s note asking him to put up at Noningsby for the assize week, he was much astonished.  It was very short.

   DEAR GRAHAM,

As you are coming down to Alston, special in Lady Mason’s case, you may as well come and stay here.  Lady Staveley bids me say that she will be delighted.  Your elder brethren will no doubt go back to London each night, so that you will not be expected to remain with them.

   Yours always, &c.

What could be the intention of the judge in taking so strange a step as this?  The judge had undertaken to see him in three months, having given him some faint idea that there then might be a chance of hope.  But now, before one month was over, he was actually sending for him to the house, and inviting him to stay there.  What would all the bar world say when they found that a young barrister was living at the judge’s house during the assizes?  Would it not be in every man’s mouth that he was a suitor accepted both by the judge’s daughter and by the judge?  There would be nothing in that to go against the grain with him, if only the fact were so.  That the fact should be so he could not venture to hope even on this hint; but he accepted the judge’s invitation, sent his grateful thanks to Lady Staveley; ­as to Lady Staveley’s delight, he was sure that the judge must have romanced a little, for he had clearly recognised Lady Staveley as his enemy; ­and then he prepared himself for the chances of war.

On the evening before the trial he arrived at Noningsby just in time for dinner.  He had been obliged to remain an hour or two at Alston in conference with Mr. Aram, and was later than he had expected he would be.  He had been afraid to come early in the day, lest by doing so he might have seemed to overstep the margin of his invitation.  When he did arrive, the two ladies were already dressing, and he found the judge in the hall.

“A pretty fellow you are,” said the judge.  “It’s dinner-time already, and of course you take an hour to dress.”

“Mr. Aram ­” began Felix.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Aram!  I’ll give you fifteen minutes, but not a moment more.”  And so Felix was hurried on up to his bedroom ­the old bedroom in which he had passed so many hours, and been so very uneasy.  As he entered the room all that conversation with Augustus Staveley returned upon his memory.  He had seen his friend in London, and told him that he was going down to Noningsby.  Augustus had looked grave, but had said nothing about Madeline.  Augustus was not in his father’s confidence in this matter, and had nothing to do but to look grave.  On that very morning, moreover, some cause had been given to himself for gravity of demeanour.

At the door of his room he met Mrs. Baker, and, hurried though he was by the judge’s strict injunction, he could not but shake hands with his old and very worthy friend.

“Quite strong again,” said he, in answer to her tender inquiries.

“So you are, I do declare.  I will say this, Mr. Graham, for wholesomeness of flesh you beat anything I ever come nigh.  There’s a many would have been weeks and weeks before they could have been moved.”

“It was your good nursing, Mrs. Baker.”

“Well, I think we did take care of you among us.  Do you remember the pheasant, Mr. Graham?”

“Remember it!  I should think so; and how I improved the occasion.”

“Yes; you did improve fast enough.  And the sea-kale, Mr. Graham.  Laws! the row I had with John Gardener about that!  And, Mr. Graham, do you remember how a certain friend used to come and ask after you at the door?  Dear, dear, dear!  I nearly caught it about that.”

But Graham in his present frame of mind could not well endure to discuss his remembrances on that subject with Mrs. Baker, so he good-humouredly pushed her out of the room, saying that the judge would be mad if he delayed.

“That’s true, too, Mr. Graham.  And it won’t do for you to take up Mr. Augustus’s tricks in the house yet; will it?” And then she left the room.  “What does she mean by ’yet’?” Felix said to himself as he went through the ceremony of dressing with all the haste in his power.

He was in the drawing-room almost within the fifteen minutes, and there he found none but the judge and his wife and daughter.  He had at first expected to find Augustus there, but had been told by Mrs. Baker that he was to come down on the following morning.  His first greeting from Lady Staveley was something like that he had already received up stairs, only made in less exuberant language.  He was congratulated on his speedy recovery and made welcome by a kind smile.  Then he shook hands with Madeline, and as he did so he observed that the judge was at the trouble to turn away, so that he should not watch the greeting.  This he did see, but into Madeline’s face he hardly ventured to look.  He touched her hand, however, and said a word; and she also murmured something about his injury.  “And now we’ll go to dinner,” said the judge.  “Give your arm that is not broken to Lady Staveley.”  And so the meeting was over.  “Augustus will be in Alston to-morrow when the court is opened,” said the judge.  “That is to say if he finds it possible to get up so soon; but to-day he had some engagements in town.”  The truth however was that the judge had chosen to be alone with Felix after dinner.

The dinner was very pleasant, but the judge talked for the whole party.  Madeline hardly spoke at all, nor did Lady Staveley say much.  Felix managed to put in a few words occasionally, as it always becomes a good listener to do, but the brunt of the battle lay with the host.  One thing Felix observed painfully, ­that not a word was spoken about Lady Mason or Orley Farm.  When he had been last there the judge had spoken of it openly before the whole party, expressing his opinion that she was a woman much injured; but now neither did he say anything nor did Lady Staveley.  He would probably not have observed this had not a feeling crept upon him during the last fortnight, that that thorough conviction which men had felt as to her innocence was giving way.  While the ladies were there, however, he did not himself allude to the subject.

When they had left the room and the door had been closed behind them, the judge began the campaign ­began it, and as far as he was concerned, ended it in a very few minutes.  “Graham,” said he, “I am glad to see you.”

“Thank you, judge,” said he.

“Of course you know, and I know, what that amounts to now.  My idea is that you acted as an honest man when you were last here.  You are not a rich man ­”

“Anything but that.”

“And therefore I do not think it would have been well had you endeavoured to gain my daughter’s affections without speaking to me, ­or to her mother.”  Judge Staveley always spoke of his wife as though she were an absolute part of himself.  “She and I have discussed the matter now, ­and you are at liberty to address yourself to Madeline if you please.”

“My dear judge ­”

“Of course you understand that I am not answering for her?”

“Oh, of course not.”

“That’s your look out.  You must fight your own battle there.  What you are allowed to understand is this, ­that her father and mother will give their consent to an engagement, if she finds that she can bring herself to give hers.  If you are minded to ask her, you may do so.”

“Of course I shall ask her.”

“She will have five thousand pounds on her marriage, settled upon herself and her children, ­and as much more when I die, settled in the same way.  Now fill your glass.”  And in his own easy way he turned the subject round and began to talk about the late congress at Birmingham.

Felix felt that it was not open to him at the present moment to say anything further about Madeline; and though he was disappointed at this, ­for he would have wished to go on talking about her all the evening ­perhaps it was better for him.  The judge would have said nothing further to encourage him, and he would have gradually been taught to think that his chance with Madeline was little, and then less.  “He must have been a fool,” my readers will say, “not to have known that Madeline was now his own.”  Probably.  But then modest-minded young men are fools.

At last he contrived to bring the conversation round from the Birmingham congress to the affairs of his new client; and indeed he contrived to do so in spite of the judge, who was not particularly anxious to speak on the subject.  “After all that we said and did at Birmingham, it is odd that I should so soon find myself joined with Mr. Furnival.”

“Not at all odd.  Of course you must take up your profession as others have taken it up before you.  Very many young men dream of a Themis fit for Utopia.  You have slept somewhat longer than others, and your dreams have been more vivid.”

“And now I wake to find myself leagued with the Empson and Dudley of our latter-day law courts.”

“Fie, Graham, fie.  Do not allow yourself to speak in that tone of men whom you know to be zealous advocates, and whom you do not know to be dishonest opponents.”

“It is they and such as they that make so many in these days feel the need of some Utopia, ­as it was in the old days of our history.  But I beg your pardon for nicknaming them, and certainly ought not to have done so in your presence.”

“Well; if you repent yourself, and will be more charitable for the future, I will not tell of you.”

“I have never yet even seen Mr. Chaffanbrass in court,” said Felix, after a pause.

“The more shame for you, never to have gone to the court in which he practises.  A barrister intending to succeed at the common law bar cannot have too wide an experience in such matters.”

“But then I fear that I am a barrister not intending to succeed.”

“I am very sorry to hear it,” said the judge.  And then again the conversation flagged for a minute or two.

“Have you ever seen him at a country assize town before, judge?” asked Felix.

“Whom?  Chaffanbrass?  I do not remember that I have.”

“His coming down in this way is quite unusual, I take it.”

“Rather so, I should say.  The Old Bailey is his own ground.”

“And why should they think it necessary in such a case as this to have recourse to such a proceeding?”

“It would be for me to ask you that, seeing that you are one of the counsel.”

“Do you mean to say, judge, that between you and me you are unwilling to give an opinion on such a subject?”

“Well; you press me hard, and I think I may fairly say that I am unwilling.  I would sooner discuss the matter with you after the verdict than before it.  Come; we will go into the drawing-room.”

There was not much in this.  Indeed if it were properly looked at there was nothing in it.  But nevertheless Graham, as he preceded the judge out of the dining-room, felt that his heart misgave him about Lady Mason.  When first the matter had been spoken of at Noningsby, Judge Staveley had been fully convinced of Lady Mason’s innocence, and had felt no reserve in expressing his opinion.  He had expressed such an opinion very openly.  Why should he now affect so much reticence, seeing that the question had been raised in the presence of them two alone?  It was he who had persuaded Graham to undertake this work, and now he went back from what he had done, and refused even to speak upon the subject.  “It must be that he thinks she is guilty,” said Graham to himself, as he lay down that night in bed.

But there had been something more for him to do before bedtime came.  He followed the judge into the drawing-room, and in five minutes perceived that his host had taken up a book with the honest intention of reading it.  Some reference was made to him by his wife, but he showed at once that he did not regard Graham as company, and that he conceived himself to be entitled to enjoy the full luxury of home.  “Upon my word I don’t know,” he answered, without taking his eye off the page.  And then nobody spoke to him another word.

After another short interval Lady Staveley went to sleep.  When Felix Graham had before been at Noningsby, she would have rebelled against nature with all her force rather than have slept while he was left to whisper what he would to her darling.  But now he was authorised to whisper, and why should not Lady Staveley sleep if she wished it?  She did sleep, and Felix was left alone with his love.

And yet he was not altogether alone.  He could not say to her those words which he was now bound to say; which he longed to say in order that he might know whether the next stage of his life was to be light or dark.  There sat the judge, closely intent no doubt upon his book, but wide awake.  There also sat Lady Staveley, fast asleep certainly; but with a wondrous power of hearing even in her sleep.  And yet how was he to talk to his love unless he talked of love?  He wished that the judge would help them to converse; he wished that some one else was there; he wished at last that he himself was away.  Madeline sat perfectly tranquil stitching a collar.  Upon her there was incumbent no duty of doing anything beyond that.  But he was in a measure bound to talk.  Had he dared to do so he also would have taken up a book; but that he knew to be impossible.

“Your brother will be down to-morrow,” he said at last.

“Yes; he is to go direct to Alston.  He will be here in the evening, ­to dinner.”

“Ah, yes; I suppose we shall all be late to-morrow.”

“Papa always is late when the assizes are going on,” said Madeline.

“Alston is not very far,” said Felix.

“Only two miles,” she answered.

And during the whole of that long evening the conversation between them did not reach a more interesting pitch than that.

“She must think me an utter fool,” said Felix to himself, as he sat staring at the fire.  “How well her brother would have made the most of such an opportunity!” And then he went to bed, by no means in a good humour with himself.

On the next morning he again met her at breakfast, but on that occasion there was no possible opportunity for private conversation.  The judge was all alive, and talked enough for the whole party during the twenty minutes that was allowed to them before they started for Alston.  “And now we must be off.  We’ll say half-past seven for dinner, my dear.”  And then they also made their journey to Alston.