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?"
[Illustration: "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.