“But it is all from favour to Graham!” Peregrine would say to himself with bitterness; and yet though he said so he did not quite believe it. Poor fellow! It was all from favour to Graham. And could he have thoroughly believed the truth of those words which he repeated to himself so often, he might have spared himself much pain. He might have spared himself much pain, and possibly some injury; for if aught could now tend to mature in Madeline’s heart an affection which was but as yet nascent, it would be the offer of some other lover. But such reasoning on the matter was much too deep for Peregrine Orme. “It may be,” he said to himself, “that she only pities him because he is hurt. If so, is not this time better for me than any other? If it be that she loves him, let me know it, and be out of my pain.” It did not then occur to him that circumstances such as those in question could not readily be made explicit;—that Madeline might refuse his love, and yet leave him no wiser than he now was as to her reasons for so refusing;—perhaps, indeed, leave him less wise, with increased cause for doubt and hopeless hope, and the green melancholy of a rejected lover.
Madeline during these two days said no more about the London doctor; but it was plain to all who watched her that her anxiety as to the patient was much more keen than that of the other ladies of the house. “She always thinks everybody is going to die,” Lady Staveley said to Miss Furnival, intending, not with any consummate prudence, to account to that acute young lady for her daughter’s solicitude. “We had a cook here, three months since, who was very ill, and Madeline would never be easy till the doctor assured her that the poor woman’s danger was altogether past.”
“She is so very warmhearted,” said Miss Furnival in reply. “It is quite delightful to see her. And she will have such pleasure when she sees him come down from his room.”
Lady Staveley on this immediate occasion said nothing to her daughter, but Mrs. Arbuthnot considered that a sisterly word might perhaps be spoken in due season.
“The doctor says he is doing quite well now,” Mrs. Arbuthnot said to her, as they were sitting alone.
“But does he indeed? Did you hear him?” said Madeline, who was suspicious.
“He did so, indeed. I heard him myself. But he says also that he ought to remain here, at any rate for the next fortnight—if mamma can permit it without inconvenience.”
“Of course she can permit it. No one would turn any person out of their house in such a condition as that!”
“Papa and mamma both will be very happy that he should stay here;—of course they would not do what you call turning him out. But, Mad, my darling,”—and then she came up close and put her arm round her sister’s waist. “I think mamma would be more comfortable in his remaining here if your charity towards him were—what shall I say?—less demonstrative.”
“What do you mean, Isabella?”
“Dearest, dearest; you must not be angry with me. Nobody has hinted to me a word on the subject, nor do I mean to hint anything that can possibly be hurtful to you.”
“But what do you mean?”
“Don’t you know, darling? He is a young man—and—and—people see with such unkind eyes, and hear with such scandal-loving ears. There is that Miss Furnival—”
“If Miss Furnival can think such things, I for one do not care what she thinks.”
“No, nor do I;—not as regards any important result. But may it not be well to be careful? You know what I mean, dearest?”
“Yes—I know. At least I suppose so. And it makes me know also how very cold and shallow and heartless people are! I won’t ask any more questions, Isabella; but I can’t know that a fellow-creature is suffering in the house—and a person like him too, so clever, whom we all regard as a friend—the most intimate friend in the world that Augustus has—and the best too, as I heard papa himself say—without caring whether he is going to live or die.”
“There is no danger now, you know.”
“Very well; I am glad to hear it. Though I know very well that there must be danger after such a terrible accident as that.”
“The doctor says there is none.”
“At any rate I will not—” And then instead of finishing her sentence she turned away her head and put up her handkerchief to wipe away a tear.
“You are not angry with me, dear?” said Mrs. Arbuthnot.
“Oh, no,” said Madeline; and then they parted.
For some days after that Madeline asked no question whatever about Felix Graham, but it may be doubted whether this did not make the matter worse. Even Sophia Furnival would ask how he was at any rate twice a day, and Lady Staveley continued to pay him regular visits at stated intervals. As he got better she would sit with him, and brought back reports as to his sayings. But Madeline never discussed any of these; and refrained alike from the conversation, whether his broken bones or his unbroken wit were to be the subject of it. And then Mrs. Arbuthnot, knowing that she would still be anxious, gave her private bulletins as to the state of the sick man’s progress;—all which gave an air of secrecy
