Orley Farm

event she had thought about him a good deal; but altogether as of a friend of Graham’s. He had been good and kind to Graham, and therefore she had liked him and had talked to him. He had never said a word to her that had taught her to regard him as a possible lover; and now that he was an actual lover, a declared lover standing before her, waiting for an answer, she was so astonished that she did not know how to speak. All her ideas too, as to love⁠—such ideas as she had ever formed, were confounded by his abruptness. She would have thought, had she brought herself absolutely to think upon it, that all speech of love should be very delicate; that love should grow slowly, and then be whispered softly, doubtingly, and with infinite care. Even had she loved him, or had she been in the way towards loving him, such violence as this would have frightened her and scared her love away. Poor Peregrine! His intentions had been so good and honest! He was so true and hearty, and free from all conceit in the matter! It was a pity that he should have marred his cause by such ill judgment.

But there he stood waiting an answer⁠—and expecting it to be as open, definite, and plain as though he had asked her to take a walk with him. “Madeline,” he said, stretching out his hand when he perceived that she did not speak to him at once. “There is my hand. If it be possible give me yours.”

“Oh, Mr. Orme!”

“I know that I have not said what I had to say very⁠—very gracefully. But you will not regard that I think. You are too good, and too true.”

She had now seated herself, and he was standing before her. She had retreated to a sofa in order to avoid the hand which he had offered her; but he followed her, and even yet did not know that he had no chance of success. “Mr. Orme,” she said at last, speaking hardly above her breath, “what has made you do this?”

“What has made me do it? What has made me tell you that I love you?”

“You cannot be in earnest!”

“Not in earnest! By heavens, Miss Staveley, no man who has said the same words was ever more in earnest. Do you doubt me when I tell you that I love you?”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” And then she hid her face upon the arm of the sofa and burst into tears.

Peregrine stood there, like a prisoner on his trial, waiting for a verdict. He did not know how to plead his cause with any further language; and indeed no further language could have been of any avail. The judge and jury were clear against him, and he should have known the sentence without waiting to have it pronounced in set terms. But in plain words he had made his offer, and in plain words he required that an answer should be given to him. “Well,” he said, “will you not speak to me? Will you not tell me whether it shall be so?”

“No⁠—no⁠—no,” she said.

“You mean that you cannot love me.” And as he said this the agony of his tone struck her ear and made her feel that he was suffering. Hitherto she had thought only of herself, and had hardly recognised it as a fact that he could be thoroughly in earnest.

“Mr. Orme, I am very sorry. Do not speak as though you were angry with me. But⁠—”

“But you cannot love me?” And then he stood again silent, for there was no reply. “Is it that, Miss Staveley, that you mean to answer? If you say that with positive assurance, I will trouble you no longer.” Poor Peregrine! He was but an unskilled lover!

“No!” she sobbed forth through her tears; but he had so framed his question that he hardly knew what No meant.

“Do you mean that you cannot love me, or may I hope that a day will come⁠—? May I speak to you again⁠—?”

“Oh, no, no! I can answer you now. It grieves me to the heart. I know you are so good. But, Mr. Orme⁠—”

“Well⁠—”

“It can never, never be.”

“And I must take that as answer?”

“I can make no other.” He still stood before her⁠—with gloomy and almost angry brow, could she have seen him; and then he thought he would ask her whether there was any other love which had brought about her scorn for him. It did not occur to him, at the first moment, that in doing so he would insult and injure her.

“At any rate I am not flattered by a reply which is at once so decided,” he began by saying.

“Oh! Mr. Orme, do not make me more unhappy⁠—”

“But perhaps I am too late. Perhaps⁠—” Then he remembered himself and paused. “Never mind,” he said, speaking to himself rather than to her. “Goodbye, Miss Staveley. You will at any rate say goodbye to me. I shall go at once now.”

“Go at once! Go away, Mr. Orme?”

“Yes; why should I stay here? Do you think that I could sit down to table with you all after that? I will ask your brother to explain my going; I shall find him in his room. Goodbye.”

She took his hand mechanically, and then he left her. When she came down to dinner she looked furtively round to his place and saw that it was vacant.

XXXI

Footsteps in the Corridor

“Upon my word I am very sorry,” said the judge. “But what made him go off so suddenly? I hope there’s nobody ill at The Cleeve!” And then the judge took his first spoonful of soup.

“No, no; there is nothing of that sort,” said Augustus. “His grandfather wants him, and Orme thought he might as well start at once. He was always a sudden harum-scarum fellow like that.”

“He’s a very pleasant, nice young man,” said Lady Staveley;