“Indeed I am,” said Felix; “I only wish they’d let me get up and go downstairs. Is that Miss Staveley, Mrs. Baker?”
“Yes, sure. Come, my dear, he’s got his dressing-gown on, and you may just come to the door and ask him how he does.”
“I am very glad to hear that you are so much better, Mr. Graham,” said Madeline, standing in the doorway with averted eyes, and speaking with a voice so low that it only just reached his ears.
“Thank you, Miss Staveley; I shall never know how to express what I feel for you all.”
“And there’s none of ’em have been more anxious about you than she, I can tell you; and none of ’em ain’t kinder-hearteder,” said Mrs. Baker.
“I hope you will be up soon and be able to come down to the drawing-room,” said Madeline. And then she did glance round, and for a moment saw the light of his eye as he sat upright in the bed. He was still pale and thin, or at least she fancied so, and her heart trembled within her as she thought of the danger he had passed.
“I do so long to be able to talk to you again; all the others come and visit me, but I have only heard the sounds of your footsteps as you pass by.”
“And yet she always walks like a mouse,” said Mrs. Baker.
“But I have always heard them,” he said. “I hope Marian thanked you for the books. She told me how you had gotten them for me.”
“She should not have said anything about them; it was Augustus who thought of them,” said Madeline.
“Marian comes to me four or five times a day,” he continued; “I do not know what I should do without her.”
“I hope she is not noisy,” said Madeline.
“Laws, miss, he don’t care for noise now, only he ain’t good at moving yet, and won’t be for some while.”
“Pray take care of yourself, Mr. Graham,” she said; “I need not tell you how anxious we all are for your recovery. Good night, Mr. Graham.” And then she passed on to her mother’s dressing-room, and sitting herself down in an armchair opposite to the fire began to think—to think, or else to try to think.
And what was to be the subject of her thoughts? Regarding Peregrine Orme there was very little room for thinking. He had made her an offer, and she had rejected it as a matter of course, seeing that she did not love him. She had no doubt on that head, and was well aware that she could never accept such an offer. On what subject then was it necessary that she should think?
How odd it was that Mr. Graham’s room door should have been open on this especial evening, and that nurse should have been standing there, ready to give occasion for that conversation! That was the idea that first took possession of her brain. And then she recounted all those few words which had been spoken as though they had had some special value—as though each word had been laden with interest. She felt half ashamed of what she had done in standing there and speaking at his bedroom door, and yet she would not have lost the chance for worlds. There had been nothing in what had passed between her and the invalid. The very words, spoken elsewhere, or in the presence of her mother and sister, would have been insipid and valueless; and yet she sat there feeding on them as though they were of flavour so rich that she could not let the sweetness of them pass from her. She had been stunned at the idea of poor Peregrine’s love, and yet she never asked herself what was this new feeling. She did not inquire—not yet at least—whether there might be danger in such feelings.
She remained there, with eyes fixed on the burning coals, till her mother came up. “What, Madeline,” said Lady Staveley, “are you here still? I was in hopes you would have been in bed before this.”
“My headache is gone now, mamma; and I waited because—”
“Well, dear; because what?” and her mother came and stood over her and smoothed her hair. “I know very well that something has been the matter. There has been something; eh, Madeline?”
“Yes, mamma.”
“And you have remained up that we may talk about it. Is that it, dearest?”
“I did not quite mean that, but perhaps it will be best. I can’t be doing wrong, mamma, in telling you.”
“Well; you shall judge of that yourself;” and Lady Staveley sat down on the sofa so that she was close to the chair which Madeline still occupied. “As a general rule I suppose you could not be doing wrong; but you must decide. If you have any doubt, wait till tomorrow.”
“No, mamma; I will tell you now. Mr. Orme—”
“Well, dearest. Did Mr. Orme say anything specially to you before he went away?”
“He—he—”
“Come to me, Madeline, and sit here. We shall talk better then.” And the mother made room beside her on the sofa for her daughter, and Madeline, running over, leaned with her head upon her mother’s shoulder. “Well, darling; what did he say? Did he tell you that he loved you?”
“Yes, mamma.”
“And you answered him—”
“I could only tell him—”
“Yes, I know. Poor fellow! But, Madeline, is he not an excellent young man;—one, at any rate, that is lovable? Of course in such a matter the heart must answer for itself. But I, looking at the offer as a mother—I could have been well pleased—”
“But, mamma, I could not—”
“Well, love, there shall be an end of it; at least for the present. When I heard that he had gone suddenly away I thought that something had happened.”
“I am so sorry that he should be unhappy, for I know that he is good.”
“Yes, he is good; and your father likes him, and Augustus. In such a matter as this, Madeline,
