“Her! what her?”
“Oh, I forgot that we were talking about nobody.”
“You don’t mean Harriet Tristram?”
“No, certainly not.”
“Of whom were you thinking, Peregrine? May I ask—if it be not too close a secret?” And then again there was a pause, during which Peregrine emptied his glass and filled it again. He had no objection to talk to his grandfather about Miss Staveley, but he felt ashamed of having allowed the matter to escape him in this sort of way. “I will tell you why I ask, my boy,” continued the baronet. “I am going to do that which many people will call a very foolish thing.”
“You mean about Lady Mason.”
“Yes; I mean my own marriage with Lady Mason. We will not talk about that just at present, and I only mention it to explain that before I do so, I shall settle the property permanently. If you were married I should at once divide it with you. I should like to keep the old house myself, till I die—”
“Oh, Sir!”
“But sooner than give you cause of offence I would give that up.”
“I would not consent to live in it unless I did so as your guest.”
“Until your marriage I think of settling on you a thousand a year;—but it would add to my happiness if I thought it likely that you would marry soon. Now may I ask of whom were you thinking?”
Peregrine paused for a second or two before he made any reply, and then he brought it out boldly. “I was thinking of Madeline Staveley.”
“Then, my boy, you were thinking of the prettiest girl and the best-bred lady in the county. Here’s her health;” and he filled for himself a bumper of claret. “You couldn’t have named a woman whom I should be more proud to see you bring home. And your mother’s opinion of her is the same as mine. I happen to know that;” and with a look of triumph he drank his glass of wine, as though much that was very joyful to him had been already settled.
“Yes,” said Peregrine mournfully, “she is a very nice girl; at least I think so.”
“The man who can win her, Peregrine, may consider himself to be a lucky fellow. You were quite right in what you were saying about money. No man feels more sure of that than I do. But if I am not mistaken Miss Staveley will have something of her own. I rather think that Arbuthnot got ten thousand pounds.”
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” said Peregrine; and his voice was by no means as much elated as that of his grandfather.
“I think he did; or if he didn’t get it all, the remainder is settled on him. And the judge is not a man to behave better to one child than to another.”
“I suppose not.”
And then the conversation flagged a little, for the enthusiasm was all one side. It was moreover on that side which naturally would have been the least enthusiastic. Poor Peregrine had only told half his secret as yet, and that not the most important half. To Sir Peregrine the tidings, as far as he had heard them, were very pleasant. He did not say to himself that he would purchase his grandson’s assent to his own marriage by giving his consent to his grandson’s marriage. But it did seem to him that the two affairs, acting upon each other, might both be made to run smooth. His heir could have made no better choice in selecting the lady of his love. Sir Peregrine had feared much that some Miss Tristram or the like might have been tendered to him as the future Lady Orme, and he was agreeably surprised to find that a new mistress for The Cleeve had been so well chosen. He would be all kindness to his grandson and win from him, if it might be possible, reciprocal courtesy and complaisance. “Your mother will be very pleased when she hears this,” he said.
“I meant to tell my mother,” said Peregrine, still very dolefully, “but I do not know that there is anything in it to please her. I only said that I—I admired Miss Staveley.”
“My dear boy, if you’ll take my advice you’ll propose to her at once. You have been staying in the same house with her, and—”
“But I have.”
“Have what?”
“I have proposed to her.”
“Well?”
“And she has refused me. You know all about it now, and there’s no such great cause for joy.”
“Oh, you have proposed to her. Have you spoken to her father or mother?”
“What was the use when she told me plainly that she did not care for me? Of course I should have asked her father. As to Lady Staveley, she and I got on uncommonly well. I’m almost inclined to think that she would not have objected.”
“It would be a very nice match for them, and I dare say she would not have objected.” And then for some ten minutes they sat looking at the fire. Peregrine had nothing more to say about it, and the baronet was thinking how best he might encourage his grandson.
“You must try again, you know,” at last he said.
“Well; I fear not. I do not think it would be any good. I’m not quite sure she does not care for someone else.”
“Who is he?”
“Oh, a fellow that’s there. The man who broke his arm. I don’t say she does, you know, and of course you won’t mention it.”
Sir Peregrine gave the necessary promises, and then endeavoured to give encouragement to the lover. He would himself see the judge, if it were thought expedient, and explain what liberal settlement would be made on the lady in the event of her altering her mind. “Young ladies, you know, are very prone to alter their minds on such matters,” said the old man. In answer to which Peregrine declared his conviction that Madeline Staveley would not alter her mind. But then
