“But I shall never cease to be mad.”
“Who is it that cannot be serious, now?”
“Well, I will be serious—serious enough. I can afford to be so, as I have received my medical passport for tomorrow. No girl, you say, ought to be out of my reach. If the girl were one Miss Staveley, should she be regarded as out of my reach?”
“A man doesn’t talk about his own sister,” said Staveley, having got up from the bed and walked to the window, “and I know you don’t mean anything.”
“But, by heavens! I do mean a great deal.”
“What is it you mean, then?”
“I mean this—What would you say if you learned that I was a suitor for her hand?”
Staveley had been right in saying that a man does not talk about his own sister. When he had declared, with so much affectionate admiration for his friend’s prowess, that he might aspire to the hand of any lady, that one retiring, modest-browed girl had not been thought of by him. A man in talking to another man about women is always supposed to consider those belonging to himself as exempt from the incidents of the conversation. The dearest friends do not talk to each other about their sisters when they have once left school; and a man in such a position as that now taken by Graham has to make fight for his ground as closely as though there had been no former intimacies. My friend Smith in such a matter as that, though I have been hail fellow with him for the last ten years, has very little advantage over Jones, who was introduced to the house for the first time last week. And therefore Staveley felt himself almost injured when Felix Graham spoke to him about Madeline.
“What would I say? Well—that is a question one does not understand, unless—unless you really meant to state it as a fact that it was your intention to propose to her.”
“But I mean rather to state it as a fact that it is not my intention to propose to her.”
“Then we had better not speak of her.”
“Listen to me a moment. In order that I may not do so, it will be better for me—better for us all, that I should leave the house.”
“Do you mean to say—?”
“Yes, I do mean to say! I mean to say all that your mind is now suggesting to you. I quite understand your feelings when you declare that a man does not like to talk of his own sister, and therefore we will talk of your sister no more. Old fellow, don’t look at me as though you meant to drop me.”
Augustus came back to the bedside, and again seating himself, put his hand almost caressingly over his friend’s shoulder. “I did not think of this,” he said.
“No; one never does think of it,” Graham replied.
“And she?”
“She knows no more of it than that bedpost,” said Graham. “The injury, such as there is, is all on one side. But I’ll tell you who suspects it.”
“Baker?”
“Your mother. I am much mistaken if you will not find that she, with all her hospitality, would prefer that I should recover my strength elsewhere.”
“But you have done nothing to betray yourself.”
“A mother’s ears are very sharp. I know that it is so. I cannot explain to you how. Do you tell her that I think of getting up to London tomorrow, and see how she will take it. And, Staveley, do not for a moment suppose that I am reproaching her. She is quite right. I believe that I have in no way committed myself—that I have said no word to your sister with which Lady Staveley has a right to feel herself aggrieved; but if she has had the wit to read the thoughts of my bosom, she is quite right to wish that I were out of the house.”
Poor Lady Staveley had been possessed of no such wit at all. The sphynx which she had read had been one much more in her own line. She had simply read the thoughts in her daughter’s bosom—or rather, the feelings in her daughter’s heart.
Augustus Staveley hardly knew what he ought to say. He was not prepared to tell his friend that he was the very brother-in-law for whose connection he would be desirous. Such a marriage for Madeline, even should Madeline desire it, would not be advantageous. When Augustus told Graham that he had gifts of nature which made him equal to any lady, he did not include his own sister. And yet the idea of acquiescing in his friend’s sudden departure was very painful to him. “There can be no reason why you should not stay up here, you know,” at last he said;—and in so saying he pronounced an absolute verdict against poor Felix.
On few matters of moment to a man’s own heart can he speak out plainly the whole truth that is in him. Graham had intended so to do, but had deceived himself. He had not absolutely hoped that his friend would say, “Come among us, and be one of us; take her, and be my brother.” But yet there came upon his heart a black load of disappointment, in that the words which were said were the exact opposite of these. Graham had spoken of himself as unfit to match with Madeline Staveley, and Madeline Staveley’s brother had taken him at his word. The question which Augustus asked himself was this—Was it, or was it not practicable that Graham should remain there without danger of intercourse with his sister? To Felix the question came in a very different shape. After having spoken as he had spoken—might he be allowed to remain there, enjoying such
