“I was almost afeard it would be spoilt by being brought up the second time,” said Mrs. Baker. “And so I said to my lady; but she wouldn’t have you woke, nohow.” And then Mrs. Baker, having heard the last of the lecture, took away the empty wineglass and shut the door behind her.
“And now I’ll write those two letters,” said Graham. “What I’ve written hitherto I wrote in bed, and I feel almost more awkward now I am up than I did then.”
“But what letters are they?”
“Well, one to my laundress to tell her I shall be there tomorrow, and one to Mary Snow to say that I’ll see her the day after.”
“Then, Felix, don’t trouble yourself to write either. You positively won’t go tomorrow—”
“Who says so?”
“The governor. He has heard from my mother exactly what the doctor said, and declares that he won’t allow it. He means to see the doctor himself before you stir. And he wants to see you also. I am to tell you he’ll come to you directly after breakfast.”
“I shall be delighted to see your father, and am very much gratified by his kindness, but—”
“But what—”
“I’m a free agent, I suppose—to go when I please?”
“Not exactly. The law is unwritten; but by traditional law a man laid up in his bedroom is not free to go and come. No action for false imprisonment would lie if Mrs. Baker kept all your clothes away from you.”
“I should like to try the question.”
“You will have the opportunity, for you may be sure that you’ll not leave this tomorrow.”
“It would depend altogether on the evidence of the doctor.”
“Exactly so. And as the doctor in this case would clearly be on the side of the defendants, a verdict on behalf of the plaintiff would not be by any means attainable.” After that the matter was presumed to be settled, and Graham said no more as to leaving Noningsby on the next day. As things turned out afterwards he remained there for another week.
“I must at any rate write a letter to Mary Snow,” he said. And to Mary Snow he did write some three or four lines, Augustus sitting by the while. Augustus Staveley would have been very glad to know the contents, or rather the spirit of those lines; but nothing was said about them, and the letter was at last sealed up and entrusted to his care for the postbag. There was very little in it that could have interested Augustus Staveley or anyone else. It contained the ordinary, but no more than the ordinary terms of affection. He told her that he found it impracticable to move himself quite immediately. And then as to that cause of displeasure—that cause of supposed displeasure as to which both Mary and Mrs. Thomas had written, he declared that he did not believe that anything had been done that he should not find it easy to forgive after so long an absence.
Augustus then remained there for another hour, but not a word was said between the young men on that subject which was nearest, at the moment, to the hearts of both of them. Each was thinking of Madeline, but neither of them spoke as though any such subject were in their thoughts.
“Heaven and earth!” said Augustus at last, pulling out his watch. “It only wants three minutes to seven. I shall have a dozen messages from the judge before I get down, to know whether he shall come and help me change my boots. I’ll see you again before I go to bed. Goodbye, old fellow.” And then Graham was again alone.
If Lady Staveley were really angry with him for loving her daughter—if his friend Staveley were in very truth determined that such love must under no circumstances be sanctioned—would they treat him as they were treating him? Would they under such circumstances make his prolonged stay in the house an imperative necessity? He could not help asking himself this question, and answering it with some gleam of hope. And then he acknowledged to himself that it was ungenerous in him to do so. His remaining there—the liberty to remain there which had been conceded to him—had arisen solely from the belief that a removal in his present state would be injudicious. He assured himself of this over and over again, so that no false hope might linger in his heart. And yet hope did linger there whether false or true. Why might he not aspire to the hand of Madeline Staveley—he who had been assured that he need regard no woman as too high for his aspirations?
“Mrs. Baker,” he said that evening, as that excellent woman was taking away his tea-things, “I have not heard Miss Staveley’s voice these two days.”
“Well, no; no more you have,” said she. “There’s two ways, you know, Mr. Graham, of going to her part of the house. There’s the door that opens at the end of the passage by her mamma’s room. She’s been that way, and that’s the reason, I suppose. There ain’t no other, I’m sure.”
“One likes to hear one’s friends if one can’t see them; that’s all.”
“To be sure one does. I remember as how when I had the measles—I was living with my lady’s mother, as maid to the young ladies. There was four of ’em, and I dressed ’em all—God bless ’em. They’ve all got husbands now and grown families—only there ain’t one among ’em equal to our Miss Madeline, though there’s some of ’em much richer. When my lady married him—the judge, you know—he was the poorest of the lot. They didn’t think so much of him when he came a-courting in those days.”
“He was only a practising barrister then.”
“Oh yes; he knew well how to practise, for Miss Isabella—as she was then—very soon made up her mind about him. Laws, Mr. Graham, she used to tell me everything in them days. They didn’t want her to have nothing to say
