And then Mrs. Arbuthnot greeted him, and Miss Furnival, and four or five others who were of the party, and he was introduced to one or two whom he had not seen before. Marian too came up to him—very gently, as though he were as brittle as glass, having been warned by her mother. “Oh, Mr. Felix,” she said, “I was so unhappy when your bones were broken. I do hope they won’t break again.”
And then he perceived that Madeline was in the room and was coming up to him. She had in truth not been there when he first entered, having thought it better, as a matter of strategy, to follow upon his footsteps. He was getting up to meet her, when Lady Staveley spoke to him.
“Don’t move, Mr. Graham. Invalids, you know, are chartered.”
“I am very glad to see you once more downstairs,” said Madeline, as she frankly gave him her hand—not merely touching his—“very, very glad. But I do hope you will get stronger before you venture to leave Noningsby. You have frightened us all very much by your terrible accident.”
All this was said in her peculiarly sweet silver voice, not speaking as though she were dismayed and beside herself, or in a hurry to get through a lesson which she had taught herself. She had her secret to hide, and had schooled herself how to hide it. But in so schooling herself she had been compelled to acknowledge to herself that the secret did exist. She had told herself that she must meet him, and that in meeting him she must hide it. This she had done with absolute success. Such is the peculiar power of women; and her mother, who had listened not only to every word, but to every tone of her voice, gave her exceeding credit.
“There’s more in her than I thought there was,” said Sophia Furnival to herself, who had also listened and watched.
“It has not gone very deep, with her,” said the judge, who on this matter was not so good a judge as Miss Furnival.
“She cares about me just as Mrs. Baker does,” said Graham to himself, who was the worst judge of them all. He muttered something quite unintelligible in answer to the kindness of her words; and then Madeline, having gone through her task, retired to the further side of the round table, and went to work among the teacups.
And then the conversation became general, turning altogether on the affairs of Lady Mason. It was declared as a fact by Lady Staveley that there was to be a marriage between Sir Peregrine Orme and his guest, and all in the room expressed their sorrow. The women were especially indignant. “I have no patience with her,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot. “She must know that such a marriage at his time of life must be ridiculous, and injurious to the whole family.”
The women were very indignant—all except Miss Furnival, who did not say much, but endeavoured to palliate the crimes of Lady Mason in that which she did say. “I do not know that she is more to blame than any other lady who marries a gentleman thirty years older than herself.”
“I do then,” said Lady Staveley, who delighted in contradicting Miss Furnival. “And so would you too, my dear, if you had known Sir Peregrine as long as I have. And if—if—if—but it does not matter. I am very sorry for Lady Mason—very. I think she is a woman cruelly used by her own connections; but my sympathies with her would be warmer if she had refrained from using her power over an old gentleman like Sir Peregrine, in the way she has done.” In all which expression of sentiment the reader will know that poor dear Lady Staveley was wrong from the beginning to the end.
“For my part,” said the judge, “I don’t see what else she was to do. If Sir Peregrine asked her, how could she refuse?”
“My dear!” said Lady Staveley.
“According to that, papa, every lady must marry any gentleman that asks her,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot.
“When a lady is under so deep a weight of obligation I don’t know how she is to refuse. My idea is that Sir Peregrine should not have asked her.”
“And mine too,” said Felix. “Unless indeed he did it under an impression that he could fight for her better as her husband than simply as a friend.”
“And I feel sure that that is what he did think,” said Madeline, from the further side of the table. And her voice sounded in Graham’s ears as the voice of Eve may have sounded to Adam. No; let him do what he might in the world;—whatever might be the form in which his future career should be fashioned, one thing was clearly impossible to him. He could not marry Mary Snow. Had he never learned to know what were the true charms of feminine grace and loveliness, it might have been possible for him to do so, and to have enjoyed afterwards a fair amount of contentment. But now even contentment would be impossible to him under such a lot as that. Not only would he be miserable, but the woman whom he married would be wretched also. It may be said that he made up his mind definitely, while sitting in that armchair, that he would not marry Mary Snow. Poor Mary Snow! Her fault in the matter had not been great.
When Graham was again in his room, and the servant who was obliged to undress him had left him, he sat over his fire, wrapped in his dressing-gown, bethinking himself what he would do. “I will tell the judge everything,” he said at last. “Then, if he will let me into his house after that, I must fight my own battle.” And so he betook himself to bed.
XLIX
Mrs. Furnival Can’t Put Up with It
When Lady Mason last left the chambers of her lawyer in Lincoln’s Inn,
