“He certainly is not very handsome,” the judge said, when Lady Staveley insisted somewhat strongly on that special feature of the case.
“I think he is the ugliest young man I know,” said her ladyship.
“He looks very well in his wig,” said the judge.
“Wig! Madeline would not see him in a wig; nor anybody else very often, seeing the way he is going on about his profession. What are we to do about it?”
“Well. I should say, do nothing.”
“And let him propose to the dear girl if he chooses to take the fancy into his head?”
“I don’t see how we are to hinder him. But I have that impression of Mr. Graham that I do not think he will do anything unhandsome by us. He has some singular ideas of his own about law, and I grant you that he is plain—”
“The plainest young man I ever saw,” said Lady Staveley.
“But, if I know him, he is a man of high character and much more than ordinary acquirement.”
“I cannot understand Madeline,” Lady Staveley went on, not caring overmuch about Felix Graham’s acquirements.
“Well, my dear, I think the key to her choice is this, that she has judged not with her eyes, but with her ears, or rather with her understanding. Had she accepted Mr. Orme, I as a father should of course have been well satisfied. He is, I have no doubt, a fine young fellow, and will make a good husband some day.”
“Oh, excellent!” said her ladyship; “and The Cleeve is only seven miles.”
“But I must acknowledge that I cannot feel angry with Madeline.”
“Angry! no, not angry. Who would be angry with the poor child?”
“Indeed, I am somewhat proud of her. It seems to me that she prefers mind to matter, which is a great deal to say for a young lady.”
“Matter!” exclaimed Lady Staveley, who could not but feel that the term, as applied to such a young man as Peregrine Orme, was very opprobrious.
“Wit and intellect and power of expression have gone further with her than good looks and rank and worldly prosperity. If that be so, and I believe it is, I cannot but love her the better for it.”
“So do I love her, as much as any mother can love her daughter.”
“Of course you do.” And the judge kissed his wife.
“And I like wit and genius and all that sort of thing.”
“Otherwise you would have not taken me, my dear.”
“You were the handsomest man of your day. That’s why I fell in love with you.”
“The compliment is a very poor one,” said the judge.
“Never mind that. I like wit and genius too; but wit and genius are none the better for being ugly; and wit and genius should know how to butter their own bread before they think of taking a wife.”
“You forget, my dear, that for aught we know wit and genius may be perfectly free from any such thought.” And then the judge made it understood that if he were left to himself he would dress for dinner.
When the ladies left the parlour that evening they found Graham in the drawing-room, but there was no longer any necessity for embarrassment on Madeline’s part at meeting him. They had been in the room together on three or four occasions, and therefore she could give him her hand, and ask after his arm without feeling that everyone was watching her. But she hardly spoke to him beyond this, nor indeed did she speak much to anybody. The conversation, till the gentlemen joined them, was chiefly kept up by Sophia Furnival and Mrs. Arbuthnot, and even after that the evening did not pass very briskly.
One little scene there was, during which poor Lady Staveley’s eyes were anxiously fixed upon her son, though most of those in the room supposed that she was sleeping. Miss Furnival was to return to London on the following day, and it therefore behoved Augustus to be very sad. In truth he had been rather given to a melancholy humour during the last day or two. Had Miss Furnival accepted all his civil speeches, making him answers equally civil, the matter might very probably have passed by without giving special trouble to anyone. But she had not done this, and therefore Augustus Staveley had fancied himself to be really in love with her. What the lady’s intentions were I will not pretend to say; but if she was in truth desirous of becoming Mrs. Staveley, she certainly went about her business in a discreet and wise manner.
“So you leave us tomorrow, immediately after breakfast,” said he, having dressed his face with that romantic sobriety which he had been practising for the last three days.
“I am sorry to say that such is the fact,” said Sophia.
“To tell you the truth I am not sorry,” said Augustus; and he turned away his face for a moment, giving a long sigh.
“I dare say not, Mr. Staveley; but you need not have said so to me,” said Sophia, pretending to take him literally at his word.
“Because I cannot stand this kind of thing any longer. I suppose I must not see you in the morning—alone?”
“Well, I suppose not. If I can get down to prayers after having all my things packed up, it will be as much as I can do.”
“And if I begged for half an hour as a last kindness—”
“I certainly should not grant it. Go and ask your mother whether such a request would be reasonable.”
“Psha!”
“Ah, but it’s not psha! Half-hours between young ladies and young gentlemen before breakfast are very serious things.”
“And I mean to be serious,” said Augustus.
“But I don’t,” said Sophia.
“I am to understand then that under no possible circumstances—”
“Bless me, Mr. Staveley, how solemn you are.”
“There are occasions in a man’s life when he is bound to be solemn.
