“Yes, he is clever enough,” repeated the judge, “clever enough; and of high principles and an honest purpose. The fault which people find with him is this—that he is not practical. He won’t take the world as he finds it. If he can mend it, well and good; we all ought to do something to mend it; but while we are mending it we must live in it.”
“Yes, we must live in it,” said Madeline, who hardly knew at the moment whether it would be better to live or die in it. Had her father remarked that they must all take wings and fly to heaven, she would have assented.
Then the judge walked on a few paces in silence, bethinking himself that he might as well speak out at once the words which he had to say. “Madeline, my darling,” said he, “have you the courage to tell me openly what you think of Felix Graham?”
“What I think of him, papa?”
“Yes, my child. It may be that you are in some difficulty at this moment, and that I can help you. It may be that your heart is sadder than it would be if you knew all my thoughts and wishes respecting you, and all your mother’s. I have never had many secrets from my children, Madeline, and I should be pleased now if you could see into my mind and know all my thoughts and wishes as they regard you.”
“Dear papa!”
“To see you happy—you and Augustus and Isabella—that is now our happiness; not to see you rich or great. High position and a plentiful income are great blessings in this world, so that they be achieved without a stain. But even in this world they are not the greatest blessings. There are things much sweeter than them.” As he said this, Madeline did not attempt to answer him, but she put her arm once more within his, and clung to his side.
“Money and rank are only good, if every step by which they are gained be good also. I should never blush to see my girl the wife of a poor man whom she loved; but I should be stricken to the core of my heart if I knew that she had become the wife of a rich man whom she did not love.”
“Papa!” she said, clinging to him. She had meant to assure him that that sorrow should never be his, but she could not get beyond the one word.
“If you love this man, let him come,” said the judge, carried by his feelings somewhat beyond the point to which he had intended to go. “I know no harm of him. I know nothing but good of him. If you are sure of your own heart, let it be so. He shall be to me as another son—to me and to your mother. Tell me, Madeline, shall it be so?”
She was sure enough of her own heart; but how was she to be sure of that other heart? “It shall be so,” said her father. But a man could not be turned into a lover and a husband because she and her father agreed to desire it;—not even if her mother would join in that wish. She had confessed to her mother that she loved this man, and the confession had been repeated to her father. But she had never expressed even a hope that she was loved in return. “But he has never spoken to me, papa,” she said, whispering the words ever so softly lest the winds should carry them.
“No; I know he has never spoken to you,” said the judge. “He told me so himself. I like him the better for that.”
So then there had been other communications made besides that which she had made to her mother. Mr. Graham had spoken to her father, and had spoken to him about her. In what way had he done this, and how had he spoken? What had been his object, and when had it been done? Had she been indiscreet, and allowed him to read her secret? And then a horrid thought came across her mind. Was he to come there and offer her his hand because he pitied and was sorry for her? The Friday fastings and the evening church and the sick visits would be better far than that. She could not however muster courage to ask her father any question as to that interview between him and Mr. Graham.
“Well, my love,” he said, “I know it is impertinent to ask a young lady to speak on such a subject; but fathers are impertinent. Be frank with me. I have told you what I think, and your mamma agrees with me. Young Mr. Orme would have been her favourite—”
“Oh, papa, that is impossible.”
“So I perceive, my dear, and therefore we will say no more about it. I only mention his name because I want you to understand that you may speak to your mamma quite openly on the subject. He is a fine young fellow, is Peregrine Orme.”
“I’m sure he is, papa.”
“But that is no reason you should marry him if you don’t like him.”
“I could never like him—in that way.”
“Very well, my dear. There is an end of that, and I’m sorry for him. I think that if I had been a young man at The Cleeve, I should have done just the same. And now let us decide this important question. When Master Graham’s ribs, arms, and collar bones are a little stronger, shall we ask him to come back to Noningsby?”
“If you please, papa.”
“Very well, we’ll have him here for the assize week. Poor fellow, he’ll have a hard job of work on hand just then, and won’t have much time for philandering. With Chaffanbrass to watch him on his own side, and Leatherham on the other, I don’t envy him his position. I almost think I should keep
