The dinner was very pleasant, but the judge talked for the whole party. Madeline hardly spoke at all, nor did Lady Staveley say much. Felix managed to put in a few words occasionally, as it always becomes a good listener to do, but the brunt of the battle lay with the host. One thing Felix observed painfully—that not a word was spoken about Lady Mason or Orley Farm. When he had been last there the judge had spoken of it openly before the whole party, expressing his opinion that she was a woman much injured; but now neither did he say anything nor did Lady Staveley. He would probably not have observed this had not a feeling crept upon him during the last fortnight, that that thorough conviction which men had felt as to her innocence was giving way. While the ladies were there, however, he did not himself allude to the subject.
When they had left the room and the door had been closed behind them, the judge began the campaign—began it, and as far as he was concerned, ended it in a very few minutes. “Graham,” said he, “I am glad to see you.”
“Thank you, judge,” said he.
“Of course you know, and I know, what that amounts to now. My idea is that you acted as an honest man when you were last here. You are not a rich man—”
“Anything but that.”
“And therefore I do not think it would have been well had you endeavoured to gain my daughter’s affections without speaking to me—or to her mother.” Judge Staveley always spoke of his wife as though she were an absolute part of himself. “She and I have discussed the matter now—and you are at liberty to address yourself to Madeline if you please.”
“My dear judge—”
“Of course you understand that I am not answering for her?”
“Oh, of course not.”
“That’s your look out. You must fight your own battle there. What you are allowed to understand is this—that her father and mother will give their consent to an engagement, if she finds that she can bring herself to give hers. If you are minded to ask her, you may do so.”
“Of course I shall ask her.”
“She will have five thousand pounds on her marriage, settled upon herself and her children—and as much more when I die, settled in the same way. Now fill your glass.” And in his own easy way he turned the subject round and began to talk about the late congress at Birmingham.
Felix felt that it was not open to him at the present moment to say anything further about Madeline; and though he was disappointed at this—for he would have wished to go on talking about her all the evening—perhaps it was better for him. The judge would have said nothing further to encourage him, and he would have gradually been taught to think that his chance with Madeline was little, and then less. “He must have been a fool,” my readers will say, “not to have known that Madeline was now his own.” Probably. But then modest-minded young men are fools.
At last he contrived to bring the conversation round from the Birmingham congress to the affairs of his new client; and indeed he contrived to do so in spite of the judge, who was not particularly anxious to speak on the subject. “After all that we said and did at Birmingham, it is odd that I should so soon find myself joined with Mr. Furnival.”
“Not at all odd. Of course you must take up your profession as others have taken it up before you. Very many young men dream of a Themis fit for Utopia. You have slept somewhat longer than others, and your dreams have been more vivid.”
“And now I wake to find myself leagued with the Empson and Dudley of our latter-day law courts.”
“Fie, Graham, fie. Do not allow yourself to speak in that tone of men whom you know to be zealous advocates, and whom you do not know to be dishonest opponents.”
“It is they and such as they that make so many in these days feel the need of some Utopia—as it was in the old days of our history. But I beg your pardon for nicknaming them, and certainly ought not to have done so in your presence.”
“Well; if you repent yourself, and will be more charitable for the future, I will not tell of you.”
“I have never yet even seen Mr. Chaffanbrass in court,” said Felix, after a pause.
“The more shame for you, never to have gone to the court in which he practises. A barrister intending to succeed at the common law bar cannot have too wide an experience in such matters.”
“But then I fear that I am a barrister not intending to succeed.”
“I am very sorry to hear it,” said the judge. And then again the conversation flagged for a minute or two.
“Have you ever seen him at a country assize town before, judge?” asked Felix.
“Whom? Chaffanbrass? I do not remember that I have.”
“His coming down in this way is quite unusual, I take it.”
“Rather so, I should say. The Old Bailey is his own ground.”
“And why should they think it necessary in such a case as this to have recourse to such a proceeding?”
“It would be for me to ask you that, seeing that you are one of the counsel.”
“Do you mean to say, judge, that between you and me you are unwilling to give an opinion on such a subject?”
“Well; you press me hard, and I think I may
