“Hear, hear, hear!” said his father.
“Augustus is coming out in a new character,” said his mother.
“I am heartily obliged to him,” said the baron. “But, as I was saying before, these sort of things never came in my way. If I remember right, my father would have thought I was mad had I talked of going out hunting. Did you hunt, Staveley?”
When the ladies were gone the four lawyers talked about law, though they kept quite clear of that special trial which was going on at Alston. Judge Staveley, as we know, had been at the Birmingham congress; but not so his brother the baron. Baron Maltby, indeed, thought but little of the Birmingham doings, and was inclined to be a little hard upon his brother in that he had taken a part in it.
“I think that the matter is one open to discussion,” said the host.
“Well, I hope so,” said Graham. “At any rate I have heard no arguments which ought to make us feel that our mouths are closed.”
“Arguments on such a matter are worth nothing at all,” said the baron. “A man with what is called a logical turn of mind may prove anything or disprove anything; but he never convinces anybody. On any matter that is near to a man’s heart, he is convinced by the tenor of his own thoughts as he goes on living, not by the arguments of a logician, or even by the eloquence of an orator. Talkers are apt to think that if their listener cannot answer them they are bound to give way; but non-talkers generally take a very different view of the subject.”
“But does that go to show that a question should not be ventilated?” asked Felix.
“I don’t mean to be uncivil,” said the baron, “but of all words in the language there is none which I dislike so much as that word ventilation. A man given to ventilating subjects is worse than a man who has a mission.”
“Bores of that sort, however,” said Graham, “will show themselves from time to time and are not easily put down. Someone will have a mission to reform our courts of law, and will do it too.”
“I only hope it may not be in my time,” said the baron.
“I can’t go quite so far as that,” said the other judge. “But no doubt we all have the same feeling more or less. I know pretty well what my friend Graham is driving at.”
“And in your heart you agree with me,” said Graham.
“If you would carry men’s heads with you they would do you more good than their hearts,” said the judge. And then as the wine bottles were stationary, the subject was cut short and they went into the drawing-room.
Graham had no opportunity that evening of telling his tale to Madeline Staveley. The party was too large for such tale-telling or else not large enough. And then the evening in the drawing-room was over before it had seemed to begin; and while he was yet hoping that there might be some turn in his favour, Lady Staveley wished him good night, and Madeline of course did the same. As he again pressed her hand he could not but think how little he had said to her since he had been in the house, and yet it seemed to him as though that little had made him more intimate with her than he had ever found himself before. He had made an attempt to separate himself from the company by proposing to go and call on Mrs. Baker in her own quarters; but Madeline had declared it to be too late for such an expedition, explaining that when Mrs. Baker had no patient on hand she was accustomed to go early to her bed. In the present instance, however, she had been wrong, for when Felix reached the door of his own room, Mrs. Baker was coming out of it.
“I was just looking if everything was right,” said she. “It seems natural to me to come and look after you, you know.”
“And it is quite as natural to me to be looked after.”
“Is it though? But the worst of you gentlemen when you get well is that one has done with you. You go away, and then there’s no more about it. I always begrudge to see you get well for that reason.”
“When you have a man in your power you like to keep him there.”
“That’s always the way with the women you know. I hope we shall see one of them tying you by the leg altogether before long.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Felix, sheepishly.
“Don’t you? Well, if you don’t I suppose nobody don’t. But nevertheless I did hear a little bird say—eh! Mr. Graham.”
“Those little birds are the biggest liars in the world.”
“Are they now? Well perhaps they are. And how do you think our Miss Madeline is looking? She wasn’t just well for one short time after you went away.”
“Has she been ill?”
“Well, not ill; not so that she came into my hands. She’s looking herself again now, isn’t she?”
“She is looking, as she always does, uncommonly well.”
“Do you remember how she used to come and say a word to you standing at the door? Dear heart! I’ll be bound now I care more for her than you do.”
“Do you?” said Graham.
“Of course I do. And then how angry her ladyship was with me—as though it were my fault. I didn’t do it. Did I, Mr. Graham? But, Lord love you, what’s the use of being angry? My lady ought to have remembered her own young days, for it was just the same thing with her. She had her own way, and so will Miss Madeline.” And then with some further inquiries as to his fire, his towels, and his sheets, Mrs. Baker took herself off.
Felix Graham had felt a repugnance to taking the gossiping old woman openly
