“I should be sorry to hate you,” said the judge, “and so I won’t.” When therefore Felix Graham escaped from the court at about half-past seven, the two young men were able to take their own time and eat their dinner together comfortably, enjoying their bottle of champagne between them perhaps more thoroughly than they would have done had the judge and Mrs. Staveley shared it with them.
But Felix had something of which to think besides the champagne—something which was of more consequence to him even than the trial in which he was engaged. Madeline had promised that she would meet him that evening;—or rather had not so promised. When asked to do so she had not refused, but even while not refusing had reminded him that her mother would be there. Her manner to him had, he thought, been cold, though she had not been ungracious. Upon the whole, he could not make up his mind to expect success. “Then he must have been a fool!” the reader learned in such matters will say. The reader learned in such matters is, I think, right. In that respect he was a fool.
“I suppose we must give the governor the benefit of our company over his wine,” said Augustus, as soon as their dinner was over.
“I suppose we ought to do so.”
“And why not? Is there any objection?”
“To tell the truth,” said Graham, “I have an appointment which I am very anxious to keep.”
“An appointment? Where? Here at Noningsby, do you mean?”
“In this house. But yet I cannot say that it is absolutely an appointment. I am going to ask your sister what my fate is to be.”
“And that is the appointment! Very well, my dear fellow; and may God prosper you. If you can convince the governor that it is all right, I shall make no objection. I wish, for Madeline’s sake, that you had not such a terrible bee in your bonnet.”
“And you will go to the judge alone?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll tell him—. What shall I tell him?”
“The truth, if you will. Goodbye, old fellow. You will not see me again tonight, nor yet tomorrow in this house, unless I am more fortunate than I have any right to hope to be.”
“Faint heart never won fair lady, you know,” said Augustus.
“My heart is faint enough then; but nevertheless I shall say what I have got to say.” And then he got up from the table.
“If you don’t come down to us,” said Augustus, “I shall come up to you. But may God speed you. And now I’ll go to the governor.”
Felix made his way from the small breakfast-parlour in which they had dined across the hall into the drawing-room, and there he found Lady Staveley alone. “So the trial is not over yet, Mr. Graham?” she said.
“No; there will be another day of it.”
“And what will be the verdict? Is it possible that she really forged the will?”
“Ah! that I cannot say. You know that I am one of her counsel, Lady Staveley?”
“Yes; I should have remembered that, and been more discreet. If you are looking for Madeline, Mr. Graham, I think that she is in the library.”
“Oh! thank you;—in the library.” And then Felix got himself out of the drawing-room into the hall again not in the most graceful manner. He might have gone direct from the drawing-room to the library, but this he did not remember. It was very odd, he thought, that Lady Staveley, of whose dislike to him he had felt sure, should have thus sent him direct to her daughter, and have become a party, as it were, to an appointment between them. But he had not much time to think of this before he found himself in the room. There, sure enough, was Madeline waiting to listen to his story. She was seated when he entered, with her back to him; but as she heard him she rose, and, after pausing for a moment, she stepped forward to meet him.
“You and Augustus were very late today,” she said.
“Yes. I was kept there, and he was good enough to wait for me.”
“You said you wanted to—speak to me,” she said, hesitating a little, but yet very little; “to speak to me alone; and so mamma said I had better come in here. I hope you are not vexed that I should have told her.”
“Certainly not, Miss Staveley.”
“Because I have no secrets from mamma.”
“Nor do I wish that anything should be secret. I hate all secrecies. Miss Staveley, your father knows of my intention.”
On this point Madeline did not feel it to be necessary to say anything. Of course her father knew of the intention. Had she not received her father’s sanction for listening to Mr. Graham she would not have been alone with him in the library. It might be that the time would come in which she would explain all this to her lover, but that time had not come yet. So when he spoke of her father she remained silent, and allowing her eyes to fall to the ground she stood before him, waiting to hear his question.
“Miss Staveley,” he said;—and he was conscious himself of being very awkward. Much more so, indeed, than there was any need, for Madeline was not aware that he was awkward. In her eyes he was quite master of the occasion, and seemed to have everything his own way. He had already done all that was difficult in the matter, and had done it without any awkwardness. He had already made himself master of her heart, and it was only necessary now that he should enter in and take possession. The ripe fruit had fallen, as Miss Furnival had once chosen to express it, and there he was to pick it up—if only he considered it worth his trouble to do so. That manner of the picking would not signify much, as Madeline thought. That he desired to
