“I shall not go till you send me,” he said, putting up his hand as though to protect his coat, and just touching her fingers as he did so.
“Mamma says it will be stupid for you in the mornings, but it will not be worse for you than for Augustus. He stays till after Easter.”
“And I shall stay till after Whitsuntide unless I am turned out.”
“Oh! but you will be turned out. I am not going to make myself answerable for any improper amount of idleness. Papa says you have got all the law courts to reform.”
“There must be a double Hercules for such a set of stables as that,” said Felix; and then with the slight ceremony to which I have before adverted he took his leave for the day.
“I suppose there will be no use in delaying it,” said Lady Staveley on the same morning as she and her daughter sat together in the drawing-room. They had already been talking over the new engagement by the hour, together; but that is a subject on which mothers with marriageable daughters never grow tired, as all mothers and marriageable daughters know full well.
“Oh! mamma, I think it must be delayed.”
“But why, my love? Mr. Graham has not said so?”
“You must call him Felix, mamma. I’m sure it’s a nice name.”
“Very well, my dear, I will.”
“No; he has said nothing yet. But of course he means to wait till—till it will be prudent.”
“Men never care for prudence of that kind when they are really in love;—and I’m sure he is.”
“Is he, mamma?”
“He will marry on anything or nothing. And if you speak to him he tells you of how the young ravens were fed. But he always forgets that he’s not a young raven himself.”
“Now you’re only joking, mamma.”
“Indeed I’m quite in earnest. But I think your papa means to make up an income for you—only you must not expect to be rich.”
“I do not want to be rich. I never did.”
“I suppose you will live in London, and then you can come down here when the courts are up. I do hope he won’t ever want to take a situation in the colonies.”
“Who, Felix? Why should he go to the colonies?”
“They always do—the clever young barristers who marry before they have made their way. That would be very dreadful. I really think it would kill me.”
“Oh! mamma, he shan’t go to any colony.”
“To be sure there are the county courts now, and they are better. I suppose you wouldn’t like to live at Leeds or Merthyr-Tydvil?”
“Of course I shall live wherever he goes; but I don’t know why you should send him to Merthyr-Tydvil.”
“Those are the sort of places they do go to. There is young Mrs. Bright Newdegate—she had to go to South Shields, and her babies are all dreadfully delicate. She lost two, you know. I do think the Lord Chancellor ought to think about that. Reigate, or Maidstone, or anywhere about Great Marlow would not be so bad.” And in this way they discussed the coming event and the happy future, while Felix himself was listening to the judge’s charge and thinking of his client’s guilt.
Then there were two or three days passed at Noningsby of almost unalloyed sweetness. It seemed that they had all agreed that Prudence should go by the board, and that Love with sweet promises, and hopes bright as young trees in spring, should have it all her own way. Judge Staveley was a man who on such an occasion—knowing with whom he had to deal—could allow ordinary prudence to go by the board. There are men, and excellent men too, from whose minds the cares of life never banish themselves, who never seem to remember that provision is made for the young ravens. They toil and spin always, thinking sternly of the worst and rarely hoping for the best. They are ever making provision for rainy days, as though there were to be no more sunshine. So anxious are they for their children that they take no pleasure in them, and their fear is constant that the earth will cease to produce her fruits. Of such was not the judge. “Dulce est desipere in locis,” he would say, “and let the opportunities be frequent and the occasions many.” Such a lovemaking opportunity as this surely should be one.
So Graham wandered about through the dry March winds with his future bride by his side, and never knew that the blasts came from the pernicious east. And she would lean on his arm as though he had been the friend of her earliest years, listening to and trusting him in all things. That little finger, as they stood together, would get up to his buttonhole, and her bright frank eyes would settle themselves on his, and then her hand would press closely upon his arm, and he knew that she was neither ashamed nor afraid of her love. Her love to her was the same as her religion. When it was once acknowledged by her to be a thing good and trustworthy, all the world might know it. Was it not a glory to her that he had chosen her, and why should she conceal her glory? Had it been that some richer, greater man had won her love—someone whose titles were known and high place in the world approved—it may well be that then she would have been less free with him.
“Papa would like it best if you would give up your writing, and think of nothing but the law,” she said to him. In answer to which he told her, with many compliments to the special fox in question, that story of the fox who had lost his tail and thought it well that other foxes should dress themselves as he was dressed.
“At any rate papa looks very well without his tail,” said Madeline with somewhat of a
