As they were thus walking near the house on the afternoon of the third or fourth day after the trial, one of the maids came to them and told Madeline that a gentleman was in the house who wished to see her.
“A gentleman!” said Madeline.
“Mr. Orme, miss. My lady told me to ask you up if you were anywhere near.”
“I suppose I must go,” said Madeline, from whom all her pretty freedom of manner and light happiness of face departed on the moment. She had told Felix everything as to poor Peregrine in return for that story of his respecting Mary Snow. To her it seemed as though that had made things equal between them—for she was too generous to observe that though she had given nothing to her other lover, Felix had been engaged for many months to marry his other love. But girls, I think, have no objection to this. They do not desire first fruits, or even early fruits, as men do. Indeed, I am not sure whether experience on the part of a gentleman in his use of his heart is not supposed by most young ladies to enhance the value of the article. Madeline was not in the least jealous of Mary Snow; but with great good nature promised to look after her, and patronise her when she should have become Mrs. Albert Fitzallen. “But I don’t think I should like that Mrs. Thomas,” she said.
“You would have mended the stockings for her all the same.”
“O yes, I would have done that;—and so did Miss Snow. But I would have kept my box locked. She should never have seen my letters.”
It was now absolutely necessary that she should return to the house, and say to Peregrine Orme what words of comfort might be possible for her. If she could have spoken simply with her heart, she would have said much that was friendly, even though it might not be comfortable. But it was necessary that she should express herself in words, and she felt that the task was very difficult. “Will you come in?” she said to Felix.
“No, I think not. But he’s a splendid fellow, and to me was a stanch friend. If I can catch him as he comes out I will speak to him.” And then Madeline, with hesitating steps, with her hat still on her head, and her gloves on her hands, walked through the hall into the drawing-room. There she found her mother seated on the sofa, and Peregrine Orme standing before her. Madeline walked up to him with extended hand and a kindly welcome, though she felt that the colour was high in her cheeks. Of course it would be impossible to come out from such an interview as this without having confessed her position, or hearing it confessed by her mother in her presence. That, however, had been already done, and Peregrine knew that the prize was gone.
“How do you do, Miss Staveley?” said he. “As I am going to leave The Cleeve for a long time, I have come over to say goodbye to Lady Staveley—and to you.”
“Are you going away, Mr. Orme?”
“Yes, I shall go abroad—to Central Africa, I think. It seems a wild sort of place with plenty of animals to kill.”
“But isn’t it very dangerous?”
“No, I don’t think so. The people always come back alive. I’ve a sort of idea that nothing will kill me. At any rate I couldn’t stay here.”
“Madeline, dear, I’ve told Mr. Orme that you have accepted Mr. Graham. With a friend such as he is I know that you will not be anxious to keep this a secret.”
“No, mamma.”
“I was sure of that; and now that your papa has consented to it, and that it is quite fixed, I am sure that it is better that he should know it. We shall always look upon him as a very dear friend—if he will allow us.”
Then it was necessary that Peregrine should speak, which he did as follows, holding Madeline’s hand for the first three or four seconds of the time:—“Miss Staveley, I will say this of myself, that if ever a fellow loved a girl truly, I loved you;—and I do so now as well or better than ever. It is no good my pretending to be contented, and all that sort of thing. I am not contented, but very unhappy. I have never wished for but one thing in my life; and for that I would have given all that I have in the world. I know that I cannot have it, and that I am not fit to have it.”
“Oh, Mr. Orme, it is not that.”
“But it is that. I knew you before Graham did, and loved you quite as soon. I believe—though of course I don’t mean to ask any questions—but I believe I told you so before he ever did.”
“Marriages, they say, are planned in heaven,” said Lady Staveley.
“Perhaps they are. I only wish this one had not been planned there. I cannot help it—I cannot express my satisfaction, though I will heartily wish for your happiness. I knew from the first how it would be, and was always sure that I was a fool to love you. I should have gone away when I first thought of it, for I used to feel that you never cared to speak to me.”
“Oh, indeed I did,” said poor Madeline.
“No, you did not. And why should you when I had nothing to say for myself? I ought to have fallen in love with some foolish chit with as little wit about her as I have myself.”
“I hope you will fall in love with some very nice girl,” said Lady Staveley; “and that we shall know her and love her very much.”
“Oh, I dare say I shall marry some day. I feel now as though I
