Part 64 (1/2)

”Then we had better not speak of her.”

”Listen to me a moment. In order that I may not do so, it will be better for me--better for us all, that I should leave the house.”

”Do you mean to say--?”

”Yes, I do mean to say! I mean to say all that your mind is now suggesting to you. I quite understand your feelings when you declare that a man does not like to talk of his own sister, and therefore we will talk of your sister no more. Old fellow, don't look at me as though you meant to drop me.”

Augustus came back to the bedside, and again seating himself, put his hand almost caressingly over his friend's shoulder. ”I did not think of this,” he said.

”No; one never does think of it,” Graham replied.

”And she?”

”She knows no more of it than that bed-post,” said Graham. ”The injury, such as there is, is all on one side. But I'll tell you who suspects it.”

”Baker?”

”Your mother. I am much mistaken if you will not find that she, with all her hospitality, would prefer that I should recover my strength elsewhere.”

”But you have done nothing to betray yourself.”

”A mother's ears are very sharp. I know that it is so. I cannot explain to you how. Do you tell her that I think of getting up to London to-morrow, and see how she will take it. And, Staveley, do not for a moment suppose that I am reproaching her. She is quite right.

I believe that I have in no way committed myself--that I have said no word to your sister with which Lady Staveley has a right to feel herself aggrieved; but if she has had the wit to read the thoughts of my bosom, she is quite right to wish that I were out of the house.”

Poor Lady Staveley had been possessed of no such wit at all. The sphynx which she had read had been one much more in her own line. She had simply read the thoughts in her daughter's bosom--or rather, the feelings in her daughter's heart.

Augustus Staveley hardly knew what he ought to say. He was not prepared to tell his friend that he was the very brother-in-law for whose connection he would be desirous. Such a marriage for Madeline, even should Madeline desire it, would not be advantageous. When Augustus told Graham that he had gifts of nature which made him equal to any lady, he did not include his own sister. And yet the idea of acquiescing in his friend's sudden departure was very painful to him.

”There can be no reason why you should not stay up here, you know,”

at last he said;--and in so saying he p.r.o.nounced an absolute verdict against poor Felix.

On few matters of moment to a man's own heart can he speak out plainly the whole truth that is in him. Graham had intended so to do, but had deceived himself. He had not absolutely hoped that his friend would say, ”Come among us, and be one of us; take her, and be my brother.” But yet there came upon his heart a black load of disappointment, in that the words which were said were the exact opposite of these. Graham had spoken of himself as unfit to match with Madeline Staveley, and Madeline Staveley's brother had taken him at his word. The question which Augustus asked himself was this--Was it, or was it not practicable that Graham should remain there without danger of intercourse with his sister? To Felix the question came in a very different shape. After having spoken as he had spoken--might he be allowed to remain there, enjoying such intercourse, or might he not? That was the question to which he had unconsciously demanded an answer;--and unconsciously he had still hoped that the question might be answered in his favour. He had so hoped, although he was burdened with Mary Snow, and although he had spoken of his engagement with that lady in so rigid a spirit of self-martyrdom. But the question had been answered against him. The offer of a further asylum in the seclusion of that bedroom had been made to him by his friend with a sort of proviso that it would not be well that he should go further than the bedroom, and his inner feelings at once grated against each other, making him wretched and almost angry.

”Thank you, no; I understand how kind you are, but I will not do that. I will write up to-night, and shall certainly start to-morrow.”

”My dear fellow--”

”I should get into a fever, if I were to remain in this house after what I have told you. I could not endure to see you, or your mother, or Baker, or Marian, or any one else. Don't talk about it. Indeed, you ought to feel that it is not possible. I have made a confounded a.s.s of myself, and the sooner I get away the better. I say--perhaps you would not be angry if I was to ask you to let me sleep for an hour or so now. After that I'll get up and write my letters.”

He was very sore. He knew that he was sick at heart, and ill at ease, and cross with his friend; and knew also that he was unreasonable in being so. Staveley's words and manner had been full of kindness.

Graham was aware of this, and was therefore the more irritated with himself. But this did not prevent his being angry and cross with his friend.

”Graham,” said the other, ”I see clearly enough that I have annoyed you.”

”Not in the least. A man falls into the mud, and then calls to another man to come and see him. The man in the mud of course is not comfortable.”

”But you have called to me, and I have not been able to help you.”

”I did not suppose you would, so there has been no disappointment.

Indeed, there was no possibility for help. I shall follow out the line of life which I have long since chalked out for myself, and I do not expect that I shall be more wretched than other poor devils around me. As far as my idea goes, it all makes very little difference. Now leave me; there's a good fellow.”