TELLING ALL THAT HAPPENED BENEATH THE LAMP-POST.
When Felix Graham left Noningsby and made his way up to London, he
came at least to one resolution which he intended to be an abiding
one. That idea of a marriage with a moulded wife should at any rate
be abandoned. Whether it might be his great destiny to be the husband
of Madeline Staveley, or whether he might fail in achieving this
purpose, he declared to himself that it would be impossible that he
should ever now become the husband of Mary Snow. And the ease with
which his conscience settled itself on this matter as soon as he had
received from the judge that gleam of hope astonished even himself.
He immediately declared to himself that he could not marry Mary Snow
without perjury! How could he stand with her before the altar and
swear that he would love her, seeing that he did not love her at
all,--seeing that he altogether loved some one else? He acknowledged
that he had made an ass of himself in this affair of Mary Snow. This
moulding of a wife had failed with him, he said, as it always must
fail with every man. But he would not carry his folly further.
He would go to Mary Snow, tell her the truth, and then bear
whatever injury her angry father might be able to inflict on him.
Independently of that angry father he would of course do for Mary
Snow all that his circumstances would admit.
Perhaps the gentleman of a poetic turn of mind whom Mary had
consented to meet beneath the lamp-post might assist him in his
views; but whether this might be so or not, he would not throw that
meeting ungenerously in her teeth. He would not have allowed that
offence to turn him from his proposed marriage had there been nothing
else to turn him, and therefore he would not plead that offence as
the excuse for his broken troth. That the breaking of that troth
would not deeply wound poor Mary's heart--so much he did permit
himself to believe on the evidence of that lamp-post.
He had written to Mrs. Thomas telling her when he would be at
Peckham, but in his letter he had not said a word as to those
terrible tidings which she had communicated to him. He had written
also to Mary, assuring her that he accused her of no injury against
him, and almost promising her forgiveness; but this letter Mary had
not shown to Mrs. Thomas. In these days Mary's anger against Mrs.
Thomas was very strong. That Mrs. Thomas should have used all her
vigilance to detect such goings on as those of the lamp-post was
only natural. What woman in Mrs. Thomas's position,--or in any other
position,--would not have done so? Mary Snow knew that had she
herself been the duenna she would have left no corner of a box
unturned but she would have found those letters. And having found
them she would have used her power over the poor girl. She knew
that. But she would not have betrayed her to the man. Truth between
woman and woman should have prevented that. Were not the stockings
which she had darned for Mrs. Thomas legion in number? Had she not
consented to eat the veriest scraps of food in order that those three
brats might be fed into sleekness to satisfy their mother's eyes? Had
she not reported well of Mrs. Thomas to her lord, though that house
of Peckham was nauseous to her? Had she ever told to Mr. Graham any
one of those little tricks which were carried on to allure him into a
belief that things at Peckham were prosperous? Had she ever exposed
the borrowing of those teacups when he came, and the fact that those
knobs of white sugar were kept expressly on his behoof? No; she would
have scorned to betray any woman; and that woman whom she had not
betrayed should have shown the same feeling towards her. Therefore
there was enmity at Peckham, and the stockings of those infants lay
unmended in the basket.
"Mary, I have done it all for the best," said Mrs. Thomas, driven to
defend herself by the obdurate silence of her pupil.
"No, Mrs. Thomas, you didn't. You did it for the worst," said Mary.
And then there was again silence between them.
It was on the morning following this that Felix Graham was driven
to the door in a cab. He still carried his arm in a sling, and was
obliged to be somewhat slow in his movements, but otherwise he was
again well. His accident however was so far a godsend to both the
women at Peckham that it gave them a subject on which they were
called upon to speak, before that other subject was introduced. Mary
was very tender in her inquiries,--but tender in a bashful retiring
way. To look at her one would have said that she was afraid to touch
the wounded man lest he should be again broken.
"Oh, I'm all right," said he, trying to assume a look of good-humour.
"I sha'n't go hunting again in a hurry; you may be sure of that."
"We have all great reason to be thankful that Providence interposed
to save you," said Mrs. Thomas, in her most serious tone. Had
Providence interposed to break Mrs. Thomas's collar-bone, or at least
to do her some serious outward injury, what a comfort it would be,
thought Mary Snow.
"Have you seen your father lately?" asked Graham.
"Not since I wrote to you about the money that he--borrowed," said
Mary.
"I told her that she should not have given it to him," said Mrs.
Thomas.
"She was quite right," said Graham. "Who could refuse assistance to
a father in distress?" Whereupon Mary put her handkerchief up to her
eyes and began to cry.
"That's true of course," said Mrs. Thomas; "but it would never do
that he should be a drain in that way. He should feel that if he had
any feeling."
"So he has," said Mary. "And you are driven close enough yourself
sometimes, Mrs. Thomas. There's days when you'd like to borrow
nineteen and sixpence if anybody would lend it you."
"Very well," said Mrs. Thomas, crossing her hands over each other in
her lap and assuming a look of resignation; "I suppose all this will
be changed now. I have endeavoured to do my duty, and very hard it
has been."
Felix felt that the sooner he rushed into the middle of the subject
which brought him there, the better it would be for all parties. That
the two ladies were not very happy together was evident, and then he
made a little comparison between Madeline and Mary. Was it really
the case that for the last three years he had contemplated making
that poor child his wife? Would it not be better for him to tie a
millstone round his neck and cast himself into the sea? That was now
his thought respecting Mary Snow.
"Mrs. Thomas," he said, "I should like to speak to Mary alone for a
few minutes if you could allow it."
"Oh certainly; by all means. It will be quite proper." And gathering
up a bundle of the unfortunate stockings she took herself out of the
room.
Mary, as soon as Graham had spoken, became almost pale, and sat
perfectly still with her eyes fixed on her betrothed husband. While
Mrs. Thomas was there she was prepared for war and her spirit was hot
within her, but all that heat fled in a moment when she found herself
alone with the man to whom it belonged to speak her doom. He had
almost said that he would forgive her, but yet she had a feeling that
that had been done which could not altogether be forgiven. If he
asked her whether she loved the hero of the lamp-post what would she
say? Had he asked her whether she loved him, Felix Graham, she would
have sworn that she did, and have thought that she was swearing
truly; but in answer to that other question if it were asked, she
felt that her answer must be false. She had no idea of giving up
Felix of her own accord, if he were still willing to take her. She
did not even wish that he would not take her. It had been the lesson
of her life that she was to be his wife, and, by becoming so, provide
for herself and for her wretched father. Nevertheless a dream of
something different from that had come across her young heart, and
the dream had been so pleasant! How painfully, but yet with what a
rapture, had her heart palpitated as she stood for those ten wicked
minutes beneath the lamp-post!
"Mary," said Felix, as soon as they were alone,--and as he spoke he
came up to her and took her hand, "I trust that I may never be the
cause to you of any unhappiness;--that I may never be the means of
making you sad."
"Oh, Mr. Graham, I am sure that you never will. It is I that have
been bad to you."
"No, Mary, I do not think you have been bad at all. I should have
been sorry that that had happened, and that I should not have known
it."
"I suppose she was right to tell, only--" In truth Mary did not at
all understand what might be the nature of Graham's thoughts and
feelings on such a subject. She had a strong woman's idea that the
man whom she ought to love would not be gratified by her meeting
another man at a private assignation, especially when that other man
had written to her a love-letter; but she did not at all know how far
such a sin might be regarded as pardonable according to the rules of
the world recognised on such subjects. At first, when the letters
were discovered and the copies of them sent off to Noningsby, she
thought that all was over. According to her ideas, as existing
at that moment, the crime was conceived to be one admitting of
no pardon; and in the hours spent under that conviction all her
consolation came from the feeling that there was still one who
regarded her as an angel of light. But then she had received Graham's
letter, and as she began to understand that pardon was possible, that
other consolation waxed feeble and dim. If Felix Graham chose to take
her, of course she was there for him to take. It never for a moment
occurred to her that she could rebel against such taking, even though
she did shine as an angel of light to one dear pair of eyes.
"I suppose she was right to tell you, only--"
"Do not think, Mary, that I am going to scold you, or even that I am
angry with you."
"Oh, but I know you must be angry."
"Indeed I am not. If I pledge myself to tell you the truth in
everything, will you be equally frank with me?"
"Yes," said Mary. But it was much easier for Felix to tell the truth
than for Mary to be frank. I believe that schoolmasters often tell
fibs to schoolboys, although it would be so easy for them to tell the
truth. But how difficult it is for the schoolboy always to tell the
truth to his master! Mary Snow was now as a schoolboy before her
tutor, and it may almost be said that the telling of the truth was
to her impossible. But of course she made the promise. Who ever said
that she would not tell the truth when so asked?
"Have you ever thought, Mary, that you and I would not make each
other happy if we were married?"
"No; I have never thought that," said Mary innocently. She meant to
say exactly that which she thought Graham would wish her to say, but
she was slow in following his lead.
"It has never occurred to you that though we might love each other
very warmly as friends--and so I am sure we always shall--yet we
might not suit each other in all respects as man and wife?"
"I mean to do the very best I can; that is, if--if--if you are not
too much offended with me now."
"But, Mary, it should not be a question of doing the best you can.
Between man and wife there should be no need of such effort. It
should be a labour of love."
"So it will;--and I'm sure I'll labour as hard as I can."
Felix began to perceive that the line he had taken would not answer
the required purpose, and that he must be somewhat more abrupt with
her,--perhaps a little less delicate, in coming to the desired point.
"Mary," he said, "what is the name of that gentleman whom--whom you
met out of doors you know?"
"Albert Fitzallen," said Mary, hesitating very much as she pronounced
the name, but nevertheless rather proud of the sound.
"And you are--fond of him?" asked Graham.
Poor girl! What was she to say? "No; I'm not very fond of him."
"Are you not? Then why did you consent to that secret meeting?"
"Oh, Mr. Graham--I didn't mean it; indeed I didn't. And I didn't tell
him to write to me, nor yet to come looking after me. Upon my word I
didn't. But then I thought when he sent me that letter that he didn't
know;--about you I mean; and so I thought I'd better tell him; and
that's why I went. Indeed that was the reason."
"Mrs. Thomas could have told him that."
"But I don't like Mrs. Thomas, and I wouldn't for worlds that she
should have had anything to do with it. I think Mrs. Thomas has
behaved very bad to me; so I do. And you don't half know her;--that
you don't."
"I will ask you one more question, Mary, and before answering it I
want to make you believe that my only object in asking it is to
ascertain how I may make you happy. When you did meet Mr.--this
gentleman--"
"Albert Fitzallen."
"When you did meet Mr. Fitzallen, did you tell him nothing else
except that you were engaged to me? Did you say nothing to him as to
your feelings towards himself?"
"I told him it was very wrong of him to write me that letter."
"And what more did you tell him?"
"Oh, Mr. Graham, I won't see him any more; indeed I won't. I give you
my most solemn promise. Indeed I won't. And I will never write a line
to him,--or look at him. And if he sends anything I'll send it to
you. Indeed I will. There was never anything of the kind before; upon
my word there wasn't. I did let him take my hand, but I didn't know
how to help it when I was there. And he kissed me--only once. There;
I've told it all now, as though you were looking at me. And I ain't a
bad girl, whatever she may say of me. Indeed I ain't." And then poor
Mary Snow burst out into an agony of tears.
Felix began to perceive that he had been too hard upon her. He had
wished that the first overtures of a separation should come from her,
and in wishing this he had been unreasonable. He walked for a while
about the room, and then going up to her he stood close by her and
took her hand. "Mary," he said, "I'm sure you're not a bad girl."
"No;" she said, "no, I ain't;" still sobbing convulsively. "I didn't
mean anything wrong, and I couldn't help it."
"I am sure you did not, and nobody has said you did."
"Yes, they have. She has said so. She said that I was a bad girl. She
told me so, up to my face."
"She was very wrong if she said so."
"She did then, and I couldn't bear it."
"I have not said so, and I don't think so. Indeed in all this matter
I believe that I have been more to blame than you."
"No;--I know I was wrong. I know I shouldn't have gone to see him."
"I won't even say as much as that, Mary. What you should have
done;--only the task would have been too hard for any young girl--was
to have told me openly that you--liked this young gentleman."
"But I don't want ever to see him again."
"Look here, Mary," he said. But now he had dropped her hand and taken
a chair opposite to her. He had begun to find that the task which he
had proposed to himself was not so easy even for him. "Look here,
Mary. I take it that you do like this young gentleman. Don't answer
me till I have finished what I am going to say. I suppose you do like
him,--and if so it would be very wicked in you to marry me."
"Oh, Mr. Graham--"
"Wait a moment, Mary. But there is nothing wicked in your liking
him." It may be presumed that Mr. Graham would hold such an opinion
as this, seeing that he had allowed himself the same latitude of
liking. "It was perhaps only natural that you should learn to do
so. You have been taught to regard me rather as a master than as a
lover."
"Oh, Mr. Graham, I'm sure I've loved you. I have indeed. And I will.
I won't even think of Al--"
"But I want you to think of him,--that is if he be worth thinking
of."
"He's a very good young man, and always lives with his mother."
"It shall be my business to find out that. And now Mary, tell me
truly. If he be a good young man, and if he loves you well enough to
marry you, would you not be happier as his wife than you would as
mine?"
There! The question that he wished to ask her had got itself asked at
last. But if the asking had been difficult, how much more difficult
must have been the answer! He had been thinking over all this for the
last fortnight, and had hardly known how to come to a resolution. Now
he put the matter before her without a moment's notice and expected
an instant decision. "Speak the truth, Mary;--what you think about
it;--without minding what anybody may say of you." But Mary could not
say anything, so she again burst into tears.
"Surely you know the state of your own heart, Mary?"
"I don't know," she answered.
"My only object is to secure your happiness;--the happiness of both
of us, that is."
"I'll do anything you please," said Mary.
"Well then, I'll tell you what I think. I fear that a marriage
between us would not make either of us contented with our lives. I'm
too old and too grave for you." Yet Mary Snow was not younger than
Madeline Staveley. "You have been told to love me; and you think that
you do love me because you wish to do what you think to be your duty.
But I believe that people can never really love each other merely
because they are told to do so. Of course I cannot say what sort of
a young man Mr. Fitzallen may be; but if I find that he is fit to
take care of you, and that he has means to support you,--with such
little help as I can give,--I shall be very happy to promote such an
arrangement."
Everybody will of course say that Felix Graham was base in not
telling her that all this arose, not from her love affair with Albert
Fitzallen, but from his own love affair with Madeline Staveley. But
I am inclined to think that everybody will be wrong. Had he told her
openly that he did not care for her, but did care for some one else,
he would have left her no alternative. As it was, he did not mean
that she should have any alternative. But he probably consulted her
feelings best in allowing her to think that she had a choice. And
then, though he owed much to her, he owed nothing to her father;
and had he openly declared his intention of breaking off the match
because he had attached himself to some one else, he would have put
himself terribly into her father's power. He was willing to submit to
such pecuniary burden in the matter as his conscience told him that
he ought to bear; but Mr. Snow's ideas on the subject of recompense
might be extravagant; and therefore,--as regarded Snow the
father,--he thought that he might make some slight and delicate use
of the meeting under the lamp-post. In doing so he would be very
careful to guard Mary from her father's anger. Indeed Mary would be
surrendered, out of his own care, not to that of her father, but to
the fostering love of the gentleman in the medical line of life.
"I'll do anything that you please," said Mary, upon whose mind and
heart all these changes had come with a suddenness which prevented
her from thinking,--much less speaking her thoughts.
"Perhaps you had better mention it to Mrs. Thomas."
"Oh, Mr. Graham, I'd rather not talk to her. I don't love her a bit."
"Well, I will not press it on you if you do not wish it. And have I
your permission to speak to Mr. Fitzallen;--and if he approves to
speak to his mother?"
"I'll do anything you think best, Mr. Graham," said poor Mary. She
was poor Mary; for though she had consented to meet a lover beneath
the lamp-post, she had not been without ambition, and had looked
forward to the glory of being wife to such a man as Felix Graham. She
did not however, for one moment, entertain any idea of resistance to
his will.
And then Felix left her, having of course an interview with Mrs.
Thomas before he quitted the house. To her, however, he said nothing.
"When anything is settled, Mrs. Thomas, I will let you know." The
words were so lacking in confidence that Mrs. Thomas when she heard
them knew that the verdict had gone against her.
Felix for many months had been accustomed to take leave of Mary Snow
with a kiss. But on this day he omitted to kiss her, and then Mary
knew that it was all over with her ambition. But love still remained
to her. "There is some one else who will be proud to kiss me," she
said to herself, as she stood alone in the room when he closed the
door behind him.