How it came to pass that the young barrister first took upon himself the charge of maintaining and educating this poor child need not now be told. His motives had been thoroughly good, and in the matter he had endeavoured to act the part of a kind Samaritan. He had found her pretty, half starved, dirty, ignorant, and modest; and so finding her had made himself responsible for feeding, cleaning, and teaching her—and ultimately for marrying her. One would have said that in undertaking a task of such undoubted charity as that comprised in the three first charges, he would have encountered no difficulty from the drunken, dissolute, impoverished engraver. But the man from the beginning was cunning; and before Graham had succeeded in obtaining the custody of the child, the father had obtained a written undertaking from him that he would marry her at a certain age if her conduct up to that age had been becoming. As to this latter stipulation no doubt had arisen; and indeed Graham had so acted by her that had she fallen away the fault would have been all her own. There wanted now but one year to the coming of that day on which he was bound to make himself a happy man, and hitherto he himself had never doubted as to the accomplishment of his undertaking.
He had told his friends—those with whom he was really intimate, Augustus Staveley and one or two others—what was to be his matrimonial lot in life; and they had ridiculed him for his quixotic chivalry. Staveley especially had been strong in his conviction that no such marriage would ever take place, and had already gone so far as to plan another match for his friend.
“You know you do not love her,” he had said, since Felix had been staying on this occasion at Noningsby.
“I know no such thing,” Felix had answered, almost in anger. “On the contrary I know that I do love her.”
“Yes, as I love my niece Marian, or old Aunt Bessy, who always supplied me with sugar-candy when I was a boy.”
“It is I that have supplied Mary with her sugar-candy, and the love thus engendered is the stronger.”
“Nevertheless you are not in love with her, and never will be, and if you marry her you will commit a great sin.”
“How moral you have grown!”
“No, I’m not. I’m not a bit moral. But I know very well when a man is in love with a girl, and I know very well that you’re not in love with Mary Snow. And I tell you what, my friend, if you do marry her you are done for life. There will absolutely be an end of you.”
“You mean to say that your royal highness will drop me.”
“I mean to say nothing about myself. My dropping you or not dropping you won’t alter your lot in life. I know very well what a poor man wants to give him a start; and a fellow like you who has such quaint ideas on so many things requires all the assistance he can get. You should look out for money and connection.”
“Sophia Furnival, for instance.”
“No; she would not suit you. I perceive that now.”
“So I supposed. Well, my dear fellow, we shall not come to loggerheads about that. She is a very fine girl, and you are welcome to the hatful of money—if you can get it.”
“That’s nonsense. I’m not thinking of Sophia Furnival any more than you are. But if I did it would be a proper marriage. Now—” And then he went on with some further very sage remarks about Miss Snow.
All this was said as Felix Graham was lying with his broken bones in the comfortable room at Noningsby; and to tell the truth, when it was so said his heart was not quite at ease about Mary Snow. Up to this time, having long since made up his mind that Mary should be his wife, he had never allowed his thoughts to be diverted from that purpose. Nor did he so allow them now—as long as he could prevent them from wandering.
But, lying there at Noningsby, thinking of those sweet Christmas evenings, how was it possible that they should not wander? His friend had told him that he did not love Mary Snow; and then, when alone, he asked himself whether in truth he did love her. He had pledged himself to marry her, and he must carry out that pledge. But nevertheless did he love her? And if not her, did he love any other?
Mary Snow knew very well what was to be her destiny, and indeed had known it for the last two years. She was now nineteen years old—and Madeline Staveley was also nineteen; she was nineteen, and at twenty she was to become a wife, as by agreement between Felix Graham and Mr. Snow, the drunken engraver. They knew their destiny—the future husband and the future wife—and each relied with perfect faith on the good faith and affection of the other.
Graham, while he was thus being lectured by Staveley, had under his pillow a letter from Mary. He wrote to her regularly—on every Sunday, and on every Tuesday she answered him. Nothing could
