Orley Farm

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 someone 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 lamppost 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 lamppost.

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 lamppost 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 shan’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 collarbone, 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