“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
