“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 someone 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 someone 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 lamppost. 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 lamppost, 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 someone 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.
LV
What Took Place in Harley Street
“Tom, I’ve come back again,” said Mrs. Furnival, as soon as the dining-room door was closed behind her back.
“I’m very glad to see you; I am indeed,” said he, getting up and putting out his hand to her. “But I really never knew why you went away.”
“Oh yes, you know. I’m sure you know why I went. But—”
“I’ll be shot if I did then.”
“I went away because I did not like Lady Mason going to your chambers.”
“Psha!”
“Yes; I know I was wrong, Tom. That is I was wrong—about that.”
“Of course you were, Kitty.”
“Well; don’t I say I was? And I’ve come back again, and I beg your pardon;—that is about the lady.”
“Very well. Then there’s an end of it.”
“But Tom; you know I’ve been provoked. Haven’t I now? How often have you been home to dinner since you have been member of parliament for that place?”
“I shall be more at home now, Kitty.”
“Shall you indeed? Then I’ll not say another word to vex you. What on earth can I want, Tom, except just that you should sit at home with me sometimes on evenings, as you used to do always in the old days? And as for Martha Biggs—”
“Is she come back too?”
“Oh dear no. She’s in Red Lion Square. And I’m sure, Tom, I never had her here except when you wouldn’t dine at home. I wonder whether you know how lonely it is to sit down to dinner all by oneself!”
“Why; I do it every other day of my life. And I never think of sending for Martha Biggs; I promise you that.”
“She isn’t very nice, I know,” said Mrs. Furnival—“that is, for gentlemen.”
“I should say not,” said Mr. Furnival. Then the reconciliation had been effected, and Mrs. Furnival went upstairs to prepare for dinner, knowing that her husband would be present, and that Martha Biggs
