THE ANGEL OF LIGHT

In speaking of the character and antecedents of Felix Graham I have said that he was moulding a wife for himself.  The idea of a wife thus moulded to fit a man’s own grooves, and educated to suit matrimonial purposes according to the exact views of the future husband was by no means original with him.  Other men have moulded their wives, but I do not know that as a rule the practice has been found to answer.  It is open, in the first place, to this objection, ­that the moulder does not generally conceive such idea very early in life, and the idea when conceived must necessarily be carried out on a young subject.  Such a plan is the result of much deliberate thought, and has generally arisen from long observation, on the part of the thinker, of the unhappiness arising from marriages in which there has been no moulding.  Such a frame of mind comes upon a bachelor, perhaps about his thirty-fifth year, and then he goes to work with a girl of fourteen.  The operation takes some ten years, at the end of which the moulded bride regards her lord as an old man.  On the whole I think that the ordinary plan is the better, and even the safer.  Dance with a girl three times, and if you like the light of her eye and the tone of voice with which she, breathless, answers your little questions about horseflesh and music ­about affairs masculine and feminine, ­then take the leap in the dark.  There is danger, no doubt; but the moulded wife is, I think, more dangerous.

With Felix Graham the matter was somewhat different, seeing that he was not yet thirty, and that the lady destined to be the mistress of his family had already passed through three or four years of her noviciate.  He had begun to be prudent early in life; or had become prudent rather by force of sentiment than by force of thought.  Mary Snow was the name of his bride-elect; and it is probable that, had not circumstances thrown Mary Snow in his way, he would not have gone out of his way to seek a subject for his experiment.  Mary Snow was the daughter of an engraver, ­not of an artist who receives four or five thousand pounds for engraving the chef-d’oeuvre of a modern painter, ­but of a man who executed flourishes on ornamental cards for tradespeople, and assisted in the illustration of circus playbills.  With this man Graham had become acquainted through certain transactions of his with the press, and had found him to be a widower, drunken, dissolute, and generally drowned in poverty.  One child the man had, and that child was Mary Snow.

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 be more becoming than the way she obeyed all his behests on such matters; and it really did seem that in his case the moulded wife would turn out to have been well moulded.  When Staveley left him he again read Mary’s letter.  Her letters were always of the same length, filling completely the four sides of a sheet of note paper.  They were excellently well written; and as no one word in them was ever altered or erased, it was manifest enough to Felix that the original composition was made on a rough draft.  As he again read through the four sides of the little sheet of paper, he could not refrain from conjecturing what sort of a letter Madeline Staveley might write.  Mary Snow’s letter ran as follows: ­

   3 Bloomfield Terrace, Peckham,
   Tuesday, 10 January, 18 .

   My dearest Felix,

­she had so called him for the last twelvemonth by common consent between Graham and the very discreet lady under whose charge she at present lived.  Previously to that she had written to him as, My dear Mr. Graham.

   My dearest Felix,

I am very glad to hear that your arm and your two ribs are getting so much better.  I received your letter yesterday, and was glad to hear that you are so comfortable in the house of the very kind people with whom you are staying.  If I knew them I would send them my respectful remembrances, but as I do not know them I suppose it would not be proper.  But I remember them in my prayers. ­

This last assurance was inserted under the express instruction of Mrs. Thomas, who however did not read Mary’s letters, but occasionally, on some subjects, gave her hints as to what she ought to say.  Nor was there hypocrisy in this, for under the instruction of her excellent mentor she had prayed for the kind people. ­

I hope you will be well enough to come and pay me a visit before long, but pray do not come before you are well enough to do so without giving yourself any pain.  I am glad to hear that you do not mean to go hunting any more, for it seems to me to be a dangerous amusement.

And then the first paragraph came to an end.

My papa called here yesterday.  He said he was very badly off indeed, and so he looked.  I did not know what to say at first, but he asked me so much to give him some money, that I did give him at last all that I had.  It was nineteen shillings and sixpence.  Mrs. Thomas was angry, and told me I had no right to give away your money, and that I should not have given more than half a crown.  I hope you will not be angry with me.  I do not want any more at present.  But indeed he was very bad, especially about his shoes.

I do not know that I have any more to say except that I put back thirty lines of Telemaque into French every morning before breakfast.  It never comes near right, but nevertheless M. Grigaud says it is well done.  He says that if it came quite right I should compose French as well as M. Fenelon, which of course I cannot expect.

   I will now say good-bye, and I am yours most
   affectionately,

   Mary snow.

There was nothing in this letter to give any offence to Felix Graham, and so he acknowledged to himself.  He made himself so acknowledge, because on the first reading of it he had felt that he was half angry with the writer.  It was clear that there was nothing in the letter which would justify censure; ­nothing which did not, almost, demand praise.  He would have been angry with her had she limited her filial donation to the half-crown which Mrs. Thomas had thought appropriate.  He was obliged to her for that attention to her French which he had specially enjoined.  Nothing could be more proper than her allusion to the Staveleys; ­and altogether the letter was just what it ought to be.  Nevertheless it made him unhappy and irritated him.  Was it well that he should marry a girl whose father was “indeed very bad, but especially about his shoes?” Staveley had told him that connection would be necessary for him, and what sort of a connection would this be?  And was there one word in the whole letter that showed a spark of true love?  Did not the footfall of Madeline Staveley’s step as she passed along the passage go nearer to his heart than all the outspoken assurance of Mary Snow’s letter?

Nevertheless he had undertaken to do this thing, and he would do it, ­let the footfall of Madeline Staveley’s step be ever so sweet in his ear.  And then, lying back in his bed, he began to think whether it would have been as well that he should have broken his neck instead of his ribs in getting out of Monkton Grange covert.

Mrs. Thomas was a lady who kept a school consisting of three little girls and Mary Snow.  She had in fact not been altogether successful in the line of life she had chosen for herself, and had hardly been able to keep her modest door-plate on her door, till Graham, in search of some home for his bride, then in the first noviciate of her moulding, had come across her.  Her means were now far from plentiful; but as an average number of three children still clung to her, and as Mary Snow’s seventy pounds per annum ­to include clothes ­were punctually paid, the small house at Peckham was maintained.  Under these circumstances Mary Snow was somebody in the eyes of Mrs. Thomas, and Felix Graham was a very great person indeed.

Graham had received his letter on a Wednesday, and on the following Monday Mary, as usual, received one from him.  These letters always came to her in the evening, as she was sitting over her tea with Mrs. Thomas, the three children having been duly put to bed.  Graham’s letters were very short, as a man with a broken right arm and two broken ribs is not fluent with his pen.  But still a word or two did come to her.  “Dearest Mary, I am doing better and better, and I hope I shall see you in about a fortnight.  Quite right in giving the money.  Stick to the French.  Your own F. G.”  But as he signed himself her own, his mind misgave him that he was lying.

“It is very good of him to write to you while he is in such a state,” said Mrs. Thomas.

“Indeed it is,” said Mary ­“very good indeed.”  And then she went on with the history of “Rasselas” in his happy valley, by which study Mrs. Thomas intended to initiate her into that course of novel-reading which has become necessary for a British lady.  But Mrs. Thomas had a mind to improve the present occasion.  It was her duty to inculcate in her pupil love and gratitude towards the beneficent man who was doing so much for her.  Gratitude for favours past and love for favours to come; and now, while that scrap of a letter was lying on the table, the occasion for doing so was opportune.

“Mary, I do hope you love Mr. Graham with all your heart and all your strength.”  She would have thought it wicked to say more; but so far she thought she might go, considering the sacred tie which was to exist between her pupil and the gentleman in question.

“Oh, yes, indeed I do;” and then Mary’s eyes fell wishfully on the cover of the book which lay in her lap while her finger kept the place.  Rasselas is not very exciting, but it was more so than Mrs. Thomas.

“You would be very wicked if you did not.  And I hope you think sometimes of the very responsible duties which a wife owes to her husband.  And this will be more especially so with you than with any other woman ­almost that I ever heard of.”

There was something in this that was almost depressing to poor Mary’s spirit, but nevertheless she endeavoured to bear up against it and do her duty.  “I shall do all I can to please him, Mrs. Thomas; ­and indeed I do try about the French.  And he says I was right to give papa that money.”

“But there will be many more things than that when you’ve stood at the altar with him and become his wife; ­bone of his bone, Mary.”  And she spoke these last words in a very solemn tone, shaking her head, and the solemn tone almost ossified poor Mary’s heart as she heard it.

“Yes; I know there will.  But I shall endeavour to find out what he likes.”

“I don’t think he is so particular about his eating and drinking as some other gentlemen; though no doubt he will like his things nice.”

“I know he is fond of strong tea, and I sha’n’t forget that.”

“And about dress.  He is not very rich you know, Mary; but it will make him unhappy if you are not always tidy.  And his own shirts ­I fancy he has no one to look after them now, for I so often see the buttons off.  You should never let one of them go into his drawers without feeling them all to see that they’re on tight.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Mary, and then she made another little furtive attempt to open the book.

“And about your own stockings, Mary.  Nothing is so useful to a young woman in your position as a habit of darning neat.  I’m sometimes almost afraid that you don’t like darning.”

“Oh yes I do.”  That was a fib; but what could she do, poor girl, when so pressed?

“Because I thought you would look at Jane Robinson’s and Julia Wright’s which are lying there in the basket.  I did Rebecca’s myself before tea, till my old eyes were sore.”

“Oh, I didn’t know,” said Mary, with some slight offence in her tone.  “Why didn’t you ask me to do them downright if you wanted?”

“It’s only for the practice it will give you.”

“Practice!  I’m always practising something.”  But nevertheless she laid down the book, and dragged the basket of work up on to the table.  “Why, Mrs. Thomas, it’s impossible to mend these; they’re all darn.”

“Give them to me,” said Mrs. Thomas.  And then there was silence between them for a quarter of an hour during which Mary’s thoughts wandered away to the events of her future life.  Would his stockings be so troublesome as these?

But Mrs. Thomas was at heart an honest woman, and as a rule was honest also in practice.  Her conscience told her that Mr. Graham might probably not approve of this sort of practice for conjugal duties, and in spite of her failing eyes she resolved to do her duty.  “Never mind them, Mary,” said she.  “I remember now that you were doing your own before dinner.”

“Of course I was,” said Mary sulkily.  “And as for practice, I don’t suppose he’ll want me to do more of that than anything else.”

“Well, dear, put them by.”  And Miss Snow did put them by, resuming Rasselas as she did so.  Who darned the stockings of Rasselas and felt that the buttons were tight on his shirts?  What a happy valley must it have been if a bride expectant were free from all such cares as these!

“I suppose, Mary, it will be some time in the spring of next year.”  Mrs. Thomas was not reading, and therefore a little conversation from time to time was to her a solace.

“What will be, Mrs. Thomas?”

“Why, the marriage.”

“I suppose it will.  He told father it should be early in 18 ­, and I shall be past twenty then.”

“I wonder where you’ll go to live.”

“I don’t know.  He has never said anything about that.”

“I suppose not; but I’m sure it will be a long way away from Peckham.”  In answer to this Mary said nothing, but could not help wishing that it might be so.  Peckham to her had not been a place bright with happiness, although she had become in so marked a way a child of good fortune.  And then, moreover, she had a deep care on her mind with which the streets and houses and pathways of Peckham were closely connected.  It would be very expedient that she should go far, far away from Peckham when she had become, in actual fact, the very wife of Felix Graham.

“Miss Mary,” whispered the red-armed maid of all work, creeping up to Mary’s bedroom door, when they had all retired for the night, and whispering through the chink.  “Miss Mary.  I’ve somethink to say.”  And Mary opened the door.  “I’ve got a letter from him;” and the maid of all work absolutely produced a little note enclosed in a green envelope.

“Sarah, I told you not,” said Mary, looking very stern and hesitating with her finger whether or no she would take the letter.

“But he did so beg and pray.  Besides, miss, as he says hisself he must have his answer.  Any gen’leman, he says, ’as a right to a answer.  And if you’d a seed him yourself I’m sure you’d have took it.  He did look so nice with a blue and gold hankercher round his neck.  He was a-going to the the-a-tre he said.”

“And who was going with him, Sarah?”

“Oh, no one.  Only his mamma and sister, and them sort.  He’s all right ­he is.”  And then Mary Snow did take the letter.

“And I’ll come for the answer when you’re settling the room after breakfast to-morrow?” said the girl.

“No; I don’t know.  I sha’n’t send any answer at all.  But, Sarah, for heaven’s sake, do not say a word about it!”

“Who, I?  Laws love you, miss.  I wouldn’t; ­not for worlds of gold.”  And then Mary was left alone to read a second letter from a second suitor.

“Angel of light!” it began, “but cold as your own fair name.”  Poor Mary thought it was very nice and very sweet, and though she was so much afraid of it that she almost wished it away, yet she read it a score of times.  Stolen pleasures always are sweet.  She had not cared to read those two lines from her own betrothed lord above once, or at the most twice; and yet they had been written by a good man, ­a man superlatively good to her, and written too with considerable pain.

She sat down all trembling to think of what she was doing; and then, as she thought, she read the letter again.  “Angel of light! but cold as your own fair name.”  Alas, alas! it was very sweet to her!