'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!
