Dr Thorne (58 page)

‘Quite well,' said he.

‘And Patience?'

‘What, Miss Oriel; yes, I believe so. I haven't seen her this day or two.' How was it that Mary felt a little flush of joy, as Frank spoke in this indifferent way about Miss Oriel's health?

‘I thought she was always a particular friend of yours,' said she.

‘What! who? Miss Oriel? So she is! I like her amazingly; so does Beatrice.' And then he walked on about six steps in silence, plucking up courage for the great attempt. He did pluck up his courage and then rushed at once to the attack.

‘Mary!' said he, and as he spoke he put his hand on the donkey's neck and looked tenderly into her face. He looked tenderly, and, as Mary's ear at once told her, his voice sounded more soft than it had ever sounded before. ‘Mary, do you remember the last time that we were together?'

Mary did remember it well. It was on that occasion when he had treacherously held her hand; on that day when, according to law, he had become a man; when he had outraged all the propriety of the De Courcy interest by offering his love to Mary in Augusta's hearing. Mary did remember it well; but how was she to speak of it? ‘It was your birthday, I think,' said she.

‘Yes. It was my birthday. I wonder whether you remember what I said to you then?'

‘I remember that you were very foolish, Mr Gresham.'

‘Mary, I have come to repeat my folly; – that is, if it be folly. I told you then that I loved you, and I dare say that I did so awkwardly, like a boy. Perhaps I may be just as awkward now; but you ought at any rate to believe me when you find that a year has not altered me.'

Mary did not think him at all awkward, and she did believe him. But how was she to answer him? She had not yet taught
herself what answer she ought to make if he persisted in his suit. She had hitherto been content to run away from him; but she had done so because she would not submit to be accused of the indelicacy of putting herself in his way. She had rebuked him when he first spoke of his love; but she had done so because she looked on what he said as a boy's nonsense. She had schooled herself in obedience to the Greshamsbury doctrines. Was there any real reason, any reason founded on truth and honesty, why she should not be a fitting wife to Frank Gresham – Francis Newbold Gresham, of Greshamsbury, though he was, or was to be?

He was well born – as well born as any gentleman in England. She was basely born – as basely born as any lady could be. Was this sufficient bar against such a match? Mary felt in her heart that some twelvemonth since, before she knew what little she did now know of her own story, she would have said it was so. And would she indulge her own love by inveigling him she loved into a base marriage? But then reason spoke again. What, after all, was this blood of which she had taught herself to think so much? Would she have been more honest, more fit to grace an honest man's hearthstone, had she been the legitimate descendant of a score of legitimate duchesses? Was it not her first duty to think of him – of what would make him happy? Then of her uncle – what he would approve? Then of herself – what would best become her modesty; her sense of honour? Could it be well that she should sacrifice the happiness of two persons to a theoretic love of pure blood?

So she had argued within herself; not now, sitting on the donkey, with Frank's hand before her on the tame brute's neck; but on other former occasions as she had ridden along demurely among those trees. So she had argued; but she had never brought her arguments to a decision. All manner of thoughts crowded on her to prevent her doing so. She would think of the squire, and resolve to reject Frank: and would then remember Lady Arabella, and resolve to accept him. Her resolutions, however, were most irresolute; and so, when Frank appeared in person before her, carrying his heart in his hand, she did not know what answer to make to him. Thus it was with her as with so many other maidens similarly circumstanced; at last she left it all to chance.

‘You ought, at any rate, to believe me,' said Frank, ‘when you find that a year has not altered me.'

‘A year should have taught you to be wiser,' said she. ‘You should have learnt by this time, Mr Gresham, that your lot and mine are not cast in the same mould; that our stations in life are different. Would your father or mother approve of your even coming here to see me?'

Mary, as she spoke these sensible words, felt that they were ‘flat, stale, and unprofitable,'
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She felt, also, that they were not true in sense; that they did not come from her heart; that they were not such as Frank deserved at her hands, and she was ashamed of herself.

‘My father I hope will approve of it,' said he. ‘That my mother should disapprove of it is a misfortune which I cannot help; but on this point I will take no answer from my father or mother; the question is one too personal to myself. Mary, if you say that you will not, or cannot return my love, I will go away; – not from here only, but from Greshamsbury. My presence shall not banish you from all you hold dear. If you can honestly say that I am nothing to you, can be nothing to you, I will then tell my mother that she may be at ease, and I will go away somewhere and get over it as I may.' The poor fellow got so far, looking apparently at the donkey's ears, with hardly a gasp of hope in his voice, and he so far carried Mary with him that she also had hardly a gasp of hope in her heart. There he paused for a moment, and then looking up into her face, he spoke but one word more. ‘But,' said he – and there he stopped. It was all clearly told in that ‘but.' Thus would he do if Mary would declare that she did not care for him. If, however, she could not bring herself so to declare, then was he ready to throw his father and mother to the winds; then would he stand his ground; then would he look all other difficulties in the face, sure that they might finally be overcome. Poor Mary! the whole onus of settling the matter was thus thrown upon her. She had only to say that he was indifferent to her; – that was all.

If ‘all the blood of all the Howards'
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had depended upon it, she could not have brought herself to utter such a falsehood. Indifferent to her, as he walked there by her donkey's side, talking thus earnestly of his love for her! Was he not to her like some god come from the heavens to make her blessed? Did not the sun shine upon him with a halo, so that he was bright as an angel? Indifferent to her! Could the open unadulterated truth have been practicable for
her, she would have declared her indifference in terms that would truly have astonished him. As it was, she found it easier to say nothing. She bit her lips to keep herself from sobbing. She struggled hard, but in vain, to prevent her hands and feet from trembling. She seemed to swing upon her donkey as though like to fall, and would have given much to be upon her own feet upon the sward.

‘Si la jeunesse savait…' There is so much in that wicked old French proverb! Had Frank known more about a woman's mind – had he, that is, been forty-two instead of twenty-two – he would at once have been sure of his game, and have felt that Mary's silence told him all he wished to know. But then, had he been forty-two instead of twenty-two, he would not have been so ready to risk the acres of Greshamsbury for the smiles of Mary Thorne.

‘If you can't say one word to comfort me, I will go,' said he, disconsolately. ‘I made up my mind to tell you this, and so I came over. I told Lady Scatcherd I should not stay – not even for dinner.'

‘I did not know that you were so hurried,' said she, almost in a whisper.

On a sudden he stood still, and pulling the donkey's rein, caused him to stand still also. The beast required very little persuasion to be so guided, and obligingly remained meekly passive.

‘Mary, Mary!' said Frank, throwing his arms round her knees as she sat upon her steed, and pressing his face against her body. ‘Mary, you were always honest; be honest now. I love you with all my heart. Will you be my wife?'

But still Mary said not a word. She no longer bit her lips; she was beyond that, and was now using all her efforts to prevent her tears from falling absolutely on her lover's face. She said nothing. She could no more rebuke him now and send him from her than she could encourage him. She could only sit there shaking and crying and wishing she were on the ground. Frank, on the whole, rather liked the donkey. It enabled him to approach somewhat nearer to an embrace than he might have found practicable had they both been on their feet. The donkey himself was quite at his ease, and looked as though he was approvingly conscious of what was going on behind his ears.

‘I have a right to a word, Mary; say “Go,” and I will leave you at once.'

But Mary did not say ‘Go.' Perhaps she would have done so had she been able; but just at present she could say nothing. This came from her having failed to make up her mind in due time as to what course it would best become her to follow.

‘One word, Mary; one little word. There, if you will not speak, there is my hand. If you will have it, let it lie in yours; – if not, push it away.' So saying, he managed to get the end of his fingers on to her palm, and there it remained unrepulsed. ‘La jeunesse' was beginning to get a lesson; experience when duly sought after sometimes comes early in life.

In truth, Mary had not strength to push the fingers away. ‘My love, my own, my own!' said Frank, presuming on this very negative sign of acquiescence. ‘My life, my own one, my own Mary!' and then the hand was caught hold of and was at his lips before an effort could be made to save it from such treatment.

‘Mary, look at me; say one word to me.'

There was a deep sigh and then came the one word – ‘Oh, Frank!'

‘Mr Gresham, I hope I have the honour of seeing you quite well,' said a voice close to his ear. ‘I beg to say that you are welcome to Boxall Hill.' Frank turned round and instantly found himself shaking hands with Sir Louis Scatcherd.

How Mary got over her confusion Frank never saw, for he had enough to do to get over his own. He involuntarily deserted Mary and began talking very fast to Sir Louis. Sir Louis did not once look at Miss Thorne, but walked back towards the house with Mr Gresham, sulky enough in temper, but still making some efforts to do the fine gentleman. Mary, glad to be left alone, merely occupied herself with sitting on the donkey; and the donkey, when he found that the two gentlemen went towards the house, for company's sake and for his stable's sake, followed after them.

Frank stayed but three minutes in the house; gave another kiss to Lady Scatcherd, getting three in return, and thereby infinitely disgusting Sir Louis, shook hands, anything but warmly, with the young baronet, and just felt the warmth of Mary's hand within his own. He felt also the warmth of her eyes' last glance, and rode home a happy man.

F
RANK
rode home a happy man, cheering himself, as successful lovers do cheer themselves, with the brilliancy of his late exploit; nor was it till he had turned the corner into the Greshamsbury stables that he began to reflect what he would do next. It was all very well to have induced Mary to allow his three fingers to lie half a minute in her soft hand; the having done so might certainly be sufficient evidence that he had overcome one of the lions in his path; but it could hardly be said that all his difficulties were now smoothed. How was he to make further progress?

To Mary, also, the same ideas no doubt occurred – with many others. But, then, it was not for Mary to make any progress in the matter. To her at least belonged this passive comfort, that at present no act hostile to the De Courcy interest would be expected from her. All that she could do would be to tell her uncle so much as it was fitting that he should know. The doing this would doubtless be in some degree difficult; but it was not probable that there would be much difference, much of anything but loving anxiety for each other, between her and Dr Thorne. One other thing, indeed, she must do; Frank must be made to understand what her birth had been. ‘This,' she said to herself, ‘will give him an opportunity of retracting what he has done should he choose to avail himself of it. It is well he should have such opportunity.'

But Frank had more than this to do. He had told Beatrice that he would make no secret of his love, and he fully resolved to be as good as his word. To his father he owed an unreserved confidence; and he was fully minded to give it. It was, he knew, altogether out of the question that he should at once marry a portionless girl
without his father's consent; probably out of the question that he should do so even with it. But he would, at any rate, tell his father, and then decide as to what should be done next. So resolving, he put his black horse into the stable and went in to dinner. After dinner he and his father would be alone.

Yes; after dinner he and his father would be alone. He dressed himself hurriedly, for the dinner-bell was almost on the stroke as he entered the house. He said this to himself once and again; but when the meats and the puddings, and then the cheese, were borne away, as the decanters were placed before his father, and Lady Arabella sipped her one glass of claret, and his sisters ate their portion of strawberries, his pressing anxiety for the coming interview began to wax somewhat dull.