CHAPTER XXXVI
Will He Come Again?
Long before the doctor returned home after the little dinner-partyabove described, Mary had learnt that Frank was already atGreshamsbury. She had heard nothing of him or from him, not a word,nothing in the shape of a message, for twelve months; and at her agetwelve months is a long period. Would he come and see her in spite ofhis mother? Would he send her any tidings of his return, or noticeher in any way? If he did not, what would she do? and if he did, whatthen would she do? It was so hard to resolve; so hard to be deserted;and so hard to dare to wish that she might not be deserted! Shecontinued to say to herself, that it would be better that they shouldbe strangers; and she could hardly keep herself from tears in thefear that they might be so. What chance could there be that he shouldcare for her, after an absence spent in travelling over the world?No; she would forget that affair of his hand; and then, immediatelyafter having so determined, she would confess to herself that it wasa thing not to be forgotten, and impossible of oblivion.
On her uncle's return, she would hear some word about him; and soshe sat alone, with a book before her, of which she could not reada line. She expected them about eleven, and was, therefore, rathersurprised when the fly stopped at the door before nine.
She immediately heard her uncle's voice, loud and angry, callingfor Thomas. Both Thomas and Bridget were unfortunately out, being,at this moment, forgetful of all sublunary cares, and seated inhappiness under a beech-tree in the park. Janet flew to the littlegate, and there found Sir Louis insisting that he would be taken atonce to his own mansion at Boxall Hill, and positively swearing thathe would no longer submit to the insult of the doctor's surveillance.
In the absence of Thomas, the doctor was forced to apply forassistance to the driver of the fly. Between them the baronet wasdragged out of the vehicle, the windows suffered much, and thedoctor's hat also. In this way, he was taken upstairs, and was atlast put to bed, Janet assisting; nor did the doctor leave the roomtill his guest was asleep. Then he went into the drawing-room toMary. It may easily be conceived that he was hardly in a humour totalk much about Frank Gresham.
"What am I to do with him?" said he, almost in tears: "what am I todo with him?"
"Can you not send him to Boxall Hill?" asked Mary.
"Yes; to kill himself there! But it is no matter; he will killhimself somewhere. Oh! what that family have done for me!" And then,suddenly remembering a portion of their doings, he took Mary in hisarms, and kissed and blessed her; and declared that, in spite of allthis, he was a happy man.
There was no word about Frank that night. The next morning the doctorfound Sir Louis very weak, and begging for stimulants. He was worsethan weak; he was in such a state of wretched misery and mentalprostration so low in heart, in such collapse of energy and spirit,that Dr Thorne thought it prudent to remove his razors from hisreach.
"For God's sake do let me have a little _chasse-cafe_; I'm alwaysused to it; ask Joe if I'm not! You don't want to kill me, do you?"And the baronet cried piteously, like a child, and, when the doctorleft him for the breakfast-table, abjectly implored Janet to get himsome curacoa which he knew was in one of his portmanteaus. Janet,however, was true to her master.
The doctor did give him some wine; and then, having left strictorders as to his treatment--Bridget and Thomas being now both in thehouse--went forth to some of his too much neglected patients.
Then Mary was again alone, and her mind flew away to her lover. Howshould she be able to compose herself when she should first see him?See him she must. People cannot live in the same village withoutmeeting. If she passed him at the church-door, as she often passedLady Arabella, what should she do? Lady Arabella always smileda peculiar, little, bitter smile, and this, with half a nod ofrecognition, carried off the meeting. Should she try the bittersmile, the half-nod with Frank? Alas! she knew it was not in her tobe so much mistress of her own heart's blood.
As she thus thought, she stood at the drawing-room window, lookingout into her garden; and, as she leant against the sill, her head wassurrounded by the sweet creepers. "At any rate, he won't come here,"she said: and so, with a deep sigh, she turned from the window intothe room.
There he was, Frank Gresham himself standing there in her immediatepresence, beautiful as Apollo. Her next thought was how she mightescape from out of his arms. How it happened that she had fallen intothem, she never knew.
"Mary! my own, own love! my own one! sweetest! dearest! best! Mary!dear Mary! have you not a word to say to me?"
No; she had not a word, though her life had depended on it. Theexertion necessary for not crying was quite enough for her. This,then, was the bitter smile and the half-nod that was to pass betweenthem; this was the manner in which estrangement was to grow intoindifference; this was the mode of meeting by which she was to provethat she was mistress of her conduct, if not her heart! There he heldher close bound to his breast, and she could only protect her face,and that all ineffectually, with her hands. "He loves another,"Beatrice had said. "At any rate, he will not love me," her own hearthad said also. Here was now the answer.
"You know you cannot marry him," Beatrice had said, also. Ah! if thatreally were so, was not this embrace deplorable for them both? Andyet how could she not be happy? She endeavoured to repel him; butwith what a weak endeavour! Her pride had been wounded to the core,not by Lady Arabella's scorn, but by the conviction which had grownon her, that though she had given her own heart absolutely away,had parted with it wholly and for ever, she had received nothing inreturn. The world, her world, would know that she had loved, andloved in vain. But here now was the loved one at her feet; the firstmoment that his enforced banishment was over, had brought him there.How could she not be happy?
They all said that she could not marry him. Well, perhaps it mightbe so; nay, when she thought of it, must not that edict too probablybe true? But if so, it would not be his fault. He was true to her,and that satisfied her pride. He had taken from her, by surprise,a confession of her love. She had often regretted her weakness inallowing him to do so; but she could not regret it now. She couldendure to suffer; nay, it would not be suffering while he sufferedwith her.
"Not one word, Mary? Then after all my dreams, after all my patience,you do not love me at last?"
Oh, Frank! notwithstanding what has been said in thy praise, what afool thou art! Was any word necessary for thee? Had not her heartbeat against thine? Had she not borne thy caresses? Had there beenone touch of anger when she warded off thy threatened kisses?Bridget, in the kitchen, when Jonah became amorous, smashed his nosewith the rolling-pin. But when Thomas sinned, perhaps as deeply, sheonly talked of doing so. Miss Thorne, in the drawing-room, had sheneeded self-protection, could doubtless have found the means, thoughthe process would probably have been less violent.
At last Mary succeeded in her efforts at enfranchisement, and she andFrank stood at some little distance from each other. She could notbut marvel at him. That long, soft beard, which just now had been soclose to her face, was all new; his whole look was altered; his mien,and gait, and very voice were not the same. Was this, indeed, thevery Frank who had chattered of his boyish love, two years since, inthe gardens at Greshamsbury?
"Not one word of welcome, Mary?"
"Indeed, Mr Gresham, you are welcome home."
"Mr Gresham! Tell me, Mary--tell me, at once--has anything happened?I could not ask up there."
"Frank," she said, and then stopped; not being able at the moment toget any further.
"Speak to me honestly, Mary; honestly and bravely. I offered you myhand once before; there it is again. Will you take it?"
She looked wistfully up in his eyes; she would fain have taken it.But though a girl may be honest in such a case, it is so hard for herto be brave.
He still held out his hand. "Mary," said he, "if you can value it,it shall be yours through good fortune or ill fortune. There may bedifficulties; but if you can love me, we will get over them. I am afree man; free to do as
I please with myself, except so far as I ambound to you. There is my hand. Will you have it?" And then he, too,looked into her eyes, and waited composedly, as though determined tohave an answer.
She slowly raised her hand, and, as she did so, her eyes fell to theground. It then drooped again, and was again raised; and, at last,her light tapering fingers rested on his broad open palm.
They were soon clutched, and the whole hand brought absolutely withinhis grasp. "There, now you are my own!" he said, "and none of themshall part us; my own Mary, my own wife."
"Oh, Frank, is not this imprudent? Is it not wrong?"
"Imprudent! I am sick of prudence. I hate prudence. And as forwrong--no. I say it is not wrong; certainly not wrong if we love eachother. And you do love me, Mary--eh? You do! don't you?"
He would not excuse her, or allow her to escape from saying it in somany words; and when the words did come at last, they came freely."Yes, Frank, I do love you; if that were all you would have no causefor fear."
"And I will have no cause for fear."
"Ah; but your father, Frank, and my uncle. I can never bring myselfto do anything that shall bring either of them to sorrow."
Frank, of course, ran through all his arguments. He would go into aprofession, or take a farm and live in it. He would wait; that is,for a few months. "A few months, Frank!" said Mary. "Well, perhapssix." "Oh, Frank!" But Frank would not be stopped. He would doanything that his father might ask him. Anything but the one thing.He would not give up the wife he had chosen. It would not bereasonable, or proper, or righteous that he should be asked to do so;and here he mounted a somewhat high horse.
Mary had no arguments which she could bring from her heart to offerin opposition to all this. She could only leave her hand in his, andfeel that she was happier than she had been at any time since the dayof that donkey-ride at Boxall Hill.
"But, Mary," continued he, becoming very grave and serious. "We mustbe true to each other, and firm in this. Nothing that any of them cansay shall drive me from my purpose; will you say as much?"
Her hand was still in his, and so she stood, thinking for a momentbefore she answered him. But she could not do less for him than hewas willing to do for her. "Yes," said she--said in a very low voice,and with a manner perfectly quiet--"I will be firm. Nothing that theycan say shall shake me. But, Frank, it cannot be soon."
Nothing further occurred in this interview which needs recording.Frank had been three times told by Mary that he had better go beforehe did go; and, at last, she was obliged to take the matter into herown hands, and lead him to the door.
"You are in a great hurry to get rid of me," said he.
"You have been here two hours, and you must go now; what will theyall think?"
"Who cares what they think? Let them think the truth: that after ayear's absence, I have much to say to you." However, at last, he didgo, and Mary was left alone.
Frank, although he had been so slow to move, had a thousand otherthings to do, and went about them at once. He was very much in love,no doubt; but that did not interfere with his interest in otherpursuits. In the first place, he had to see Harry Baker, and HarryBaker's stud. Harry had been specially charged to look after theblack horse during Frank's absence, and the holiday doings ofthat valuable animal had to be inquired into. Then the kennel ofthe hounds had to be visited, and--as a matter of second-rateimportance--the master. This could not be done on the same day; but aplan for doing so must be concocted with Harry--and then there weretwo young pointer pups.
Frank, when he left his betrothed, went about these things quite asvehemently as though he were not in love at all; quite as vehementlyas though he had said nothing as to going into some profession whichmust necessarily separate him from horses and dogs. But Mary satthere at her window, thinking of her love, and thinking of nothingelse. It was all in all to her now. She had pledged herself not to beshaken from her troth by anything, by any person and it would behoveher to be true to this pledge. True to it, though all the Greshamsbut one should oppose her with all their power; true to it, eventhough her own uncle should oppose her.
And how could she have done any other than so pledge herself, invokedto it as she had been? How could she do less for him than he was soanxious to do for her? They would talk to her of maiden delicacy, andtell her that she had put a stain on that snow-white coat of proof,in confessing her love for one whose friends were unwilling toreceive her. Let them so talk. Honour, honesty, and truth, out-spokentruth, self-denying truth, and fealty from man to man, are worth morethan maiden delicacy; more, at any rate, than the talk of it. Itwas not for herself that this pledge had been made. She knew herposition, and the difficulties of it; she knew also the value of it.He had much to offer, much to give; she had nothing but herself. Hehad name, and old repute, family, honour, and what eventually wouldat least be wealth to her. She was nameless, fameless, portionless.He had come there with all his ardour, with the impulse of hischaracter, and asked for her love. It was already his own. He hadthen demanded her troth, and she acknowledged that he had a right todemand it. She would be his if ever it should be in his power to takeher.
But there let the bargain end. She would always remember, that thoughit was in her power to keep her pledge, it might too probably not bein his power to keep his. That doctrine, laid down so imperativelyby the great authorities of Greshamsbury, that edict, which demandedthat Frank should marry money, had come home also to her with acertain force. It would be sad that the fame of Greshamsbury shouldperish, and that the glory should depart from the old house. It mightbe, that Frank also should perceive that he must marry money. Itwould be a pity that he had not seen it sooner; but she, at any rate,would not complain.
And so she stood, leaning on the open window, with her book unnoticedlying beside her. The sun had been in the mid-sky when Frank had lefther, but its rays were beginning to stream into the room from thewest before she moved from her position. Her first thought in themorning had been this: Would he come to see her? Her last now wasmore soothing to her, less full of absolute fear: Would it be rightthat he should come again?
The first sounds she heard were the footsteps of her uncle, as hecame up to the drawing-room, three steps at a time. His step wasalways heavy; but when he was disturbed in spirit, it was slow; whenmerely fatigued in body by ordinary work, it was quick.
"What a broiling day!" he said, and he threw himself into a chair."For mercy's sake give me something to drink." Now the doctor was agreat man for summer-drinks. In his house, lemonade, currant-juice,orange-mixtures, and raspberry-vinegar were used by the quart. Hefrequently disapproved of these things for his patients, as being aptto disarrange the digestion but he consumed enough himself to throwa large family into such difficulties.
"Ha--a!" he ejaculated, after a draught; "I'm better now. Well,what's the news?"
"You've been out, uncle; you ought to have the news. How's MrsGreen?"
"Really as bad as ennui and solitude can make her."
"And Mrs Oaklerath?"
"She's getting better, because she has ten children to look after,and twins to suckle. What has he been doing?" And the doctor pointedtowards the room occupied by Sir Louis.
Mary's conscience struck her that she had not even asked. She hadhardly remembered, during the whole day, that the baronet was in thehouse. "I do not think he has been doing much," she said. "Janet hasbeen with him all day."
"Has he been drinking?"
"Upon my word, I don't know, uncle. I think not, for Janet has beenwith him. But, uncle--"
"Well, dear--but just give me a little more of that tipple."
Mary prepared the tumbler, and, as she handed it to him, she said,"Frank Gresham has been here to-day."
The doctor swallowed his draught, and put down the glass before hemade any reply, and even then he said but little.
"Oh! Frank Gresham."
"Yes, uncle."
"You thought him looking pretty well?"
"Yes, uncle; he was very well, I be
lieve."
Dr Thorne had nothing more to say, so he got up and went to hispatient in the next room.
"If he disapproves of it, why does he not say so?" said Mary toherself. "Why does he not advise me?"
But it was not so easy to give advice while Sir Louis Scatcherd waslying there in that state.