The Donkey Ride
Sir Louis, when left to himself, was slightly dismayed and somewhat
discouraged; but he was not induced to give up his object. The first
effort of his mind was made in conjecturing what private motive
Dr Thorne could possibly have in wishing to debar his niece from
marrying a rich young baronet. That the objection was personal to
himself, Sir Louis did not for a moment imagine. Could it be that the
doctor did not wish that his niece should be richer, and grander, and
altogether bigger than himself? Or was it possible that his guardian
was anxious to prevent him from marrying from some view of the
reversion of the large fortune? That there was some such reason, Sir
Louis was well sure; but let it be what it might, he would get the
better of the doctor. "He knew," so he said to himself, "what stuff
girls were made of. Baronets did not grow like blackberries." And so,
assuring himself with such philosophy, he determined to make his
offer.
The time he selected for doing this was the hour before dinner; but
on the day on which his conversation with the doctor had taken place,
he was deterred by the presence of a strange visitor. To account for
this strange visit it will be necessary that we should return to
Greshamsbury for a few minutes.
Frank, when he returned home for his summer vacation, found that
Mary had again flown; and the very fact of her absence added fuel to
the fire of his love, more perhaps than even her presence might have
done. For the flight of the quarry ever adds eagerness to the pursuit
of the huntsman. Lady Arabella, moreover, had a bitter enemy; a
foe, utterly opposed to her side in the contest, where she had once
fondly looked for her staunchest ally. Frank was now in the habit
of corresponding with Miss Dunstable, and received from her most
energetic admonitions to be true to the love which he had sworn. True
to it he resolved to be; and therefore, when he found that Mary was
flown, he resolved to fly after her.
He did not, however, do this till he had been in a measure provoked
to it by it by the sharp-tongued cautions and blunted irony of his
mother. It was not enough for her that she had banished Mary out of
the parish, and made Dr Thorne's life miserable; not enough that
she harassed her husband with harangues on the constant subject of
Frank's marrying money, and dismayed Beatrice with invectives against
the iniquity of her friend. The snake was so but scotched; to kill it
outright she must induce Frank utterly to renounce Miss Thorne.
This task she essayed, but not exactly with success. "Well, mother,"
said Frank, at last turning very red, partly with shame, and partly
with indignation, as he made the frank avowal, "since you press me
about it, I tell you fairly that my mind is made up to marry Mary
sooner or later, if--"
"Oh, Frank! good heavens! you wicked boy; you are saying this
purposely to drive me distracted."
"If," continued Frank, not attending to his mother's interjections,
"if she will consent."
"Consent!" said Lady Arabella. "Oh, heavens!" and falling into the
corner of the sofa, she buried her face in her handkerchief.
"Yes, mother, if she will consent. And now that I have told you so
much, it is only just that I should tell you this also; that as far
as I can see at present I have no reason to hope that she will do
so."
"Oh, Frank, the girl is doing all she can to catch you," said Lady
Arabella,--not prudently.
"No, mother; there you wrong her altogether; wrong her most cruelly."
"You ungracious, wicked boy! you call me cruel!"
"I don't call you cruel; but you wrong her cruelly, most cruelly.
When I have spoken to her about this--for I have spoken to her--she
has behaved exactly as you would have wanted her to do; but not at
all as I wished her. She has given me no encouragement. You have
turned her out among you"--Frank was beginning to be very bitter
now--"but she has done nothing to deserve it. If there has been any
fault it has been mine. But it is well that we should all understand
each other. My intention is to marry Mary if I can." And, so
speaking, certainly without due filial respect, he turned towards the
door.
"Frank," said his mother, raising herself up with energy to make one
last appeal. "Frank, do you wish to see me die of a broken heart?"
"You know, mother, I would wish to make you happy, if I could."
"If you wish to see me ever happy again, if you do not wish to see
me sink broken-hearted to my grave, you must give up this mad idea,
Frank,"--and now all Lady Arabella's energy came out. "Frank there is
but one course left open to you. You MUST _marry money_." And then
Lady Arabella stood up before her son as Lady Macbeth might have
stood, had Lady Macbeth lived to have a son of Frank's years.
"Miss Dunstable, I suppose," said Frank, scornfully. "No, mother; I
made an ass, and worse than an ass of myself once in that way, and I
won't do it again. I hate money."
"Oh, Frank!"
"I hate money."
"But, Frank, the estate?"
"I hate the estate--at least I shall hate it if I am expected to buy
it at such a price as that. The estate is my father's."
"Oh, no, Frank; it is not."
"It is in the sense I mean. He may do with it as he pleases; he will
never have a word of complaint from me. I am ready to go into a
profession to-morrow. I'll be a lawyer, or a doctor, or an engineer;
I don't care what." Frank, in his enthusiasm, probably overlooked
some of the preliminary difficulties. "Or I'll take a farm under him,
and earn my bread that way; but, mother, don't talk to me any more
about marrying money." And, so saying, Frank left the room.
Frank, it will be remembered, was twenty-one when he was first
introduced to the reader; he is now twenty-two. It may be said that
there was a great difference between his character then and now. A
year at that period will make a great difference; but the change has
been, not in his character, but in his feelings.
Frank went out from his mother and immediately ordered his black
horse to be got ready for him. He would at once go over to Boxall
Hill. He went himself to the stables to give his orders; and as he
returned to get his gloves and whip he met Beatrice in the corridor.
"Beatrice," said he, "step in here," and she followed him into his
room. "I'm not going to bear this any longer; I'm going to Boxall
Hill."
"Oh, Frank! how can you be so imprudent?"
"You, at any rate, have some decent feeling for Mary. I believe you
have some regard for her; and therefore I tell you. Will you send her
any message?"
"Oh, yes; my best, best love; that is if you will see her; but,
Frank, you are very foolish, very; and she will be infinitely
distressed."
"Do not mention this, that is, not at present; not that I mean to
make any secret of it. I shall tell my father everything. I'm off
now!" and then, paying no attention to her remonstrance, he turned
down the stairs and was soon on horseback.
He took the road to Boxall Hill, but he did not ride very fast: he
did not go jauntily as a jolly, thriving wooer; but musingly, and
often with diffidence, meditating every now and then whether it
would not be better for him to turn back: to turn back--but not from
fear of his mother; not from prudential motives; not because that
often-repeated lesson as to marrying money was beginning to take
effect; not from such causes as these; but because he doubted how he
might be received by Mary.
He did, it is true, think something about his worldly prospects. He
had talked rather grandiloquently to his mother as to his hating
money, and hating the estate. His mother's never-ceasing worldly
cares on such subjects perhaps demanded that a little grandiloquence
should be opposed to them. But Frank did not hate the estate; nor did
he at all hate the position of an English country gentleman. Miss
Dunstable's eloquence, however, rang in his ears. For Miss Dunstable
had an eloquence of her own, even in her letters. "Never let them
talk you out of your own true, honest, hearty feelings," she had
said. "Greshamsbury is a very nice place, I am sure; and I hope I
shall see it some day; but all its green knolls are not half so nice,
should not be half so precious, as the pulses of your own heart. That
is your own estate, your own, your very own--your own and another's;
whatever may go to the money-lenders, don't send that there. Don't
mortgage that, Mr Gresham."
"No," said Frank, pluckily, as he put his horse into a faster trot,
"I won't mortgage that. They may do what they like with the estate;
but my heart's my own," and so speaking to himself, almost aloud, he
turned a corner of the road rapidly and came at once upon the doctor.
"Hallo, doctor! is that you?" said Frank, rather disgusted.
"What! Frank! I hardly expected to meet you here," said Dr Thorne,
not much better pleased.
They were now not above a mile from Boxall Hill, and the doctor,
therefore, could not but surmise whither Frank was going. They had
repeatedly met since Frank's return from Cambridge, both in the
village and in the doctor's house; but not a word had been said
between them about Mary beyond what the merest courtesy had required.
Not that each did not love the other sufficiently to make a full
confidence between them desirable to both; but neither had had the
courage to speak out.
Nor had either of them the courage to do so now. "Yes," said Frank,
blushing, "I am going to Lady Scatcherd's. Shall I find the ladies at
home?"
"Yes; Lady Scatcherd is there; but Sir Louis is there also--an
invalid: perhaps you would not wish to meet him."
"Oh! I don't mind," said Frank, trying to laugh; "he won't bite, I
suppose?"
The doctor longed in his heart to pray to Frank to return with him;
not to go and make further mischief; not to do that which might cause
a more bitter estrangement between himself and the squire. But he had
not the courage to do it. He could not bring himself to accuse Frank
of being in love with his niece. So after a few more senseless words
on either side, words which each knew to be senseless as he uttered
them, they both rode on their own ways.
And then the doctor silently, and almost unconsciously, made such a
comparison between Louis Scatcherd and Frank Gresham as Hamlet made
between the dead and live king. It was Hyperion to a satyr. Was it
not as impossible that Mary should not love the one, as that she
should love the other? Frank's offer of his affections had at first
probably been but a boyish ebullition of feeling; but if it should
now be, that this had grown into a manly and disinterested love, how
could Mary remain unmoved? What could her heart want more, better,
more beautiful, more rich than such a love as his? Was he not
personally all that a girl could like? Were not his disposition,
mind, character, acquirements, all such as women most delight to
love? Was it not impossible that Mary should be indifferent to him?
So meditated the doctor as he rode along, with only too true a
knowledge of human nature. Ah! it was impossible, it was quite
impossible that Mary should be indifferent. She had never been
indifferent since Frank had uttered his first half-joking word of
love. Such things are more important to women than they are to men,
to girls than they are to boys. When Frank had first told her that he
loved her; aye, months before that, when he merely looked his love,
her heart had received the whisper, had acknowledged the glance,
unconscious as she was herself, and resolved as she was to rebuke his
advances. When, in her hearing, he had said soft nothings to Patience
Oriel, a hated, irrepressible tear had gathered in her eye. When he
had pressed in his warm, loving grasp the hand which she had offered
him as a token of mere friendship, her heart had forgiven him the
treachery, nay, almost thanked him for it, before her eyes or
her words had been ready to rebuke him. When the rumour of his
liaison with Miss Dunstable reached her ears, when she heard of
Miss Dunstable's fortune, she had wept, wept outright, in her
chamber--wept, as she said to herself, to think that he should be so
mercenary; but she had wept, as she should have said to herself, at
finding that he was so faithless. Then, when she knew at last that
this rumour was false, when she found that she was banished from
Greshamsbury for his sake, when she was forced to retreat with her
friend Patience, how could she but love him, in that he was not
mercenary? How could she not love him in that he was so faithful?
It was impossible that she should not love him. Was he not the
brightest and the best of men that she had ever seen, or was like
to see?--that she could possibly ever see, she would have said to
herself, could she have brought herself to own the truth? And then,
when she heard how true he was, how he persisted against father,
mother, and sisters, how could it be that that should not be a merit
in her eyes which was so great a fault in theirs? When Beatrice, with
would-be solemn face, but with eyes beaming with feminine affection,
would gravely talk of Frank's tender love as a terrible misfortune,
as a misfortune to them all, to Mary herself as well as others, how
could Mary do other than love him? "Beatrice is his sister," she
would say within her own mind, "otherwise she would never talk like
this; were she not his sister, she could not but know the value of
such love as this." Ah! yes; Mary did love him; love him with all the
strength of her heart; and the strength of her heart was very great.
And now by degrees, in those lonely donkey-rides at Boxall Hill, in
those solitary walks, she was beginning to own to herself the truth.
And now that she did own it, what should be her course? What should
she do, how should she act if this loved one persevered in his
love? And, ah! what should she do, how should she act if he did not
persevere? Could it be that there should be happiness in store for
her? Was it not too clear that, let the matter go how it would, there
was no happiness in store for her? Much as she might love Frank
Gresham, she could never consent to be his wife unless the squire
would smile on her as his daughter-in-law. The squire had been
all that was kind, all that was affectionate. And then, too, Lady
Arabella! As she thought of the Lady Arabella a sterner form of
thought came across her brow. Why should Lady Arabella rob her of her
heart's joy? What was Lady Arabella that she, Mary Thorne, need quail
before her? Had Lady Arabella stood only in her way, Lady Arabella,
flanked by the de Courcy legion, Mary felt that she could have
demanded Frank's hand as her own before them all without a blush of
shame or a moment's hesitation. Thus, when her heart was all but
ready to collapse within her, would she gain some little strength by
thinking of the Lady Arabella.
"Please, my lady, here be young squoire Gresham," said one of the
untutored servants at Boxall Hill, opening Lady Scatcherd's little
parlour door as her ladyship was amusing herself by pulling down and
turning, and re-folding, and putting up again, a heap of household
linen which was kept in a huge press for the express purpose of
supplying her with occupation.
Lady Scatcherd, holding a vast counterpane in her arms, looked back
over her shoulders and perceived that Frank was in the room. Down
went the counterpane on the ground, and Frank soon found himself in
the very position which that useful article had so lately filled.
"Oh! Master Frank! oh, Master Frank!" said her ladyship, almost in an
hysterical fit of joy; and then she hugged and kissed him as she had
never kissed and hugged her own son since that son had first left the
parent nest.
Frank bore it patiently and with a merry laugh. "But, Lady
Scatcherd," said he, "what will they all say? you forget I am a man
now," and he stooped his head as she again pressed her lips upon his
forehead.
"I don't care what none of 'em say," said her ladyship, quite going
back to her old days; "I will kiss my own boy; so I will. Eh, but
Master Frank, this is good of you. A sight of you is good for sore
eyes; and my eyes have been sore enough too since I saw you;" and she
put her apron up to wipe away a tear.
"Yes," said Frank, gently trying to disengage himself, but not
successfully; "yes, you have had a great loss, Lady Scatcherd. I was
so sorry when I heard of your grief."
"You always had a soft, kind heart, Master Frank; so you had. God's
blessing on you! What a fine man you have grown! Deary me! Well, it
seems as though it were only just t'other day like." And she pushed
him a little off from her, so that she might look the better into his
face.
"Well. Is it all right? I suppose you would hardly know me again now
I've got a pair of whiskers?"
"Know you! I should know you well if I saw but the heel of your
foot. Why, what a head of hair you have got, and so dark too! but it
doesn't curl as it used once." And she stroked his hair, and looked
into his eyes, and put her hand to his cheeks. "You'll think me an
old fool, Master Frank: I know that; but you may think what you like.
If I live for the next twenty years you'll always be my own boy; so
you will."
By degrees, slow degrees, Frank managed to change the conversation,
and to induce Lady Scatcherd to speak on some other topic than his
own infantine perfections. He affected an indifference as he spoke of
her guest, which would have deceived no one but Lady Scatcherd; but
her it did deceive; and then he asked where Mary was.
"She's just gone out on her donkey--somewhere about the place. She
rides on a donkey mostly every day. But you'll stop and take a bit of
dinner with us? Eh, now do 'ee, Master Frank."
But Master Frank excused himself. He did not choose to pledge himself
to sit down to dinner with Mary. He did not know in what mood they
might return with regard to each other at dinner-time. He said,
therefore, that he would walk out and, if possible, find Miss Thorne;
and that he would return to the house again before he went.
Lady Scatcherd then began making apologies for Sir Louis. He was an
invalid; the doctor had been with him all the morning, and he was not
yet out of his room.
These apologies Frank willingly accepted, and then made his way as
he could on to the lawn. A gardener, of whom he inquired, offered to
go with him in pursuit of Miss Thorne. This assistance, however, he
declined, and set forth in quest of her, having learnt what were her
most usual haunts. Nor was he directed wrongly; for after walking
about twenty minutes, he saw through the trees the legs of a donkey
moving on the green-sward, at about two hundred yards from him. On
that donkey doubtless sat Mary Thorne.
The donkey was coming towards him; not exactly in a straight line,
but so much so as to make it impossible that Mary should not see him
if he stood still. He did stand still, and soon emerging from the
trees, Mary saw him all but close to her.
Her heart gave a leap within her, but she was so far mistress of
herself as to repress any visible sign of outward emotion. She did
not fall from her donkey, or scream, or burst into tears. She merely
uttered the words, "Mr Gresham!" in a tone of not unnatural surprise.
"Yes," said he, trying to laugh, but less successful than she had
been in suppressing a show of feeling. "Mr Gresham! I have come over
at last to pay my respects to you. You must have thought me very
uncourteous not to do so before."
This she denied. "She had not," she said, "thought him at all
uncivil. She had come to Boxall Hill to be out of the way; and, of
course, had not expected any such formalities." As she uttered this
she almost blushed at the abrupt truth of what she was saying. But
she was taken so much unawares that she did not know how to make the
truth other than abrupt.
"To be out of the way!" said Frank. "And why should you want to be
out of the way?"
"Oh! there were reasons," said she, laughing. "Perhaps I have
quarrelled dreadfully with my uncle."
Frank at the present moment had not about him a scrap of badinage. He
had not a single easy word at his command. He could not answer her
with anything in guise of a joke; so he walked on, not answering at
all.
"I hope all my friends at Greshamsbury are well," said Mary. "Is
Beatrice quite well?"
"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 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." 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 that 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
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 the Howards" 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 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 was 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,
here 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 effort 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.