They all said that she could not marry him. Well, perhaps it might be so; nay, when she thought of it, must not that edict too probably be 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 in allowing him to do so; but she could not regret it now. She could endure to suffer; nay, it would not be suffering while he suffered with 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 a fool thou art! Was any word necessary for thee? Had not her heart beat against thine? Had she not borne thy caresses? Had there been one touch of anger when she warded off thy threatened kisses? Bridget, in the kitchen, when Jonah became amorous, smashed his nose with the rolling-pin. But when Thomas sinned, perhaps as deeply, she only talked of doing so. Miss Thorne, in the drawing-room, had she needed self-protection, could doubtless have found the means, though the process would probably have been less violent.
At last Mary succeeded in her efforts at enfranchisement, and she and Frank stood at some little distance from each other. She could not but marvel at him. That long, soft beard, which just now had been so close 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, the very Frank who had chattered of his boyish love, two years since, in the 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 to get any further.
'Speak to me honestly, Mary; honestly and bravely. I offered you my hand once before; there it is again. Will you take it?'
She looked wistfully up in his eyes; and would fain have taken it. But though a girl may be honest in such a case, it is so hard for her to 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 be difficulties; but if you can love me, we will get over them. I am a free man; free to do as I please with myself, except so far as I am bound to you. There is my hand. Will you have it?' And then he, too, looked into her eyes, and waited composedly, as though determined to have an answer.
She slowly raised her hand, and, as she did so, her eyes fell to the ground. 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 within his grasp. 'There, now you are my own!' he said, 'and none of them shall 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 for wrong--no. I say it is not wrong; certainly not wrong if we love each other. 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 so many 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 cause for fear.'
'And I will have no cause for fear.'
'Ah; but your father, Frank, and my uncle. I can never bring myself to do anything that shall bring either of them to sorrow.'
Frank, of course, ran through all his arguments. He would go into a profession, or take a farm and live in it. He would wait; that is, for a few months. 'A few months, Frank!' said Mary. 'Well, perhaps six.' 'Oh, Frank!' But Frank would not be stopped. He would do anything that his father might ask him. Anything but the one thing. He would not give up the wife he had chosen. It would not be reasonable, 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 offer in opposition of all this. She could only leave her hand in his, and feel that she was happier than she had been at any time since the day of the donkey-ride at Boxall Hill.
'But, Mary,' continued he, becoming very grave and serious. 'We must be true to each other, and firm in this. Nothing that any of them can say shall drive me from my purpose; will you say as much?'
Her hand was still in his, and so she stood, thinking for a moment before she answered him. But she could not do less for him than he was 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 they can 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 before he did go; and, at last, she was obliged to take the matter into her own 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 they think?'
'Who cares what they think? Let them think the truth: that's after a year's absence, I have much to say to you.' However, at last, he did go, and Mary was left alone.
