Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [an ebook reader .TXT] 📗

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