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

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 to 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 that 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 all think?”

“Who cares what they think? Let them think the truth: that after a year’s absence, I have much to say to you.” However, at last, he did go, and Mary was left alone.

Frank, although he had been so slow to move, had a thousand other things 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 other pursuits. In the first place, he had to see Harry Baker, and Harry Baker’s stud. Harry had been specially charged to look after the black horse during Frank’s absence, and the holiday doings of that valuable animal had to be inquired into. Then the kennel of the hounds had to be visited, and⁠—as a matter of second-rate importance⁠—the master. This could not be done on the same day; but a plan for doing so must be concocted with Harry⁠—and then there were two young pointer pups.

Frank, when he left his betrothed, went about these things quite as vehemently as though he were not in love at all; quite as vehemently as though he had said nothing as to going into some profession which must necessarily separate him from horses and dogs. But Mary sat there at her window, thinking of her love, and thinking of nothing else. It was all in all to her now. She had pledged herself not to be shaken from her troth by anything, by any person; and it would behove her to be true to this pledge. True to it, though all the Greshams but one should oppose her with all their power; true to it, even though her own uncle should oppose her.

And how could she have done any other than so pledge herself, invoked to it as she had been? How could she do less for him than he was so anxious to do for her? They would talk to her of maiden delicacy, and tell her that she had put a stain on that snow-white coat of proof, in confessing her love for one whose friends were unwilling to receive her. Let them so talk. Honour, honesty, and truth, outspoken truth, self-denying truth, and fealty from man to man, are worth more than maiden delicacy; more, at any rate, than the talk of it. It was not for herself that this pledge had been made. She knew her position, 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. He had name, and old repute, family, honour, and what eventually would at least be wealth to her. She was nameless, fameless, portionless. He had come there with