as he and she were at Greshamsbury together, he should call her Mary if he pleased. He would soon be gone; and while he remained, she would keep out of his way.
“Your uncle has been obliged to go away to see an old woman at Silverbridge.”
“At Silverbridge! why, he won’t be back all night. Why could not the old woman send for Dr Century?”
“I suppose she thought two old women could not get on well together.”
Mary could not help smiling. She did not like her uncle going off so late on such a journey; but it was always felt as a triumph when he was invited into the strongholds of his enemies.
“And Janet is to come over for you. However, I told him it was quite unnecessary to disturb another old woman, for that I should of course see you home.”
“Oh, no, Mr Gresham; indeed you’ll not do that.”
“Indeed, and indeed, I shall.”
“What! on this great day, when every lady is looking for you, and talking of you. I suppose you want to set the countess against me for ever. Think, too, how angry Lady Arabella will be if you are absent on such an errand as this.”
“To hear you talk, Mary, one would think that you were going to Silverbridge yourself.”
“Perhaps I am.”
“If I did not go with you, some of the other fellows would. John, or George—”
“Good gracious, Frank! Fancy either of the Mr de Courcys walking home with me!”
She had forgotten herself, and the strict propriety on which she had resolved, in the impossibility of forgoing her little joke against the de Courcy grandeur; she had forgotten herself, and had called him Frank in her old, former, eager, free tone of voice; and then, remembering she had done so, she drew herself up, but her lips, and determined to be doubly on her guard in the future.
“Well, it shall be either one of them or I,” said Frank: “perhaps you would prefer my cousin George to me?”
“I should prefer Janet to either, seeing that with her I should not suffer the extreme nuisance of knowing that I was a bore.”
“A bore! Mary, to me?”
“Yes, Mr Gresham, a bore to you. Having to walk home through the mud with village young ladies is boring. All gentlemen feel it to be so.”
“There is no mud; if there were you would not be allowed to walk at all.”
“Oh! village young ladies never care for such things, though fashionable gentlemen do.”
“I would carry you home, Mary, if it would do you a service,” said Frank, with considerable pathos in his voice.
“Oh, dear me! pray do not, Mr Gresham. I should not like it at all,” said she: “a wheelbarrow would be preferable to that.”
“Of course. Anything would be preferable to my arm, I know.”
“Certainly; anything in the way of a conveyance. If I were to act baby; and you were to act nurse, it really would not be comfortable for either of us.”
Frank Gresham felt disconcerted, though he hardly knew why. He was striving to say something tender to his ladylove; but every word that he spoke she turned into joke. Mary did not answer him coldly or unkindly; but, nevertheless, he was displeased. One does not like to have one’s little offerings of sentimental service turned into burlesque when one is in love in earnest. Mary’s jokes had appeared so easy too; they seemed to come from a heart so little troubled. This, also, was cause of vexation to Frank. If he could but have known all, he would, perhaps, have been better pleased.
He determined not to be absolutely laughed out of his tenderness. When, three days ago, he had been repulsed, he had gone away owning to himself that he had been beaten; owning so much, but owning it with great sorrow and much shame. Since that he had come of age; since that he had made speeches, and speeches had been made to him; since that he had gained courage by flirting with Patience Oriel. No faint heart ever won a fair lady, as he was well aware; he resolved, therefore, that his heart should not be faint, and that he would see whether the fair lady might not be won by becoming audacity.
“Mary,” said he, stopping in the path—for they were now near the spot where it broke out upon the lawn, and they could already hear the voices of the guests—”Mary, you are unkind to me.”
“I am not aware of it, Mr Gresham; but if I am, do not you retaliate. I am weaker than you, and in your power; do not you, therefore, be unkind to me.”
“You refused my hand just now,” continued he. “Of all the people here at Greshamsbury, you are the only one that has not wished me joy; the only one—”
“I do wish you joy; I will wish you joy; there is my hand,” and she frankly put out her ungloved hand. “You are quite man enough to understand me: there is my hand; I trust you use it only as it is meant to be used.”
He took it in his and pressed it cordially, as he might have done that of any other friend in such a case; and then—did not drop it as he should have done. He was not a St Anthony, and it was most imprudent in Miss Thorne to subject him to such a temptation.
“Mary,” said he; “dear Mary! dearest Mary! if you did but know how I love you!”
As he said this, holding Miss Thorne’s hand, he stood on the pathway with his back towards the lawn and house, and, therefore, did not at first see his sister Augusta, who had just at that moment come upon them. Mary blushed up to her straw hat, and, with a quick jerk, recovered her hand. Augusta saw the motion, and Mary saw that Augusta had seen it.
From my tedious way of telling it, the reader will be led to imagine that the hand-squeezing had been protracted to a duration quite incompatible with any objection to such an arrangement on the part of the lady; but the fault is mine: in no part hers. Were I possessed of a quick spasmodic style of narrative, I should have been able to include it all—Frank’s misbehaviour, Mary’s immediate anger, Augusta’s arrival, and keen, Argus-eyed inspection, and then Mary’s subsequent misery—in five words and half a dozen dashes and inverted commas. The thing should have been so told; for, to do Mary justice, she did not leave her hand in Frank’s a moment longer than she could help herself.
Frank, feeling the hand withdrawn, and hearing, when it was too late, the step on the gravel, turned sharply round. “Oh, it’s you, is it, Augusta? Well, what do you want?”
Augusta was not naturally very illnatured, seeing that in her veins the high de Courcy blood was somewhat tempered by an admixture of the Gresham attributes; nor was she predisposed to make her brother her enemy by publishing to the world any of his little tender peccadilloes; but she could not but bethink herself of what her aunt had been saying as to the danger of any such encounters as that she just now had beheld; she could not but start at seeing her brother thus, on the very brink of the precipice of which the countess had specially forewarned her mother. She, Augusta, was, as she well knew, doing her duty by her family by marrying a tailor’s son for whom she did not care a chip, seeing the tailor’s son was possessed of untold wealth. Now when one member of a household is making a struggle for a family, it is painful to see the benefit of that struggle negatived by the folly of another member. The future Mrs Moffat did feel aggrieved by the fatuity of the young heir, and, consequently,
