if not to her kindness, at least to her forbearance; and she knew, felt inwardly certain, that she would be doing wrong, that the world would say she was doing wrong, that her uncle would think her wrong, if she endeavoured to take advantage of what had passed.
She had not for an instant doubted; not for a moment had she contemplated it as possible that she should ever become Mrs Gresham because Frank had offered to make her so; but, nevertheless, she could not help thinking of what had occurred—of thinking of it, most probably much more than Frank did himself.
A day or two afterwards, on the evening before Frank’s birthday, she was alone with her uncle, walking in the garden behind their house, and she then essayed to question him, with the object of learning if she were fitted by her birth to be the wife of such a one as Frank Gresham. They were in the habit of walking there together when he happened to be at home of a summer’s evening. This was not often the case, for his hours of labour extended much beyond those usual to the upper working world, the hours, namely, between breakfast and dinner; but those minutes that they did thus pass together, the doctor regarded as perhaps the pleasantest of his life.
“Uncle,” said she, after a while, “what do you think of this marriage of Miss Gresham’s?”
“Well, Minnie”—such was his name of endearment for her—”I can’t say I have thought much about it, and I don’t suppose anybody else has either.”
“She must think about it, of course; and so must he, I suppose.”
“I’m not so sure of that. Some folks would never get married if they had to trouble themselves with thinking about it.”
“I suppose that’s why you never got married, uncle?”
“Either that, or thinking of it too much. One is as bad as the other.”
Mary had not contrived to get at all near her point as yet; so she had to draw off, and after a while begin again.
“Well, I have been thinking about it, at any rate, uncle.”
“That’s very good of you; that will save me the trouble; and perhaps save Miss Gresham too. If you have thought it over thoroughly, that will do for all.”
“I believe Mr Moffat is a man of no family.”
“He’ll mend in that point, no doubt, when he has got a wife.”
“Uncle, you’re a goose; and what is worse, a very provoking goose.”
“Niece, you’re a gander; and what is worse, a very silly gander. What is Mr Moffat’s family to you and me? Mr Moffat has that which ranks above family honours. He is a very rich man.”
“Yes,” said Mary, “I know he is rich; and a rich man I suppose can buy anything—except a woman that is worth having.”
“A rich man can buy anything,” said the doctor; “not that I meant to say that Mr Moffat has bought Miss Gresham. I have no doubt that they will suit each other very well,” he added with an air of decisive authority, as though he had finished the subject.
But his niece was determined not to let him pass so. “Now, uncle,” said she, “you know you are pretending to a great deal of worldly wisdom, which, after all, is not wisdom at all in your eyes.”
“Am I?”
“You know you are: and as for the impropriety of discussing Miss Gresham’s marriage—”
“I did not say it was improper.”
“Oh, yes, you did; of course such things must be discussed. How is one to have an opinion if one does not get it by looking at the things which happen around us?”
“Now I am going to be blown up,” said Dr Thorne.
“Dear uncle, do be serious with me.”
“Well, then, seriously, I hope Miss Gresham will be very happy as Mrs Moffat.”
“Of course you do: so do I. I hope it as much as I can hope what I don’t at all see ground for expecting.”
“People constantly hope without any such ground.”
“Well, then, I’ll hope in this case. But, uncle—”
“Well, my dear?”
“I want your opinion, truly and really. If you were a girl—”
“I am perfectly unable to give any opinion founded on so strange an hypothesis.”
“Well; but if you were a marrying man.”
“The hypothesis is quite as much out of my way.”
“But, uncle, I am a girl, and perhaps I may marry;—or at any rate think of marrying some day.”
“The latter alternative is certainly possible enough.”
“Therefore, in seeing a friend taking such a step, I cannot but speculate on the matter as though I were myself in her place. If I were Miss Gresham, should I be right?”
“But, Minnie, you are not Miss Gresham.”
“No, I am Mary Thorne; it is a very different thing, I know. I suppose I might marry any one without degrading myself.”
It was almost illnatured of her to say this; but she had not meant to say it in the sense which the sounds seemed to bear. She had failed in being able to bring her uncle to the point she wished by the road she had planned, and in seeking another road, she had abruptly fallen into unpleasant places.
“I should be very sorry that my niece should think so,” said he; “and am sorry, too, that she should say so. But, Mary, to tell the truth, I hardly know at what you are driving. You are, I think, not so clear minded—certainly, not so clear worded—as is usual with you.”
“I will tell you, uncle;” and, instead of looking up into his face, she turned her eyes down on the green lawn beneath her feet.
“Well, Minnie, what is it?” and he took both her hands in his.
“I think that Miss Gresham should not marry Mr Moffat. I think so because her family is high and noble, and because he is low and ignoble. When one has an opinion on such matters, one cannot but apply it to things and people around one; and having applied my opinion to her, the next step naturally is to apply it to myself. Were I Miss Gresham, I would not marry Mr Moffat though he rolled in gold. I know where to rank Miss Gresham. What I want to know is, where I ought to rank myself?”
They had been standing when she commenced her last speech; but as she finished it, the doctor moved on again, and she moved with him. He walked on slowly without answering her; and she, out of her full mind, pursued aloud the tenor of her thoughts.
“If a woman feels that she would not lower herself by marrying in a rank beneath herself, she ought also to feel that she would not lower a man that she might love by allowing him to marry into a rank beneath his own—that is, to marry her.”
“That does not follow,” said the doctor quickly. “A man raises a woman to his
