would come when she might see her the lady of Greshamsbury. And then the tear, which had been no whit controlled, which indeed had now made itself master of her, came to a head, and, bursting through the floodgates of the eye, came rolling down, and in its fall, wetted her hand as it lay on her lap. “What a fool! what an idiot! what an empty-headed cowardly fool I am!” said she, springing up from the bench on her feet.
As she did so, she heard voices close to her, at the little gate. They were those of her uncle and Frank Gresham.
“God bless you, Frank!” said the doctor, as he passed out of the grounds. “You will excuse a lecture, won’t you, from so old a friend?—though you are a man now, and discreet, of course, by Act of Parliament.”
“Indeed I will, doctor,” said Frank. “I will excuse a longer lecture than that from you.”
“At any rate it won’t be tonight,” said the doctor, as he disappeared. “And if you see Mary, tell her that I am obliged to go; and that I will send Janet down to fetch her.”
Now Janet was the doctor’s ancient maidservant.
Mary could not move on without being perceived; she therefore stood still till she heard the click of the door, and then began walking rapidly back to the house by the path which had brought her thither. The moment, however, that she did so, she found that she was followed; and in a very few moments Frank was alongside of her.
“Oh, Mary!” said he, calling to her, but not loudly, before he quite overtook her, “how odd that I should come across you just when I have a message for you! and why are you all alone?”
Mary’s first impulse was to reiterate her command to him to call her no more by her Christian name; but her second impulse told her that such an injunction at the present moment would not be prudent on her part. The traces of her tears were still there; and she well knew that a very little, the slightest show of tenderness on his part, the slightest effort on her own to appear indifferent, would bring down more than one other such intruder. It would, moreover, be better for her to drop all outward sign that she remembered what had taken place. So long, then, 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
