CHAPTER XXIX
The Donkey Ride
Sir Louis, when left to himself, was slightly dismayed and somewhatdiscouraged; but he was not induced to give up his object. The firsteffort of his mind was made in conjecturing what private motiveDr Thorne could possibly have in wishing to debar his niece frommarrying a rich young baronet. That the objection was personal tohimself, Sir Louis did not for a moment imagine. Could it be that thedoctor did not wish that his niece should be richer, and grander, andaltogether bigger than himself? Or was it possible that his guardianwas anxious to prevent him from marrying from some view of thereversion of the large fortune? That there was some such reason, SirLouis was well sure; but let it be what it might, he would get thebetter of the doctor. "He knew," so he said to himself, "what stuffgirls were made of. Baronets did not grow like blackberries." And so,assuring himself with such philosophy, he determined to make hisoffer.
The time he selected for doing this was the hour before dinner; buton the day on which his conversation with the doctor had taken place,he was deterred by the presence of a strange visitor. To account forthis strange visit it will be necessary that we should return toGreshamsbury for a few minutes.
Frank, when he returned home for his summer vacation, found thatMary had again flown; and the very fact of her absence added fuel tothe fire of his love, more perhaps than even her presence might havedone. For the flight of the quarry ever adds eagerness to the pursuitof the huntsman. Lady Arabella, moreover, had a bitter enemy; afoe, utterly opposed to her side in the contest, where she had oncefondly looked for her staunchest ally. Frank was now in the habitof corresponding with Miss Dunstable, and received from her mostenergetic admonitions to be true to the love which he had sworn. Trueto it he resolved to be; and therefore, when he found that Mary wasflown, he resolved to fly after her.
He did not, however, do this till he had been in a measure provokedto it by it by the sharp-tongued cautions and blunted irony of hismother. It was not enough for her that she had banished Mary out ofthe parish, and made Dr Thorne's life miserable; not enough thatshe harassed her husband with harangues on the constant subject ofFrank's marrying money, and dismayed Beatrice with invectives againstthe iniquity of her friend. The snake was so but scotched; to kill itoutright she must induce Frank utterly to renounce Miss Thorne.
This task she essayed, but not exactly with success. "Well, mother,"said Frank, at last turning very red, partly with shame, and partlywith indignation, as he made the frank avowal, "since you press meabout it, I tell you fairly that my mind is made up to marry Marysooner or later, if--"
"Oh, Frank! good heavens! you wicked boy; you are saying thispurposely to drive me distracted."
"If," continued Frank, not attending to his mother's interjections,"if she will consent."
"Consent!" said Lady Arabella. "Oh, heavens!" and falling into thecorner of the sofa, she buried her face in her handkerchief.
"Yes, mother, if she will consent. And now that I have told you somuch, it is only just that I should tell you this also; that as faras I can see at present I have no reason to hope that she will doso."
"Oh, Frank, the girl is doing all she can to catch you," said LadyArabella,--not prudently.
"No, mother; there you wrong her altogether; wrong her most cruelly."
"You ungracious, wicked boy! you call me cruel!"
"I don't call you cruel; but you wrong her cruelly, most cruelly.When I have spoken to her about this--for I have spoken to her--shehas behaved exactly as you would have wanted her to do; but not atall as I wished her. She has given me no encouragement. You haveturned her out among you"--Frank was beginning to be very bitternow--"but she has done nothing to deserve it. If there has been anyfault it has been mine. But it is well that we should all understandeach other. My intention is to marry Mary if I can." And, sospeaking, certainly without due filial respect, he turned towards thedoor.
"Frank," said his mother, raising herself up with energy to make onelast appeal. "Frank, do you wish to see me die of a broken heart?"
"You know, mother, I would wish to make you happy, if I could."
"If you wish to see me ever happy again, if you do not wish to seeme sink broken-hearted to my grave, you must give up this mad idea,Frank,"--and now all Lady Arabella's energy came out. "Frank there isbut one course left open to you. You MUST _marry money_." And thenLady Arabella stood up before her son as Lady Macbeth might havestood, had Lady Macbeth lived to have a son of Frank's years.
"Miss Dunstable, I suppose," said Frank, scornfully. "No, mother; Imade an ass, and worse than an ass of myself once in that way, and Iwon't do it again. I hate money."
"Oh, Frank!"
"I hate money."
"But, Frank, the estate?"
"I hate the estate--at least I shall hate it if I am expected to buyit at such a price as that. The estate is my father's."
"Oh, no, Frank; it is not."
"It is in the sense I mean. He may do with it as he pleases; he willnever have a word of complaint from me. I am ready to go into aprofession to-morrow. I'll be a lawyer, or a doctor, or an engineer;I don't care what." Frank, in his enthusiasm, probably overlookedsome of the preliminary difficulties. "Or I'll take a farm under him,and earn my bread that way; but, mother, don't talk to me any moreabout marrying money." And, so saying, Frank left the room.
Frank, it will be remembered, was twenty-one when he was firstintroduced to the reader; he is now twenty-two. It may be said thatthere was a great difference between his character then and now. Ayear at that period will make a great difference; but the change hasbeen, not in his character, but in his feelings.
Frank went out from his mother and immediately ordered his blackhorse to be got ready for him. He would at once go over to BoxallHill. He went himself to the stables to give his orders; and as hereturned to get his gloves and whip he met Beatrice in the corridor.
"Beatrice," said he, "step in here," and she followed him into hisroom. "I'm not going to bear this any longer; I'm going to BoxallHill."
"Oh, Frank! how can you be so imprudent?"
"You, at any rate, have some decent feeling for Mary. I believe youhave some regard for her; and therefore I tell you. Will you send herany message?"
"Oh, yes; my best, best love; that is if you will see her; but,Frank, you are very foolish, very; and she will be infinitelydistressed."
"Do not mention this, that is, not at present; not that I mean tomake any secret of it. I shall tell my father everything. I'm offnow!" and then, paying no attention to her remonstrance, he turneddown the stairs and was soon on horseback.
He took the road to Boxall Hill, but he did not ride very fast: hedid not go jauntily as a jolly, thriving wooer; but musingly, andoften with diffidence, meditating every now and then whether itwould not be better for him to turn back: to turn back--but not fromfear of his mother; not from prudential motives; not because thatoften-repeated lesson as to marrying money was beginning to takeeffect; not from such causes as these; but because he doubted how hemight be received by Mary.
He did, it is true, think something about his worldly prospects. Hehad talked rather grandiloquently to his mother as to his hatingmoney, and hating the estate. His mother's never-ceasing worldlycares on such subjects perhaps demanded that a little grandiloquenceshould be opposed to them. But Frank did not hate the estate; nor didhe at all hate the position of an English country gentleman. MissDunstable's eloquence, however, rang in his ears. For Miss Dunstablehad an eloquence of her own, even in her letters. "Never let themtalk you out of your own true, honest, hearty feelings," she hadsaid. "Greshamsbury is a very nice place, I am sure; and I hope Ishall see it some day; but all its green knolls are not half so nice,should not be half so precious, as the pulses of your own heart. Thatis your own estate, your own, your very own--your own and another's;whatever may go to the money-lenders, don't send that there. Don'tmortgage that, Mr Gresham."
"No," said Frank, pluckily, as he put his horse into a faster trot,"I
won't mortgage that. They may do what they like with the estate;but my heart's my own," and so speaking to himself, almost aloud, heturned a corner of the road rapidly and came at once upon the doctor.
"Hallo, doctor! is that you?" said Frank, rather disgusted.
"What! Frank! I hardly expected to meet you here," said Dr Thorne,not much better pleased.
They were now not above a mile from Boxall Hill, and the doctor,therefore, could not but surmise whither Frank was going. They hadrepeatedly met since Frank's return from Cambridge, both in thevillage and in the doctor's house; but not a word had been saidbetween them about Mary beyond what the merest courtesy had required.Not that each did not love the other sufficiently to make a fullconfidence between them desirable to both; but neither had had thecourage to speak out.
Nor had either of them the courage to do so now. "Yes," said Frank,blushing, "I am going to Lady Scatcherd's. Shall I find the ladies athome?"
"Yes; Lady Scatcherd is there; but Sir Louis is there also--aninvalid: perhaps you would not wish to meet him."
"Oh! I don't mind," said Frank, trying to laugh; "he won't bite, Isuppose?"
The doctor longed in his heart to pray to Frank to return with him;not to go and make further mischief; not to do that which might causea more bitter estrangement between himself and the squire. But he hadnot the courage to do it. He could not bring himself to accuse Frankof being in love with his niece. So after a few more senseless wordson either side, words which each knew to be senseless as he utteredthem, they both rode on their own ways.
And then the doctor silently, and almost unconsciously, made such acomparison between Louis Scatcherd and Frank Gresham as Hamlet madebetween the dead and live king. It was Hyperion to a satyr. Was itnot as impossible that Mary should not love the one, as that sheshould love the other? Frank's offer of his affections had at firstprobably been but a boyish ebullition of feeling; but if it shouldnow be, that this had grown into a manly and disinterested love, howcould Mary remain unmoved? What could her heart want more, better,more beautiful, more rich than such a love as his? Was he notpersonally all that a girl could like? Were not his disposition,mind, character, acquirements, all such as women most delight tolove? Was it not impossible that Mary should be indifferent to him?
So meditated the doctor as he rode along, with only too true aknowledge of human nature. Ah! it was impossible, it was quiteimpossible that Mary should be indifferent. She had never beenindifferent since Frank had uttered his first half-joking word oflove. Such things are more important to women than they are to men,to girls than they are to boys. When Frank had first told her that heloved her; aye, months before that, when he merely looked his love,her heart had received the whisper, had acknowledged the glance,unconscious as she was herself, and resolved as she was to rebuke hisadvances. When, in her hearing, he had said soft nothings to PatienceOriel, a hated, irrepressible tear had gathered in her eye. When hehad pressed in his warm, loving grasp the hand which she had offeredhim as a token of mere friendship, her heart had forgiven him thetreachery, nay, almost thanked him for it, before her eyes orher words had been ready to rebuke him. When the rumour of hisliaison with Miss Dunstable reached her ears, when she heard ofMiss Dunstable's fortune, she had wept, wept outright, in herchamber--wept, as she said to herself, to think that he should be somercenary; but she had wept, as she should have said to herself, atfinding that he was so faithless. Then, when she knew at last thatthis rumour was false, when she found that she was banished fromGreshamsbury for his sake, when she was forced to retreat with herfriend Patience, how could she but love him, in that he was notmercenary? How could she not love him in that he was so faithful?
It was impossible that she should not love him. Was he not thebrightest and the best of men that she had ever seen, or was liketo see?--that she could possibly ever see, she would have said toherself, could she have brought herself to own the truth? And then,when she heard how true he was, how he persisted against father,mother, and sisters, how could it be that that should not be a meritin her eyes which was so great a fault in theirs? When Beatrice, withwould-be solemn face, but with eyes beaming with feminine affection,would gravely talk of Frank's tender love as a terrible misfortune,as a misfortune to them all, to Mary herself as well as others, howcould Mary do other than love him? "Beatrice is his sister," shewould say within her own mind, "otherwise she would never talk likethis; were she not his sister, she could not but know the value ofsuch love as this." Ah! yes; Mary did love him; love him with all thestrength of her heart; and the strength of her heart was very great.And now by degrees, in those lonely donkey-rides at Boxall Hill, inthose solitary walks, she was beginning to own to herself the truth.
And now that she did own it, what should be her course? What shouldshe do, how should she act if this loved one persevered in hislove? And, ah! what should she do, how should she act if he did notpersevere? Could it be that there should be happiness in store forher? Was it not too clear that, let the matter go how it would, therewas no happiness in store for her? Much as she might love FrankGresham, she could never consent to be his wife unless the squirewould smile on her as his daughter-in-law. The squire had beenall that was kind, all that was affectionate. And then, too, LadyArabella! As she thought of the Lady Arabella a sterner form ofthought came across her brow. Why should Lady Arabella rob her of herheart's joy? What was Lady Arabella that she, Mary Thorne, need quailbefore her? Had Lady Arabella stood only in her way, Lady Arabella,flanked by the de Courcy legion, Mary felt that she could havedemanded Frank's hand as her own before them all without a blush ofshame or a moment's hesitation. Thus, when her heart was all butready to collapse within her, would she gain some little strength bythinking of the Lady Arabella.
"Please, my lady, here be young squoire Gresham," said one of theuntutored servants at Boxall Hill, opening Lady Scatcherd's littleparlour door as her ladyship was amusing herself by pulling down andturning, and re-folding, and putting up again, a heap of householdlinen which was kept in a huge press for the express purpose ofsupplying her with occupation.
Lady Scatcherd, holding a vast counterpane in her arms, looked backover her shoulders and perceived that Frank was in the room. Downwent the counterpane on the ground, and Frank soon found himself inthe very position which that useful article had so lately filled.
"Oh! Master Frank! oh, Master Frank!" said her ladyship, almost in anhysterical fit of joy; and then she hugged and kissed him as she hadnever kissed and hugged her own son since that son had first left theparent nest.
Frank bore it patiently and with a merry laugh. "But, LadyScatcherd," said he, "what will they all say? you forget I am a mannow," and he stooped his head as she again pressed her lips upon hisforehead.
"I don't care what none of 'em say," said her ladyship, quite goingback to her old days; "I will kiss my own boy; so I will. Eh, butMaster Frank, this is good of you. A sight of you is good for soreeyes; and my eyes have been sore enough too since I saw you;" and sheput her apron up to wipe away a tear.
"Yes," said Frank, gently trying to disengage himself, but notsuccessfully; "yes, you have had a great loss, Lady Scatcherd. I wasso sorry when I heard of your grief."
"You always had a soft, kind heart, Master Frank; so you had. God'sblessing on you! What a fine man you have grown! Deary me! Well, itseems as though it were only just t'other day like." And she pushedhim a little off from her, so that she might look the better into hisface.
"Well. Is it all right? I suppose you would hardly know me again nowI've got a pair of whiskers?"
"Know you! I should know you well if I saw but the heel of yourfoot. Why, what a head of hair you have got, and so dark too! but itdoesn't curl as it used once." And she stroked his hair, and lookedinto his eyes, and put her hand to his cheeks. "You'll think me anold fool, Master Frank: I know that; but you may think what you like.If I live for the next twenty years you'll always be my own boy; soyou will."
By degrees, slow degrees, Frank managed to change the conv
ersation,and to induce Lady Scatcherd to speak on some other topic than hisown infantine perfections. He affected an indifference as he spoke ofher guest, which would have deceived no one but Lady Scatcherd; buther it did deceive; and then he asked where Mary was.
"She's just gone out on her donkey--somewhere about the place. Sherides on a donkey mostly every day. But you'll stop and take a bit ofdinner with us? Eh, now do 'ee, Master Frank."
But Master Frank excused himself. He did not choose to pledge himselfto sit down to dinner with Mary. He did not know in what mood theymight return with regard to each other at dinner-time. He said,therefore, that he would walk out and, if possible, find Miss Thorne;and that he would return to the house again before he went.
Lady Scatcherd then began making apologies for Sir Louis. He was aninvalid; the doctor had been with him all the morning, and he was notyet out of his room.
These apologies Frank willingly accepted, and then made his way ashe could on to the lawn. A gardener, of whom he inquired, offered togo with him in pursuit of Miss Thorne. This assistance, however, hedeclined, and set forth in quest of her, having learnt what were hermost usual haunts. Nor was he directed wrongly; for after walkingabout twenty minutes, he saw through the trees the legs of a donkeymoving on the green-sward, at about two hundred yards from him. Onthat donkey doubtless sat Mary Thorne.
The donkey was coming towards him; not exactly in a straight line,but so much so as to make it impossible that Mary should not see himif he stood still. He did stand still, and soon emerging from thetrees, Mary saw him all but close to her.
Her heart gave a leap within her, but she was so far mistress ofherself as to repress any visible sign of outward emotion. She didnot fall from her donkey, or scream, or burst into tears. She merelyuttered the words, "Mr Gresham!" in a tone of not unnatural surprise.
"Yes," said he, trying to laugh, but less successful than she hadbeen in suppressing a show of feeling. "Mr Gresham! I have come overat last to pay my respects to you. You must have thought me veryuncourteous not to do so before."
This she denied. "She had not," she said, "thought him at alluncivil. She had come to Boxall Hill to be out of the way; and, ofcourse, had not expected any such formalities." As she uttered thisshe almost blushed at the abrupt truth of what she was saying. Butshe was taken so much unawares that she did not know how to make thetruth other than abrupt.
"To be out of the way!" said Frank. "And why should you want to beout of the way?"
"Oh! there were reasons," said she, laughing. "Perhaps I havequarrelled dreadfully with my uncle."
Frank at the present moment had not about him a scrap of badinage. Hehad not a single easy word at his command. He could not answer herwith anything in guise of a joke; so he walked on, not answering atall.
"I hope all my friends at Greshamsbury are well," said Mary. "IsBeatrice quite well?"
"Quite well," said he.
"And Patience?"
"What, Miss Oriel; yes, I believe so. I haven't seen her this day ortwo." How was it that Mary felt a little flush of joy, as Frank spokein this indifferent way about Miss Oriel's health?
"I thought she was always a particular friend of yours," said she.
"What! who? Miss Oriel? So she is! I like her amazingly; so doesBeatrice." And then he walked about six steps in silence, plucking upcourage for the great attempt. He did pluck up his courage and thenrushed at once to the attack.
"Mary!" said he, and as he spoke he put his hand on the donkey'sneck, and looked tenderly into her face. He looked tenderly, and, asMary's ear at once told her, his voice sounded more soft than it hadever sounded before. "Mary, do you remember the last time that wewere together?"
Mary did remember it well. It was on that occasion when he hadtreacherously held her hand; on that day when, according to law, hehad become a man; when he had outraged all the propriety of the deCourcy 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 wasyour birthday, I think," said she.
"Yes, it was my birthday. I wonder whether you remember what I saidto 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 soawkwardly, like a boy. Perhaps I may be just as awkward now; but youought at any rate to believe me when you find that a year has notaltered me."
Mary did not think him at all awkward, and she did believe him. Buthow was she to answer him? She had not yet taught herself what answershe ought to make if he persisted in his suit. She had hitherto beencontent to run away from him; but she had done so because she wouldnot submit to be accused of the indelicacy of putting herself in hisway. She had rebuked him when he first spoke of his love; but she haddone so because she looked on what he said as a boy's nonsense. Shehad schooled herself in obedience to the Greshamsbury doctrines. Wasthere any real reason, any reason founded on truth and honesty, whyshe should not be a fitting wife to Frank Gresham,--Francis NewboldGresham, of Greshamsbury, though he was, or was to be?
He was well born--as well born as any gentleman in England. Shewas basely born--as basely born as any lady could be. Was thissufficient bar against such a match? Mary felt in her heart that sometwelvemonth since, before she knew what little she did now know ofher own story, she would have said it was so. And would she indulgeher own love by inveigling him she loved into a base marriage? Butthen reason spoke again. What, after all, was this blood of which shehad taught herself to think so much? Would she have been more honest,more fit to grace an honest man's hearthstone, had she been thelegitimate descendant of a score of legitimate duchesses? Was it nother first duty to think of him--of what would make him happy? Then ofher uncle--what he would approve? Then of herself--what would bestbecome her modesty; her sense of honour? Could it be well that sheshould sacrifice the happiness of two persons to a theoretic love ofpure 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 otherformer occasions as she had ridden along demurely among those trees.So she had argued; but she had never brought her arguments to adecision. All manner of thoughts crowded on her to prevent her doingso. She would think of the squire, and resolve to reject Frank; andwould then remember Lady Arabella, and resolve to accept him. Herresolutions, however, were most irresolute; and so, when Frankappeared in person before her, carrying his heart in his hand, shedid not know what answer to make to him. Thus it was with her as withso many other maidens similarly circumstanced; at last she left itall to chance.
"You ought, at any rate, to believe me," said Frank, "when you findthat a year has not altered me."
"A year should have taught you to be wiser," said she. "You shouldhave learnt by this time, Mr Gresham, that your lot and mine are notcast in the same mould; that our stations in life are different.Would your father or mother approve of your even coming here to seeme?"
Mary, as she spoke these sensible words, felt that they were "flat,stale, and unprofitable." She felt, also, that they were not true insense; that they did not come from her heart; that they were not suchas Frank deserved at her hands, and she was ashamed of herself.
"My father I hope will approve of it," said he. "That my mothershould disapprove of it is a misfortune which I cannot help; buton this point I will take no answer from my father or mother; thequestion is one too personal to myself. Mary, if you say that youwill not, or cannot return my love, I will go away;--not from hereonly, but from Greshamsbury. My presence shall not banish you fromall that you hold dear. If you can honestly say that I am nothing toyou, can be nothing to you, I will then tell my mother that she maybe 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 Marywith him that she also had hardly a gasp of hope in her heart. Therehe paused for a moment,
and then looking up into her face, he spokebut one word more. "But," said he--and there he stopped. It wasclearly told in that "but." Thus would he do if Mary would declarethat she did not care for him. If, however, she could not bringherself so to declare, then was he ready to throw his father andmother to the winds; then would he stand his ground; then would helook all other difficulties in the face, sure that they might finallybe overcome. Poor Mary! the whole onus of settling the matter wasthus thrown upon her. She had only to say that he was indifferent toher;--that was all.
If "all the blood of the Howards" had depended upon it, she couldnot have brought herself to utter such a falsehood. Indifferent toher, as he walked there by her donkey's side, talking thus earnestlyof his love for her! Was he not to her like some god come from theheavens to make her blessed? Did not the sun shine upon him with ahalo, so that he was bright as an angel? Indifferent to her! Couldthe open unadulterated truth have been practicable for her, shewould have declared her indifference in terms that would truly haveastonished him. As it was, she found it easier to say nothing. Shebit her lips to keep herself from sobbing. She struggled hard, butin vain, to prevent her hands and feet from trembling. She seemed toswing upon her donkey as though like to fall, and would have givenmuch to be upon her own feet upon the sward.
"_Si la jeunesse savait . . ._" There is so much in that wicked oldFrench proverb! Had Frank known more about a woman's mind--had he,that is, been forty-two instead of twenty-two--he would at once havebeen sure of his game, and have felt that Mary's silence told himall he wished to know. But then, had he been forty-two instead oftwenty-two, he would not have been so ready to risk the acres ofGreshamsbury for the smiles of Mary Thorne.
"If you can't say one word to comfort me, I will go," said he,disconsolately. "I made up my mind to tell you this, and so I cameover. I told Lady Scatcherd I should not stay,--not even for dinner."
"I did not know you were so hurried," said she, almost in a whisper.
On a sudden he stood still, and pulling the donkey's rein, caused himto stand still also. The beast required very little persuasion to beso guided, and obligingly remained meekly passive.
"Mary, Mary!" said Frank, throwing his arms round her knees as shesat upon her steed, and pressing his face against her body. "Mary,you were always honest; be honest now. I love you with all my heart.Will you be my wife?"
But still Mary said not a word. She no longer bit her lips; she wasbeyond that, and was now using all her efforts to prevent her tearsfrom falling absolutely on her lover's face. She said nothing. Shecould no more rebuke him now and send him from her than she couldencourage him. She could only sit there shaking and crying andwishing she was on the ground. Frank, on the whole, rather liked thedonkey. It enabled him to approach somewhat nearer to an embrace thanhe might have found practicable had they both been on their feet. Thedonkey himself was quite at his ease, and looked as though he wasapprovingly conscious of what was going on behind his ears.
"I have a right to a word, Mary; say 'Go,' and I will leave you atonce."
But Mary did not say "Go." Perhaps she would have done so had shebeen able; but just at present she could say nothing. This came fromher having failed to make up her mind in due time as to what courseit would best become her to follow.
"One word, Mary; one little word. There, if you will not speak,here is my hand. If you will have it, let it lie in yours;--if not,push it away." So saying, he managed to get the end of his fingerson to her palm, and there it remained unrepulsed. "La jeunesse"was beginning to get a lesson experience when duly sought aftersometimes comes early in life.
In truth Mary had not strength to push the fingers away. "My love,my own, my own!" said Frank, presuming on this very negative sign ofacquiescence. "My life, my own one, my own Mary!" and then the handwas caught hold of and was at his lips before an effort could be madeto save it from such treatment.
"Mary, look at me; say one word to me."
There was a deep sigh, and then came the one word--"Oh, Frank!"
"Mr Gresham, I hope I have the honour of seeing you quite well,"said a voice close to his ear. "I beg to say that you are welcome toBoxall Hill." Frank turned round and instantly found himself shakinghands with Sir Louis Scatcherd.
How Mary got over her confusion Frank never saw, for he had enoughto do to get over his own. He involuntarily deserted Mary and begantalking very fast to Sir Louis. Sir Louis did not once look at MissThorne, but walked back towards the house with Mr Gresham, sulkyenough in temper, but still making some effort to do the finegentleman. Mary, glad to be left alone, merely occupied herself withsitting on the donkey; and the donkey, when he found that the twogentlemen went towards the house, for company's sake and for hisstable's sake, followed after them.
Frank stayed but three minutes in the house; gave another kiss toLady Scatcherd, getting three in return, and thereby infinitelydisgusting Sir Louis, shook hands, anything but warmly, with theyoung baronet, and just felt the warmth of Mary's hand within hisown. He felt also the warmth of her eyes' last glance, and rode homea happy man.
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