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 the 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 to 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, out-spoken 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 all his ardour, with the impulse of his character, and asked her for her love. It was already his own. He had then demanded her troth, and she acknowledged that he had a right to demand it. She would be his if ever it should be in his power to take her.
But there let the bargain end. She would always remember, that though it was in her power to keep her pledge, it might too probably not be in his power to keep his. That doctrine, laid down so imperatively by the great authorities of Greshamsbury, that edict, which demanded that Frank should marry money, had come home also to her with a certain force. It would be sad that the fame of Greshamsbury should perish, and that the glory should depart from the old house. It might be, that Frank also should perceive that he must marry money. It would be a pity that he had not seen it sooner; but she, at any rate, would not complain.
And so she stood, leaning on the open window, with her book unnoticed lying beside her. The sun had been in the mid-sky when Frank had left her, but its rays were beginning to stream into the room from the west before she moved from her position. Her first thought in the morning had been this: Would he come to see her? Her last now was more soothing to her, less full of absolute fear: Would it be right that he should come again?
The first sounds she heard were the footsteps of her uncle, as he came up to the drawing-room, three steps at a time. His step was always heavy; but when he was disturbed in spirit, it was slow; when merely fatigued in body by ordinary work, it was quick.
'What a broiling day!' he said, and he threw himself into a chair. 'For mercy's sake, give me something to drink.' Now the doctor was a great man for summer-drinks. In his house, lemonade, currant-juice, orange-mixtures, and raspberry-vinegar were used by the quart. He frequently disapproved of these things for his patients, as being apt to disarrange the digestion; but he consumed enough himself to throw a large family into such difficulties.
'Ha-a!' he ejaculated after a draught; 'I'm better now. Well, what's the news?'
'You've been out, uncle; you ought to have the news. How's Mrs Green?'
'Really as bad as ennui and solitude can make her.'
'And Mrs Oaklerath?'
'She's getting better, because she has ten children to look after, and twins to suckle. What has he been doing?' And the doctor pointed towards the room occupied by Sir Louis.
Mary's conscience struck her that she had not even asked. She had hardly remembered, during the whole day, that the baronet was in the house. 'I do not think he has been doing much,' she said. 'Janet has been with him all day.'
'Has he been drinking?'
'Upon my word, I don't know, uncle. I think not, for Janet has been with him. But, uncle--'
'Well, dear--but just give me a little more of that tipple.'
Mary prepared the tumbler, and as she handed it to him, she said, 'Frank Gresham has been here to-day.'
The doctor swallowed his draught, and put down the glass before he made any reply, and even then he said but little.
'Oh! Frank Gresham.'
'Yes, uncle.'
'You thought him looking pretty well?'
'Yes, uncle; he was very well, I believe.'
Dr Thorne had nothing more to say, so he got up and went to his patient in the next room.
'If he disapproves of it, why does he not say so?' said Mary to herself.
'Why does he not advise me?'
But it was not so easy to give advice while Sir Louis Scatcherd was lying there in that state.
