Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) 📖

>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 Mary

with him that she also had hardly a gasp of hope in her heart. There

he paused for a moment, and then looking up into her face, he spoke

but one word more. “But,” said he—and there he stopped. It was

clearly told in that “but.” Thus would he do if Mary would declare

that she did not care for him. If, however, she could not bring

herself so to declare, then was he ready to throw his father and

mother to the winds; then would he stand his ground; then would he

look all other difficulties in the face, sure that they might finally

be overcome. Poor Mary! the whole onus of settling the matter was

thus thrown upon her. She had only to say that he was indifferent to

her;—that was all.

 

If “all the blood of the Howards” had depended upon it, she could

not have brought herself to utter such a falsehood. Indifferent to

her, as he walked there by her donkey’s side, talking thus earnestly

of his love for her! Was he not to her like some god come from the

heavens to make her blessed? Did not the sun shine upon him with a

halo, so that he was bright as an angel? Indifferent to her! Could

the open unadulterated truth have been practicable for her, she

would have declared her indifference in terms that would truly have

astonished him. As it was, she found it easier to say nothing. She

bit her lips to keep herself from sobbing. She struggled hard, but

in vain, to prevent her hands and feet from trembling. She seemed to

swing upon her donkey as though like to fall, and would have given

much to be upon her own feet upon the sward.

 

“Si la jeunesse savait …” There is so much in that wicked old

French 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 have

been sure of his game, and have felt that Mary’s silence told him

all he wished to know. But then, had he been forty-two instead of

twenty-two, he would not have been so ready to risk the acres of

Greshamsbury 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 came

over. 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 him

to stand still also. The beast required very little persuasion to be

so guided, and obligingly remained meekly passive.

 

“Mary, Mary!” said Frank, throwing his arms round her knees as she

sat 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 was

beyond that, and was now using all her efforts to prevent her tears

from falling absolutely on her lover’s face. She said nothing. She

could no more rebuke him now and send him from her than she could

encourage him. She could only sit there shaking and crying and

wishing she was on the ground. Frank, on the whole, rather liked the

donkey. It enabled him to approach somewhat nearer to an embrace than

he might have found practicable had they both been on their feet. The

donkey himself was quite at his ease, and looked as though he was

approvingly conscious of what was going on behind his ears.

 

“I have a right to a word, Mary; say ‘Go,’ and I will leave you at

once.”

 

But Mary did not say “Go.” Perhaps she would have done so had she

been able; but just at present she could say nothing. This came from

her having failed to make up her mind in due time as to what course

it 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 fingers

on to her palm, and there it remained unrepulsed. “La jeunesse”

was beginning to get a lesson; experience when duly sought after

sometimes 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 of

acquiescence. “My life, my own one, my own Mary!” and then the hand

was caught hold of and was at his lips before an effort could be made

to 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 to

Boxall Hill.” Frank turned round and instantly found himself shaking

hands with Sir Louis Scatcherd.

 

How Mary got over her confusion Frank never saw, for he had enough

to do to get over his own. He involuntarily deserted Mary and began

talking very fast to Sir Louis. Sir Louis did not once look at Miss

Thorne, but walked back towards the house with Mr Gresham, sulky

enough in temper, but still making some effort to do the fine

gentleman. Mary, glad to be left alone, merely occupied herself with

sitting on the donkey; and the donkey, when he found that the two

gentlemen went towards the house, for company’s sake and for his

stable’s sake, followed after them.

 

Frank stayed but three minutes in the house; gave another kiss to

Lady Scatcherd, getting three in return, and thereby infinitely

disgusting Sir Louis, shook hands, anything but warmly, with the

young baronet, and just felt the warmth of Mary’s hand within his

own. He felt also the warmth of her eyes’ last glance, and rode home

a happy man.