'No, I shall go to-morrow. I'm not fit for company for any one. Nor am I fit for anything. Read that, doctor. It's no use putting it off any longer. I must get you to talk this over with me. Just read that, and tell me what you think about it. It was written a week ago, but somehow I have only got it to-day.' And putting the letter into the doctor's hands, he turned away to the window, and looked out among the Holborn omnibuses. Dr Thorne took the letter and read it. Mary, after she had written it, had bewailed to herself that the letter was cold; but it had not seemed cold to her lover, nor did it appear so to her uncle. When Frank turned round from the window, the doctor's handkerchief was up to his eyes; who, in order to hide the tears that were there, was obliged to go through a rather violent process of blowing his nose.
'Well,' he said, as he gave back the letter to Frank.
Well! what did well mean? Was it well? or would it be well were he, Frank, to comply with the suggestion made to him by Mary?
'It is impossible,' he said, 'that matters should go on like that. Think what her sufferings must have been before she wrote that. I am sure she loves me.'
'I think she does,' said the doctor.
'And it is out of the question that she should be sacrificed; nor will I consent to sacrifice my own happiness. I am quite willing to work for my bread, and I am sure that I am able. I will not submit to--Doctor, what answer do you think I ought to give to that letter? There can be no person so anxious for her happiness as you are--except myself.' And as he asked the question, he again put into the doctor's hands, almost unconsciously, the letter which he had still been holding in his own.
The doctor turned it over and over, and then opened it again.
'What answer ought I to make to it?' demanded Frank, with energy.
'You see, Frank, I have never interfered in this matter, otherwise than to tell you the whole truth about Mary's birth.'
'Oh, but you must interfere: you should say what you think.'
'Circumstanced as you are now--that is, just at the present moment--you could hardly marry immediately.'
'Why not let me take a farm? My father could, at any rate, manage a couple of thousand pounds or so for me to stock it. That would not be asking much. If he could not give it me, I would not scruple to borrow so much elsewhere.' And Frank bethought him of all Miss Dunstable's offers.
'Oh, yes; that could be managed.'
'Then why not marry immediately; say in six months or so? I am not unreasonable; though, Heaven knows, I have been kept in suspense long enough. As for her, I am sure she must be suffering frightfully. You know her best, and, therefore, I ask you what answer I ought to make: as for myself, I have made up my own mind; I am not a child, nor will I let them treat me as such.'
Frank, as he spoke, was walking rapidly about the room; and h brought out his different positions, one after the other, with a little pause, while waiting for the doctor's answer. The doctor was sitting, with the letter still in his hands, on the head of the sofa, turning over in his mind the apparent absurdity of Frank's desire to borrow two thousand pounds for a farm, when, in all human probability, he might in a few months be in possession of almost any sum he should choose to name. And yet he would not tell him of Sir Roger's will. 'If it should turn out to be all wrong?' said he to himself.
'Do you wish me to give her up?' said Frank, at last.
'No. How can I wish it? How can I expect a better match for her?
Besides, Frank, I love no man in the world so well as I do you.'
'Then will you help me?'
'What! against your father?'
'Against! no, not against anybody. But will you tell Mary she has your consent?'
'I think she knows that.'
'But you have never said anything to her?'
'Look here, Frank; you ask me for my advice, and I will give it you: go home, though, indeed, I would rather you went anywhere else.'
'No, I must go home; and I must see her.'
'Very well, go home: as for seeing Mary, I think you had better put it off for a fortnight.'
'Quite impossible.'
'Well, that's my advice. But, at any rate, make up your mind to nothing for a fortnight. Wait for one fortnight, and I then will tell you plainly--you and her too--what I think you ought to do. At the end of a fortnight come to me, and tell the squire that I will take it as a great kindness if he will come with you. She has suffered terribly, terribly; and it is necessary that something should be settled. But a fortnight can make no great difference.'
'And the letter?'
'Oh! there's the letter.'
'But what shall I say? Of course I shall write to her to-night.'
'Tell her to wait a fortnight. And, Frank, mind you bring your father with you.'
Frank could draw nothing further from his friend save constant repetitions of this charge to him to wait a fortnight,--just one other fortnight.
'Well, I will come to you at any rate,' said Frank; 'and, if possible, I will bring my father. But I shall write to Mary to-night.'
On the Saturday morning, Mary, who was then nearly broken-hearted at her lover's silence, received a short note:--
'MY OWN MARY
'I shall be home to-morrow. I will by no means release you from your promise. Of course you will perceive that I only got your letter to-day.'
Your own dearest, FRANK.'
Short as it was, this sufficed Mary. It is one thing for a young lady to make prudent, heart-breaking suggestions, but quite another to have them accepted. She did call him dearest Frank, even on that one day, almost as often as he had desired her.
