'Wait a moment, Frank, and listen to me. She confessed that this marriage was one which would necessarily bring distress on all your family; that it was one which would probably be ruinous to yourself; that it was a match which could not be approved of: she did, indeed; she confessed all that. "I have nothing", she said--those were her own words--"I have nothing to say in favour of this engagement, except that he wishes it." That is what she thinks of it herself. "His wishes are not a reason; but a law," she said--'
'And, mother, would you have me desert such a girl as that?'
'It is not deserting, Frank: it would not be deserting: you would be doing that which she herself approves of. She feels the impropriety of going on; but she cannot draw back because of her promise to you. She thinks that she cannot do it, even though she wishes it.'
'Wishes it! Oh, mother!'
'I do believe she does, because she has sense to feel the truth of all that your friends say. Oh, Frank, I will go on my knees to you if you will listen to me.'
'Oh, mother! mother! mother!'
'You should think twice, Frank, before you refuse the only request your mother ever made you. And why do I ask you? why do I come to you thus?
Is it for my own sake? Oh, my boy! my darling boy! will you lose everything in life, because you love the child with whom you played with as a child?'
'Whose fault is it that we were together as children? She is now more than a child. I look on her already as my wife.'
'But she is not your wife, Frank; and she knows that she ought not to be. It is only because you hold her to it that she consents to it.'
'Do you mean to say that she does not love me?'
Lady Arabella would probably have said this, also, had she dared; but she felt that in doing so, she would be going too far. It was useless for her to say anything that would be utterly contradicted by an appeal to Mary herself.
'No, Frank; I do not mean to say that you do not love her. What I do mean is this: that it is not becoming in you to give up everything--not only yourself, but all your family--for such a love as this; and that she, Mary herself acknowledges this. Every one is of the same opinion.
Ask your father: I need not say that he would agree with you about everything he could. I will not say the De Courcys.'
'Oh, the De Courcys!'
'Yes, they are my relations, I know that.' Lady Arabella could not quite drop the tone of bitterness which was natural to her in saying this.
'But ask your sisters; ask Mr Oriel, whom you esteem so much; ask your friend Harry Baker.'
Frank sat silent for a moment or two while his mother, with a look almost of agony, gazed into his face. 'I will ask no one,' at last he said.
'Oh, my boy! my boy!'
'No one but myself can know my heart.'
'And you will sacrifice all to such a love as that, all; her, also, whom you say that you so love? What happiness can you give her as your wife?
Oh, Frank! is that the only answer you will make to your mother on her knees?
'Oh, mother! mother!'
'No, Frank, I will not let you ruin yourself; I will not let you destroy yourself. Promise this, at least, that you will think of what I have said.'
'Think of it! I do think of it.'
'Ah, but think of it in earnest. You will be absent now in London; you will have the business of the estate to manage; you will have heavy cares upon your hands. Think of it as a man, and not as a boy.'
'I will see her to-morrow before I go.'
'No, Frank, no; grant me that trifle, at any rate. Think upon this without seeing her. Do not proclaim yourself so weak that you cannot trust yourself to think over what your mother says to you without asking her leave. Though you be in love, do not be childish with it. What I have told you as coming from her is true, word for word; if it were not, you would soon learn so. Think now of what I have said, and of what she says, and when you come back from London, then you can decide.'
To so much Frank consented after some further parley; namely, that he would proceed to London on the following Monday morning without again seeing Mary. And in the meantime, she was waiting with sore heart for his answer to that letter that was lying, and was still to lie for so many hours, in the safe protection of Silverbridge postmistress.
It may seem strange; but, in truth, his mother's eloquence had more effect on Frank than that of his father: and yet, with his father he had always sympathized. But his mother had been energetic; whereas, his father, if not lukewarm, had, at any rate, been timid. 'I will ask no one,' Frank had said in the strong determination of his heart; and yet the words were hardly out of his mouth before he bethought himself that he would talk the thing over with Harry Baker. 'Not,' said he to himself, 'that I have any doubt: I have no doubt; but I hate to have all the world against me. My mother wishes me to ask Harry Baker. Harry is a good fellow, and I will ask him.' And with this resolve he betook himself to bed.
The following day was Sunday. After breakfast Frank went with the family to church, as was usual; and there, as usual, he saw Mary in Dr Thorne's pew. She, as she looked at him, could not but wonder why he had not answered the letter which was still at Silverbridge; and he endeavoured to read into her face whether it was true, as his mother told him, that she was quite ready to give him up. The prayers of both of them were disturbed, as is so often the case with the prayers of other anxious people.
There was a separate door opening from the Greshamsbury pew out into the Greshamsbury grounds, so that the family were not forced into unseemly community with the village multitude in going to and from their prayers; for the front door of the church led out into a road which had no connexion with the private path. It was not unusual with Frank and his father to go round, after the service, to the chief entrance, so that they might speak to their neighbours, and get rid of some of the exclusiveness which was intended for them. On this morning the squire did so; but Frank walked home with his mother and sisters, so that Mary saw no more of him.
