Frank rode home a happy man, cheering himself, as successful lovers do cheer themselves, with the brilliancy of his late exploit: nor was it till he had turned the corner into the Greshamsbury stables that he began to reflect what he would do next. It was all very well to have induced Mary to allow his three fingers to lie half a minute in her soft hand; the having done so might certainly be sufficient evidence that he had overcome one of the lions in his path; but it could hardly be said that all his difficulties were now smoothed. How was he to make further progress?

To Mary, also, the same ideas no doubt occurred — with many others. But, then, it was not for Mary to make any progress in the matter. To her at least belonged this passive comfort, that at present no act hostile to the De Courcy interest would be expected from her. All that she could do would be to tell her uncle so much as it was fitting that he should know. The doing this would doubtless be in some degree difficult; but it was not probable that there would be much difference, much of anything but loving anxiety for each other, between her and Dr Thorne. One other thing, indeed, she must do; Frank must be made to understand what her birth had been. ‘This,’ she said to herself, ‘will give him an opportunity of retracting what he has done should he choose to avail himself of it. It is well he should have such opportunity.’

But Frank had more than this to do. He had told Beatrice that he would make no secret of his love, and he fully resolved to be as good as his word. To his father he owed an unreserved confidence; and he was fully minded to give it. It was, he knew, altogether out of the question that he should at once marry a portionless girl without his father’s consent; probably out of the question that he should do so even with it. But he would, at any rate, tell his father, and then decide as to what should be done next. So resolving, he put his black horse into the stable and went into dinner. After dinner he and his father would be alone.

Yes; after dinner he and his father would be alone. He dressed himself hurriedly, for the dinner-bell was almost on the stroke as he entered the house. He said this to himself once and again; but when the meats and the puddings, and then the cheese were borne away, as the decanters were placed before his father, and Lady Arabella sipped her one glass of claret, and his sisters ate their portion of strawberries, his pressing anxiety for the coming interview began to wax somewhat dull.

His mother and sisters, however, rendered him no assistance by prolonging their stay. With unwonted assiduity he pressed a second glass of claret on his mother. But Lady Arabella was not only temperate in her habits, but also at the present moment very angry with her son. She thought that he had been to Boxall Hill, and was only waiting a proper moment to cross-question him sternly on the subject. Now she departed, taking her train of daughters with her.

‘Give me one big gooseberry,’ said Nina, as she squeezed herself in under her brother’s arm, prior to making her retreat. Frank would willingly have given her a dozen of the biggest, had she wanted them; but having got the one, she squeezed herself out again and scampered off.

The squire was very cheery this evening; from what cause cannot now be said. Perhaps he had succeeded in negotiating a further loan, thus temporarily sprinkling a drop of water over the ever-rising dust of his difficulties.

‘Well, Frank, what have you been after today? Peter told me you had the black horse out,’ said he, pushing the decanter to his son. ‘Take my advice, my boy, and don’t give him too much summer road-work. Legs won’t stand it, let them be ever so good.’

‘Why, sir, I was obliged to go out today, and therefore, it had to be either the old mare or the young horse.’

‘Why didn’t you take Ramble?’ Now Ramble was the squire’s own saddle hack, used for farm surveying, and occasionally for going to cover.

‘I shouldn’t think of doing that, sir.’

‘My dear boy, he is quite at your service; for goodness’ sake do let me have a little wine, Frank — quite at your service; any riding I have now is after the haymakers, and that’s all on the grass.’

‘Thank’ee, sir. Well, perhaps I will take a turn out of Ramble should I want it.’

‘Do, and pray, pray take care of that black horse’s legs. He’s turning out more of a horse than I took him to be, and I should be sorry to see him injured. Where have you been today?’

‘Well, father, I have something to tell you.’

‘Something to tell me!’ and then the squire’s happy and gay look, which had been only rendered more happy and more gay by his assumed anxiety about the black horse, gave place to a heaviness of visage which acrimony and misfortune had made so habitual to him. ‘Something to tell me!’ Any grave words like these always presaged some money difficulty to the squire’s ears. He loved Frank with the tenderest love. He would have done so under almost any circumstances; but, doubtless, that love had been made more palpable to himself by the fact that Frank had been a good son as regards money — not exigeant as was Lady Arabella, or selfishly reckless as was his nephew Lord Porlock. But now Frank must be in some difficulty about money. This was his first idea. ‘What is it, Frank; you have seldom had anything to say that has not been pleasant for me to hear?’ And then the heaviness of visage again gave way for a moment as his eye fell upon his son.

‘I have been to Boxall Hill, sir.’

The tenor of his father’s thoughts was changed in an instant; and the dread of immediate temporary annoyance gave place to true anxiety for his son. He, the squire, had been no party to Mary’s exile from his own domain; and he had seen with pain that she had now a second time been driven from her home: but he had never hitherto questioned the expediency of separating his son from Mary Thorne. Alas! it had become too necessary — too necessary through his own default — that Frank should marry money!

‘At Boxall Hill, Frank! Has that been prudent? Or, indeed, has it been generous to Miss Thorne, who has been driven there, as it were, by your imprudence?’

‘Father, it is well that we should understand each other about this —’

‘Fill your glass, Frank;’ Frank mechanically did as he was told, and passed the bottle.

‘I should never forgive myself were I to deceive you, or keep anything from you.’

‘I believe it is not in your nature to deceive me, Frank.’

‘The fact is, sir, that I have made up my mind that Mary Thorne shall be my wife — sooner or later, that is, unless, of course, she should utterly refuse. Hitherto, she has utterly refused me. I believe I may now say that she has accepted me.’

The squire sipped his claret, but at the moment said nothing. There was a quiet, manly, but yet modest determination about his son that he had hardly noticed before. Frank had become legally of age, legally a man, when he was twenty-one. Nature, it seems, had postponed the ceremony till he was twenty-two. Nature often does postpone the ceremony even to a much later age;— sometimes, altogether forgets to accomplish it.

The squire continued to sip his claret; he had to think over the matter a while before he could answer a statement so deliberately made by his son.

‘I think I may say so,’ continued Frank, with perhaps unnecessary modesty. ‘She is so honest that, had she not intended it, she would have said so honestly. Am I right, father, in thinking that, as regards Mary, personally, you would not reject her as a daughter-inlaw?’

‘Personally!’ said the squire, glad to have the subject presented to him in a view that enabled him to speak out. ‘Oh, no; personally, I should not object to her, for I love her dearly. She is a good girl. I do believe she is a good girl in every respect. I have always liked her; liked to see her about the house. But —’

‘I know what you would say, father.’ This was rather more than the squire knew himself. ‘Such a marriage is imprudent.’

‘It is more than that, Frank; I fear that is impossible.&rsqu............