Frank had once held her close to his warm breast; and her very soul had thrilled with joy to feel that he so loved her,--with a joy which she hardly dared to acknowledge. At that moment, her maidenly efforts had been made to push him off, but her heart had grown to his. She had acknowledged him to be master of her spirit; her bosom's lord; the man whom she had been born to worship; the human being to whom it was for her to link her destiny. Frank's acres had been of no account; nor had his want of acres. God had brought them two together that they should love each other; that conviction had satisfied her, and she had made it a duty to herself that she would love him with her very soul. And now she was called upon to wrench herself asunder from him because she had nothing to give in return!
Well, she would wrench herself asunder, as far as such wrenching might be done compatibly with her solemn promise. It might be right that Frank should have an opportunity offered him, so that he might escape from his position without disgrace. She would endeavour to give him this opportunity. So, with one deep sigh, she arose, took herself pen, ink, and paper, and sat herself down again so that the wrenching might begin.
And then, for a moment, she thought of her uncle. Why had he not spoken to her of all this? Why had he not warned her? He who had ever been so good to her, why had he now failed her so grievously? She had told him everything, had had no secret from him; but he had never answered her a word. 'He also must have known' she said to herself, piteously, 'he also must have known that I could give nothing in return.' Such accusation, however, availed her not at all, so she sat down and slowly wrote her letter.
'Dearest Frank,' she began. She had first written 'dear Mr Gresham'; but her heart revolted against such useless coldness. She was not going to pretend she did not love him.
'DEAREST FRANK, 'Your mother has been here talking to me about our engagement.
I do not generally agree with her about such matters; but she has said some things to-day which I cannot but acknowledge to be true. She says, that our marriage would be distressing to your father, injurious to all your family, and ruinous to yourself. If this be so, how can I, who love you, wish for such a marriage?
'I remember my promise, and have kept it. I would not yield to your mother when she desired me to disclaim our engagement.
But I do think it will be more prudent if you will consent to forget all that has passed between us--not, perhaps, to forget it; that may not be possible for us--but to let it pass by as though it had never been. If so, if you think so, dear Frank, do not have any scruples on my account. What will be best for you, must be best for me. Think what a reflection it would ever be to me, to have been the ruin of one that I love so well.
'Let me have but one word to say that I am released from my promise, and I will tell my uncle that the matter between us is over. It will be painful for us at first; those occasional meetings which must take place will distress us, but that will wear off. We shall always think well of each other, and why should we not be friends? This, doubtless, cannot be done without inward wounds; but such wounds are in God's hands, and He can cure them.
'I know your first feelings will be on reading this letter; but do not answer it in obedience to such feelings. Think over it, think of your father, and all you owe him, of your old name, your old family, and what the world expects of you.'
(Mary was forced to put her hand to her eyes, to save the paper from her falling tears, as she found herself thus repeating, nearly word for word, the arguments that had been used by Lady Arabella.) 'Think of these things coolly, if you can, but, at any rate, without passion: and then let me have one word in answer. One word will suffice.
'I have but to add this: do not allow yourself to think that my heart will ever reproach you. It cannot reproach you for doing that which I myself suggest.' (Mary's logic in this was very false; but she was not herself aware of it.) 'I will never reproach you either in word or thought; and as for all others, it seems to me that the world agrees that we have hitherto been wrong. The world, I hope, will be satisfied when we have obeyed it.
'Go bless you, dearest Frank! I shall never call you so again; but it would be a pretence were I to write otherwise in this letter. Think of this, and then let me have one line.
'Your affectionate friend, MARY THORNE'
'PS.--Of course I cannot be at dear Beatrice's marriage; but when they come back to the parsonage, I shall see her. I am sure they will both be happy, because they are so good. I need hardly say that I shall think of them on their wedding day.'
When she finished the letter, she addressed it plainly, in her own somewhat bold handwriting, to Francis N. Gresham, Jun., Esq., and then took it herself to the little village post-office. There should be nothing underhand about her correspondence: all the Greshamsbury world should know of it--that world of which she had spoken in her letter--if that world so pleased. Having put her penny label on it, she handed it, with an open brow and an unembarrassed face, to the baker's wife, who was Her Majesty's postmistress at Greshamsbury; and, having so finished her work, she returned to see the table prepared for her uncle's dinner.
'I will say nothing to him,' she said to herself, 'till I get the answer. He will not talk to me about it, so why should I trouble him?'
