But the squire, though he had been very lucid in his definition, had got no nearer to his object; had not even yet ascertained what his own object was. This marriage would be ruinous to Greshamsbury; and yet, what was he to say against it, seeing that the ruin had been his fault, and not his son's?
"You could let me have a farm; could you not, sir? I was thinking of about six or seven hundred acres. I suppose it could be managed somehow?"
"A farm?" said the father, abstractedly.
"Yes, sir. I must do something for my living. I should make less of a mess of that than of anything else. Besides, it would take such a time to be an attorney, or a doctor, or anything of that sort."
Do something for his living! And was the heir of Greshamsbury come to this—the heir and only son? Whereas, he, the squire, had succeeded at an earlier age than Frank's to an unembarrassed income of fourteen thousand pounds a year! The reflection was very hard to bear.
"Yes: I dare say you could have a farm:" and then he threw himself back in his chair, closing his eyes. Then, after a while, rose again, and walked hurriedly about the room. "Frank," he said, at last, standing opposite to his son, "I wonder what you think of me?"
"Think of you, sir?" ejaculated Frank.
"Yes; what do you think of me, for having thus ruined you. I wonder whether you hate me?"
Frank, jumping up from his chair, threw his arms round his father's neck. "Hate you, sir? How can you speak so cruelly? You know well that I love you. And, father, do not trouble yourself about the estate for my sake. I do not care for it; I can be just as happy without it. Let the girls have what is left, and I will make my own way in the world, somehow. I will go to Australia; yes, sir, that will be best. I and Mary will both go. Nobody will care about her birth there. But, father, never say, never think, that I do not love you!"
The squire was too much moved to speak at once, so he sat down again, and covered his face with his hands. Frank went on pacing the room, till, gradually, his first idea recovered possession of his mind, and the remembrance of his father's grief faded away. "May I tell Mary," he said at last, "that you consent to our marriage? It will make her so happy."