“You don’t say so?” Sarah cried.
“If you ask me, there was a kind of softness about them both! Law, when I think what you and Jane missed through going to that stupid Institute! I am sure you’ll never forgive yourselves!”
The good lady had not missed much herself, but she was mistaken in thinking that the two had come to an understanding. Indeed when, leaving the warmth of her presence behind them, they drove out of town, with the servant seated with folded arms behind them and Mary snugly tucked in beside my lord, a new constraint began to separate them. The excitement of the meeting had waned, the fillip of the unwonted treat had lost its power. A depression for which she could not account beset Mary as they rolled through the dull outskirts and faced the flat mistridden pastures and the long lines of willows. On his side doubt held him silent. He had found it pleasant to come to the brink, he had not been blind to Mary’s smiles and her rare blushes. But the one step farther—that could not be re-trodden, and it was in the nature of the man to hesitate at the last, and to consider if he were getting full value.
So, as they drove through the dusk, now noiselessly over sodden leaves, now drumming along the hard road, the hint of a chill fell between them. Mary’s thoughts went forward to the silent house and the lonely rooms, and she chid herself for ingratitude. She had had her pleasure, she had had an unwonted treat. What was wrong with her? What more did she want?
It was nearly dark, and not many words had passed when Lord Audley pulled up the horses at the old Cross. The man leapt down and was going to help Mary to alight, when his master bade him take the box-seat and the reins.
Mary remonstrated. “Oh, don’t get down, please!” she cried. “Please! It is nothing to the house from here.”
“It is half a mile if it is a yard,” he said. “And it is nearly dark. I am going with you.” He bade the man walk the horses up and down.
She ventured another protest, but he put it aside. He threw back the rug and lifted her down. For a moment he stamped about and stretched himself. Then “Come, Mary,” he said. It was an order.
She knew then what was at hand. And though she had a minute before looked forward with regret to the parting, all her thought now was how she might escape to the Gatehouse. It became a refuge. Her heart, as she started to walk beside him, beat so quickly that she could not speak. She was thankful that it was dark, and that he could not read her agitation in her face.
He did not speak himself for some minutes. Then “Mary,” he said abruptly, looking straight before him, “I am rather one for taking than asking, and that stands in my way now. When I’ve wanted a thing I’ve generally taken it. Now I want a thing I can’t take—without asking. And I feel that I’m not good at the asking. But I want it badly, and I must do the best I can. I love you, Mary. I love you, and I want you for my wife.”