Lord Frogmore stayed for some days at Greenpark. He caught cold--quite a
slight cold, not worth making any fuss about, if he had not taken such
tremendous care of his health, Letitia said, scornfully. She said to her
husband that she really could not pretend to coddle and take care of him
for such a nothing--it would look as if she had a mercenary motive--as
if she meant to wheedle him out of something for the children. John did
not quite like this tone, for Frogmore was his own brother after all,
and Letitia was only a Parke by marriage. But he said, “I don’t know why
you should trouble when Miss Hill is here.” So this was how it ended.
Mary was made over permanently to Lord Frogmore to amuse him. He did not
want nursing. Rogers, his man, who knew exactly what to do in any
emergency, took care of that. Rogers was so clever that he was half a
doctor, having studied all his master’s ailments, and having in every
possible combination of circumstances the right thing to administer. It
filled Mrs. Parke with mingled consternation and awe to see all the
precautions that were taken.
“Why, he will never die,” she said to Mary. “His exercise and his food
and every habit he has are like a doctor’s book. Felicie tells me such
stories about his clothes; he is dressed by the thermometer, if you will
believe me--and things put into his bath to strengthen him and brighten
him up; and all kinds of preparations of food. It is Rogers’ whole work
looking after him, day and night. What a cooking up of the poor body,
Mary Hill! It’s against Scripture, and every law.”
“But there’s nothing wrong in keeping one’s self well.”
“Oh, well! it is not that--it is trying to get the better of Providence,
not to speak of poor John and the children. What he means is never to
die.”
Mrs. Parke was really alarmed by this determination on the part of the
man to whom her husband was heir. All those precautions, (which, if not
positively sinful, were so little consistent with the desire to be at
rest, which ought to be the prevailing sentiment of old people) were
intended to keep John out of his inheritance--to prevent herself from
becoming Lady Frogmore. If the old lord succeeded in his wicked plan of
living on to an indefinite time, John and she might be old people before
they came to their kingdom--nay, more horrible still, John (who took
very little care of himself) might die first and leave Letitia only Mrs.
Parke for ever, even though little Duke might come to the title. This
was a contingency which filled her with horror. She felt that she would
willingly have seized the old gentleman and shaken him--but then
reflected again with dismay upon his trim, steady figure, his alert
walk, his rosy countenance. He looked, when she came to think of it,
stronger than John! He had Rogers to watch over him night and day. He
had Valentine’s Meat Juice and Brand’s Essence (if these concentrated
comforts were invited) administered to him whenever he felt a
sinking--he had some sort of elixir of life put into his bath. What he
intended was never to die. Mrs. John Parke became pale with the horror
of this thought, and she felt that she could not endure the old egotist,
the selfish, self-absorbed old man. “It is all I can do to be civil to
him at dinner and ask after his cold in the morning. Do for goodness
sake amuse him a little, Mary Hill. You don’t feel it as I do--you’ve no
cares to distract your mind, and it’s far easier for you to put on a
face and sympathize with people about nothing than for me. I’m too
sincere for that sort of thing,” Letitia said.
“But don’t you think it might be better to pay him a little attention.
Just to show that you are interested. If it were only for half-an-hour,
Letitia.”
“Oh, what is the good of having you in the house with nothing to do if
you can’t manage a little thing like that for me, Mary Hill!”
Mary was silenced, and had no reply to make. She had herself no
objection whatever to read the papers and talk to Lord Frogmore. He was
very kind. His nice old ways, which were very precise and regular,
almost, she said to herself, like a lady’s ways, suited Mary, who was a
little prim in her middle-aged decorum. She had no objection to the
entrance of Rogers with his little cough mixture, or digestive pill, or
cup of soup. On the whole, perhaps, she liked the little fuss of
invalidism, the cares, which a little ailment or any amusing little
illness which meant nothing demanded. To draw out the screen so as to
shield the old gentleman from an imaginary draught, to change for him
the arrangement of his cushion and his footstool, to put book and paper
cutter ready upon the little table when she herself was called away, was
really pleasant to her. And when he declared that a slight cold was
quite an agreeable thing in pleasant company, and that it was delightful
to have a right to so many little attentions, it gave Mary a serene
pleasure to find herself so useful. Another part of her duty was not
perhaps so justifiable, but she discharged it with devotion. She
accounted for the absence of Letitia in an unvarying round of
praiseworthy ways. She made a fancy portrait of Mrs. Parke, which was
beautiful to behold. She was so devoted a wife, taking every trouble
from John, leaving him free for his shooting and all his amusements. She
was so excellent a housekeeper, making it possible by her good
management to entertain a great deal, which was so good for her husband.
She was the best of mothers, giving so much of her attention to her
children.
“I am coming to believe that my sister-in-law is not a woman at all, but
a bundle of virtues,” said Lord Frogmore.
“Oh not that!” cried Mary, with a blush, “not that at all. She has her
faults, of course--but her whole heart is in her own family, to do
everything for them----”
“At all events she has one great quality--she has the art of making a
devoted friend,” said Lord Frogmore with a smile which made Mary blush
again.
“Oh,” she cried, “I am of so little account. I can never do anything for
her--except the smallest things.”
“Such as taking care of an old bore with a cold,” said the old
gentleman. Mary felt that she had not been warm enough in Letitia’s
praises, for he never shook off that cynical look, while certainly
Letitia might have showed him a little more attention. Mary wondered
sometimes if it was true that she herself found it easy to make up a
face and sympathize with people, and if Letitia was, as she said, too
sincere. She found herself sympathizing with Lord Frogmore in a way
which perhaps was absurd, for he was not ill: he was really enjoying his
cold and all the attentions it procured him. It was bad weather, and
there was no temptation to go out. It was not as if he were really ill,
and it was an act of devotion to nurse him. Was she making up a face?
Mary said to herself. “No,” with a little indignation. She did not feel
herself to be insincere. Still, perhaps, it was easier for her than for
Letitia to show sympathy with other people’s troubles, whether they were
small or great.
Lord Frogmore got better and went away, having considerably outstayed
the original limits of his visit. And to tell the truth his going was a
great relief to the household, except to Mary, who missed him very much.
The Parkes by this time had got rid of their visitors, and were
themselves setting out upon a little round of visits to taste other
people’s dinners and shoot other people’s covers. On such occasions,
which occurred periodically, Mary was left in charge of the house. She
had to keep the servants in hand, which was not an easy task, for they
all knew that she was a dependent without wages; and naturally held her
authority very light; and she had to watch over the children, to send
for the doctor when he was wanted, to superintend the nurses, to keep
everything in the established routine. It was not a pleasant office, for
nobody in the house chose to be subordinate to a poor lady who was not
even the governess--who was only a friend and of no account personally,
living on the kindness of the mistress of the house. This did not
account, however, for the excitement with which she rushed into
Letitia’s boudoir on the morning of their departure, looking alternately
very red and very white, and scarcely able to speak for an agitation
which took away her breath.
“Oh Letitia, can I speak to you?” she cried, bursting into the room in a
manner quite unlike her usual soft movements. Letitia was at the moment
superintending the shutting up of her box, in which all her best dresses
were, and which was reluctant to close.
“Well, my dear, you can speak as much as you like; but as for expecting
me to pay any attention just at this moment when I am in the agonies of
packing! Kneel on the lid, Felicie, and I’ll try and turn the key.”
“Letitia, please, just a moment. There’s something which I want to tell
you--to consult you about.”
“You are the oddest creature in the world, Mary Hill. Consult me! when
the carriage is nearly at the door, and all my things to pack. _C’est
fini_ at last, Felicie--_Fermez le_ bonnet-box, too, and give me my
keys. Well, what is it, Mary? You don’t speak.”
“I can’t tell you before anybody,” said Mary in a low voice. “I’ve got a
letter----”
“Oh, you’ve got a letter! I can’t send Felicie away, because there are
so many little things to do--but she doesn’t count. I say all sorts of
things before her. Is it from one of the boys?”
“No, Letitia. Oh, please, a moment--it’s very important.”
“It’s from Ralph, and he’s asked you to marry him? I never thought he
was such a fool. And I hope you’re not going to be a fool to snap at
him--with not a penny between you,” Letitia added, growing red. “That’s
all the advice I am going to give. You’re old enough to judge for
yourself--but neither you nor he must look for anything from us. Neither
money nor influence--we shall do nothing for you--nothing! You may as
well know that from the first.”
Mary had been white and trembling with agitation; now she turned red
with one of those sudden fits of exasperation which attack even the
mildest. To have this said to her before the waiting maid, who concealed
a smile and a look of intelligence which had flashed into her eyes under
a demure gravity, was enough to have upset the temper of a saint.
“It is not from Ralph,” she said very quietly.
“Oh, it’s not from Ralph. Well, that’s a very good thing. Felicie,
_attachez les_ straps--or leave them for Robert to do, if you like--and
bring me my cloak. Well, so it is not from Ralph, Mary? Then who is it
from? It’s a proposal one can see from your face. Take it whoever it
comes from, Mary. You haven’t time, my dear, to pick and choose.”
“You will let me speak to you in your room, Letitia?”
“There’s no time,” said Mrs. Parke. “Felicie, _mon chapeau_, and my
gloves. There’s the carriage. I’ve only one piece of advice, Mary--take
it if it’s a decent offer. You can’t expect to get many more at your
age.”
“It is more than a decent offer. Oh, Letitia, it is from an old
gentleman, one much older, and far above me.”
“Did you expect a young one?” said Mrs. Parke. “I think you would be
very, very silly to stand upon that. I know who it is. It is old Dr.
Hilton; and just an excellent match--an admirable match--the very thing
I should have wished for you. Old! I hope you are not such a fool as to
think of that! Think of your father and mother, and the use you might be
to them. And as for far above you, why you’re a clergyman’s daughter,
you are in the same rank in life. Mary, mind what I say to you. Don’t be
a fool.”
“But it’s not Dr. Hilton. Oh Letitia, only a moment! I must speak to
you.”
“There is John calling,” said Mrs. Parke, composedly. “Good-bye, Mary, I
can’t stop a moment longer. Take care of the boy, and mind you don’t let
Saunders and the rest get the upper hand. Who can it be if it’s not Dr.
Hilton? But whoever it is, mind what I say. What does age matter? If he
can support you, and leave you something when he dies, take him, take
him, Mary Hill--at your age what could you expect more.”
Mary followed her friend downstairs. It was of no use saying any more.
Mrs. Parke had many directions to give as she went away. She had to say
good-bye to the children who were in the hall to see the last of mamma.
She had to silence John who was calling to her, to question Felicie, who
lagged behind. “Mind you take care of the boy,” she said, looking back,
waving her hand to Mary. “Mind you keep everything going: and you can
write and tell me all about it. Nurse, if there is anything the matter
call Miss Hill at once, and she will know what to do. Ta-ta, baby;
good-bye, Duke. Mind you’re good till I come back: and good-bye, Letty
and Johnny, be good children all of you. Felicie, what on earth keeps
you always behind?”
Then the carriage rolled away, followed by the cab with Felicie and the
boxes, and stillness fell upon the abandoned house; stillness at least
so far as the sitting-rooms were concerned; but a louder note than usual
from the nurseries, and a jovial hum in the servants’ hall, where
everybody felt their holiday had begun.
Mary went back into the house from the doorsteps, on which she had been
standing dazed, contemplating the carriage and Felicie’s cab as they
rolled away. She came in like a ghost, her face very pale, her limbs
trembling with an agitation which was only increased by the fact that
Letitia was now permanently out of hearing, and that there was nobody
left from whom she could ask any advice. She wandered up and down the
different rooms for some time, seating herself here and there for a
moment, then springing up again to try another chair and another
position. At last she went into the library and sat down upon a low
chair before the fireplace. There was no fire in that room, which was
not a room ordinarily much frequented by the ladies of the house, and
the first to fall into the neglect which characterizes a house from
which the masters are absent. The fire had not been lighted though it
was November and a dull cold day. Mary sat down upon this little chair
by the cold hearth, and she covered her face with her hands and leaned
her head against the arm of the great chair which stood close to her.
Here for a moment she could rest and think. She sat quite still for a
long time in the absolute solitude of the place, and covered her eyes
from all external distractions--but it would scarcely be just to say
that Mary was thinking, much less that she was wisely balancing the good
against the evil, and making up her mind what she should do.
It would be more just to say that her mind went whirling round and round
like the scientific toy which represents processions of moving figures
flying past, steeple-chases, hunting fields, negro contortionists,
Christy’s minstrels. Everything was going round and round with Mary. She
herself seemed only to be looking on, seeing the whirl which was going
through her brain. It settled down a little after a time and solidified
into the neat little figure which for so many days had occupied the
chair on which she was leaning. Her thoughts all paused, stopped short
in the whirl of them, and standing aside like so many country attendants
allowed Lord Frogmore to reveal himself in the silence. There he stood,
active, small, alert--with his short white curling locks and ruddy
color. There he sat with his precise little ways, his cup of soup, his
cough mixtures, Rogers, his man, taking such care of him. Mary’s heart
jumped up and began to throb in her ears and jump in her throat like the
piston of a steam engine. Lord Frogmore! And she had his letter in her
pocket, a nice letter, a letter full of respect and honor, setting her
in so high a place, doing her justice and far more than justice, Mary
thought. No sign in all he said of the old maid at whom Letitia had
assured her, and she herself had found, men laugh. Lord Frogmore showed
no consciousness that she was an old maid, that she was past her bloom,
that she was poor and he was doing her a great honor--oh, not a sign of
that! If she had been a duke’s daughter and a creature beautiful as the
day, the old gentleman could not have written with more tender respect.
Mary was not without pride, humble woman though she was, and she had
received many a wound among Letitia’s careless friends and visitors,
wounds of which she was too proud to say anything and too good to
resent, but of which she had deeply felt the sting. But out of Lord
Frogmore’s letter there seemed to have come a balm which soothed and
healed her very soul. She felt herself put in her right place,
respected, honored, approved. If it did no more than this for her, it
had done what words could not express. She sat hiding her face and felt
this balm steal over and heal her wounds.
And it was only after this, after a long interval, after the first whirl
of agitation and the hush of gratified and soothed sensation, the charm
and sweetness of being at length appreciated and understood, that Mary
began to think what answer was she to make?--what was she to do?