It is a great wonder in morals that the chances of matrimonial changes
which may occur in the life of an unmarried woman, absolutely at any
moment, should not exercise a more demoralizing effect than they do upon
the feminine mind. It is always possible, not only for a girl, but even
for a woman who has reached the middle of life, to have her position and
prospects changed in a moment as by the waving of a magician’s hand--and
that probably not by any virtue or by any exertion of her own,
fortuitously, accidentally, by what seems mere chance and good fortune.
A poor girl, the daughter of a fallen family, with very little natural
prospect of advancement in any direction, will suddenly wake to find
herself a duchess, placed on the very highest pinnacle of fortune; a
poor woman who has passed half of her life in a struggle with poverty
will be lifted into sudden enjoyment of wealth and all that it brings.
Why? By the merest chance. By pleasing someone, possibly unawares,
without any intention--possibly, it is true, by the exercise of all her
gifts for the purpose. And it by no means follows that these
extraordinary chances involved any revolting bargains, any sale or
barter of an odious kind. The girl may love her duke and the woman her
millionaire just as much as if the duke was a lieutenant in a marching
regiment or the millionaire a banker’s clerk. It is astonishing that
women should be so little demoralized by the possibility of such an
accident. It may be said that it happens rarely. Still it does happen,
and everybody knows one instance at least.
Such an accident had now happened to Mary Hill. Such a thing as marriage
had long passed out of her thoughts. She had gone through the ordinary
process in such matters, having had her youthful dreams, her maidenly
fancies, her conviction that some time, some day, the hero would come
round the turn of the road, and life would change into enchantment. For
a certain period in life that is to a girl the one certainty. Perhaps
not to-day or to-morrow, yet possibly at any moment--a thing as sure as
the rising of the sun, yet veiled in delightful mysteries and
unknowableness--a vague anticipation, the poem of existence. After a
time, if Prince Charming does not appear, the expectation begins to
flag--a curious question, the strangest discouraging doubt creeps into
the mind. Is she perhaps to be the one left out? the one to whom the
enchanter is not to come. To trace the process from that first doubt,
which is so startling, which gives a sudden check to life, to the calm
certainty that no such thing would ever happen to her, which had long
filled the gentle bosom of Mary Hill, would take too much time and
space. It need only be said that Mary had accepted the position years
ago. Her sister Agnes and she had long given up any thoughts of the
kind. Their hearts fluttered no longer when they gazed along the blank
road by which no hero had ever come. They had settled down as
middle-aged women. No doubt they had both known what it was to struggle
and rebel in their hearts against the strait bondage of life that
confined them, the situation of girls in their father’s house which was
so sweet at twenty, so little adapted to the maiden mind at forty. They
had gone through all that, but had never said anything about it even to
each other. Most probably they would have thought it sinful, horribly
unwomanly to rebel thus against their lot. All that they permitted
themselves to say was, with a sigh, that they had no education, and
could not be governesses, nor do anything. Sometimes it would come over
them with a shiver that their father was old, growing older every day,
and that the time must come when that dear old bare house at the
vicarage would be theirs no more; but so helpless were they that it was
tacitly understood between them nothing should be said of this. It would
be dreadful even between themselves to put it into words that the vicar
must die, to seem to calculate on the end of his existence. It lay
between them, a dark point in the future at which their human life
seemed to stop, but that was all. As for any piece of good fortune that
might happen--above all, any proposals of marriage, that was a thing as
far over and passed away as the frocks of their childhood. They had both
accepted the rôle of old maid without rebellion, if, at the beginning,
with a faint sigh.
And now here had fallen at Mary’s feet not that thunderbolt out of a
clear sky, of which people speak as the most startling image of a
sudden catastrophe, but a sudden blaze of impossible light through the
afternoon dullness. It was no catastrophe; and yet it gave a shock
almost as great. To be suddenly made rich beyond the brightest dreams,
though indeed Mary had never dreamt of being rich at all; to be
introduced into what seemed to the vicar’s daughter the loftiest society
in the world; to be able to help everybody belonging to her; to shed a
glory upon the vicarage; to cause a thrill of pride to all the most
distant of her kin; to impress the distant sisters-in-law whom Mary
suspected of not being very respectful of the unmarried sisters, and of
entertaining fears lest some time those unprovided women should expect
something from John and George, all these suggestions played upon her,
shining in her eyes like the afternoon sunshine, blinding her with
unexpected light. Her heart jumped up to think of these things, then
dropped down again with a sinking fall when her mind turned to the other
side, and she thought of Letitia. Oh, it was needless to try to persuade
herself that when Letitia said, “Don’t be a fool, Mary Hill,” and bade
her certainly to accept the old gentleman who had proposed to her, Mrs.
Parke had any perception of the real state of the case. Had Letitia
guessed that it was Lord Frogmore; had she for an instant suspected that
her humble friend was to be elevated over her own head, no doubt she
would have given a very different verdict. Mary remembered all she had
said. Her warning that nothing must be expected from Frogmore, that all
he had must come to the children, her resentment with his care of his
own health as keeping her out of her kingdom. Her heart sank lower and
lower as she thought of this. What would Letitia say _if she knew_? Mary
immediately realized that Letitia would not only say, but do anything a
desperate woman could to stop it. She would be mad with fury and
passion. She would publish her wrong, her version of the story, her
account of how Mary Hill had “made up” to the old lord. And yet in her
heedlessness she had bidden her dependent to accept the old gentleman,
of course, whoever he was, so long as he could provide for her. Mary sat
and thought over all these things till her head ached and her brain grew
dizzy. She was stiff with cold and agitation and excitement when she got
up at last and crept away to the dying fire in the morning-room, which
was the only room where any comfort was. She knew already that to be
left in charge of the house when the Parkes were away was no pleasant
office. The fire in the morning-room was the only fire in that part of
the house inhabited by its masters. All the rest had fallen into gloom
and emptiness. Mary met the housemaids with their pails as she went
upstairs--a thing, it need scarcely be said, never visible when Mrs.
Parke was at home. She saw Saunders as she crossed the hall lounging in
his shirt sleeves, and smelt the footman’s tobacco. Nobody cared to keep
up the decorum of the household for Miss Hill. Who was Miss Hill? Less,
a great deal, than an upper servant, who was well paid and knew his
place. Nobody had the least intention of putting himself or herself to
any restraint or inconvenience to please Miss Hill. Mary knew this very
well, and knew it would be necessary to ask as little as possible in
order to avoid impertinence. She knew that she was not wanted, that she
was considered a spy, left to report upon their doings and limit their
freedom. She mended the fire with economy, hoping to be able to keep
herself warm all day with the contents of the coal scuttle, not to have
to appeal to Saunders for more. And if they only knew! To think that she
had so much in her power lying at her feet, waiting her compliance. She
laughed unconsciously as she thought of it, and how those impudent
servants would abase themselves, and people of far more importance bow
before her and put on their best smiles, and all for no virtue of hers,
for no change in her, for nothing, but because she had it in her power
to become Lady Frogmore.
The reader may think that in all this there was but little question of
the chief matter involved, of Lord Frogmore himself, the old gentleman
who had it in his power to do so much for Mary. But this did not involve
the injury to him that might be supposed, for, as a matter of fact, the
idea of accepting Lord Frogmore, and living with him and taking care of
him was in no way disagreeable to Mary. She liked the old lord. He had
never been anything but kind, respectful, sympathetic to her; he had
greatly comforted her _amour propre_, which was often touched in
Letitia’s house and by Letitia’s friends. He had even raised her own
opinion of herself which had been sadly broken down by continual
snubbing. In every way his society, his friendship, his kindness had
been good for Mary. Love was not a thing to be thought of, it was out of
date, it was scarcely modest even to suggest it: but that she could and
did feel affectionately towards Lord Frogmore, Mary had no doubt, and he
asked for no more. There was no drawback on that side. She could have
married him had he been the clergyman in the next parish. The
difficulties in fact rose chiefly from those tremendous advantages which
it was impossible to over-calculate, which seem on the face of them too
good to be true. And yet who could be injured by it? Mary asked herself.
She would not have anyone despoiled for her. The children could not lose
much, and what they lost would only be till she died. She was forty and
Duke was five. Perhaps she might not live long enough to see Duke come
of age. She would not keep the children long out of their money, and it
would be very little. That was the only harm that could happen to them
if she married Lord Frogmore.
It is needless to say that Mary thought of nothing else all day. She did
not answer the letter, but put it carefully into her desk after having
read it over three or four times, and if she hesitated as to what reply
she should make, it was not because of any objection she had to Lord
Frogmore.
In the afternoon she went to the nursery, where the nurse, a very fine
person who considered herself much above supervision even from the
mother, received her with scant courtesy. She stood over the children
while Mary talked to them, and when little Letty pulled off a bit of old
glove to show Mary a little sore finger, nurse made a step forward and
pushed the little girl away. “I must ask you, Miss Hill, not to
interfere with Miss Letty’s finger. I am treating it in the proper way,
and I won’t have any meddling.”
“But I have no desire to meddle,” said Mary, surprised.
“Oh, we all know what it means when a lady is left to spy about,” said
the woman, turning little Letty, who began to cry, out of the room.
This was a very unpromising beginning, and nurse would not allow that
the children should go downstairs in the evening to hear Mary play, and
to sing their little songs about the piano.
“When their mamma is here she can do as she pleases--but I don’t hold
with such things,” said the nurse.
Mary was all the more lonely in consequence in the twilight hour, which
she was used to employ in amusing the children, and when she went
downstairs later to see whether it was the design of the authorities
downstairs to give her any dinner, she found Saunders in the dining-room
with his elbows on the table and a bottle of wine before him reading the
paper. He looked up at the sound of the door opening, and by instinct
started up, but recollecting himself fell back in his chair and
confronted her.
“I consider,” said Saunders, “as this room is not in the ladies part of
the ’ouse--but was you wanting anything, Miss ’Ill?”
“You surprise me very much, Saunders,” said Mary, with a little
quickening of the breath.
“Mister Saunders, if you please--I don’t think would be out o’ place,
miss. I am the head man when master is away.”
“I think you are very much out of place where you are, Saunders--and
that Mr. Parke would not be at all pleased----”
“If he knew,” said Saunders. “I don’t say as ’e would. I’m a consulting
of my own convenience, not thinking of him; and he’ll never know.”
“How can you tell that? It will be my duty to tell him at once.”
“It’s a duty as you’ll never do. We know you well, all of us, in this
’ouse. And if you’re sensible you’ll take my advice. You’ll be seen to,
and kept comfortable, if you don’t give no trouble. Cook is a-sending
you up a bit of dinner. You’ll be waited on as good, or better, as you
were ever used to--but, Lord bless you, what’s the good of pretending.
You was never used to a man like me waiting upon you--and why should you
now? John, he says the same thing. We’re very hard worked when they’re
at ’ome, and we’re going to have a ’oliday. It won’t make no difference
what you say.”
“I don’t care at all,” cried Mary, “whether you wait upon me or not--but
you will be so good as to retire from here.”
“And what if I don’t, miss?”
If this was a romantic tale I should recount how the man was subdued,
how he hesitated and finally withdrew in obedience to the influence of
her presence and the dignity of her look. But I am obliged to say that
no such result followed. Saunders, who had been drinking and was just at
the point when audacity is paramount, sat leaning with both his elbows
on the table, staring across it at the poor lady for whom he would have
had no respect whatever had she looked like a queen, and it was Mary who
was frightened. She repeated, “I must ask you to retire from this room,”
but with a faltering voice, for she knew that she had no authority to
enforce her request, and so did he.
“Sorry to disoblige you, miss, if you think it ain’t becoming. But I’m
very comfortable, thank ye, here.”
She stood a moment irresolute, not knowing what to do, and then it was
she who retired. She said, “I will write to Mr. Parke,” but Saunders
replied only with an insolent laugh. And Mary hurried upstairs again
with something like terror. She found the footman without his coat on
the stairs, carrying down the hunting clothes which John Parke had worn
on the previous day, and accompanied by one of the housemaids, who was
by way of helping him with jocular snatchings and droppings of the
burden. They scarcely paused in their flirtation when Mary appeared. She
said, in her mildest tones, “You forget, John, that your mistress likes
you to use the backstairs.”
“My missis ain’t here,” said the man; “it’s all one the front stairs or
the back stairs when they’re away.”
“I do not think Mrs. Parke would be pleased to hear you say so,” said
Mary.
“Well, she don’t hear me say so,” replied the man, with an insolent air.
“Oh, John!” said the housemaid, “don’t answer Miss ’Ill like that. Don’t
you know as she’s set over us to see as we does our duties, and tell
everything as goes wrong?”
“I don’t hold with no spies, I don’t,” said John, “whether they’s
ladies, or whether they’s Irish fellows. I don’t say things behind
folks’ backs as I wouldn’t say to their faces; and I says, Miss
’Ill----”
“Be so good as not to speak at all,” said Mary, quickly hurrying past.
They burst into a great noise of laughter when she was gone--a shrill
celebration of triumph. She got back to the morning room with a
sensation of dismay, for which she had no words. She was all alone, with
the household in mutiny behind her. She was startled, however, to see
that someone was before her arranging neatly enough, and with quiet
care, the tray with Mary’s dinner, which, according to Saunders’
instruction, had been sent up there. The maid was an under housemaid--a
quiet and good girl, whom they had been kind to. But even she had her
part in the revolt. When she had arranged everything, she came up to
Mary, who had thrown herself into a chair by the fire.
“I think everything’s here, miss,” she said. “Perhaps you will just look
and see if there’s anything more you will want.”
“It will do very well, I am sure, Jane.”
“I want to know, if you please,” said Jane, “whether you will want
anything more to-night: for we’re going to have a party in the servants’
hall; and I’d rather get it now than be called after, if you please.”
“You are going to have a party in the servants’ hall?”
“Yes, miss. Mr. Saunders and John is going to do some acting, and
there’s going to be a dance. If you’ll excuse me, I shouldn’t like to be
called away.”
“I shall not want you any more,” said Mary.
She tried to smile at the festivity which had turned all their heads.
But when, a little later, the sounds of the downstairs merriment came
peeling up the great staircase, Mary felt like a prisoner abandoned
among enemies. She had never felt so much alone as in the dreary silence
of the house, with the distant revels going on. A genteel dependent
scoffed at by all the conspirators downstairs--and all the while Lord
Frogmore’s letter in her desk.