Lord Frogmore’s bronchitis was very severe, so bad that the doctors
looked very serious, and notwithstanding the vigilance and understanding
of Rogers, who knew his master, as he said, better than any of
them--insisted upon adding a trained nurse to all the other
embarrassments of the great establishment, which were so heavy upon the
shoulders of Agnes Hill. The old lord’s grave condition, the ominous
announcement of “a change” in her sister’s state, the care of that house
full of servants, the jealousy of Rogers who could not endure “the
woman” who had been placed over his head, and in the midst of all the
two noisy boys. Duke, who was at the Park for his holidays, and little
Mar, who considered it part of his religion to do everything that Duke
did--went near to overwhelm poor Agnes, who had never been used to any
great responsibility, and was anxious beyond what words could say. She
might, indeed, have spared herself all trouble about the house, since
Mr. Upjames, the butler, was fully equal to any emergency; but the
susceptibilities of Rogers were a very serious matter. “The only thing
for me to do, Miss ’Ill, is to retire,” he said. “To have a woman put
over my head, and one as knows nothing about it, is more than I can be
expected to put up with.”
“Oh, Rogers, you must not leave your master. What could he do without
you?” cried Agnes, with anxious conciliation.
“That’s what I say, ma’am,” said Rogers. “I’m torn in two, I am. My lord
gives me a look! Though he’s choking with his cough, he does like this
with his finger; and then he points to her, and he does like that----”
Rogers imitated first the motion of beckoning and then that of pushing
away.
“I will speak to the doctor when he comes,” said Agnes. “But oh, Rogers,
you would never have the heart to leave him? What does it matter about
the nurse? Try to make her useful. She does know a great deal, and she
might be useful----”
“She don’t know nothing about my lord. Miss ’Ill, nobody but me knows my
lord,” said Rogers solemnly. “I know just what he’ll bear, and what he
won’t bear. He can’t be treated like an ’ospital case. And that’s what
them women do. As if he was just a number in a bed! He’s been very
different all his life, has my lord; and that’s what he won’t bear.”
“No,” said Agnes soothingly, “of course he won’t bear it; and you must
just stand between him---- Rogers, what is that? I am sure I heard a
carriage driving up to the door.”
“It will be someone coming to inquire,” said Rogers. “Don’t you be
frightened, Miss ’Ill. If I can get free of that woman, don’t you be
miserable. We’ll pull him through.”
“Do you think it can be anyone coming to inquire?” cried Agnes. “Surely
there is a great commotion downstairs. Oh, Rogers, for Heaven’s sake go
and see what it is. I heard a cry. What’s that? What’s that? Surely I
know that voice.”
Agnes did not know what she feared. There were sounds on the stair which
denoted some strange events--many voices together--the sound of steps
hurrying. She stood at the door half afraid to open it, listening
intently, overcome with alarms which she could not explain. What had
happened? The voices came nearer, one of them talking in gentle but
persistent tones. Agnes threw up her arms and uttered a wild but faint
cry. What did it mean? What could it mean? The wildest hallucination, or
her sister’s voice?
And then the door was opened quickly, and into the wintry daylight, in
which there was no mystery, Mary walked without excitement--smiling, yet
with a serious face, as if she had never left her own house where she
was supreme, but was coming upstairs after a private consultation with
the doctor, in which he had told her that her husband was ill, but not
so ill as to cause any extreme of anxiety. She came in smiling to Agnes,
and, taking both her hands, kissed her. “I am so glad,” she said, “to
find you here. Then Frogmore has had someone to rely upon. Fancy I have
been away on a visit, and they never told me he was ill till to-day.”
“Oh, Mary, dear!” Agnes cried. She was choking with excitement and
emotion, but the imperative gesture by which her sister’s companion
warned her to be on her guard stopped the tears in her eyes and the
words in her mouth. Even in that glance Agnes perceived that it was the
doctor in whose care Mary had been placed who came in behind her. This
did something to still the beating of her amazed and anxious heart.
“Oh, Rogers,” said Mary, “I am so glad to see you before I go to him.
How is he? He was quite well when I left home. Do tell me everything
before I go to him: for I am sure you have never left him, you faithful
servant--more faithful than his wife,” she said with a smile, turning to
the doctor, who stood behind. Lady Frogmore looked exactly as if she had
come from a visit as she said, a little troubled that she had not been
sent for at once, yet scarcely anxious. Agnes even thought she looked
younger, better, more self-possessed than of old.
“You were not aware he was ill, Lady Frogmore. You must rest a little
and get warmed, and take something--a cup of tea, perhaps--before you go
to his room. You must not take in too much cold air to the room of a
patient with bronchitis. In the meantime I will go--shall I?--and bring
you an exact report.”
“Do!” said Mary, “that will be the kindest thing. I can trust to what
you say. But it is cold this morning,” she added, walking up to the
fire. “I must not go and touch my dear old lord with cold hands. How are
they at home, Agnes? and how long have you been here?”
“They are quite well,” said Agnes, very tremulous. “My father begins to
show signs of getting old----”
“I thought him very well indeed the last time I saw him,” said Mary; “he
can’t have grown much older since then. I wonder,” she added, “how
Frogmore got this bad cold--it must have been the very night I went
away. I think men cease taking care of themselves when they have a wife
to do it for them. And Rogers used to coddle him so--I must blame
Rogers. He ought to have returned to his old habits and watched him more
carefully when I was away. What is this. Upjames? Tea? Yes, give it me;
it will warm me. I must be warm, you know, when I go to my lord.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Upjames, in a trembling voice. He was very pale and
there was fright in his voice, though he was a large man, and his
restored mistress so slim and little likely to harm anyone. “I--I--am
so happy, my lady--to see your ladyship so much better.”
“Oh there has been nothing the matter with me,” said Mary, quickly. “I
am always well. But you should not have let my lord catch cold, Upjames,
the moment my back was turned. How am I ever to go off on a visit again,
however short it may be, when you take so little care of my lord?”
The big butler trembled like a leaf, a gasp came from his throat, his
large cheeks hung pendulous with fright. “My lady, I----don’t know how
it happened,” he stammered forth.
“Oh, I was only joking,” said Mary, “I am sure it was no one’s fault:
only there should be double precautions taken about health--by every
one--when the mistress of the house is away.” She gave forth this maxim
with a precision that had never been usual with Mary. Altogether it
seemed to her sister that Lady Frogmore had never been so sure of
herself, so conscious of authority before. She drank her tea before the
fire with evident comfort and pleasure in her home coming. “After all,”
she said, “there is nothing like one’s own house. What is that I see
over there? A rocking horse, is it? I suppose it’s a present for one of
the Greenpark children. Yes, Mr. Marsden. How do you find my lord?”
Fortunately, as Agnes felt, though she scarcely knew why, the doctor
came in at this juncture and saved her all further trouble.
“Not so well as I could wish,” said the doctor, “but very glad to you
that you have arrived, Lady Frogmore, and anxious to see you. You must
not,” he added, laying his hand on her arm, “look anxious, or as if you
thought him very ill. His spirits must be kept up.”
Mary rose and put down her teacup on the table. “I am afraid you find
him worse than we thought.”
“No,” he said, “oh, no--but only to warn you. He does look a little ill:
but he must not see that you are anxious. You must make an effort, Lady
Frogmore.”
“I think I do nothing but make efforts,” she said, with a cloud upon her
face, standing with her hands clasped together. Then she added, smiling,
“But of course I will do what you tell me. How can he have got so ill
the little time I have been away?”
Agnes followed, with her heart beating tumultuously in her bosom. What
did it all mean? The little time she had been away! What could it mean?
Mary spoke as if she had been absent for three days or so--and it was
five years! Oh, what could it mean? Agnes followed, not knowing what to
do. On her way to the sick-room Mary took off her cloak and furs and her
bonnet, which she piled upon a table in the corridor. “Tell Mason to
take them,” she said. Mason was the maid who had left the house when
Mary had been taken away.
How strange it all was, and incomprehensible! This morning Agnes had
trembled for the arrival of the letters, not knowing to what tragic
tidings the agitating news of “a change” might have come--and had felt
as if the burden of anxiety on her was insupportable. Now--was it lifted
from her shoulders, or had it become incalculably more heavy? She could
not tell. She followed with tremulous steps to the door of Lord
Frogmore’s room, and then came back again, not venturing to enter. There
was nothing for it but to wait till some further development should take
place, till something should happen--she did not know what she hoped or
feared. Lord Frogmore was very ill. Would the sight of him drive his
wife back into the frenzy from which she seemed to have escaped? Would
her bewildering appearance act favorably or unfavorably upon the old
man, whose vitality had fallen so low? Would sorrow, if sorrow was
coming, undo the astonishing advantage that had been gained? Of all
these confusing questions the mind of Agnes was full to bursting. She
tried to return to the morning room where she had been occupying herself
as best she could, and keeping down her anxiety when Mary arrived. It
was only an hour ago, but how everything had changed! And the boys? What
could she say to the boys? How account to them for the strange events
that had taken place while they had been out with the forester watching
him mark the trees. They were anxious to tell her all about this when
they came in, little Mar echoing every word that Duke said, and striking
in with little bits of observation of his own. Agnes, generally so
admirable a listener, could scarcely hear what they said for the tumult
in her own breast. What was she to say to the children? The meeting,
when it came, what would it be? Mary, who thought she had been absent on
a visit of a few days, what oh what would she say to her son? Poor Agnes
was like a woman distracted. She trembled at every sound. And to think
that she had to sit at table with those eager boys, and to give them
their dinner, and talk to them in terror every moment lest the door
should be opened and Mary come in. For what would Mary say to her child?
Every torture comes to an end if we can but wait for it, and the
children’s dinner was ended at last: they were so eager about the
forester and the trees he was marking to cut down that to Agnes’ intense
relief they hurried out again as soon as their food was swallowed.
Fortunately nobody had told them of the arrival, or else they had been
too much absorbed in their own exciting occupation to dwell upon it.
Little Mar knew nothing of his mother. Even if he had heard that Lady
Frogmore had come home, the child would probably in the bustle of his
childish excitement have put no meaning to the words. And Duke, though
he was older and had been Mary’s favorite, yet had much forgotten her,
and would think only of his grandmother if he heard that name. This gave
poor Agnes a little comfort in the hurry of her thoughts. She sat alone
all the day, more anxious and miserable than words could tell. The
doctor, Lord Frogmore’s own doctor, came in for a moment to tell her
that he found his patient a little better. “What an astonishing recovery
this is. It is the most wonderful thing I ever saw,” he said. “She has
taken her place by the bedside, as good a nurse as I ever met with. She
seems to think of everything. And Lord Frogmore looks quite bright. The
cure of one will be the cure of the other I hope. But it is the most
wonderful think I ever saw.”
“Do you think it will last, doctor?” cried Agnes.
“Well, one can never say,” he replied, oracularly. “Sometimes these
things prove a success, sometimes--not. I could not give an opinion. To
tell the truth, I would not trust Lady Frogmore with my patient if
Marsden was not there. He keeps in the dressing-room out of sight--but
he’s there, and on the watch. These mad doctors have strange ways, but I
daresay he’s right. He has his eye on her all the time. He’s not very
sure about her, I suppose, or he would not do that; but you and I may
make ourselves easy, Miss Hill. It is Lord Frogmore who is my
affair--and he is better--certainly better. I will come in the evening
and let you know how he is then.”
Agnes, on whom the household affairs told heavily, and who had the
anxious concern of a simple woman, to whom the provision of meals is one
of the chief businesses of life, about regular food, here put in a
troubled question about lunch. What should she do about lunch? She had
given the boys their dinner, thinking it better not to disturb Lady
Frogmore. But they must have luncheon. What should she do about lunch?
It was reassuring to know that a tray had been taken to the
dressing-room, and that Lady Frogmore had been attended to by the
watchful guardian who was sharing her vigil. It was very strange
altogether. It disturbed Agnes in every possible way in which a quiet
woman could be disturbed, but yet it was a relief. And Miss Hill sat
down again with the needlework which was so poor a pastime in her hands
to-day, thinking, wondering, questioning to herself till she could
question no more. Many a broken prayer rose to heaven that afternoon for
Lord Frogmore. Oh that he might but live. Oh that he might get better!
His life was more valuable, Agnes thought, than it ever could have been
before. It would be his business to clear up all this imbroglio, to make
everything clear. He would have the responsibility, the power would be
his alone. And surely, surely, all would go well. Agnes would not look
upon the other side of the picture. There must be no other side to the
picture. She could not allow herself to think of what darker prospect
there might be.
It was evening when Mary came into the drawing-room where Agnes was. The
doctors were making their last examination of the patient for the night,
and she came in to rest a little, to change the air as she said, to
refresh herself. It was time for the boys to go to bed, but they had not
paid much attention to Agnes’ entreaties, and in the disorganization of
the house, which was full of consternation and inquiry, no authoritative
messenger from the nursery had as yet come for little Mar. He was seated
on his usual stool before the fire, which gave a ruddy color to his
rather pale little face, and sparkled in his dark eyes. Duke lay on the
rug stretched out at full length at Agnes’ feet. They were chattering
still of their busy day. “I wouldn’t let him mark that old bush,” said
little Mar, “it’s like an old man. Not an old man like papa, but one
I’ve seen with a long beard. Papa’s an old gentleman, and they say I’m
a little old man, and for love of us I wouldn’t have him mark that tree.
Oh! Aunt Agnes, here is a lady! Is it the lady that came with a
post-chaise, and the marks is all over the grass? Is it----”
“Hush, oh hush, Mar--don’t say a word,” cried Agnes, with her heart
leaping in her throat.
Mary came in and sat down besides Agnes, a little behind her back. “I
will not come to the fire,” she said, “for Frogmore’s room is very warm.
I prefer to get cooled a little. I think he is better, but we will see
what the doctors say. They say I ought to lie down, but I don’t think I
shall want it to-night. I am quite fresh. One never wants to lie down
one’s first night.”
“Oh, my dear, surely, surely they will not let you sit up?”
“Why not?” said Lady Frogmore. “I am quite fresh. I have had no fatigue
as yet. And he was so pleased to see me. They all say it has done him
good to have me back. What is that on the rug at your feet, Agnes? Why,
it is a child! Why it is--Duke, my dear boy! I didn’t know you were
here. Why, what a leap you have taken, what a huge great boy you have
grown.”
Duke had sprung to his feet in the surprise. There was little light but
the light from the fire--and it was five years since he had seen her. He
came forward, hesitating a little, abashed and reluctant to be kissed.
He was now twelve and big of his age, not apt to go through these
salutations with strangers. Mary put her hands on his shoulders and held
him from her to see him fully. “I can’t believe my eyes: Duke--are you
sure you are Duke? You are twice as big as you were the other day.
Agnes, I can scarcely believe my eyes.”
Agnes gave Duke a pull by the arm to stop his exclamation. “Yes,” she
said, “he has grown very fast.”
“I never saw any child grow so fast,” said Mary in a bewildered tone. “I
should scarcely have known the child.” She let him go with something of
disappointment in her tone. “I can scarcely believe he is my little
Duke,” she said. And then after a pause, there came the question which
Agnes had been all this time trembling to hear. Mary recovered herself,
putting away this touch of disappointment, and spoke again in the clear
assured tones which were new to her sister.
“And who,” she said, “is this other nice little boy?”
Agnes was overcome by the sufferings of this long and agitating day. Her
strength was exhausted. She could bear no more. Little Mar had turned
round upon his stool and was gazing at the lady. And she with a smile,
and the pleased half interest of a benevolent stranger, looked at him,
holding out her hand. “Who,” she said, “is this nice little boy?”
Agnes answered, she could not help it, with something more like a scream
than an exclamation, “Oh Mary! Oh Mary!” she cried.
“What is the matter?” said Mary, tranquilly. “I ought to know him,
perhaps. He is one of Duke’s little playfellows, I suppose. Who are you,
my nice little boy?”