“Then, I suppose, there is scarcely any hope,” said Mr. Blotting, the
other executor who had come over to inquire after the patient. The
country altogether was moved for poor Mar. People who had never seen the
boy sent daily to inquire after him, and the farmers, who had cheered
his speech, talked of him and shook their heads as they met on their
market days. “There was no stuff in him,” they said; “all spirit, and
nothing to ballast it.” “No constitution from his cradle.” And they
began to speculate on what kind of landlord John Parke would be when he
acted for himself with full power. They all gave a regret to the boy;
but that was the most important question after all.
John Parke had not, however, waited, as his wife suggested, to take
measures to amend the cottages, where Mar had got what was probably to
be his death, and it was while they were walking across the park to
inspect the miserable little hamlet which was close to one of the gates
that Mr. Blotting had supposed that there was scarcely any hope.
“My wife has been told to write for his mother,” said John, very
seriously. “Barker would not take such a step as that, in the
circumstances, if he did not think it was coming very near.”
“Poor Lady Frogmore,” said Mr. Blotting, “perhaps it’s better for her,
poor thing, now, that she has known so little about him--though so
unnatural for a mother.”
“I wonder,” said John, “whether this blow may not stir everything up and
awaken her when it’s too late.”
“It’s to be hoped not, now,” said Mr. Blotting, “poor lady!” And he
added after a pause, “It will make a great change in your position,
Parke. It may be bad taste talking of it--but we can’t help thinking of
it. It must be in your mind as it is in mine.”
“I try not to think at all,” said John; “it’s horrible. If I could buy
back the boy’s life by any sacrifice----”
“I know, I know,” said the man of business, “that’s how one feels. But
you can’t, of course. It’s far beyond your hands. And if you throw back
your thoughts, it was a great disappointment when this poor boy was
born. I felt it for one. I felt for you and Mrs. Parke deeply. It
couldn’t have been expected of a man like your brother, an old man who
had never thought of marrying. It was a cruel deception. I can suppose
that the poor boy had very engaging qualities, but it seemed a cruel
business at the time----”
“It did, it did,” said John. “My wife felt it very much. It was she who
brought Mary, the present Lady Frogmore, into the family so to
speak--and she did feel it perhaps more than she ought.”
“Not more,” said Mr. Blotting; “it was very natural, I’m sure. Well, it
is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and you will at least get back
your rights. What will you do about those houses when they fall in,
Parke? Of course you can always command my best advice, but it will make
a great difference when I have no authority in the matter, and you are
acting altogether for yourself----”
“Don’t speak of it, Blotting. I can’t enter on such a question. So long
as there is life there is hope.”
But John Parke would have been more than man if he had not allowed a
thought or two to surprise him in this kind. He hated himself, but he
could not help it: that all this would be his, absolutely his, which he
had been managing for another; that he should be able to act
independently, to think of the children’s interests without any
responsibility or restraint was a wonderful thought. Poor little Mar! If
he could redeem his young life by any sacrifice! But he could not do
that. Not all the lands attached to the Frogmore peerage, or all
belonging to the British crown, could have any effect upon the
disposition of the Supreme Disposer of events. John acquiesced in this
certainty with a sigh; and then he thought--how could he help
thinking?--of what, when he was a free agent, he would do.
The cottages were a very picturesque group of red roofs and antiquated
brickwork, situated picturesquely among a clump of trees. It was a
thousand pities to pull them down or do anything to them. They were
always the first sketch made by every amateur artist who visited the
neighborhood, and they figured two or three times in the Academy every
year under the titles of “A picturesque nook,” “The homes of our
forefathers,” “A hamlet in Blankshire,” etc. A rumor had been spread
about in the neighborhood that the cottages of Westgate were to be
destroyed, and naturally the cottagers were up in arms. As Mr. Parke and
Mr. Blotting were seen approaching, first one head and then another were
seen at the doors, and finally a very old woman, bent half-double with
rheumatism, and with a head continually moving with the tremble of
palsy, came out from one of the houses and confronted the gentlemen.
“You ain’t a-going to do away with the cottages; now don’t ye say so,”
she said, following them wherever they went, keeping between them and
the houses, as though her feeble guardianship could have done anything.
“Oh, dearie, dearie! Gentlemen, don’t meddle with the old places;
they’ll tumble soon enough of themselves. Oh, don’t ye touch the
cottages, gentlemen!” she said.
“If we do anything to the cottages we’ll build you new ones, and far
better than these, with every convenience,” said Mr. Blotting, to whom
the picturesque told for nothing, and who would rather have had water
laid on than all the red roofs in the world.
“We don’t want no conveniences,” said the old woman. “We ’as what suits
us, and we don’t want nothin’ more. And what’s it all for, gentlemen, as
you’re a-pulling of us down? Because the young lord drinked a lot of
water when he didn’t ought to, when he was all in a sweat with his walk?
I told ’im not to, and I’d make him a cup of tea. But the young ones
they never pay no attention. And oh, my good gentlemen, what’s all the
fuss about the young lord? He was one as was born to die, he was. Does
any of our lads die of the water, them as drinks it every day? No, nor
lasses either. They’s used to it, and they’s strong and well, and plenty
of air all their lives, and nothin’ goes amiss with ’m. But yon young
lord he’s as weakly as a lamb in February. Just to look at his long thin
legs, and his white face, and you’d see there was nought that was solid
in him. Don’t you go and judge what’s good for us by ’im. Why, that one
would ne’er have had no strength, not if he’d been born and bred at
Westgate. It wasn’t in ’im, and if it hadn’t been one thing it would
have been another. He was born to die, was that young lord. There was
his mother afore him that was druv crazed by that tother lady as made a
fuss about the baby coming. Lord, just think what a woman to have a baby
as couldn’t give her answer back, but went mad when she was talked to! I
was at the Park at the time. I was in the laundry, and there wasn’t one
of us servants that didn’t know.”
“What does she mean?” said John.
“Nothing. I should say,” cried Mr. Blotting. “Come, old lady, you’ve
given no reason why we shouldn’t pull down your old rookeries that are
full of damp and dirt and the rot and mildew. Why, it would be far more
comfortable for yourselves. You would be ten times better.”
“Dirt yourself, mister,” cried the old woman in high indignation,
“unless it’s Sally Brown’s, the woman at the corner, as isn’t true
Westgate, there ain’t no dirt more than’s natural. And as for the young
lord, you was always told as you’d never rare him. And no more you
haven’t, and as for it’s being our well, as we drinks every day, it’s
none of our well. And you just let us alone, mister!” She turned
instinctively to Mr. Blotting, as to the inferior person of the two,
although, old and nearly blind, she did not recognize John.
“What’s that story about the lady,” he said.
The old woman glared at him with her bleared eyes. “You just let our
cottages alone, young gentleman,” she said.
“It’s not so easy as you think to mend matters,” said Mr. Blotting. “I
could have told you that. You’d better build your new cottages first,
and turn them into them before you pull down the old huts.”
“And let them die of typhoid in the meantime, like my poor boy.”
“Well, if they will, they will--and it’s not you nor me that will stop
them,” said Blotting, who in the way of tenants great and small was no
optimist. “They don’t care for your conveniences or for what means
health to others--but if there’s any money going they would like their
share of that.”
John had tossed half-a-crown into the old woman’s hand, who caught it
with marvellous cleverness considering her bad sight and doubled-up
figure, and he had not patience or tranquillity to do more. “We can send
the surveyor,” he said, “for see, I can’t be long absent without
thinking something must have happened while I’ve been away. Let’s go
home.”
Letitia wrote her letter, not to Mary but Agnes--though she had a much
stronger aversion to Agnes than to her sister. It was short, guarded,
telling merely the fact of Mar’s illness, that it was very serious, that
he was attended by two trained hospital nurses and under the special
care of Dr. Barker, and that everything was done that could be done for
him. She added no invitation. “The doctor wishes me to write,” she said,
“as he thinks it very serious--and if anything further happens I will
let you know. Of course you will use your discretion as to whether you
communicate this to Mary or not. Probably she will not mind much--which
will save her a great deal of grief, poor soul, in case things should
turn out badly. He seems to have caught this fever the day you went away
in such a hurry. He deserted us all and strolled off by himself into the
park, and wore himself out. You will know best whether you said anything
to the boy to upset him. He stopped tired at the houses at the Westgate,
and asked for some water which was given him from their well. Dr. Barker
says this is quite enough to account for it. It is a relief to me amidst
all our trouble that he did not get it from anything in my house.” And
she ended by repeating her promise to write again if there was “any
change.” Letitia felt that she could now say “my house” without
hesitation. It was as good as her house now--her great restlessness was
calmed down. She went on and wrote a number of letters telling the sad
circumstances to her habitual correspondents, whom she informed that her
poor young nephew Lord Frogmore was lying dying, with a great deal of
emotion. She wrote very affectionately of Mar. It was easy now to say
that he was a dear boy, though always very delicate, never able to do
the things that the other boys did. “But he has twined himself very much
round all our hearts,” wrote Letitia, “and I don’t know how to console
the children who adore him.” She could say this without anger or any
vivid feeling in the certainty that Mar was going to die. For the first
time since she had known she completely approved of Mar. It was a sad
thing, no doubt, but it was for the best. He never could have been able
to enjoy life--the best that could have been looked for for him would
have been an invalid existence, never to be depended upon: and he was
such a good boy, so well prepared, looking forward to his release with
such resignation and piety. Letitia almost made herself cry, she gave
such a touching account of Mar. When she completed those letters she
felt more calm than she had done for many a day. The feeling of suspense
was gone. The doctor she felt assured would never have said so much if
there had been any hope left. And now she could permit herself to
entertain these thoughts which had visited her at intervals for years,
and which she had not permitted to dwell in her mind, thoughts
captivating and attractive, of all the changes she would make and all
the things she would do when she came into her kingdom. There were
certain improvements to be made in this very house which she had always
wanted, which she decided upon the very first time she ever came to the
Park, while old Frogmore was still master of all. She had said to John
on that occasion (though she was not much more than a bride at the
time), “I shall change all the east wing, and turn the library into a
second drawing-room when we are here.” John had bidden her hold her
tongue, and asked how she knew they would ever be there? Frogmore, who
was so strong, would probably outlive him, John said. But Mrs. John was
sure that she knew better. And now how much had happened! It had seemed
all to float from them and become impossible, and then again it had
returned again to possibility, and now it was nearly come to pass. Very
nearly! It was only a question of time now. Ten days or so and
everything would be settled--at the furthest; if it was possible that he
could hold out so long. She indulged herself by thinking it all out how
she could make those alterations. Many a time had the vision drifted
across her eyes, but she never allowed herself to caress and indulge
that vision. She thought not only of the alterations, but of a thousand
things beside. The position would be so different. No critical observers
to remark on what she did; it would be her own to do what she pleased.
No narrowness of money to prevent this and that, to drive her into half
measures and improvements incomplete. What she did she could do with
confidence, knowing that when John’s time was over (Letitia did not
think that her own time might be over), her son would come after him.
Everything would become legitimate and natural from the moment that this
poor boy was mercifully removed to a better world. It would be better,
far better for him: for he never could have had but a wretched invalid
life in this world. And for everybody else how much better. The children
would all have their rights--the privileges which Mary Hill had taken
from them when she married old Frogmore. To have an Honorable to their
name would be an advantage even for the girls. And their way of life
would be so changed. Letitia went about the house lightly with a changed
countenance. Her suspense seemed over. It was not that the doctor had
said anything more than he had said over and over again; but she took it
in a different way. Her mind was at rest. She spoke quietly to the
people whom she saw of the great sorrow that was hanging over the house.
There was no doubt, and no pretence at any hope in her tones. Her
confidence was extraordinary, as had been the rage of her suspense a
little time before. She allowed herself to talk to John of the things
that would have to be done, and he did not stop her. He said nothing
himself, but he did not refuse to listen to her. Her certainty as to
their changed positions impressed her husband with a sensation of
certainty too. She had always been in the right, and there seemed no
reason for doubting her now. The conviction was wrought in John’s mind
with a real sorrow for the dying boy. Poor Mar! To purchase advantage by
the sacrifice of that innocent life was bitter to John, he said to
himself; and if by any effort of his he could save the poor child’s
life--but what could his efforts do when the doctors had given him up?
And no doubt Letitia was right, and it became them to realize their
position. He allowed himself to think of the alterations too.
And meantime Mar lay in a strange confusion, his faculties all dulled
with his fever, the burning hours going over him, so that he knew not
night from day, with kind hands ministering to him--but only the hands
of strangers--and the minds of all about him gradually turning to a
consideration of the life and the world beyond, in which he should have
no part. There he lay, always patient, smiling still when he was roused
from his stupor, drifting on to the end.